Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

Medusa chuckled at that, his shoulders shaking as he started walking again. The sound was menacing, vibrating low in his chest. It slid down her spine like freezing water. She suppressed a shudder. "You are full of surprises Lilith, even after all these years."

"Why do you care what house I was in? What difference does it make to all of this? Are you going to switch sides, again, over some pathetic, long-forgotten quidditch house rivalry?"

He came to a stop in front of her. He was close. Much, much too close. Their chests were almost touching. "Perhaps. Maybe, after all these years of our secret meetings, I'm growing curious as to who exactly is under that mask of yours."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"You first," he said with a nod of his head. She could hear the smile in his voice.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, knowing he couldn't see from under the porcelain, doll-like mask she was wearing. She was dying to know who he was, to figure out which of Voldemort's loyal dogs had betrayed him.

Voldemort had started ranking his generals early in the war, rewarding loyalty and devotion by ensuring that different levels of his army wore different masks. A way to showcase their ruthlessness, and intimidate The Order.

At the bottom of the pile were the Black Masks. They wore the usual dark, cast iron masks; the ones that had given Hermione nightmares when she was at Hogwarts. They were nothing to her now. The majority were freshly trained and new to the ways of war. They were still lethal, but most of the time they were just impulsive. Eager to show their worth to Voldemort, but easy to manipulate. They made excellent hostages for interrogations, usually sang like canaries on the first night - no curses needed. Harry encouraged capturing those types of soldiers, probably saw it as more humane, seeing as they broke quickly.

Next on the hierarchy was the Gold Masks; the second in command. There were maybe thirty in Voldemort's army. Highly trained, and immeasurably dangerous. Their masks were skulls crafted from the finest gold, every curve, and dip of the metal shining and covered in spikes. They were incredible on the battlefield, vicious killers that spared no one. Hermione guessed they were Voldemort's oldest followers; Yaxley, Rodolphus and Rabastan Le Strange, and Barty Crouch Jr. The fights always ended in multiple Order members' dead if Gold Masks were on the field.

The highest-ranking Death Eaters were the Demon Masks. Voldemort's right hands. There were only two of them; a man and a woman. The woman was obviously Bellatrix. She didn't even try to conceal her identity most of the time; her wild, untameable black hair clearly visible beneath her hood.

Nothing was known about the male Demon Mask other than he was relentless on the field. Lethal. A monster. The handful of times he'd been seen on the battlefield he'd left a sea of corpses behind him, no survivors.

The aim of the Demon masks was to instil fear, and they did the job perfectly. The masks themselves were grotesque, but incredibly intricate. The top half was a pure black human skull, similar to the black masks; the lower jawbone was an animal's - a wolfs or a lion's, perhaps. The jaw was made of striking crimson metal with long, sharp prominent fangs that stretched up either side of the mouthpiece. The most renowned feature of the Demon masks were the horns; two huge, elaborate things made from the darkest metal, that curved out from their temples to cast the most sinister shadow.

But Medusa wore a simple black mask. Nothing unusual or fear-inducing about it. It was a façade if she'd ever seen one.

Hermione knew that he was high-ranking. She guessed a Gold Mask, possibly turned out of spite for being deemed not worthy or dangerous enough for a pair of horns. He wouldn't have been able to gather this much information if he wasn't in the inner circle. He was intelligent too, frustratingly so. He'd managed to pass on invaluable information for years, completely compromising Voldemort's power and giving The Order a chance. So many lives had been saved and battles won because of him.

Despite his downright predatory stance and sharp tongue, Hermione had always thought he was interesting. Found their small battle of wits and sparring matches of words oddly enthralling. Sometimes she thought - if circumstances were different - she might have actually found him appealing -

Then she remembered which side he was on. Remembered which master he'd chosen to serve, and the thought was extinguished as quickly as it'd ignited.

No, there was nothing redeemable about Medusa. No matter how much intelligence he leaked. He was a monster. A vile, inexcusable murderer. He'd probably killed so many of her friends. Probably murdered hundreds of Muggles and slept like a baby at night.

"They're moving some girls in a few weeks," he said, derailing her train of thought. "Seven in total, I believe."

"Who?"

Medusa held his hands behind his back, and started to circle her again. "Well, one is Shacklebolt's daughter, so I'm sure he'll be very eager to rescue her."

"Why now?" she asked, her mind already formulating a hundred different strategies. "Who are the others?"

"Are those really the most important questions right now?" he hissed, voice low as a whisper but sharp as a blade.

She tried again. "Where are they taking them?"

"To The Dark Lords headquarters," he answered, tone lighter, a purr; apparently pleased with her question. "He means to keep them close and use them as a bargaining chip later. I believe he wants to use them to draw Potter out. A trade; seven lives in exchange for one. You lot are stupid enough to fall for it. Hero complex and all."

Fuck. Medusa was right.

Harry would undoubtedly want to offer himself in exchange. Wouldn't be able to stop himself from being a sacrificial lamb, especially if young witches were involved. They couldn't let that happen. The prophecy was clear; Harry needed to be the one to kill Voldemort. He was their last hope. If Voldemort got his claws into Harry, the war would be over. There would be nothing left to fight for.

"It will be a simple operation, in and out," Medusa said. "Can you manage that?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She turned to leave, her hands already reaching for the portkey in her bag -

"Oh, and Lilith?"

"Yes?" she asked without turning around to face him.

"Send your best soldiers on this one. The Dark Lord is furious that his last mission was intercepted, he'll be meaning to draw blood this time."