‘Rosier do this…Rosier, you’re the boss, fix it! With all due respect, Sir, that is the worst idea ever…! Sir, I respectfully disagree….Sir…Sir…I mean….SIR’ – He could hear all these voices in his head simultaneously, which caused him an unbearable headache. It was half past midnight and Rosier had just returned from the office. It was slightly preposterous, but he would be a damned fool if he thought this new job is not going to be nerve-wrecking and challenging. ‘The boss’ was exhausted, along with fighting crime and managing the biggest (and most important, in his, slightly biased opinion) Department in the Ministry he had to struggle with his employees as well. It was bound to happen, but he didn’t expect it to happen to such an extent. However, Rosier was already scheming and slowly, but thoroughly developing a plan.

Despite his tiredness, he was too stressed to go to bed at the moment. Puck the House Elf made some excellent tea Rosier could not refuse, even though at the moment he felt more like downing a bottle of Firewhiskey instead. He poured the hot tea into a gilded (and very tacky) teacup, adding a bit of milk and too much sugar.

He walked aimlessly through the living room of his immaculately designed, but lonely Chelsea townhouse, sipping his tea. The house elf did such a great job with keeping the place clean and presentable and Rosier felt so blessed to have him - he was sure the house would look like a pit if he never got the squeaky little creature. He was an entertaining 'flatmate' of sorts as well, which came as a slight surprise to Rosier because he usually preferred solitude. Maybe he was just getting old though - or maybe it was time for him to get a new wife...Thinking of what would the Witch weekly say about that, Rosier only smirked.

It was dark, but he didn’t want to light any candles – light would just give him a greater headache. Instead he lit one of his trademark cigarettes from Cairo and walked out into a small garden. It was a starless night – nothing strange for gloomy London, and it was chilly even for a late May evening – again, nothing strange. Tea, tobacco and fresh air seemed to be just the thing Rosier needed to improve his mood. The small, quiet garden at this time of night seemed almost serene and Rosier appreciated this moment because it was one of the rare good ones this week.

He will take an hour before going to bed and he will try not to think about work, otherwise he would be risking losing his wits. He stirred the warm tea slowly, while strolling around the small garden, thinking it was a shame he spent so little time in this rather pleasant place. He couldn’t do anything about that though, so he enjoyed the moment as he watched the cigarette smoke slowly ascend into the air.

Cinaed should have thought of this sooner.  Who would have thought the solution to his hiding in London was simply to commit more crimes?  Christian had passed on the word that the Ministry finally found a suitable replacement for the last Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Cinaed had killed.  Dugan had already made his introductions and while the Ministry was gradually getting distracted by him, Cinaed had taken to casually following this Rosier in his magpie form.

Well, Cinaed and his apparent mate.  Cinaed was assuming, at least, that his ever present winged counterpart was the same bird each time.  It was spring, after all.  What went through the other magpie's mind whenever he resumed his normal form, Cinaed didn't have the slightest idea, but it didn't seem to perturb the bird too much.  As soon as he was back in magpie form, she was there.  Squawking noisily and excitedly wherever he went.  He'd given up on trying to dissuade the poor, confused magpie and had figured it could only help his disguise. 

It hadn't taken long for Cinaed to find the man's home.  He'd taken a week to stalk the man's neighbor in the same fashion, taking careful notes of his patterns and usual destinations.  In the early morning hours of the eighteenth of May, Martin Weller had left his window open to the gentle spring breeze and Cinaed had killed the man, stashed away a healthy supply of the man's hair and had disposed of the body in a shallow grave deep in the Scottish highlands. 

With the man's disposal, Cinaed had found himself in possession of a very nice place to hide away.  Mr. Weller had, conveniently, left him with a full icebox and pantry and one quick disillusionment charm on the man's boss and coworkers had left them convinced Weller was continuing to show up to work as expected.  This was definitely a tactic he would need to use again.  Maybe on one of those rich muggles with a fancy house with those oversized, bubbly bathtubs. 

All in all, Cinaed had been feeling no rush to make his move on Weller's neighbor.  He was perfectly content to lie in wait of the perfect opportunity to make his move.  But, as the hours were drifting from night to morning, the opportunity seemed to have presented itself.  By now, he recognized the nuances of the smoke that drifted through the open door to the gardens.  Cinaed set his cup of tea and the book he'd been reading down on the coffee table and pushed himself up off of the very cushiony couch.  One quick swig of polyjuice for the road and tucked his hands into the pockets of Weller's trousers, his finger brushing fondly over his wand. 

"Beautiful evening," Cinaed said, glancing up at the stars with that blank, ignorant expression muggles seemed to wear.  "It just makes the upcoming work week loom even darker."  He glanced towards the garden fence that separated the two men. 

It was getting slightly chilly and the grass was getting damp, making it slightly uncomfortable to stand there in slippers. The house elf insisted on slippers inside the house, which was good – the floors always looked shiny and clean. But still, the night was far from unpleasant and Rosier wanted to stay out here for longer. The tea was slowly cooling down, so he finished it off, leaving the cup on the small, almost rusty garden table. He checked the time, then lit another cigarette.

He was still tired, but at least it seemed he calmed down. He wondered if every night from now on was going to be like this, or will it get progressively worse and worse. No…he promised himself not to think about work, it awaited him tomorrow morning, but for now he will have this evening to himself. Maybe some more tea would be nice…Rosier walked back to the garden table, took out his wand and made a small, lazy wave. The tacky teacup filled with warm tea instantly. Smiling despite himself, Rosier pocketed his wand and took the cup.

"Beautiful evening,"

Flinching, his hand instinctively gripped the wand inside his robes pocket. That muggle…Did he…did he see him filling the teacup with magic? Weren’t there muggle repelling enchantments put on his property? Thinking quickly, Rosier assumed the enchantments weren’t put on the garden – he will need to address this down at the office first thing in the morning. Despite being taken aback, Rosier looked at his neighbour and decided to act nonchalant and collected even though the two men never exchanged a word prior to this meeting. “Indeed it is,” he said with a small nod, taking a step closer.

“I work at Lloyd's,” he lied with ease, randomly naming one of the few muggle companies he was familiar with (he read somewhere about it – it was something like Gringotts if he managed to get it right). Lloyd's probably stuck with him because their headquarters were such an impressive structure Rosier seldom had a chance to lay his eyes upon. “So yes, not looking forward to the week…” he threw the little what was left from his cigarette on the ground. “What do you do for a living?” Might as well engage in muggle small-talk and hope he won’t have to Obliviate the poor man.

With luck, Rosier's evenings would continue to get worse and worse. 

At least, such was Cinaed's goal. 

The asinine annoyances of muggle life, such as whether he was supposed to be able to look into the man's garden or give a flying thestral's ass about the man's tea, had never occurred to Cinaed.  He continued to stare at the sky for several minutes, listening carefully for any sounds that might indicate his cover had been or might be blown: movement from the other neighboring yards; the sudden crack of bodies apparating; the hushed murmur of overly-curious, snooping neighbors.  But, so far, the night seemed quiet. 

When Cinaed finally looked down, again, Rosier was taking a step towards him.  Cinaed took that as a positive indicator of the man's relative ease and meandered, easily towards the fence between the properties. 

Cinaed didn't have the ruddiest clue who Lloyd was or why one would want to work for him and he couldn't help but wonder if Rosier was any the more wiser.  But, the man was playing his role admirably: hide his true wealth of power from possible muggle exposure and pretend ... pretend to be some lowly muggle, himself, that worked for some other lowly muggle named Lloyd.  It was despicable.  Offensive.  And, all for what purpose?  Because they claimed it made them safer?  Because it made whom safer?  Muggles were meager, weak imbeciles that witches and wizards could smite into their rightful place instantaneously.  And, yet, muggles weren't required to hide their disgusting muggle ways.  It was wizards who were required to assimilate with muggle fashion and muggle customs not the other way around.  And, yet, the Ministry continued to 'protect' muggles.  The Ministry continued to force the likes of them to hide in the shadows so that muggles might live freely in the open. It was despicable. 

Even worse.  It should be considered treasonous.  And the Ministry called Cinaed the criminal.  The lot of them should be subjected to the dementor's kiss.  Along with any muggle that stood in their way. 

Bastards.

But, Cinaed forced a pleasant grin on his face as he nodded in the man's direction, finally reaching the fence where he draped an elbow over the top of it.  "Work for Beachcroft legal services.  In technology law, exactly," he offered.  He'd memorized that bit of information from the business cards he'd found in the dead man's wallet.  Christian had done his best to explain exactly what that meant. 

"You keep some strange hours at Lloyd's," he remarked, casually, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his robe.  His fingers curled around a small, smooth glass sphere in his pocket.  The glass was warm to the touch - warmer than his own body heat, energized and heated by the swirling contents of the hollow glass sphere.  "They make you work overtime?"

What was technology law? Muggles were so mysterious sometimes, even Rosier had to admit. He couldn’t imagine living like a muggle – trading his wand for one of those things he saw them carrying around in briefcases around Moorgate…a funny looking book-shaped thing that would light up and had little buttons on it…like a thin typewriter! Apparently it did everything. But Rosier knew it could never make him tea or things like that. But he rarely spoke to real, genuine muggles and he forgot how strange it was. He also rarely thought of his neighbours; these upscale muggles who usually kept to themselves. But this guy seemed alright for now, however Rosier hoped he won’t be expecting to have late night chats with him too often. Too much muggle company could be a bad thing.

Why did the muggle assume he just got from work? Did he look that stressed out? His question irked Rosier a bit, but he showed nothing but a polite smile. “They certainly do,” His smile turned into a small smirk after answering his question. Yes, he couldn’t play the boss for the purposes of this conversation if he allegedly worked in a muggle company. Not only mentioning that would sound like boasting to his neighbour, but he also had no idea how these things worked in muggle business. “Dire times, I guess. I remember the times when I used to enjoy going to work every day.” That the times were dire, there was no doubt. However, saying that he dreaded going to work would be a lie…’Going to work’ was a concept Rosier almost forgot about. He never needed to ‘go’ to it – it never actually left him.

 “What about you? How come you’re up so late?” Technically speaking it wasn’t hideously late, but Rosier always thought of muggles as less nocturnal species, so he asked this without much thinking. But it was alright – this was just what muggles liked to talk about, right? What else could they really have a conversation about? Certainly not…technology – the thing no wizard seemed to really know what it was. 

Luckily, Rosier didn't ask for any details or explanations about this muggle's job.  Cinaed wasn't sure he could offer any.  He'd have to make up something on the spot but to do so would entail knowing enough to even know where to start.  The best he could have done was babble on a list of the various technologies he'd noticed around the man's house.  Yes.  I work with defending microwaves from frigidaires and represent Sony's interest.  If Rosier was as clueless as Cinaed was, it might fly.  Hopefully, no neighboring muggles would be around to overhear.  Cinaed's cover would likely be blown with the first extraneous, confused glance.

"Just finished watching the news."  That, according to Chris, was what most muggles who wanted to appear intelligent did before bed.  For some muggles, watching others' lives crumble was a part of their nightly ritual.  The few times Cinaed had switched on that squawking box, he'd found the news equally confusing, annoying and entertaining.  "Thought I'd get some fresh air before heading to bed.  But, I'm afraid the time has come to turn in.  Got an early Nikon to attend to in the morning.  Hope you have a splendid evening." 

Cinaed dipped his head cordially to Rosier and turned to head back into the house.  His hands still hung casually in the pockets of his robes, one hand caressing the wand as his other gently enveloped the glass sphere.  A yard ornament hung from a tree in the backyard, backlit by the light spilling out of the house.  In the reflection of the ornament, he could clearly see Rosier.  He was waiting for the man to turn his back, to give him an opening to act before the man knew what was happening.  Timing was essential.  Backup was sure to come within seconds of Rosier sounding the alarm.  The longer Rosier was oblivious, the more time it would buy Cinaed to make his escape. 

Muggles and their news-watching. Typical. It was a bit sad how he lived surrounded by such stereotypical muggles – they maybe had some interesting habits, but all in all they were nothing but strange and boring. And really terrible at conversation apparently…was he supposed to comment on the news as well now? Rosier wasn’t even sure how muggles conversed with each other. It was probably like a different language altogether.

As soon as the guy spoke again, Rosier was sure this indeed was like a different language. Attend an early what in the morning? He arched his eyebrow and watched the man leave before replying with a short, but polite “Likewise,” to the man. “Good night,” he added just in case. Shrugging, he dug around his pockets looking for more cigarettes, deciding it wasn’t yet time for bed. He turned his back on the fence, walked back to the small rusty garden table and lit the cigarette with his wand swiftly.

It was quite cold now and even smoking somehow lost its appeal. It would probably be best to just get inside the house. He put the wand back into his pocket, deciding to finish off the cigarette and then finally retreat as well. Shivering slightly, he looked in the direction of the muggle neighbour’s garden. It was awfully quiet and somewhat uncomfortable. 


[sorry, this is quite short. feel free to strike whenever!]

Though the image was distorted in the curvature of the glass, Cinaed could see the reflection clearly enough to discern that the man had turned away.  Cameron Rosier was walking across the yard, his back to the fence.  In the depths of the pocket of his robe, Cinaed's fingers closed once more around the glass sphere.  He withdrew the item, taking care to hold it in front of him so as much of the item's glow was shielded by his body as possible. 

The sphere was a fine work of art; a soft white light emanated from the center of the glass ball, like a large, luminescent marble.  The outer most layer of glass was crystal clear and remained ever warm to the touch.  At the heart of the sphere, a second layer of glass encapsulated a small core - like the pit in the center of a cherry or peach.  A long tendril of a white substance was suspended in a clear liquid in that innermost core: the source of the faint white light.  But very little of the light managed to filter past the layer of murky green liquid that was housed between the two layers of glass. 

Once he was just inside the garden door, Cinaed drew his wand and used it to gently tap the surface of the sphere.  Immediately, the whole sphere began to glow a faint red - a red that was growing stronger just as the surface of the glass grew warmer.  It would take only a few seconds for the sphere to become too hot to hold.  Cinaed took two long strides back out into the garden and with a flick of his wand, sent the sphere hurling over the garden fence before ducking behind the trunk of the garden's sentinel broad leaf maple. 

It should only take a second for the sphere to explode, sending shards of kiln-hot glass hurling in any direction.  The impact of the explosion and the glass-shrapnel were intended to do the most physical damage.  The runespoor venom that swirled in the outer layer would find already damaged skin when the sphere met its target.  Cinaed figured it'd take, at most, two minutes for the air to clear enough for him to dash out to the front street and disapparate.  If he was lucky, the other man would be unconscious.  If not ... well, Rosier would already be at a disadvantage if he had to duel his way out.

He stood close to the little garden table, finishing his cigarette and thinking about that odd muggle again. Maybe he could learn a thing or two about muggles, so next time he doesn’t look so daft while having a conversation with one. Or maybe not…he barely had time to sleep at night (when he was able to), it was preposterous to think he could waste it on studying muggle cultures. Sighing, he looked up in the sky, thinking the evening wasn’t ‘beautiful’ – as the muggle called it. It was unusually calm in this garden though…

BOOM!!!

Before he even had time to react, take his wand or do anything, anything at all, Rosier felt something excruciatingly hot and sharp on the side of his face. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and tried to shield them with his both hands. This all happened in a fraction of a second, but he must have stumbled over that rusty garden table because when he opened his eyes again he was lying down on the grass, with broken pieces of his tea set everywhere around him. Perplexed and shocked, he fished his wand out of his pocket realizing his arm hurts for some reason. Not bothering about the pain or the blood that for some reason covered his hands and all the small pieces of his gilded teacups.

It came from that garden….that muggle…who apparently wasn't a muggle. Fuming, Rosier couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Clutching his wand tightly, he managed to get up on his feet again. His arm hurt so much now, he couldn’t even hold his wand properly, so he put it in his right hand. That will do for now…

Throwing caution into the wind, Rosier approached the fence quietly, ignoring the pain, not thinking about where all that blood came from. He will deal with injuries later – he was too angry to let his attacker go unpunished. For some reason, something just clicked in his mind and all the anger and frustrations that were building up for the past few weeks were about to be unleashed. He looked across, into his neighbour’s garden – he couldn’t see anyone, but it was dark…he was probably still there. Rosier hoped he was still there…

Once an exceptionally good duelist, Rosier was now sort of an old man, too much in love with his paperwork to bother about wand-waving. But this was not the time to think about such things. Pointing his wand into the darkness he said “Expelliarmus!” The disarming charm was very quickly followed by a deceptive, non-verbal Stupefy spell.  Then he ducked behind the fence, waiting for some sort of reaction.

"Feckin' yeah!" 

The need for subtly and covertness had passed the moment the glass sphere crossed the fence line so Cinaed hadn't bothered to try to stifle the victory cry that followed the explosion.  It had been perfect and beautiful!  And, like a composer listening to the last fading resonances of a newly unveiled grand symphony, Cinaed listened in reverent awe at the sound of his success.  It was a shame there was no one around to share in a standing ovation. 

And, only time would tell whether the full masterpiece would be a success.  The runespoor venom that had free access to the man's bloodstream was really only the opening movement and its true beauty lay in the intensity of the opening phrases.  It was vibrant, unmistakable and impossible to ignore.  When Rosier was, inevitably, rushed to St. Mungo's, they would treat what they recognized and what they knew how to deal with. 

They would treat the runespoor burns, give him anitvenom to counteract what was in his bloodstream and eventually send him home with a clean bill of health.  All the while completely unaware that the runespoor venom had been the distraction and the corrosive agent that gave the real poison - that shimmering tendril of silver in the center of the sphere - unhindered access to the man's bloodstream.  It was painless and would be virtually undetectable under the intensity of the runespoor.  Like a single malaria-infected mosquito in the midst of a massive swarm of bees.  No one would suspect until the infection had taken hold weeks from now.   

And, if it was successful, it could be only the start of a whole new realm of wizarding weaponry. 

Of course, enjoying the full success of his attack was contingent on his escape.  He'd been peaking out from behind the tree, checking on Rosier when the disarming spell caught him, sending his wand flying.  He quickly retreated back behind the tree just fast enough to avoid the full brunt of the spell that followed.  The spell caught him in the arm, forcing him off balance and he fell from behind the tree, using the momentum to roll behind a shrub.  Lights were starting to switch on in the neighboring houses - the muggles inside roused from their sleep by the ruckus.  He hoped one of them was foolish enough to step outside to investigate; he'd used innocent (well...arguably innocent - that Maggie woman had been around when Briggs was burying the venom) bystanders before to make an escape.  Muggle shields were more than fair game in his book.  He just needed his wand which lay several feet away near the far fence. 

Cinaed leapt for it, hurdling over a pot of young tomato plants, grabbing his wand and scrambling over the fence into the next neighbor's yard. 

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Rosier!" Cinaed called over the fence, panting heavily to catch his breath.  "
Inflictum Mactabilis![1]" Cinaed called, flicking his wand over the fence before ducking back down.  The streak of purple light sliced across Martin Weller's back yard, smashing pots and obliterating bushes.

1.

Curse

Listening carefully against the fence, Rosier could only hear some sounds of squabble – maybe he managed to disarm the man. If he was thinking straight he would jump up and fire another set of curses, but Rosier was in pain…and it was getting worse by the second. His left arm was hanging limply, his sleeve in shreds – his expensive, tailored robes now ruined and bloodied. But he will need to forget about the injuries now – he needed to focus. The person responsible for this was going to regret ever stepping into that muggle’s garden.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Rosier!"

He clenched his wand tightly, too angry to respond to this taunt. He was definitely not in the mood for thinking of witty replies, or at least something to discourage his opponent. With a sigh, he wiped what he thought was sweat from his forehead, but it turned out to be more blood. How injured was he? He couldn’t tell – the pain in his arm was overpowering, everything else seemed insignificant. But no, he will have to continue, there was no backing down now.

Hearing a curse being shouted, Rosier quickly answered with a “Protego!”, simultaneously trying to jump out of the way into the shrubbery, but it was too late. The curse, incidentally, hit his already injured arm, which already hung limply. Now it was completely useless. He was on the ground again, sprawled behind the bushes…it must have looked so ridiculous! But despite the injuries and the lame arm, he was still more than determined to get that bastard!

Gritting his teeth in vengeful rage, Rosier got up and forced himself to approach that fence once again. Every breath he took was painful and it seemed he was getting weaker and weaker very quickly. What he decided to do next was something he would never, ever consider in a sane state of mind. But to hell with caution! To hell with the International Statute of Secrecy – when Rosier was angry not even that mattered. At least he had that privilege, or at least he thought so at this moment.

Pointing his wand slightly above the fence, Rosier wasn’t aiming at anything particular this time. Concentrating now, he made a complicated wand movement and muttered “Deflagratio Infernum[1]”, not caring about the consequences in the slightest.

Almost instantly, a stream of fire in a menacing shape of a rattlesnake erupted across the fence, igniting the fence, the shrubbery and basically everything that got in its way. Rosier stepped back, still holding his wand tightly, while the fire was still raging from it. He didn’t care – he hoped the bastard would fry. He held onto it for a couple of more seconds, but the fire around him was growing more and more dangerous. It was getting too hot…his entire garden was about to be destroyed. Rosier let go – the Fiendfyre stopped raging from the wand, but the damage was horrendous. The serene, calm little garden from half an hour ago was now an infernal pit.

1.

Curse