A plaque on the wall read:  It is Terribly Good to Carry Water and Chop Wood*.

It was half past ten.  Our man was dressed in a luxurious navy bathrobe, sitting at a little table made of mahogany and alabaster.  As he sipped at his porcelain coffee cup, Kronos sneered at the images shifting across the pages of the Daily Prophet.  Last night's magazine spread was still open next to his tray of breakfast items.  It was the one in which male super-model Arius Tristisa, adorned in a ridiculously magnificent plume of peacock feathers, flexed his rippled muscles and smiled out from the glossy page in a spirited attempt to catch his eye.  Kronos couldn't bring himself to shut it.  For the most part, his hired help knew better than to touch his magazines.  Kronos folded his Daily Prophet and slid it off to the side, half thinking to himself what a pity it was that a blood-traitor like Dennis Creevey was choosing this moment to multiply.

He had not been to London in what seemed like ages!  In this palace on the Isle of Skye, he had a plethora of fancies to steal his attention, most of all his beloved act of listening to rerun Quidditch games on the Wireless.  But all of these were merely frivolous musings.  He had much more important matters to attend to today, he thought, as he took another angry stab at his syrupy French toast.  Kronos pushed the plate away from him, ringing his bell as he swallowed the bite down without chewing.  Despite the carrying capacity of the tiny brass contraption, he cleared his throat by coughing into his handkerchief, then tucked it back into the breast pocket of his bath robe.  Swirling his juice, he let loose his deepest below, leaning back and looking slightly over his shoulder.

"Pidge!" he crackled.  "Pigeon! . . . PIGEON FEET!"  A banging of copper pots was immediately followed by the materialization of an instantly stooping house-elf.  He was as weathered by the years as Kronos, yet nowhere near as well-clad in his measly loin cloth. 

"Oohhh, master," said the elf in a wavering voice, as he came up out of his bow.  "Brumpeg has asked master not to call him this -- this, 'Pigeon Feet'."  Kronos snarled his sickening one-sided smile before pressing his crystal glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice against it.  He licked his lips.  All of this was part and parcel of their delicate, precious routine.

"Pigeon Feet has remembered to prepare for company?" he asked slowly, all decency intact.  However marred it was with implied superiority.  "Why yes, yes, yes, master Kronos!" came the husky, eager reply. 

"Good!" he barked.  "Then fetch me my slippers.  I think I'll go for a burgundy suit and silver tie."  And at once his look of disgust changed into a sort of smug satisfaction. 

And so started another day in the life of Kronos.  For this was the way it always was, and little Brumpeg had learned long ago not to question the curious game of being called Pigeon Feet, and reminding his master according to his wishes how he Did Not Like This!  For one reason or another, Kronos rather enjoyed that game.

The next half hour was spent in preparations.  Kronos was dressed by his helpers in his private chambers as his house-elf presented him with choices from his jewelry box.  It was not until he was fully decked out in fashionable clothes and gaudy pendants and rings that he hobbled his way down to the parlor.  Setting himself down in his throne-like chair by the sofas, Kronos made more demands upon his hired hands and house-elf until everything was -- just. right.  Then, he waited.  He was entertained in the meantime with the Wireless and a big bag of Bertie Bots Every Flavour Beans.  Every once in a while, he crowed out a raucous laugh and begged to differ with the Wireless announcer.  He was in a good mood today.

---

*:  This line comes from a lyric by Joanna Newsom, from the song "Only Skin."

The loud crack of apparition split the quiet Scottish morning, startling a flock of birds into flight from a nearby pine.  Terry Katsaros regarded them solemnly, stony-faced, then let his gaze play across the clearing as he watched for any other sign of life.

There was an advantage to his current employer's isolated headquarters.  Remote and protected, the manor functioned as a literal fortress.  Any assault not turned back by the protective wards would have to break through the stony walls before gaining access to the dangers inside.  Terry could only think of a half-dozen ways to breach the defenses that would stand a chance of success, but then, after a year of working for Malvivicus, he had made it a point to learn them intimately.  No one attempting to break in could be so familiar.

He regarded the open expanse for a moment longer, watching and listening, and then started forward to the manor.  There was only one way to approach the Old Man's Masada.  Pressed upon a cliff like the fortresses of old, it overlooked the broken, wave-torn sea, a bleak footprint against green hills and gray sky.  A solitary path wound its way to the grounds, but any figure attempting to climb to the top or apparate onto the edge of the estate would surely be spotted by watchers in the manor.

Terry had no doubt that there were watchers.  The Old Man might be more and more off-kilter as the months stretched on, but he was far from senile or stupid.  Anyone who took him to be such deserved their fate. 

The line on the grass that marked the start of the wards was indistinguishable, save for where Terry had ingrained it into his memory.  Forming his hand into a cornuto behind his back, he stepped through, keeping a careful eye on the front of the manor as he approached.  The smoke rising from the chimney signaled that the master of the house was likely present, but one could never be too careful where Kronos Malvivicus was concerned.

He had never intended to knock, but the door creaked open as he approached.  Terry regarded the ancient house elf, taking in its shuddering demeanor.

"Where is he?" he asked flatly.

The house elf gave a bow that its quivering joints threatened not to release it from.  "Master is in the parlor," it croaked.  "He is wearing the silver tie and correcting the Wireless."

Terry nodded once, not sparing the creature another glance as he strode inside.  It wrestled to close the door behind him.  All of the Old Man's entourage - all of them that were intended to last, at least, that were not there to be simply thrown away at his beck or whim - understood that passing on information about his moods was in their mutual best interest.  That was one point on which they could all be trusted.  No one wanted to approach him on a bad day.

He made his way to the parlour, not in a rush, never hurrying.  Nonchalance, not fear, turned back the predator, and Terry Katsaros made it a point to never be afraid.  He assumed that that was part of the reason that he remained in such high standing.

The door was open, but this time he knocked and waited to be admitted.  That was, after all, his expected role in the game.

Kronos sat aside the silk pouch of jelly beans after hitting his third 'ear-wax' in a row.  The peculiar, bland flavor of the murky yellow jellies wasn't altogether terrible, but in excess, it was enough to put a damper on his seemingly endless appetite.  Kronos was not a plump man (aside from having a good belly), but he did enjoy being full.  He loved all the decadent sensations that life had to offer, taste being his favorite.  Although, if you asked him, he might say any one of the other senses was superior; it all depended, as so much did, on his fancy of the moment.

He harrumphed at the voice drifting through the parlor with a solid and proud derision, then clucked his tongue toward the hairless cat who prowled in, motioning for her to join him on his lap, which he patted in invitation.  The feline was, as always, kindly obedient to Kronos.  And that was why he loved his Rapunzel.  He stroked her head slowly and sweetly as she settled in to bathe in the artificial sunlight of his parlor with a scratchy meow -- becoming one with her dear old, hairless master.

He straightened up in a vain attempt to appear more professional at the sound of a steady-handed knock upon his open door.  Leaving his man waiting a moment for the sake of good theatrics, Kronos prepared himself and his chosen persona for their date.  Then, very collectedly, he answered the knock with a simple and mechanical, "Enter." 

Not bothering to doubt his command would be followed, he tagged along a dryly spirited note.  "You're just in time for Celestina Warbeck," he said merrily, as the last few words of the previous broadcast died out.  They gave way to the trilling notes of the singing sorceress's most famous melody.  Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love gave the parlor a festive air, which could only be described as highly disturbing when placed next to the image of the old murderer stroking his hairless cat. 

But Kronos was pleased by the good Wizard's sense of punctuality.  He wasn't early, and he wasn't late.  Terry -- his favorite worldly, handsome brute -- was there at the precise moment Kronos wanted him to be, so his shift in entertainment coincided with his shifting tasks.  From 'fine cuisine' to his métier, and from fine British Wizarding News to Celestina Warbeck.  It was all perfection. 

"Sit down and fill me in," he said.  "Can I interest you in a jelly?"

Despite the warm artificial light, there was nothing welcoming about the parlour.  The crooked old wizard with his hairless cat, the warbling harmonies coming from the wireless - none of it fit.  The atmosphere was vaguely off-kilter, disconcerting, as if someone was trying to hum a familiar tune but hitting flats every time. 

It had never bothered Tiresias.  As far as murderous lairs went, it was downright cheery.

Terry raised an eyebrow as he entered, otherwise choosing to ignore the Old Man's choice of music for the day.  Most of the scratchy tunes that were popular on the British wireless were a blight on the senses, but in terms of torture, they were easy to bear. 

He checked the room first, eyes shifting over the corners and the perimeter, and then took his usual chair.

"I'll pass," he replied, just the barest hint of irony in his voice.  For whatever reason, Kronos Malvivicus's boxes of Every-Flavour Beans tended to have a disproportionately high amount of sweets in the ear-wax and nose-pickings varieties.

Reports were always matter-of-fact.  If the Old Man didn't need to know the details, he spared them.  Work was completed efficiently, and every so often, a task came along that he enjoyed more than the rest.  Since the failure of the summer, though, most of the assignments had been grating.

"I didn't have much luck at the first task you set me," he said grimly, dark eyes rising to meet Kronos's own.  Admitting it was irritating, but he'd gone as far as he'd been allowed.  "The elves are still insisting that they can't leave.  If you would like me to be more..."  Terry paused, searching for the right word before finding it with a tight smirk.  "Persuasive, then I'll see what I can do."

Kronos looked plain-facedly forward, still stroking Rapunzel with a heavily embellished hand, but now a little more pensively as he kept his head cocked, foot tapping spasmodically to the music.  As much as he would have liked to see his precious little merchandise to go undamaged (for bruises drove the cost down tenfold, which was pesky, pesky business for you) -- he had to have the cave cleared out entirely.  And all that was done but for the pestilent little elves.  Until they had his alchemist under wraps, Kronos couldn't be sure whether or not to be expecting a raid.  His face smeared in displeasure as he ruminated over the implications.  If they couldn't kindly move and find themselves in his employ, or else be sold, then they'd get what they had coming to them.  What Terry had wanted to do from the beginning, he suspected.  And he had been so good, Terry.  Might as well give him this.

"Hmm, yes," he said thoughtfully.  "Persuasion.  Do whatever you must then, lad.  If all else fails, kill them.  If you're able to keep them in one piece -- well, each -- then bring them here and we'll see if we can't correct that allegiance of theirs with a bit of persistence." 

It was really rather careless of him to have the elves put under the alchemist's care directly in the first place.  He could have had them under his employ and ordered them to answer to her; only, he had no reason to believe she wouldn't be his personal potions mistress for forever and a day.  He had to admit that he was surprised she had not only figured out the one means of escape (how had she?) but also had the wherewithal to even test that hypothesis by destroying her own wand, not to mention getting across the few miles of gelid sea between Staffa and the mainland -- with no boat and no possibility of apparition.  Perhaps she was dead.  But if the House Elves were still following her orders... perhaps not.  Now was the time to see.

He hummed and shook his head out rhythmically, giving the lyric an out-of-tune sing-along that warped it into a twisted, bitter melody.  Eyes closed, Kronos imagined how sweet Celestina Warbeck's vocal chords would look suspended in a glass jar on his mantel.  If he didn't have other ways to keep Terry occupied at the moment, he would have asked. 

But such was not the case.

The wet rat alchemist had escaped his hold.  It was fun, actually.  He liked it when they ran.  Like little mice in a wheat field for the hunting.  And the little girl had had time aplenty in which to squirm, a great head start at hiding; she was probably by now starting to feel a bit on the comfortable side, safe from her keeper.  Clever.  Untouchable.  Which meant of course, that it was time to make his move.  He came out of his previous reverie wearing a disconcerting smile. 

"I'd like my potionress back now," he said.  He waited a moment before tapping off the wireless.  It crackled out abruptly and filled the parlor with silence.  He turned to Terry, smile drooping with his widening eyes.  "She'll make it her business to be hard to find.  Clever girl.  What we need is a pon to sniff her out for us.  I have another, more important person for you to play hide and seek with," he laughed.  "Don't worry, son.  When we have her back, you can torture her all you want.  I just want to watch a little bit.  She doesn't yet know what it means to be a team player.  We'll correct that.  If she's alive."   

The little bug-eyed pests deserved far more than mere persuasion.  With their inept servitude and their refusal to speak in the first person, Terry would have liked to raze the lot of them from the start.  But British wizards insisted on them, depended on the irritating creatures.  He had pointed out that giving Wiedman any kind of tools was risky, but the Old Man had insisted.  Only the best for his latest pet.  The enchantment would hold her, after all.

It was too bad that even the best enchantments had a failing.

But here, finally, he could choose his own methods.  Terry smiled grimly.  The house elves were irritating; their refusal to follow his orders now that the alchemist had left was even more so.  He would have liked to grind their bones and Wiedman's both into dust.  It would have made up for having to put up with the aggravating creatures.  As it was, he could settle for his version of persuasion.  He hardly had to tell his employer if he didn't try very hard before moving on to the final option.

"Of course," he replied, his face expressionless.  "I'll see what I can do."

When the subject of the house elves was broached, Dazmond Wiedman was never far from the Old Man's thoughts.  Her disappearance still left a bitter sting on Terry's tongue.  After a year in service to Kronos, he was well aware that the ancient wizard enjoyed the thrill of the hunt more than its inevitable conclusion.  It was hardly surprising that Kronos had given Wiedman a head's start after her escape, but that too seemed a foolish mistake.  If Tiresias had had his way, he would have sought the witch immediately, crushed her when she was still weak, left no mistake at what would happen to those who defied the Old Man's will.

But Kronos had let her run, and run she had.  Terry had been forbidden to find her, instructed to give her space to burrow and hide.  The rat must be allowed to enjoy her small victory; it would make her crushing defeat all the sweeter once it came. 

And now, finally, Kronos spoke the words that he had been waiting months to hear.  The squirming witch's escape had been a professional affront.  Terry's eyes glinted at the thought.  The Old Man knew that he'd take a great, personal pleasure in bringing her back again.

Except, apparently, that wasn't what his employer had in mind.

"She's alive," he said flatly.  Wiedman wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of escaping just to end up on the bottom of the North Minch.  But that was besides the point.  His eyes narrowed at Kronos.  "Is there someone else you trust to bring her back?" he asked, keeping the edge from his voice.  "I think I can handle a game of hide-and-seek with more than one person."

"Not at all," said Kronos, his lips twitching with the threat of a smile.  Trust was not his gimmick; the hunt was.  "I want to watch her with a new set of eyes a while," he said darkly.  "I want to have the option of tearing those eyes out if they fail me."  His tone and his own eyes suddenly turned mockingly dramatic.  "Oh, Terry, Terry, don't you know you're built to last?  I want a pawn, Terry.  Find me a pawn to play with."  He rested his head on the back of his high-backed Victorian chair.  "Someone I can take my frustrations out on.  He'll be my eyes, he'll do the footwork, he'll tell us everything we need to know, and in the end equation, you darling, you can take her in by force -- whether or not it's necessary."

Kronos narrowed his eyes and said, "Get us an address.  We'll send an invitation and you can meet him for a side-along in London.  I met her in London, that's where we'll start.  All those low-level criminals are all the same.  London alley rats."  He paused to look side-long at Katsaros.  "Now don't be sour, pet.  You can play with my pawn till the rat is good and cornered.  But I have someone I need here sooner then all that.  A very special someone."

Kronos retrieved a clipping from the Prophet that was sitting at his mahogany side-table, leaning to hand it over to Terry with a grunt.  The date read October 31st, 2008 and below the headline "Tinker, Tailor, Wizard, Liar?" was a moving picture of a most handsome youth and the name of Rita Skeeter with a most sensational tale following.  Rita Skeeter was Kronos's most favorite reporter; he had a soft spot for the dramatic spins she was so famous for, and he made a point to read all of her articles for sheer entertainment. 

But this boy, this Sasha Schlagenweit, he was a diamond in the rough, he was.  He was the most beautiful creature Kronos had ever seen.  His situation was precarious, and the boy would need to make a choice.  If he could be crafted, if he could be influenced under Kronos's spoiling hand -- he could make the boy in his own image.  He could have a muggle-born purist son who rose to the top, like him, proving his allegiances to his own great power by having his vindictive, disgusting family ousted.  He was convinced that he could cause the boy to make that choice.  The boy would never leave him, he'd be so grateful.  Kronos and Sasha forever.  Oh yes.

"A Hogwarts student," he said fondly.  "So confused, so lost.  And now, to you, royalty.  Find out everything you can about him, will you?  And bring him to me.  Bring my darling home to papa."