The Prince of Secrets
SELF PARA
There was one thing that irked Synri even more than not getting what he wanted...it was not knowing about the thing he wanted. With a heavy sigh he took another gulp of amber colored wine. Sweet, but dry, he noted.
He heard, rather than saw, a dozen young boys and girls file themselves behind his couch. He took another sip, knowing that they would wait for as long as it took for him to acknowledge them. With a twist of his wand, a dozen, one for each of the waiting people, filled glasses flew towards their automatically accepting hands.
Each one of them, regardless of age, were his. Each had a dark secret, or a favor owed, that his family kept under lock and key. He recognized one boy, barely 12, as the son of a famous wandmaker who was, uknown to investors, dipping into the company's funds. Another, a boy, a seventh year, he recognized as the guy he caught banging his own sister. All of them were the same, each had a secret that was kept by his family, and protected, but for a price. And that price, was obedience.
He raised his wand arm, and a symbol of a silver-green spider, normally invisible, glowed a sickly emerald on the entirety of the back of his hand. He knew, without looking, that several others, smaller in size, and on varying locations on their body, glowed in asnwer.
The symbol of his family's power, contract magic. It bound them all, creditor, and debtor, in life and in death, as long as the conditions of the contract have yet to be fulfilled.
"I assume," he said quietly, "that all of you here know why I called you?" It was a preamble, a show of good graces, and manners, as his parents taught him. "I do apologize for the lateness of the hour," he waved his goblet into the general direction of a freckly girl, "especially to Minerva, I know she has an essay on Potions."
He stood, and with another wave of his wand, turned the flames of the grate into his signature dark-gray. He turned, left hand resting on the throne-like armchair, wand-arm playing with the unrielding wand at his disposal. He brushed off imaginary specks from his immaculate, cream-colored, Egyptian-cotton, sweater.
"Things, as you know, are afoot." He slashed his wand in the air and articles of the Daily Prophet, and other documents, each depicting a missing person, a dead relative, and other news of the like, floated in a circle at eye level of the twelve assembled. "My family, eccentrics that we are, is already moving outside. The Magical Underworld has been afire, and is gathering information as we speak." He watched each with rapt attention. "However, even the Underworld cannot touch Hogwarts. We're too safe here." He smiled viciously, mirrored by some of those in the group. "Or so the Ministry thinks."
"I have direct orders from my Father to monitor the situation," he continued, another sip from his goblet as his pause, "the Ministry has a spy here in Hogwarts. So the Underworld must have someone to act as a counter." He bowed mockingly. "Me."
He stepped foward and rested his back against the arm chair, his arms crossed, face thoughtful. "Find out what you can about suspicious movements in the school. There are rumors that the Puri have infiltrated Hogwarts and are recruiting." He frowned. "Inevitably, if such information is true, there will arise a resistance movement; and what was once a school will devolve into yet another war zone."
"The parameters are simple," he looked at them each in the eye, feeling the power of the contract bind them to his will, of course as much as their actual contract allowed that is, "monitor only. Do not go looking for them, do not engage them if you find them. We just need, for the moment, information on suspicious activities. You will send me a report, nightly, at this hour, via the same way we have always done it."
He looked at the youngest person there, a boy, a first year, a child whose innocence was lost long ago. "You will tell no one about this," he said to all, "you know what will happen if you betray us. The power of your consent binds you to my family's will. Remember that, as always."
On that note, he waved his hand, a signal for dismissal. Each finished their drink, bowed to Synri, and left. Four, he knew, would head for Gryffindor, three to Ravenclaw, another four to Hufflepuff, and...
"You promised I could have it tonight," muttered a tall boy wearing Slytherin colors, "that's part of our deal." The desire in his movements, his looks, and his voice, were all too evident to Synri.
Sometimes it was HIS family that owed the favors, and this, Synri thought as he moved seductively towards the older boy, was debt he all too willingly paid.
