This is a new idea I wanted to try out, it's pretty heavily based on a song called 'Hunting for Witches' (hence the title) by Bloc Party – Colin's favourite band!

So, I would really appreciate any feedback, so you can tell me if it's worth continuing, 'cos I'm still not sure myself. Perhaps I should have finished 'After Before' first, but anyway, here goes.

Please R&R!

Oh, and i realise the dates were a bit wrong, so i've just gone back and changed them

Hunting for Witches - Chapter One

A man stood in front of his mirror, a full length gold-framed mirror, that, alone, could signify his wealth. Outside, the clack of horses' hooves stuttered past the open window and a draught fluttered through his blond hair. He cussed and began rearranging it, running lean fingers through the fringe, trying to assign each strand its proper place. Afterwards, he returned to his collar. Turning it upwards, only to turn it down again, making sure it sat symmetrical beneath his mauve jacket.

Beside his own reflection, he saw that one of his pale gold lace curtains had come loose from it holder - he cussed at that as well - and made his way over to re-fasten it. He was a man for attention to detail.

Back at the mirror he stroked a licked finger through both of his eyebrows and then winked - of course, should the action have been queried; he would swear blind he hadn't.

Within minutes, Arthur Pendragon left for the square.

―

He looked at the name and address, considering how long it would take by carriage to get there - four, maybe five, hours. Long enough to think, anyway. This was his first proper opportunity he'd got to prove his worth - a gift from his father in a way. A gift he knew he had to return, he'd received his instructions and he intended to return his catch.

He pushed the lament of faces distorted by grief to the back of his mind, he hardly needed to be thinking about that now, but it wasn't as if you could just erase the crying and the screaming and the disfigured forms, of people either lined up to be shot or, sometimes, burnt, from your mind in an instant - if it was possible, Arthur would have. Many people had died at his and his father's hand, and many more would follow them. This boy being one. This 'boy'... he thought about how old he could be. Maybe as little as ten - the Pendragon Institute for the Eradication of Sorcery (PIES) wouldn't be able to track them before that age (even his father wasn't allowed medical and government records of anyone below double figures) - Arthur didn't want to have to think about murdering a child.

What had to be done, had to be done... Not that Arthur had ever properly realised why this had to be done. It had just happened so many times now; he'd forgotten to question it.

He checked the name again as he clambered into the cart, nodding for the horses to be whipped into action. Perhaps he would be able to have some fun with this one - although, for some reason the word 'fun' when it was mingled with death brought a sickening feeling. He played around with pseudonyms, William. No, well, maybe. He'd have to assess his victim... Client - he mentally corrected himself - first. He might even treat himself to a cup of their tea - surely they wouldn't mind, he could be their long lost cousin, for all they knew - the idea made him laugh. He could stay a few days, get to know them... No, that wouldn't be wise - He might grow attached to the boy, and that would be unprofessional. He could imagine the wide eyes of a young child staring up at him, and the botherly affection he could simulate himself feeling for the boy. If he should feel such a connection, or even feel as though they could be friends, he must leave his alone. But leaving him alone wouldn't render him dead. And Arthur needed the boy dead. Again, the sick feeling returned. He knew he shouldn't be feeling or thinking like this. He knew his father didn't.

'Stop it! You're making yourself doubt your own control!' He physically kicked himself,

Arthur picked up the newspaper on the seat next to him - discarded by a previous passenger. Overlooking the date, 13th February 1828, he skimmed down the first page, smiling slightly as he read the headline.

PENDRAGON'S REVEAL TRUTH ABOUT RESPECTED POLITICIAN,

Although, looking down the article, he didn't much appreciate the wife's response - 'He'd only ever used his magic for good, he never hurt anyone' - Arthur's father had always told him 'Sorcerers are drawn to evil', if this man had done nothing yet, then he soon would. Why would his father tell him something that wasn't true? His father wouldn't want to mislead him, surely? He'd want what was best for his son; he'd want the family business to be passed into capable hands, hands that would be the ones that continued to rid the world of 'scum'. Remembering what the man looked like, this politician, he couldn't see why he was 'scum'... Then he remembered his children, and how they'd cried.

Those faces...

Death was one thing Arthur had never quite understood, in this line of work, anyway - why did they have to die? People who had actually killed people didn't have to die. He knew this politician had done nothing, so why had he died?

Because his father had given the orders, and 'one should never take risks'. To rid the country of all magic is to rid the country of the possibilities of bad magic.

And true, Arthur had seen these people's faces, and he'd seen the anger. He'd seen how they regarded his and his father's accusations - they'd been fuelled by hate.

Suppressing the thought that met him next was like trying to un-swallow something, once it was gone, things didn't physically work in the right way to bring it back - not without something abnormal and a little repulsive happening - they had been about to die. Arthur knew how angry he would be if someone had just sentenced him to death. But he would never be in that position.

For a moment, his shoes became the politician's black brogues, for a second breathing how this man would have, seeing how this man would have, and understanding how this man would have, and he imagined the pain. Narrowing his eyes, he felt the burn of the flames around his feet, his legs, and his chest. Then he felt the ire towards the two people who had done this to him, who were doing this to him. Who were doing this to his family.

He shook his head. It wasn't his fault that they had died. Discounting the fact that they'd been sorcerers, he'd never actually signalled for the deaths - that had always been his father.

But he had never stopped it.

Something twisted in his stomach, a bug? Maybe from the thick, polluting air of the city, maybe he was only noticing it now that they were breathing cleaner, country air.

Truly, the thoughts that had been pestering him for many passing months were a sickness to him; a sickness that stemmed from another greater sickness that medicine would refuse to shake off - guilt.

It was just work. That was all Arthur could ever let it be.

Especially as he was on his way to his first solo catch. He didn't need to be considering moralities. He had his father's orders, and this was his chance to prove himself.

He reverted his mind back to the case - the boy, more precisely. And again, he could pray it wasn't a child. Although, if it was, who's to say he had to hand him over? He mentally slapped himself; the prospect of going against his father should not cross his mind that easily.

Beside the slowly trundling carriage, trees were becoming closer compacted, the foliage, denser. The light above them was reaching its highest point in the sky, and the cloudy film around it was gleaming a bright blue. He could concentrate on that. The simplicity of the countryside, where no unnatural buildings jutted out from the ground and malformed the horizon. He could breathe clean air and not feel the bitter stench of smoke and coal hitting the back of his throat, but he was worried that the further he got from his usually office based (aside from the occasional execution) occupation, the clearer the clear air was making him see. As if the lack of habitude in the thin gas he was breathing was commencing the irregular and unwanted moral thoughts his brain was thinking.

Maybe it was the work of sorcery - that's what his father would say. The work of sorcery, trying to bring down that which defies it.

Of course, he'd like to believe it. But really he couldn't. He was just having first-time-nerves. It was perfectly normal. He suspected his father experienced much the same thing...

Six and a half hours, in the carriage (if you don't count the necessary stops), later - okay, so he'd badly misjudged the timings - a house became visible on the horizon. He took out the piece of paper from his pocket, and unfolded it again, wondering whether or not he'd got the wrong address. This couldn't possibly be the house, or rather manor, of a sorcerer, could it? He's probably charmed his way into that one. There was no way anyone would employ a sorcerer with Pendragon's men on the prowl, and without wealth one could not hope to own a place as magnificent as this. Then again, who's to say the wizard had made himself known?

The house itself was surrounded by luscious green grounds, fields and gardens that were littered with flower beds and vegetable gardens. But all of it was kept behind cast iron gates - 'extra protection' Arthur thought suspiciously. He would have to keep his eyes peeled. Ivy climbed up the sides of the walls and framed the white-paned windows in a way that seemed as if it were from a book. 'A book that held secrets'... 'Here we go again'...he added, quite sure he was going insane with anxiety.

He was being far too suspicious today - more on-guard even than his father. Maybe that was a good thing. So long as he didn't get caught up in the details and miss the plot.

The coachman momentarily jumped down from his wooden seat and pushed open the gates, before remounting and sending the horses trotting forwards again. The eerie perfection of the place, its system was giving Arthur the faintest feeling of unease. Brushing it aside with one flick of his blond fringe, he refocused on the task.

He hopped from the cart, pulling his small red briefcase down after him, listening to his shoes as they made crunching contact with the gravel driveway. Strangely, that was the only sound. But, looking around him, there were no other houses that should bring about the noise of human activity. This place was completely isolated. The perfect hiding place. Black slate tiles on the roof reflected the afternoon sun, and the windows glinted slightly. The light beige stonework looked as though it had been powdered, each brick meeting the one below it in exactly the centre, with faultless symmetry. The masonry and attention to detail was admirable. And, dare Arthur admit it, the manor was more elegant that anything Arthur's father had ever been able to afford.

The crunch turned to gentle taps as he jogged up the few steps leading up to the front door - a grand burgundy painted oak door with a black iron handle - the same cast iron as the gates.

He knocked thrice, heard the clang of metal against metal and then the clack of hurried footsteps running across tiles.

The door opened slowly, as if its open-er were testing whether or not he had the courage. And Arthur began to speak before he had seen the face, his eyes tracing the ivy that hung about the nearest window, "Hello, you must be-" but something hit him hard in the pit of his stomach, when his eyes met those, as if-

"Hello?" a slight raven-haired boy asked, his voice was small and he could barely hold eye contact - Arthur could just about force himself to think 'he's definitely got something to hide'. But there was something far too innocent about the way his eyes flitted between the porch step and his visitor, something far too endearing about the way every one of his features seemed to have been smoothed into some form of indifference - unprejudiced and impartial - and somewhat perceptive?

"...Merlin." He sighed with a deep regret - regret he hadn't collected a source for yet. "You must be Merlin."

Thank you for reading, and for your time – I know, weirdly formal, huh?

Reviews, positive or negative, are greatly appreciated. Please tell me if you think I should continue. I won't be offended if you say 'no'.