6.
— Narcissa — he said with a slight nod of his head — your care has been impeccable. As always.
Narcissa bowed discreetly in acknowledgment, with the grace of a lady trained in silence and loyalty.
Then Mortavius turned to Rita, eyes fixed as if stripping her bare with a gaze.
— It's an honor to meet you. I am a fan of your work. You are an incredible journalist. I should have arranged this meeting long ago… but, ah, my mind has been so occupied that I keep forgetting.
Rita swallowed hard. Knowing she had long been on Mortavius' radar made her blood run cold. Still, she forced a smile and thanked him with studied modesty:
— I'm flattered… all my pieces are the result of collective work. Everyone at the paper…
— Don't be so modest — Mortavius interrupted with a lazy gesture. — We all know how tenacious you are in hunting for secrets. Now that your… gift… is no longer a secret, I imagine you are facing some difficulties.
It was true. Her ability as a Metamorphmagus had been exposed. Legal proceedings were piling up: fines, threats of imprisonment, the loss of her journalistic license. Her enemies had risen against her.
— The wizarding world would be much more ignorant without your pen — Mortavius said. — Your writing has been… delightfully useful.
Rita, though terrified, couldn't suppress the flush of pride and fear on her face. The admiration of this man, whose presence was almost living legend, stirred a strange mixture of awe and terror within her.
— Now you are one of us — Parker Hollow said to Rita, with a leering smile noticing her nervousness. — But don't put us in your next column, alright? Our friend Thorfinn here values his privacy greatly — he said, pointing at the dwarf. The dwarf, with fingers stained with rust, gripped an axe strapped to his waist.
Rita Skeeter, trying to maintain composure but visibly tense, adjusted her glasses.
Meanwhile, Abraxas Burke, the sixth person in the semicircle, cast a look of pure disdain at Parker Hollow.
— One of us? — he spat on the ground in a gesture of ritual-like contempt before speaking, his voice laden with rancor — This same woman wrote a piece praising that wretched Moody… the bastard who killed my brother.
Rita's eyes narrowed, but she kept her face neutral. Abraxas continued, reciting from memory one of the lines from her article, his voice bitter and almost theatrical:
— "Moody is the embodiment of courage and discipline, a symbol of justice in a world corroded by shadow."
The silence that followed was dense. Rita could feel Abraxas' resentment pulsing in the air, and behind him, a murderous thirst threatening to break free.
Her eyes slid to Narcissa, who watched everything with icy silence. Then to Mortavius, who remained motionless, his face impassive, as if each second of tension were a scientific experiment to be studied. It was then that Rita understood: the Lord's silence was not indifference. It was a test.
She lifted her chin and responded with a venom that only the truly daring know how to distill:
— If Mr. Burke were truly a man, perhaps he would have already done something for his brother, instead of lamenting over an article I wrote.
A murmur ran through those present, and feeling the metallic taste of audacity, Rita added:
— Or perhaps he's afraid to join the others who tried… and now rest in Hollowmere Cemetery.
Abraxas' face twisted, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Contained laughter echoed, breaking the heavy air.