Bathael flicked the item across the table. It hit the wood with a light metallic clink and spun twice before settling. A coin. Plain and unassuming. The sort of thing you’d forget in a coat pocket.

“Here you go,” He said, dropping into the nearest chair and summoning a drink with a lazy wave. “Your soul.”

He took a mouthful, winced, then drank the rest anyway. “Saints. That’s vile.”

Voldemort didn’t hear the commentary. He was already reaching for the coin, turning it over in his palm. His eyes widened as he felt it. Piece of his soul, now inside the coin he’d never seen before.

“Did it give you trouble?” Voldemort asked. He kept his tone casual, but his stare locked on Bathael’s red eyes. “You’re half a day late.”

Bathael clicked his tongue. “Bit of faff.”

That was an understatement so heroic it deserved a statue.

For all the brains gathered in that hidden chamber, the Flamels, Ji, Dumbledore, Bathsheda, the whole lot of them and most importantly himself, not one had clocked the obvious until Cassian was already halfway to the door.

What would Voldemort think if he saw one of his treasured artefacts sitting on the table, freshly altered, within reach of a stranger?

Cassian had stopped dead, swore impressively, and they’d started the whole thing again. Another migration. Another round of coaxing the soul-fragment out of the host. Another day gone.

Thankfully, once the Horcrux had been pulled free the first time, it behaved on the second. Reluctant, but familiar with the path. That was the only reason Cassian wasn’t returning three days late and missing several fingernails.

“Something like that,” Bathael said, shrugging.

Voldemort kept turning the coin. He looked around, as if to expect something to appear. “Nagini?”

Bathael didn’t even blink. “Dead.”

Voldemort’s grip stilled.

Bathael went on with a grin, as if discussing the weather. “Shame, really. I had plans for her. Would’ve been interesting.”

He leaned back, lifted his drink again, and grimaced a second time.

“Truly awful,” he muttered, eyeing the glass. “I need better alcohol.”

Voldemort didn’t answer. He was still staring at the coin, thumb pressed to its edge.

Bathael watched him, unbothered, almost cheerful.

“Anyway,” he said, tapping the rim of the glass, “you’ve got your anchor back. That was the job. Whether you use it wisely or do something spectacularly stupid with it… that’s your affair.”

The coin glinted in Voldemort’s hand.

“What about the ritual?” Voldemort asked. His fingers tightened round the coin.

“Later,” Bathael said, stretching his legs out. “Let the soul settle into that thing before you start poking it. You shake a jar before the lid’s on, it spills.”

Voldemort swallowed down whatever he’d been about to argue. He fell into silence, inspecting the coin carefully. Then he looked up. “How did you do it?”

Bathael chuckled. “Bit of magic.”

That earned him a look, but no further questions. Voldemort tucked the coin away and left without another word.

Hours later, fire fractured across the cave wall and someone stepped out of it. Marauder.

Bathael didn’t move. He only lifted his brows. “You tracked me. Phoenix travel’s cheating.”

“Mm,” Marauder said, brushing ash off his sleeve. “Your guest seemed very pleased with himself.”

Bathael put on a gasp. “Were you spying on us?”

Marauder rolled his eyes. “If I wanted to spy on you, you wouldn’t notice.”

Bathael clapped. “Charming. What d’you want? You’re doing that ‘I’ve got business’ face.”

Marauder’s grin curled. “I do. And it concerns you.”

“That’s usually a bad sign.”

Marauder stepped deeper into the cave, flames dying behind him. “Last year I sent Voldemort after something. He failed. Hopeless, the lot of them. I even tried myself during the Ministry fiasco and still came out empty-handed.”

Bathael tipped his head. “Bit embarrassing.”

“Quite.” Marauder’s mouth twitched, irritated that the jab landed. “They locked the entire wing after I slipped through it,” he said. “Added six new wards and a Keeper watch-point. The Americans even drafted a memo about ‘international collaboration,’ which is their polite way of saying ‘we’re terrified.'”

Bathael raised his brows. “So you made a scene.”

“I always do,” Marauder shrugged. “And now I’ve got the Flamels, Ji, half the Keepers, and whatever else fate wants to throw at me breathing down my neck. I can’t set foot in Britain without a small army trailing me.”

“So you want the new lad to go instead.”

“Yes,” Marauder admitted. “Voldy’d trip over his ego and get arrested. You’ve got a far better chance of slipping in and out unnoticed.”

Bathael leaned back. “What’s the job? And don’t dress it up.”

Marauder’s smile widened. “The thing I’m waking… the creature… its leash is stored in the British Ministry.”

Bathael snorted. “Leash? Really?”

“Call it what you like,” Marauder said. “It’s the only object that’ll give me control when the creature rises. No leash, no control. And I refuse to wake something that size without a way to point it in the right direction.”

Bathael gave him a slow, amused look. “And this precious key is sitting where? In a desk drawer? Locked in a broom cupboard? Being used as a paperweight by the Minister?”

Marauder didn’t rise to it. “It’s buried deep. I know it’s there, I just couldn’t reach it. But you? You’re clean. No Ministry alarms keyed to your magic. No Keeper alerts. You can walk in far easier than the rest of us.”

Bathael tapped the pommel at his hip. “So you want me to stroll into the Ministry, pinch your mystery leash, and hand it over with a bow.”

Marauder grinned. “Precisely.”

Bathael’s eyes glinted. “And you’re very certain this thing won’t bite my head off when you wake it?”

“Oh, it absolutely will,” Marauder said. “That’s why I need the leash.”

Bathael laughed. “Honest. Refreshing.”

Marauder stepped closer, gaze bright. “So? Will you fetch it?”

Bathael took his time answering, weighing him with a lazy, amused squint.

“Depends,” he said at last. “Why hand this to me? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’d do with it. For all you know, I could take your precious toy and run off to start a cult in the mountains.”

Marauder gave a cold laugh. “You wouldn’t get that far.”

Bathael’s eyes narrowed.

“You don’t know how to use it,” Marauder went on. “That item is lethal on its own. If you try to wield it without the right method, you’ll snap your soul in half. Might even take your head off for good measure.”

Bathael leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That so?”

“That so,” Marauder said, cheerful as rain on a funeral. “You’d kill yourself before you managed anything impressive.”

Bathael stood. “Alright. I’ll play. What is it you want me stealing?”

Marauder’s grin sharpened. He clenched his fist, flames licking between his knuckles for a heartbeat before dying again.

“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever heard of the Veil?”

Bathael stilled. His smile didn’t move, but the air went tight around him. “The Veil,” he repeated, slow. “As in the-“

“Yes,” Marauder cut in, almost pleased. “That one. Ministry’s kept it tucked away like a shameful heirloom. They don’t even know what they’re guarding.”

Bathael let out a whistle. “You’re asking me to break into the Ministry and pinch something tied to the Death?”

Marauder spread his hands. “If you want to call it that, sure.”

“And what,” Bathael said, tilting his head, “do I get out of this?”

“You get the backing of the man who’s about to wake the strongest creature this world’s managed to bury,” Marauder said, voice bright, almost cheerful. “And I don’t mean strong as in ‘throws tantrums and breaks a few cities.’ I mean the kind of strong that makes the Keepers dig their heels in and pray their shields hold.”

He spread his hands as though unveiling a stage.

“I’m offering you a stake in the aftermath.”

Bathael’s grin sharpened. “Aftermath is a generous term for a crater.”

“Please,” Marauder said, stepping closer, “you’re thinking too small. I’m talking about a world being reset. Cleansed. Knocked flat.” His gaze flicked up, heat behind it. “And rebuilt. From its ashes.”

Bathael watched him.

“There it is,” he said. “The sales pitch.”

Marauder lifted his chin, unbothered. “You want a place in the new order? Fetch me the Veil.”

“Let me get this straight,” Bathael said. “You want me to break into the British Ministry, steal an object tied to Death, avoid every alarm keyed to the Keepers, dodge whatever’s guarding the Veil, and hand it to you so you can unleash something the world buried on purpose.”

Marauder nodded as if approving a shopping list. “Exactly that.”

Bathael snorted, almost a laugh

“From its ashes, hm?”

Marauder gave a wicked smile, as if he could already see it. “From its ashes.”

Bathael tapped the handrest. “I’ll think on it.”

Marauder shrugged. “Do. But not for long. Locks are weakening everywhere. When the last one drops, the race starts. Best you don’t trail behind.”

Bathael watched him turn in a swirl of heat and flame. Marauder vanished.

The cave went quiet again.

Bathael’s grin vanished, his brows pulled.

A leash for a creature older than any of them.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

He straightened, eyes flicking toward the cave mouth.

“From its ashes… what a bloody mess.”

The deeper he waded into this mess, the stranger it got. Greece had already been too much. He had walked away hoping that would be the end of it after sealing it. Let the thing sleep for a millennium, long enough that he could check out of the world and leave the catastrophe to some future academic with more optimism than sense.

But Marauder had other plans. He knew the body sat buried in Greece. He knew the soul slept in Yucatan. And now, he’d tracked down the leash meant to command the creature once it rose.

A body, a soul, and a leash. Three pieces of a horror old enough to have its own epoch. If Marauder managed to reunite them, there wouldn’t be a world left to argue about.

Worse still, Marauder clearly knew the creature’s name.

He stopped pacing at that. Names were never harmless in ancient magic. Names were anchors. Names were doors. Names were how the thing in Greece had clawed at anyone who remembered it. Nicolas had stripped memories for a reason, the more the creature was recalled, the more strength it gathered, the louder its magic became. He was an exception, his mind isolated, walled off from the world. If Marauder was walking around with the name fully intact and wasn’t giving strength to the creature, then he found a way to shield his memories from it.

A technique to mask memory? A barrier strong enough to muffle a creature that fed on remembrance itself?

He needed to move. He needed to tell Nicolas and others about the Veil. It had to be secured before Marauder tried again. If that thing was truly a leash, then keeping it buried was the only chance they had.

He took two steps toward the exit before he stopped frozen.

What if that was the point?

Marauder didn’t want to set foot in the Ministry again. He’d made that clear. He’d complained about the wards, the alarms, the Keepers stationed like anxious grandparents. What if he wasn’t asking Bathael because he needed him, what if he already clocked he was a spy? Counting on them grabbing the Veil, moving it somewhere “safe,” somewhere predictable, somewhere easier to breach than the Ministry’s deepest floor?

He clicked his tongue.

Was he thinking too far ahead… or not nearly far enough?

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