5.
Rita almost tripped as she stepped through the portal. Her eyes took in a landscape bathed in oppressive, almost unreal gloom, where a warm, unnatural, and stifling breeze rustled the field's grass. Rita took a hesitant step forward, following Narcissa, and only then noticed a subtle layer of undulating energy separating the field from the outside world.
— Let's go — Narcissa said, pulling Rita out of her daze. — Standing there frozen? Didn't you want to see him?
Rita's heart raced at the phrase "see him." She felt the weight of destiny calling.
Then she noticed Bellatrix, crouched in the grass a few steps ahead. Her head was tilted down, observing with childlike fascination a group of ants carrying the twisted body of a dead cicada, following each movement as if it were a private show.
Rita shuddered. The sight seemed harmless, yet her stomach still churned at the fresh memory of the atrocities committed minutes before: the green flash, the cut-off screams, the shattered plates… and now, the same woman watched insects with seemingly innocent attention.
She cast Bellatrix a look filled with disgust and disbelief.
— Pay her no mind — Narcissa murmured, not even turning her head. — She has her quirks.
Bellatrix raised her eyes, sensing Rita's scrutiny, and smiled crookedly, almost conspiratorially. Then she returned her gaze to the ants, muttering something inaudible.
Narcissa, however, wasted no time.
— Bella, go handle Draco's training.
The other let out a dry laugh, remaining seated.
— Training… — she repeated, as if it were a private joke. — It doesn't matter much. "Little Draco" will never stop being a chicken. There will always be someone to do the work for him.
Rita watched Narcissa's face harden, but her voice remained controlled.
— That is a matter we will discuss later.
Deciding not to linger, she turned her back with cutting elegance, as if closing a door, and gestured to Rita.
— Come.
Rita adjusted her glasses with trembling hands and followed the woman across the field. Behind them loomed an old mansion, severe in architecture with windows as dark as soulless eyes, but that was not their destination.
They walked in silence until they saw a group gathered ahead. Six people stood in a semicircle. She tensed upon recognizing all of them. Some were unsurprising, given their radical beliefs, but others… their presence here was shocking.
Each held a dog by a short leash. Not ordinary dogs, but specimens cultivated in magical labs, designed for hunting and killing. Their forms were grotesque, eyes glowing in unnatural hues, staring hungrily at prisoners inside iron cages. The captives moaned in terror, hearts nearly leaping from their chests.
Rita's chest tightened at the sight, but her focus was on the people forming the semicircle.
The first presence was Severus Snape, Hogwarts professor, almost making her stumble.
Aristocratic, hair tied in a severe bun, eyes cold as glass. He never smiled. The dog he held sat perfectly still, like a soldier awaiting orders.
To his right was Rodolfo Lestrange. Tall, lean, with controlled movements, exuding the aura of someone who had seen and caused horrors too great to be shaken by mundane trivialities. His long black hair, shoulder-length, combed back with military precision. A true aristocrat: reserved, calculating, disciplined, opposite the sadism of his wife, Bellatrix.
The dog he held was like a shadow condensed into flesh and muscle — a materialized nightmare.
Beside him was Parker Hollow. Short but stocky, dark-haired with a rural air. Parker held a creature resembling a mastiff with obsidian teeth. Known discreetly for trafficking magical creatures and "human material" to the highest bidder. A feared criminal, despised especially for his habit of assaulting. He smiled and waved at Rita, making her feel filthy, wanting to bathe immediately.
But what unsettled her most was the small figure who shouldn't have been there, at least in theory.
A dwarf, slightly over a meter and a half, unusually tall among his kind. Broad shoulders, muscular arms. Black hair streaked with silver at the temples. Braided beard with rings of burnt iron. Gray, almost metallic eyes shot hatred at Rita the moment they met.
Rita swallowed. She knew the history. Any sane person did. Years ago, Mortavius had massacred a dwarf family during an artifact negotiation, enraging all seven subterranean clans of Khaz-Dûr. Since then, the entire race had sworn vengeance, putting a bounty on him. So seeing a dwarf here, holding a boar-like dog drooling acid, was astonishing.
She diverted her gaze, noting the last figure staring at her with lethal silence.
Her attention was drawn to the person she feared most: the man at the center of the semicircle. Imposing and calm. Skin pale as marble, serpentine face, red eyes half-lidded. Dressed simply in a dark, unadorned cloak, yet radiating power and dominance.