Chapter Text
The room was hushed, the darkness a smothering blanket. The central oval table hosted five individuals in tall backed chairs, casting stretching shadows across the pale silver surface. The only sounds were the quiet rustle of papers, folders being opened and closed, the crinkle of paper turned too fast. Someone was rhythmically drumming their fingers on the surface, occasionally interrupted by a quiet snick when their nails tapped instead.
Then the door banged open, cold light flooding the room. A man, silhouetted and highlighted in the bright, strode in, his long coat billowing behind him. His boots clicked against the granite, the swing of his arms urgent. There was something clutched in his left hand. He had hardly stopped before the table when he threw down a thin folder, the slap of plastic on stone echoing in the chamber.
“Tell me you’ve found something new this time, Kuchiki,” a gravelly voice wheezed. An elderly man was hunched in one of the seats. His hair, eyebrows and beard all trailed down his wrinkled face, bushy and white, as though he had given up on taking care of them.
A chuckle answered him. A man reclining in the seat opposite him, flashed a tired smile. “It’s been seven years since we last saw them. Even a detail as small as a new piercing would be welcome.” He was fashioned in the standard suit, though over the black garments a flowery pink kimono was draped. Most of his face was hidden by a large straw hat, only the lower half visible. Brown stubble peppered his chin, a loose ponytail curling down his shoulder. His voice was kindly, but heavy in a way that belied the seriousness of the subject.
“Then I must apologise, Kyōraku,” the file bearer replied coldly. His face was pale, regal; framed by the silky black hair sliding down his shoulders. His eyes were as steely as his tone. “for I bring no laughing matter.” With a flick of his wrist, the still ajar door slammed shut. Gaudy Candelabra lining the walls flickered to life, blue tongues of flame licking at the wax they fed off. He watched the seated all straighten fractionally, the smile falling from Kyōraku’s lips. Jūshirō was frowning, his grip on a document loosening, forearm resting on the stack he had drawn it from. Hitsugaya had opened his eyes, staring sharply at the folder on the desk. Kurotsuchi was grinning, lips peeled back, stretched languidly in his seat. And Yamamoto— Yamamoto had gone still and silent. Satisfied that all were paying attention, Byakuya Kuchiki slid the folder to the chief warlock.
“In that folder you will find the recent recoveries of three corpses, all three of which were Wizengamot members.” Kuchiki noted how those seated stiffened. It was highly likely that they’d known the deceased, and it was certain that they would learn their identities sometime this week. He continued, “The bodies were recovered from the private suite which the three had rented out for a meeting. Their Causes of death were confirmed to be blood loss from stab wounds each sported. An unusual method, especially in the wizarding world, but it was effective all the same. The murderer is still at large, but a motive can be surmised. Those three members had been working on the reopening of the Visored cases, and following their deaths, the files corresponding to such have gone missing.”
“What are you saying, Kuchiki,” Yamamoto boiled, grey eyes blazing. The folder before him was untouched. The hands gripping his staff were bulging with veins. “After seven years, do you mean to say that the traitors are active?”
“Taking into consideration all the facts,” Hitsugaya reflected, “the recent attempt at infiltration into the department of Mysteries, the unexplained disappearances of classified documents, and finally, these deaths, it seems definitive.”
Kurotsuchi seconded. “Seven years was a long time to wait, but it would have been enough to gather supporters and information.”
“It doesn’t add up though,” Jūshirō countered, perplexed. “Why would they take so long? All three had been senior faculty members for years, giving them ample time to do their research without any suspicions.”
“Nothing notable has happened this year,” Kyōraku hummed, stroking his chin. “There are no important dates of magical significance either. To overlook the timing is uncharacteristic of the three, and for us to not take it into consideration—,”
“That’s besides the point here,” Hitsugaya snapped, standing up and firmly planting his hands on the table. “What’s important now is that Sōsuke Aizen has made his move, and it’s time to make ours.” The muted stirring that had begun when Byakuya had walked in suddenly ceased, everyone staring at the white haired boy. He continued, “Sitting here debating why he chose to resurface now won’t help. He killed three members who were working on the case of his enemies, our colleagues! We’ve known his motive for seven years, what’s to say it’s not us he’s coming for next?”
Byakuya sighed. Kyōraku angled his hat slightly downwards. “You’re absolutely right, Tōshirō. I apologise.” His voice was measured, calm. “But we have no moves to make at the moment. We’re playing chess with someone who has memorised every strategy in play. We simply don’t know enough about how he intends to go about fulfilling his plans, and we cannot afford to make an uninformed decision.”
“If we don’t have enough information, then we send someone to find some,” Hitsugaya declared, face set.
Jūshirō blinked. “What you mean to say is we send out our forces into areas we suspect the traitors could have ties to? But Tōshirō, Aizen has proven time and again that he is far more capable of manipulating and outsmarting us than we are him, to assume he hasn’t covered up his tracks is…implausible.” He finished, the earlier hope in his voice fizzling out.
“Aizen is human,” Kurotsuchi noted , “and as brilliant as he is, he is bound to have made a mistake. All we have to do is find it.”
“Yamamoto,” Hitsugaya urged, “do I have permission to mobilise?”
The once chief warlock seemed to be weighing his options, brows furrowed. Anticipation buzzed almost tangibly in everyone present. Kyōraku’s mask of cordiality had slipped, every hardened line of his face echoing the calm of a general before battle. Kurotsuchi had gone unnervingly still, none of the earlier boredom visible in his features. Jūshirō’s ever-present smile was now pulled into a frown, the paper in his clenched fists crumpled beyond saving.
And Tōshirō— the boy’s usually ice cold eyes shone with something else, something almost pleading.
Finally, the Minister of Magic stood up, brushed his white coat and sternly laid his gaze across everyone present.
“Permission granted,” he rasped, “Make this count, Tōshirō.”