#Bellatrix plays with fire | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunnami · 1 year ago

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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.”

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.”

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?”

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.”

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”

Turns out, you are not fine.

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.

—

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”

You want to go to sleep already.

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”

You miss your cat.

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.)

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!”

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.

“Daphne, get away from there!”

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.

But there is nothing.

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.

(Hogwarts is the best!)

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”)

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?”

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?”

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.”

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.”

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!”

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.”

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”

“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”

You pass out in her arms.

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.

You are tired.

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now.

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.

You let your weight shift over the window.

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”

You stay silent.

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.

To do what is right.

To endure.

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother.

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.

“Mum, wake up, please!”

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

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evermoreness · 4 months ago

Note

ok girly I have no idea why but I need angist rn. so

what do you personally think the story would go if barty or regulus had to watch reader be tortured by death eaters (their own family) and what would the final out come be?

— Thank you for the amazing prompt, i loved writing it! Hope you like it! @msfandomsblog

secrets | regulus black - barty crouch jr.

pairing: regulus black x barty crouch jr. x reader

summary: you are working undercover for the order of the phoenix but things take a turn when your boyfriends, proud death eaters, discover how much danger you're in.

warnings: angsty, sad, mentions of blood purity, torture, blood, death and swearing.

obs: feel free to send your request!

masterlist

The first time you, Regulus, and Barty had been seen together, it had sent shockwaves through Hogwarts. The ever-composed, brooding Black heir and the unhinged, sharp-tongued prodigy of the Crouch family—both utterly devoted to you.

It had started as a game of wits. Barty loved a challenge, and Regulus enjoyed the quiet thrill of being underestimated. You had simply walked into their world with a smirk and sharp tongue, meeting their teasing and sarcasm with equal fire. Somehow, that had turned into late-night meetings in the Astronomy Tower, stolen kisses in the library, and whispered confessions between hex duels.

Regulus was the calm in the storm, his fingers always gentle when they brushed against your skin, his words measured and thoughtful. He would read to you on quiet nights, his voice a low murmur against the crackling fire, while Barty lay with his head in your lap, grinning as he plotted mayhem for the next day. Barty, for all his chaos and sharp edges, was fiercely protective, with a gaze that burned whenever someone dared to look at you the wrong way. He had a habit of pulling you against him, smirking down at you like you were the best-kept secret of his life.

The three of you were a paradox that shouldn’t have worked, yet it did.

The years passed, the war was creeping into every part of your lives. It slithered into the quiet moments, the laughter, the stolen kisses. It wrapped itself around your wrists like the Dark Mark, a constant, suffocating reminder of the choices they had made.

Regulus, Barty, and you had all taken the Mark—because what else was there? A refusal meant death, meant dishonor, meant betrayal of the very blood that ran through your veins. And so, you played the part well.

But Regulus was watching you.

At first, it was just a feeling. Something about the way you never seemed comfortable in the meetings. You didn’t speak with the same conviction as Barty, who thrived in the chaos of war. You didn’t look at the Dark Lord with the same reverence as the others. And then there were the small things—the way you flinched when Bellatrix praised a particularly gruesome mission, the way your fingers curled into your palms whenever the word "Mudblood" was thrown around carelessly.

Regulus noticed everything.

But he said nothing. Not yet.

One night, as the three of you sat in your living room, away from the prying eyes of other Death Eaters, Barty was ranting about a recent mission. His eyes were alight with excitement, his hands moving wildly as he spoke.

"And then you should have seen how he begged," Barty said, smirking. "Pathetic, really. I almost felt bad for the poor bastard."

You were staring at the fire, your fingers curled against your palm. "Almost," you murmured.

Barty glanced at you, grinning. "Come on, love, don’t tell me you’re getting all soft on me."

You forced a smirk, playing along like always. "Hardly. Just thinking about how easily that could be any one of us if we weren’t born pure enough."

Barty laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I love when you get all philosophical on me." He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. "But don’t overthink it, yeah? We’re winning. That’s what matters."

You hummed, nodding. But Regulus saw through you.

Later that night, when Barty had fallen asleep in the armchair across from the fire, Regulus pulled you aside. His grip was gentle but firm as he took your hand, leading you to the farthest corner of the room.

"You don’t believe in this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You froze.

"What?"

Regulus exhaled, his grey eyes searching yours. "You don’t believe in the cause."

Your heart pounded. "Reg, that’s ridiculous. Of course, I—"

"Don’t lie to me," he interrupted, his tone sharper now. He leaned in, his fingers tightening around yours. "I know you, Y/N. I’ve seen the way you look at them. The way you flinch when they talk about—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Why are you here?"

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "Because we don’t have a choice."

Regulus studied you for a long moment. "No," he said quietly. "Because you’re hiding something."

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? That he was right? That while he and Barty were blindly loyal to the Dark Lord, you had been sneaking off, feeding the Order information? That every time you put on the mask and followed orders, you felt like you were suffocating?

Regulus’ voice was softer now. "Tell me the truth."

You took a shaky breath. "I can’t."

His jaw tightened. "Then I’ll find it myself."

And with that, he turned, leaving you standing there, heart hammering against your ribs.

Days passed, and Regulus was unraveling.

He knew you were keeping something from him—something big. And whatever it was, it was dangerous.

He could see it in the way your shoulders tensed when certain names were mentioned at meetings, in the way your hands trembled ever so slightly after a mission, in the way you lingered at the edges of conversations instead of throwing yourself into them like Barty did.

Barty didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy basking in the thrill of war, too caught up in the chaos to see what Regulus did.

But Regulus?

He saw everything.

And it was driving him mad.

He didn’t say a word to Barty. Not yet. If he confronted you and was wrong, it could put you in danger. If he was right—which he was sure he was—then he had no idea what the hell he was going to do.

So, he watched. He waited. And the more he saw, the more the truth clawed at his chest, making it harder to breathe.

Then, one night, he’d had enough.

You were alone in the living room, sitting by the fire with a book in your lap, though you weren’t reading it. Your mind was elsewhere. It had to be—you had just returned from a secret meeting with the Order, slipping back into the house under the cover of night, your pulse still racing from the risk of it all.

You should have gone to bed. Should have buried yourself beneath your blankets and pretended—like you always did—that everything was fine.

But you didn’t get the chance.

Because Regulus found you.

"You’re going to get yourself killed," his voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You looked up, heart skipping a beat at the sight of him standing in the dim glow of the fire. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, his stormy grey eyes locked onto yours with something dangerous brewing behind them.

For a split second, you considered pretending you didn’t know what he was talking about.

But the look on his face told you there was no use in lying.

"Reg—"

He took a step closer, his voice strained. "Do you have any idea how reckless you’re being?"

Your fingers curled around the pages of your book. "I don’t know what—"

"Stop it." His voice wavered, just slightly. "Don’t lie to me."

You sucked in a breath.

He sat down beside you, but there was no warmth between you this time, only tension so thick it was suffocating. His fingers were twitching against his knee, a nervous habit he rarely let anyone see.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "Please."

You looked away. "I can’t."

Regulus let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his dark curls. "I knew it," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I knew something was wrong, but I thought—" He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "You don’t believe in any of this, do you?"

You didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Regulus let out a humorless laugh, leaning back against the couch. "Of course. Of course you don’t." He turned his head toward you, his eyes burning. "Then why are you still here?"

Your throat tightened. "Because I have to be."

"That’s not good enough."

You turned to face him fully, your pulse hammering. "What do you want me to say, Regulus? That I think this war is a nightmare? That I hate every single second of pretending I stand for something I despise? That every time I watch you and Barty throw yourselves into this, I feel like I’m losing you both?" Your voice cracked on the last words, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard.

Regulus flinched.

"You’re—" His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. "You’re working against us."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

You inhaled sharply. "I’m trying to stop something that I know will destroy us all."

Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing shallow. "And if the Dark Lord finds out?" His voice was soft now, almost fragile.

You hesitated. "Then I die."

His eyes snapped open, and for the first time since this conversation started, there was something like fear in them.

"You can’t do this," he whispered. "Y/N, if they even suspect—"

"They don’t," you cut in quickly. "No one does."

Regulus stared at you, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. "I do."

Silence.

A long, unbearable silence.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

"I should turn you in."

You stiffened.

"But you won’t."

Regulus swallowed, his hand flexing at his side. "No," he admitted, voice hoarse. "I won’t."

Your chest ached at the conflict written all over his face.

"You don’t have to believe in this either, you know," you said gently.

He let out a bitter laugh. "It’s not that simple."

"Yes, it is," you whispered.

Regulus turned his face toward you, his gaze flickering to your lips before settling back on your eyes. For a moment, he looked like he might say something—something important, something real—but then, instead, he reached out and cupped your face, his fingers barely trembling.

"You’re a fool," he murmured.

"So are you," you whispered back.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate or hurried—it was slow, lingering, like he was memorizing the feel of you in case this was the last time.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

"I’m going to lose you," he said. It was a fact.

You closed your eyes, your fingers curling around the front of his robes. "Not yet."

Regulus exhaled shakily, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling back completely. He looked at you for a long time, as if trying to burn the image of you into his memory.

Then, without another word, he stood up and walked away.

You watched him go, knowing that, after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.

Regulus didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor while his mind spun in endless circles.

You were risking everything. Everything.

And the worst part?

He knew you were right.

He had known for a long time that Voldemort wasn’t a leader to be followed—he was a tyrant, a monster. The things he demanded, the cruelty he enjoyed—Regulus had seen enough to know that this was not the future he wanted. But still, he had stayed. Out of fear. Out of duty. Out of some warped sense of inevitability.

And now, you were standing against it.

And he was too much of a coward to do the same.

He clenched his fists, breathing heavily.

He hated himself for it.

But more than anything, he was afraid. Afraid for you. Because if Voldemort ever found out—if even the wrong person suspected—you’d be dead before you had the chance to defend yourself.

And he—God help him—he wouldn’t survive that.

Something had changed.

Barty was growing restless.

He wasn’t stupid—he saw things.

The way you and Regulus had become something else—something charged, something that teetered between love and fury. The whispers, the stolen glances, the tension so thick it made his skin crawl.

He didn’t get it.

You and Regulus had always been close, but now? Now it felt like there was something unspoken between you, something he wasn’t a part of. And Barty hated being left out.

One evening, as the three of you sat in the living room, Barty was watching the two of you like a predator studying prey.

Regulus was seated beside you on the couch, but he wasn’t touching you. That was the first thing Barty noticed. He always touched you, even in the smallest ways—a hand on your knee, fingers tracing your wrist. But now? Nothing. He was sitting stiffly, arms crossed, jaw clenched, like there was a war raging inside of him.

You were no better. You kept sneaking glances at him, your brows knitting together in frustration, your lips parting as if you wanted to say something but didn’t.

Barty leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. "Alright," he drawled, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "What the hell is going on?"

You blinked, turning to him. "What?"

"Don’t play dumb, love," Barty said, his voice almost teasing, but there was something sharp beneath it. "You two have been acting weird. Whispering, staring, fighting without actually fighting—what is it? Did Regulus forget your birthday? Did you finally tell him you like me more?" He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Regulus exhaled through his nose. "Drop it, Barty."

"Oh, I don’t think I will," Barty shot back. His smirk widened, but his eyes glinted dangerously. "Because I’m starting to think you two are keeping secrets from me."

You forced a scoff. "Oh, please. What, do you think we’re plotting against you?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said. "But no, I don’t think it’s that." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "See, I’ve been watching you two. And whatever this is—" he gestured between you and Regulus "—it’s not normal."

Regulus’ jaw clenched. "There’s nothing—"

"Yes, there is," Barty cut in sharply. His gaze flickered between the two of you, and for the first time, there was something like hurt beneath his usual bravado. "When did I become the third wheel?"

You inhaled slowly. "Barty—"

"Don’t," he said, his voice tight. "Just tell me what’s going on."

Silence.

Regulus was looking at the fire, his profile cast in flickering gold. He looked tired.

Barty’s expression darkened. "You know, whatever this thing is, it’s starting to piss me off."

Regulus let out a sharp breath, finally turning to look at him. "Not everything is about you, Barty."

"Oh, fuck off, Reg" Barty snapped. "Don’t pull that on me. If you two are going to keep secrets, at least have the decency to lie to me properly."

Regulus stared at him for a long moment, then stood abruptly. "I’m going to bed."

Barty let out a bitter laugh. "Of course you are."

Regulus ignored him, turning on his heel and stalking toward the dorms.

Barty turned to you. "Well?"

You hesitated. "I… can’t tell you."

Barty’s lips parted slightly, his expression twisting. "Why?"

You swallowed hard. "Because it’s not something you can know."

His jaw ticked. "That’s bullshit, and you know it."

You closed your eyes, inhaling shakily. "I’m sorry, Barty."

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have a response.

He just stood there, staring at you, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. Then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

And just like that, the cracks in your carefully built world grew wider.

Fractured bonds.

The tension between the three of you was unbearable.

Days had passed, but it felt like years. Your relationship was holding on by a thread, fragile and stretched too thin.

It was like walking on broken glass—painful, dangerous, and yet none of you could step away.

One moment, there was anger—shouting, sharp words, accusations that cut too deep. The next, there was longing—a desperate need to hold on, to kiss, to pretend that none of this was happening. It was a cycle, a vicious one, but one none of you had the strength to break.

You knew Regulus was still watching you, studying you with that sharp, knowing gaze. And Barty? Barty was unpredictable. One second, he was angry, bitter, pushing you and Regulus away—then the next, he was pulling you both back in, acting as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

And tonight, it all came crashing down.

The three of you were in your room.

A storm raged outside, rattling the windows, but the storm inside the room was far worse.

"You’re lying to us," Barty snapped, his voice laced with frustration as he paced the room. His fingers twitched at his sides, the way they always did when he was on edge. "You’re both lying to me."

"Barty—" you started, but he cut you off with a sharp glare.

"Don’t," he hissed. "I don’t want more excuses, I don’t want more half-truths. I want the fucking truth."

Regulus was standing by the fireplace, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his fingers dug into his own arms like he was holding himself back.

"There’s nothing to tell," Regulus finally said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Barty let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Because you two sneaking around, whispering behind my back, looking at each other like you’re going to shatter any second—that’s normal?"

"Barty, please," you tried, stepping toward him, but he stepped back.

His eyes burned into yours. "Don’t do that," he said lowly. "Don’t act like I’m the problem here."

Regulus exhaled sharply. "You’re not."

"Then tell me what’s going on," Barty snapped, turning on him.

Regulus hesitated. Just for a moment.

And that was enough.

Barty let out another sharp laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t trust me," he said, voice quieter this time. "After everything. You don’t trust me."

Your chest ached. "It’s not about trust—"

Barty scoffed. "Of course it is," he said bitterly. "Regulus barely looks at me anymore, you only talk to me when you have to, and I’m supposed to believe that everything is fine?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I’m not stupid."

"Then why are you making this harder than it already is?" Regulus said suddenly, voice tight.

Barty’s head snapped toward him. "I’m making it harder?" he repeated, incredulous.

Regulus let out a sharp breath. "You think I don’t know what this is doing to us? You think I don’t know that everything is falling apart?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, and that alone made your stomach twist. "I don’t need you to remind me."

Silence filled the room.

Barty’s expression flickered—just for a second. Then, just as quickly, he covered it with anger.

"Then fix it," he said. His voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was quiet, almost pleading. "Fix it before we lose this."

Regulus inhaled shakily, but he didn’t answer.

And neither did you.

Because deep down, you both knew—this wasn’t something that could be fixed.

Not when you were still lying to them.

Not when the war was getting closer, tearing you in different directions.

Not when you were all breaking apart and couldn’t find a way to hold on.

But despite it all—despite the anger, the pain, the lies—Barty still stepped closer.

The silence stretched between the three of you, thick and suffocating.

Regulus wasn’t looking at Barty anymore. He was staring into the fire, his jaw tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself, and then—"I’m working against him."

Barty’s entire body went still.

His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"What," he said, voice eerily calm.

You swallowed hard. "I’ve been helping the Order. Gathering information, passing it to them." You hesitated, glancing at Regulus. "He figured it out days ago."

Barty didn’t even blink. His eyes flicked to Regulus, and his voice was dangerously quiet when he spoke.

"And you didn’t tell me?"

Regulus turned then, his face tense. "No."

"You knew she was working against the Dark Lord, and you didn’t say a word?" Barty’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. He took a step forward, fury rolling off him in waves. "You knew she was walking straight into death and you just—what? Let her do it?"

Regulus’s jaw clenched. "It’s not that simple."

Barty let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, no, it is that simple, Reg." He turned to you, his eyes burning with something almost wild. "You—do you have any idea what he’ll do to you if he finds out?"

You met his gaze steadily. "I do."

"And you still—" His voice broke off as he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to throw something, break something. "You—fuck."

Regulus took a step forward, voice low. "Barty—"

"No." Barty shook his head. "No, don’t ‘Barty’ me right now. I—I don’t even know what to—you’re both fucking insane."

Regulus stayed silent.

You, however, took another step forward. "I knew you’d be mad, but I didn’t think it’d be because of this."

Barty turned to you so fast it made your breath hitch. "Are you joking?" His voice was rough, strained. "I’m not mad because you don’t believe in him. I’m mad because you—" He let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "Because I thought I’d have a lifetime with you, and now I don’t even know if you’ll make it to next week."

Your chest tightened.

"You can’t—" His voice cracked. "You can’t just throw yourself into this war like you’re untouchable. You know what he does to traitors."

"I know," you whispered.

Barty let out another breath, and before you could react, his hands were on your face. His grip was firm, almost desperate, his thumbs tracing over your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you. His forehead pressed against yours, and for the first time in days, he wasn’t pushing you away.

"You’re going to get yourself killed," he murmured. "And I—I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens."

Your hands came up to rest over his, your fingers curling against his wrists.

Regulus was watching, his expression unreadable. But then, finally, he stepped forward too. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into him.

Barty’s breathing was ragged against your skin, and you felt Regulus sigh against the top of your head.

For a moment, just a moment, none of it mattered.

Not the war.

Not the danger.

Just the three of you, holding onto each other like you were the only thing left in the world.

The world outside seemed to disappear.

For a few moments, the only thing that mattered was the feel of Barty’s hands gently cupping your face, the heat of Regulus’s body pressing against your back, his arms around you, both of them surrounding you like a fragile lifeline.

Barty’s breath was still uneven, but there was a tenderness in the way he held you now. His fingers traced over your jaw, soft, as if he were trying to memorize you. He pressed his forehead against yours again, his lips hovering so close you could feel his every breath.

"I can’t lose you," he whispered, voice breaking, as though the admission hurt. "You can’t just—" He shook his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You can’t keep doing this. I can’t—"

"Then stop me," you said softly, your voice trembling.

Barty’s eyes met yours, and for a second, he just stared, his gaze dark, conflicted. He didn’t know what to say to that. His hand moved down to your neck, fingertips brushing lightly over your skin. "I’m trying," he murmured. "But I’m losing you. Every time you walk out, every time you’re not with me..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, as if the words were too much for him to say.

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breath, but the weight of it all felt heavier than it ever had. You could feel the pull between you and Barty, the tension of unspoken feelings, but also the love—the ache that had been there since this all started.

Regulus’s arms tightened around you, and he leaned down, his voice softer, quieter. "We’re here," he said gently. "We’re not leaving you. Not now, not ever."

His words, spoken in that calm, steady tone, did something to you. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over, but you fought them. You couldn’t break down now. Not when they were both holding you together.

"I can’t keep doing this," you whispered. "I can’t keep lying to both of you, to myself."

"You don’t have to lie," Regulus said, his voice full of quiet understanding. "You’re doing what you think is right. But you don’t have to do it alone. You’re not alone."

Your breath hitched at his words. It was like something inside you was unraveling, something you had been holding onto so tightly, afraid of losing control. But now, with them here, with them holding you, maybe it was time to stop pretending.

You turned to face Regulus, letting your fingers curl into his arm, pressing your cheek against his chest. "I’m scared," you whispered, the words coming out in a rush. "I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I’m so afraid of what might happen. Of what’ll happen if he finds out."

Barty’s grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, "Then let us help you. We’ll keep you safe." His voice was rough with the desperation that mirrored your own. "I’m not going to let you walk into this mess without me. I’m not going to let you face it alone."

Regulus’s voice was firm, unwavering. "Neither of us are."

The three of you stood there, pressed together in the dim light of the room, the weight of everything that was happening in the world outside pressing in on you, but somehow, for a moment, it didn’t matter. The war felt so far away when they were holding you like this.

But the truth was, you couldn’t keep this secret much longer. The lies, the deception, the danger—it was all closing in, and you knew it. Yet, here they were, both of them, offering you their trust, their protection, and their love.

And somehow, for a split second, you let yourself believe that maybe it would be enough.

Barty pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours. "Promise me you’ll tell me next time," he whispered, his voice softer now. "I need to know. I need you to trust me."

You nodded slowly, looking at him. "I promise."

Regulus’s arms tightened around you again, his chin resting gently on the top of your head. "I’ll be here, too," he said quietly. "Don’t think for a second you’re alone in this."

The room was so still, the storm outside distant and almost irrelevant now. You could feel their hearts, both of them, beating against you in sync. For a moment, it was as if time had stopped, as if nothing else existed except the three of you.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "I never wanted to hurt either of you."

Barty’s thumb stroked over your cheek, wiping away the tear you hadn’t even noticed had fallen. "You haven’t hurt us," he said softly. "But you will if you keep doing this alone."

Regulus’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair. "We’re not asking you to fight this battle for us," he said, his voice low but steady. "But we can’t lose you."

The room felt heavier than ever, but it also felt strangely comforting. The love, the unspoken understanding between the three of you—no matter how much the world outside seemed to be falling apart, right now, here, this moment was everything.

"I don’t want to lose you either," you whispered, finally letting go of the fear that had been consuming you for so long.

And in that moment, for all the turmoil and pain and uncertainty, you knew that you wouldn’t face it alone. They were there, both of them, and as long as they were by your side, maybe—just maybe—you had a chance to survive this. Together.

His favourite.

The dark chamber was cold, the air thick with something suffocating—fear, anticipation, devotion. The Death Eaters stood in a circle, their black robes blending into the shadows, the eerie flicker of candlelight casting long, twisting silhouettes along the stone walls.

You stood between Regulus and Barty, their presence anchoring you, though it did little to quell the sickening dread curling in your stomach. Every meeting was unbearable, but tonight felt different.

The Dark Lord sat at the head of the room, his pale fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his throne-like chair. His red eyes flickered over the gathered figures before settling on you, a slow, satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.

"Ah," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "My most promising ones."

You fought to keep your expression neutral as he rose from his seat, gliding toward the three of you with that effortless, inhuman grace.

"You never fail to impress me," Voldemort continued, his gaze lingering on you for far too long. "So young, yet so skilled. A rare combination."

Regulus shifted beside you, subtle but protective, his fingers twitching at his side. Barty, on your other side, clenched his jaw so tightly you could almost hear his teeth grind.

"My Lord," you said, lowering your head slightly, feigning deference as best you could.

His lips curled as he took a step closer, just near enough that you could feel the cold presence of his magic brushing against your skin.

"Tell me," Voldemort mused, reaching out a single, skeletal finger to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "do you understand how valuable you are to me?"

Your stomach turned.

"I only serve where I am needed, my Lord," you answered carefully, lowering your gaze just slightly, playing the part he expected of you.

His lips curled in something akin to a smile. "Humble as ever."

Barty stiffened beside you. You could feel the way his entire body was wound tight, the anger radiating off him in waves.

Regulus, ever composed, subtly shifted closer to you, his fingers brushing against yours, a silent reminder that he was there. That neither of them would let this go too far.

Voldemort, of course, noticed.

His amusement grew. "Ah," he mused, voice smooth as silk. "You boys are always so protective of her. As if she needs it."

Barty’s jaw clenched. "She is ours, my Lord." His voice was unwavering, firm, but careful. He knew better than to openly challenge him.

Voldemort’s head tilted ever so slightly, amusement flickering in his red eyes. "Oh?"

Regulus’s voice was calm, carefully measured. "We are bound to each other, My Lord. Devoted. She is ours as much as we are hers."

There was a long silence. The tension in the room crackled like static.

Then Voldemort chuckled.

You hated this. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke to you as if you were his.

"Fascinating," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the three of you with something almost like amusement. "How devoted you are to each other. It is rare to find such unwavering loyalty."

You swallowed, resisting the urge to step back. You knew better than to show weakness here.

Voldemort exhaled through his nose, seemingly satisfied for now, and turned away, his robes billowing as he strode back toward his seat.

"But," he continued, lowering himself into his chair once more, "loyalty is not always absolute, is it?"

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay still.

Voldemort’s eyes flickered over the room, sharp and calculating. "I have reason to believe there is a traitor among us," he said, his tone casual, but the weight of his words made the air feel even heavier.

Your fingers curled into your robe.

Regulus, beside you, barely moved, but you could feel how tense he was, every muscle in his body coiled tight. Barty, too, was unnaturally still, but you could tell his mind was already racing.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on different Death Eaters, as if searching for any sign of guilt. "Someone has been leaking information to the Order of the Phoenix," he said, his voice almost lazy. "They think they can deceive me."

The chamber was utterly silent.

You could feel your heart pounding against your ribs, but you kept your breathing steady, your expression carefully blank.

"Whoever it is," Voldemort mused, his fingers tapping lightly against his armrest, "will be found. And when they are…" His smile was razor-sharp, chilling. "Well. You all know what happens to traitors."

Your stomach twisted violently.

Regulus’s hand brushed against yours—so briefly, so subtly, that no one else would have noticed, but the message was clear.

Barty, too, shifted just slightly, moving closer, his body half-angled toward you in an instinctive stance of protection.

Voldemort watched the three of you again, his expression unreadable. "Tell me," he said, "do any of you have thoughts on this… traitor?"

You knew what he was doing.

He wanted you to speak. He wanted to hear you condemn someone, to prove your allegiance.

You forced a small frown, tilting your head slightly, as if deep in thought. "If someone has betrayed you, My Lord," you said carefully, "they have made their choice, and it will be their downfall."

Voldemort regarded him for a long moment before his gaze slid back to you.

"Yes," he murmured. "I trust you will handle it."

Your throat felt dry. "Of course, my Lord."

His lips curled again, but this time there was something calculating in his eyes.

Then, without warning, he reached forward.

His cold, skeletal fingers barely grazed the side of your face before—

Barty stepped in.

Regulus moved at the same time.

"My Lord," Barty said smoothly, though his voice was tight, almost shaking with the restraint it took to keep his anger in check. "She is ours." He said again, as to remember what he just said mere minutes ago.

Regulus was more measured but no less firm. "We have always been loyal to you, my Lord. And we remain loyal to each other."

For a moment, Voldemort merely watched them.

Then he laughed.

Low and cruel.

"Fascinating," he mused. "Such devotion. Such love." His voice curled around the word as if it was something vile. "And yet, love has always been a weakness, hasn’t it?"

Regulus didn’t flinch. "Love is what makes us fight harder, my Lord. We would die for you."

Barty nodded sharply. "And we would kill for her."

Voldemort exhaled through his nose, as if weighing their words. Then, finally, he leaned back in his seat, his amusement still evident.

"Very well," he said, his voice smooth once more. "You may keep your prize."

Your stomach churned.

Your mind was racing, your body still thrumming with the aftershock of his scrutiny.

The meeting dragged on, each passing second heavy with tension. Voldemort had moved on from his initial speech, now discussing upcoming attacks, new strategies, and those who had been caught opposing him. Every word out of his mouth was a reminder of how deep they were in this war, of how much blood was on everyone’s hands.

You kept your expression neutral, nodding when appropriate, keeping your breathing steady. Barty was standing stiffly beside you, arms crossed, barely keeping himself in check. Regulus, ever composed, listened carefully, but his hands were curled into fists at his sides.

Then, as the meeting was beginning to wind down, Voldemort spoke again.

“Before you all leave,” he said smoothly, his red eyes sweeping over the gathered Death Eaters, “I will require a few moments with each of you. Privately.”

A few people shifted uneasily.

You felt a cold wave wash over you, but you didn’t let it show.

Voldemort leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable. “There is a traitor among us,” he repeated, voice silk-soft, yet carrying an undeniable weight. “And I will not be made a fool of.”

The air in the chamber thickened.

“You will come to me, one by one,” he continued. “There is no need to fear. If you are loyal, you have nothing to hide.”

A lie.

No one spoke.

Then Voldemort’s gaze flicked to Barty. “We will begin with you, Crouch.”

Barty stiffened, then exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. You could tell he was biting back something sharp, something reckless, but he held his tongue.

Voldemort stood, gesturing toward a door at the back of the chamber. “Come.”

Barty turned to you for half a second—just enough for you to catch the flicker of fire in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid. He was furious.

Then, without another glance, he followed Voldemort into the private room, the door clicking shut behind them.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle on the desk casting elongated shadows along the walls. Barty stepped inside, keeping his head held high, his expression carefully blank.

Voldemort took his time, moving to the other side of the desk, settling into a high-backed chair.

“Sit.”

Barty hesitated, then dropped into the chair across from him, his movements casual, but his muscles coiled tight.

Voldemort studied him for a long moment, red eyes gleaming. “You have always been a fascinating one, Barty,” he murmured. “So eager. So loyal. Unlike your father.”

Barty clenched his jaw. His father. That was the entire reason he had joined this war in the first place—to rebel, to ruin his father’s perfect reputation, to show him that he would never be the son he wanted. But the more he had thrown himself into the Death Eaters, the more he had begun to realize just how much he hated being under someone else’s control.

Especially when that someone was Voldemort.

Voldemort reached into a drawer, pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. “You know what this is, of course.”

Veritaserum.

Barty schooled his expression into one of mild interest, watching as Voldemort poured a few drops into a goblet of water.

“You will drink,” Voldemort said smoothly, pushing the goblet forward. “And then we will talk.”

Barty didn’t even blink. He took the goblet, swirling the liquid absently, as if he had nothing to fear. Then he tipped his head back and drank.

The potion slid down his throat, cool and tasteless. A normal person would already be feeling its effects, their mind opening like an unlocked door.

But Barty had poisoned himself with Veritaserum long ago. The resistance had built slowly, painfully, over time, but now it was absolute.

Voldemort sat back, watching him with keen eyes. “Good,” he murmured. Then, after a pause— “Tell me, Barty… have you noticed anything unusual within our ranks?”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Aside from the obvious paranoia?”

Voldemort’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Clever,” he said. “But not an answer.”

Barty exhaled through his nose, tilting his head as if in thought. “If there is a traitor,” he said lazily, “then they’re damn good at hiding it. No one seems particularly suspicious to me.”

A lie, spoken with absolute ease.

Voldemort’s gaze was unwavering. “You are close to her,” he said, voice soft, but pointed. “Your little love affair is no secret.”

Barty’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. He forced a smirk. “Jealous, My Lord?”

A sharp, ringing silence.

Then—Voldemort laughed. A slow, cold sound, more amused than offended. “Ah, Barty,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Your loyalty is not in question. Your temper, however… is intriguing.”

Barty said nothing.

Voldemort watched him carefully, then took a step closer. "Tell me, Barty," he said, his voice a whisper of silk and steel. "Have you ever doubted me?"

Barty tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, smoothly, he said, "No, my Lord."

It was a performance. The perfect lie.

Voldemort’s gaze bore into his, sharp and probing. Barty felt the magic press against his mind, slithering, seeking. He focused, let his occlumency build walls of ice, let his thoughts scatter like mist. He had trained for this moment, had carved his mind into a fortress that no one—not even the Dark Lord—could break into.

After a moment, Voldemort made a small sound. Amused. Intrigued.

"You are not so easily read," he mused.

Barty allowed himself a small, careful smirk. "I’ve always valued my privacy."

Voldemort chuckled, a low, cold sound. "Indeed."

He turned slightly, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, almost lazily, he asked, "Do you trust your… companions?"

Barty knew exactly who he meant. He forced his body to remain relaxed. "Regulus and her?" he said, as if the question was absurd. "Of course. We trust each other with our lives."

Voldemort hummed. "And yet, trust is so often misplaced."

Barty’s fingers twitched at his sides. He hated this. Hated the way Voldemort spoke about them, hated the way his gaze darkened with something possessive whenever he mentioned her.

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his red eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “She is… captivating, isn’t she?”

Barty’s blood ran cold.

The way Voldemort said it, the way he let the words roll off his tongue like a slow poison, made his skin crawl.

“I have seen the way you look at her,” Voldemort continued, watching him closely. “The way both of you do.”

Barty gritted his teeth. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something reckless, something stupid.

“I have no objections to… loyalty,” Voldemort said. “But tell me, Barty—would you be so loyal if she were to betray you?”

Barty inhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet Voldemort’s gaze with unwavering eyes. “She would never betray me,” he said, voice steady, but laced with something dangerous.

Voldemort studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for something in his expression. Then he hummed. “We shall see.”

He leaned back again, fingers tapping against the desk. “You may go.”

Barty didn’t hesitate. He stood, turned, and strode toward the door, his every movement sharp and controlled.

But as he reached for the handle, Voldemort’s voice stopped him.

“Oh, and Barty?”

He clenched his jaw before slowly glancing over his shoulder.

Voldemort’s smirk was barely there, but it was there nonetheless. “She is quite lucky to have you.”

Barty said nothing.

Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

The moment Barty stepped out of the room, Regulus knew something was wrong.

Barty had always been good at masking his emotions, but right now, his shoulders were too stiff, his fists clenched too tight. His usually smug expression was gone, replaced by something dark, something furious.

Regulus didn't ask. He didn't need to. He simply met Barty's gaze for a fraction of a second before Voldemort’s voice called his name.

"Regulus."

Regulus inhaled slowly, steadying himself before stepping forward. The air in the room was thick with something unseen, something suffocating. He kept his posture straight, his expression blank.

Voldemort gestured toward the same goblet, still laced with Veritaserum.

"Drink."

Regulus took the cup and swallowed it with the same practiced ease as Barty. He felt nothing. The years of slow poisoning had paid off.

Voldemort studied him carefully before speaking. "You are an interesting one, Regulus," he said, pacing around him. "So quiet. So… calculating."

Regulus said nothing.

Voldemort tilted his head. "Do you doubt me?"

Regulus met his gaze, eyes as cold and unreadable as ever. "No, my Lord."

A lie. Smooth, effortless.

Voldemort hummed, stepping closer. "Your mind is quiet," he mused, his tone amused. "Most people cannot silence their thoughts so well."

Regulus remained still, his Occlumency shields firmly in place. He had learned early on that emotions were weaknesses, that showing anything more than cold obedience would only draw suspicion.

Voldemort circled him like a predator. "You are devoted to the cause, are you not?"

Regulus nodded once. "Of course."

Another lie.

Voldemort chuckled, seemingly entertained. "And yet," he murmured, "I wonder… what is it that you truly believe in, Regulus?"

Regulus held his gaze. "I believe in what you have taught us, my Lord," he said smoothly. "That power is meant for those who can wield it. That weakness must be eradicated."

Voldemort smiled, pleased.

Regulus had always been good at telling people exactly what they wanted to hear.

Voldemort’s gaze darkened slightly, his next words slow, deliberate. "And what of her?"

Regulus’ jaw tightened, barely perceptible.

Voldemort’s smirk widened. "You, Barty, and her… it is amusing, really. You act as though she belongs to you."

Regulus remained silent.

"But you forget," Voldemort continued, stepping closer, "that I am the one who chooses whom she belongs to."

His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but the weight of the words sent something cold and sharp crawling up Regulus' spine.

Regulus forced his expression to remain blank, but his blood was burning beneath his skin. He wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to the way Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her. But that would be reckless. Stupid.

Instead, he inhaled slowly, masking his fury behind a carefully controlled voice. "She is loyal, my Lord," he said smoothly. "That is all that matters."

Voldemort chuckled. "Is it?"

He studied Regulus for a long moment, searching. Trying to push past the wall of ice that Regulus had spent years perfecting.

But he found nothing.

After a moment, Voldemort let out a quiet sigh, as if slightly disappointed. "You may go," he said finally.

Regulus didn’t hesitate. He turned and walked out of the room, his steps controlled, his breathing even.

But the moment the door shut behind him, his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt.

Barty was waiting for him in the corridor, his expression just as stormy.

Regulus exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I hate him."

Barty’s lips curled into something dark, something sharp. "That makes two of us."

Just some moments ago, it was your turn to be interrogated by the dark lord.

The door creaked as you stepped inside, your heartbeat steady but your stomach twisting. You had always known this moment would come. The moment where you had to sit across from him, knowing the web of lies you had carefully woven could crumble with a single misplaced word, a single crack in your composure.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes locked onto you, and a slow, knowing smile stretched across his pale lips.

"Finally," he murmured. "I saved the best for last."

You forced a small smile, polite but distant, before stepping forward and taking the goblet from his outstretched hand. You tilted it back, letting the liquid slip down your throat. It tasted bitter, like metal and rot, but you didn’t flinch.

Voldemort watched your closely, his head tilting slightly.

"Tell me," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Do you know who has been leaking information to the Order?"

You met his gaze without hesitation. "No, my Lord."

Truth spilled effortlessly from her lips—just not the whole truth.

Voldemort hummed, tapping his long fingers against the arm of his chair. "Curious. I was sure someone of your intelligence would have some idea."

You shook your head. "If I did, I would tell you."

Another lie, clean and sharp.

Voldemort leaned back, watching your in consideration. Then, without warning, he reached forward, long fingers pressing against your temple.

You didn’t flinch. You had expected this.

The moment his magic touched your mind, you strengthened your Occlumency shields, keeping your thoughts blank and your emotions steady. You had practiced for years, had learned from the best.

The fact was that Regulus was the one to teach you and Barty the secrets of occlumency. It was Regulus who slowly poisoned the three of you until you were resistant to veritaserum. Regulus was always thinking three steps ahead.

Nothing.

Voldemort’s frown deepened.

"You are difficult to read," he murmured, almost fascinated. "Like Regulus. I wonder… have you been learning from him?"

"I learn from those who are worth learning from, my Lord," you answered smoothly.

Voldemort chuckled. "Clever girl."

You held still as his fingers traced lightly down your cheek, the cold, skeletal touch sending revulsion curling in your stomach. But you remained impassive, empty. Just like Regulus. Just like Barty.

"You are so obedient," Voldemort praised, his tone almost… fond. "So loyal."

You didn’t respond.

Voldemort let his fingers drift lower, brushing against her jaw. "Unlike the others, you understand true power, don’t you?"

You swallowed back the bile rising in your throat and answered, your voice steady. "Yes, my Lord."

His eyes gleamed, and his thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

"You could be greater than them," Voldemort mused, his tone light, almost indulgent. "Why waste your time with children when you could stand beside someone truly powerful?"

Your stomach twisted.

"I am where I wish to be, my Lord" you said flatly.

Voldemort chuckled again, as if your words were amusing rather than a rejection.

"Are you?" he asked, tilting his head. "I see how they cling to you. How they think you belong to them." His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. "But you are not theirs."

You kept your breath even, forcing yourself not to recoil.

"You deserve more," he continued. "Someone who can give you more. I could give you more."

The disgust was a wildfire in your chest, but you did not let it show. You met his gaze, cold and impassive. "I am honored, my Lord," you said carefully. "But I am loyal."

Voldemort searched your face, as if trying to find a crack in your perfect mask.

Then, after a long silence, he sighed. "A shame," he murmured, his fingers finally drawing away.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, your skin still crawling.

Voldemort leaned back, watching you with something close to amusement. "You may go," he said finally. "And do not let those boys keep you from reaching your true potential."

You gave a short nod and turned on your heel, leaving the room without haste but without hesitation.

The moment the door shut behind you, you sucked in a breath, your hands shaking slightly before you clenched them into fists.

Barty and Regulus were already waiting for you.

And the moment you saw them, the disgust, the revulsion, the lingering phantom touch of Voldemort’s hands—it all became unbearable.

Barty noticed first. His eyes darkened. "What the hell did he do?"

Regulus stepped forward, his jaw tight. His hand brushed against yours, grounding, steady. "Did he—?"

"I’m fine," you said quickly, but your voice was strained, your mask cracking.

Barty’s fists clenched. "I’ll kill him."

Regulus said nothing, but his eyes were filled with something dark, something murderous.

You shook your head, swallowing hard. "Not here. Not now."

Barty let out a sharp breath, still furious, but he stepped closer, his hand curling around the back of your neck. "That bastard," he muttered, his voice low, deadly.

Regulus placed a hand on your waist, grounding you. "You’re trembling," he murmured.

You exhaled shakily. "I just need to leave."

They didn’t argue.

Regulus slipped an arm around your shoulders, and Barty took your hand, squeezing it tightly.

And together, you walked away, leaving the darkness behind you.

The moment you were outside, far from prying eyes and listening ears, the weight of what had just happened crashed down on you.

You felt filthy. Like Voldemort’s touch had left something rotting on your skin, something you couldn’t shake off no matter how hard you tried. Your stomach twisted, nausea rising, and you could feel your hands shaking. But you kept walking, head high, expression cold and unreadable. You knew better than to let anyone see you like this.

But Barty and Regulus saw.

They always saw.

Barty was practically vibrating with rage beside you, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had turned white. Regulus was walking with tense, controlled movements, his jaw locked, his eyes dark.

As soon as you were far enough from the meeting place, in the secluded forest where they had Apparated in, you stopped. And then—you broke.

A sob wrenched its way out of your throat before you could stop it. Your knees buckled, and you covered your mouth with your hands, trying to quiet the sound, but it was useless.

Barty was at your side in an instant. "Fuck," he muttered, voice tight. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—come here." He pulled your into his arms, crushing you against his chest.

You clung to him, fists curling into his robes as the sobs wracked your body. "I hate him," you choked out. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him—"

Regulus placed a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles. "It’s over," he murmured, his voice low, controlled. But you could hear the restrained fury underneath it. "He can’t touch you now."

Barty’s breathing was ragged, and you could feel the way his whole body was shaking with barely restrained anger. "Where did he touch you?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

You hesitated for half a second before whispering, "My face. My jaw. My arm. My—my lip."

Barty made a sound so vicious it barely sounded human. "I’m going back there," he growled. "I swear to fucking Merlin, I’ll—"

"No, you won’t," Regulus said sharply, his grip on you tightening as if to remind Barty of what truly mattered right now. "She needs us. Not a fight you won’t win."

Barty let out a sharp breath, his whole body still shaking with fury, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he pressed a fierce, lingering kiss to your temple, his fingers curling protectively around the nape of your neck. "I swear to you, if he ever does that again—"

"He won’t," Regulus interrupted, his voice filled with quiet, deadly certainty. "We won’t let him."

You sniffled, finally pulling back enough to wipe your tears away. "I just—I just want to go home," you whispered.

Regulus nodded. "Let’s go."

Barty took your hand, squeezing it tightly. "And then you’re taking the longest shower of your fucking life, and we’re going to make sure you forget every second of what just happened."

You exhaled shakily, nodding. "Please."

The moment you Apparated back to the Black estate, the suffocating weight in your chest barely lifted. The grand, dark halls of the house were cold, eerie, but you were safe. Safe from him. Safe from the way his fingers had burned into your skin like something rotten, something vile you couldn’t scrub away.

You barely made it past the threshold before your legs gave out again, but this time, Barty caught you before you could fall. His arms wrapped around you, strong and grounding, holding you up even when you felt like crumbling.

Regulus shut the door behind you, locking it with a flick of his wand. Then he turned to you, his gaze sharp, analyzing. His mind was already working, calculating, planning—what to do next, how to stop this from happening again.

But Barty? Barty was all fire.

"You’re shaking," he muttered, voice raw with barely contained fury. He pressed his forehead against yours, his grip tightening around you. "You’re fucking shaking."

Of course, you were. You could still feel Voldemort’s touch like something etched into your skin. You hated it. Hated it so much you wanted to rip yourself apart just to make it go away.

Regulus took your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up so he could look at you. His touch was nothing like Voldemort’s—it was steady, firm, but careful. His thumb brushed over your jaw, where Voldemort had dared to trace. His eyes darkened. "I should kill him," he murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

You let out a shaky breath. "You can’t."

Regulus’ jaw clenched. "Doesn’t mean I won’t find another way to make him suffer."

Barty growled under his breath, still vibrating with rage. "Why didn’t you slap his fucking hand away?"

You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion creeping in. "Because he’s Voldemort, Barty."

Barty’s grip on you tightened. "I don’t care," he hissed. "If he ever—if he ever fucking touches you again—"

Regulus cut him off, voice sharper than usual. "He won’t."

Barty turned to him, expression still twisted in fury. "How can you be so sure?"

Regulus met his gaze without hesitation. "Because next time, I’ll kill him myself."

You let out a broken sound, something between a laugh and a sob. "I love you both," you murmured, shaking your head. "But you can’t just kill Voldemort."

Barty scoffed, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild. "Watch me."

Regulus exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against yours before he took your hand. "Right now, we need to take care of you." His voice was softer now, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath it. "Shower. Fresh clothes. Something warm to drink. And then sleep."

You hesitated. "I don’t want to be alone."

Barty scoffed. "Like we’d let that happen."

Regulus’ grip tightened. "We’ll be with you the whole time."

A lump formed in your throat, and you exhaled, nodding. "Okay."

Barty pulled away first, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the bathroom. "Come on. We’re scrubbing every trace of that bastard off you."

Regulus followed, quiet, watchful, protective.

And for the first time since the meeting, since Voldemort’s hands had dared to touch you, you felt like you could breathe again.

The bathroom was warm, steam curling around the air as the enchanted taps filled the bathtub. The scent of lavender and cedarwood filled the space—Regulus’ doing, no doubt, since he always had a way of making things feel softer, safer.

Barty sat on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, watching the water rise. His knee bounced impatiently, hands still clenched into fists, but his eyes kept flickering back to you. Regulus stood behind you, fingers at the clasp of your cloak, carefully undoing it before sliding it off your shoulders.

Regulus sighed, stepping closer. "You don’t have to do anything," he murmured. "We’ll take care of you."

You swallowed, exhaustion pressing into your bones. "I feel disgusting."

Barty’s jaw tightened. "That’s because he is disgusting." His hands curled over yours, his grip firm but warm. "We’re fixing this. Now."

Regulus reached up, brushing his fingers against your jaw—the same spot Voldemort had touched. His touch was a whisper against your skin, gentle, reverent, as if trying to erase the phantom feeling of someone else’s hands on you.

"Let us," he said simply.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. "Okay."

Regulus undid the buttons of your robes, slow, deliberate, giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. When you didn’t, he slid the fabric down your arms, leaving you in only your underwear. Barty stood, pressing a kiss to your temple before whispering, "Get in."

You stepped into the tub, the hot water enveloping you instantly, and let out a shuddering breath. It was comforting, but the unease in your chest hadn’t left yet.

Barty knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves even more, grabbing a washcloth. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

You did.

The cloth was warm, soft against your skin as Barty ran it over your arm, wiping away the invisible filth you still felt clinging to you. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, slow and careful. "It’s just me," he murmured, as if reassuring you. "Just us."

Regulus kneeled behind you, gathering your wet hair in his hands, his fingers brushing against your scalp. "Tilt your head back," he instructed softly.

You did as he asked, and a moment later, water poured over your hair, washing away the remnants of the night.

They worked in quiet synchrony—Regulus washing your hair with slow, practiced fingers, Barty scrubbing your arms and shoulders, tracing patterns into your skin that felt like protection, like a vow.

"I hate him," Barty muttered under his breath.

Regulus hummed in agreement, fingers still in your hair. "He doesn’t own you," he said quietly. "No matter what he thinks."

Barty’s fingers curled around your wrist, his lips brushing against your knuckles. "You’re ours," he murmured. "Not his."

Your breath hitched. The weight of their words, the warmth of their hands—it was all too much and yet not enough. You turned your head slightly, opening your eyes, meeting Regulus’ gaze.

"Stay with me," you whispered.

Regulus’ thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a droplet of water. "Always."

Barty grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re not getting rid of us that easily, love."

You exhaled shakily, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Good."

Regulus rinsed the last of the shampoo from your hair, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "You’re clean now," he murmured. "Inside and out."

Barty kissed your wrist again before reaching for a towel. "Time to dry off, sweetheart. We’ve got a bed waiting for you."

You let them pull you up, wrapping you in the warmth of the towel and their hands. Every touch, every whispered reassurance, every kiss against your skin was a promise—of protection, of devotion, of something bigger than the war, bigger than the darkness that loomed over all of you.

Because tonight, for just a little while, you weren’t a soldier.

You were just theirs.

Regulus carried you out of the bathroom, his grip firm but careful, like he was holding something precious. Barty was right behind, still fussing, rubbing the towel over your arms and legs, making sure you were completely dry before you got into bed.

"You’re treating me like I’m made of glass," you mumbled, your voice still hoarse from earlier.

Barty scoffed, tossing the towel aside. "Yeah? Well, you bloody shattered back there, didn’t you?"

Regulus shot him a look. "Not helping."

Barty groaned, raking a hand through his damp hair. "I’m not trying to be an arse, alright? I just—" His voice wavered, and for the first time that night, you saw something else behind his anger. Fear.

He had been scared.

You reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. "I’m okay," you whispered.

Barty let out a sharp breath, looking down at you, his hands settling on your hips. "No, you’re not," he murmured. "But you will be."

Regulus, ever the silent force of control, gently nudged Barty aside and guided you toward the bed. "Lie down," he instructed softly.

You obeyed, sinking into the mattress with a sigh. It smelled like them—clean linen, a hint of Barty’s cologne, and something darker, something that always reminded you of Regulus.

They crawled in beside you, one on each side, their warmth seeping into your skin. Barty was always restless, so it didn’t surprise you when he pulled you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. His fingers trailed along your spine, drawing lazy, distracted patterns.

"You still feel it?" he asked after a moment.

You knew what he meant. The ghost of Voldemort’s touch, the suffocating presence of him, the way your skin had burned under his fingers like a brand you couldn’t wash away.

You swallowed hard. "A little."

Barty made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, his grip tightening. "I’d kill him if I could," he muttered.

"You’d die trying," Regulus pointed out, his voice quiet. He was lying on his side, watching you, his hand resting just above your knee. "And she wouldn’t want that."

Barty sighed, pressing his forehead against your hair. "Yeah, well. It’s the thought that counts."

Regulus gave a small, almost amused exhale, but his fingers traced small, soothing circles against your skin. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

You did.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Barty’s lips brushed against your temple, and he whispered, "Mine."

Regulus leaned in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, his voice a ghost against your skin. "Ours."

A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear, not from disgust, but from something else entirely. Something safe.

Something that felt like home.

And for the first time that night, you felt clean.

Trying to understand.

The three of you sat in the dimly lit bedroom, an unspoken tension thick in the air. Days had passed since the last Death Eater meeting, and the weight of everything was pressing down on you. You knew this conversation was inevitable. You had kept your secrets long enough.

Regulus sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, looking calm—too calm. It was the kind of stillness he carried when he was deep in thought, when his mind was running faster than he’d ever let on. Barty, on the other hand, was sprawled across the chair near the fireplace, one leg bouncing up and down in irritation. He wasn’t good at keeping still when he was frustrated.

"You’re going to have to explain," Barty said, voice sharp. He wasn’t yelling, but his frustration was evident. "Because I get that you hate the Dark Lord. I get that you hate everything he stands for. But what I don’t get is why you’re still doing this. You know it’s suicide, right?"

Regulus finally looked at you, his cold grey eyes searching, studying. "Barty’s right," he said, and Barty let out an incredulous scoff at Regulus agreeing with him. "If anyone finds out what you’re doing, you’ll be dead before you can even pull your wand. And we won’t be able to stop it."

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. "I know the risks," you said.

"Then why?" Barty demanded. "Why the fuck are you doing this?"

You looked at both of them, really looked at them. They were your boys—angry and protective and scared in their own ways. But you had to make them understand.

"Because someone has to," you said simply.

Barty groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not a real answer. Try again."

You exhaled slowly. "You want the truth? Fine. I never believed in this cause. Not for one second. I never thought blood purity meant anything. I never thought Voldemort was some great leader destined to change the world. I never thought any of this was right."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flashing in his expression. Barty, however, leaned forward, his jaw tight. "So why the hell did you join in the first place?"

"Because I had no choice," you admitted. "Just like you."

Barty flinched. You knew you hit a nerve.

"You did it because of your father," you continued, voice softer now. "You wanted to spite him. You wanted to prove something. But you never really believed in it either, did you?"

Barty clenched his jaw. "I believe in blood purity," he shot back, though there was something defensive in his tone, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

You gave him a sad smile. "Do you?"

His fingers twitched. "I—" He stopped, huffing. "Fuck. I don’t know."

Regulus finally spoke. "You joined the Order, didn’t you?"

You nodded. "Not officially. But I’ve been feeding them information. Helping them from the inside."

Regulus didn’t even look surprised. He just let out a long breath, rubbing his hands over his face.

Barty, on the other hand, looked like he was going to explode. "And what, you thought you’d just keep this up forever? That no one would ever figure it out? That the Dark Lord wouldn’t eventually start questioning why one of his most trusted followers is always one step behind the Order?"

"I know it won’t last forever," you admitted. "I know eventually I’ll get caught. But until then, I can make a difference. I can save people."

Barty scoffed. "Save people? And who’s gonna save you?"

You swallowed hard. "I’m not asking to be saved."

"Well, too fucking bad," Barty snapped. "Because we’re not just going to sit here and watch you get yourself killed."

Regulus was quiet, but you could see the way his hands clenched into fists. "You should have told us sooner," he murmured.

You looked down. "Would you have helped me?"

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. But then—"Yes."

Your head snapped up. Even Barty looked startled. "What?" you asked.

Regulus met your gaze, something resolute in his expression. "I said yes. I would’ve helped you."

Barty let out a frustrated groan, slumping back in his chair. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, not you too."

Regulus ignored him, keeping his focus on you. "I never wanted this life either. I was born into it, like you. Like Barty. But I never wanted it."

For the first time, Barty looked genuinely thrown off. "Are you saying you’re going to join her?"

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you. And in that moment, you realized—he already had. Maybe not officially, maybe not yet, but in his mind, he had already chosen.

"I’m saying I can’t just keep pretending," he said simply.

Barty groaned again, rubbing his temples. "This is insanity. You know that, right?"

"You don’t have to make a choice right now," you told him softly.

Barty glanced at you, his eyes burning with something unreadable. "You’re my choice," he said. "You and him. That’s it. That’s all I fucking care about."

Regulus’s expression softened, just slightly.

You exhaled. "Then let’s figure this out. Together."

Regulus shook his head, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "We won’t die."

Barty snorted. "You say that like you actually believe it."

Regulus met your eyes again, and his hand found yours, fingers lacing together.

"I do."

Not alone.

The room was silent, the air thick with the warmth of sleep. The steady rise and fall of Barty and Regulus’ breathing filled the dimly lit space, the only sound breaking through the stillness. You moved carefully, inching out from beneath the covers, making sure not to shift too much weight onto the creaky floorboards. Every muscle in your body was tense, every movement calculated.

You had done this before—sneaking out while they slept, slipping away into the night. But tonight was different. You barely made it two steps from the bed before—

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going?"

Barty’s voice, thick with sleep but sharp as a knife, cut through the air.

You froze, cursing internally.

Then, another voice—low, cold, but not groggy. Regulus. "You weren’t seriously about to go alone, were you?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course they woke up. Of course they did.

You turned slowly, your expression schooled into neutrality. "I have something to do."

Barty let out a humorless laugh, sitting up in bed, rubbing his hands down his face. "Oh yeah? And let me guess, it involves you sneaking out like a fucking idiot in the middle of the night?"

Regulus was already sitting up too, his sharp grey eyes locked onto you like he was reading every thought in your head. "You’re going to them," he stated. Not a question. A fact.

You sighed. "I need to—"

"No, you don’t," Barty snapped. "You don’t need to do shit. What you need to do is stay here, where it’s safe, and not get yourself killed."

You crossed your arms. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah? Then what? You come back bleeding?"

Regulus was already moving, already reaching for his wand, his shoes, his cloak. "If you’re going, I’m going."

You frowned. "Regulus—"

"Don’t start," he said, cold and final. "You’re not doing this alone."

Barty groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Oh, for fuck’s sake—both of you are insane."

Regulus didn’t even glance at him as he pulled on his coat. "Someone has to make sure she doesn’t die on the way there."

Barty stared at him like he was the dumbest person alive. "Or—and hear me out—we could just not go."

You turned to Barty. "I have to do this, Barty."

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Why?" His voice was quieter now, less rage, more frustration. More worry. "Why do you always have to be the one risking everything?"

You softened, stepping closer to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Because I can help."

Barty closed his eyes briefly, exhaling hard through his nose. "I hate you," he muttered.

You smirked. "No, you don’t."

He shot you a glare before looking at Regulus, who was already fastening his cloak like he had accepted his fate. "And you. You’re supposed to be the smart one. What the hell are you doing?"

Regulus raised a brow. "Making sure she doesn’t do something reckless and die."

Barty scoffed. "That’s my job."

"Then get dressed."

Barty groaned, throwing his head back dramatically before grumbling, "I swear to Merlin, you two are going to be the death of me." But despite his complaints, he was already pulling on his cloak, grabbing his wand.

Regulus smirked slightly. "Then we’ll make sure you die in good company."

Barty shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "Shut up, Black."

You smiled despite yourself, your heart swelling at the sight of them. They would never let you do this alone. Even when they were furious at you, even when they thought you were making the worst decision possible, they were with you.

"Alright," you said, exhaling. "Let’s go."

Barty shook his head, muttering under his breath as he stepped closer to you and Regulus. "If we die, I’m haunting you both for eternity."

Regulus smirked again. "Noted."

And with that, the three of you disappeared into the night.

Working for the order.

The weeks bled into each other, every day more dangerous than the last.

You were in too deep now, tangled in something that could kill you at any moment. Regulus had started helping, slipping into the shadows with you, covering your tracks, whispering secrets in dark corners when no one was listening. And Barty—Barty never agreed, never wanted any of this, but he came anyway, because as much as he bitched and groaned about your "stupid, reckless decisions," he refused to let you and Regulus run into the fire alone.

Tonight was no different.

The three of you crouched behind an old stone wall, hidden in the ruins of what used to be a manor before Death Eaters had burned it to the ground. It was your meeting spot with one of the Order members, but something felt off. The air was too still.

Barty shifted beside you, whispering, "This is a fucking stupid idea. Just so we’re all aware."

Regulus didn’t even glance at him. "Noted."

Barty scowled. "You keep saying that, and yet we keep doing these stupid things."

You smirked slightly, despite the tension crackling in the air. "And yet you keep coming."

Barty groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Because you two have a death wish, and apparently, I’m the only one who gives a shit."

Regulus’ voice was calm, quiet. "You give a shit because you care."

Barty scoffed. "Shut up, Black."

Before Regulus could respond, you stiffened. Footsteps. Three of them. You immediately pressed yourself lower against the stone, heart hammering. Regulus was still, calculating. Barty’s hand was already on his wand.

Then, a voice: "It’s me."

You exhaled, recognizing the voice of the Order member. Slowly, you stood, stepping out of your hiding place, Regulus and Barty moving with you.

"You’re late," you whispered.

The man—tall, broad-shouldered, his face lined with exhaustion—nodded grimly. "Ran into some trouble. Had to take a longer route." His gaze flickered to the two boys beside you. "I see you brought company."

"They’re with me," you said firmly.

The man studied them both for a long moment. "Black," he said, looking at Regulus. "Didn’t think I’d ever see you working against them."

Regulus didn’t blink. "You still haven’t."

The man raised a brow. "You’re here."

"To protect her," Regulus said smoothly.

Barty let out a scoff. "Yeah, well, same. I don’t give a shit about your little rebellion, mate."

The man didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he handed you a small, folded piece of parchment. "There’s going to be a raid. Tomorrow night. You know where."

Your stomach twisted. You knew exactly where.

Regulus was reading your expression like a book. "You’re not going."

You looked at him sharply. "I have to."

Barty let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, of course you do. Because throwing yourself into a fucking raid is such a brilliant plan."

You turned fully to them, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t have a choice."

Barty stepped closer, anger flashing in his eyes. "There’s always a choice."

"Not for me."

Regulus exhaled, his voice calmer but just as firm. "We’ll go with you."

You hesitated. "Reg—"

"We’re going," he interrupted, voice final.

Barty groaned. "I hate you both. I really do."

Regulus smirked slightly. "No, you don’t."

Barty scowled. "I do. I hate you both so fucking much."

You sighed, exhaustion creeping into your bones. "We should go before someone finds us."

The Order member gave you a nod before disappearing into the night.

As soon as he was gone, Barty let out another dramatic groan. "I swear to Merlin, I should just let you both die one of these days."

Regulus hummed. "You won’t."

Barty shot him a glare. "I’m actually going to kill you, Black."

You rolled your eyes. "Can we go home now?"

Barty let out a breath, looking at you, his frustration melting into something softer. "Yeah. Let’s go home."

And with that, the three of you vanished into the darkness once more.

The next day came quickly.

The raid was chaos. Spells flew in every direction, lighting up the darkened alleyways in flashes of green, red, and white. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood, the screams of both fighters and innocent people caught in the crossfire.

You moved quickly, ducking behind debris, sending hexes at Death Eaters while trying to get civilians to safety. Regulus was somewhere nearby, casting silent curses with deadly precision, and Barty—Barty was fighting like a man possessed, reckless and furious.

Everything was going to plan. Until it wasn’t.

You turned a corner, trying to get to the last group of civilians, when a hand grabbed your wrist. Before you could react, a Disillusionment Charm was lifted, revealing a group of masked Death Eaters waiting in the shadows.

It was a trap.

Cold fear shot down your spine as a wand was pressed against your throat. "Look at what we have here," a voice sneered. "The little rat."

Your stomach twisted.

They knew.

You struggled, trying to reach for your wand, but someone yanked it from your grasp, shoving you hard against the wall. The impact stole the breath from your lungs.

"Thought you could betray the Dark Lord and get away with it?" another voice hissed.

You tried to think, tried to find a way out, but there were too many of them. Your mind was racing, but before you could even attempt to escape, someone hit you with a spell—

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through your body, white-hot and unbearable. A scream tore from your throat as you collapsed, the ground cold and unforgiving beneath you. Your nerves were on fire, your body convulsing against the relentless torture.

The spell lifted for a moment, just long enough for you to gasp for breath, before another Death Eater crouched beside you, yanking your hair back so you were forced to look at them.

"How long?" they demanded. "How long have you been feeding them information?"

You gritted your teeth, blood dripping from your lip where you had bitten down to keep from screaming again.

"Fuck. You," you spat.

A hard slap cracked across your face.

"Wrong answer," the Death Eater growled.

Another curse slammed into you, sending fresh waves of agony coursing through your body. Your vision blurred, black spots dancing in your sight, but you refused to break.

You couldn’t.

Not too far away from where you were, your boys were having a heated argument.

Regulus was fuming. "You’re going to get yourself killed, Crouch."

Barty scoffed, wiping blood from his cheek. "And what the fuck do you call what we’re doing right now? A lovely evening stroll?"

"You’re reckless," Regulus snapped. "You don’t think. You act on impulse, and one day, it’s going to get you caught."

"Funny," Barty shot back, eyes narrowing. "Because I could say the same about you, Black. At least I know what I stand for. What the fuck do you believe in?"

Regulus stiffened, his expression unreadable.

"That’s what I thought," Barty muttered.

Before Regulus could respond, something changed. A shift in the air.

It took him a moment to realize what was wrong.

"You hear that?" he asked suddenly.

Barty frowned. "What?"

Regulus’ heartbeat picked up. "Exactly."

The sounds of battle were still loud, but something was missing.

You.

Regulus turned sharply, scanning the wreckage, the bodies, the flashes of spells, but you weren’t there. His chest tightened.

Barty must have realized it too, because his face paled.

"Where the fuck is she?"

Neither of them hesitated.

They ran.

Running but not fast enough.

Cold stone bit into your knees as you were thrown onto the dungeon floor. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, your body aching from the curses that had already been cast upon you. The Death Eaters loomed above, their masks concealing their faces, but you didn’t need to see them to know who they were.

You could hear Bellatrix’s delighted laughter before you even looked up.

"Oh, this is simply delicious," she cooed, stepping forward, her wand twirling lazily between her fingers. "The Dark Lord’s favorite little pet… a filthy traitor all along."

You swallowed hard, refusing to let her see your fear. You wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

Bellatrix crouched in front of you, tilting her head as she examined your bruised face. "Where are they?" she asked sweetly.

You blinked, confused.

"Your little lovers." Her lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Where are they now, hm? Surely they would’ve come storming in to save you by now, if they cared so much."

You clenched your jaw. "They’ll come," you rasped.

Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the chamber. "Oh, darling," she purred. "No, they won’t. You’re alone. Just like you always were."

You glared up at her, forcing yourself to meet her wild, dark eyes. "Do whatever you want to me," you spat. "I’m not telling you anything."

Bellatrix let out a delighted gasp. "Oh, I was hoping you’d say that."

And then—

"Crucio."

Pain, unbearable and all-consuming, shot through your body. Your back arched violently as a scream tore from your throat. It felt like fire in your veins, like your bones were breaking from the inside out. Every nerve burned, every muscle spasmed, and the agony was endless.

Bellatrix giggled, letting the curse linger before finally releasing it. "My, my," she mused, watching as you gasped for air. "You’re strong. I like that."

You panted, sweat dripping down your forehead. "Go to hell," you croaked.

Bellatrix feigned offense. "Now, that’s not very nice, is it?" She reached forward, running her fingers along your jaw mockingly. You wanted to recoil, but your body was too weak to move.

"You’re going to tell me everything," she whispered, her voice sickeningly sweet. "How long have you been betraying the Dark Lord? Who else is involved?"

You lifted your head slightly, your lips curling into a bloodied smirk. "You’re not as smart as you think you are," you murmured.

Bellatrix’s face twisted in rage. "Crucio!"

The pain returned, worse than before. Your vision blurred, black spots dancing before your eyes. You knew this could kill you if it went on long enough.

And maybe that would be better.

Maybe it would be easier than giving them the chance to break you.

But you weren’t broken yet.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Regulus and Barty were losing their minds.

"She was right there!" Barty snapped, his eyes wild with panic and fury. "How the fuck did we let this happen?"

Regulus didn’t answer. His hands were shaking.

They had searched every corner of the battlefield, but you were gone. Vanished. Taken.

"We need to think," Regulus muttered, trying to suppress the sheer terror clawing at his chest. "They wouldn’t kill her immediately. They’d want information first."

Barty ran a hand through his hair, his breath ragged. "They’ll torture her," he whispered.

Regulus swallowed hard. "I know."

Barty turned on him, grabbing his collar. "She’s not like us, Reg," he hissed. "She’s strong, but she’s not like us. We grew up with this. She didn’t. They’re going to break her."

Regulus stared at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "No, they won’t."

Barty let go of him, pacing. "We have to find her. We have to—"

"We will," Regulus interrupted. His voice was eerily calm, but Barty could see the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. "We’re getting her back."

Barty met his eyes.

"Whatever it takes," Regulus added.

Barty nodded. "Whatever it takes."

Saving each other.

Your body was barely holding on. Your wrists ached from where they had been bound, your head was spinning from the sheer pain coursing through every inch of your body, and you could feel the warmth of blood dripping from your temple, your lip, your ribs. Everything hurt.

And then, suddenly, you heard them.

A scuffle, the sound of struggling, and then—

"Barty—Regulus—?" Your voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

They were here.

But it didn’t matter.

Because they had been captured too.

Your heart twisted violently as you watched them being dragged into the room, their wands ripped from their hands, their arms forced behind their backs as Death Eaters shoved them to their knees.

"Ah, now this is a sight," Bellatrix mused, her lips curling into a wicked grin. "The Dark Lord’s three little favorites, reduced to this. Isn’t it just tragic?"

Regulus’ eyes snapped to you, and the second he saw the state you were in, something in him shifted. His normally cold, unreadable expression cracked—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the sheer, unfiltered rage and fear burning beneath the surface.

Barty, on the other hand, was already losing it. "You fucking bitch!" he roared, trying to lunge at Bellatrix, but the Death Eater behind him yanked him back harshly. "I swear to Merlin, I will rip you apart with my bare hands—"

Bellatrix only laughed, delighted by his fury. "Oh, how precious," she cooed. "Look at him, so protective of his little pet."

She turned back to you, crouching down so she was at eye level. "I wonder," she mused, dragging her wand along your bruised cheek. "Would you be more willing to talk now that your lovers are here? Or should I make them watch a little longer?"

You spat at her.

Bellatrix’s smile disappeared.

And then she backhanded you across the face so hard your head snapped to the side, a fresh burst of pain blooming across your cheekbone.

"You fucking touch her again, and I’ll kill you!" Barty snarled, his voice raw, desperate. He was thrashing against his restraints now, barely being held back by the Death Eaters pinning him down.

Regulus’ voice was quieter, but no less deadly. "You’ll regret this," he said, his tone eerily even. "Every single one of you."

Bellatrix chuckled. "Oh, will I? And what exactly are you going to do, little Black? You don’t even have your wand."

Regulus didn’t respond. He only stared at her, his silver eyes glinting with something cold.

Bellatrix smirked. "Well, in that case, let’s continue, shall we?"

And then—

"Crucio."

Your screams tore through the chamber once again.

Barty’s entire body tensed like he had been physically struck, his breathing erratic. "Stop—STOP!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "PLEASE!"

Regulus wasn’t speaking. He was staring at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful, his entire body trembling with restrained fury.

Bellatrix lifted the curse, smiling. "Oh, did that upset you, boys?" she taunted. "Are you feeling… helpless?"

Barty was panting, his entire body shaking. "I swear to fucking Merlin," he rasped, "I will kill you. I will fucking kill you, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix only laughed again, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Now, now, that’s not a very nice way to talk to a lovely woman like me, is it?"

She turned back to you, running her wand along your collarbone. "Now, love," she purred, "are you ready to talk?"

You lifted your head slowly, meeting her gaze despite the agony radiating through your body. And then, through cracked lips and bloodied teeth, you smiled.

"Go to hell."

Bellatrix sighed dramatically. "Wrong answer."

And then the pain came again.

This time, you heard Barty scream your name.

And then—

Then you heard Regulus.

Not screaming.

Not begging.

His voice was calm. Cold.

"Let us go," he said simply.

Bellatrix looked at him in amusement. "Oh? And why would I do that?"

Regulus didn’t blink. "Because if you don’t," he said, "you’re going to wish you had killed me when you had the chance."

There was something terrifying in the way he said it.

Something that made even Bellatrix pause for half a second.

But then she smirked. "Oh, I do love empty threats."

She turned her wand back on you.

And this time, when the pain came, it didn’t stop.

Bellatrix finally lifted the curse, and your body collapsed onto the cold, stone floor, chest heaving, every nerve still screaming from the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse. Sweat and blood mixed on your skin, your limbs trembling violently, but you didn’t let out another sound. You wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Regulus and Barty had gone deathly silent.

The second the curse lifted, Regulus’ expression hardened into something terrifying—something unshakable. His silver eyes burned with pure hatred, and yet, his face remained eerily calm, like a frozen lake hiding something deadly beneath the surface.

Barty, on the other hand, was still breathing heavily, his body straining against the Death Eaters holding him back. His entire face was flushed with rage, his eyes wild. He was ready to kill.

Bellatrix tilted her head, examining you with an almost lazy curiosity. "My, my," she mused. "Still so stubborn, aren’t you?" She crouched beside you again, running her wand along the side of your face as if she were admiring a piece of art. "I must admit, I’m impressed. Not many last this long without breaking."

Your breath was shaky, but you still managed to glare at her, your lip curling despite the pain. "You talk too much," you rasped.

Bellatrix let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, I do like you," she said, almost fondly. Then, she glanced over her shoulder at the two boys. "What about you, dear cousin?" she purred, locking eyes with Regulus. "Is it painful? Watching your little girlfriend suffer?"

Regulus didn’t react. His face remained a perfect mask of indifference. "You’re pathetic," he said quietly.

Bellatrix’s smirk twitched.

"Really, Bella?" he continued, voice smooth as silk, laced with venom. "Using me against her? That’s the best you can do?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You think I care about you?" Regulus scoffed, tilting his head. "You think I’ve ever cared about any of you?" He leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping lower. "You are nothing to me."

Something flickered in Bellatrix’s expression.

"Aw, is the little Black boy finally growing a spine?" she cooed, but there was a slight edge to her voice now. "Careful, Regulus. That sounds a lot like treason."

Regulus smirked. "So kill me."

Bellatrix’s jaw clenched.

And then, before she could say another word—

"You fucking touch him, and I will burn this entire place to the ground," Barty growled.

Bellatrix turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that, Crouch? Without your wand?"

Barty’s eyes were wild with fury. "I don’t need a wand to rip you apart."

Bellatrix let out a breathy chuckle, clearly amused, and turned fully toward him, slowly walking closer. "You’re quite the feral little thing, aren’t you?" she mused, circling him like a predator. "It’s a wonder the Dark Lord keeps you around."

Barty bared his teeth. "He keeps me around because I’m useful," he sneered. "Unlike you."

Bellatrix’s expression darkened.

In an instant, she lashed out, backhanding Barty across the face. His head snapped to the side, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Regulus’ entire body tensed.

You could barely lift your head, but when you saw the way Barty slowly turned back to face her, his eyes burning with something dark, something terrifying—you knew she had made a mistake.

Barty licked the blood off his lip and smiled. "You hit like a fucking coward," he muttered.

Bellatrix’s grip on her wand tightened.

"Enough," a voice commanded.

One of the older Death Eaters stepped forward, his voice heavy with authority. "The Dark Lord wants them alive. We still need answers." He turned to Bellatrix. "Torturing the girl further might kill her. And we need her conscious."

Bellatrix sighed dramatically, but she stepped back, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Fine," she drawled. "Then let’s see if the boys are more willing to talk."

Two Death Eaters grabbed Regulus, dragging him forward.

"Get your fucking hands off him!" Barty snarled, but another fist slammed into his stomach, making him double over, coughing violently.

Regulus didn’t resist. He didn’t fight.

He just looked at you.

And in that single glance, you knew—he wasn’t afraid.

Bellatrix leaned down in front of him, gripping his chin tightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Tell me, cousin," she purred. "Do you know what she’s been up to?"

Regulus didn’t even blink. "No."

Bellatrix smiled. "Liar."

She nodded at one of the men. A fist slammed into Regulus’ ribs, but he didn’t even flinch.

Bellatrix clicked her tongue. "You always were the quieter one," she mused. "The good boy. Mother’s favorite." She leaned in closer. "Tell me, Regulus, does it kill you to know that Sirius abandoned you?"

Regulus’ face remained unreadable. "You don’t know anything about me."

Bellatrix chuckled. "Oh, but I do," she whispered. "I know that no matter how much you pretend otherwise, you’re still the scared little boy who always did what he was told." She smiled sweetly. "You never had a choice, did you?"

Regulus’ fingers twitched, as if itching for a wand he no longer had.

"Tell me the truth," Bellatrix murmured. "And I’ll let her go."

Regulus finally spoke. "Go fuck yourself."

Bellatrix’s smirk faltered.

Another punch.

Another.

Regulus took each one in silence, his jaw locked, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Then it was Barty’s turn.

"Last chance, Crouch," one of the Death Eaters sneered. "Tell us what you know."

Barty spat blood onto the floor, grinning through crimson-stained teeth. "Kiss my ass."

A boot slammed into his stomach.

Then another.

And still, neither of them spoke.

Neither of them broke.

You tried to move, tried to reach for them, but your body wouldn’t obey.

You could only watch.

And pray that this wouldn’t be the end.

—— ☄️ ——

A note from the author:

Hello beautiful people!

I was NOT expecting for this to have two parts.

I had to stop writing because somehow Tumblr has a limit? I didn't even know about it.

So here's part two.

This story was a challenge for me to write, but i hope you all liked it as much as i did.

See you soon!

#barty crouch jr #regulus black #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader #barty crouch junior #barty crouch x reader #barty crouch x regulus black #marauders era #harry potter #fanfic #x reader #x yn #slytherin #slytherin skittles #voldemort #james potter

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outromoony · 5 months ago

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@black-sisters-microfic | Word count: 162

When they were children, Sirius and Bellatrix were inseparable—two forces of nature, wild and reckless, always too much for the quiet halls of Grimmauld Place. They had the same sharp smile, the same fire in their veins, the same hunger for something greater.

People always mistook them for twins. They never corrected them.

Bellatrix always played the queen.

Sirius always played the knight.

“You have to protect me,” she’d say, perched on her throne—an old, dusty armchair in the library.

Sirius would roll his eyes but kneel anyway.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll have you executed,” she’d reply with a grin, as if the words meant nothing at all, waving an imaginary scepter, her laughter ringing through the halls.

For years, it was just a game.

Until one day, it wasn’t.

Because Sirius had stopped kneeling, had stopped following orders, and Bellatrix never forgave him for it.

Because queens don’t tolerate betrayal.

And knights who don’t obey?

They die.

#black sisters microfic #marauders microfic #the black sisters #bellatrix black #sirius black #black sisters #bellatrix lestrange #sirius orion black #the black family #the black cousins #the noble house of black #the noble and most ancient house of black #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #marauders fandom #the marauders era #dead gay wizards #dead gay wizards from the 70s

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hogwartsstudentconfidential · 3 months ago

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Hogsmeade Festival!

Dear Students, long time no talk.

Oh, how I've missed you all so so dearly. I bet you've missed me too. You know I've missed a bunch of updates while I've been...let's say busy. I suppose you all think this is an update on the drama circulating Hogwarts.

This is actually an update on events for the weekend and just that specifically, I know disappointing, right? But no matter this weekend is going to be a rockin'!

This weekend a festival is happening right down the street in Hogsmeade! From Friday to Monday, bands will be playing in the fields surrounding hogsmeade. There will be new flavors of ice cream at carts, free butterbeer, late night shenanigans (no curfew for the weekend!), even secret bonfires in the forbidden forest, And since the weather is heating up maybe even group parties down by the lake.

Oh and can't forget the best parts, food and games! There will be booths filled with wonderful new foods from all over to try, carnival-like booths filled with games and even minimal rides.

So head on down to Hogsmeade for this unforgettable weekend experience! I hope to see you all there.

-Confidential out 💋

@andromedashoax @marls-mckinn0n @lifeofthe-barty @whokilledevanrosier @hjonesworld @james-the-amazing-potter @starlight-starbright-thatsme @looneymoonyy @wormy-loves-ch33se @mary-mcdeal @mystical-magical-me @king-ofthe-crop @thathojamie @pandoras-nox @xeno-graphical @lucius-malfoy-back @rodolphus-le-strange @averykissableguy @fire-allayer @poison-penmanshi @cas-not-the-band @emmelineandhervans @sybill-patrica-trelawney @alicethekindone @flowers-of-narcissus @andromedashoax @the-queen-bellatrix @severusprince-snape @fabian-with-an-f @mollberryshortcake @fawningamos @k1ndest-keeper @annajohn-silvae @adam-lukas-morningstar @imogenmorningstar @oxxen--free @camille-laurier @luciagraham @your-favourite-callie @addison-caddel @daughter-of-spring @magandang-kaluluwa @secretlifeof-asher @toby-newtman-tics @bones-and-edgar @scattered-across-thesky

#marauders&co

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silverbriseis · 4 months ago

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I think Tom/Voldemort(applying to either of them) deserve to have more fucked up humour in fics since it's basically canon.

Like let's be honest, both of them basically LIVE for weirding people out, you'd either be downright uncomfortable at best spending time with them or psychologically scarred/traumatized at worst. Young Tom was basically the most terrible kid in Wools orphanage with what he did to the rabbit and how he literally made two kids mute from some unnamed noodle incident. It's pretty clear even from the dialogue that he was practically on a powertrip, likely finding it humorous that the other children didn't have the power or magic to defend themselves.

Voldemort on the other hand, is more subtle with displays of psychological torment(when he isn't throwing around crucios) Eg. Calling Peter wormtail and taking numerous jabs at his cowardice and then joking about bellatrixes "highest pleasure" in that scene and then asking draco if he would babysit the cubs... lol

The only reason he doesn't come across like a guy who jokes around often is because most, if not all of his "jokes" are delivered very straightforwardly– and also most of his screentime is basically just torturing people, something he finds fun albeit it doesn't come across as jolly to the audience for obvious reasons

Like he's the type of guy to audibly snort at his own jokes, he probably used to write out edgy ass jokes along with anagrams of his name in that stupid diary of his— he probably thinks of himself as the pinnacle of hilarity along with being the greatest dark wizard who ever lived, hes like that boss who makes lots of cringe jokes and laughs afterwards then your forced to laugh aswell because you don't wanna get fired(do the DES actually find the jokes funny or is it just because it's Voldemort who's telling them? Guess we'll never know)

Also,

“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

In joke form would sound like:

This is his sense of humor 100% in a nutshell, internally he thinks of himself as the funniest person ever because its soooo "unique" and definitely not like everyone elses

And the best thing??? He's completely socially aware of what constitutes as just "normal jokes" and "fucked up shit to say" when he isnt playing the subservient charmer act, he just doesn't CARE about appearing normal lmao

Sooo anyways Tomarry(mort if you want it) moment where they're maybe making out, and Tom pulls out just to monologue-

"Ah, I've never been so close to any soul but you and this special connection we share blooms further with every glance I devote to you, it shouldn't feel so significant yet it does undeniably so, our souls are connected just like how we are linked in blood, it is perhaps why we look so alike, we are releated after all—infact we share a common ancestor, we are practically family in roots. So tell me, Harry- how does it feel kissing your own flesh and blood?"

Tom laughs for a bit before leaning back in to kiss again and Harry is just gobsmacked in every single way like- 'Wtf??? I thought this was a makeout session and not a 23andme reveal??????'

Harry thought Tom was being serious for a minute and asking a question but Tom was genuinely fucking around In every way he just lowkey sucks In delivery LMDOEJSK

Also, Voldemort being dragged into a room of people(none of whom he likes) and the first thing he declares out loud is "Casting the impervious curse on everyone here would be deftly simple!" and everyone there just stops and stares at him like "????" And he laughs only to say something like "'Cease being so fretful, I am merely being humorous— unless..........."

Anyways, i could go on and on about scenarios like this LIKE let Tom/Vee be a little silly(murderously) He doesn't have to be serious/dark all the time!!!! Sometimes, he's just a jolly little fella who thinks he's the funniest person in the whole wide world(his murderous streak just adds to it, dont tell him the truth shhhh!)

Also, feel free to recommend fics here with a Voldemort/Tom like this because I would love to read them and im writing some of my own aswel!!l❤❤

#LetTheDarkLordBeALittleHumorous2025 #lord voldemort #voldemort #tom riddle #tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #harry potter #harry potter/tom riddle #harry/tom #harry potter fanfiction #tomarry meta #sorta lol #soulseeker

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httpvomitello · 4 months ago

Note

Would you write something for Harry where she almost gets killed by Bellatrix in the battle of the ministry so Harry feels guilty?

Hello, hello! WOW! NGL, I feel like it's been years since I've answered a request. But I'm slowly getting back to it and very soon I'll be reopening the asks! I apologize for the delay, but I was going through a terrible process of creative block, not to mention my work too 🙃. Anyways, hope you like it ~ ♡

Almost Lost You *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: During the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, you barely escape with your life after a deadly encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange. The aftermath leaves Harry drowning in guilt, and you just want him to see that none of it was his fault.

harry potter x f!reader

You had never been in a real battle before—not like this. Hogwarts duels were nothing compared to the sheer destruction surrounding you now.

You fought alongside your friends, throwing spells and dodging them just as quickly, your heart hammering as Death Eaters closed in. Harry was ahead, trying to protect the prophecy, and you stayed close, unwilling to let him out of your sight.

Then everything went wrong.

Bellatrix Lestrange’s cackle cut through the battlefield like a knife. “Aw, what do we have here? Another little blood traitor playing hero?”

You barely had time to react before she flicked her wand, sending a jet of light straight at you. You dodged on instinct, but she was relentless.

“CRUCIO!”

Pain like fire tore through you, stealing your breath and forcing you to your knees. You gasped, barely able to think, the world twisting and turning in agony. Distantly, you heard someone shout your name, but Bellatrix was already moving closer.

“I wonder how long you’ll last before you beg,” she mused, tilting her head with a wicked grin.

Through the haze of pain, you forced yourself to look up, meeting her wild, dark eyes. “Screw you,” you spat, trembling.

Bellatrix grinned wider. “Oh, I do like when they fight back—”

A bolt of light shot past you, and suddenly, she was gone, thrown back by a stunning spell. Your body ached, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it. Harry was in front of you, his face pale with panic.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice shaking.

You tried to nod but winced. “I’m fine.”

His hands gripped your arms, his eyes scanning your face. “No, you’re not.”

Before you could argue, another explosion rocked the room, and Harry pulled you up, keeping you close as you both ran back into the fight.

Days later, back at Grimmauld Place, the battle still replayed in your mind—especially the moment you had almost died. At least, despite the scare, you managed to save Sirius. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to just move on from something like that, but you knew one thing: Harry hadn’t spoken to you since you left the Ministry.

You found him in Sirius’ old room, sitting by the window, staring out at nothing. His hands were clenched into fists, his expression hard. You stepped inside, closing the door softly.

“Harry.”

He didn’t turn, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said quietly, stepping closer.

Still, no response.

You swallowed hard. “If this is about what happened at the Ministry—”

His jaw tightened. “Of course it is.”

You hesitated, then sat beside him. “It wasn’t your fault, Harry.”

His head snapped toward you, green eyes burning. “Yes, it was,” he said harshly. “If I hadn’t led us there, if I hadn’t believed the vision—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You almost died, Y/N. She was torturing you, and I—I couldn’t do anything.”

You exhaled softly. “But you did. You saved me.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have been in danger in the first place.”

Your heart ached at the guilt in his voice. You reached out, hesitantly taking his hand. “We all made the choice to go with you, Harry. I made that choice. Because I care about you.”

He finally looked at you, his gaze searching. “And what if I lost you?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t—I don’t know what I’d do.”

Your fingers squeezed his. “But you didn’t.”

Harry didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. The room was quiet, filled only with the weight of everything left unsaid between you.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, despite the heaviness of the conversation. You gave him a small, reassuring smile. “You won’t.”

For the first time in days, something in Harry’s eyes softened. He exhaled, his fingers lacing with yours as if grounding himself.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said after a moment.

You smiled. “Only if you promise the same.”

His lips quirked slightly, the tension in his face finally easing. “Deal.”

#reader #x reader #y/n #f!reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #harry potter #harry potter x fem!reader #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #bellatrix lestrange

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toby-newtman-tics · 7 months ago

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Hiii, my name is Toby! Toby Newtman, actually.

Let’s get to know me!

🎨Half blood

⭐️15

🌈bi

☕️he/him

🗣️Tourette’s syndrome

I like: painting, green, whismyfolk, Spider-Man comics, likes drinking coffee, bees, collecting things, making paper stars, playing piano, and French fries

I don’t like: the dark, people judging me, my Tourette’s, people, saying something rude with my tics, scary people

@xeno-graphical @lifeofthe-barty @little-king-official @mary-mcdeal @marls-mckinn0n @cas-not-the-band @james-the-amazing-potter @oxxen--free @tjsinclairofficial @wormy-loves-ch33se @alicethekindone @flowers-of-narcissus @andromedashoax @flyasaphoenix @looneymoonyy @emmelineandhervans @the-queen-bellatrix @thebr1ghteststar @voldemortscult @fire-allayer @averykissableguy @anastasia-selwyn @aelius-with-a-quill @poison-penmanship @lilyevansoffical @mollberryshortcake @fabian-with-an-f @little-king-official @imogenmorningstar @camille-laurier @rodolphus-le-strange @adam-lukas-morningstar @severusprince-snape @hjonesworld @pandoras-nox @malfoy-lu @serectlifeof-asher @luciagrahms @lialovergirl

#marauders&co

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fics-by-noworriesifnot · 8 months ago

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Chapter Eight: PART ONE: Requiem for the Half-Brained Do-Gooders Please mind the tags with this chapter. Ao3 link

“Are you sure?” Hermione said, looking up at Draco from the pensieve. Her grip was tight on the test tube containing her memory of the night Draco died.

Draco smirked. “Trying to back out already?” He said, arching a brow.

She turned back to the basin and gently poured her memory into the silvery liquid. As the contents began to swirl she caught sight of Crookshanks peering over her shoulder and before she could do anything, they were all pulled from the cool dark dungeons into a swirling cacophony of noise and light. “Oh! Crookshanks!” Hermione gasped as she, Draco and the cat swirled through disjointed fragments of Hermione’s memories. “Blasted menace.” Draco sighed.

When their feet connected with gravel, Hermione managed to catch Crookshanks in her arms with a soft ‘oof,’ and held him tightly to her chest. She breathed in his sun warmed hay smell as their surrounds slowly came into focus to reveal they’d landed on the grounds of Hogwarts, at the night of the battle. They squinted through the bright haze of the memory to see that the castle was crumbling, and crawling with acromantulas. Small fires crackled away while unidentified bodies lay motionless across the courtyard. Hermione exhaled sharply as they turned to see Harry being confronted by Lord Voldemort.

“Oh, Harry.” She breathed, her heart clenched at the sight of her scrawny friend facing the dark wizard, wandless but determined. She looked across at Draco who was watching, confusion playing on his face. “We were all so shocked to see Harry hadn’t died in the forest,” she explained, “no one noticed he was unarmed… except you.”

Dracos eyes narrowed as he watched the memory of himself pull away from the group of Death Eaters on Voldemort's periphery. “Potter!” His double shouted, tossing his wand to a perplexed Harry. “Voldemort turned his wand on you.” Hermione said softly, watching as the dark lord spun in place to point his wand at Draco. “TRAITOR!” He said, his pointed teeth exposed from his snarl. “Your family has failed me for the last time.” “And then…” Hermione said, her voice drowned out from Voldemort’s bellow. “AVADA KEDAVRA!” There was a flurry of movement, footsteps pounded across the courtyard. Green light erupted from Voldemort’s wand. “Your father jumped in front of the curse.” Hermione said, unable to look Draco in the eye as they watched Lucius Malfoy throw himself in front of the killing curse, shoving Draco aside. Lucius’ long hair and robes billowed out behind him, his face pulled into a defiant scowl as the green light barreled through his chest. “Father!” Draco cried, falling to his knees over Lucius’ crumpled form. “H-He didn’t suffer.” Hermione swallowed thickly and looked askance at the spectre of Draco Malfoy as he realised his father had died to protect him. His mouth was hanging open slightly, as he watched on in horror. Though he’d never had colour in his ghostly features, she could have sworn he’d grown paler.

“That’s when the final battle began.” Hermione said as green and red lights lit up the grounds. They watched as Harry and Voldemort’s spells collided. Neville sliced clean through Voldemort’s snake with the sword of Gryffindor. Hermione’s heart raced as she watched the memory of her and Ron being chased by an enormous spider. Draco was slumped over his father. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched Lucius’ robes. He looked so small.

“Everything descended into chaos. Neville killed Nagini, Ron and I were cornered by an acromantula. And your Aunt… she was furious” Hermione said, as they watched Bellatrix Lestrange approach Draco’s hunched form, her body contorted with rage. “You idiot boy. Look what you’ve done.” Bellatrix spat, her movements were sporadic and rigid, like a wooden puppet. Nearby Hermione shrieked as she struggled against the acromantula, that held her down while it grappled with Ron. They watched as Hermione desperately reached for her wand that had fallen a few feet away, her fingers outstretched. “The spider had me pinned. I could only watch.” Hermione said breathlessly to Draco. Bellatrix's shrill voice pulled their attention back to the scene that was unfolding across the courtyard. “I raised you like you were my own son after your mother died, while your foolish father wasted his life away- and this is how you repay me?!” Bellatrix’s hand rested on her heaving chest as she looked down at Draco with disdain.

“It was bad enough that you interfered to save that pretty little Mudblood.” Bellatrix snarled, her fist clenched around her wand, then she paused, her head bent at an odd angle while her voice lilted dangerously. “But this… well, this is unforgivable.” “Ginny!” Hermione yelled as her friend approached to help her from where she was trapped under the spider. “Behind you, Malfoy’s in trouble!” “Oh, and you’re not?” Ginny snorted as the spider wrapped Ron up in its web. Bellatrix loomed further over Draco. “You have betrayed the dark lord and sullied the Black name.” She raised her wand which emitted angry sparks as she took a predatory step forward.

“Ginny freed us.” Hermione said as they watched Ginny blast the spider with a powerful Bombarda, then she and Ginny bolted in the direction where Bellatrix stood over Draco. “You are no blood of mine.” Bellatrix's voice was cold as Draco raised an arm to shield his face. “We tried to stop her.” Hermione’s voice came out as a whisper as she and Ginny scrambled across the grounds, firing spells at the witch. “But we were too late.” Her voice broke as their surroundings were bathed in green light.

#dramione #draco malfoy #dramione fanart #hp fanart #hermione x draco #hermione granger #fanart #hermione granger and the petulant poltergeist #dramione ghost story #ghost draco

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averagewriter-inthedark · 1 year ago

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Me & The Devil P.2 🌘| Harry Potter Imagine

takes place during HBP & DH1

Part 1 here Final Part | HP Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Black!Sister reader x HP characters (platonic), Severus Snape x reader (platonic/semi-romantic)

Content Warnings: death, violence, profanity, angst, slight cannon divergence, mentions of torture and blood, set during the book timeline of the 1990s | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 6k

Requested yes/no

Premise: A dark storm is brewing over Hogwarts. The return of Voldemort and his Death Eaters spark unease in the Golden Trio. For a certain member of the Noble House of Black, she takes on a new role of double agent with the partnership between her and a certain Hogwarts professor. Will she survive the ordeal and get her freedom when it's all over? The odds are slim when acting as a loyal servant and hunted by aurors.

Note: Snape is 37 in this like the books and reader is 31. Part 3 will be the final chapter to this miniseries but I have no idea when it will be posted. Hope y’all like this one! Also near the end the final scenes are inspired by Wanda in MOM so yeah that belongs to Marvel

——————-

Months went by. Waiting. Scheming. Y/n felt her mind deteriorate by the day. Between Bellatrix’s constant complaints of Draco’s failures and Narcissa’s moping, Y/n spent most of her time in the attic of Malfoy Manor. Hidden away to perfect her spells and create new ones. She even managed to successfully become an animagus.

A black crow.

How fitting.

At times Y/n found herself sitting in front of the window. Especially when it rained. The lightning in the distance, the crisp air filling the attic walls. Lost in her thoughts, Y/n would caress the silver jewelry laid on her left ring finger.

Once a month she’d receive a letter from Severus, unbeknownst to the others, detailing Draco’s attempts and all the times Snape’s had to cover for him. As part of their deal to keep quiet of the others' disloyalty and motives behind actions, Snape agreed to update her on Draco and keep the Order off Y/n’s trail. For Y/n’s side of the bargain, she agreed to deflect suspicion on him from their fellow Death Eaters. Specifically her sisters.

And what better way to do that then in holy matrimony.

“You want to get married?” she scoffed, placing her wine glass on the coaster. Having left with her sisters following the unbreakable vow, Y/n returned later that night after Severus sent an owl. Sitting in the same leather chair from before, “You humor me.”

“I can assure you I am everything but comical, Y/n,” he drawled, standing by the fireplace. The sound of wood crackling filled the room. “This is not an arrangement I suggest lightly.”

Seeing how serious he was, Y/n’s demeanor changed. “Wow,” her tone lowered, finger raising to tap her lips. Unable to read her mind since she was a gifted Occulmens like himself, Snape was left to wonder what Y/n was thinking. Truth be told the woman was more impressed than shocked by his proposal. “I think that’s the first time I’ve been rendered speechless, Severus.” Standing, Y/n grabbed her glass and approached the man. “You truly believe this would work? Proposing a marriage between us….” she trailed, glancing at the fire briefly, “is intriguing. Tell me more.”

Snape’s expression remained the same, “It is simply a matter of convenience.” No need to sugar coat it, “We want to keep our secrets hidden. So long as you can assure your sisters stay off my back…..I’ll make sure the Order stays off yours. We play the part of a happy married couple when operating business with the Dark Lord, and I will do everything in my power to get your freedom when this all ends.”

Y/n liked what she was hearing. The more she thought about it, the more engrossed she became. Marrying Snape wasn’t ideal--as the concept itself she did not care for--but Y/n could not deny the idea made her curious. Plus Severus was handsome, a talented wizard, and obviously, he knew her motives for following Voldemort. What her end goal was. She needed to keep him close.

“I think I’ll find playing the part of a smitten wife will be rather easy,” she rasped, stepping closer to Snape so their chests were nearly touching. Walking her fingertips up the length of his arm, Y/n leaned closer to Snape which ignited a sharp breath from the man. She smelled of expensive perfume. Their closeness allowed him to see how her eyes turned from their usual coldness to something more lustful. Almost sinister. His reaction made her smirk, “Confident you can manage the same….husband?”

Now, almost a year later, the two managed to successfully keep their union hidden from the Order. All while any suspicion the Death Eaters had of Snape seemed to disappear. Bellatrix, initially furious and doubtful of their ‘relationship’, soon began to trust him. Still, the witch grimaced each time the pair greeted the other with an affectionate kiss. Or when Y/n took claim to Snape’s lap during meetings. An action which surprised the man himself in the beginning.

Each letter Severus sent was met with one in return, however Y/n was careful to only send her owl in the late hours of the night. When her family was sound asleep. Signing the parchment with only her initials, but instead of B as the ending initial it was S. She’d never admit it aloud, but Y/n felt a sense of comfort with Severus. There was an overwhelming amount of hate in her heart, but the pinch of sanity left in her soul connected to him. Which is not a surprise. He is, of course, the only person who can relate to her.

Neither would call it love. Y/n possessed no love. And Snape lost his when Lily died. They had mutual respect and care for each other as their partnership grew. Finding the other’s presence calm despite the world around them going to shit.

The news of Draco’s success in connecting the two cabinets came from Bellatrix’s glee, the woman bursting into the attic with a loud, “It’s time, sister.” Reluctantly, Y/n trailed Bellatrix to Knockturn Alley, where they met several of their associates.

Dark clouds painted the sky. Thunder rumbling. It set the tone of the evening.

Y/n stayed stoic the entire journey. Hating every minute, yet doing nothing to escape. Where could she even go? The mark on her arm prevented her from doing so. Until Voldemort was defeated, the only way for her to stay alive was to continue the act of a loyal servant.

Draco was gone when the group breached the cabinet in a cloud of black smoke. The boy rushed to find Dumbledore and complete his task. He found the man on the observation deck of the Astronomy Tower. Unaware his longtime rival, Harry Potter, was below him, watching the scene play out.

The others arrived to witness Draco complete the task, however, in the end Snape was the one to administer the curse. And so the greatest wizard in history fell from the sky.

Y/n kept her eyes on Severus the entire time. Watching his reaction. When he went through with the unthinkable, Y/n wasted no time in rushing to his side. Cupping his face, she noticed the dissociative expression Snape wore. Mind processing what he had done. “Severus,” he didn’t respond, making her shake his shoulders, “look at me.” Finally he meets her eye and the woman matches his anxious demeanor. “We have to go. Now.”

Clutching his robe, the two push Draco in the direction of the Death Eaters. Bellatrix’s maniacal laughter rings as she shoots a spell into the sky to bring forth the Dark Lord’s symbol in the clouds. Not long after the tower was surrounded by members of the Order, ensuing a battle between the groups. Y/n tried to avoid dueling as much as possible. Not wanting to harm anyone, especially the kids in the school.

Cutting the corner after dodging a spell from her niece Nymphadora, Y/n spotted the wretched Fenrir Greyback attacking a man she didn’t recognize. Judging by the wild red hair he possessed, she assumed it was a Weasley. Greyback’s back was toward her, unaware she stood behind him. From the looks of it, the redhead was losing the fight.

Not sure what came over her at that moment, Y/n raised her wand and shouted, “Stupefy!” The werewolf was flung into the wall behind him, falling unconscious.

“Bill!” a voice screamed, Y/n turning to see a young woman running to where the Weasley laid. Bloodied and knocked out. Fluer dropped beside him, sobbing at the state of her fiance. She glanced up to see Y/n, immediately becoming frozen with fear while pleading with her to help. “Y-you--H-he’s been--.”

Cursing to herself, Y/n approached the two. “He wasn’t bit,” adjusting her dress skirt, she grabbed the cuffs of Bill’s jacket and gestured for Fluer to help. Together they moved him to a concealed area away from the battle. “He’s been scratched.” Having studied werewolves while in school, the woman was well educated on the subject. Muttering a healing spell, Y/n attempted to at least stop the bleeding, however, she knew the extent of his injuries were serious. “Nevertheless, the wounds are cursed. They’ll scar.”

Fluer watched her carefully, “W-why are you helping us?” Y/n gave no answer, instead casting a final healing spell before standing up to leave. In her peripheral vision, she noticed movement from Greyback, and sent a second stun his way to keep him unconscious. She always hated him, so it gave her great pleasure to pu thim down.

Truth be told Y/n didn’t know why she helped the injured Weasley. It would have best suited her to get the hell out of there and let whatever outcome happen. Whether that be Greyback killing the man or Bill successfully overpowering the werewolf. But instead, she cursed her associate. Saving the life of ‘the enemy’.

Several agonizing minutes passed before Y/n managed to escape the tower. At Snape’s order, she ran deep into the forest until she was far enough to apparate. Back at the manor she was immediately questioned by her sister.

“Is Draco okay,” Narcissa grabbed Y/n’s wrist to stop her from escaping to the attic. Eyes glossy with tears, “Did he--.”

“Your son is fine, Narcissa,” she roughly pulled away. “You have my husband to thank for that--he finished the job.” There was immediate relief from Narcissa, exhaling the breath she had been holding. Y/n went straight to the liquor cabinent, taking a glass and pouring a generous amount before downing it. She then refilled the glass, offering it to her sister without a word. Once Narcissa took it Y/n kept the bottle for herself, saying nothing more as she made her way to the attic.

It wasn’t long before the others arrived. Y/n heard Narcissa’s cry of relief upon seeing Draco. Bellatrix was busy scolding Greyback--something that brought a smile to her face. Other murmurs were made out, but hard to identify with all the noise. Moments later she heard the fast approaching sound of footsteps nearing her door. Jolting from her bed with her wand raised at whoever was about to breach it. Only when it was revealed to be Severus did Y/n lower her guard, rolling her eyes, “What have I told you about--.”

Snape slammed the door shut, muttering a silencing charm which caused Y/n to raise her brow. “We need to talk.” Her guarded expression returned, but Snape beat her before she could question him. “I know you stunned the werewolf to save Weasley.” All movement from the woment seized, frozen in shock.

“How do you know--.”

“I saw you with Miss. Delacour, Y/n,” Snape peers down at her with visible frustration. “Why would you risk such a thing? If you had been caught--.”

“But I wasn’t, Severus,” she interrupts, eyes flicking to the door in fear someone was listening, but then she remembered the spell he cast. “I was careful. You should know better than to underestimate me. And to answer your question….” she turned away from him, hands on her hips as she turned her focus to the woods beyond her window. “I don’t know what possessed me to do what I did--It just happened. Maybe it’s the fact the Weasley’s are distant family. Or because I fucking hate Greyback.” She throws her hands up in defeat, “Or I want the Order to have all its members to better their chances at winning this damn war. Maybe…” her hands fall back to her sides, “deep down there’s some humanity left in me.” The words were so low it was barely a whisper. Y/n shook her head, the speck of softness replaced with disinterest.

“Whatever it was,” turning back to him, Y/n narrows her eyes in warning. “It’s no longer our concern. Dumbledore is dead, you killed him.” footsteps echo against the wood as she approaches Snape, noticing his expression change at the mention of the headmaster. “He will be plotting his next move. We need to remain focused--I expect his attention will be on us more now given the circumstances.”

Snape knows she’s right. Killing Albus only shined a spotlight on him, and in turn on Y/n. He was now labeled public enemy #1 in the eyes of the Order. Voldemort himself will likely turn to Snape. They will have to up their game, continuing the act of a happy couple. Well happy as one can be in the middle of a war.

That summer was endless torture following the Headmaster’s death. Y/n not only had to deal with Voldemort growing stronger, but also the return of Lucius from Azkaban. It did bring the witch great joy to see the dark circles beneath his eyes and matted hair. One year in prison did a number on him.

Lucky for Lucius it was only one year. Had it been 15 like Y/n, he’d surely gone mad. Thankfully the two rarely saw each other. Not long after his release following Dumbledore’s death Y/n moved into Severus' home. Only returning to the mansion when necessary.

At every Death Eater meeting Y/n had to fight yawning with how bored she was, keeping her expression blank even when addressed by Voldermort from time to time. The man wasn’t blind. Well aware the youngest Black was not as forthcoming with her praises to him like Bellatrix. Never voicing her opinions, while also keeping any objections to herself like a smart person would do. He never fully trusted her. Even though she was married to one of his most trusted advisors, something in the back of his mind told Voldemort she’d be the first to turn on him. Without proof, Voldemort kept a close eye.

The meeting tonight was just like any other. Seated at the massive dining table in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort at the head while the Black’s and Malfoy’s flanked to the right. Y/n seated beside Draco, far from her sisters. Very telling of her attitude towards them.

Severus was the last to arrive, dark cloak tailing behind him. His entrance caught everyone’s attention, while his was on his colleague hanging in the air. Muggle studies professor Charity Burbage. The wounds on her body indicated she had been subjected to torture.

“Severus,” Voldemort greeted, “I was beginning to worry you had lost your way. Come. We’ve saved you a seat.” The headmaster took claim to the only free chair at the table, bidding a look to his wife, to which she slightly shook her head. Silently saying, “I had no part in this.”

Voldemort then said, “Do you bring news, I trust?”

“It will happen Saturday next, at nightfall.”

“I’ve heard differently, my Lord,” Yaxley interrupted at the other end of the table, then proceeds to say he believes Harry will be moved at the end of the month. The 30th of July. The day before his 17th birthday.

“This is a false trail,” Snape insists. “The auror office no longer plays any part in the protection of Harry Potter. “Those closest to him believe we have infiltrated the ministry.”

The Death Eater seated beside Y/n laughed, “Well, they got that right aren’t they.” Several at the table joined in the laughter. The youngest Black’s expression was tight, plastered with annoyance.

“What’s say you, Pius?” Voldemort addresses the man seated at the opposite head of the table.

Nagini curled herself next to the chair as he answered, “One hears many things, my Lord. Whether the truth is among them is not clear.” Voldemort chuckles.

“Spoken like a true politician. You will, I think, prove most useful, Pius.” The Death Eater appears pleased by the compliment. Voldemort turns back to Snape, “Where will he be taken, the boy?”

“To a safe house. Most likely the home of someone in the Order. I’m told it’s been given every manner of protection possible, once there it will be impractical to attack him.”

Suddenly the conversation is interrupted by Bellatrix. “My Lord, I’d like to volunteer myself for this task.” She leans against the table, voice dropping, “I want to kill the boy.”

“Of course you would,” Y/n thinks to herself, holding back the urge to roll her eyes. Frankly she found her sister to be stupid to ask such a thing. Considering Voldemort mentions his desire to kill Harry Potter everyday. And with the prophecy, there’s no way he’d allow anyone else the opportunity to do the deed.

In the back, Charity let out a haunting groan, causing Voldermort to shout, “Wormtail! Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guest’s quiet?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the man spoke with urgency. “Right away, my Lord.” As he scurried off, Voldemort returned his attention to Bellatrix.

“As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bellatrix,” the hope was clear in her eyes, disappearing with his next words. “I must be the one to kill Harry Potter.” With that she curled back into her seat, Y/n’s lips raising in a satisfied smirk.

“But,” he rises from his chair, “I face an unfortunate complication.” As much as Y/n wanted to tune out this conversation, the nature of it was hard to dismiss. Especiall when the man walked behind the chairs on her side of the table. Brushing past her sisters before ending beside Lucius. There was satisfaction seeing him visibly afraid of Voldemort. A smirk on her lips when he was to give up his wand, a wizard’s most prized possession.

Her expression shifted when Charity’s brought to the center of the table. Death Eaters laughing at her despair and cringing with disgust at her profession. Y/n moves her gaze to Severus, who’s emotionless to Charity’s pleas. Then when the woman’s killed and her body drops to the table, Y/n lifts her hand to grasp Draco’s wrist. Squeezing it in warning for him to control himself when she sees his distraught state in the corner of her eyes.

The action surprises the boy. Draco sucking in a breath and forcing himself to relax. Once he does, Y/n removes her touch and waits to be dismissed by Voldemort. As soon as the order is given she’s quick to leave the table, taking Snape’s outstretched hand where he apparates them back home.

“How do you plan--?” he doesn’t let her finish the question.

“I have it covered.” Moving to his study, he hears her footsteps behind him, Y/n slamming the door shut once they’ve entered. He looked annoyed, “This doesn’t concern you.”

“The hell it does!” she shouted, making him clench his jaw. Ever since the incident at the Astronomy tower the two had been on edge with each other. For one, the Order discovered their marriage causing Y/n to lose her shit. Now she was public enemy #2 in their eyes. Or 3 if you count Voldermort at the top. Her odds of the Order leaving her the fuck alone decreased immensly.

Second, Snape told her of his and Dumbledore’s arrangement. That the headmaster asked Snape to kill him. A secret Y/n had trouble wrapping her head around and prayed to a higher power no one, especially Bellatrix, found out about.

Crossing over to him where he stood at his desk, Y/n caught his wrist to make him look at her. “In case you have forgotten, dear husband, we are playing both sides right now. You say you want to protect Harry Potter…just how do you plan to do that during an ambush you helped orchestrate? What the hell are we supposed to do if Harry Potter dies at his hands Saturday next?” Y/n squeezed his wrist tighter, “I’m putting all my trust into Severus Snape. You promised me my freedom when this was all over.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Y/n,” he removes himself from her grip, “You say you trust me. Do so, and you won’t be let down.”

Y/n didn’t know where it all went wrong. One moment she was flying in the sky, the next she’s being rammed into by Bill Weasley’s Thestral. Pain erupted in her chest, likely from a broken rib and caught herself on the creature's satchel. Her hand is then grabbed by the imposter Harry seated behind Bill, keeping Y/n steady to prevent falling to her death. Using her talent of legitimins, Y/n identifies the imposter as Bill’s fiance Fluer.

“You’re not Harry Potter,” she whispers, causing Harry (Fluer) to widen her eyes. The accusation was confirmed when Fluer’s voice responded, “How did you know?” Before Y/n could answer, however, the world around her became black. Having been stunned by Bill who realized what was happening behind him.

Acting fast, Fluer reached with her other hand to further grasp Y/n’s now limp body onto the Thestral.

“What are you doing?” Bill shouted over the chaos, “She’s one of them!”

“And she saved your life in the Astronomy tower, William!” Fluer screamed back. Using all her might, she hauled Y/n over the bottom half of the creature. Gripping the material of her robes and dress while ducking at the incoming curses around them.

When they finally made it to the Burrow, the shaky landing caused Fluer to lose her hold. Y/n fell to the ground, still unconscious. Bruises were sure to form on her body. Bill leaped off the Thestral, helped Fluer off and rushed to Y/n. After confirming she was alive by pressing his fingers to her pulse, the oldest Weasley took the death eater into his arms and followed Fluer into the house. But not before telling Fluer to take her wand which had been discarded into a ditch.

“Wait here,” he said, placing Y/n in the care of Fluer by setting her on a bench outside the door, Bill entered to find the others gathered around an injured George. After the shock wore off of his brother’s state, Bill announced the death of Mad-eye and departure of Mundungus. Deepening the already intense mood.

“There’s something else,” he hesitated, eyes flickering to find everyone staring at him with unease. They watched Bill exit the house, only to return a second later dragging the last person they ever expected. Gasps rang out, wands drawn in Y/n’s direction. The witch barely conscious but fighting against Bill’s hold. Eventually succumbing to sleep once again due to the pounding in her head.

With the help of Remus, the two propped Y/n in a chair, casting a spell to bind her hands and legs. “Where’s her wand?” Remus urgently looked around, relieved to see the object in Fluer’s possession. He turned to Bill, “What the hell happened?”

As the oldest Weasley explained, Molly approached the woman, assessing her carefully. Y/n had dirt and grime in her hair. A small cut to her temple. Likely from a rock when she fell from the Threstral. Her breathing was shaky, pained groans escaping her mouth which Molly assumed was from trauma to her chest. Although the others were against it, Molly began performing healing spells on Y/n, “Had it not been for her my son would be dead! I do not care what side she is on--I shall offer the same courtesy.”

The group was alerted to Y/n’s consciousness twenty minutes later when she groaned. Shifting in the chair, her eyelids fluttered briefly before opening to bright lights. Moaning, Y/n straightened up aware of the audience in front of her, however she did not appear concerned. Even with several wands pointing at her. “Hmmmph,” she blinks a few times, settling her gaze on Remus, “what an unpleasant situation we have here. I hoped to be dead before experiencing this.”

It pained Remus to hear her words. Thinking back to that little girl he’d met on the corner of Diagon Alley with James, perched on Sirius’ hip. That little girl was gone. In her place was a woman with the Devil on her shoulder. “We don’t want to hurt you, Y/n.”

Tilting her head as though she found his statement funny, she replies “Is that supposed to make me feel at ease?” rolling her eyes she adds, “Surely you could’ve come up with something better.”

Remus sighed, realizing it was about to be a long night. “We’re willing to negotiate terms if you provide us with information. A lesser sentence if you will,” he chose his next words carefully, seeing her demenor shift, “so long as you are upfront and answer all of our questions with honesty.” Y/n’s face tightened, no longer humored. Remus felt his stomach lurch, not breaking the intense eye contact she set with him.

“You threaten me--.”

“It’s not a threat--,” he insists but Y/n continues.

“With a cell in Azkaban and expect me to comply? By being a snitch?” she shakes her head, eyes full of fury. “Go to hell, Remus Lupin.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Oh?” She grumbles with a glare, “and how else do you suggest it be? I’m not stupid--a tad mad if we want to get technical, but you all have yourselves to blame for that.” Y/n was referring to the Order not taking her in during the First Wizarding War. Sirius warned them of his family and the Death Eaters recruiting her at a young age. Yet no attempt to protect Y/n was initiated.

The werewolf’s face fell, “Had we known--.”

“Known what?!” She jumped forward in her chair as the dam of pent up resentment and anger broke, making several flinch at the sudden movement. A few wands pointed up but she paid them no mind. “That I’d become a Death Eater against my will? That I’d be forced to use the Cruciatus Curse on the Longbottoms or face my sister’s wrath?” She spat with ferocity. Pupils nearly pitch black it made her appear demonic. “You knew what my family was like! Sirius knew--It’s why he left! And you did nothing to save me.” Leaning back in the chair, Y/n finished with, “Go ahead and kill me. I’m not telling you shit.”

Remus runs a hand through his hair, his patience running thin and stress levels rising. “Y/n, I’m trying to help you here. We’re giving you the opportunity to avoid a lifetime in jail if you help us--help us end this war.” When his efforts are exhausted Remus gestures to the man behind him, “Kingsley has Veritaserum and we will use it if necessary.” Now this has her smirking, chin raising in challenge.

“Go ahead,” her voice lowers an octave, sending chills along his arms, “I welcome you to.” Weary of her acceptance, the adult members of the Order all exchange looks before Kingsley approaches. Y/n tilts her head back, watching Kingsley unscrew the vial and pour the tiny amount of liquid onto her tongue. Once it’s entered her stream, the woman cracks her neck and returns her attention to Remus.

He clasped his hands in his lap, leaning in his chair. “How’d you know about tonight?”

Y/n pretends to think, “I think I saw an advertisement in the Daily Prophet. Yeah,” she nods her head, acting serious. “That was it.”

Remus’s own head falls to his chest, the others visibly confused. The potion was to make her tell the truth. Pretty much against her will. Thinking it may have not settled in yet, Remus asks another question. “Who told him we were moving Harry?”

Deciding to play along, Y/n shrugs her shoulders, “Yaxley.” Lie. She held back a chuckle at his confused reaction.

“How did he know?”

“Overheard it.” Lie.

“Where?”

“Diagon Alley I assume.” Lie.

“From who?”

“I don’t know.” Lie.

“But he’s the one who told Voldemort.” Y/n rolled her eyes at that, gesturing to her binded hands.

“Obviously since we’re sitting in this predicament.” She sees the frustration on Remus, as well as the others. Yet, the witch couldn’t help but feel entertained. “Anything else?”

“What’s your relationship to Severus Snape?”

“He’s my husband,” She didn’t miss the way the Order reacted to the news. Upset but not surprised. No point in lying. They already knew about their marriage from what Snape told her. The truth of why, however, was still a secret.

“Why did he kill Dumbledore?” Harry stepped forward, drawing her attention to him. Anger was written all over his face. Filled with absolute hatred. Something Y/n had expected when her husband murdered the man he looked up to.

“You were there, right?” she asked, head tilting with curiosity. “Snape mentioned you’d been below the observatory deck.” Tsking, Y/n surveyed him. She was getting under his skin. “Why do you think he did it?”

“I think he did it to save himself. He was a coward,” Harry saw the way her face tightened. Taking offense to his words. A mere speck of what someone could label as affection or respect to her spouse.

“Severus Snape is many things,” she sounded sinister, anger seeping off every word. “But a coward is not one of them.”

“Fat lot of good coming from you.” Harry antagonized her. “You hightailed it out of the ministry when Sirius died. He was your own cousin.”

“My cousin who left me a sitting duck for the wolves,” Y/n reminded the boy, temper rising. An indicator with how her voice was strained. “Let’s not forget you all thought he was responsible for betraying your parents. Didn’t even hesitate to believe he was guilty.” That cut them all deep. “And I adored Sirius at one point in life. Much like you, Harry Potter,” she let out a deep sigh, attempting to calm herself, “look at where it got me.” Exhaustion was beginning to take over the witch. Her body ached and there was a pounding in her head. Molly’s healing spells worked to patch any internal injuries Y/n had, but she still was drained from the whole ordeal.

They were getting off track. Having had enough of the tension, Remus butted in, “Answer the question, Y/n. Why did Snape kill Dumbledore?”

“I don’t know,” she simply stated. Lie. “He didn’t say. Although…I can only assume it was to spare my poor nephew.” Another shrug, “And survive the unbreakable vow. Which you already know of.”

Harry shook his head, “I don’t believe you.” His gut was telling him there was more to the story.

“Harry, she took the Veritaserum,” Hermoine pointed out gently, missing the flicker of amusement from Y/n. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Hermoine’s right, Harry,” Ron agreed, moving beside his friend. “There’s no way she could be lying.”

“How much did you give her, Kingsley?” Arthur questioned, also suspicious of Y/n’s answers. Kingsley held up the vial. More than half was consumed.

“Enough.”

“Something’s off,” he murmured, rubbing his chin. A bickering match ensued between members of the Order. Harry, Arthur, and even Y/n’s niece, Tonks, had difficulty believing Y/n told the truth. The majority, however, voiced opposition.

“Veritaserum is a very potent and strong potion, Harry,” Remus stood from his chair, but before he could say anything else, Y/n’s voice took over.

“Which you just wasted.”

Silence consumes the room. Processing what she said. That’s not possible.

Heads turning to the witch, Y/n starts to chuckle in delight. A sight unnerving to the Order as it becomes more deranged. Harry looked to his friends for an answer, but they were just as perplexed as him. Y/n’s voice turns taunting, “Oh my, you lot really are daft at times. Have you forgotten? Or did you believe it to be a rumor?” Her grin is wicked, finding the scene entertaining much to their dismay. “I’m a skilled Occulmens.”

It was as though the dementors arrived with how cold the air became. Everyone falters, stilling at the revelation. It could only mean one thing:

Everything Y/n said potentially was a lie.

The Death Eater tsked, “What do you think I did with all that time I had rotting in the middle of the ocean?” she laughs again, more menacingly. “Your little potion is useless! My mind is more protected than Azkaban. For all you know I fabricated everything I just told you.” Her taunting laugh continues, shredding the last ounce of patience the Order had for her.

Remus kneeled in front of her chair and smacked the table, causing everyone besides Y/n to flinch. “Enough of these games! I have tried to give you the benefit of the doubt knowing you’d been forced into this life, but you have proven to be not so different from your associates.” Now that was a nail to the coffin. Any and all of Remus’s hope for Y/n having some level of good in her gone. “This is your final warning--or we will throw you in Azkaban for the rest of your life for good!”

Never straying her stare, the Death Eater murmered cooly, “You have no idea how reasonable I’ve been.” This time it was Remus’s turn to scoff.

“Holding children hostage at the Ministry, attacking Hogwarts, marrying Snape, and sending assassins after the officials who locked you up,” He lists off, surprising the Order with the last detail. They had heard rumors of Azkaban guards and Ministry officials killed in the last few months, but assumed it was Bellatrix. “I don’t see how that’s being reasonable.”

Y/n gave a sound that was a mix of a chuckle and scoff, leaning forward in her chair. “Sending those assassins after them instead of myself was mercy.” A chill rose, Harry’s intuition telling him something was about to happen. “And despite your hypocrises and insults I have warned you time and time again to simply get out of my way.” Remus saw her hands fidget, tightening his grip on his wand.

“You’ve exhausted my patience,” Her voice lowered once more, almost to a whisper as her bottom lip quivered. “But I do hope you understand…that even now--with what’s about to happen…..” lips curled into a deathly smirk. “This is me being…reasonable.”

Faster than the speed of light, Y/n casts a non-verble, wandless spell that mimics a gust a powerful wind, ripping the binds off her hands and ankles. Remus flies onto his back, the lights flicker and burst. The windows and glass shatter. Papers fly. Hermoine screams, echoing amongst the shouts as Ron pulls her into his arms. Molly leaning over an injured George to protect him from shards.

Fluer gasps at the feeling of Y/n’s wand in her hand ripped from her. The death eater had snapped her fingers in the chaos with a non-verbal Accio.

With her wand now in her possession, Y/n unleashes another bout of wind, crippling the Order from attacking her. Once satisfied she makes her escape. Black smoke fills the room before flying out the window and into the night sky. The storm inside the burrow seizing.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron coughs, catching his breath.

“That,” Kingsley stands up straight, sore from colliding with the wall which knocked him down. “Was the closest thing to experiencing the Devil on Earth.”

Tags: @unloved-and-outspoken

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