The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

Godric's voice rang through the grand hall of The Congregation, his fists slamming against the oaken counter of the Overseers' desk. The echo of the impact drew the attention of everyone in the chamber—students, staff, and attendees alike. Across the counter, a young man adjusted his glasses calmly, his expression apologetic but unyielding.

"I'm sorry, Mister Gryffindor, but the rules are quite clear," the Overseer said, his hazel eyes steady. "Clan applications require time for processing and are subject to Administration approval. The standard waiting period is seven to fourteen days."

"Then expedite it!" Godric's crimson eyes burning with urgency. "I will not let bureaucracy stand in my way!"

Salazar, standing nearby, crossed his arms, his sharp gaze flickering toward the enforcers stationed at the edges of the hall. They gripped their wands, watching the scene unfold with wary eyes. Rowena, beside him, mirrored his tension, her posture rigid with unease. Meanwhile, Helga sipped her butterbeer, her expression calm but her eyes darting between her friends.

"I understand your frustration, Mister Gryffindor," the Overseer replied, his tone level. "But rules are rules, and I'm afraid I don't have the authority to make exceptions in this matter."

"Come on, Eskel," Helena interjected, stepping closer with a stern expression. "You and I both know that's not entirely true. Overseers have the discretion to grant certain concessions. As a fellow Overseer, I'm asking you to make one right now."

Eskel sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "That's true, Helena," he admitted reluctantly, "but not in cases of Clan registration. Such matters are both beyond my authority and yours. It would require approval from higher up."

Godric buried his face in his hands, his elbows propped against the counter. "So, what are you saying? That there's no hope?"

Eskel hesitated, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the counter. Finally, he drew a measured breath and met Godric's gaze. "Well… not necessarily," he said,. "There is one option. But I warn you—it's anything but simple."

Godric's crimson eyes lit with a glimmer of hope, desperation etched across his face. "What is it?" he pressed. "Tell me."

Eskel leaned in, his hazel eyes narrowing. "If you're looking to bypass the standard process, there's only one way to do it. You'd need the direct backing of The High Table itself—or more precisely, the crest of one of the five heads of The Congregation."

The room fell into an almost oppressive silence, the weight of Eskel's words hanging heavily in the air. It was as if the very atmosphere had thickened, pressing down on each of them as they exchanged wide-eyed glances, the gravity of the revelation sinking in.

"But…" Godric wavered. "I don't know anyone who sits at the Table… how could I possibly—"

"That may not be entirely true."

A soft, familiar voice made itself known, drawing the group's attention. Standing a short distance away was a young elven girl, her serene smile both disarming and knowing. Her delicate features seemed to glow in the dim light, and a glimmer of confidence danced in her eyes.

Godric's confusion melted into recognition. "Elaina?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

Elaina gave a graceful bow, her expression warm and composed. "Greetings, Gryffindor-senpai. It has been some time. I bring word from someone we both know well."

She reached into her satchel and withdrew a small, gilded seal, its surface glinting as it caught the light. Framed in an intricate weave of red and white twine, the emblem exuded an air of undeniable authority. Engraved upon it was a single name: Masamune. Etched in bold, elegant script, seemed to glow faintly as though it carried a weight beyond the physical.

As she held it up for all to see, the room stirred. A hushed ripple spread through the crowd, the once-muted murmurs growing into a buzz of disbelief and recognition. Overseers stiffened in their seats, their typically unshakable expressions betraying momentary shock. Even the students, caught in their own quiet conversations, turned their attention toward the emblem with widened eyes.

"By the Old Gods…" Salazar's jaw tightened, then slackened, as if struggling to process the sight before him.

"You've got to be joking," Helena muttered. Her gaze flicked between the golden seal and Elaina, as if needing to confirm the impossible sight before her. "In all my years as an Overseer, I've never seen a member of the High Table offer their crest on behalf of another. Not once."

Helga leaned in closer to Salazar, her confusion evident. "Salazar, what's the big deal? Why's everyone gawking at that crest like it's some kind of holy relic?"

Rowena let out an exasperated sigh, massaging her temple. "Typical. People assign undue importance to mere objects, fueling this endless cycle of reverence and posturing. It's exactly why I can't stand this Congregation nonsense."

Salazar tore his gaze from the emblem, turning to Helga with an uncharacteristically serious expression. "Clan Masamune isn't just any Clan," he said. "They're one of the Five Pillars of the Congregation—the most influential and powerful Clans in all of Excalibur."

He gestured subtly toward the upper levels of the arena, where the elite members of the Congregation's High Table observed from their lofty vantage. "Their leader holds one of the sacred seats at The Table. This... this changes everything."

"Ooh, so they're like… nobility of The Congregation?" Helga asked, her eyes wide with curiosity as she sipped her butterbeer.

Salazar sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "For the sake of your overly simplified analogy, yes," he replied, his tone dripping with dry amusement. "If you factor in their strength, influence, power, and the occasional penchant for theatrics."

Elaina approached Eskel, holding the seal with careful reverence. "Will this suffice?" she asked, her tone polite but firm. "If you'd like, he is willing to come address this in person."

Eskel adjusted his glasses, visibly taken aback. "T-That won't be necessary, Miss Kurosawa," he said, quickly recovering his composure. "I'll see to it personally that the paperwork is processed immediately." He inclined his head respectfully. "Please extend my regards to your clan leader."

"Thank you," Elaina replied, offering a courteous bow before turning back to Godric. "Your path is clear, Gryffindor-senpai. Make it count."

"Elaina…" Godric said, his gaze soft with gratitude. "I don't even know how to thank you."

Elaina shook her head, her warm smile unwavering. "As Senpai once told me, 'One good deed deserves another.'" She held Godric's gaze, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that was both resolute and encouraging.

"But before I leave, Gryffindor-senpai, I need you to understand something," she said. "This isn't just a simple act of goodwill. By offering his crest, Senpai has entrusted you with more than his faith—he has placed the very honor of Clan Masamune in your hands. I pray you will carry it with the dignity and strength it deserves. Do not bring it shame."

Godric lowered his gaze briefly, the weight of her words sinking in. But when he looked up again, his crimson eyes burned with determination. He gave her a firm nod.

Elaina's smile softened. "Raine-san is waiting for you. Don't let her down."

With a final graceful turn, she disappeared into the bustling crowd, her presence leaving behind an air of quiet resolve.

"It seems you do have friends in high places, after all, Mister Gryffindor," Eskel remarked as he stacked a fresh set of forms. "Rest assured; I'll have your application expedited within the next few hours."

"You do that," Godric replied, his forearms braced against the counter, his crimson eyes locked firmly on Eskel's. A tense pause hung in the air before he continued. "And while you're at it…" He glanced briefly at Helena, who gave him a silent nod of confirmation. "As an official member of The Congregation, I invoke the Codex Duellum and declare a Bellum Inter Duos."

Eskel's hazel eyes widened in surprise, the weight of the declaration rippling through the room like a shockwave. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Once again, conversations halted mid-sentence. Overseers froze, their quills hovering inches from parchment. A bartender at the nearby bar remained paralyzed as frothy butterbeer overflowed from a mug he had been pouring. The very air seemed to hold its breath as all eyes turned to Godric.

Helga and Rowena exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mixture of confusion and alarm. Salazar's smirk grew ever so slightly, his arms folding across his chest as if he had been waiting for this moment.

"I see…" Eskel cleared his throat, straightening his posture and adjusting his glasses with measured precision. "And against whom is this declaration made?"

Godric's jaw tightened, his gaze unwavering as his voice rang out with unyielding conviction. "Volg Dryfus… and The Calishans."

****

High above the arena, a familiar figure leaned casually against the banisters, his hazel eyes fixed intently on Godric and his group of friends below. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his katana, the blade a symbol of his authority as much as the fine robes that adorned his frame—a mark of his elevated stature. The Terra Visionary cloak, draped elegantly over his shoulders, completed his imposing silhouette. A faint, almost amused smile tugged at his lips.

"And so it begins," Genji murmured. "A spark to ignite a fire like no other."

Footsteps approached from behind, soft but deliberate. A young woman stepped up beside him, her sky-blue hair tied neatly in a bun. She adjusted her square-framed glasses with a precise gesture, her amber-embellished Terra uniform pristine and orderly. Her aqua eyes followed his line of sight, her gaze sharp and analytical.

"I sincerely hope you know what you're doing, Genji," she said, her tone measured but edged with disapproval. "It's highly unbecoming for a member of the High Table to show such preferential treatment—especially to someone with no prior affiliations to The Congregation."

Genji turned slightly, his smile deepening as he regarded her. "That's because you see only a boy with a sword, Sarissa-chan. But I…" His gaze returned to Godric below. "I see a warrior, with a heart that matches his blade."

Sarissa let out a soft scoff, her expression skeptical. "Nevertheless, by favoring him, you've chosen a side in this conflict. The others may not share your perspective." Her gaze shifted back to the scene unfolding in the arena, scrutinizing Godric as if appraising him. "Still, it has been quite some time since anyone invoked Bellum Inter Duos. The last time…"

"Yes, the incident with Garetty-senpai," Genji said with a nonchalant shrug. "Unfortunate, but the rules were followed. As they will be now. The duel has been declared, and it will be honored. For the laws of The Congregation are sacrosanct, the bedrock upon which The Table stands."

"For without laws…"

"We live with the beasts," Sarissa finished. She shook her head, a faint frown crossing her face. "Sometimes, these traditions we hold so dear feel more like chains than foundations."

"That, they are," Genji replied. "But they are a necessary truth. In the days of old, the Codex Duellum was created to prevent the Congregation's more… volatile members from plunging us all into chaos. After all," he added, a faint glimmer of amusement in his hazel eyes, "those who wish to fight must first count the cost."

"Be honest with me." Sarissa tilted her head slightly, her aqua eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Why did you intervene, Genji?" she asked. "We've been part of this world for a long time, and I know you as well as I know myself. You don't act without reason. So, tell me—why help the boy? What do you stand to gain?"

Genji paused as he turned to face her. A small, enigmatic smile curved his lips. "Not everything is about gain, Sarissa-chan," he said softly. He began to walk away, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor. Just as he reached the edge of the banister, he glanced over his shoulder, his expression tinged with something between melancholy and admiration.

"I simply find it tragic," he said, "if a lion is to fall without ever having the chance to bare its fangs."

****

The cold, damp stone floor was an ever-present reminder of the grim reality Raine now faced. Beneath her bruised and battered frame, the unyielding surface seemed to mock her, a silent testament to her captivity. It had been years since she had last seen the inside of the castle's tower cells—a place she had hoped to never revisit. She was only seven when she had first been brought here, laying in this very cell, staring out through the grilled window at the blue skies above. Back then, she hadn't fully understood the depth of her fate. Now, she knew it all too well.

Her body ached in ways that were both familiar and horrifying. Bruises marred her pale skin, and her once-lustrous snowy hair hung in tangled, matted strands. The fur of her ears and tail, once pristine, was now stained and filthy. Time had become meaningless, a blur of pain and humiliation.

The moments of debauchery inflicted upon her by Volg's lackeys left her hollow, each violation eroding her spirit. Once resigned to her life as a slave, she now felt an overwhelming sense of loathing and disgust at every unwanted touch. Each act of cruelty killed a piece of her, leaving only the faint echo of the person she had once been.

Her only solace was the thought of Godric—his warm, gentle embrace, the way his crimson eyes had looked at her with kindness and love. She clung to those memories desperately, though even they were beginning to feel like whispers from another life. Her cheeks were streaked with tears that had long since dried in the biting winter air. She had no more left to give.

The sun dipped lower each day, and with every passing moment, her hope dimmed a little further, swallowed by the encroaching darkness.

The sharp creak of the cell door behind her jolted Raine from her fragile stillness, her breath hitching as fear surged through her. She curled tighter into herself, clutching the tattered remnants of her blanket as if it could shield her from what was to come. The cold, unyielding weight of the shackles around her wrists clinked softly with her trembling movements. Silent prayers to Freya tumbled through her mind—a desperate plea for mercy, for reprieve from the nightmare that had become her existence.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat reverberating in the suffocating silence. Footsteps echoed, deliberate and heavy, amplifying her dread with every step closer. Then came the sharp clatter of a metal tray as it hit the stone floor, the sound slicing through the air like a whip. The crash reverberated in the frigid, lifeless cell, jarring her from her prayer.

"Dinner's served, princess," Volg's voice slithered through the air, laced with cruelty and mockery. The heavy cell door creaked further open, and his imposing figure stepped into the dim light, casting a long shadow that seemed to engulf the small cell. His sneer curled upward, sharp and venomous.

"Better savor this feast while you can." His tone dripped with malice. "Word is, the food in the Mills isn't exactly… fine dining." He crouched slightly, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as he leaned closer. "But then again, you won't be there for the cuisine, will you?" His chuckle was low and guttural, a sound that clawed at Raine's fraying nerves.

Raine didn't dare face him. Her fingers dug into her arms as she held herself tighter, her teeth gritting against the wave of nausea that churned in her stomach. The word Mills hit her like a dull stone, the horrifying stories she'd heard from other slaves flooding her mind. A place of unrelenting cruelty, where bodies were treated as commodities, valued only for their ability to breed or serve. The thought of it made her chest tighten, her breath hitching.

Volg crouched further, his sneer deepening as he leaned in closer, his presence oppressive in the dim light of the cell. "Oh, the silent treatment, is it?" he mocked. "Come now, don't be like that. You know, growing up in the trade, I've seen plenty of pelts in my time—ordinary, forgettable. But you?" He chuckled, shaking his head with a slow, deliberate motion. "You're something else entirely. A real masterpiece."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle as his gaze raked over her bare frame, equal parts disdainful and possessive. "It wasn't hard to find a buyer, you know. White wolf therianthropes like you? Oh, they're a rare gem. A collector's dream. The moment word got out; they were practically clawing at each other to put in their bids."

"But I chose carefully. You'll be going to someone who'll make excellent use of you. I've seen their stock, and trust me…" He smirked. "You'll be bearing the finest pups money can buy."

Raine bit down hard on her bottom lip, her body trembling as a wave of nausea and revulsion washed over her. The vile images his words conjured clawed at her mind, seeping into her very core like a poison she couldn't shake.

"It's almost tragic, really," Volg tilted his head. "Whoever dumped you in this place clearly didn't know what they had. If they'd had the slightest clue, they'd be kicking themselves now, knowing the fortune they let slip through their fingers." He chuckled darkly. "You, a shining little diamond amongst the coal."

"But here's the thing about diamonds—they know their place. They don't try to pretend to be something they're not." His gaze hardened. "You might sparkle, but don't forget, you'll always belong to the dirt."

She flinched as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her hair. Raine's body shook as she fought the urge to lash out, her nails digging into her arms hard enough to draw blood. Volg laughed again, clearly enjoying her silent defiance. He grabbed the tray and shoved it closer to her, the stale bread and thin gruel sliding to her back.

"Eat up, pelt," Volg snarled, straightening to his full height, his shadow looming over her. "You'll need all the strength you can muster. The Mills have no patience for weaklings, and once they've strapped you to the rack, even your precious Gryffindor won't bother coming for you."

At the mention of Godric, Raine's chest tightened, the pain twisting like a knife.

"Did you honestly believe he loves you?" Volg asked, his tone mocking and sharp. "Do you really think you mean anything to him? Let me spell it out for you—you're just a slave. A pretty little distraction he'll toss aside the moment things get complicated."

His smirk widened. "And after all the cute, fluffy, little bastards they'll force out of you, what makes you think that he'll want anything to do with you?"

Raine gritted her teeth, the bitter sting grounding her as she fought to keep the tears at bay. Her golden eyes glared at the stone floor, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break again.

"Oh, you should see your face. Pathetic. But don't worry, I'll make sure you're well-remembered. Every scream, every cry… it'll echo in your lover boy's mind for the rest of his miserable life. That's my promise to you."

With a satisfied scoff, Volg turned toward the door, his boots echoing sharply against the cold stone floor. He stopped just shy of the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with a mockingly thoughtful expression.

"And who knows? Maybe, when you're nothing more than a dried-up husk—when they've finally wrung every last use out of you—I'll do you a kindness and ship you off to Gryffindor myself." His smirk twisted into something even crueler. "Maybe then, you can have your happy ever after and prove to the world that true love conquers all!"

He threw his head back with a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls as he stepped into the hallway. The heavy clang of the cell door slamming shut punctuated his exit, leaving an oppressive silence in his wake.

Raine's golden eyes fell to the chain connected to the shackles binding her wrists. Its cold, unyielding presence was a cruel metaphor for the life that had now become her reality. A dark thought crept into her mind, suffocating her hope. This was to be her life now—a broodmare for slavers, a tool to line their pockets with offspring she would be forced to bear. Children torn from her arms, children fathered by strangers, not her mate… not Godric. The thought twisted inside her, igniting an unbearable pain and rage that made her chest tighten and her breath catch.

With trembling hands, Raine shifted forward on her knees, crawling toward the chain. Each movement felt heavy, her resolve and despair mingling in a chaotic tempest within her. She wrapped the chain around her neck, her breath hitching as the cold links pressed against her skin. Tightening it with deliberate force, she felt the constriction of her throat, the cruel comfort of escape.

"No," she whispered hoarsely. "I will not be forced into this life. I will not be taken from him."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her lips trembling as she fought the wave of despair rising within her. Drawing a sharp, shaky breath, Raine clenched her fists, her resolve hardening even as her heart broke.

"Godric… my love… my darling," she whispered. "I will always love you. I'm so sorry… please, forgive me." Her tears fell in steady drops, pooling on the icy stone beneath her as the chill seeped into her bones.

She clasped her hands in a desperate prayer, a plea that carried her remaining strength. "Freya, Goddess of the Night, I surrender myself to you," she murmured, her tone reverent yet laced with sorrow. "If I cannot be with him in this life, I pray that we will find each other again… in the next."

She tilted her head upward, her golden eyes glistening as they fixed on the sliver of darkened sky visible through the grilled window of her cell. The faint light of the stars above seemed cruelly indifferent to her pain.

"Mommy… Daddy… Skye…" her voice cracked, each word a piece of her soul breaking free. "I'll see you all soon."

With one last, trembling breath, she closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the cold and cruel embrace of what she believed to be her fate. The dim light flickered against her pale, tear-streaked face, a haunting reflection of a soul caught between hope and despair.