The Gray's Secret: Scene 7 (Patreon)

AUTHOR NOTE: Christmas is over! I'm posting this from my phone away from my computer. As such, I don't have my photo editing software, so no cover image. That'll be first on the agenda when I get back. There may also be slightly more editing issues than usual. Welcome to all our new patrons! See you all again very soon!

Montrose, Scotland: Four days before the Wizengamot Weekend.

Lord Zazo clicked his tongue as he and his companions waited for their guest to finally appear.
They’d chosen the Wizard’s Wand for their meeting point—a pub famous for its cheese and niffler pies—not because it was the best Montrose had to offer, but because it was pretty much all Montrose had to offer. Well, that bit that was magical, anyway. The magical population of Monrose had swelled over the last hundred years, from just over a hundred at the turn of the century, to nearly five hundred today, but over that same time, the central enclave, where magical business was officially allowed to be carried out, hadn’t grown a buggering inch.
Lord Zazo would have loved to put their guest up in his glorious and incredibly expensive manor house, but that wasn’t possible, because he didn’t have one. Not many lords did.
Those lords whose families had graced them with such good fortune tended to be the default leaders. Not necessarily because they themselves were such amazing politicians, but because on the one hand, money talks, and on the other, because plotting the glorious future of the noble Wizarding race felt so much more on brand when done in grand dining rooms with mahogany tables, silver cutlery, and giant marble pillars, rather than in the tiny booth of a smokey with damp floorboards, rotting thatch, and a draft with an all you can eat pass.
This was not how Lord Zazo imagined his first encounter with their soon-to-arrive guest would go. He’d been looking forward to this meeting of minds for a while and in his imagination he’d always pictured it as him turning the corner in Slytherin Manor, or maybe Malfoy Manor, and there he’d be. Tall, ominous, and masked.
“Ah, Lord Zazo,” he’d say in a deep rumble and a nod. “I have been looking forward to meeting a mind so much like my own.”
And he’d nod back. “As have I, Lord Thlytherin. As have I.”
And then, they’d talk. About everything. The future of the Wizarding race. The Albion. The Magical Empires of the past. The true nature of Power. And Lord Slytherin would listen.
Although, in a pinch, he’d settle for a discussion about getting the Wizard’s Wand a new thatched roof.
Lord Zazo glared around him. Then at his watch. Then at the door. Then in a voice several octaves higher than the voice he always imagined he used, he declared, “He ith late.” His gaze swung to his companions. "He thaid he’d be here at ten, but it’th five patht ten. Hith tardineth ith quite evident."
His two companions glanced at each other.
“Meby he isnae comin’ by floo,” said Hamish McGregor, the Mayor of Magical Montrose. “Meby he arrivn’ on dragon back.”
“Land dragon,” said William ‘Willy’ Sinclair, Captain of the Montrose Magpies Qudditch team, sounding far more tired than a strapping young man his age should. Probably his having to deal with Hamish all the time. “His betrothed is a land dragon,” the boy clarified. “He isn’t going to walk all the way through the Scottish Highlands on the back of a giant fifteen ton bloody monster. The muggles would spot it. And it’s too slow.”
“Ay denae know ‘bout no land dragons,” McGregor countered. “They sayin’ dragon and dragons fly. Why canae’ the lass nae fly?”
Willy sighed. “Because it’s not really a Dragon, Uncle. It’s called a dinosaur and they all died out before humans evolved. People are just calling it a land dragon.” He looked towards the fireplace. “No idea why,” he muttered not quite under his breath. “It’s not like dragons have feathers.”
“If the lass be havin’ feathers than by Merlin’s beard she should fly, right enough,” McGregor said. “Birds have feathers and birds fly. Are ya sure she canae fly?”
“Yes, Uncle. I’m su—”
Just then the floo flared green, marking the arrival of a guest.
“Jusht on time!” Lord Zazo said, jumping into the gap in the conversation before either of his companions could get a verbal foot in. “I don’t need to remind you how important thish meeting ish. Leth me do the talking.”
A figure stepped out of the flames.
“You? Russell, ya big ninny, ye canae even say the man’s name right. I can speak for me, thank you very much.”
Lord Russell Zazo flushed red as the mysterious Lord Slytherin stepped towards their booth with all the self-assurance and majesty of a true Lord of the Wizengamot.
“Gentleman.”
And before Zazo could think to do or say anything, the masked man of whom most of Magical Britain had only ever before heard rumours and whispers, was there, sitting down at the table with them.
“I understand you have a proposal.”
“Yesh,” Zazo said quickly, thanking the stars for the obvious opener. “You shee, we were thsinking, what witsh you now being part of our communishy—err, short of—that you might like—that ish you might shee it worthwhile—and itch ish worthwhile, I asshure you—that you might—”
Zazo’s heart was beating at a mile a minute. He’d often sat in on meetings of the Dark as a Lord with a valuable seat to fill, but he rarely said anything. His family had once been one of the major players in Magical Britain, known for their fiery oratory and silver tongues.
Alas, that reputation had led to their downfall. The rules of the Albion ensured that the country didn’t devolve into one almighty blood feud, but that didn’t mean there weren’t ways to lay a family low. A bitter enemy of his great, great grandfather had, at great personal cost, cursed his nemesis to always speak with a lisp and that curse had passed through the family line all the way to him.
No curse breaker had been able to do anything. To break the curse, would likely kill him and anyone related. And the result, to a family that prided itself on elocution and passionate speeches, was predictable. Within a few generations, they’d been reduced to sitting on the sidelines of politics, maintained by a stipend from the Malfoys, deemed useful only as a mediocre wand and a solid vote to be bought when needed. In a world where image was everything, no one could take his family seriously. Not even the death eaters had wanted him on the inside.
Now, he was sitting here, talking to Lord Slytherin.
And, without interrupting even once, the Gray Lord was listening. He was listening with such intense focus on him and him alone that not even Hamish or Willy dared to interrupt. After ten whole minutes of pitching the infrastructure upgrades that his home town so desperately needed, he began his wrap-up.
“And sho, you shee, we sink that an inveshment into Maltrosh will be very profishable to you, Lord Shlytherin. To ush! And to the community! The enclave MUSHT be expanded and the minishtry doesh not want to hear it. We are shure you would be an exschellent landlord for the people here and I assure you they want nothing more than to live together again, as wishards and wishes!”
Lord Slytherin’s mask regarded him silently for long moment. Then, without speaking, he stood, and, much to his surprise, offered him a gloved hand. Not to shake, but to take.
Exchanging cautious glances between his two companions, Lord Zazo slowly took the hand. Lord Slytherin then led them away.
Russell didn’t say anything. He was very good at that.
He didn’t say anything as the masked lord led them out of the Wizard’s Wand, out into the overcast magical enclave of Montrose. Nor did he say anything as he was led like a maiden by her suitor through to the walled entrance, and out into the muggle world.
“In here,” Lord Slytherin finally said, as they arrived at the door to a non-descript muggle residence.
Lord Zazo bit his lip, but didn’t object. He probably should have. He probably should have demanded to know what the hell was going on, but something stilled his tongue. McGreggor and Willy were following them and between them looked like they were about to burst from curiosity.
Zazo stepped into the house and heard the door close behind him with a click, leaving him now alone.
The room was bare, except for a chair on the far side, bedecked with chains and muggle locks. A sign above the chair said, “sit here and fasten the locks.”
Heart speeding up, Zazo did so. He was starting to get more than a little worried now, but he was sure Slytherin wasn’t going to try and pull anything. This whole meeting had been their idea. He was certain the upcoming meeting with the Wizengamot was going to pull many of the lord’s resources away from him and he wanted to get his petition in before anyone else.
Looking around the room, he saw typical muggle stuff. Stationary picture frames. Dusty floors. A general feeling of lack of life.
Minutes passed.
Then, a panel in a nearby wall slid back, revealing a large crate with air holes. The kind you might keep a wild animal in.
Zazo’s heart rate sped up. He pulled on the chains, just to test, and, yes, if Lord Slytherin tried anything, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Slowly, the crate started to move towards him, scraping along the floor as though being pushed by muscles, rather than with magic as any descent wizard would.
As it moved closer, he tried to see what was inside the crate, but no luck. There was something there, something moving, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see what.
Then it was scraped to a stop right next to him and Lord Zazo felt what he could only think to describe as ‘weird’. As though someone was draining something out of him. Like he’d been casting all day and was now feeling the results. Except, he didn’t feel the horribleness of magical toxin build-up, just the emptiness. The loss.
He didn’t like it.
He really didn’t like it.
But at the same time, he didn’t want to stop.
Because while he felt that very important thing draining out of him, he also felt something else draining out of him, too.
Something sludgy. As though he’d spent his entire life with his head in a vat of gunky oil, only now to be taken out and rinsed off.
Something horrible was leaving his soul.
After what felt like an age, the crate started to scrap back again. As it left the room, he thought he saw the briefest flash of a human eye looking at him through one of the holes, but he was sure he’d just imagined it.
The wall panel closed with a thud, leaving him alone once more.
The front door opened and Lord Slytherin walked in. With a wave of his wand, the chains he’d restrained himself to the chair with all fell away.
“How do you feel?” he asked.  
“Weak,” Russell rasped out. “Weak as kitten with dragonpox. What the hells did you just do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything, my friend,” Lord Slytherin replied. “I merely offered you a seat.”
“Lord Slytherin,” Russell began, before stopping as the word he’d just said registered with his brain. “Slytherin,” he said again, slower this time. Lord Zazo’s eyes widened.
“Slytherin!” he said, louder this time. He was still rasping, but the hesitancy of energy conservation was being forced away by the drunken hysteria of realisation. “Slytherin! Slytherin! SLYTHERIN!!!”
Lord Slytherin just stood there, as Russell started to laugh. Tears began rolling down his face.
“I don’t believe it!” he said. “I’m— I’m not lisping! I can speak! Ye gods, man, I can speak! Hark! What marvel dost thou witness before thine very ears? Methinks a gentle transformation hath swept through mine own! For I, who did once stutter stanzas, now speaks finely as the river flows, unencumbered by such twists of tongue! Holy shit!”
Behind him, McGregor and Willy were staring with their mouths open.
Lord Slytherin nodded. “I want Montrose to be an ally of Slytherin. If the ministry does not appreciate your town, then I will take on their burdens for them. I will provide the funds to expand the enclave and bring every wizard or witch who wills it into the magical world proper, at a rate that will not leave them destitute.”
Lord Zazo scooped up Slytherin’s hand and tried to shake it with all the enthusiasm he felt, only to nearly topple over, forgetting his momentary weakness. Once he was back on his feet, and with Slytherin steadying his shoulder, he looked right into the mask’s eye holes. “Done, my friend,” he said. “I will see to it that no wizard or witch who lives in Montrose says a bad word about you. I will make this town a fortress to your good name. In fact, I name the noble house of Zazo a loyal ally of yours. I have no great wealth to share, nor allies to bring, but I swear by the memory of two hundred years of pain and humiliation that me and mine will stand with you, no matter what, even as the earth swallows you whole, and even after that, we will fetch our spades and get digging.”

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