As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness
Category: Pink Sheep RPG
Picking his way along the path from the main house to the little cottage he had installed Vincent in when he brought the boy to live at Whistable Mews, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, Tiberius gave a world weary sigh. Initially he'd been pleased when Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named head auror. The man was competent, which usually meant that less things fell into Tiberius' lap -- unless he wanted them to -- but the auror was beginning to be a problem.
Most bureaucrats would have been satisfied to have an easy conviction handed to them, along with the credit, but stepping on the auror's jurisdiction? Oh honestly. It was another tally on the plus side and a criminal was off the streets. Why should it matter where the criminal came from? His unspeakables played a vital role in keeping the Ministry in power and Britain safe. They were the ones who did the deep undercover work, who brought in intelligence from other countries, deciphered prophecy. Let the aurors pick up the petty bar fights and handing out of fines.
Unlocking the door of the cottage with his want, Tiberius stepped inside, taking just a moment to wipe his boots of the muck walking provided. "Vincent?" he called. "Vincent, I'd like you to come out here please. I need to speak to you."
He looked around the sparse front room. At least elf he'd assigned to Vincent's needs was doing it's job. The room was neat and everything was in it's place. The room wasn't ideal, but it would suit his needs. A wave of his wand had the chesterfield pressed up against the back wall, the side tables and rolled up rug neatly following. There, now that he had room to move around, he Summoned a chair from the kitchen. Tiberius watched as the piece of furniture settled into the middle of the room. It was a bit rough around the edges, true, but this sort of situation called for a bit of roughness.
"Vincent," his sighed. "I grow weary of your games. Come out now, there's a good lad." The man knew he was here. Vincent had earned himself a bit of freedom, but he was too valuable to be given complete free reign. Besides, Tiberius had always been careful with things.
Vincent came down the stairs slowly, hair still damp from his post-work shower. "Couldn't hear you over the shower," he lied. He paused at the bottom and looked at his uncle. The older man usually didn't seek him out, especially once they were away from the Ministry. That's how they both preferred it.
Tiberius' lips thinned. The boy was lying. The fact only served to bother him more. Lie to others, but not to me. He stepped away from the chair and indicated that his nephew should take a seat.
"I'm fine, thank you." Vincent crossed his arms, a particularly blank look on his face..
It didn't take more than a whispered Imperio to have the boy seated and at attention, but the mere fact that he needed the spell annoyed the Ministry official to no end. He had been too lenient. They were backsliding. It was an error he'd have to correct.
"You've been getting sloppy, Vincent." He wasn't talking about the method of execution, though it had been a messy one. Disembowelment was so rarely done now a days. People much preferred the Killing Curse. Not that he blamed him of course. Instantaneous with little fuss. However, it lacked a certain... personal touch. "Too much connecting you to Macnair."
Not that it had been hard to connect Corwin Macnair to a multitude of other petty, violent criminals. First there was the matter of securing evidence, but that hadn't been too difficult in the long run. Second, he needed secure the services of one Micah Keen, to implant the memories of killing Macnair in Charlie Burns, the pimp and loan shark the Wizarding world was better without. He then obliviated the former oblivator himself. A professional lifetime in politics had taught Tiberius to cover his tracks. He was just put out that he had to do such things. Really, must he do all the work?
Not enough had been done to Macnair in Vincent's opinion, but he knew it wasn't wanted so he didn't offer it. Though the chance to play had been enjoyable. More often than not he had been sent out to administer potions. Blood was real, vital. A pleasure usually denied.
"I perhaps wonder if I shouldn't have let your mother do what she wanted all those years ago and drown you at birth. True, she was getting almost past childbearing years, but Alexandros' death changed the poor dear something dreadful." Tiberius shook his head, thinking of his little sister who had chosen the wrong side during the war. He would have protected her, if not for the idiot husband of hers. Going and getting himself marked like a fool. It was barely enough to keep him out of Azkaban the first time around, downright impossible the second. At least the bastard had the good fortune to die first.
A muscle in Vincent's jaw ticked. Alexandros Periander Crabbe, born April 12th, 1967. Dead at age twelve after a bludger to the head caused him to fall from his broom during a Slytherin-Hufflepuff match and break his neck. The Slytherin had been living in the shadow of eternal youth since the day he'd been born.
Tiberius looked at his nephew, a curious expression on his face. "It's a pity. Meg was so blind. She could never see your true potential." To be molded, sculpted. He gave a long, defeated sigh as his eyes turned cold. "But my sister was right about one thing, your inability to listen to simple directions. This is why you cannot have nice things, Vincent."
The older man leveled his wand, pointing at the one sprawled across the floor. "Crucio."
----
Gasps of air broke the stillness of the room as Tiberius surveyed his nephew, sprawled out across the floor. The boy's wand, the one he had graciously bought, lay a few feet away. Stepping over a twitching leg, the grey haired man bent down and pocketed the tool. "You won't be needing this for awhile, Vincent. It is a privileged. If you want to behave like muggle filth then I will treat you as such."
He was so glad he had the forethought to move the rug. He'd hate to have the Aubusson stained with blood. Those were so difficult to get out. Turning on his heel, he left.
It hurt to even open his eyes, but Vincent forced himself through the pain, watching as the boots disappeared from view. His mouth was filled with blood from where he had bitten through his lip and every fiber of his being felt as if they had been drawn through the Fiendfyre again.
But he had received worse lessons and it had all been worth it. In the end.
Picking his way along the path from the main house to the little cottage he had installed Vincent in when he brought the boy to live at Whistable Mews, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, Tiberius gave a world weary sigh. Initially he'd been pleased when Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named head auror. The man was competent, which usually meant that less things fell into Tiberius' lap -- unless he wanted them to -- but the auror was beginning to be a problem.
Most bureaucrats would have been satisfied to have an easy conviction handed to them, along with the credit, but stepping on the auror's jurisdiction? Oh honestly. It was another tally on the plus side and a criminal was off the streets. Why should it matter where the criminal came from? His unspeakables played a vital role in keeping the Ministry in power and Britain safe. They were the ones who did the deep undercover work, who brought in intelligence from other countries, deciphered prophecy. Let the aurors pick up the petty bar fights and handing out of fines.
Unlocking the door of the cottage with his want, Tiberius stepped inside, taking just a moment to wipe his boots of the muck walking provided. "Vincent?" he called. "Vincent, I'd like you to come out here please. I need to speak to you."
He looked around the sparse front room. At least elf he'd assigned to Vincent's needs was doing it's job. The room was neat and everything was in it's place. The room wasn't ideal, but it would suit his needs. A wave of his wand had the chesterfield pressed up against the back wall, the side tables and rolled up rug neatly following. There, now that he had room to move around, he Summoned a chair from the kitchen. Tiberius watched as the piece of furniture settled into the middle of the room. It was a bit rough around the edges, true, but this sort of situation called for a bit of roughness.
"Vincent," his sighed. "I grow weary of your games. Come out now, there's a good lad." The man knew he was here. Vincent had earned himself a bit of freedom, but he was too valuable to be given complete free reign. Besides, Tiberius had always been careful with things.
Vincent came down the stairs slowly, hair still damp from his post-work shower. "Couldn't hear you over the shower," he lied. He paused at the bottom and looked at his uncle. The older man usually didn't seek him out, especially once they were away from the Ministry. That's how they both preferred it.
Tiberius' lips thinned. The boy was lying. The fact only served to bother him more. Lie to others, but not to me. He stepped away from the chair and indicated that his nephew should take a seat.
"I'm fine, thank you." Vincent crossed his arms, a particularly blank look on his face..
It didn't take more than a whispered Imperio to have the boy seated and at attention, but the mere fact that he needed the spell annoyed the Ministry official to no end. He had been too lenient. They were backsliding. It was an error he'd have to correct.
"You've been getting sloppy, Vincent." He wasn't talking about the method of execution, though it had been a messy one. Disembowelment was so rarely done now a days. People much preferred the Killing Curse. Not that he blamed him of course. Instantaneous with little fuss. However, it lacked a certain... personal touch. "Too much connecting you to Macnair."
Not that it had been hard to connect Corwin Macnair to a multitude of other petty, violent criminals. First there was the matter of securing evidence, but that hadn't been too difficult in the long run. Second, he needed secure the services of one Micah Keen, to implant the memories of killing Macnair in Charlie Burns, the pimp and loan shark the Wizarding world was better without. He then obliviated the former oblivator himself. A professional lifetime in politics had taught Tiberius to cover his tracks. He was just put out that he had to do such things. Really, must he do all the work?
Not enough had been done to Macnair in Vincent's opinion, but he knew it wasn't wanted so he didn't offer it. Though the chance to play had been enjoyable. More often than not he had been sent out to administer potions. Blood was real, vital. A pleasure usually denied.
"I perhaps wonder if I shouldn't have let your mother do what she wanted all those years ago and drown you at birth. True, she was getting almost past childbearing years, but Alexandros' death changed the poor dear something dreadful." Tiberius shook his head, thinking of his little sister who had chosen the wrong side during the war. He would have protected her, if not for the idiot husband of hers. Going and getting himself marked like a fool. It was barely enough to keep him out of Azkaban the first time around, downright impossible the second. At least the bastard had the good fortune to die first.
A muscle in Vincent's jaw ticked. Alexandros Periander Crabbe, born April 12th, 1967. Dead at age twelve after a bludger to the head caused him to fall from his broom during a Slytherin-Hufflepuff match and break his neck. The Slytherin had been living in the shadow of eternal youth since the day he'd been born.
Tiberius looked at his nephew, a curious expression on his face. "It's a pity. Meg was so blind. She could never see your true potential." To be molded, sculpted. He gave a long, defeated sigh as his eyes turned cold. "But my sister was right about one thing, your inability to listen to simple directions. This is why you cannot have nice things, Vincent."
The older man leveled his wand, pointing at the one sprawled across the floor. "Crucio."
----
Gasps of air broke the stillness of the room as Tiberius surveyed his nephew, sprawled out across the floor. The boy's wand, the one he had graciously bought, lay a few feet away. Stepping over a twitching leg, the grey haired man bent down and pocketed the tool. "You won't be needing this for awhile, Vincent. It is a privileged. If you want to behave like muggle filth then I will treat you as such."
He was so glad he had the forethought to move the rug. He'd hate to have the Aubusson stained with blood. Those were so difficult to get out. Turning on his heel, he left.
It hurt to even open his eyes, but Vincent forced himself through the pain, watching as the boots disappeared from view. His mouth was filled with blood from where he had bitten through his lip and every fiber of his being felt as if they had been drawn through the Fiendfyre again.
But he had received worse lessons and it had all been worth it. In the end.