7 October 1887
Dark Witch Continues to Terrorise The Isle of Ireland!
'Orenda Villery has been sighted again. The leader of the Wightbourne Coven allegedly razed a small village in the Irish countryside. The Minister for Magic. Faris Spavin, has promised to double the efforts to take down the dark witch and her coven once and for all. Read all about the crimes of the Wightbourne Coven on page 4.'
A rare picture graced the front page of the Daily Prophet: a young woman, smiling on her wedding day. Although the image was grainy, the embroidery on her white dress and the various different flowers in her hand were clearly visible. Her other arm was locked with that of a stately looking man, whom would be her very first kill; her wedding band presumed to be her horcrux. The image shifted, and her smile turned up to a wicked grin. Her once long, dark hair now barely covered her ears. The flowers wilted, and her white dress shifted to be black as night and torn at the hems. But it was only an approximation; nobody knew what she truly looked like at that point in time.
A young man, in his late twenties at most, ran his fingers over his temple as he read the full article of her crimes. A few locks of blond hair fell forward, but he quickly brushed them behind his ear eager to read more. He was already familiar with the crimes of this Dark Witch - even the ones not yet released to the public, yet he still wanted to stir his memory with the summary given.
Beside him a cup of tea stirred itself, but the spoon fell idle as he lost himself in the train of thought. Grey eyes trace the words, and could only imagine the unfathomable wickedness of this coven. Not just crimes; sacrifices that they feasted on with glee; women addicted to the taste of evil, and of death. And the task asked of him was to end this madness, and it truly had to be madness if the Ministery needed to ask him for it.
Realising he had gotten lost in thought, the young wizard quickly took a plain silver pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. As he flicked it open, the words engraved on the inside shifted: 'Don't be late Phil'. Without even having taken a sip of the tea, he got up. His short, black cloak lifted from the back of the rickety wooden chair by itself, and fastened around his shoulders.
Although he was in a hurry, he still took the time to give a polite nod to the bald barman behind the counter of the Leaky Cauldron that was polishing a series of mismatched cups with an old rag. He quickly fished a few knuts from a satchel kept on his belt, and laid them atop the folded, and slightly creased copy of the Daily Prophet.
"In case someone else would like it." He smiled, before taking his leave without heading the answer.
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