The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

As time wore on, winter arrived in Avalon with a vengeful intensity, blanketing the land in thick layers of snow that muffled every sound and coated the roads in treacherous sheets of ice. The earth beneath was damp and frozen, the kind of chill that seeped through boots and skin to gnaw at the bone. Yet the people of Avalon, hardy as they were, greeted the season with an unflinching resilience. It was, after all, just another chapter in the cycle of their lives. The days had grown short, the sun rarely making an appearance, leaving light and warmth to become precious commodities. For many, they were necessities; for others, unreachable luxuries.

Far from the warmth and revelry of Excalibur Castle and the bustling city of Caerleon, deep within the foreboding expanse of the Mirkwood, winter transformed the ancient forest into a realm of haunting beauty. The silvery glow of moonlight cascaded through the skeletal branches of towering trees, cloaking the woodlands in shifting shadows. The ancient magic that permeated this place gave it an eerie vitality, every rustling leaf and faint creak of the branches a reminder that this forest had its own pulse, its own secrets.

The silence of the wintry night was broken by the rhythmic churn of truck tires grinding reluctantly through snow-packed trails, each turn seeming to resist the icy path beneath. Heavy boots crunched against the frozen ground in measured steps, their sound a somber cadence to the soft rumble of arcane engines. Ethereal steam billowed into the frigid air, shimmering with crystalline sparks that danced and disappeared within the smoke.

A line of caravans, their iron frames imposing and unyielding, trudged through the oppressive darkness. Wrought-iron lanterns swung gently with the motion of the wagons, their enchanted crystals casting an eerie, pale light. The glow illuminated the skeletal trees surrounding them, their long shadows stretching across the snow like dark claws reaching for the procession. Each creak of the caravan wheels and faint hiss of the engines seemed amplified in the stillness. The men marching alongside the wagons moved with tense precision, their faces set in grim determination.

Eyes darted warily to the shadows beyond, scanning the gloom for signs of danger, while their breaths formed fleeting clouds in the biting air.

The tales of the Mirkwood were etched deeply into Avalon's collective memory—whispers of ancient magic and beasts said to prey on the unwary. The guards accompanying the convoy felt their hearts pound with each snapping twig and every rustling branch, their imaginations conjuring horrors in the cold silence of the night. Yet they marched on, their vigilance worn as much as their armor.

At the forefront of the procession strode a man clad in battered plate armor, his orange hair cropped short and ruffled by the icy wind. A grievous scar marred his cheek, cutting through the stubble that dotted his jawline in uneven patches. He rubbed at the bald spot on his chin absently with gloved fingers, his blue eyes scanning the trees for any sign of danger.

"Keep your wits about you, lads," he barked. "Word from the Guild is that someone's been hitting caravans across Avalon this past week."

His gaze drifted back to the line of caravans behind him. The iron cages mounted upon the truck's flatbeds rattled with every bump in the trail, the sound mingling with the soft, pitiful cries of their occupants. Inside, slaves huddled together for warmth, their bodies trembling from the cold or perhaps from fear. Every race, age, and gender were represented within those cages. Some bore the weariness of seasoned captives, their spirits crushed long ago, while others were newly captured, their wide eyes filled with fresh terror.

The man's lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he appraised his cargo. His mind raced with visions of the profits he would soon claim at the markets—exotic creatures, rare specimens, broken souls ready to be sold to the highest bidder. The sound of chains rattling, the clink of iron against iron, was music to his ears.

He allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction before his expression hardened. This forest was no place for complacency. The shadowed canopy above seemed to whisper, carrying the promise of unseen eyes watching from the depths of the ancient wood.

One of the guards hurried up beside the man, his expression uneasy as his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. "I don't like this, Kerrick," he muttered. "It's too quiet. Feels like the whole forest is holding its breath."

Kerrick shot him a sharp look. "It's the Mirkwood," he replied gruffly, brushing off the comment. "Quiet's the best we can hope for in this cursed place. Trust me, lad, there are things lurking in these woods that'll crawl into your dreams and turn them to nightmares." He adjusted his gloves and gave a small, humorless laugh. "Besides, the last thing we need is—"

The caravan jolted to an abrupt stop, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sudden stillness was deafening, the clattering of chains and creaking of wood coming to a halt. Kerrick cursed under his breath, his boots crunching on the snow as he stormed toward the front of the line. "What in the bloody hell's going on?" he barked. "I didn't give any orders to stop! So why—?"

His words trailed off as he caught sight of the driver. The man's face was pale, his wide eyes fixed ahead in abject terror. His hands trembled on the steering wheel, and his lips moved soundlessly as though trying to speak but unable to force the words out.

"Speak, damn you!" Kerrick snarled, but the driver only lifted a quivering finger, pointing shakily into the path ahead.

Kerrick turned his head, his gaze following the direction of the man's trembling hand. His eyes locked onto the figure standing motionless in the middle of the trail, and his blood ran cold.

The individual was clad in blackened robes, their silhouette stark against the silver glow of the moonlight filtering through the trees. A black cloak swirled faintly around their boots, the edges catching in the winter breeze. Their gloved hands were held with eerie calm—one gripping a polished wand, the other wrapped around a staff crowned with a gleaming onyx orb encased in intricate metalwork.

But what chilled Kerrick to his core was the mask. The stark white porcelain mask concealed the figure's face entirely, save for two narrow slits that served as eye holes. Etched into the forehead of the mask was the unmistakable insignia of the Clock Tower, its ink-black mark stark against the pale surface.

"No… no, it can't be…" Kerrick stammered as the color drained from his face. His hand instinctively fell to wand by his side, but his grip faltered.

The figure stood utterly still, like a wraith conjured from the shadows of the forest, radiating an aura of menace so palpable that the other guards began to fidget nervously. It wasn't just fear in Kerrick's eyes—it was recognition.

The air hung heavy with an eerie stillness; the kind that makes every breath feel louder than it should. And then, without warning, every lantern along the caravan sputtered and died, plunging the entire convoy into an all-consuming darkness. The silence was deafening—until it wasn't.

The stillness shattered as panicked cries tore through the night. Chaos erupted like a storm. Sparks of light exploded in the pitch black, streaks of spells cutting through the darkness and illuminating the scene in terrifying bursts, like macabre fireworks. Shadows danced violently as figures flailed and fell, their silhouettes etched in flashes of green, red, and white.

The masked figure moved like a wraith, gliding effortlessly through the chaos. His wand swept in deliberate arcs; each spell cast with unnerving precision. Jets of green light surged from its tip, striking targets without hesitation. Those hit crumpled to the ground instantly, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. Their faces were frozen in their final moments, terror carved into their features as if it were a cruel artist's work.

"To arms, you fools!" Kerrick roared. His command did little to rally his men.

More spells crackled in the darkness. Red lightning erupted, sending some of the guards sprawling to the snow, their bodies convulsing violently as magic pulsed through them. The masked man wasn't only precise—he was brutal. His staff whirled with deadly force, smashing into skulls with sickening cracks, the sound of bone splintering beneath the force mingling with the screams. Blood splattered the snow, staining the pristine white with crimson streaks.

The man's movements were relentless, fluid yet deliberate, each strike and spell dismantling the caravan's defenses with terrifying efficiency. He disarmed three guards at once with a flick of his wrist, their wands clattering to the icy ground as they were thrown backwards. Every motion was calculated, every action purposeful.

"Where is he?!" Kerrick screamed as he stumbled back, fumbling for his wand. "What's happening?! Somebody—"

A violent blast sent Kerrick flying backward like a ragdoll. His back collided with the iron bars of one of the cages with a sickening thud, and his wand was knocked from his grasp, skittering across the snow. He slid to the ground, dazed, as his vision swam.

And then, suddenly, everything stopped.

The night was silent once more, save for Kerrick's labored breathing. The lanterns flared back to life as if nothing had happened, their warm glow bathing the scene in an almost serene light.

Kerrick's blue eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the restored illumination. His gaze swept over the carnage around him, and his stomach churned. Bodies lay strewn across the snow, lifeless and still. Their faces stared back at him, their expressions frozen in terror, their eyes empty and glazed. The once bustling caravan was now a graveyard, the crimson stains on the snow stark against the white.

His breath hitched as he realized the truth: he was the only one left.

Kerrick's gaze snapped forward, locking onto the hooded figure standing just beyond the wreckage of his caravan. The onyx stone at the tip of the staff glistened darkly, as if the very blood of his fallen men clung to its surface. The figure drove the staff into the snow with deliberate force, letting it stand upright, before striding forward with calm authority.

The hood came down first, followed by the porcelain mask, revealing a sharp, chiseled face lined with years of battle and shadowed by cold, unrelenting eyes.

"Well, well," the figure said. "Long time no see, Stonejaw." It was Professor Serfence, his wand now trained unerringly on Kerrick. "Not even a month out of Revel's End, and here you are, back to your usual filth. Typical."

Kerrick's face twisted into a nervous smile, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple despite the biting cold. "Serfence, old boy! Fancy meeting you here!" He forced a laugh that sounded more like a croak. "How's the wife?" His voice grew desperate, grasping at anything to disarm the situation. "You know how it is… a man's got to make a living. And in this economy?"

Serfence's raised eyebrow and stony silence made Kerrick falter, the weight of the man's stare unbearable.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Kerrick tried again, his tone a feeble attempt at bravado. "So… you're the one behind these caravan attacks, eh? Bit of a career change, don't you think? From hunting the worst scum Avalon has to offer to knocking over slaver carts. Seems like a downgrade, if you ask me." His eyes darted nervously to the bloodied snow and the lifeless bodies of his men. "And… a bit of overkill, don't you think?"

Serfence's expression didn't waver. His wand remained trained on Kerrick. "I'm not here to banter, Kerrick," he said, each word deliberate. "You know why I'm here."

"Come now, Eddie," Kerrick chuckled nervously. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze darting around for any chance—any slim hope—of escape. "We both know this is perfectly legal under the Ius Servitium." He gestured weakly toward the cages. "I'm not breaking any laws here. So, what's got your wand in a knot, eh?"

Serfence's grip on his wand tightened, the faint hum of its latent power crackling in the frigid air. "Slavery is legal. That much, unfortunately, is true."

His black eyes bore into Kerrick, unblinking and unrelenting. "But how you acquire them… now that's a different matter entirely. One you've apparently failed to grasp, considering it's the exact same crime that got you locked away in Revel's End for the past half decade."

Kerrick's smirk faltered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Serfence took a deliberate step closer, his imposing presence magnified by the eerie quiet of the blood-stained snow. "And another thing," Serfence added, his tone dripping with disdain, "it's Serfence to you, scum. Last I checked, we're not friends."

A tense silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl echoing eerily through the Mirkwood. From their iron cages, the slaves huddled together, their wide, fearful eyes peering at the exchange. The flickering light of the lanterns cast long, shifting shadows that seemed to tighten like a noose around Kerrick.

"Now, now, Eddi—Serfence," Kerrick stammered, forcing a nervous grin as he raised his hands placatingly. "We go way back, eh? Long before your days as an Executioner. I've got connections, and I can make it worth your while. Surely, we can come to some sort of arrangement?"

 Serfence's glare held a dangerous edge. "You're right about one thing, Stonejaw. We do go way back." His tone dropped to a menacing rumble. "And if memory serves, the last time you tried to bribe me, I broke your arm in seven places." His wand tilted toward Kerrick's left arm, its tip sparking with faint light. "Perhaps I should even the score with the other."

The glowing wand cast an eerie pallor on Kerrick's face as his smirk vanished, replaced by stark terror.

"Wait! Wait!" he cried, his hands trembling as he raised them higher in surrender. "Fine, you win! I confess! I've been hawking stolen goods!" He gestured toward the caravans with a frantic nod. "They're back there with the rest, still bearing the Excalibur Crests. Haven't had time to scrape 'em off!"

Serfence's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Did you honestly think it would be that simple?" His wand glowed brighter. "You're going to have to do better than a lazy confession, Kerrick. I need a name. Specifically, the rat you've been working with." The wand's light grew more intense. "And if you lie to me, I promise you, there's not a single God out there who can save you."

Kerrick gulped audibly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the biting chill. "Alright! Alright! It's… it's…" His voice cracked as he blurted the name, the sound carrying across the clearing like a death knell.

Serfence froze, his expression shifting from cold calculation to unrestrained fury. His jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared. "That no-good, greedy little—!" His words choked off as his hand clenched around his wand, his knuckles turning white.

"Hey! Don't shoot the messenger!" Kerrick yelped, recoiling as though expecting a hex to strike him. "I gave you what you wanted, didn't I?"

Serfence ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing it back as he took a deep, steadying breath. He exhaled slowly; his breath visible in the icy air. "Well, seems like I've got a rat to catch," he muttered.

Kerrick's nervous grin returned, shaky and unconvincing. "Well, now that's settled, I'll just be on my—"

"Not so fast." Serfence interrupted, his wand leveling once more. "First, I'll be making a little detour to Revel's End. I'm sure your old cell hasn't even had time to grow cold."

Kerrick's grin collapsed. "Oh, come on, Serfence! Can't you just let it go? Just this once?"

"Selling stolen goods, not to mention trafficking illegal cargo, ensures you a far longer stay in Revel's End this time," Serfence said.

"And let me remind you, Kerrick—if you hadn't the information I needed, we wouldn't be having this conversation. In fact," his dark eyes narrowed, "you wouldn't even be breathing right now."

The words lingered like frost in the air, heavy with menace and finality.

Kerrick's gaze flicked to the lifeless bodies of his men sprawled across the bloodied snow. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he looked back at Serfence. The flickering light of the lanterns reflected in Serfence's black eyes, which seemed to devour the warmth of the world around him. The name whispered in the shadows of Avalon echoed in his mind: Serfence the Black.

"Now, if you don't mind, I—" Serfence's words faltered as his sharp gaze caught the subtle movement of one of the slaves in the cage. Their eyes shifted meaningfully, gesturing toward something near Kerrick. Serfence followed the direction, his attention landing on a metallic box tucked into the truck's underbelly.

Kerrick noticed immediately, his face paling as his hands waved frantically. "No, no, no—don't—!"

Before Kerrick could finish, Serfence flicked his wand, the spell shooting straight at the box. It exploded with a deafening crack, sending shards of metal into the snow. Glass phials tumbled free, their crystalline contents shimmering in vibrant neon hues of varying colors.

Serfence's blackened eyes widened briefly before narrowing, fury radiating from his stiffened frame. His wand remained fixed on Kerrick, now trembling under the weight of his glare.

"Stolen goods weren't enough for you," Serfence growled. "Now you're peddling illegal substances too?"

Kerrick stumbled back, his hands still raised in trembling surrender. "H-hey… look, like I said," he stammered, his words falling over themselves. "A man's got to make a living."

"Do you even know what happens to those who trade in Shimmer?" The tip of Serfence's wand began to glow with an ominous, green light, casting an eerie hue over the snow. "They don't bother with Revel's End for filth like you. Perhaps I should save everyone the paperwork and handle you myself."

"Wait! Alright!" Kerrick yelped in desperation. "Please! I owe some very bad people a lot of dough, okay? They said they'd wipe my slate clean if I pulled this off. You want names? I'll give you names—every last one of 'em! You and your Clock Tower buddies!"

Serfence exhaled slowly, his composure measured but his eyes glinting with disdain. "You're fortunate you're such a pathetic little rat, Stonejaw," he muttered, stepping toward the spilled contents. He crouched, picking up one of the phials, his gloved fingers turning it over. The glowing substance within swirled softly, and his gaze hardened.

"Shimmer," Serfence murmured. "How far the scum of this world will go to ruin lives for a profit."