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месть

Millicent Bulstrode

Assassin AU

Inspired by this fic by Reb @durmstranqs

Part 2 of The Last Meal series

месть • (mestʹ)

1. revenge, vengeance 2. vendetta

ao3

The muggy summer air was really too close and humid for the long black clothes Millicent was pulling on, and her long dark hair stuck to her back with sweat as she struggled into her shirt. Freeing her hair from her neck she began the arduous task of braiding it tightly in coils against her head to keep it out of her way for the task ahead.

It was late, after nine, but the sun was only just beginning its lazy decent across the skyline, it wouldn’t be dark for hours – but Millicent didn’t mind the wait; she enjoyed time for contemplation, or, perhaps, penance; and time was something she’d had plenty of of late.

Leaving her boots next to her equipment belt and favouring bare feet she left the room in search of Peregrine – who would be on intelligence for her later that evening – and something to eat.

She found both in the kitchen of the run-down manor The Last Meal had taken residence in. Once the mansion had been grand, a symbol of status and wealth. Now, however, with large bills in reparations to the Ministry and the confiscation of the house elves, the manor was dusty and unforgiving. The Last Meal didn’t live in the manor, although sometimes members would crash there for the odd night or two, but members regularly gathered there, and preparations and debriefings for missions were often carried out in the library.

Millicent’s mark for this evening was not as prominent as some she’d had – a distant cousin of Daphne and Astoria’s, Millicent had considered giving them a warning but The Last Meal felt like a shameful secret and talking about it brought bile to her mouth – so she felt little anxiety over the upcoming mission as she made tea for the people seated in the kitchen and fashioned herself a sandwich from the slightly stale bread in the bread bin.

Peregrine briefed her on the floor plan of her mark’s house again as she ate and Millicent nodded along at the right intervals, but her mind was elsewhere, roaming through the corridors of her childhood home, which was not unlike the house they currently resided in. She remembered the window seat in her bedroom, where she had sat and watched the rain with the window wide open. Her governess had always told her she’d catch her death, but Millicent had loved the rain and hadn’t minded if she’d ended up wet and shivering. That was all gone now, the window seat most definitely, the house almost certainly. The part of Millicent that had lived in that house was long gone as well, shorter, rounder, less death in her.

Two cups of tea later Peregrine finally fell silent and Millicent returned upstairs to put on her thick rubber soled boots and attach her equipment belt around her hips. When she returned to the kitchen she and Peregrine established their legilimency connection and he took yet another cup of tea with him to the sitting room that had been delegated their command unit.

Millicent left the manor and apparated to the village where her mark, Sebastian Blishwick, lived. The village was a muggle one but with a strong wizarding presence.

“Perhaps you should disillusion yourself,” Falcon fretted over the link.

“Quite worrying, Falcon, you’ll wear yourself out.” Millicent replied, besides, it was too late now; she couldn’t just vanish off the street, it would look more suspicious than her attire.

Peregrine was silent as Millicent approached her mark’s house. It was a muggle townhouse, three stories of humble grandeur loomed above her as she let herself through the front gate and up the pathway.

“Do you have eyes?” She asked Peregrine as she approached the front door.

“Yes,” he replied, “he knows.”

Millicent grinned wickedly, let him know, she thought, it wouldn’t save him.

She raised a hand to the knocker and let it ring out, a loud clear death toll to the house’s inhabitant.

Of course, there was no answer, so Millicent simply let herself in; the locking charm no match for her training. Once she was inside she cast a revealing charm and the anti-intruder jinxes and hexes Blishwick had put in place glowed a faint blue; there were several tricky charms but Millicent managed to unpick them with little display.

“Where is he?” She asked Falcon, panting a little with the strain of undoing so many powerful charms.

“Top floor, to the left, at the end of the corridor.” He replied, “Study.”

Millicent began to hum as she approached the stairs, an eerie tune. When she reached the first floor landing her humming turned to song.

“Tili tili bom

Close your eyes now

Someone’s walking outside the house

And knocks on the door.”

Millicent could almost hear Blishwick’s heart thudding as the stairs creaked beneath her rubber soled feet.

“Tilli tilli bom,” she continued up the second flight of stairs.

“The nightbirds are chirping

He is inside the house

To visit those who can’t sleep.”

She reached the top floor landing.

“He walks

He is coming

closer.”

“Tilli tilli bom,” the door to the study creaked on it’s hinges as it swung open, “Can you hear him closing in?”

To his credit, Blishwick was waiting to meet her when she stepped out of the shadowy hallway into the faint lamplight of the study, pressed up against the desk as though he could back up no further, face white and hands trembling where they grasped the edge of the ornate writing desk for support.

“Dobry vecher.” Millicent greeted him, almost conversationally, her lips blooming into a wicked smile. “It’s hot out today,” she motioned the open window and took a step forward, as though she were simply heading to close it.

Blishwick twitched, a jerky, terrified movement. Millicent stopped, her smile growing wider, if it was possible.

He reached for his wand, in what she supposed was supposed to be a lightening movement, but Millicent saw it coming and with a swipe of her hand he flew to the side and was pinned by invisible hands to the bookshelves lining the walls.

“Tilli tilli bom,” she continued, her hand forming a fist as the invisible hands closed their hold around Blishwick’s neck, his eyes bulged in their sockets and he scrabbled at his throat for a hold on something that was not there.

“The silent night hides everything

He sneaks up behind you

And he is going to get you.”

A gargled noise emitted Blishwick’s throat and Millicent tightened her grip.

He gave one last futile effect at clawing the invisible hands squeezing the life from him before his arms fell limply to his side.

Millicent released the vicelike grip on his throat before directing Blishwick’s motionless body to the floor where she propped him against the desk leg, as though he had simply sat down there for a moment. His eyes were wide with fear, staring unseeingly at a spot on the floor near the doorway, Millicent bent to check his pulse before removing a box of matches from her equipment belt. She struck one, letting it burn for a moment, before opening Blishwick’s mouth and placing the still lit match on his tongue. The wet of his saliva fizzled it out immediately with a soft hiss leaving the charred, half burnt matchstick in his mouth, which Millicent closed again.

The window was still open and it had begun to rain softly. Millicent allowed herself a moment, and crossed the room to stand by the window looking out into the dark backyard.

“Someone will see you.” Falcon snapped.

“Piss off,” Millicent retorted, but she took one last breath of the rain-soaked air and moved away from the window.

She barely glanced at Blishwick’s body as she left, his arms hung awkwardly at his side and his head lolled lazily. His neck was perfectly devoid of any bruises or marks.

This was mestʹ, Millicent thought, as she trod silently down the two flights of stairs and paused briefly by the front door to disillusion herself. She opened the door just enough to allow herself to slip out into the damp night.

The rain could not see her, but she could feel it as the cold drops soaked her clothes and rolled down her neck and between her shoulder blades. She walked a little further than necessary to apparate, enjoying the feel and the smell of the rain around her; it smelt like jubilation, she mused. It smelt like mshcheniye.

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