Taras Strelnikov was not an idle man. Idle hands were the devil’s handiwork after all. A smirk appeared on his dark face as he walked through the streets of London watching the faces of those who pass. Devil’s handiwork, indeed. He had been idle for the past seven years, rotting away in a vile cell deep in Adoverste. In those seven years, only his mind was allowed to work and work it did. Plots and schemes, opportunities, rebellions, mutiny: it all flashed in front of his eyes at one point or another. Over time, the options fell away one by one until he was left with a simple one. One so simple, he was amazed that his complicated, multi-faceted mind would have even dreamt it, especially after having seven years to develop it.   

The Russian didn’t enjoy not knowing the outcome of his dabbling, but he had learned to just shrug it off. It was the unknown and there was nothing the tall man loved more than the unknown. He had to convince himself he was just venturing into new territories. Nothing more.

He suddenly turned a corner into a dark alleyway and disapparated. 

He reappeared in a lonely aisle in Hogsmead. His smirk turned into a full Cheshire cat grin. It hadn’t taken him too long to figure out how to reach his family. Darya would be the hardest to find as she was probably in an unplottable mansion by the sea, knowing her. He had heard that Luca was in the Ukraine, thus would be out of the loop from the family. He had heard plenty about his eldest son, Jaska, from his mother Nika. So he knew that Jaska would be with Darya, wherever she was.

He ran a hand through his dark locks and walked onto the main road, making a bee-line for the three broomsticks. He knew who he would meet there, even though she didn’t have a clue. He had forged Jaska’s handwriting flawlessly, telling her to meet him at the quiet tavern for lunch to discuss the wedding.
Oh, his dear daughter. His beautiful daughter that he hadn’t seen since she was nine years old. She would be in for a special treat.

As soon as he opened the door, he saw her. His Cheshire grin softened. She was his daughter, his poor little daughter. It was too bad he would tear apart her world. The key to finding Darya was to shatter his precious child.

He shrugged it off. She was strong, and if she wasn’t, she wasn’t meant to be Demitria Slaave Strelnikov: The Earth’s Glorious Executioner. She had to prove she was worthy of the title of pureblood he had graciously bestowed on her at her birth. Her blood was dirtier than a mudbloods… but he had granted her the life of a true princess.

Her back was turned to him as he walked towards the table, as silent as a ghost. “Strellie.”

Demitria was impeccably dressed, the outfit completed by the huge smile on her face. She had been cheery all morning, since there were only two days left of boredom, but her mood improved ten-fold when a large Great Horned Owl dropped a letter in her hand. She didn’t recognize the owl, but when she saw the handwriting on the envelope, she knew.

Jaska had finally contacted her. It was a miracle! Strellie had thought he was still mad at her for not responding to his last owl, over a month before. It had been about the wedding and as much as she dreaded it, any black-tie occasion was cause for celebration. No, the reason she hadn’t responded, was because there was nothing she could say that would make him happy. Anything she could say, at least about Katrin, was negative.

Sooner, rather than later, there were going to be two, unbearable purist bitches in the Strelnikov line. Not including herself of course. She was only half-bad. Jaska had outdone himself, choosing a carbon copy of their vicious grandmother. Strellie sighed as she put on a few final touches of make-up. She could console herself with the fact that Jaska loved their grandmother, thus would probably love Katrin too, malicious bitch though she was.

But it didn’t matter right now! Her brother had invited her to lunch at the Three Broomsticks and she hoped that there, they could see their cousin Vasily again. It had been a month or so since the tiny Russian had had contact with her devilish half-blooded cousin. They had both been busy.

Finally out the door, Strellie walked down the path to Hogsmead with a spring in her step. She couldn’t wait to have a one-on-one with her favourite brother. The day was partially clear, but in the distance, a few clouds loomed dark and low. Strellie made a face. It would probably start raining- again. By Merlin did she hate the rain. Disgusting, foul, unpleasant… ugh. She didn’t have enough adjectives for the vile substance. Snow was one thing, but rain was too much.

She arrived at the Three Broomsticks with plenty of time to spare, so she went to her usual spot and sat down. Her fingers tapped out melodies on the table. She had had plenty of time to practice with hardly anyone in the castle over the past few week.

She began humming when suddenly, there was a voice behind her.
 
Strellie

The Russian knew that voice. Heavily accented, suave, commanding, yet so soft at the same time. It was her brother’s voice, yet it was her brother’s voice as if she was in a dream. Still in a state of confusion, she spun around in her chair. It was her brother, but it wasn’t. The moment her mind became focused, she knew it wasn’t her brother.

They had the same voice, the same skin tone, the same hair color, and the same shape of face. But there was one thing that Jaska did not have that this man had.

When she looked at his eyes, it was like looking into a mirror. It was a man that had haunted her dreams. A face she barely remembered, yet couldn’t forget.

“Taras?”

He was supposed to be locked away. He was supposed to be rotting on the floor of an inescapable prison. He was supposed to be slowly dying for the rest of his miserable life.

He was supposed to be anywhere but here, in front of her, impersonating her most beloved brother.
 
“Papa?”

If she was a weaker girl, she would’ve fainted then and there.