If Mageant Mansion had a history, it was not one that the pages of the noun saw, or would ever see. It was the kind of house that riches built, and riches see wither – hauntingly beautiful, in its final ruin.

It was rumoured that the town it - the mansion - had once affected, with both its glory and power, had fallen prey to an attack of werewolves – an attack that swept, away in the dust that it left behind, not only the civilization of the place, but the lives of the inhabitants of the manner.

Riches can, perhaps, strive to keep death at bay. But, when the final word is said and the final deed executed, they can not, for all their supposed pelf, destroy or even evade it. Money loves to pull, into illusion, those that own it. It loves, too, to ruin the illusions that it can create.

It is always indifferent – it is we, who are not.

But the town, the town had not withered away. It had lived on, inhabited by creatures of the dark and it was the area around the town, that had fallen into decay – the people of it were driven off by fear, by risk and by lack of security. Raids happened, to no avail. In the end, the city had moved away and on, and the town whose centre Mageant mansion was, had become a landmark of evil. Abandoned by all who believed – or liked to think they believed – in the ‘light.’

Voldemort, when he had decided that the Mansion in question would make yet another perfect stronghold, had found it easy to tackle the wolves – he had not driven them off, but driven them to himself. He had the metaphorical fangs of a snake, and a tongue of honey, and he could show both, and show none, simultaneously or when he wanted to.

It had been easy for him, to subdue the wolves into his will. The Mansion was clear of them, now – they were staged at other posts, where he found them more helpful. In the meanwhile, he had many other means to make the town impenetrable.

All this, in a way that none were aware that the evil of the wolves had been taken away, and replaced by a much more cultured, much more barbaric one.

In the dark of the night, Jenna’s milk-white gown trailed down to her feet as she apparated a little spot off from the Mansion and, an invisible shield drawn up not on purpose, but by instinct, neared the sprawling building, that shone like a point of darkness, in the distance.

From the outside, the place still lay in ruins – on the inside, she had seen it more than once, and knew how perfect, how cultured, how cold and icy each item was. Perfect in its make and model, and subtly heartless in its appearance. Only Voldemort could manage to make it so, and she wondered even now, internally fascinated, how that was possible.

Her heart beat faster than usual, partly from nervousness, partly from anger. Nervousness at what lay ahead – though she was, it may be said, not one to care for the future, often. Not ever, in fact, except where certain individuals were concerned – and anger at Varius Lestrange. She was, indeed, more injured by his words than she cared to admit. Indifferent to this – our perhaps as a reaction to it, as a sign of sympathy – the wind picked up, howling and crashing into things, scattering leaves and sending them through the air like flying kisses.

She paused, and glanced skywards. The moon was full, a point of brilliant, silver light. It cascaded down on her, filtered through her silver hair, and fell down her milk-white dress.

“Si,” she whispered. Si –you will understand one day, will you not? There was no other way, I was too fascinated. I do not want to practice this. I want to see his ways. I do not want to see how – for I already know that – I want to see why. Si – you will understand one day, will you not? You will not hate me, will you, Si? There is something either disastrous or vile, in me. It wanted to know why – and now it has other reasons. Reasons it can not escape, because they have nothing to do with the mind. I have fallen apart with what I initially sought, Si – the need to know why and I are barely friends, now. Other factors have come into play. I have no control over them, anymore. I can not be strong, in the face of what makes us strong.

The cheek to not be alert, and to think – when on an errand for him – of a sister opposed to his very actions, would cost her. Jenna ought to have realized this, but the place her twin occupied in her mind and heart, made her overlook the little unsaid detail, perhaps even law.

She gave the broken gate of the mansion a gentle push – it had never been repaired, was still a ruin; and was, as far as her information went, never locked – and let the wind force her into the courtyard. She did not know where she was going, now: her feet seemed to be on auto-pilot, well aware of the path that led to the iron-wrought front doors.

It happened, very suddenly – to her right, a pair of scarlet-tinted, orange eyes gave a sudden glint. Less than half a second later, a scream had ripped out of her throat, and the wind seemed to carry it everywhere, let it magnify, echo and then plummet into a startling, hauntingly indifferent darkness.