Work Text:
NOW
Rhys frowns as he steps onto the cracked walkway that leads to Nakayama’s house. He’s only been dead a day, and the place is in shambles, like it’d never been lived in. The windows are boarded up with rotting wood, the paint on the door is chipping, and the porch slouches sadly to one side. Rhys makes a face and wonders if Jack knew one of his followers was living like this.
The snowfall is light this evening, melting long before it can pile up on the ground. Rhys flicks his wand and the front door unlocks, creaking as it swings open into a dark hallway.
Rhys stares into the darkness with a frown. He never liked Nakayama. The man had always been… fanatical , when it came to Jack. He looked for Jack’s attention in his own ways—inventing new curses, bringing him gifts. Rhys had even once walked in on him begging Jack to personally conduct a crucio session with him. Rhys had become used to feeling Nakayama’s glare at his back whenever Jack would brush him aside for Rhys.
Rhys should have known it was all a front—pretending to be obsessed with Jack to hide the fact that he was a traitor. Rhys steps past the threshold and the door slowly closes behind him.
“I need you to go check out his place, see if he’s got anything else stashed away in there that he might have told the Ministry,” Jack had said.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Nah, that guy gave me the heebie jeebies. Don’t give me that look. You’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Sure.
With another wave of his wand, the lights in the house flicker on, scaring the shadows away. The inside of the house is in even worse shape than the outside. There’s nothing in the living room but an old couch that looks like it’d been picked up off the side of the road. The mantle above the fireplace is empty and covered by a layer of dust. The floorboards creak incessantly beneath his feet, and there’s a tall pile of filthy dishes in the kitchen sink, which is missing both knobs.
Rhys turns on his heel and makes for the stairs. He’s expecting an office space at least, but the house is tiny, and all he finds upstairs is Nakayama’s bedroom. Rhys lingers at the empty doorframe as he takes in what’s inside.
There’s a small desk pushed up against the wall, right beneath an open window. Nakayama’s bed is opposite the desk, the sheets tangled and spilling onto the floor.
The walls—
They’re covered . Covered by Jack’s face.
Every inch, every corner, has a newspaper clipping plastered to it. Jack is waving at him, and shaking hands with the Hogwarts Headmistress, with the Minister—Jack’s grinning wide, holding a broomstick. He’s laughing, he’s sharing a drink with an Auror, he’s holding his Quidditch trophy, he’s graduating from Hogwarts.
Rhys knows the stories behind all of these photos—he used to have most of them, posted up in his room in the Slytherin dungeons. But this wasn’t…Rhys had been genuine. This is just…a cover, right? Nakayama, or whatever his real name was, only put these up to keep anyone who came sniffing around off his trail. If Jack had seen these he might have hissed and called Nakayama a fanboy, but he wouldn’t have questioned his loyalty.
With a frown, Rhys steps over to the desk and tries to ignore the newspaper Jack’s eyes on him. There’s a few pieces of blank parchment sitting on top of the desk, as well as an inkwell with a quill resting inside it. Rhys pulls open the first drawer on the right; several glass vials clink together, filled with a bright pink liquid. He pulls one out to inspect. There’s no label, but the liquid inside is constantly swirling and twisting, even as he holds the vial still.
He knows what it is just by looking at it—but it could have been made that way to deceive anyone who stumbled upon it. Rhys tugs on the stopper and it comes loose with a pop . He tilts the open mouth of the vial towards him and sniffs.
He smells something warm and smoky, like a fire that has never stopped burning. He smells tea, sweet and flavorful—the brew his mother used to love. He smells Jack’s aftershave, sharp and masculine, strong enough that Jack could be in the room with him.
Rhys pulls the vial away. It’s Amortentia, no doubt about it. He closes the vial again and places it back in the drawer with the rest. What was Nakayama planning on doing with all that? There’s enough here to make someone infatuated with him for months. Was he going to slip it into Jack’s morning coffee?
Rhys’ frown deepens as he shuts the drawer to move onto the next. It’s mostly empty, a few quills and extra inkwells.
The next drawer is locked.
Here we go .
“Alohomora .” Rhys waves his wand over the lock. It doesn’t budge. “ Alohomora Duo. ” He tries again. The lock trembles for a moment and then goes still. Rhys grabs the handle and tries to pull the drawer open, but it doesn’t budge.
He curses and steps back, putting distance between himself and the desk. Leave it to Nakayama to make something needlessly difficult. Rhys points his wand at the drawer.
“Expulso.”
The desk creaks as pressure begins to build inside of it. Rhys shields his eyes as the desk explodes outwards a moment later, sending wood panels flying in every direction. They hit the walls and splinter into smaller pieces that fly past Rhys’ head. He puts his arm down and makes his way over to what’s left of the desk.
The Amortentia vials are scattered across the floor, and the parchment paper is slowly floating downwards, but there, underneath one half of a shattered chair leg, is a leather-bound journal.
Rhys snatches it and shakes the wood chips off it before flipping it open to the bookmarked page. It’s full of Nakayama’s messy handwriting in black ink, and there are smudges along the sides of the page where he’d rested his hand. It’s hard to make out what words these are supposed to be, but Rhys easily picks out Jack’s name among them.
He flips the page.
He has no issue reading the script at the top of this one.
Horcrux
Rhys’ eyes widen as he scans the page. Nakayama has done some research; there’s a whole section of blood magic rituals that he “suspects” could be used to split the soul.
If I can present this to Jack, I’m sure he’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude!! I’ll be the man who ensured he could live FOREVER! Horcruxes can be stored in both living and non-living hosts; maybe he would even…do me the honor of placing a piece of himself inside of me. He must know I would do anything for him!!! LeConte has had his ear for long enough……
Rhys’ blood goes cold. A journal like this is excessive for someone who’s faking it. Nakayama had outlined every possible detail of Jack splitting his soul and transferring it to himself as the host. Rhys suddenly remembers Nakayama screaming something about having slaved away over a gift for Jack before he’d killed him.
Nakayama wasn’t one of the traitors. Someone set him up. Set them up.
Did Nakayama know? Did the real traitors know ? Did Tassiter?
Rhys pressed his free hand against his chest, where the piece of Jack’s soul had seeped into him, where it had settled around his heart. He needs to tell Jack. He needs to get back to him.
“I ncendio ,” Rhys whispers harshly, and the journal bursts into flames. He drops it onto the splintered remains of the desk and watches as it catches fire, burning up the nearby parchment paper and spreading to the floor.
Rhys closes his eyes and disapparates.
Or at least he tries. The pressure on his skull doesn’t come; he can still feel the floor beneath him. He opens his eyes. He’s still in Nakayama’s slowly burning bedroom. There’s a lump in his throat he swallows around, his heart pounding against his ribs. He tries again. Nothing happens.
Fuck .
Someone knew he’d be coming here tonight and set up an anti-apparation field. He can’t believe he didn’t check the house for charms before he stepped inside. Stupid stupid stupid. That’s when he hears it—voices from downstairs, shuffling feet, the stairs creaking. He needs to go now.
Rhys runs to the open window, paying no mind to the flames that lick at his feet. He grasps the window sill and jumps over it. He winces when his feet hit the ground, a full-body tremor going through him—he tries to disapparate again, now that he’s outside.
Still, nothing happens.
“There he is!” someone shouts, and the light of a wand is pointed towards him from the street.
Rhys presses himself against the side of the house. There’s too many Aurors here; he can’t possibly outrun them. He doesn’t even know how far they’ve stretched the anti-apparition field.
There’s nowhere to go. Rhys quickly presses the tip of his wand against his temple and screws his eyes shut. They can’t know—no one can know .
“ Obliviate—“
Just as he gets the word out, a spell catches his arm, knocking his wand out of place. It’s like an explosion against the side of his head, deafening and bright; a sharp, sudden pain and the crack of bone makes him cry out. Everything goes dark.
When Rhys comes to, he’s on the ground. His stomach rolls unpleasantly and his brain feels like it’s been through a blender. He can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Rhys looks up and half his vision has gone dark and the rest is swimming before him. But he can recognize Aurors when he sees them, and there’s a whole bunch around him, wands drawn and pointed at him like he’ll jump up and attack them at any second.
He can’t even feel his limbs.
Something warm and wet slides down his face and drips off his nose.
“—lin’s Beard, Jodey. What’d you do to him? Tassiter wants him alive .”
“He is alive, isn’t he? That’s not even half what he deserves.”
Rhys feels a hand on his shoulder and winces when one of the Aurors rolls him onto his back.
“Tassiter won’t mind if we rough him up a bit, will he?” The Auror smiled, pressing his wand to Rhys’ chest. “Only fair we get a go at him first.”