"Is that the answer you want to leave me with?" Xavier asked silkily, not looking the slightest bit impressed with Axe's tirade. "It is a simple matter of your willingness or your forcing my hand." He turned his head toward Axe. "You forget there is a vast expanse of your secrets at my disposal. Wouldn't everyone like to know where the real Rupert Brookstanton came from? So your tawdry English tabloids can sling mud all over your dead whore of a mother's name. Wouldn't you enjoy that?"
Axe was clenching his teeth so hard, he thought they might break. No matter how many years Xavier taunted him with the threat, even when he knew it was empty, he turned back into the angry, scared little boy. "Stop."
Stroking the rim of his glass with a finger, Xavier considered. "But no, I promised our father that that secret would never see the light of day, and I keep my promises. But it is just as well—you know what else I have up my sleeve."
A roaring sound filled Axe's ears as a terror he had not experienced in years overcame him while his brother pushed forward. "You know it makes your Banishing a referee and irreparably Transfiguring your opponents look like the spoiled child throwing a tantrum that it really was. But I wonder, do you remember how many people were hurt that night? The ones that died? Your Dark Lord is gone," Xavier almost sang, softly. "But there are whispers his supporters still lurk in the shadows. I am sure if the Ministry has let go of this case, they will be more than happy to re-examine who was responsible for the events of that night. Or better yet, perhaps we should have your Prophet report the story and let your adoring public decide what to do with you."
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