The Marauders: Year Seven Part Two

A Sneakthief

The blade of a magic knife slid into the keyhole of a small house, deep in the Great North Woods, turning slowly against the mechanisms until the lock gave way, and the door knob turned freely. The door opened slowly, and creakily, so that the short, round form paused to take inventory of the situation - afraid the noise may have roused the inhabitants of the shack. Satisfied he was the only thing moving in the house, he let out the breath he'd been holding and pulled up on the creaky door as he opened it, silencing the whining of the hinges.

Carefully, Mr. Frek stepped over the threshold of the door, picking and choosing his steps against creaky wood floors. His toes searched for the solid spots, and he was so good at it that despite his girth, and his recent injury, he moved like he was smoke hovering across water. He snuck through a small kitchen, and into a wide area like a living-room, though this one had been converted into a sort of haphazard throne room, with a large chair at the far end of the room.... In the chair, draped across the arms, one leg stretched onto the floor, was Fenrir Greyback. All around the room, in clumps of blankets and randomly tossed pillows and rucksacks lay an assortment of men and women, all quite raggedy and unkempt, and the room smelled of unwashed bodies and clothes, of blood and urine. 

Frek recoiled from the room, for what he sought would not be there among the werewolves, he knew that much for certain. Voldemort would never leave anything so precious with anyone else, it would be by his side wherever he was.

More gently selected steps through the house yielded the discovery of a long hallway that jettisoned away from the main rooms and ended in a single, locked door. Mr. Frek knelt before the door and pressed his eye to the keyhole. It was dark beyond, but a shaft of moonlight sliced through the window and in the shadows, he could just make out a bed, and a solid shape of a figure, laying asleep across it. He pulled back and inserted the knife into the keyhole, jiggling the mechanism until it clicked, and he drew the blade out and peered through the keyhole again for signs of movement from the form on the bed - there were none. 

Frek pushed open the door, and he walked stealthly across the room, his eyes ever present on the form on the bed. Moonlight shifted as the wind outside rocked the branches of the trees, and Frek would pause, to be sure it wasn't Voldemort moving, but only the moonshadows... He reached the bedside and he paused, staring down his nose at the sleeping form of the Dark Lord, wand clutched in his fists upon his chest. So many protective spells covered this house that there was no chance of Frek being able to draw his wand and murder the Dark Lord in his sleep - the moment he touched his wand, he was certain death would come to him. It was no coincidence that everyone else in the house had left their wands laying on a table in the throne room, in plain view. Certainly there was some spell upon the house. But oh, how tempting an opportunity it was, Frek thought, staring at the still, pale form, lit by moonlight and shrouded in darkness.

No use anyhow, if Garm had been right about Voldemort, Frek reminded himself, too. If Garm was right, then the Dark Lord would not die even if Frek killed him here and now. 

Frek turned instead to look around the room, to choose where the Dark Lord might have hidden his treasures. His travelling cloak was hung upon a hook by the door, and there was a rather stiff-looking highbacked chair. Beside the bed was a simple little table, empty save for a dark lantern. There was a mirror against one wall, beside a large, ornate wardrobe, and a small writing desk and chair, upon which were stacks of books and rolls of parchment, maps and a couple quills and ink pots.

Frek moved carefully to the desk, and, glancing in the mirror at the form every so often, he began slowly shifting things, looking in the covers of books to be sure they were not hollowed out, and opening drawers and feeling in the nooks and crannies of the pigeon holes. He found some spare ink and sealing wax, a signet of the Dark Mark...