Work Text:
STAND BY FOR MISSION BRIEFING
I’m sitting. I’m sitting in a chair.
UPLOAD IN 3
I’m lounging in a chair, louche and arrogant. ‘Louche’ is a word I unironically use in sentences.
2
I’m sprawling my supermodel sprawl in a chair of carved ebony and deep violet brocade; the fingers of my right hand are cold and thin where they curl beneath my chin; the strands of hair draping in deliberate disarray before one eye are black as ink shot through with bright white.
1
Across the broad hall from me is a mirror framed in gold: I’ve been pretending not to appreciate myself in it. Admiring from the corner of my eye the way the subtle white embroidery on my black watered-silk robe brings out the white streaks in my hair, the way its heavy lines make my pale face look older and more severe, the way the bright peacock blue of my eyes is the only color.
BEGINNING UPLOAD
The Narcissus in the mirror jerks as if stung by a hornet. My comfortable velvety monologue rips down the middle, and perspective jets in like somebody hit me in the brain with a power-washer of pure information.
It seems to go on for hours, but when it ends, my chin is still in the process of falling off my hand. I slam my feet on the floor for balance, then instinctively look around to make sure no one saw. Whew, I’m alone. Octavian Polis Black Carrow cares a lot about his image.
UPLOAD COMPLETE
GOOD HUNTING, AGENT 8
I could almost believe I’ve always been Octavian. That I nodded off for a moment and dreamed the buzzing tone and metallic flavor of that countdown, that the thread of sardonic self-criticism running in the back of my mind is simply the bitter insecurity I’ve always buried under condescension. It would certainly be more comfortable than the truth. Even knowing the itch under my sleeve is the Dark Mark and I’m going to have to cozy up to England’s worst to stay alive, it would be more comfortable than being… fictional?
‘Harry Potter’ is a book series. I’m breathing and solid, but I cannot possibly be real. I don’t remember the Isekai Truck, but Octavian Carrow wouldn’t know that phrase in the first place. He wouldn’t know what ‘upload’ means, for that matter. Computers aren’t very advanced in this setting and wizards have never heard of them anyway. I have a whole life in my head now, a whole history and family tree, I have attitudes and opinions, I have an Aesthetic, I even have a goddamn fiancee (whom I don’t love, and who doesn’t love me, but we look amazing together and she’s rich as Midas), I could draw from memory the dozen robes my house elf laid out on my bed to choose from before I came here to Cousin Narcissa’s manor. Nevertheless, I can’t be anything but a fiction, and that is really, really fucking upsetting.
I don’t think Octavian Carrow has ever said ‘fuck’ in his life.
That all would be weird enough, but on top of the existential doubt I’m dealing with, I also Know that my Mission is to keep Draco Malfoy alive and functional long enough to serve his purpose in the Battle of Hogwarts. Who gave me this Mission? What happens if I fail? What happens if I succeed ? Why does it keep being spelled with a capital M in my thoughts?
I could brood about this for hours, except brooding is boring (my thought) and gives you wrinkles (Octavian’s). It seems I’m the sort of proactive person who would rather find things out empirically. Less than an hour until the meeting starts, anyway. I didn’t have any other option but to take the Mark, what with my entire family being so far up Voldemort’s arse they have to breathe through a straw, but I’m much too self-centered to be truly loyal. My plan for getting through the coming war is to be as unremarkable as possible in public, while playing 4-dimensional psychological chess behind everyone’s back, making backup plans and leaving myself escape holes wherever I can. All I need to do in the meeting is arrive on time, keep my mouth shut, and not stand next to Narcissa, because our hair is too similar and it makes people mentally lump us together.
Except that’s Octavian Carrow’s position, and Octavian Carrow is fictional. Draco is fictional too, but I’m going to bodyguard him anyway because that’s my Mission and it’s not as if I have goals of my own. I know that Draco is in the house, I saw him in the garden schmoozing some Ministry stooge when I arrived. I guess I should construct an excuse to hang around him, since I’m enough older than him that it’d look weird to just buddy up.
Standing, I enjoy the easy strength in my limbs, healthy and young, athletic (but not too athletic, that would be gauche), forearms corded and thighs solid from hours of fencing and horsemanship lessons. (Oh fuck, the things Death Eaters ride to hunt are not foxes.) I make my way out the French doors standing open to the garden, enjoying the cool English summer night and the thick scent of recently rained-on roses, the murmur of upper-class voices beneath hovering lights, the billow of silk around my long legs, the knowledge that if I wanted to I could snatch the wand (Chinese lacquer tree and acromantula hair, nine inches, rigid, with an inlay of blue abalone that matches my eyes) from my sash and AK any motherfucker here before they could even twitch. I won’t, of course, but I could. I have a talent for silent casting, quicker than most anyone but the Dark Lord himself.
I also have, oddly enough, the ready poise and situational awareness of a black-recon operative with a specialization in close combat. My eyes flick to the places where knives or guns could be hidden on every person I pass. I know none of these wizards has ever seen a gun up close, but my instincts still make me check for sniper perches along the roofline. Cousin Narcissa’s earring looks, for a split second, like a wireless comm until she turns from profile to three-quarters and I see the matching onyx cabochon on the other side.
Octavian is absolutely not an intelligence agent. But apparently I am. Apparently I am on some kind of deep penetration op in a fictional world, and I get briefings poured directly into my brain, and this is fine. It’s fine. It’s normal. It’s going to be okay, it’s — It’s showtime. There’s the kid.
The teenager in question, when he clocks my approach, makes a face like a llama trying to eat a durian. Fucksake, kid, you don’t even know who I am, you can’t just go around sneering on spec, you’re gonna piss off somebody important that way. Not me, though. I don’t care on either level. He’s seventeen, spoiled rotten, and scared to death inside, though that last is hidden well enough I wouldn’t pick up on it if not for the interrogation training I don’t remember getting. His opinion of me is irrelevant as long as he doesn’t dodge me so he can go get killed.
The ministry goober gives me a sleazy smile, a bit hostile around the corners of the jaw. “Ah, Mrs. Malfoy’s young cousin, isn’t it? Oscar?”
“Well, you got the first letter right,” I drawl, all easy ice. The briefing showed me this is the way to get Draco’s attention: be cooler and more arrogant than he is, then approve of him, preferably in public. “So sorry, Minister, but I need to borrow Draco for a moment; you don’t mind, do you? Lovely, we’ll see you in the meeting.” I have Draco by the shoulder and I’m steering him back toward the house before he even thinks to resist. By then it’s too late for either of them, of course, and they’d look petty making a stink.
Draco grumbles anyway, but he keeps his voice down. “What do you want, Trip , I was cultivating someone.”
Trip? Oh, okay, that was Octavian’s nickname at school, for his habit of tripping Hufflepuffs down the stairs. Classy. Draco thinks he’s scoring a point by using it. “You know he’s only the Minister of Agriculture, right? What are you going to ‘cultivate’ from him, free cucumbers? Come show me where you keep the good liquor, we’ve just time to get a mouthful before the meeting.”
He looks aghast. “You want to be drunk? When the Dark Lord — you want to be drunk ?”
“On one drink? Stop being silly. I could simply use something to settle my nerves -- and so could you. You looked desperate out there, little cousin.”
That makes him scoff, but he leads me down a less ornate side hallway and into a smoking room where there’s a crystal decanter of whiskey just sitting out on the sideboard. Dust is beginning to accumulate on the bottle’s shoulders. The farther one gets from the entry hall, the more the manor falls to disrepair. We all pretend not to notice, because acknowledging that our faction can’t even maintain a clean headquarters, let alone run a nation, would be instant death to whoever said it.
Draco pulls a mask of disapproval when I pour him two fingers and put the tumbler in his hand, but he drinks all the same. He wrinkles his nose like it’s medicine. It’s not medicine, it’s an absolutely gorgeous single malt, peat and caramel with a faint following hint of smoke. (Heh; Octavian’s apparently a whiskey snob. I wonder what the real me drinks. It better not be shaken-not-stirred.) I murmur compliments to his father’s taste, and Draco reinflates a little. This poor, horrible kid. It’s like his entire upbringing and habitat has conspired to make him the least likeable boy in England, and the worst thing is, he knows it. He knows there's nothing there to like. The faintest possibility that his mother’s first cousin finds him tolerable is already breaking down his psychic defenses. It’s only been ten minutes. He’s lucky I don’t want anything from him but approximate compliance with a Don’t Get Murdered directive.
In service of that goal, once it’s starting to get awkward just standing around looking at each other and sipping, I tilt my head to give him a mildly predatory look and say, “I’ll come straight to the point, Draco. Your family’s lukewarm attitude is suicide, and I’ll not get dragged down by it. What are your parents thinking , treating the Dark Lord like a freeloader camping in the spare bedroom? I know Cissy’s a bit territorial, but surely Lucius should be better at politics than this.”
He gapes at me. “We’re doing no such —“ But he gets his composure back quickly, along with that unattractive sneer. “What would you know about politics, anyway? You’re nothing but a professional relative.”
I neither laugh nor say 'meow!', because I am a professional. (A professional what , I'm not sure yet.) “Yet I’ll outlive everyone in this house except maybe Bellatrix and Dolohov, because I know when to kiss up and when to keep my mouth shut. You’ve seen that your mum and dad are sawing their own branch, I know you have. You need to make your own place in this organization. A place distinct from theirs.”
“What do you want, Trip?” he asks again, this time subdued instead of petulant, and not half suspicious enough.
“I’m offering you…” A calculated pause, to get him listening instead of planning his next amateur zinger. “An alliance. You , not your parents, Draco. They’ve burned their bridge. You’re young enough to change your fate.”
His pale eyes bore into me for a long moment. I’m expecting some questions, some suspicion, but when he’s done studying my face he just nods and sets his barely tasted drink down. “We’ll talk after the meeting.” With that, he strides out of the room.
(Surprisingly nice arse for seventeen. Good of him to leave his outer robe off.) (Octavian, no, you’re twenty-four, leave the schoolboy alone. What the fuck.)
I give him a minute to be on his way, then head for the dungeons, abandoning my scotch as well. It’s served its scene-setting purpose. Draco responded nicely to the act-like-a-grownup triggers, I’ll have to see what I can do with that. This is obviously going to be a longish assignment. Months, if I recall correctly. With Voldie going steadily bonkers from the soul-strain of his horcrux habit, zapping minions in fits of paranoid rage. Lucian and Narcissa didn’t get knocked off in canon, I’m pretty sure, but then, in canon Narcissa didn’t have a pretty young cousin Octavian with a secret passion for Krav Maga. In canon, Draco didn’t need a bodyguard to make it through the summer of 1997. Something to think about when I have a minute for thinking. Right now I need to check who they’ve got captive currently, because I have a feeling I’ll want that intel under my belt before the meeting starts.
Someone is waiting for me at the top of the cellar stairs.
I assume he’s on guard at first, but he pushes away from the wall and comes to meet me with an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. And I have absolutely no damn clue who he is. The briefing gave me nothing on this guy. He doesn't look like a Death Eater at all. There are Death Eaters with long hair and scruffy chins, and Death Eaters who wear tweed trousers and cable-knit oatmeal jumpers, but those are two very different varieties of Death Eater; the former unhinged and violent, the latter soft and cowardly. This man looks, if anything, like a kindly but disorganized literature professor who secretly reports to MI5. The gaze caged behind those wire-rimmed glasses is much too sharp.
The sense of kinship that hits me is half reassuring, half terrifying.
My hand drifts toward a weapon as we stop just out of arms’ reach of each other; fortunately for my cover, the weapon in question is a shoulder-holstered pistol I don’t actually have, not the wand in my sash, so it looks like I’m making some vague hand-to-heart gesture rather than rolling for initiative.
“They’re cutting it close this time, aren’t they, Eight?” he says in a comfortable tone, as if we’re old teammates catching up on a smoke break. “Not a whole lot of steerage way left at this point in the scenario.”
Eight could be a little in-joke for Octavian. But it isn’t. I can feel that it isn’t. Good hunting, Agent 8. “Should I know you?”
He shrugs. Something catches the light among his hair, and I blink as I see that it’s a purple mushroom earring. It’s amethyst and diamond pavé, but it’s a cute purple mushroom, and Death Eaters do not wear cute purple mushroom earrings, no matter how expensive. He says, “If you don’t it means I picked the right time. Here, snort this.” He holds his hand out flat, and as I watch in mildly disturbed bemusement, a pale blob grows out of his palm. White at first, it turns grayish when it’s the size of a golf ball. He detaches it to offer it to me. Its leathery surface crinkles under his fingers, and a little jet of pale powder leaks out the top.
“What the handcrafted artisinal fuck,” I intone, but I’m grinning. I don’t know why. Something about this mushroom-excreting weirdo amuses the hell out of me.
“I know, it’s an awkward delivery mechanism, but it works, I’ve tested it.”
“Delivery mechanism for what , stranger?”
He sighs. With the cadence of someone who’s tired of repeating himself, he says, “You don’t know me yet in this life, but I’m your best friend, and I need you to squirt this up your nose.” He grabs my hand and plops the puffball into it. “Now quit screwing around. I’m not even supposed to be here.” He pats my shoulder encouragingly and walks away.
Maybe it’s the fact that he left me to decide on my own that makes me do it. Maybe it’s the feeling that I know that guy in a different way from how the briefing makes me know things. Maybe it’s the silly purple mushroom. Hell, maybe I’m just too curious for my own good. I hold the puffball up to my nose, squeeze it, and take a deep breath.
Then I spend a while coughing. Other than that, nothing seems to happen.
“My sinuses are full of mushroom dust,” I say to myself, dropping the empty puffball skin in my pocket. "I am a disaster." With a self-directed headshake, I continue my trajectory through the kitchen (slipping a vegetable knife up my sleeve on autopilot as I pass the carving table) and down the stairs.
Yaxley's in the dungeon already, taunting a whimpering Professor Burbage, who must be tonight's special. What kind of embarrassing human failure could get any feeling of superiority from tormenting such a helpless, deflated woman? Well, it's not for me to do anything about it. That would blow my cover for no gain. I still heave a disappointed sigh as I lean in the open door of the cell, which draws attention from both of them.
"What is it, Carrow?" Yaxley snaps.
"Leave some for his lordship, good grief. Are you planning to bring up a corpse?"
The poor woman does something that maybe could've been lunging desperately against her chains a few days ago, but at this point it's more of a flop. "Help me," she croaks. "Please, I don't know anything, please I don't want to die --"
"Sorry, Professor, you're out of luck. Just the fortunes of war," I shrug.
Yaxley narrows his eyes at me, his mouth going even more pursed, which makes him look a bit like Statler from the Muppet Show. "You should have a care, boy, that the Dark Lord does not hear you speaking so kindly to a filthy muggle."
That's a threat, but I don't care. If he moves against me I'll take him out. He's got some survival instincts, at least, because my smile makes him tense as if to step back before he gets hold of himself. "If you don't respect your enemy," I advise, "you'll die surprised and leave a dopey looking corpse. Now, are you wingarding her leviosa up those stairs or am I?"
"I've better things to do," he snaps, and strides off all proud.
"Of course you do," I murmur with a derisive little grin.
While I detach her shackles from the wall, Burbage seems to think I'll change my mind now that we're alone, and resumes begging. It's genuinely uncomfortable to hear. Fortunately -- at least, it feels fortunate at the moment -- whatever training I can't remember getting seems to have included some good, solid compartmentalization along with the martial arts and whatnot. I think I could even bear to bring her upstairs still sobbing and begging for her life, which I'm sure half the Death Eaters would enjoy and the other half would pretend to enjoy. That doesn't buy me anything I need, though.
I float her out of the cell and stop. "You are going to die tonight," I explain levelly, showing her my serious face. "All you can do is try to die well. Do your best not to stick around as a ghost, by the way, some of this lot has uses for those. No," I add as she looks about to beg again. "Deep breath. Choose how you want to face it." Then I twitch my wand and send her floating up the stairs.
Dangling her beneath the chandelier in the large dining room is a waste of magic. Why not simply dump her in a corner until her big moment? This kind of theatricality will be the downfall of -- well, really, any group that voluntarily calls itself Death Eaters was doomed from go, when you think about it. At least the poor woman manages to hang onto what dignity is left to her, being upside down and slowly rotating like a deeply pathetic disco ball as she is, while the members of the meeting begin to filter in and take their seats.
A soft plea escapes her when she sees Snape. He ignores her. She pulls herself together again. I do not indicate in any way that I admire her for that, but I do.
The meeting begins. It goes about how I'd expect a board meeting at Incompetent Evil Incorporated would go. There's posturing and accusations. Yaxley shoots me dirty looks. Cousin Narcissa seems to be meditating on Being Somewhere Nice That Isn't Here. Cousin Alecto is undressing me with her eyes, which is just her little way, no creepier than usual. Cousin Lucius is trying, as always, to kiss the most arse of anyone while also somehow being in charge of everything, and it's working about as well as it ever does, which is not one bit.
I don't giggle at the name Pius Thicknesse. I'm such a superspy.
Voldemort, Snape, and Yaxley have a little back-and-forth about how to assassinate a sixteen-year-old boy with the self-preservation instincts of a chihuahua in a mosh pit, showing no understanding that all they need to do is give him something to be angry about and he'll charge into any trap they care to set. I don't help them out. They wouldn't appreciate it.
They don't come anywhere near having an actual plan before Voldemort moves things along. Voldemort explains, in his disturbingly mellifluous and gentle voice, that his wand and Potter's are twinsies, and cancel each other out. He sets his wand on the table with a tiny wooden clatter that echoes loud in the breath-held silence.
"If I am to kill him," he croons, "I must do it with another's wand." He begins to pace along behind us, caressing the backs of the chairs. "Come; surely one of you would like the honor?"
"I would, my lord." Oh; that was me speaking. Not sure why I said that, but I must have a reason. It'll come to me any moment.
He stops cold, fixing me with a dead-eyed glare from behind Lucius's chair. He was working up to bullying Blondie McBrownnose? Don't blame me for interrupting your performance, Chief, you didn't give us the script! Nothing to do now but play it through.
I rise, draw my wand, and offer it handle first with one smooth motion, showing not a hint of reluctance. And why should I? I may have been injected with a lifetime of Octavian's history, but the truth is I've only had a wand for an hour, and I don't need it for anything important. From the stifled gasps around me, though, I'm the only wizard in the room who would hand over his fancy stick without a struggle.
Voldemort tilts his head, considering me, putting his anger on hold. I've thrown him off his groove, which he never likes, but this is an example of such utter submission that it makes even the most rabid of his followers look like they're dragging their feet. In the corner of my eye I see Draco's stare sharpen. He's drawing some conclusion or other about my plans. (What plans? I did that on instinct, and I don't even know whose instinct.) Still, Voldemort doesn't close the distance.
"Chinese lacquer tree," I prompt helpfully, "with a core of acromantula hair. More spider than serpent, I'm afraid, but eagerly venomous nonetheless. May it serve you well, my lord."
A pleased hum tells me I've succeeded at… whatever this is. "Octavian Carrow," he practically purrs, "I had thought you ambivalent about our aims. But in this act, you prove your loyalty above all others." A wounded noise from Bellatrix; he did that on purpose, the shit-stirrer. "I accept."
He drifts forward. His waxy fingers reach for the wand in my left hand.
My mental diagram of the room lights up three points of interest: Voldemort, his wand on the end of the table, and me right in between the two, with my wand not yet handed over. I feel a weird, creepy jolt as he touches the wand's handle, as if it's somehow part of me… and in that moment, whoever I was before takes over in a lightning flash of total violence.
Right hand: six inch blade hard across Voldemort's throat, opening it nearly to the spine. Left hand, flip the wand back rightwise and start dropping bodies with silent green beams in an order I've apparently subconsciously already planned. Lestrange, Rowle, Dolohov --
Honestly, people! I shouldn't be able to kill your leader and your three most dangerous fighters before any of you get a wand out to retaliate. How embarrassing for you.
I die with a wild grin on my face. Avada Kedavra is painless.
-=(8)=-
MISSION FAILURE
I open my eyes in my office -- my office? Yes, that's what this is, though I don't really know who I am or why I have an office. Dusty beams of Los Angeles sun slant through the slatted blinds. The sounds of the city, the clatter of the fan on my desk, typewriter noises from somewhere downstairs, they feel real. I feel like I'm waking up from a dream. Even so, on some level I'm aware that if I look out that window… well, I probably shouldn't look out the window.
This is a between place. This place is mine alone. I hate being alone. But it's mine, so that's something, I guess.
The anachronistic electronic voice comes again:
MISSION FAILURE
I laugh. "Fuck off, that was poggers and you know it."
ZERO POINTS AWARDED
YOUR ACCUMULATED POINT TOTAL IS: ZERO
"Whatever." I don't know what I'd want points for. "That was a stupid mission. Give me a better one."
NEXT MISSION IS QUEUED. WHEN YOUR PREPARATIONS ARE COMPLETE, SAY 'ACCEPT'.
What preparations? This is just a movie set of a film-noir detective's office, no matter how real it feels. Nothing I do here, or take from here, will follow me to the next -- verse? Yeah, verse. Because I won't have the same body. I won't physically go there. I might even be reincarnated as a baby -- damn, that would suck. But the alternative is sitting around here watching the fan oscillate, and I'm already bored.
"Accept," I say crisply. "Let's go, buddy, I'm ready to kick some ass." Oh hey, ass instead of arse, got a California accent in the ready room, that's nice. Maybe that's where I was from originally?
YOU HAVE ACCEPTED THE MISSION. MEMORY WIPE INITIATED.
"Hold on, wait, what?"
My vision begins to streak like watercolor.
-=(8)=-
STAND BY FOR MISSION BRIEFING
I'm fighting. I don't have time for this. What the fuck.
UPLOAD IN 3
I don't know who's making this noise in my head but I sincerely do not have the fucking time for this, there's -- ow! -- a battle goddamn royale happening in a room way too small for it and --
2
-- okay fine, fine, maybe if I get my back to a wall for a sec --
1
-- hook kick to the side for some chick with purple hair who thinks she's gonna sneak up on me and she flies six meters and cracks the concrete where she hits, what the fuck am I --
BEGINNING UPLOAD
-- the stutter in my concentration is enough to let someone stick a knife in my forearm, because my reflexes try to block when I should've dodged, but the knowledge that slams through me in that compressed moment is more than worth it.
UPLOAD COMPLETE
GOOD HUNTING, AGENT 8
My name is Okou Hachi, and not one of these poor assholes has a jutsu that can counter my Silk Release. Not thirty seconds later, everyone who isn't dead is wrapped up like sushi and stuck to the walls, and I'm standing in the middle of the room calmly bandaging my stab wound with golden threads when the door opens.
The gray-haired young man with the round glasses is the one who recruited me. His smile would've given me the creeps even without everything the briefing told me about him. "Hachi-kun," he beams, "I'm sure I mentioned that this is a battle to the death. Mercy will do you no good here."
I give him a big grin. "But they're reusable , Senpai. Isn't that handy? You can throw them at the next guy! Or do you need more proof I'm as much of an asshole as you are? Here you go." I step to the guy who perforated my arm, parting the threads so I can take his chakra knife. I'm planning to return the gift of stabbing, but the feeling of my energy flowing into the metal brings back… something… some nonsense word… adaraba… something? When channeled with enough Killing Intent…
A beam of green light leaps from the point of the knife, and the man slumps, his last breath juddering out as his weight compresses his lungs.
Huh. That's a neat jutsu. Wonder where I learned it.
"Fascinating," Kabuto murmurs.
I shrug. Then I sneeze. The snot I wipe on my sleeve is gray, and I taste mushroom. Weird.