Chapitre 398: Always Prep-ing

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The seaside breeze tickled Quinn's nose as he looked at the blue North Sea that stretched to the horizon. He stood at a hill near the seaside, overlooking an unexplored part of the shore with beautiful white sand receiving the gentle white tides.

Quinn shifted his feet and unsettled the seaside pebbles near his feet. He raised his hand, palm down towards the ground, and said: "Up!"— A couple of dry, rounded stones rose up, gently smacking into his palm. He looked to the sea and raised his other hand, and in response, puddles of water rose up from the sea and floated at his feet-level in a straight line. He cocked his arm to the side and swung it like a whip launching the shallow pebble towards the first puddle— it skipped off the water pool, and then continued to skip along in the line, landing precisely where the puddles were.

He smirked and extended the line of puddles. He tossed the stone up high, and while it was in the air, he injected body magic through his body. The stone came back down, touched his palm, and with another whip-like swing, heaved it across the line of floating water puddles launching water out on every hit.

Quinn nodded his head with satisfaction at his effort. He stamped his foot, and a pebble shot up into his hand, ready to be hurled across(and above) the sea— but his senses picked up something, and he dropped the stone along with the water. He waved his hand in front of his face to ensure his disguise and then turned to see Lucius Malfoy struggling his way up the small hill.

"Updates?" asked Quinn.

Lucius Malfoy stepped to the top of the flat hill and respired heavily while trying to hide the fact that the climb had left him out of breath. The proud man stood straight and looked toward Quinn as if nothing was wrong, and Quinn waited in silence.

"No changes have been made to the plans," said Lucius finally. "The attacks are to go down tomorrow—" he cleared his throat "—my own target will be attacked near the noon, at the Cerible Square, whereafter he will be taken into custody—"

"Until all attacks have been completed," Quinn nodded. As the days had passed, Rivers Lock had distributed more and more parts of the plan to the teams, and one of the additions was that the target-victims were to be hidden until the end of the day or the last attack, whichever came first.

"Are you ready?" asked Lucius.

"Ready?" Quinn quirked a brow. "No, I'm not."

"What. . . then—"

"Being ready means that you believe you've prepared for an event, which means that there's nothing more to be done. I never believe that there's always more to be done— to ensure the success of the plan to a greater degree, even if it's only by a fraction. I have certainly met the minimum requirements to secure success— but as Helmuth van Moltke the Elder said: No plan ever survives contact with the enemy— and I've learned that I like my plans surviving even if by a thread."

While the words were pretty, they held the concrete truth inside of them. He was a major disadvantage of being only one person and going against eleven groups of people who had planned out their offenses. And even with his preparations, most of it wasn't his own— the research for nine out of eleven targets had been outsourced, one he had taken directly from Lucius, and the remaining one he had done on his own. Moreover, the influence of Rivers Lock had organized the plans in such a way that he had no way to get the exact details of the plans— and his counter-strategy was a gamble, even though backed by research. He didn't even fully trust Lucius' information and had to get into the double-spy's head stealthily to confirm the genuinity of his words.

"What about me," spoke Lucius. "I-I don't want to get into trouble with the Dark Lord."

". . . Has the last meeting been done? Is the Dark Lord or Rivers Lock or anyone else going to address regarding tomorrow?" asked Quinn, looking over the setting sun at the horizon. The sea was stunningly blue, with the sky above painted in a tint of red, with streaks of white clouds that were half-shadowed by the light from the sun.

"Everything's done, today we rest, and tomorrow we go for the job."

"I see," Quinn turned to Lucius and said, "then you're going to be just fine." He raised his arm and pointed his index finger between Lucius' brows— it was just close enough that Lucius had to squint to zone-in on the finger. His squinting eyes blanked out with pupils dilating; the shoulders slumped, and the entire loosened.

"If there's no memory of it, then there's nothing to be worried about," muttered Quinn as he stepped closer and let his fingertip touch Lucius' forehead. "Don't worry, I will return your memories when I think it is safe. Yes, you won't be getting any more family visits for a while— but don't worry, I will leave the comfort behind."

There were two types of Obliviations: one type was to completely erase the memory, expunge it completely without leaving any trace of it— but then there was the other kind, it would cut the connection of the memories to the larger net, leaving them inaccessible, turning them into forgotten memories. Quinn had learned both types of Obliviations from Alan's texts— he had wiped Dolion's memories completely, which was the first type of Obliviation— while what he was doing with Lucius was simply snipping the strings to the memories that could be retied later. As for 'leaving comfort behind,' — he was going to work around the emotions and leave the sentiments Lucius felt during his short reunions with his family. Not only would it make Lucius's Obliviation proceed much more smoothly, but it also wouldn't risk his work tomorrow. As for the risk, Quinn knew how Legilimens operated. He knew how Legilimens scoured through memories, and he knew if not explicitly looking for it, no Legilimens would look for Obliviated memories. And someone like Voldemort, who brute-forced most of the time, would never look, especially when his target willingly submitted for most of the time.

Quinn removed his head, and Lucius dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Lucius' body rose up into the air, straight as a plank. Quinn put his hand on his shoulder, and without an eruption of noise, the beachside was left void of human life.

- (Scene Break) -

"You called for me, my Lord," said Rivers Lock, standing just outside the room's threshold by the door. He looked at the brightly lit room with a shred of surprise— whenever he had met with the Dark Lord, he had done it in a dimly lit room with a couple of candles or a fire burning in a fireplace. Having a room adequately lit, even a little bit overlit, was a surprise if nothing else.

"Come in."

Rivers stepped in and observed the Dark Lord sitting behind a table with a book in his hand, flipping through the pages as he leaned into his chair leisurely. And there it was again, once again a surprise. River knew that the Dark Lord was a learned man— no one becomes a magical juggernaut without studying— but in the years he had been near the Dark Lord, he had never seen him with a book in hand.

"Sit down."

Rivers complied and sat down. When Voldemort didn't look up from his book, Rivers took the chance to observe the room; it was different from the last time he had been there. The empty room had been filled with bookshelves with tomes in every row; a grand table, and a throne-like chair behind it. There were velvet curtains over the windows, and there were some interesting things on the walls— an animated world map, a tapestry giving out an intimidating feel, a seemingly normal circle mirror, and a pelt of some beast hanging on the wall.

"Is everything prepared?"

Rivers turned to Voldemort and replied, "The teams have been prepared and instructed. I have sat down with all the leaders, listened to their plans, and suggested some improvements— it's up to them if they wish to implement my suggestions. All in all, the teams are ready to perform tomorrow." He had listened to their plans, and even though he would've done things differently, done things better— but making plans wasn't part of his duty. Though, the plans were decent enough for them to succeed. "By tomorrow night, the Ministry would know what has happened to them, and by the following morning, the people of this country will realize who they're facing," he said.

Voldemort hummed and continued to read the ancient tome with frayed page edges. "Who do you think has the highest chance of failing?"

"Nott," said Rivers without skipping a beat; he didn't even need to think about an answer.

"Why?"

"Too brash, too hot-headed. The Southern Lord is too self-confident in himself, the people he has chosen for his team, and his plan. I have sat with everyone on various stages, and I had to directly question the man on specific parts of his plans to make him see the egregious faults in them," Rivers said nonchalantly, but his eyes were deader than usual. "He doesn't know the importance of feedback; I had to force it down his throat to make his plan. . . acceptable."

"What if he fails?"

"I. . . have a man in his team. . . a competent man, in case things go awry. He will deviate from Nott's plan and do what seems fit for the situation."

"And what if the situation is too public? Your plan requires secrecy."

"If it seems that the plan is going south, I've prepared a backup team just in case."

"To go to such great lengths, you must really not trust Nott."

"Success is the only desired result," said Rivers. Trust Nott? If there was a person in the world he trusted, it would never be Nott. If not for the orders and Nott's standing in the Death Eater circles, he would've not even let the man sniff the air around this operation.

Voldemort hummed again. He closed his book and let go of it for the book to float into an empty slot in the bookshelf. For the first time, he looked up at Rivers, and there was a sense of critical observation in the red eyes. "What do you think will happen if tomorrow succeeds," he asked.

"Chaos. Aurors will be blamed, Ministry will receive pressure, and a great unrest will spread. We can assert control in the situation."

"Yes, we can. . . but I do not want to assert control, Lock," said Voldemort, in a tone that, even though it seemed flat, was nothing but. "I wish to rule," the voice was full of self-confidence, something much different than Nott's— it was an insult to even compare. "For that reason, this is just the start— the days of hiding are coming to an end."

"What do you mean, my Lord?"

"It's time to take over."

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Quinn West - MC - Busy day ahead.

Lucius Malfoy - Double-Cross - Found himself waking up in a private booth at a private club— thinks he's getting old to fall asleep in the evening.

Voldemort - Dark Lord - I wish to dominate.

Rivers Lock - Strategist - Sure. . . whatever you say.

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Chapitre 399: Cicada <- Mantis <- Oriole

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Quinn stretched on the roof in his Noir gear configured into a grey urban camouflage setting. It had been a second since he had put on the suit— the Taboo curse had run out of steam with no Snatchers responding to the calls— he had done a month where he had slept in two very short shifts and had gone out after anyone who had responded to his Taboo calls and swept the floor with them hard. Since that month, the Taboo activity had been cut to near zero, excluding some exceptions.

After ticking out the last crack in his back, the mask appeared over his face, and he moved towards the center of the roof to the edge. He turned invisible, stepped on the ledge, and looked down at a window of a calligraphy store, behind which an elderly friend sat trying out new stationery. Quinn turned his head around the street and scoured the general crowd, and there he saw it— people acting weird while trying to blend in naturally.

'Use magic, you morons,' he thought, looking at the fools who were not using a single shred of magic.

Head of Beast Division, Steven Jeffery— the man in charge of sub-departments like Centaur Liaison Office, Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, Troll Patrol. . . and the Security Council of Werewolf Caution. It was clear why he was a target today; eliminating the man in charge of so many important sub-department would cause so many security problems that the DMLE would receive a ton of tension.

'A perfect start to the day. . .'

Quinn stretched his gloves over his hand and stepped back down. He turned to the side, ran, jumped over to the next roof, and crossed the distance before dropping into the alley below. He cut his fall with magic and silently walked behind the Death Eater, standing in the shadow of the wall, smoking a pipe— he was doing the best job, so Quinn decided to take him out first.

Quinn tapped the wall, and the bricks shifted behind the man, creating a void in which he fell. Quinn snapped his finger, and the sound of the horrified man's scream was snuffed out. When the bricks closed, all that was left behind were the Death Eater's hands, and the fingers moved around, trembled, and even desperately flexed in search of freedom. Quinn extended his hands and intertwined his fingers with the Death Eater's, along with various tiny holes for breathing purposes.

"Sorry, but this is going to be traumatic," he muttered. Tetani Nervum coursed through the Death Eater's arms and crippled them to the core. He then released the Death Eater from the wall imprisonment and dropped him down to the ground. He crouched down and entered the man's head to get some concrete information about the plan.

'Got it.' Quinn got up and cast an anti-attention shroud over the Death Eater. He walked out in the street while being invisible; he spread his arms wide, and invisible magic started raining down on the Death Eaters. Their eyes dulled and hazed for a moment before they returned to normal.

He dipped into an alley again, and a moment later, he was out in his John disguise. He wasted no time and entered the calligraphy shop— behind him, not a single Death Eater twitched even a muscle.

"Welcome, sir," greeted the female employee with a smile. "How may we serve you today?"

Quinn smiled, "I'm here to pick up a guest." Even though she was still putting up a professional smile, he could see the confusion in her eyes. He didn't wait for her response and clapped once; a wave of magic surged out of him, and it was like someone had pushed pause on a video; no one moved or reacted and remained utterly still— except Quinn.

He walked to Steven Jeffrey. There Ministry top-brass had his eyes concentrated on his writing with the quill's tip touching the paper that was soaking up the ink, creating a widening ink blot. Quinn snapped his finger, and the quill slipped out from Steven's hand into the ink pot.

"Let's get you out of here," Quinn tapped the man on his bald spot, and Steven went limp.

Quinn walked out of the shop with Steven in tow, floating beside him under an invisibility spell. He looked behind and clapped again for the store to resume its activity again— the female employee who had greeted him blanked out for a second before turning to another customer. Quinn gazed at the Death Eaters, who had their eyes trained on the shop window and hadn't moved at all; even though Steven Jefferey was no longer there, they didn't react. Such was the power of illusion magic. They saw an illusion of Steven Jeffery doing what he was doing before.

'Two minutes,' noted Quinn. According to the scouting, Steven left the calligraphy store at the same time every Friday. He dumped Steven Jeffery on a bench on the street and then walked towards the Death Eaters.

Two minutes later, out of a team of six Death Eaters, five had their hands crippled, and Quinn was staring down at the unconscious sixth man. "You're one lucky guy, Goyle," Quinn shook his head. Every team leader had to report back on specific points of the day to communicate that everything was going according to the plan. "Get ready to have a good day. . ." He placed his hand on Goyle's head and began fabricating.

- (Scene Break) -

Rivers Lock apparated into a forest with nothing else but trees. A place away from everything, somewhere he had explicitly chosen to hold meetings. If he had chosen the meeting point in the headquarters or a place with a roof, some of the team leaders would've been bound to become lazy, thinking their job was done. In a place like this, they would rather go back and wait with their people.

He turned to notice a bulky large-framed man sitting on a luxurious chair— clearly conjured— under a tree's canopy shade.

Rivers walked in front of the chair and asked: "How did it go, Goyle?"

Vincent Goyle, who had been combing his long beard with a beard comb, looked up at Rivers with unhidden displeasure and snorted, "What do you expect?"

Rivers stared at Goyle without a word. Goyle stared back that soon turned into a glare, but Rivers continued to stare down at the man. He knew many Death Eaters didn't like him, labeling him as a 'fake' Death Eater because of his past as a Novellus Accionites. It hadn't been a problem when he had been under Pettigrew's 'mentorship,' but they had turned on him when the Dark Lord had begun giving him attention. Miserable people playing their pathetic politics. At least people like Rookwood and Pettigrew made the experience bearable.

When Goyle saw that Rivers didn't budge, he grumbled, "It's done. Jeffery is on the allocated area."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

Rivers nodded, "Good, now return," and turned away to leave.

"Don't be proud of this," called Goyle, scoffing. "You're nothing but a bug."

Rivers didn't reply. It wasn't needed. Goyle was a simpleton whose brain operated like an ape. He apparated out, not giving another look to Goyle.

. . .

When Rivers left, Goyle stood up and also left by way of apparation, all the while grumbling about pathetic lowlives. He left the forest and arrived at a small cabin situated in a grassland with a gentle breeze wafting the green pastures.

"I've returned," said Goyle upon entering the wooden cabin. "Any problems while I was gone? . . . No? Good. . . Where's the body? In the back." Goyle walked to the back room and looked inside the back room, and gazed at the table in the center of the room. He nodded before walking back into the front. "Anyone by chance brought something to drink?" he asked. He got no response in return. He sighed, "No matter, we shall drink our hearts out when today ends, and celebrate in the name of our glorious Lord."

He cheered, sat down on the padded rocking chair, swung back and forth. . . and seemingly talked to people who were not there, laughing all alone in the small cabin. There was no one in the little house, not even a dead body in the back room that Goyle had just seemingly checked.

All alone.

- (Scene Break) -

Quinn looked up at the hole in the ceiling, watching the light snow falling down. He followed a little flake as it fluttered past his face, weightlessly made its way down to the floor, and gently landed on a Death Eater's check. The cloudy white snowflake dyed red from the blood that bled out of a shallow cut.

Fourteen Death Eaters laid around him in all sorts of horrendous positions and shared the fact that they all were riddled with injuries. Quinn sighed; things had gone awry so quickly. He looked at the cause of it, and he couldn't say that he wasn't surprised.

Nott Senior. Father of Theodore Nott. The man that had once tried to make his underaged son into a Death Eater. Quinn had thought that the man would be more shrewd if he had once tried to leverage his son, but it turned out that he was just another idiot.

"To be not trusted by your own side, what a pitiful sight," he sighed.

The day had started great; he had begun with Goyle's team and had made it through half of the teams before lunch without a hint of trouble. But then he met Nott's team and faced the first unexpected situation, and none of it was his fault. Nott's target was Colton Hirsch, the high-functioning alcoholic.

The operation had started well, with Quinn identifying every single one of the Death Eaters in record time. They were just sitting around in the biggest bar in town, watching Hirsch without even pretending to hide. Unlike with Goyle, he couldn't repeat what he did in the calligraphy store with so many people drinking in the bar, so he decided to target Hirsch instead.

When the drunkard decided to go piss, Quinn followed him with the plan of shooting Hirsch with a stunner inside a stall, tapping him up in there under an invisibility spell and then taking his place. But it turns out that Nott had the same plan as half of his team followed them inside the washroom.

Wands were drawn, and in the tight quarters, Quinn had taken quick action and used hostile force against the Death Eaters, breaking bones and knocking consciousness. Alas, they had squealed like pigs, and some of the noise leaked out before Quinn could silence it, causing the rest of the Death Eaters to come inside. He had knocked them out instantly, but then something shocking happened. A hole blew up in the ceiling, and spells rained inside. Taking them out was simple, and Quinn had done so, but the gaping hole in the roof could've created a problem.

"Let's hope no one was scouting," Quinn muttered.

He snapped his fingers, and the debris flew back to the ceiling, sealing the gap up; in a couple of seconds, the roof was whole again. He walked to Nott and targeted the feeble mind of the fool.

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Quinn West - MC - Let's see, shall we?

FictionOnlyReader - Author - 1 down, 1 to go.

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If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.

The link is in the synopsis!