Chapter Text
AURELIA AVERY
The fire caught the drapes before the woman even screamed. Her eyes went wide, mouth opening in a sound that was cut short as my curse struck her chest. She convulsed, body jerking, before crumpling into the flames. Her skin blistered and blackened in seconds, the stench of burning flesh thick and suffocating as her hair went up like kindling. I didn't hesitate. My wand moved before my heart could argue. She dropped like the rest of them, another faceless casualty in this war. Another weight pressing against my ribs. Another ghost already tearing at the edges of my conscience.
"Clear every room. Don't leave anyone breathing."
Mattheo's voice cut through the roar of fire, sharp as broken glass, commanding and merciless. He stood at the center of the hall like a storm given flesh, shoulders squared, wand steady, dark eyes alive with a rage so sharp it bled into every word. His fury made us fast. His cruelty made us ruthless but we followed without pause, always.
Draco swept forward, pale and cold as marble, his movements precise, surgical. He didn't gloat. He didn't falter. With a flick of his wand, an old wizard's chest split open, ribs cracking apart like kindling as blood gushed down his robes. Draco didn't even flinch. He didn't look at the body slumping to the ground, throat gurgling wetly as it drowned on its own blood. When his grey eyes flicked briefly toward me, there was nothing in them. No fire or even a flicker of hesitation. Just stone.
Behind him, Lorenzo leaned lazily against the doorframe of the next corridor, wand tapping against his palm. A witch had trapped herself in the corner, her hands trembling so violently she couldn't even hold her wand steady.
"Don't tremble, sweetheart," he drawled, the corner of his mouth curving in that mocking, irresistible way of his. "You'll only make it hurt more."
His spell snapped her spine in an instant, the crack was sharp and final. She collapsed in a broken heap, limbs twisted at acute angles. Lorenzo's grin widened, teeth flashing in the light of burning sconces as he gave her corpse a casual once-over.
"Pity," he murmured, stepping over her body like discarded rubbish. "She was pretty."
Theo moved in silence, but his silence was worse than Lorenzo's cruelty. There was no flourish, no smirk, just precision. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might shatter, his knuckles white on his wand. A man lunged at him from the side. Theo's curse sliced through the man's throat so cleanly that his head lolled backward, nearly severed, blood spraying across the wall in a wide crimson arc. Theo didn't pause to watch him fall, he didn't even blink.
Daphne's laugh cut through the flames, sharp and manic like shattered glass. She spun through the smoke with a kind of chaotic grace, her wand an extension of her body as she set fire to curtains, chairs, walls. Sparks rained down like stars, catching on the hair of a man who screamed as it caught alight.
"Burn it all!" she shrieked, her voice fever-bright. Her hair clung wild and damp to her face, eyes glittering with delight as the man flailed, his skin melting as flames devoured him alive. She twirled her wand like a conductor, smiling wide and terrifying. None of us told her to stop. We never did.
I forced myself forward, stepping over a body still twitching faintly, its eyes wide and glassy, lips bubbling with the last shreds of air. My boots slipped slightly on the blood-slick floor. My wand was heavy in my hand, but I didn't let it waver.
"Avery," Mattheo's voice snapped me back, harsh as the crack of a whip. He was watching me, gaze sharp, searching for a flaw. My chest tightened, but I nodded once, curt, as though the flames behind me weren't whispering with all the lives I'd just ended.
"Upstairs," he ordered. "With Nott. Clear it."
Theo didn't wait for me. He was already moving, boots thudding against the stairwell. I followed close, the wood creaking under our weight. The hallway above was dim, only lit by the dull glow of fire bleeding up the stairwell. A child's toy lay abandoned in the corner, its porcelain face cracked. I swallowed hard and stepped over it.
The stairs groaned beneath our boots as Theo and I ascended, the air thick with smoke that crawled upward from the fires below. Each inhale burned my throat, tasting of charred fabric and the metallic tang of blood that already clung to my tongue. My wand was steady in my grip, but my pulse wasn't. It thundered behind my ears, and every beat felt like it might split my skull open.
Theo didn't look back, he moved like a shadow, every stride was purposeful and silent despite the chaos that roared below us. He kicked open the first door without hesitation, his wand slicing through the air in the same motion. The curse hit the Order member before he even had time to turn. A flash of green, life extinguished. The body slumped across a dresser, eyes frozen wide. Theo didn't pause, nor did he flinch.
"Next," he muttered, his voice flat.
I followed, swallowing down the bile threatening to claw up my throat. The second door opened under Theo's hand, and the witch inside shrieked, crouched low behind a desk. She hurled a hex wild with fear. It snapped past Theo's shoulder, close enough to scorch the wall, but still he did not falter.
His counter curse struck her in the chest. The crack of bone echoed in the small room as she slammed against the wall, sliding down with blood bubbling at her lips. I stepped forward before her choking breaths could become pleas and snapped my wand at her throat. The curse cut clean, severing voice and life in the same instant. Her body twitched once, then finally stilled.
I forced my wand down. My hand shook just for a heartbeat. I tightened my grip until my nails dug crescents into my palm. My mask couldn't slip, not here. Theo had already moved on.
The third room was barricaded. A wardrobe shoved across the entrance, scratching against the floorboards. Theo didn't slow, he drew back his boot and smashed it into the wood. The door cracked open, splinters flying. He shoved again, and the blockade shifted enough for him to force himself through.
Two Order recruits were huddled inside, children, barely older than me. They clutched wands that trembled so badly they could hardly aim. For half a second, my lungs froze. Their faces were wide with terror, pale with desperation.
Theo's wand flared and the boy fell before he even had time to cry out, body collapsing against the bed with a dull, painful thud. The girl screamed a raw, piercing sound that laced straight through me and flung herself toward me, a spell stuttering on her lips.
I didn't think, I reacted. My wand snapped up, curse flying. It tore straight through her chest. Her eyes went wide, then glassy, her lips parting in a final soundless gasp before she crumpled.
The silence that followed was unbearable. I could hear the crackle of fire below, the distant screams, but in this room it was just the soft patter of blood dripping onto the wooden floor. I stepped over them, every nerve in my body screaming. My face stayed composed, but inside I could feel the guilt gnawing, sharp and insistent. Theo said nothing. He didn't even glance at them. His expression didn't change as he walked into the next hallway.
The fourth door burst open, and this time the fight came to us. A man lunged from behind the frame, wand raised. Theo ducked under the first curse, slamming his shoulder into the man's ribs with brutal force. The crack was audible. He drove his elbow into the man's throat, crushing it before finishing with a curse to the chest. The body crumpled at his feet in a long, dragged out motion.
I followed him into the fifth room. A witch tried to corner herself against the far wall, hands trembling as she raised her wand. I didn't give her the chance. I struck low, curse hitting her legs. Bone splintered. She screamed, toppling forward. I moved fast, closing the distance. My boot caught her ribs as she fell, the impact jolting up my leg. She gasped, blood flecking her lips. I raised my wand and ended it with a sharp flick, forcing myself not to hear the way her body hit the ground.
Theo's face remained impassive.
The sixth room was chaos, there was a cluster of three Order members huddled together, wands ready. Spells lit the air instantly, sizzling past us. I dropped low, rolling across the floorboards, the heat of a hex burning over my head. My curse caught one in the stomach and she collapsed, shrieking helplessly.
Theo moved like water, fluid and deadly. He disarmed one, spun his wand, and drove a curse through his chest before the man even realized his weapon was gone. The third tried to run, darting toward the window, but I was faster. I grabbed her hair, yanked her back, and slammed her face against the wall with brutal force. The crunch of her nose breaking vibrated through my hand. She writhed, clawing at me, but I drove my wand under her jaw and whispered the curse. Her body went limp instantly.
I let her drop. My hands were sticky with blood. My lungs burned. Theo gave a curt nod, as though it were nothing. As though we hadn't just slaughtered three people in a heartbeat.
The hallway stank of death now, along with iron, smoke, the acrid tang of burned flesh. My chest felt heavy, my mask slipping. Each step pressed the guilt deeper into me until it felt like I was suffocating.
But I couldn't falter. Or I may as well just die right here, right now.
The seventh door slammed open before Theo could reach it. An older wizard burst out, eyes blazing, curse already on his lips. Theo twisted aside, the spell scorching the wall. He struck back, but the man was quick, deflecting with a shield charm.
I lunged forward. Physical this time. My fist cracked against his jaw before he could recover. His head snapped sideways, his wand arm faltering. Theo seized the opening, driving his boot into the man's knee with vicious force. The leg crumpled with a sickening pop.
The wizard fell to the ground, gasping in agony. I pressed my wand to his temple and cast without hesitation, forcing the strength into my arm, into my voice. His body jerked once, then fell still. I stepped back, chest heaving. My blood-slick knuckles throbbed from where they'd connected with bone. My throat was dry, my head spinning.
"Almost done," Theo muttered. His face was unreadable, his tone unchanged. As though the violent deaths hadn't even touched his soul. I envied him for a heartbeat.
The last door was at the end of the hall. Theo approached it like he had all the others, unflinching, precise. He kicked it open roughly. A young man was inside, and raised his wand too late. Theo's spell sliced his arm open, his wand clattering across the floor. He screamed, clutching the wound. I didn't let myself hesitate. I strode forward and drove my knee into his chest, knocking the breath from him. He gasped, eyes wide, pleading. I silenced him with the Killing Curse. His body stilled, the room falling quiet. It was over.
The hallway was lined with bodies now, the air thick with smoke and blood. My head pounded. My chest ached. My mask cracked, just a little. My breath hitched, shaky, my fingers trembling despite how tightly I clenched my wand.
"Avery! Move faster, for fuck's sake!" Mattheo's voice ripped through the air from below, harsh as a whip.
The sound of him snapped everything back into place. My spine straightened, my jaw tightened. Whatever weakness threatened to surface, I shoved it down, buried it behind steel. I didn't look at Theo as I stepped past him, didn't let him see how my nails dug into my palm hard enough to bleed. And if my soul felt heavier with every step back toward the flames, no one had to know.
The house didn't look like much now. When we arrived, it was just another crumbling London townhouse, brick dark with soot, windows shuttered, curtains drawn tight. But the wards had been thick, strong enough that it had taken Mattheo's temper and Draco's skill combined to tear them down. Strong enough to remind us this wasn't just a meeting point. This was a refuge. A bolt-hole for the Order of the Phoenix. Which was why Voldemort had sent us.
His command had been simple, final. "Every last one of them. No survivors."
The inside was already unrecognizable, furniture overturned, walls blackened by fire, blood smeared across the floorboards. The screams from upstairs had only just begun to fade in my head when Theo and I descended back into the downstairs inferno, our boots heavy with ash and death.
Downstairs, the real battle raged. Draco's voice snapped across the room like a whip.
"Nott, Avery, fucking help me out here!"
My eyes swept the chaos. Order members still alive, fighting in desperation, scattered through the smoke while the team carved through them like wolves. Lorenzo dragged another victim by the hair across the floor, pressing his wand under her chin as he tilted her face up toward him.
"Smile for me darling," he crooned, and the curse ripped her jaw apart before she could. He let her body fall, chuckling low as he turned back into the fight.
Daphne was a whirlwind in the middle of the floor, spinning with wild, ecstatic laughter. Fire licked at her heels as she sent curses crashing into anything that moved.
"Come on, dance!" she sang, shrieking with delight as her spell engulfed a wizard's robes in flame. He flailed, screaming, and she clapped her hands together. "Burn brighter!"
Mattheo was the storm's center, immovable and merciless. His wand cracked through the air with brutal precision, every curse a killing blow. A wizard lunged at him head-on, Mattheo blocked with a shield, shoved forward, and slammed his wand into the man's chest at point-blank range. The man's body convulsed, blood spattering across the stone. Mattheo shoved him aside without a glance.
Across the room, Draco moved in silence, his face carved into ice. His wandwork was relentless, shields and strikes woven together with surgical precision. He disarmed one man, cut down another, his movements so exact it was like he'd rehearsed the killings.
Draco's eyes snapped to us again. "Now!"
I surged forward, wand raised, Theo at my side. An Order fighter hurled a curse at me, red light searing through the smoke. I dove aside, rolling across the blood-slick floorboards. My counterstrike shattered his shield, tearing across his chest in a spray of gore. He staggered, gasping, I pressed my wand to his throat and finished him, forcing my face to turn cold the way Theo's was upstairs.
Beside me, Theo was merciless. He caught an opponent's wrist mid-duel, twisting until the bone snapped with a blaring crack. The man screamed, dropping his wand, but Theo waisted no time and shoved him against the wall, slamming his head against the stone until blood smeared the plaster, then broke his neck with one sharp twist. He dropped the body without second thought, eyes already moving to the next target.
"Left side!" Mattheo barked, his voice harsh over the roar of flames. "Cover Greengrass before she gets herself killed!"
"I don't need covering!" Daphne screeched back, laughter spilling from her throat as she set the stairwell ablaze, trapping three Order fighters. She hurled curses wildly, one burning a man's face until it melted, another snapping a woman's spine backward. Daphne spun, grinning at me through the smoke. "See? I'm fucking winning!"
"Focus!" Mattheo snarled.
Another fighter charged me while my guard was down. He slammed into me, tackling me to the floor. My wand skittered across the boards. His hands closed around my throat, squeezing. Black spots burst across my vision. I clawed at him, dragging my nails down his face, but his grip only tightened. Rage surged through me. I drove my knee into his stomach, once, twice, until his grip faltered. I snatched the dagger from my boot and slashed it across his face. Hot blood sprayed, blinding him. With a roar, I shoved him back and grabbed my wand, pressing it to his chest. The curse burst from me raw, tearing through him. His body convulsed, then finally stopped.
My throat burned, bruised. My hands were slick with blood. But I pushed myself up, steady, strong, as though none of it had touched me. Lorenzo passed me, moving with that lazy ravaging grace he always carried. He leaned down, bending a witch's wrist until it snapped, her scream jagged and sharp. He smirked at me, lips curling.
"Bit fiery today Avery? Didn't know you liked it that rough. I'll keep that in mind."
My jaw tightened. "Shut the fuck up and fight," I snapped, my voice hoarse from the thick smoke. My wand felt hot in my hand, slick with the residue of earlier deaths.
Lorenzo chuckled, tossing the woman aside as though she were nothing. "Gladly." He spun, unleashing a green jet that cut a man in two, splattering blood across the walls.
I lunged forward before he could return my attention, feet sliding over a slick patch of blood. My curse struck a man square in the chest. He howled, the sound tearing from his throat as his skin bubbled and split. He collapsed to the floor, twisting, convulsing. I pressed the tip of my wand to his temple and murmured the final words. His body went limp, collapsing onto the others like a sack of ragged flesh.
Draco was next to me, moving like a shadow. He caught a man's hex mid-air and redirected it into his own opponent, who jerked violently, blood spraying from his mouth. Draco's wand flashed again, and the man's skull cracked open with a wet, hollow sound. He fell in a heap, bone fragments crunching under my boot as I stepped over him. Draco's eyes flicked to mine briefly, sharp, appraising, unreadable and then he moved on.
Theo was a machine. Silent, efficient, brutal. His wand flicked twice, and a man's ribs exploded in a shower of blood and splinters of bone. Another curse and the man's kneecap shattered, his body folding over itself in a broken heap. Theo stepped over the corpse as if it were dust, moving toward the next target.
I forced myself forward, ignoring the trembling in my hands. Another Order fighter charged me, wand raised, eyes wide with fear. He lunged and I ducked, feeling the heat of the curse skim across my shoulder, burning through fabric and searing my skin. My teeth gritted against the pain. I dropped low, rolled, and struck him in the chest. His ribs cracked under my spell, his scream cut short by the final word from my wand. He collapsed, twitching.
Mattheo's voice rose, raw and ragged. "Push them back! Every last one!"
He didn't hesitate. His next curse hit a man full in the chest, slamming him against the wall, breaking ribs, cracking bone with sickening force. He raised his wand to the man's temple and muttered something low. The Cruciatus struck, and the man writhed, screaming in a way that made my stomach knot. The smell of burned flesh and hair filled the air. Mattheo didn't flinch. Only when the spell had ravaged the body did he finish it with a Killing Curse, sending the remains crashing to the floor.
The Order's numbers thinned, but desperation sharpened their attacks. Curses spat from every direction, hexes and jinxes converging on us. Theo moved like a phantom, intercepting each one with silent precision, blasting skulls open, crushing bones, ending fights before they even began. Draco's wand was a scythe. He disarmed two men at once, then struck each down in a single sweeping motion. Blood arced through the air, spraying across the ruined furniture and charred walls. He didn't flinch, didn't even exhale, his movements a cold rhythm of death.
In contrast, Daphne spun in the center of the room, arms wide, shrieking as fire roared from her wand, flames licking the floorboards and engulfing any Order member within range. A wizard screamed as his legs caught fire, clawing at his own skin in panic before collapsing, screaming and burning.
"Again! Again!" she sang, clapping her hands like a child at a show.
Lorenzo was the predator, dragging another victim across the floor. He leaned close, whispering something low and obscene into her ear before splitting her open from shoulder to hip with a single, lazy flick. Blood sprayed over his robes, streaking crimson like warpaint. He smirked at me as he tossed her aside.
"Delightful," he said, and returned to the fray.
I turned back to the wave of approaching fighters. Another man charged, wand high, spell already forming. I pivoted, stepping low, and drove my wand into his stomach. The bones cracked under the force, his yell tearing through the smoke. I caught him by the collar, shoved him against the wall, and ended him with a flick. His body collapsed in a pile of twitching limbs and blood, his head lolling to one side.
A man fired a hex from behind a chair. Draco spun, deflecting the spell into the ceiling, and returned the favor with a green bolt to the man's throat. Blood gushed, soaking his shirt, and he collapsed, clawing at the wound in futile panic. Draco didn't glance back.
I wiped sweat and ash from my brow and pressed on, wand flicking, spells tearing through the few remaining Order fighters. One man came at me, swinging a wand like a club. I sidestepped, caught his arm, twisted until it popped, then drove my knee into his chest. He gasped, struggled, and I ended it with a final curse.
Mattheo finished the last, wand pressed to a man's chest as he muttered the words, a dark fury behind his eyes. The body fell with a wet thud and then the room fell silent.
Only the crackle of fire remained, mingling with the metallic stench of blood and burning flesh. My chest heaved. My lungs burned. My hands were slick, sticky with gore. My boots were red to the ankles. I glanced around at the group.
Mattheo stood in the center, eyes dark, sharp, unsparing. Draco holstered his wand with the same surgical precision he'd used to dismember every man who came near. Theo's face was calm, his hands unshaken, though the smell of death clung to him as it did to the rest of us. Daphne laughed, still spinning, eyes glittering with feverish delight. Lorenzo smirked, flicking blood from his fingers, already searching for the next victim.
I stood among the bodies, heart hammering, shaking slightly, wand still tight in my hand. My mask held, face cold, strong. But inside, the ghosts screamed.
Mattheo stood tall in the center, his chest rising and falling, his wand still steady. His eyes swept over us, dark and merciless.
"That's what the Dark Lord asked for," he said at last, his voice like iron. "Every last one."
The fire had begun to choke itself on its own smoke, curling through the rafters in greasy black coils. The flames cast a red glow over the corpses scattered across the floorboards, turning every body into a grotesque shadow play. For a moment, none of us moved, our breathing the only sound beyond the crackle of burning wood.
Then Daphne bent down, fingers still trembling from adrenaline, and began rifling through a dead witch's cloak.
"Oooh," she hummed, drawing out a silver locket that glinted dully in the firelight. She slipped it over her head without hesitation, giggling as it dangled at her collarbone. "Pretty little trinket for me. She won't be needing it."
Lorenzo snorted, flicking blood from his knuckles. "Of course you'd treat a bloodbath like a jewelry box, Greengrass."
Daphne shot him a wild grin, her pupils blown wide. "And you wouldn't?"
She bent to another corpse before he could reply, tugging a handful of rings from stiff fingers. The flesh tore as she yanked the last one free, and she didn't even flinch.
My stomach twisted, but I forced myself forward. A man's body lay at my feet, his pockets bulging. My fingers moved almost without thought, slipping inside his coat and drawing out a handful of galleons, a cracked pocket watch, a thin chain tangled around a key. Trinkets. Symbols of lives that had mattered, once.
I told myself it was practical. We needed supplies. Voldemort's missions rarely left us enough time or money to keep ourselves afloat. But when I tucked the chain into my pocket, I felt the weight of it burn like guilt against my thigh.
Mattheo's voice cracked across the room like a lash. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I froze, my hand still in the dead man's coat. His eyes pinned me through the haze of smoke, sharp and merciless.
"Raiding," I said evenly, sliding the coins into my palm before I pulled my hand free. "We need to bring something back. We both know we are all barely surviving right now Riddle."
His jaw clenched. "We're here to kill, not to play pretty thief."
Daphne laughed from the other side of the room, jangling her new collection of rings on her fingers. "Oh shut up, Riddle. The Dark Lord doesn't care what we do with the scraps."
Lorenzo smirked, tossing a bloodstained scarf over his shoulder. "She's not wrong. Might as well get some pleasure out of the mess."
Mattheo's glare hardened, but he didn't push further. Not with Daphne still twirling like a madwoman and Lorenzo egging her on. His focus was already shifting back to the task, back to control. The acrid smoke from the flames hung thick in the air, choking the corners of the ruined safehouse. The crackle of fire echoed across the splintered floors as we spread out, eyes scanning for anything still of use.
Theo moved with quiet precision, hands moving efficiently through the wreckage. He didn't linger, didn't smile, didn't gloat. He tore open cupboards and cabinets, rifling through the few supplies left behind by the fleeing or fallen Order members. Cans of food, dusty bottles of water, a first aid kit missing a few bandages. He packed them neatly into a worn satchel, tying it tight. Each item went in without hesitation. He never paused to gawk at the carnage we had left behind, he never flinched.
I followed his example but with a different purpose. My hands sifted through the pockets of bodies, extracting coins, chains, rings, anything that glittered or shone in the firelight. My mask stayed firm, but my chest tightened with each item. Guilt curled like smoke around my ribs, but I shoved it down. Trinkets could be sold, turned into leverage, or kept. They were worthless to the dead, and yet each one felt heavier than the last.
Daphne was worse. She flitted from corpse to corpse, snatching rings, brooches, small heirlooms, laughing at the tangle of hair and blood she ignored. She pressed one sparkling locket to her chest, eyes wild and gleaming.
"See? It's mine now. I earned it," she crowed, spinning in a tight circle before darting toward the next victim.
Mattheo's eyes swept the room, dark and sharp, catching the shimmer of stolen jewelry in our hands. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Avery, Daphne, drop it," he snapped. His wand flicked toward the nearest table, sending a shattered goblet spinning.
Daphne waved him off carelessly, spinning to show him the glittering ring she had just pulled from a corpse. "Oh, lighten up. It's just a little reward for surviving, isn't it?"
Mattheo's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing like a predator. "I said drop it. Now."
I moved the satchel closer to my side, tucking the chains under my arm. "It's practical," I said evenly. "We can use it."
"No," Mattheo growled, voice low and deadly. "We kill. We take what we need. Not toys, not shiny little reminders that we've left bodies behind."
Draco, however, lingered near the center of the hall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ruined house like a hawk. "Too easy," he muttered, voice low, almost to himself.
Theo glanced up from his scavenging, expression neutral. "What do you mean?"
Draco's lip curled. "This doesn't add up. A fully functioning Order safehouse, barely defended. A few half-trained recruits. Why here? Why leave the rest of their defenses thin?"
Lorenzo shrugged, tossing a small dagger from a fallen man between his hands. "Maybe they ran scared. Not our problem."
Draco's eyes hardened. "The Order doesn't run." He turned to Mattheo, voice sharper now. "There's something else here. Or someone. Otherwise, why would they leave this open? Why would they let a house like this be so... empty?"
"We search," Mattheo said, cutting the silence like steel. His eyes burned as he looked between us. "Top to bottom. If anyone's hiding in this house, we drag them out screaming and kill them."
Daphne clapped her hands, her jewelry jingling like bells. "Oh, I do love a good game of hide-and-seek."
Mattheo's jaw tightened. "Shut the fuck up and move."
We obeyed. Because we always did.
The safehouse smelled of smoke, blood, and scorched wood, a tang so sharp it made my stomach twist with every breath. The fires had died down in the upper floors, leaving behind curling black smoke that clung to the rafters and seeped into every corner, but the heat still radiated off the walls, baking our skin and making the air thick and stifling. The ground beneath us was a graveyard of splintered floorboards, scorched rugs, and bodies twisted in impossible angles.
Mattheo moved first, his wand raised, eyes sharp, every motion taut with control. His voice cut across the room like steel.
"Stick together. Every corner, every room. Check everything. Nothing is too small or too hidden. We clear this house completely."
I fell into line beside him, as I always did, letting the rhythm of our group sweep me forward. Theo was next to me, silent as always, wand at the ready, eyes scanning ahead. Our movements were synchronized, unspoken understanding, instinct born from countless missions together.
Daphne darted ahead with impulsive energy, her laughter spilling over the ruins of the upper floor. She crouched to search through a fallen cupboard, tossing aside scorched books and broken furniture.
"Aha! Look at this!" she cried, holding up a golden mirror. "Mine now. Absolutely mine!"
I smirked, shaking my head, though my hands were full of coins and trinkets I had collected from the corpses. "Show me Daph!"
Mattheo's sharp voice cut across the floor. "Avery, keep your head in the mission. Eyes up. Don't get distracted by playthings."
I bit back a retort, forcing my shoulders to straighten. His tone was harsh, but I knew it wasn't only anger.
Draco moved along the far wall, silent, pale, and detached. His wand moved like a natural extension of his arm, deflecting dust and rubble that tumbled in the aftermath of fire. He didn't speak, but his presence was imposing, a constant reminder that he watched everything. I barely interacted with him, but his subtle glances when danger neared reminded me that he cared in his own cold way.
The group moved methodically through the first-floor rooms. Mattheo led, snapping orders, his eyes sweeping for anything out of place.
"Every room. Every corner. Theo and Draco, study. Daphne and Aurelia, library. Lorenzo, hallway. Move."
We obeyed, stepping through the ruined house with methodical precision. Each room told its own story, the library had shelves scorched black, books burned beyond recognition, their ash coating the floor. The study smelled of rot and smoke, cans dented and scorched. Theo moved swiftly, gathering the usable, ignoring the worthless.
The library was eerily quiet compared to the chaos we'd left behind. Smoke still lingered in the corners, curling in thin gray wisps, but the air here was cooler, still, almost peaceful. For the first time since we'd entered the house, I could hear my own heartbeat over the distant crackle of fire and the muffled shouts of Mattheo and the others as they cleared the rooms.
Daphne moved slower here, her energy settling into something more focused. She leaned against a row of charred bookshelves, eyes scanning the wreckage with a desperate sort of curiosity, but softer than before.
"Look at this mess," she murmured, brushing soot from her fingers onto the floor. "All these books... and for what? They can't protect themselves."
I moved beside her, crouching to inspect the broken shelves, scanning for anything useful, scrolls, ledgers, even a stash of supplies that might have been overlooked.
"We still need to check everything," I said, though my voice had softened. The firelight flickered across her face, highlighting the faint gleam in her eyes that made her seem less wild, and more human.
She smiled, small and almost wistful. "I know, I know. But it's nice being away from the screams for a minute."
I nodded, letting the tension in my shoulders ease fractionally. Even with all the blood and fire, there were moments like this, fleeting moments, where I could pretend the world wasn't collapsing around us.
Daphne leaned a little harder against one of the taller shelves, dust falling from the top like snow. And then, the shelf moved. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, sliding sideways with a dull, scraping sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
"Daphne..." I whispered, voice taut with alarm.
Her eyes went wide, pupils blown. "Did... did you feel that?"
I stepped closer, hand on my wand. "Yes. That shelf, it's not supposed to move."
Daphne pressed her fingers against the wood, testing it. A low rumble echoed through the library, and the shelf slowly swung open, revealing a narrow, dark passage beyond. Dust and cobwebs fell in a thin curtain, the faint musty smell of a hidden room wafting out.
"Oh, fuck," Daphne breathed, stepping back. "A secret door! I knew there was something we missed."
My pulse surged, and I felt a jolt of urgency. "We need to tell the others. Now."
Daphne nodded quickly, her usual energy returning in sharp bursts. We moved together, hurriedly but cautiously, retracing our steps through the ruined library, our satchels of collected items bumping against the debris-strewn floor. Dust choked the air, and every shadow seemed to twitch and move as though alive, but the discovery of the passage pushed all fear aside.
I felt Daphne's hand brush mine briefly as we passed a toppled chair. A tiny gesture, but enough to anchor me. We were still a team. Still alive. Still sharp.
"Do you think it's empty?" she whispered, eyes wide.
I shook my head. "I don't know. And I don't want to find out alone, or do anything like this behind Mattheo's back."
The library door creaked as we pushed it open, smoke curling behind us into the hallway. The firelight flickered against the charred walls as we moved quickly, our footsteps soft against the splintered floorboards.
I caught glimpses of the others in the hall, Mattheo had just cleared a doorway, his wand raised, eyes dark and alert. Draco and Theo lingered near the staircase, scanning, quiet and cold. Lorenzo leaned casually against a doorway, smirking, but his eyes sharpened as he noticed us moving toward him.
"Guys," I called, voice urgent. "Library. Secret door. We found something."
Mattheo's head snapped toward us, expression hard, eyes narrowing. "Show me," he demanded, his voice sharp. The rest of the group followed instinctively, forming a semi-circle around us as we led them back to the library.
Daphne bounced slightly, unable to hide her excitement. "It's over here! I swear it wasn't visible before!"
Mattheo's hand tightened on his wand as he stepped toward the moving shelf. "Stay sharp. Don't get too close until we know what we're dealing with," he barked.
Draco's eyes swept the passageway, calculating, assessing. "It's too clean. Too hidden to be random," he murmured. "Someone intended for this to remain secret."
Theo's brow furrowed. He was already moving toward the passage, glancing at the walls and floor. "Could be supplies, a safe room, or... fuck" His voice dropped. "More people."
I felt my stomach tighten at his words, and I glanced at Daphne. She bit her lip but didn't speak. We both knew the possibility was real. The safehouse hadn't been like this by accident.
Lorenzo tilted his head, smirking despite the tension. "Well, whatever's in there, it's hiding something."
Mattheo's jaw clenched. "No guessing. We clear it carefully. Theo, you and Draco take the lead. Aurelia, flank us. Daphne and Lorenzo, cover the rear. Keep your eyes open. Fucking move it."
I swallowed hard, nodding, heart hammering. Theo's hand brushed mine again, just for a moment. His calm presence steadied me, and I felt a surge of focus rush back through my veins.
Together we approached the hidden passage, the library behind us eerily quiet in contrast to the chaos we'd left in the rest of the house. Dust fell from the edges of the shelf as we pushed it fully aside, revealing a narrow, shadowed corridor leading downward. The smell of damp earth and old wood rolled out at us, thick and musty.
Mattheo's wand cut a sharp line of light into the darkness, smoke curling around it. "Stay close and watch every step. Do not get separated."
The six of us moved as one, slipping into the secret passage, our shadows stretching long and thin in the flickering light, each step cautious, each breath held. I knew somewhere in the darkness beyond that hidden door, the real danger might be waiting.
The passage was narrower than I expected, low-ceilinged and lined with damp, rough-hewn stone. The musty smell of old wood and earth was so strong it made me gag at first, but I forced myself to breathe through my nose and focus. Theo was ahead, moving silently, his steps soft against the uneven floor, hands brushing along the wall to keep balance. I fell in beside him, wand raised, every nerve alert.
Daphne bounced a little behind me, her usual manic energy restrained only by the tight corridor. "It's so... dark," she whispered, voice hushed but thrilled. "I love it. Feels secretive and alive."
I glanced at her, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Alive. But we need to stay alive, don't get distracted."
Lorenzo came after her, leaning against the wall as if the darkness didn't bother him at all. "Alive is good," he murmured, voice low and teasing. "Alive is very good. Keeps the blood pumping." He glanced at me and winked. "You feeling alive yet, Avery?"
I ignored the jab, tightening my grip on my wand. "Focus, Lorenzo. We're not playing."
Mattheo moved at the front, eyes sharp in the flickering light of his wand, every movement taut with control. He glanced back at me briefly, expression unreadable, then forward again. I caught a flash of something, but he gave no indication. "Eyes open. Check every corner and every shadow."
Draco stayed at the front, silent as ever, his pale face just visible in the wandlight. He scanned the walls with those calculating gray eyes, always alert for traps or signs of movement. I felt the faintest brush of reassurance, knowing he was there watching over the group, even if he didn't speak.
The stone walls pressed in on us as we descended. The floor beneath was uneven, damp in patches, slick with something that smelled faintly of mildew and iron. Each step made a soft scraping sound that seemed impossibly loud in the narrow corridor. My pulse quickened. The closer we moved toward the unknown, the sharper every sound became, the drip of water from a cracked ceiling, the rustle of loose stones, the faint echo of the others' boots behind me.
Theo moved with unerring calm, checking each alcove and nook before we passed. He paused at a corner, glancing at me. A small nod, silent, and I understood, he trusted me to cover him if anything came from behind. I felt the same certainty about him, we were a unit, wordless and precise. Daphne skipped lightly behind us, barely noticing the shadows at first. Then she froze.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, clutching my sleeve. Her voice was half thrill, half fear.
I strained to listen. The corridor was quiet, almost unnaturally so, but there was a faint scuff, the sound of stone scraping against stone. My heart jumped. "Yes," I whispered back. "Stay calm. Don't panic. Whatever it is, we'll handle it."
Mattheo's voice cut sharply. "Stay together. Move slow. Wands at the ready."
We continued, each step measured. My fingers itched against my wand, ready to cast at the first sign of movement. The corridor twisted slightly, narrowing further until the walls nearly brushed our shoulders. The shadows seemed to shift with every flicker of our wandlight, making it impossible to tell what was real.
Draco was silent at the rear, but his presence was a shield. I felt it like a tangible weight, keeping me steady as the tension coiled tighter around my chest. The corridor twisted again, and I caught the faint glint of something in the stone, too sharp, too precise to be natural. My stomach dropped.
"Everyone stop," Theo hissed.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, wand sweeping. "What is it?"
Theo crouched slightly, motioning for him and the others to lean closer. "There's something here," he said quietly. "Look at the wall, see that line? Someone carved it. Could be a trap or a hidden latch."
Draco moved silently beside me, eyes scanning the surface. "Yes," he muttered, voice low. "Intentional. Not natural. Could be an entrance or a trip mechanism."
Lorenzo let out a low whistle. "Well, we've been waiting for surprises, haven't we?"
Daphne bit her lip but didn't step back. "Let's find out," she whispered, eyes shining with manic excitement.
Mattheo's jaw tightened. "We proceed carefully. Avery, Theo, you check first. Everyone else, cover us."
I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the pulse of tension that always preceded danger. Theo moved forward, hands brushing along the stone, testing for pressure points or traps. I stayed close, wand ready, ready to react instantly.
Theo pressed against a small indentation in the stone. With a soft click, the wall shifted slightly, revealing a narrow opening beyond. Dust tumbled down like gray sand, curling in the faint light of our wands. Daphne gasped, and I felt my own pulse spike.
"There it is," I whispered. "Finally."
Mattheo stepped forward, eyes sharp. "Everyone stay ready. Malfoy and Greengrass, rear. Berkshire, flank. Nott, Avery, go first."
We slipped into the hidden corridor, shadows swallowing us. The air was cooler here, damp and musty, filled with the faintest echo of dripping water. Every step was careful, deliberate. I kept my wand raised, senses straining.
The corridor ended abruptly, spilling us into a large, dark room that smelled of damp and iron. Torches flickered along the walls, barely illuminating the space. It was almost prison-like with rows of narrow beds along one side, a small kitchen tucked into the corner, and wide open floor between them. The silence pressed heavy, almost too quiet after the chaotic march down the corridor.
And then we saw them.
Order members, dozens, scattered, but alert. Eyes wide with the shock of seeing us, wands raised, ready.
Mattheo didn't hesitate. His wand lashed out in a green arc, slamming one man into a bed frame with a crack of splintering wood. The man let out a scream that ripped through the room, then fell silent as the Killing Curse struck moments later.
I barely had time to adjust before a fighter lunged at me from the far side of the room. I sidestepped, catching his wrist mid-strike, twisting it until I heard the satisfying pop. Blood spurted across the floor as I shoved him into a wall, then drove my wand into his chest. He convulsed violently before collapsing, chest shattered.
Theo was near the center, moving with machine-like efficiency. His wand split a man's skull with a single precise strike, stepping over the twitching body without a flicker of hesitation. Another fighter charged him, Theo pivoted, elbowing the man's jaw into pieces before finishing him with a Curse that exploded across the chest.
Daphne shrieked with glee, spinning in place, fire erupting from her wand. A man's screams cut short as the flames licked his robes, peeling flesh from bone. She clapped her hands, eyes wild. "Yes! Yes!"
Lorenzo grinned as he pulled another man to him, whispering something vile in his ear before driving his wand through the man's ribs. Blood sprayed across the floor and walls, red streaks marking his path as he stepped over the twitching corpse. He winked at me, eyes glinting, then spun toward another opponent.
Draco moved with lethal precision, intercepting fighters as they came. He deflected a spell aimed at Theo with a flick of his wand, redirecting it into a man's chest. Bone splintered, ribs collapsing inward, as the man screamed and fell. Another curse, and a second fighter's skull shattered against the floor.
Mattheo drove another man into the kitchen wall, fist colliding with bone, hearing the wet crack of ribs breaking. Without hesitation, he pressed his wand to the man's temple, muttering a dark curse that ended his heart instantly. Another fighter swung at him. He caught the arm mid-air, snapping it back until it tore from the shoulder, and the man collapsed, screaming wordlessly into the floor.
I moved through the chaos, wand flashing, fists driving, feet kicking as necessary. Another man came at me with a knife. I caught it on my wrist, twisting sharply until I heard cartilage snap, then drove my elbow into his chest. Blood spattered, warm and sticky, as he crumpled.
Daphne spun again, fire erupting, filling the open space with a heat that seared skin. Another Order member stumbled into the flames, screaming as the heat devoured him. She twirled, joy radiating, and I had to remind myself not to be distracted by her and to stay focused. But it shattered for a moment as I watched Lorenzo drag a rather large man across the room, laughing as he split him from shoulder to hip, crimson arcing across the floor. He flicked blood from his fingers and caught another opponent in a precise curse that knocked the man into the bed, collapsing it under his weight.
Theo's had now stepped between two fighters, elbowing one to the ground, twisting the other's wrist until it shattered. He didn't speak, didn't flinch, didn't even breathe heavily. Only the wet thuds of bodies hitting floorboards broke the silence. I caught a movement from the corner of the room. Another man lunged at me, wand raised. I sidestepped, catching his neck and twisting. Bones popped under my grip. He screamed, blood spattering across my cheek as I drove my wand into his temple. The taste of iron filled my mouth.
Draco moved like a shadow, intercepting fighters before they could reach the others. He disarmed two men simultaneously, killing them both with a precise curse that left nothing but bloodied corpses. His face remained pale and unreadable, but every motion was lethal. Daphne ignited another blaze, laughing, spinning in delight as fire consumed her targets. Flames licked the beds, smoke curling toward the ceiling. A man screamed as his flesh blistered, collapsing in the open space.
I moved alongside Theo, covering the left flank, striking down anyone who dared approach. My arms ached from the combination of wand strikes and physical blows. Another fighter lunged at me, and I caught his wrist, twisting until a sickening snap echoed through the room. He stumbled, blood pouring from his mouth, and I drove my wand into his chest.
Mattheo's voice cut across the room, sharp and commanding. "Push them back! No mercy!"
He grabbed a man by the collar, smashing his head into the wall repeatedly until the wall splintered. Blood ran in rivulets down the stone, and the man went limp. Mattheo muttered a dark curse under his breath and pressed his wand to the man's eye, finishing him.
Theo disarmed another man, then used the flat of his wand to smash his skull against the floor. Draco stepped over the body without looking. Lorenzo sliced through a man's shoulder in a single motion, watching the shock on his face as he crumpled. Daphne ignited another set of flames, her laughter echoing off the walls.
I ducked under a swinging fist, elbowing my opponent in the ribs. He howled, collapsing to the floor as I pressed the wand against his temple. The metallic tang of blood and fire choked the air.
Within minutes, the room was littered with bodies. Blood pooled in dark rivulets across the stone floor, smoke rising from the occasional scorched clothing. We stood among the carnage, panting, wands at the ready, eyes dark and shining.
Mattheo's chest heaved, rage still burning, but there was a flicker of something else, satisfaction, relief, perhaps care for the group standing behind him. He glanced at me, eyes sharp, voice low.
"Avery... stay with us. Don't let up yet."
I swallowed, nodding, wiping sweat and blood from my face. My hands were sticky, boots soaked, heart hammering. I could feel the weight of every life taken, but I couldn't falter. Not while the Six were alive, not while we still had to move forward.
Daphne clapped her hands, laughing, though her eyes sparkled with chaotic energy. "Isn't this fun? I've never seen so much chaos in one room!"
Lorenzo flicked a streak of blood from his fingers at her, smirking. "Fun and profitable. My kind of raid."
Draco didn't speak, just observed, wand ready, cold and calculating, ensuring nothing remained to ambush us further. Theo methodically collected the fallen's supplies stacking them efficiently in his satchel.
The air grew hotter, thicker, the stink of fire and iron choking my lungs. Smoke clung to the rafters, blurring shapes into shadows, but the Order wasn't finished, not yet. From the back of the prison-like hall, more fighters poured in, eyes blazing with fury.
They were desperate. Cornered animals. Which made them more dangerous.
Mattheo roared, wand flashing. The Cruciatus ripped across the room, catching a woman square in the chest. Her shrieks pierced the chaos, her limbs spasming violently against the stone floor. He didn't let go until blood foamed at her lips. Only then did he flick his wand and silence her forever.
Theo barely shifted as a man lunged at him with a knife. He sidestepped, gripped the man's wrist, and drove his head straight into the stone wall. Skull met rock with a sickening crack. The man dropped bonelessly, and Theo didn't even spare him a glance, his wand was already swinging toward the next attacker.
Daphne danced like she was at a ball, twirling, fire bursting from her fingertips. Her laughter was bright, echoing off the walls. Flames consumed another bed, another body, skin bubbling and peeling away in molten sheets. She clapped delightedly as though it were a firework display.
Lorenzo ripped a man toward him, whispering vile things into his ear as his blade carved through flesh. He shoved the body away, blood slicking his hands, and turned to wink at me.
"Don't look so pale, Avery. You're all the more beautiful when you're bloody."
I tried to keep pace. My wand arm burned, my lungs screamed, my legs trembled, but I forced myself forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, my body like it was moving through thick mud, weighted with blood and exhaustion. Sparks erupted around me as a man swung his wand. I ducked low, slamming my shoulder into his gut, the impact sending him reeling into the bed frame.
The wood splintered with a sharp crack, ribs following in a wet, sickening echo. My hand trembled as I pressed my wand to his throat, the curse spilling from my lips, violent and precise. His body convulsed violently, then stilled. I barely registered it.
But then, my focus shattered.
A shadow moved too fast in the smoke, a blur with eyes full of intent and anger. Another Order fighter, silent as a predator. My arms were too slow. My feet were too heavy. My head felt thick and leaden. Before I could even raise my wand, his curse slammed into my chest, a brutal explosion that knocked the wind out of me.
I hit the stone wall hard, the world spinning. My lungs seized. My ribs screamed, my vision blurred with pain and panic. My wand skidded across the floor, a lifeline just out of reach. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I could barely even think.
The man loomed over me, wand raised, eyes glinting with the intent to kill. Every instinct screamed at me to flee, to scramble, to claw for life. My body refused. Fear clenched me in a vise so tight I thought I might collapse from the pressure alone. My heartbeat pounded in my ears like war drums, echoing the chaos of the room, of the screams, of my own failing self. But out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Mattheo.
He was a storm incarnate, crashing through the smoke with the force of raw, unleashed fury. His fist hit the man's nose with a wet, brutal smack, blood spraying in a fine arc. He didn't pause. Skull slammed into stone, once, twice, again, with a sickening, wet crunch that left the man's body sliding down the wall in a smear of pulp and blood. The air stank of copper and iron.
I blinked through the blur of tears, lungs heaving. Relief should have hit me. Gratitude should have risen, but it didn't. Mattheo didn't look at me with relief. His eyes were fire, black and piercing, blazing with something far harsher than fury.
He seized my shoulders, lifting me, slamming me hard against the wall. My teeth rattled. Pain flared across my jaw and skull. His face was inches from mine, hot breath tangling with mine, words jagged as knives.
"What the fuck was that?" His snarl cut through me, sharp as a whip.
"I—" My chest heaved. My throat felt raw, my voice barely audible. "I... slipped—"
"You slipped?" His fingers dug into my shoulders, bruising. "We're not here to play duels in a classroom! You hesitate here, you fucking die, and worse, you get me killed."
"I didn't—"
He slammed me again. My head banged against the wall. Pain and panic collided, and I almost whimpered. His eyes burned into me, black flames of fury intertwined with something darker. Fear, maybe, something he'd never admit.
"You don't get to falter here Avery," he spat, venomous and low. "Not ever. Not when I'm the one who has to deal with your fucking mistakes."
His words shredded me from the inside out, carving guilt into my chest, twisting my stomach. I could feel my knees buckle beneath me, trembling, my fingers digging into the wall to keep from collapsing. I wanted to scream. I wanted to curl into myself. I wanted to vanish from the world, far from this suffocating fire, far from his eyes, but the moment was merciless.
Another Order fighter emerged from the smoke, silent and deadly. Mattheo's wand moved before I could even blink, murmuring the Killing Curse with effortless precision. The man's body crumpled mid-step, skull cracking against the stone with a sound that made my stomach twist.
Mattheo turned back to me, his eyes narrowing into icy daggers. "Next time, I won't fucking save you. You understand? There's no place for weakness here."
I forced a nod, dry and trembling. My throat was raw, lungs rasping, my chest aching from panic and exertion. My entire body shook from adrenaline and terror, from the weight of knowing I had almost died, not to the Order fighter, not to the chaos around us, but from my own hesitation.
Mattheo's smirk flickered, sharp and cutting. There was no warmth, no relief that I was alive. Just expectation. Mocking cruelty. The kind that pressed into my bones and left me hollow. My vision swam with sweat and blood, my hands shaking, still tingling with the phantom motion of the wand I had dropped.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't argue. Could barely even breathe. I was a mess of fear, fury at myself, and shame, standing in the shadow of someone who would have punished me for that falter if the world allowed it. I swallowed hard, forcing my tears down, tasting copper and bile on my tongue, gripping the edges of my robes to anchor myself to the floor.
Satisfied he shoved me away, spinning back into the chaos. His curses rained mercilessly, each strike faster, harder, angrier than the last. His fury was no longer for the Order alone, it was for me, too, and I felt the weight of it in my bones.
I forced myself back into the fray, even as my chest burned and my head rang. Another fighter came for me, I deflected his curse with trembling arms, then drove my wand into his chest. His body convulsed, blood flooding from his mouth, staining my robes.
Minutes stretched like hours. Bodies piled. Blood turned the floor slick, sticky under our boots. Screams echoed, then faded into silence. The room was a slaughterhouse. Blood painted the stone, pooled under beds, dripped from walls. Smoke curled upward from charred bodies, the air heavy with the stench of burned flesh and iron.
Every Order member lay dead. Every last one.
The six of us stood alone, bloodied and heaving, shadows cast long by the flickering torches. Mattheo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still burning. He didn't look at me again. But I could feel his words etched into my bones, the bruise of his grip still hot on my shoulders.
The silence after the slaughter was deafening.
Smoke still curled from charred bodies, torches guttered in their brackets, and the heavy stink of blood and fire clung to the back of my throat. My boots squelched in the crimson puddles as I shifted, looking down at the ruin we had made. Dozens of bodies, twisted, burned, broken, stacked almost like discarded dolls.
Draco moved among us with his usual cold efficiency, wand weaving sharp, quick movements. Healing charms sparked across torn flesh, burns, cuts, bruises. He didn't linger on anyone, just enough to keep us standing, keep us useful to Mattheo.
When he reached me, his gaze flicked up, meeting mine briefly. The spell cooled the bruises blooming along my ribs, the ache in my lungs easing. He didn't speak, the sharpness of his eyes said enough: I had disappointed him.
But it wasn't Draco's voice that cut me.
It was Mattheo's.
He turned on me like a storm, his chest still heaving from the fight, hair damp with sweat and blood. His eyes burned black with fury, and his voice cracked the silence like a whip.
"You nearly got yourself killed in there, Avery." His tone was venomous, louder now that the battle was done. "Do you think this is a fucking game?"
I stiffened, opening my mouth, but he didn't let me. He surged closer, his voice sharp enough to cut.
"You froze. You hesitated. Do you have any fucking idea what would've happened if I hadn't been there? If I hadn't dragged your pathetic arse off the floor? You'd be lying with the rest of them—" he jabbed a bloodied finger toward the pile of corpses, "—and worse, you would've put me at risk."
Heat rose in my throat, stinging behind my eyes, but I forced it down. "I didn't freeze—"
"You did." His voice was savage. "Weakness gets you killed. Weakness gets all of us killed."
"That's enough," Lorenzo snapped. He stepped forward, his usual grin gone, jaw tight. He placed himself between us, his hand half-raised as though daring Mattheo to keep going. "She fought and she bled the same as the rest of us. Don't stand there acting like you're the only one who matters."
Mattheo's eyes flicked to him, dark and murderous. "Stay out of this, Berkshire."
"Fuck off Riddle." Lorenzo's voice was sharp, protective. "You don't get to tear her apart because you're too much of a coward to admit you care whether she dies."
The air crackled between them, electric and intense. For a moment, I thought Mattheo would strike him. Then Draco's voice cut through, low and firm, colder than ice.
"He's right about one thing."
I looked at him, my chest tightening.
Draco's gaze was unreadable, his tone level but sharp. "You did falter. That can't happen again. Weakness won't be tolerated. Not here. Not ever."
The words landed heavier than Mattheo's rage. Draco's voice wasn't cruel, it was final. I knew better than to argue.
The silence stretched. Daphne stood off to the side, her expression uncharacteristically subdued, her fingers fiddling with a silver ring she'd stolen from one of the corpses. Theo, as always, said nothing, his eyes on me but his face unreadable. I swallowed hard, the weight of their stares pressing into me, until movement flickered at the edge of my vision.
"Wait," Theo said suddenly, his voice soft but sharp. His wand twitched toward the far wall.
We all turned as one. From the shadows at the back of the blood-slick chamber, a figure emerged. Not a man, not one of the hardened fighters we had cut down.
A young boy.
His clothes were simple, muggle-like, his face pale and streaked with grime. His eyes were wide, terrified, glinting in the torchlight. He clutched the wall like it might swallow him back into the dark, but he stepped forward, trembling, blood dripping from somewhere near his hairline.
For a heartbeat, the six of us froze. We had killed everyone. Everyone.
Or so we thought.
My breath hitched, cold crawling down my spine as the boy's eyes swept over the bodies, over the ruin, before locking on us. On me.
The air was thick, silent, heavy with the stench of death and the weight of what came next. The boy's chest heaved in shallow bursts, eyes darting between us like a rabbit cornered by wolves. His lips trembled, trying to form words, but nothing came out, only a rasping breath.
Draco's wand rose, precise, already aimed at the center of the boy's forehead. Theo mirrored him silently. Lorenzo tilted his head with that snake-charming smile, Daphne actually giggled under her breath, bouncing on her heels as if eager for another round of slaughter. I raised my wand too, out of instinct, out of habit. But before I could even utter a word, a sharp hand darted across my vision.
Mattheo.
He wrenched my wand from my grip, so sudden and violent that my knuckles cracked.
"What the—" I snapped, but the words broke off as he spun the wand between his fingers, smirking down at me like I was nothing.
The others froze, watching.
"Not this time," Mattheo drawled, his voice low but carrying. His eyes glittered like shards of obsidian as he turned back to the boy, then to me. "This one's on her."
My breath stuttered. "What?"
He stepped closer, shoving my wand into his own belt. His smile widened, cruel. "Prove it, Avery. Prove you're not weak. Prove you can stand with us."
The boy whimpered, pressing back against the damp stone wall.
I stared at Mattheo, my pulse slamming through my throat. "Are you fucking serious? There's nothing to prove. Just kill him and let's be done with it."
He laughed, sharp and cutting. "No. That's too easy." His grin bared his teeth. "You froze earlier. Almost got yourself killed. You want us to believe you're worth keeping alive? Then you finish this. No wand. Just you."
My stomach dropped. Behind him, Daphne's eyes widened with something like excitement, her lips quirking in a wide grin.
"Oh, I like this."
Lorenzo frowned, his voice dipping. "Mattheo—"
"Shut it," Mattheo snapped, his tone biting enough to cut steel. "She wants to stand with us, she earns it. Right here. Right now."
"I don't have the fucking choice to leave or not and you know that Riddle."
The boy whimpered again. His knees buckled, his hands raised like he thought begging might do him any good. Rage surged up my throat, tangled with something uglier, shame, fear, a sick twist in my stomach. My fists clenched so tight my nails drew blood against my palms.
Mattheo only smirked, tilting his head, eyes glittering with dark amusement. "Show us you're not pathetic, show me."
The boy's breath came in short, ragged bursts, his wide eyes glistening with terror as he pressed back into the shadows. He was maybe around fourteen, far to young to be caught up in any of this mess. For one fleeting second, the thought twisted inside my chest, but I forced it down. Mercy didn't exist here. Not with Mattheo watching at least.
I rolled my shoulders back, cracking my knuckles. If he wanted a show, fine. I'd give him one.
The boy lunged first weakly. Desperation made him clumsy. His fist swung wide, and I caught it in my palm with a smack of bone on bone. Pain shot up my arm, but I didn't let go, I twisted, yanking him forward, and slammed my knee into his gut. His breath whooshed out of him in a choking groan.
I shoved him back, the force sending him stumbling into one of the wooden support beams. The crack of his skull against the post was sickening, but he stayed upright, staggering toward me again, snarling now.
He charged, and this time I let him come. I ducked low, driving my elbow into his ribs. I felt them give beneath the blow, sharp, brittle cracks that sang beneath my skin. He screamed, spittle spraying across my face, but I didn't stop. I slammed my fist into his jaw, once, twice, three times, until his teeth cut into his lips and blood poured down his chin.
The others watched in silence. No one moved to help. Not even Daphne, but she was smiling widely from the sidelines.
The boy fought back. His fist connected with my cheek, snapping my head sideways, stars bursting in my vision. My knees nearly buckled, but rage snapped me upright again. I caught his wrist before he could strike again, wrenched it hard, and brought my forehead down against his nose.
The crunch was deafening. Hot blood gushed over my face, metallic and thick. He screamed, staggered, but still swung wildly with his free hand. His nails tore at my throat, scraping skin. I hissed, driving my boot into his knee. There was a sharp pop and he collapsed, shrieking as his leg curved at an inhumane angle.
He tried crawling away, but I didn't let him.
I grabbed the back of his collar, yanked him upright, and smashed him face-first into the stone wall. His teeth left red smears on the rock. He sagged, half-conscious, but I wasn't done. I slammed him again and again. Until his screams broke into gargled sobs. Until the stone was streaked crimson. Until my arms shook with the effort of holding him upright.
Finally, I let him drop. He hit the ground like a sack of meat, twitching, broken, barely breathing. His face was unrecognizable, his body mangled, his chest heaving in ragged, shallow bursts. I staggered back, panting, chest heaving, my fists still slick with his blood. My eyes snapped to Mattheo.
"Enough," I rasped, voice raw. "He's finished."
For a moment, silence stretched between us. My hair stuck to my blood-smeared cheeks, my breath sawed loud in the stillness.
Mattheo's gaze locked on me, his expression unreadable. And then he scoffed. Low, dismissive.
"Pathetic."
He took a slow step toward me, his smirk curving sharp. "You think that's strength? You think leaving him crawling on the floor makes you the same as any of us?" He gestured at the boy's twitching body with his chin. "Finish it, or you are weak."
The room spun, my fists clenched and my stomach turned. I stared at the young boy, blood pooling beneath him, his breaths wet and shallow, his broken eyes still blinking up at me, clinging to life like it meant something. Mattheo's voice sliced through me again, venomous and commanding.
"Do it."
My breath was ragged, echoing in the blood-soaked silence. The boy wheezed, broken and twitching, his chest struggling with each shallow inhale. I thought Mattheo was going to tell me to use the Killing Curse. Instead, his ruthless command cut through the air like a blade.
"Jump on him."
I blinked. "What?"
Mattheo's grin was sharp, humorless. His dark eyes burned with command.
"You heard me. Jump. On his ribcage."
A pit opened in my stomach. My gaze dropped to the boy, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. He was barely clinging to life as it was. Jumping would crush him, split him apart.
"I—" The word stuck, weak, pathetic in my throat.
Mattheo's smirk widened. He took a step closer, closing the distance, his presence heavy, suffocating.
"Don't play innocent now, love. You've already painted the walls with his blood. What's a little more?"
I shook my head, lips parting, but before I could answer, another voice slid in, smooth, and detached.
Draco.
"She can't do it," he drawled, stepping forward, wand twirling idly in his pale fingers. His grey eyes flicked from me to the boy on the ground with quiet disdain. "Too soft. She doesn't have it in her."
Mattheo's gaze never left me. "Prove him wrong. Now."
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream, to curse them both, but my body wouldn't move. My knees locked, my chest caved. Horror gnawed at me, but so did fear. Fear of what they'd think. Fear of what they'd do if I failed them.
Mattheo's patience snapped like glass. He shoved me forward, hard enough that I stumbled, my boots splashing into a pool of blood. The boy beneath me whimpered, a choked, desperate sound.
"Do it," Mattheo hissed. "Fucking jump."
I shook my head again, trembling, and that was when Draco joined in. He moved behind me, his voice low, mocking in my ear.
"Maybe if we help her. She needs... encouragement."
His hand pressed against my back firmly. Mattheo stepped in front of me, his smirk cruel, his eyes glinting. Together, they closed me in.
Mattheo's fingers gripped my arm, nails digging into my skin. "Up," he snarled, yanking me like a puppet. "Come on, Avery. One good jump. That's all it takes."
I tried to pull back, but Draco's hand shoved me forward again, guiding me like I was nothing but a pawn.
"She's hesitating too much," Draco said flatly. "Maybe we give her the same fate."
Mattheo leaned closer, lips curling by my ear. "You don't deserve to breathe alongside us."
Their taunts tangled inside me, fear, anger, shame burning hot. My body shook as I looked down at the boy. His chest rose and fell, shallow, rattling, each inhale bubbling with blood. His eyes locked on mine, wide and pleading, full of something I couldn't bear to name.
And then Mattheo snapped.
His hands slammed into my shoulders, forcing me down. I landed with a jolt against the boy's torso. There was a sickening crack beneath me. He screamed, high, piercing, inhuman. Blood spurted from his lips, spraying across my face. I froze, gagging and horrified.
But Mattheo wasn't done. He pulled me back up by my arm, harsh and unrelenting, then shoved me down again. My boots slammed into his ribcage this time, splitting bone, shattering cartilage. His body convulsed, another scream tearing from his throat.
"Again!" Mattheo barked.
I shook my head, tears pricking my eyes, but Draco's voice hissed like poison.
"Pathetic." His hand pressed harder against my back, forcing me down. "You think he'll let you walk away if you don't finish it? Mattheo's right. You are weak."
Something in me snapped.
I jumped. My boots landed with a wet, cracking crunch. The boy screamed, choked, gargling, then coughed blood across the stone floor. Each jump, the cracks grew louder. Bones splintered. His body writhed beneath me, then jerked, then sagged. His chest caved inward, ribs puncturing lungs, his blood spurting hot and sticky across my legs.
By the fifth jump, the screams had stopped and the boy was still.
I stood over him, trembling, drenched in blood. My breath tore from my throat, ragged, broken, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall.
Mattheo smirked, finally releasing me. His voice was low, satisfied, cruel.
"There she is."
Draco's gaze swept over me, unreadable, though there was a flicker, approval, perhaps. Cold and unyielding all the same.
"Maybe she's not as soft as I thought."
But I didn't feel strong.
I felt hollow.
I looked down at what was left of the boy, his chest caved in, his face unrecognizable, his blood seeping into my boots, and bile rose scorching hot in my throat, but I swallowed it back.
For a moment, the room was heavy with the stench of death, thick, cloying, unescapable. My chest heaved, my ribs aching from the force of Mattheo's hands, from the violence of my own unwilling movements. The body at my feet was a ruin, unrecognizable, and my tears burned hot trails down my blood-streaked cheeks.
Daphne was the first to move. Her wand lowered, her face, usually alight with psychotic delight in moments like these, was tight, unsettled. She edged closer, brushing a stray lock of my hair back from my damp face, her hand shaking almost imperceptibly.
"Lia..." Her voice was hushed, hesitant, the sharp edges of her usual bravado softened. "You don't have to let them—"
"Enough," Draco cut her off sharply, his voice slicing the air like glass. He didn't even look at me as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the gore-streaked floor instead. His robes swayed faintly as he stepped back from the carnage, expression unreadable. "She has to learn. If she doesn't, she'll get us all killed."
Lorenzo barked a laugh, but it was brittle, empty of any real humor. He tilted his head toward me, his grin painted on like a mask. "She doesn't need to learn by being turned into a puppet, Malfoy." His eyes cut toward Mattheo, narrowing. "You enjoyed that a little too much, didn't you?"
"Again."
I blinked, blood stinging my lashes. "He's—he's done—"
"Again!" he snapped, louder now, a vicious edge to his tone. Mattheo's hand clamped around my arm like iron, yanking me forward until I almost lost balance.
Draco's voice was cool, steady, merciless. "She'll never learn if she stops when it's easy. Make her finish it properly."
My stomach churned. The body beneath me twitched faintly, but it was enough to send a shiver of horror crawling up my spine. Tears burned in my eyes, hot and humiliating. I didn't want them to see me break.
But Mattheo saw. Of course he saw.
"Cry later," he hissed. "Do it now."
His shove drove me down again, hard, and I landed on the boy's ribcage with a thunderous crack. The bones splintered further, sharp edges tearing through flesh. Blood gurgled out of his mouth, black in the torchlight, pooling around his head.
My knees buckled. I tried to stagger back, but Draco's hand was at my shoulder, shoving me forward again, his voice low, cutting.
"You think they'll spare you if you hesitate like this? You'll die choking on your own blood one day if you don't learn."
Mattheo's grip twisted in my robes, hauling me upright, then slamming me down again, making me land with all my weight.
"Harder."
"Please—" My voice broke, strangled with sobs I couldn't contain.
"Do it!" he roared.
I jumped.
My boots landed on the boy's sternum. The crunch was deafening, wet and sharp, bones snapping into jagged shards. His body convulsed violently, and for a heartbeat, I swore he was alive again, but it was only nerves, twitching in the aftermath of ruin.
I covered my mouth with my blood-slick hands, sobs spilling free now, shaking so hard my teeth rattled. My whole body screamed to stop, to run, to vomit.
But Mattheo wasn't finished.
He forced me down once more. My boots slammed onto the shattered cage of the boy's torso. I felt the last of his ribs splinter and collapse, sharp edges tearing straight through skin and muscle. The sound was worse than the screams had ever been, a grotesque mix of crunch and squelch, like meat ground into bone.
I screamed with it.
Tears streamed hot down my cheeks, blurring my vision, dripping into the blood that covered me. I could taste salt and iron, my lips wet with both. My knees ached, my stomach lurched, but Mattheo held me there, forcing me down again and again, until the only thing beneath me was a mangled ruin of bone, flesh, and gore.
Finally he stopped.
His hands caught my waist, pulling me off the broken body like a doll discarded from play. My legs gave way, shaking too hard to hold me, but Mattheo steadied me, rough yet firm, holding me up when I thought I'd collapse.
I couldn't look at the boy, I couldn't even call it a boy anymore. He was just... parts.
Tears blurred everything, hot rivers streaking through the blood on my face. I tried to wipe them away, but my hands shook too much, smeared with gore that wouldn't wash off, no matter how hard I rubbed. My chest heaved, lungs rasping, and every muscle in my body felt raw and hollowed from the fight, from the weight of nearly dying.
Mattheo's hand suddenly closed around my chin. Rough, but not violent, just enough to force my gaze to meet his. His thumb swiped under my eye, dragging away some of the tears, leaving a streak of blood across my cheek. My vision swarmed with it, his proximity, the sharp smell of sweat and smoke and iron, the heat of him so close I could feel it like a living thing against my skin.
I wanted to pull back. My body wanted to retreat. And yet, somehow, I couldn't. His eyes were different now. Not the blazing fury I had known for years. Not the cruel, mocking glint that made my stomach knot. This was darker, heavier, something almost careful.
"You're stronger than this," he said, his voice low, so quiet that only I could hear it. The words wrapped around me like a tether. "Don't make me break you again."
I couldn't speak. My throat had gone dry, my lips trembling. I wanted to argue, to deny it, to tell him I wasn't weak, but the words stuck somewhere between panic and awe. His gaze held me, unrelenting, and I felt the room shrink until it was only him and me, the chaos of smoke and blood fading to a dull roar at the edges of my mind.
His eyes flicked to Draco, a flash of something unspoken passing between them; caution, calculation, a quiet acknowledgment. Then back to me. That look made my heart stutter in a way that had nothing to do with fear, nothing to do with the fight.
And just like that, the edge returned. The warning, the cold, the brutality that made him who he was slammed back in like a wave. His hand released me, shoving me gently back a step. The warmth, the closeness, the intimacy vanished, leaving only the sharp, hard reality of who he was, of what I had just survived.
"Let's go," he barked to the others, his voice slicing the silence. He strode toward the exit, shoulders stiff, stride sharp, like none of this, none of the blood, none of the fear, none of me had mattered at all.
I stood there, trembling, chest rising and falling unevenly, still tasting copper and sweat, still smelling smoke and iron. My fingers twitched where he had touched me, the ghost of his hand burning against my skin. My mind reeled, torn between relief and anger, fear and fascination.
The corridor ahead seemed impossibly long. I trailed behind the others, dragging my legs like lead, my hands sticky, my vision blurred. But in the back of my mind, that moment lingered, the weight of his gaze, the roughness of his fingers, the dark warmth in his voice.
I stood trembling, blood and tears dripping from me, my body hollow, my soul clawing for air. But my boots were still slick with the boy's blood, and there was no way to wash it off. Not now. Not ever.
The corridor swallowed us whole. The others moved quickly, their boots clicking against the damp stone, their shadows lurching and stretching long across the walls as the torches guttered in their sconces. They kept close together, Mattheo at the front, Draco just behind him with that clipped, aristocratic stride. Daphne stayed nearer to Lorenzo, her spark dulled into something simmering and silent. Theo trailed just a fraction behind, as if waiting for me to catch up.
I stayed back. I couldn't force myself to close the distance. My legs carried me, but my body felt leaden, every step heavy with blood still tacky against my boots. The corridor seemed endless, each echo of their strides ahead of me like a reminder that I didn't belong at their pace. That I wasn't like them, not yet.
My throat burned. The tears pressed harder with every step, my chest rising and falling too quickly, uneven, shallow. I clenched my jaw until it ached, until I thought my teeth might splinter, just to keep the sob from breaking loose.
Not here. Not in front of them.
The shadows of their backs wavered ahead. Mattheo's shoulders squared like iron, as if he carried no weight at all from what he'd just done, or from what he'd forced me to do. Draco's head tilted slightly, cool and detached, like he was already a hundred steps ahead in his mind, already planning, already moved on.
I forced my eyes down, staring at the ground instead of their silhouettes. The floor was slick in patches, a faint smear of blood trailing where one of us must have dragged a boot. My stomach lurched, bile rising, but I swallowed it back so hard it burned.
Daphne glanced back once. Just once. Her eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable in the flickering light. For the briefest heartbeat, there was softness there, a question she didn't voice. Then she looked away again, quick, before Mattheo could notice.
I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper. The sting grounded me, gave me something to hold onto.
The silence was unbearable. No one spoke, no one breathed more than they had to. It was the kind of silence that rang in your ears, where the only sound was the thud of boots, the soft rasp of fabric against stone, and my own uneven heartbeat hammering too loudly inside my chest.
My eyes blurred again. I blinked furiously, swiping at them with the back of my sleeve before the tears could fall. The gesture was frantic, too sharp, as though the movement alone might cut off the flood before it spilled.
But the pressure didn't ease. It built higher, tighter, until my chest hurt with the effort of keeping it down. Each step was a battle in itself, forcing my body forward, forcing my expression to stay blank when all I wanted to do was collapse against the wall and let it out.
I tried to match their pace, tried to keep up, but my boots dragged. Every time the distance stretched further, it felt like a chasm was opening between us, me, lagging, broken, trailing behind like dead weight they tolerated but didn't want.
Mattheo didn't look back. He didn't have to. Somehow I knew he knew exactly where I was, knew exactly how far behind I'd fallen. He didn't care. Or maybe he wanted me to feel it. I gripped my wand tighter, my knuckles bone-white, as if the pressure alone might keep me from shaking. My breath came shallow, hitching once when I thought I couldn't stop it anymore. I bit down harder, swallowed until my throat burned.
No.
Not here. Not now.
By the time the tunnel began to curve, my vision was swimming. The tears were still trapped, burning hot against the rims of my eyes, but I held them there, suspended, unshed, a trembling dam ready to burst.
Still, I dragged myself on. Trying not to cry, trying not to break, trying not to give them one more reason to call me weak.
The silence followed us, thick and suffocating, as though the stone itself was listening and I kept walking, my body shaking, my heart raw, forcing the tears to stay inside where they hurt worse.
Chapter Text
The smell of fried bread clung to the walls, oil smoke curling against the ceiling beams that had long ago lost their whitewash. The safehouse was a husk of a place, all peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards, the kind of home that looked like it had given up long before we ever arrived, but we lived on its bones anyway.
The kitchen bled into the dining room, a single sagging table with six mismatched chairs surrounding it. The wood was stained, carved with initials from a family that no longer existed, splinters raised along the edges where Lorenzo liked to drag his knife while he talked. The cupboards were bare except for what we stole or what was dropped off in crates under cover of night, mostly filled with bread that had gone hard at the edges, bruised apples or meat wrapped in paper that smelled faintly of rust.
Breakfast was silence broken by scrape and clatter. Daphne perched cross-legged on her chair, her blonde hair a wild tangle around her face, chewing noisily as though daring someone to tell her to stop. Draco sat opposite her, posture perfect, movements precise, even with the chipped plate and dull knife in his hands. He cut his food like he was performing surgery, each slice clean and proper, and ate without looking at anyone in the eye.
Theo leaned against the wall instead of sitting, arms folded, a piece of bread dangling forgotten in his hand. He didn't eat much, but he never did. His eyes were far away, shadowed, always somewhere else. Lorenzo sprawled in his chair like a cat, shirt half-buttoned, smirk firmly in place. He stole bites off Daphne's plate until she stabbed his hand with her fork, and even then, he just laughed, mouth full, crumbs on his lips.
Mattheo had claimed the seat at the head of the table, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He didn't say a word, but his presence filled the room anyway, heavy as the smoke that lingered in the rafters. His knuckles were still scabbed from last night. I sat beside Daphne, hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
The routine was simple. We had two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a couch that smelled nauseatingly damp. Daphne and I shared the smaller room at the back while the boys rotated between the other bedroom and the couch, though half the time Lorenzo didn't even bother and just collapsed wherever he fell asleep. Privacy was a luxury none of us had, and neither was comfort.
It was always loud in the mornings, cutlery against plates, pipes groaning in the walls when someone dared to run the tap, Daphne humming under her breath. But today, the silence pressed harder than usual. I could feel it sitting in my chest, heavy and sour, like smoke that refused to clear. I kept my eyes on the table. The grain of the wood, the scratch of my thumbnail against it, the way the stains looked like old blood. I avoided the gaze of the people around me, especially Mattheo.
If I looked at him, I'd remember the way his hands had held me against the wall, the way his voice had cut me open, the way he'd smeared away my tears with blood. But worse, I'd remember that some part of me had clung to his words, desperate, starving, needing him to keep looking at me even when it hurt, because he was our leader.
"Merlin, you'd think for people fighting a war, we'd at least get better food." Daphne wrinkled her nose at the fried bread, tearing it apart with her fingers anyway. "If I see another crate of root vegetables I'm going to hex someone."
"Careful," Lorenzo drawled, leaning back in his chair until it creaked. "That might be the only thing keeping us alive. Can't hex potatoes into being edible." He stole another chunk of dry toast from her plate.
"Touch it again and I'll feed your ass the fucking fork," Daphne shot back, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.
Theo snorted faintly, the closest he ever got to laughter. Draco glanced at him, then back to his food, expression unreadable. Mattheo didn't laugh, He just tore a piece of bread with his teeth, chewing like it was a battle he was determined to win. I forced myself to breathe evenly, to push the stiffness from my shoulders. It would do no good if they saw me rattled. They all knew me too well, too long, too deep.
We'd grown up together, all of us, tangled in the same legacy of masks and meetings and whispered conversations overheard behind locked doors. Our parents had raised us in the shadow of the Dark Lord long before any of us had the Mark on our arms. We'd been children playing at friendship in the gilded cages of our families' homes.
I remembered those days sometimes. Our summers spent in manor gardens, snowball fights outside Malfoy Manor, sneaking firewhisky from Draco's cabinet. Mattheo had once pushed me into a fountain and then pulled me out again, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Draco used to chase Daphne with frogs just to hear her scream. Lorenzo was always the loudest, always the one daring us to go higher, faster, further, while Theo watched, quiet, steady, making sure we didn't go too far.
But then came the Mark. I could still feel the sear of it burning into my skin, branding me to Him forever. We'd all taken it, one by one and everything shifted. Draco had turned sharp, precise, colder than ever before, all the softness burned out of him. Mattheo had gone the other way, he was wild, unpredictable and cruel in ways that hadn't existed in the boy who used to laugh until dawn.
Sometimes, I still caught glimpses of the people they'd been. In a joke half-whispered, in the way Draco's hand lingered on Theo's shoulder, in the shadow of a smile on Mattheo's face when Daphne needled him too much. But it was less and less now, like chasing smoke with my bare hands. Daphne kicked my shin under the table, breaking my thoughts.
"You're brooding again Auri," she said, sing-song, but her eyes were sharp.
The scrape of Mattheo's chair cut through her voice like a blade. The sound was sharp, deliberate. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and suddenly all of us went still without even thinking about it.
"Interrogation day," he said flatly, setting his bread down and leaning forward on his elbows. His eyes moved over all of us, one by one, pinning us to our chairs. "Riddle Manor. This afternoon."
The word sat heavy on the table, souring the remnants of morning lightness.
Daphne was the first to speak, practically bouncing in her seat. "Let me do it." Her grin was sharp, her eyes bright with that sparkling edge that never seemed to leave her anymore. "You know I'm better at it than any of you. They scream louder when it's me anyway ."
"Not a fucking chance," Lorenzo cut in, sitting up straighter. His grin mirrored hers, but his was careless, dangerous in a different way. "You want him broken? Let me have it alone."
"Oh, please." Daphne rolled her eyes, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "You'd fuck the prisoners to death before you got anything useful out of them. I think it's my turn anyway, you lot always hog the fun."
"Fun?" Theo muttered, not looking up from his plate. His jaw was taut. "That's not what this is."
"It's exactly what it is," Daphne shot back. "You'd rather I waste my energy torching furniture? At least this way I can be useful."
"Useful," Draco repeated, tone smooth and cutting, "would be getting information, not turning a prisoner into ash before they can talk."
"Oh, and you're such a master interrogator?" she snapped, eyes narrowing. "You think they open up because you fucking scowl at them?"
Lorenzo stretched his arms behind his head, smirking. "Please. All of you overcomplicate it. Give me ten minutes alone, a blade, and the poor bastard will be singing ballads. No wand required."
"Or he'll bleed out before he says a word," Theo said, voice flat, still not lifting his eyes.
Lorenzo leaned toward him with a grin. "Not if you know what you're doing."
"That's exactly the problem." Draco's tone sharpened, final, brooking no argument. "We're not meant to indulge ourselves. We're meant to extract. That means control. Discipline. It should be done as a team."
"A team?" Daphne's laugh was brittle, grating. "Tell me, Draco, when has that ever worked? You want five people waving wands over one half-blood, tripping over each other's curses? Spare me."
"You have no patience," Draco said coldly.
"And you have no spine," she shot back.
"Enough." Mattheo's voice cracked across the table.
Everyone froze.
He sat back now, but his eyes were locked on Daphne, dark but steady. "It'll be me. And Daphne."
Her mouth opened like she was about to argue, but the edge in his tone stopped her. For a heartbeat, she actually looked pleased. Her lips curled into a dangerous little smile. Theo finally lifted his gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he looked away again. Draco's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Lorenzo whistled low, amused, and leaned back in his chair.
Mattheo leaned down to tear another bite of bread, calm again, as if the decision had been obvious from the start. "The rest of you stay sharp. There'll be more after this. Aurelia, you are also coming with us."
My stomach sank. A hush followed his words. Even Daphne stilled, her grin twitching wider as her gaze darted to me.
"Why?" My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Why me?"
Mattheo didn't blink. "Because you need it."
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I opened my mouth, but he didn't give me the chance.
"You'll watch and you'll see how shit is done properly." His eyes flicked toward Daphne, who was practically glowing under the attention. "From me. And from her."
Daphne's smirk curved like a blade. Heat crawled up my throat, shame mixing with something else, something twisted and restless. My fists curled in my lap under the table. Theo's fork scraped quietly against his plate, but he didn't speak. Draco's eyes slid to me for the briefest second, unreadable, before he looked back at his food. Lorenzo only chuckled under his breath, like this was all entertainment.
I forced myself to nod, jaw tight, because what else could I do?
"Good," Mattheo said simply, leaning back again, as though nothing had passed between us. As though he hadn't just shoved me onto a ledge with only one way down.
The others tried to slide back into easy chatter, but it sounded thin, like fabric stretched too tight. Daphne hummed under her breath as she picked crumbs from her plate. Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, boots on the table, twirling his wand between his fingers like he was already bored of the whole conversation. Theo's silence pressed like ice.
It should've ended there. But it never did.
Draco's voice broke through, sharp as a blade. "We're running low again."
Mattheo glanced up, slow, unbothered. "On what?"
"Everything," Draco snapped. His hands curled around his mug, knuckles pale. "Bread's gone after this morning. Any fruit won't last another few days. We've got maybe two more bottles of healing potion left, and no one's got the ingredients to brew more."
"We'll manage," Mattheo said.
Draco's jaw tightened. "Manage how, exactly? You think shit's going to fall from the sky because you glare at it hard enough?"
Mattheo leaned back, folding his arms. "Supply drop's due in three days."
"Three days won't feed six of us now, will it?" Draco shot back, eyes sparking. "Unless you'd like Daphne to start chewing on floorboards. We'll have to raid again. Muggles, wizards, doesn't matter. We don't have a fucking choice."
Mattheo tilted his head, lips twitching into a smirk that wasn't remotely amused. "You always did like making plans, Draco. Pity you can't stomach the execution."
"Execution?" Draco spat. "This isn't strategy, it's desperation. And if you'd think with your head instead of your—"
"Careful," Mattheo's voice dropped, low and warning, "before you say something you'll regret."
The room stiffened. Even Lorenzo lowered his boots, eyes darting between the group with hungry amusement. My stomach turned. The fire had burned itself out in the grate, leaving only a husk of ash and embers. The air tasted stale, suffocating. I knew what was coming, another raid, another night of blood, another morning with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
I curled my fingers into fists beneath the table, nails digging into my palms, willing the rising dread to settle. It didn't. It only grew heavier, pressing against my ribs until it was nearly impossible to breathe.
The scrape of chairs on the wooden floor cut through the silence after Mattheo's warning. Nobody dared press further. Draco's face was carved from stone, grey eyes narrowed in quiet fury, but even he knew better than to provoke Mattheo when his temper had turned that sharp.
Theo was the first to move. He stacked his plate and mug, the sound oddly careful and deliberate, like he was tiptoeing through the aftermath of a storm. His expression gave nothing away, as always, but I saw the stiffness in his jaw, the way he avoided looking at anyone as he carried the dishes into the cramped kitchen corner.
Lorenzo rose next, lazily dragging himself to his feet with the grace of someone who wanted you to know he wasn't rattled, wasn't touched. He collected his cup in one hand and one of Daphne's abandoned utensils in the other, sauntering after Theo with that same bored demeanor. I could already hear him drawling some smug remark under his breath, but Theo didn't answer, and the sound of running water soon drowned him out.
Daphne pushed her chair back with a squeal of wood against stone, her laugh still lingering faintly on her lips like she hadn't even noticed the tension in the air. She glanced at me and raised her brows in a silent invitation. I followed her wordlessly, my legs stiff as if each step had been dipped in lead. The hallway that stretched from the main room was narrow, its walls crooked, the plaster cracked and yellowed from years of damp. My shoulder brushed the peeling paint as we walked, and I caught the faint smell of mildew mixed with woodsmoke and old dust.
The bedroom Daphne and I shared was little more than a box, containing two narrow beds shoved against opposite walls, their blankets worn thin from years of use. A crooked wardrobe leaned against the wall like it might collapse. The only other piece of furniture was a cracked mirror nailed above a chipped dresser. The window was streaked with grime, the curtain threadbare, letting in a weak ray of grey morning light.
Daphne shut the door behind us with a flick of her wrist and strode straight to her bed. Her robes were already laid out, folded with the kind of neatness that made my chest ache. The black fabric gleamed faintly in the half-light, pristine despite the blood and ash that always seemed to cling to us after missions. Mine were balled up at the end of my bed where I'd left them the night before, stiff with soot and sweat.
Daphne didn't hesitate. She stripped down with the ease of someone preparing for a dance rehearsal rather than another round of cruelty, her hands deft as she pulled on the black layers, smoothing them against her skin. The fabric clung, highlighting the sharp lines of her figure, the movements practiced and seemingly fluid. She tugged the sleeves down past her wrists and adjusted the collar so it sat neatly beneath her jaw.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, staring at the mess of fabric in my lap. My hands trembled as I unraveled it, the cloth heavy, suffocating. I pressed my palms against my thighs, forcing the tremor still, but it lingered in my chest, in my breath.
I told myself it was just another uniform. Just clothes. Thread and fabric, no different than the black dresses we used to wear to balls when we were younger, giggling in front of mirrors as we pinned flowers into each other's hair. But this uniform carried ghosts stitched into its seams. It smelled like smoke and copper, like the places we left in ruin. I slid my legs into the trousers, pulling them up inch by inch, as if they might bite. My chest felt tight, like I was dressing myself in chains instead of robes.
Daphne, already ahead of me, fastened her belt and tied her wand holster tight against her thigh. She turned to the mirror, sweeping her long hair into a knot at the back of her head, her fingers working quickly, efficiently. Not a strand out of place. Her reflection grinned back at her, eyes bright, feverish with anticipation.
I managed to pull the black uniform over my head, the fabric heavy as it settled against my shoulders. I could almost feel last night's smoke clinging to the fibers. My fingers fumbled at the fastenings, slipping once, twice, until I forced myself to breathe slowly, carefully, and tried again. The buckle clicked into place swiftly.
"Nearly done?" Daphne asked, voice light, almost musical.
I swallowed, my throat dry. "I think."
"Good." She flicked her wand, and the wardrobe door creaked open. A small wooden box slid out, hovering until it landed neatly on her bed. She opened it, revealing a stack of black smooth, masks with narrow slits for eyes. One by one, she brushed her fingers over them as if selecting jewelry.
She lifted one and held it to her face, tilting her head as though admiring the look. Then, satisfied, she tied it back around her head, the black ribbon snug at the base of her skull. Her grin widened beneath it, visible even without her mouth showing, because I could hear it in her voice when she said, "Perfect."
I hadn't even reached for mine yet. My mask sat at the bottom of the box, cold and waiting. The thought of tying it over my face yet again made my chest seize. It wasn't just anonymity, it was erasure. When the mask was on, Aurelia Avery ceased to exist. The girl who used to braid Daphne's hair and sneak sweets from the kitchens was gone. All that remained was a Death Eater, faceless, nameless, a creature of shadow.
I forced myself to lift it. The edges were smooth, cool against my palm. My reflection in the cracked mirror looked hollow, almost foreign, as I raised it slowly.
Steady. Steady.
My hands betrayed me again, shaking as I tried to knot the ribbon. The fabric slipped once, dangling loose. I cursed under my breath and tried again, tugging it tighter, forcing the tremor out of my fingers. Behind me, Daphne laughed softly. Not unkindly, but it still cut.
"You fuss too much, Aurelia. Just tie it and go. It's not like anyone out there cares what you look like under it."
She was already heading for the door, her strides quick, confident, her wand spinning between her fingers like a baton. She didn't even glance back to see if I was following. I stared at myself for a long moment in the mirror. The mask was crooked, the ribbon fraying at one edge, but it would hold. I didn't look like me anymore. Maybe that was the point.
I stood, my knees stiff, and tugged my cloak from the hook by the bed. The black fabric swirled as I pulled it over my shoulders, settling heavy, suffocating. Each layer felt like another weight pressed down, crushing, until it was hard to draw a full breath.
But I straightened anyway. Because if I didn't, Mattheo would see. And if Mattheo saw, he'd cut me down with words sharper than any blade, break me apart piece by piece until nothing remained but obedience. So I forced myself forward, mask tight, cloak settled, wand at my hip.
Daphne was already halfway down the hall, humming under her breath, eager as a child heading for a game. I followed her into the main room where the boys were waiting, the air thick with the scent of soap and damp wood.
Theo was drying his hands on a rag, Lorenzo leaning against the sink with his usual smirk. Draco stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze distant, though I caught the flicker of tension in his jaw. Mattheo was in the center, as always, his presence impossible to ignore, dark eyes cutting toward us the second we entered.
I froze, every instinct in me screaming to look anywhere else. But his eyes caught me, dark and unblinking, dragging my gaze forward as though my feet were nailed to the floor. He didn't speak at first. He just studied me in silence, head tilting ever so slightly, as if cataloging every fault, every weakness. Then, with a slow deliberate stride, he closed the distance between us.
The room was silent. Even Lorenzo, usually quick with some sly remark, had stilled, his smirk faltering at the sight of Mattheo's sharpness. Theo's arms crossed tight over his chest, his expression cold, but his eyes flicked between us with an edge of unease.
Mattheo stopped directly before me. His shadow swallowed the thin strip of light leaking through the curtains, making the space between us feel darker, colder.
"You tied it wrong," he said. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried. The coldness of it sank into my bones.
My breath caught, the instinct to defend myself bubbling up.
I tied it fine, it'll hold, it doesn't matter.
But one look in his eyes killed the words before they reached my tongue.
His hand shot up without warning, not cruel, not gentle, just controlled. He seized the ribbon at the base of my skull, the knot clumsy beneath his fingers. I flinched, my body betraying me, but he held me steady, his grip firm.
I felt the brush of his knuckles against the nape of my neck, the faint rasp of calloused fingertips grazing skin. It was a light touch, but it burned all the same, not from tenderness, but from the way it stripped me bare, reminded me how little control I had.
He tugged the ribbon loose with a single pull. The mask sagged forward, nearly slipping off. Humiliation clawed at my throat. I wanted to grab it, to hold it back in place, but I didn't dare move under his hand.
Mattheo didn't hurry. He smoothed the ribbon flat between his fingers, then pulled it tight again, firmer, neater. The mask pressed hard against my cheekbones, digging into the bridge of my nose. My breath warmed the inside instantly, stifling, claustrophobic.
The knot bit into the base of my skull as he tied it. His fingers brushed the edge of my hairline, cold and impersonal, the way someone might handle a weapon instead of a person. When he was finished, he gave the ribbon a sharp tug to test it. My head jerked back, spine forced rigid, shoulders snapping straight under the sudden pull.
"Better," he murmured. Not praise or approval. Just a cold acknowledgment, like a craftsman noting a blade was sharpened properly at last.
My heart hammered, the mask suffocating me with every breath. The world looked narrower through its slits, vision tunneled, confined. I swallowed hard, but even that felt difficult, as though the knot at the back of my head had cinched around my throat.
Mattheo let go without another word. He didn't look at me again, not directly. He turned away, shoulders squaring as he addressed the rest of the room.
"You three," he said, voice flat, sharp as steel. His gaze flicked to Theo, Lorenzo, and Draco. "You'll stay here. No wandering, no little adventures. Await instructions from me, or from the Dark Lord himself regarding the rest of the day's agenda."
Theo inclined his head once, silent and composed as ever. Lorenzo raised his brows, leaning back against the sink with a half-smile, though I noticed the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Even Draco, tense and simmering as he was, gave a single curt nod, though his arms stayed crossed like he was physically holding himself together.
For a fleeting moment, I felt the thought ripple through them that maybe today would pass quietly. Maybe if they stayed put, no new orders would come.
But it was wishful thinking and we all knew it. The air in the safehouse itself seemed to whisper otherwise, thick with unease, with the knowledge that calm days were nothing but illusions. Mattheo didn't give space for speculation. His gaze cut back to Daphne, then to me, lingering like the edge of a knife pressed against skin.
"You two. Now."
It wasn't an invitation, it was a command. Daphne was already halfway to the door, her steps light and eager. I followed slower, each step dragging. My boots felt like they'd been filled with lead.
The safehouse loomed around me as I crossed the room, every detail sinking into me as though it wanted to leave a scar before I left. The sagging sofa with its frayed cushions, where Theo sometimes dozed and Lorenzo sprawled with feigned indifference. The cracked dining table still cluttered with half-cleaned dishes, water dripping faintly from the sink where Theo had left the tap not quite off. The peeling wallpaper by the doorframe where Draco's fist had once punched straight through the plaster after an argument with Mattheo.
This place wasn't home, not really. But it was all we had, and stepping beyond its walls always felt like walking into the mouth of something hungry.
Daphne didn't wait. She yanked the door open, light flooding the dim space, spilling across the floorboards in a harsh slash. She disappeared through it without hesitation. Mattheo moved next, his stride steady, unhurried, certain. The weight of command clung to him like another cloak, his shadow cutting long across the floor. I lingered a heartbeat longer at the threshold, staring at the safehouse interior. The air inside smelled faintly of soap and damp wood and yesterday's smoke from the fireplace. It felt safe, in its own fragile, temporary way.
The air outside, when I stepped into it, was sharp and biting. The cold hit first, crisp enough to sting the edges of my lungs. The ground outside was damp from an earlier rain, the dirt dark and soft beneath my boots. The sky above was a dull grey, clouds hanging low and heavy, as though even the heavens were waiting for something to crack.
The door shut behind me with a dull thud.
Daphne was already several paces ahead, cloak trailing like a shadow. Mattheo stood just beyond the porch, his back to me, shoulders squared, head held high as though daring the world to meet him.
I hesitated. Just a breath. Just long enough to feel the mask again pressing tight against my face, narrowing the world into a tunnel of shadow and light. Each inhale felt louder, each exhale fogging faintly against the inside, trapping me in my own breath. My dread rose sharp, pressing harder with every step I took after them. My feet obeyed even as every part of me screamed to turn back. To rip the mask from my face. To breathe freely. To stop being dragged forward into the same nightmare, day after day.
✦
The corridors of Riddle Manor always felt like a labyrinth designed to swallow you whole. The walls were paneled in dark wood, polished to a sheen that reflected the dim torchlight, but the air smelled faintly of damp and dust, like the house itself was rotting from within despite the glamour it wore.
We followed Mattheo down hall after hall, Daphne striding beside him with a poise that bordered on arrogance, her cloak slicing the air behind her. My own steps lagged by half a beat, my breath rasping shallow beneath the mask, each inhale catching on the knot tied tight at the base of my skull. None of us spoke. Words didn't belong here. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the muted echo of boots on stone and the occasional creak of wood groaning somewhere above.
Finally, Mattheo slowed before a narrow corridor lined with doors, each one marked with a faint rune. The energy here felt sharper, as though the air itself carried the residue of screams soaked into the walls. He stopped before the third door. With one gloved hand, he pressed against it, and the magic laced into the wood shimmered faintly, recognizing him, then split open with a dull click.
The door swung inward, revealing a room dimly lit by a single lantern dangling from the ceiling. The walls were bare stone, stripped of any warmth or comfort, the kind of room where humanity felt like an afterthought. In the center of it, bound to a chair reinforced with layers of runes and glowing magical restraints, sat a man.
His head was bowed, chin against his chest, dark hair falling into his face in unwashed clumps. His wrists strained against the enchanted bindings, skin raw and reddened where he'd clearly tested them already. His chest rose and fell shallowly, every breath rattling, but when the door creaked wider, he stirred. He lifted his head and recognition stabbed through me like a knife.
"Lockwood," Daphne murmured under her breath, her lips curving into something cold, sharp, satisfied.
Thomas Lockwood. I remembered him instantly, though I'd only seen him in fleeting glimpses at gatherings years ago when whispers of the Order reached our world, his name muttered like a threat. He had been fierce then, a known recruiter, loyal to Dumbledore. An enemy our parents warned us about.
Looking at him now he was smaller. Shrunken. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheek split open with a bruise blooming deep purple, his clothes torn and stiff with blood. But the defiance was still there, simmering in his gaze when it flicked from Daphne to Mattheo.
Mattheo ignored the man's stare entirely. His eyes swept the room, calculating, then fixed on the partition at the far end. It was a thick wall of glass set into stone, framed by black iron. Beyond it was another chamber, identical in size, bare except for the heavy door with no handle on this side. It was designed for one thing, observation. One room for the prisoner, another for the audience.
Mattheo stepped forward, his cloak brushing against the floor. He didn't even glance at Lockwood as he moved, his attention fixed on the window. With a small gesture, the glass shimmered faintly, its surface brightening so those on the other side could see clearly in.
"Daphne," he said, his tone clipped, businesslike. "With me."
Daphne's chin lifted, eyes flashing with something like anticipation. She tugged her mask tighter into place, and in a single stride, she was at his side. Mattheo's gaze shifted then, straight to me. It was the weight of a command before he even opened his mouth.
"You."
The word sliced the silence in two. I straightened instinctively, though my throat tightened beneath the mask.
"Yes?"
His expression was unreadable, hard as stone. His eyes however, they pinned me like I was nothing more than a pawn on his board.
"You'll stay here," he said. His tone was slow, deliberate, each word layered with finality. "In this room. By the glass. You do not move."
The order sank like ice water down my spine.
"But—" The word slipped out before I could stop it, brittle and desperate.
His head tilted, just slightly. Not a threat, not even anger, something worse. A warning. I clamped my jaw shut as Mattheo stepped closer, just enough that his shadow brushed over me. His voice lowered, pitched for me alone, though the chill in it was sharp enough to cut.
"You will watch. You will learn. Nothing more."
My stomach twisted. The thought of standing here, trapped on this side of the glass, forced to watch, powerless and useless, nothing but an audience to whatever they chose to do, and I knew it wouldn't be easy to watch. But I didn't argue and I certainly didn't breathe too loudly.
Mattheo's eyes lingered on me a beat longer, as though daring me to disobey. His hand was at my shoulder before I could shift an inch, cold leather pressing through the fabric of my cloak. His grip was punishing, not bruising, not quite, but sharp enough that my knees buckled under the sheer force of it.
"Here," he bit out. No wasted words. No patience.
I stumbled where he pushed, boots scraping over the uneven flagstone, the weight of his hand steering me toward the room. The lantern light caught on the surface of the glass, throwing my pale reflection back at me. The mask, the dark cloak, the rigid slope of my shoulders that felt less like mine and more like his will imposed on my body.
When I faltered just once, just for a second, because the chair creaked in the corner and Lockwood groaned low in his throat. Mattheo tightened his grip and shoved me forward the final step. My palms slapped against the iron frame of the glass, the cold of it jolting straight into my bones.
"Stand." His voice was low, sharp, a command that rattled through the marrow of me.
I forced myself upright, breath shallow behind the mask. Mattheo's hand lingered on my shoulder for a beat too long, fingers pressing into the line of my collarbone, forcing my posture straighter until my spine ached. Then he let go with a flick, as though discarding something fragile and unwanted.
"Do not move from this spot." His tone carried no room for error, no chance of interpretation. "If I look over and you're not here, Aurelia—" His pause was deliberate, a blade unsheathed. He leaned in close enough that I felt the ghost of his breath against my ear.
My heart punched once, hard, against my ribs. The weight of him peeled off my skin as he strode for the side door. Daphne was already waiting, leaning against the frame with her wand balanced lightly between her fingers, her smirk curling wider as her eyes slid over me. Then she turned, mask gleaming in the dim light, and slipped into the chamber again with all the elegance of someone about to attend a ball instead of an interrogation.
Mattheo followed, his back straight, his movements sharp, controlled. He didn't glance back at me once. The door shut behind him with the sound of iron grinding against stone. Through the glass, the room on the other side came into clearer focus.
Lockwood sat hunched but unbroken in his chair, the magical restraints humming faintly where they cut into his arms and chest. His head turned slowly, eyes narrowing as Daphne and Mattheo entered like predators circling, ready to strike.
The lantern above flickered, casting shadows across Mattheo's face as he drew himself up to his full height. His mask obscured his expression, but his posture was all precision and menace, shoulders squared, wand loose at his side like an extension of his rage.
Daphne moved differently, almost fluid, predatory in her own way. She circled the perimeter of the room with a careless kind of grace, trailing her wand against the stone walls, sparks skipping lazily in her wake. Her hair caught the lamplight, her grin wide and fever-bright even behind the mask's shadow. I swallowed hard, every muscle in my body tight as wire as I pressed closer to the glass.
On the other side, Mattheo finally spoke, his voice slow and deliberate, each word sinking into the silence like a weight tossed into deep water.
"Thomas Lockwood."
The man raised his head with effort, blood from the cut at his temple streaking down into the stubble along his jaw. His lips twisted into something caught between a grimace and a smile.
"You know my name," he rasped. His voice was hoarse, raw. "Good. That'll make it easier when I haunt you."
Daphne laughed, the sound sharp and crystalline, echoing off the stone walls. "Oh, I like him already."
But Mattheo didn't laugh. He didn't move. He simply lifted his wand, the faintest flick in his wrist, and the restraints around Lockwood pulsed with a surge of energy that made the man's entire body jolt against the chair.
I flinched, even though the sound was muffled through the glass. The crackle of magic, the guttural groan that tore from Lockwood's throat, it all pressed into me, sinking under my skin, settling like fire in my stomach. Mattheo lowered his wand just as quickly, his voice cutting through the aftermath.
"You'll tell us what we need to know."
Lockwood lifted his chin, blood sliding down the curve of his jaw, and when he smiled it was ragged and defiant.
"You'll get nothing from me," he rasped, his voice breaking on the words.
Daphne's laugh cut through the chamber like a knife. "Oh, darling," she cooed, tilting her head as though she were admiring a painting. "You'll give us everything."
Her wand snapped up before he could speak again. A jet of red light struck him square in the chest, and the sound that tore from his throat was not human but a strangled, guttural howl that reverberated through the glass and into my bones. His entire body arched against the restraints, muscles contorting violently, fingers curling into claws against the chair's arms as if he were being ripped apart from the inside.
I flinched, my own hands tightening uselessly at the iron frame. My lungs burned, but I couldn't breathe deeply, not here. Not when I could hear every ragged note of his pain.
"Don't kill him." Mattheo's voice came low, steady, a command wrapped in steel, but he didn't raise his voice.
Daphne let the curse linger for another heartbeat before releasing it with a flourish, her grin stretching wider as Lockwood collapsed back against the chair, sweat gleaming on his skin.
"That was barely a taste," she whispered. "I've got so many more."
Mattheo stepped forward, and where Daphne danced in wild delight, he moved with the deliberate patience of a butcher. His wand hovered an inch from Lockwood's throat, the smallest flick sending sharp lines of pain cracking through the man's body, not the wild agony of Daphne's spell, but controlled, precise, measured cruelty. Each jolt forced a strangled gasp from Lockwood's throat, his body jerking once, twice, thrice, until his breath came in shallow, desperate bursts.
"Where are they hiding?" Mattheo asked, his tone flat. No inflection or emotion. Just cold purpose.
Lockwood spat blood onto the floor. "You'll never find them."
The silence after the words was heavy, but Daphne broke it with a shriek of laughter, twirling her wand between her fingers.
"Stupid, stubborn little thing. I like it when they try to fight. It makes the breaking so much prettier."
Before Mattheo could intervene, she flicked her wand again, and Lockwood's scream shattered the air. Flames erupted along the veins in his arms, not real but cruelly convincing, an illusion of his blood boiling under his skin. He thrashed against the magical restraints, eyes wide and wild as though he truly felt himself burning alive.
I turned away for a moment, nausea clawing its way up my throat. My reflection in the glass swam in my vision, pale and distorted, until I forced myself to look again, forced myself because I knew if Mattheo saw my eyes anywhere else, I'd pay for it.
Lockwood's screams ebbed into hoarse, choked gasps as Daphne released him again. She crouched in front of him, eyes wide, hair wild, mask catching the light like the face of a grinning phantom.
"Tell us, Lockwood," she whispered, so close her breath stirred the sweat-soaked hair at his temple. "Where do they meet? Who leads them now? Give me something, and I'll make it stop."
His eyes flickered just briefly toward Mattheo, who hadn't moved. Without a word, he lifted his wand and broke one of the man's fingers with a sound so sharp I nearly dropped where I stood. Lockwood's strangled cry followed instantly, his head snapping back as pain wracked his body anew.
Mattheo's voice came after, calm as ever. "I said, where are they hiding?"
Daphne clapped her hands once, manic delight in her eyes. "Oh, clever. One piece at a time, hmm? How many pieces do you think before he begs, Mattheo? Ten? Twenty?"
Mattheo didn't answer her. He turned slightly, his mask angled down toward the Order member. Then he lifted his wand again, and another finger snapped like dry wood. Lockwood's body convulsed in the chair, sweat and blood streaking down his face. His teeth were clenched so hard I thought they might break.
"You can end this," Mattheo said quietly. "It's your choice. Speak, and it stops."
But Lockwood only spat again, crimson staining his chest. Daphne shrieked with glee. She spun away from him, only to whip her wand back around in a violent arc. The chair jolted sideways with a crack, slamming him into the stone wall hard enough to rattle the restraints. His head whipped against the stone, splitting the skin above his brow, blood streaming down into his eye.
I pressed a fist to my mouth, muffling the sound that almost escaped.
Daphne twirled back to face him, delight curling her lips. "Still nothing? Oh, I do love the stubborn ones. It means I get to fuck with them longer."
Another curse, another scream, the sound of bones grinding. Mattheo finally stepped forward again, shoving Daphne back with his shoulder, his presence swallowing the room. He leaned close to Lockwood, wand angled just beneath the man's chin. His voice was barely above a whisper, but I felt it all the same, vibrating through the glass, settling cold in my chest.
"You'll break."
He didn't shout. He didn't gloat. He simply pressed his wand to Lockwood's sternum and released a slow, steady current of magic that forced the man into violent spasms, his scream torn raw and ragged, echoing long after the spell ceased.
Mattheo straightened, adjusting his grip on his wand with the precision of someone who could and would do this for hours without faltering. Daphne, panting from her bursts energy, practically bounced on her heels, clapping her hands again like a child at a puppet show.
Lockwood's voice came hoarse, broken, almost unrecognizable. "Go... to hell."
Mattheo's silence was worse than anger. He simply moved his wand again, poised with infinite patience, and Lockwood's body jerked once more in the chair, bones straining against the magical bindings. Helpless behind the glass, I felt the dread settle deeper than ever before.
The moment stretched, taut and suffocating, as Lockwood continued to sit in the chair, bound, defiant, and utterly silent. His chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged breaths, sweat dripping down his face, his hair plastered to the skin by the streams of blood that ran from the gashes Mattheo and Daphne had already inflicted.
Daphne leaned in closer, her wand poised. Her grin was wide and feral, eyes sparkling with manic delight. "You're going to speak, aren't you, Thomas?" she crooned, tilting her head. "You're going to tell us everything won't you."
Lockwood's silence stretched even longer, a defiance that seemed almost alive, a provocation that set every nerve in Daphne's body alight.
"Fine," she hissed, stepping back, a flush of fury across her cheeks. "If you won't speak, we'll play another way."
Before Mattheo could intervene, she raised her wand and muttered a sharp incantation. Lockwood's body jerked violently as a force lifted him clean off the chair.
I pressed against the glass instinctively, stomach knotting. The sight was unbearable. His body twisting in midair, muscles straining, wrists and ankles tugging against the magical restraints. His face contorted in raw, guttural agony, veins bulging at his neck, blood running freely down his cheeks and into his mouth where he tried to scream and could barely manage a choked gurgle.
Daphne twirled, laughing, her wand guiding him across the room. With a cruel flick, she slammed him into the stone wall. The impact made me flinch violently. The sound was a wet, bone-shattering crack, echoing off the bare walls. A spray of blood hit the lantern, smearing the glass, and I had to tear my eyes away for a second to keep from screaming.
Mattheo's voice cut through the chaos, low and cutting, a calm predator's purr beneath the storm.
"Look at you, Thomas," he said, his tone soft enough to make my skin crawl. "So much fight left. But for how long? How much more can you take before you break? How long before you beg?"
Lockwood hit the wall again, skidding down a few feet, bruising his ribs, the muscles along his back twitching uncontrollably. Blood streaked the stone in thin rivulets. Daphne laughed, spinning him upward again, letting him hang for a moment in midair, helpless and twitching.
"You feel that?" Mattheo's voice was ice. "That's what happens when you refuse to cooperate. That's what happens when you think your defiance matters."
Lockwood's eyes, wild and burning, flicked toward me through the glass. I felt my stomach lurch. He looked at me like he saw someone trapped, someone powerless, someone he couldn't protect and I realized with a jolt that was exactly what I was.
Daphne's laughter rose again, louder, cutting through the small space like a blade. She lifted him higher, pivoted, and sent him smashing against the glass. My breath caught in my throat as the sound of his skull cracking echoed in my ears.
He hit with a wet, sickening thud, and I saw the impact in horrifying detail, his head snapped back, blood spattering across the glass, streaking and distorting my reflection. I staggered backward, pressed my palms harder against the cold surface, my chest heaving.
Mattheo's eyes flicked to the glass, his mask concealing his expression, but I felt the weight of his attention like a vice. His voice was calm, but every word cut like a scalpel.
"You need to watch, Avery."
I couldn't look away. My stomach roiled, vomit threatening, but I couldn't move. The words were unnecessary. The mask pressed tight against my face, suffocating me further. I was pinned in place, an unwilling witness to the carnage, forced to see every moment in excruciating detail.
Daphne continued her ballet of destruction, twirling Lockwood across the room, each strike against walls, floors, or the occasional table splintering furniture, sending shards of wood skittering across the stone floor. His body collided with everything, bruises blooming across his skin, bones groaning under the weight of the force. Mattheo paced slowly around the room, wand loose at his side, eyes tracking every motion. His voice, when he spoke, was detached.
"Do you feel it, Thomas? The futility? Do you see your life unravel in real time? You fight, and fight, and yet you're utterly powerless."
Lockwood's mouth opened, but no sound came. Blood from his split lip dribbled down his chin as he gurgled. Daphne laughed at the sound, twirling him again midair, and slammed him shoulder-first into the wall.
I had to close my eyes for a second, the sound of cracking cartilage and bone pounding in my ears. But when I opened them again, he was still there , still writhing, still alive, still defiant in ways that made me shiver.
Daphne caught him midair once more, holding him high above the floor. Her fingers danced along her wand, laughing softly, a smooth lull in her violent storm.
"This is fun," she whispered. "Don't you want to make it stop? Just a little? A tiny bit of mercy?"
Mattheo's voice interrupted her, cold and lethal.
"Stop giving him false hope. He isn't allowed relief. Not yet."
She let him drop, not fully, just enough that his knees slammed into stone. His scream was gut-wrenching, tainted with blood and spit, echoing in the chamber and pounding against the glass of my viewing room. I pressed my face to it, tears welling, throat tight. My palms slipped against the slick surface where blood from his previous collision had smudged. My mask did nothing to protect me from the scent or the sound.
Mattheo walked past me, his presence barely more than a shadow in my peripheral vision. His voice was low, just for me, venom wrapped in ice.
"You see? This is what it takes. This is how you learn to be strong. Not by being careful, not by hesitating. By watching. By enduring."
I blinked, forcing myself to see again. Daphne had lifted him again, spinning him violently across the room. His shoulder collided with the lantern, sending it crashing to the floor. The fire from the oil within leapt like a tongue, licking at the edges of the stone, sizzling against the blood pooling on the floor. The stench was overwhelming. Smoke, blood, iron like a cocktail that made my stomach turn and my vision swim behind the mask.
Daphne laughed, spinning him back into the air. Mattheo's wand followed her motion like a silent counterpoint. He tapped a pressure point, and Lockwood's back arched unnaturally, his scream sharp and wrenching. His teeth bared, lips split, spit and blood dripping down, but his body was no longer entirely under his control, magic was bending him, reshaping him like clay.
I wanted to look away. I needed to look away.
But I couldn't.
The glass was all that separated me from him. My hands shook violently against it, knuckles whitening. I pressed my forehead to it in a feeble attempt to anchor myself. My chest ached, lungs burning, stomach roiling. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.
Lockwood's body thudded and slammed again. Each impact, each scream, reverberated through me, rattling my bones. Daphne was a blur of movement, laughing, screaming, twirling, throwing him like a ragdoll against stone walls and tables and the occasional unyielding column.
When she misjudged one throw, one too violent and wild, Lockwood's body hit the glass wall of my viewing chamber again with a revolting crunch.
I jumped back instinctively this time, hitting the floor with my knees as the sound vibrated through my chest. The glass shook, tiny cracks spiderwebbing across its surface where the impact landed. Blood spattered the other side, streaking down like dark rain, and my stomach rolled violently.
I clutched the edge of the glass, pressing my mask harder into my face to stifle the sound that was almost a scream. My ears rang, my hands trembled, tears blurring my vision. Every nerve in my body was alive, screaming.
Mattheo's voice cut through the haze, calm and lethal.
"Focus."
I swallowed hard, pressing my face closer to the glass again, forcing myself to witness, to endure, to stay. The screams continued, the body flying, slamming, convulsing, blood painting the room in stark, obscene lines. I felt hollow, shattered, but I couldn't look away. Because that's what he wanted me to see, this was my lesson and because there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Lockwood's body thrashed across the floor, bruised and broken from repeated slams against stone and furniture. His chest rose and fell in ragged, desperate gasps. Every muscle screamed in pain, his skin slick with sweat and blood, and yet he still tried to resist, to twist, to find any ounce of control over the chaos that had become his life in the last ten minutes.
Daphne knelt on his back, hands gripping his shoulders with delight. Her grin was sharp, predatory, eyes wild behind her mask.
"Hold still, Thomas," she purred, pressing him down harder. "You're making this too easy for me."
Mattheo stepped close, wand raised, calm as a shadow. He tilted his head, watching the way the blood slicked floor reflected the flickering lanterns, the way the veins in Lockwood's neck strained beneath the bindings. There was no hesitation, no hesitation in the way he moved, every motion precise, surgical, measured cruelty.
In tandem, they began. Their wands flicked low, almost imperceptibly at first, before the cuts appeared, shallow at first, sparks of crimson blossoming across his skin like a perverse artwork. But they didn't stop.
Each swipe of their wands was sharp, cutting through flesh and bone, forcing screams that ripped raw from Lockwood's throat. I pressed my palms harder to the glass, mask trembling against my face, knuckles whitening as every sound, every motion, every explosion of pain carved itself into my mind.
Daphne's laughter rang high-pitched and manic over the chaos. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" she hissed, pressing her weight into him, keeping him down. "You're going to wish you talked, Thomas. But you didn't, and now..."
Mattheo's voice, low and rigid, cut through her chaos. "Not enough. Keep going."
Their wands moved in foul synchronisation, drawing lines across his body with terrifying ease. Each stroke flayed him anew, arms, torso, legs, even his face caught the edge of their cruelty. His screams were endless, jagged, tearing through the room in waves that made my stomach churn.
Blood spattered across the stone floor in thick puddles. Spasms shook his limbs, his teeth were bared, jaws clamped shut on bloodied gums. Every time he tried to move, to escape even a fraction, Daphne laughed and slammed her full weight down, pressing him harder, forcing him still. Through it all, Mattheo whispered in that calm, terrifying way that made it worse than the violence itself.
"You're going to tell us. You will. Or the pain won't matter because it'll never stop. And we will never get bored."
Lockwood's head lolled to one side, eyes wide and panicked, but even then, as tears mingled with the streams of blood on his face, he forced out words, strained and broken.
"Harry... Potter... and his friends..." His chest heaved in agony. "They're... looking... for... something... something to... end... the Dark Lord..."
His voice cracked. He coughed, a spray of blood hitting the stone between him and me. "I... I don't... know... what..."
His body sagged under their combined weight, the final twitch of a man broken beyond repair. Blood poured from fresh cuts, dripped down his arms, his chest rising and falling only in shallow, gurgling gasps. His mouth opened once more, a wet, rasping sound, then nothing.
I felt the glass tremble under the force of it. My stomach lurched. My knees gave out for a fraction of a second before I caught myself, mask pressed hard against my face, knuckles gripping the frame. Daphne stepped back, wand still raised, breathing hard, her grin almost feral.
"Finally," she said softly, almost in awe, like she had completed a work of art.
Mattheo's wand dropped. His mask concealed the slightest twitch of expression, but the way he straightened his shoulders, the faint tilt of his head, it was acknowledgment. He looked over at the broken body, then through the glass to me.
"You watched," he said softly, each word deliberate, weighted. "You learned. That is what it means to see weakness and destroy it. Never falter. Never hesitate. Do you understand?"
I swallowed hard, gagging slightly. I could only nod, tears pressing hot behind the mask, my chest heaving with ragged breaths.
Daphne turned, seemingly oblivious to my state. "Come on," she said, her voice sing-song. "We've got work to do."
Mattheo didn't speak. He simply adjusted his wand, eyes sweeping the room, lingering on the shards of blood and broken flesh like a surgeon evaluating his handiwork. Then, with a measured step, he moved for the door, Daphne at his side.
I was left alone behind the glass, staring at the broken, lifeless form of Thomas Lockwood, the metallic tang of blood clinging to my nostrils, the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears. I knew that this was what it meant to be among my friends still. To survive, to endure, to learn, or risk being discarded the same way.
The glass door shut behind them with a cold click, and the weight of the silence pressed into me like stone. I stayed where I was, frozen, hands still pressed against the iron frame, staring at the empty floor where Lockwood had fallen. His blood pooled across the stone, dark and glistening, mingling with the bruises that still marred the floor from the moments of violent tossing.
I could feel the rhythm of my heartbeat in my throat, each thump a deafening drum in my skull. My lungs burned as though I'd been running through fire, and yet I hadn't moved from that spot. My hands shook, slick with my own sweat and the blood spatters that had hit the glass when Daphne had slammed him into it. I tried to swallow, tried to breathe, tried to convince myself that I was just observing, just learning, that it wasn't me who had pressed the wand against his chest, who had snapped his fingers, who had watched him convulse and scream.
But the nausea didn't stop, threatening to betray me through the mask. I pressed my forehead against the glass, blinking rapidly to clear the tears that threatened to fall, but they wouldn't stop, hot and insistent behind the mask. Every detail clawed at me, the sound of cracking bone, the sickening wet thud when he hit the glass, the way the blood had splattered across the ground and the triumphant glee in Daphne's voice.
Finally, I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. My body stiffened instinctively, expecting Mattheo, expecting reprimand, expecting something.
Daphne's voice cut through the air, light, manic, almost playful. "Well, that was exhilarating. Did you see his face when I slammed him? Oh, I wish I had record of it. Pure panic, perfect terror, I could watch that all day."
I pressed my hands harder against the glass, squeezing my eyes shut. Her words felt like knives carving through the raw edges of my nerves. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to exist in this moment anymore even though this moment was merely a display of what I was enduring my whole life now. A shadow fell across the floor. Mattheo's voice, low and sharp, broke the tension like ice cracking.
"Focus, Daphne. You got the information. That's what matters. Don't waste it chasing your amusement."
Her grin faltered for a brief second, just enough to see the steel behind his tone. Then she twirled, wand still in hand, eyes gleaming. "Of course, of course."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze swept the room, cold, calculating, absorbing every detail, the blood, the faint smell of burnt skin and bruised flesh. His jaw clenched, tight under the mask, and then his voice came, low and measured.
"Harry Potter and his friends. They're seeking something. Something capable of ending my father."
Daphne tilted her head, fingers still playing idly with her wand. "And we don't know what it is?"
Mattheo shook his head slowly. "No. He didn't know. That doesn't matter. I will alert the Dark Lord. We'll take care of it before it even has a chance to matter."
Her laugh was soft, almost whimsical, a stark contrast to the violence of moments ago. "That sounds satisfying. Very satisfying. Let's make sure we get there first."
I stayed pressed against the glass, trembling, fighting back the flood of tears and nausea. The mask hid the tremor in my chest, the rapid, shallow breaths, but I could feel it in every muscle, every nerve. The reality of what I had just witnessed was suffocating. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to steady the shaking, telling myself over and over that this is survival.
Mattheo's voice cut through my spiral, low and cold. "Aurelia."
I stiffened.
"Remember this. Every detail, every reaction, learn it."
I nodded, barely able to speak, my throat tight, dry. His gaze swept past me, toward the hallway, toward the rest of the manor, toward whatever the next piece of information would be. The silence that followed was suffocating, filled with the echoes of screams that would linger in my memory for a long time, long after they had left this room. My chest ached with the tension, the nausea, the guilt. I wanted to cry, wanted to fall to the floor and scream.
The shadows of the chamber stretched long across the floor as I finally stepped back from the glass, hands shaking violently. I had survived this. I had watched. I had endured. But the weight of it pressed down on my chest, a heavy, cold hand that would not let go.
✦
We walked back into the safehouse in uneasy silence. The stone floor echoed with our footsteps, the slight creaks of the old house amplifying the tension in the air. My mask was heavy, pressed tight against my face, hiding the trembling of my jaw, the tears I refused to let fall. I could feel every movement in my muscles, the lingering ache from witnessing Lockwood's screams, the blood and terror still crawling under my skin.
The others didn't notice. Or maybe they did, and didn't care. Mattheo moved ahead, shoulders stiff, pacing slightly as if the weight of command rested entirely on him, which, in this family of killers, it did. Daphne's earlier energy had faded into a controlled edge now, wand flicking absently as she followed, hair slightly damp, lips curled in a small, satisfied smirk.
I knew this was normal for us. This was what we did every day, we interrogated, tortured and killed. I'd done it myself, many times, but standing there behind the glass, watching their methods unfold, I felt the full weight of it. Not the act itself, I was capable of that, but the way they enjoyed it, the precision and cruelty, the way their laughter and cold satisfaction made life and death feel like nothing more than a lesson.
"So," Lorenzo drawled, voice light, almost teasing. He leaned casually against the counter, playing with his hair idly. "Another successful little... performance?"
Daphne clapped her hands softly, smirking at the glint in Lorenzo's eyes. "I call it an exhibition. Thomas Lockwood learned more in ten minutes than he ever will in a lifetime."
Theo began emptying the final of the breakfast dishes into the sink, moving as methodically as he did when we were clearing a building. Draco joined him, muttering something about reusing the bloodied rags for cleaning up later, his movements mechanical.
I moved slowly to the table, still trying to steady my breath. My hands shook, barely hidden under the gloves I'd pulled back on, and my stomach rolled with nausea I couldn't quite expel. I didn't speak. I couldn't. The memories of Lockwood's body being thrown, slammed, cut, screamed, and finally silenced, the sudden, final quiet after his last gasp was still hammering through my chest like a drum I could not stop.
Mattheo called everyone to the table. His voice was bitter and sharp, cutting through the tension.
"We have a debrief."
I nodded silently, forcing myself to sit, mask tight against my face. The others leaned in, eager, ready to discuss the information we had forced from Lockwood. Even with the horror fresh in my mind, I understood the purpose, the point of it all was intelligence. Survival. Strategy. But the brutality, the sheer, merciless cruelty, that part never stopped rattling me.
"He didn't know much. Potter and his friends are searching for something. Something that could end Voldemort. He doesn't know what it is yet, but they're moving. I'll alert my father. He'll handle it before it matters."
Daphne twirled her wand, still smiling, like the screams of minutes ago were a game. "I could go after them now, you know. I'm feeling... inspired."
"Not now," Mattheo snapped, the edge in his voice sharp enough to silence even Daphne's glee. "We have more pressing matters."
I tried to focus, tried to remind myself that this was just another mission. Another moment to endure. My stomach churned. I swallowed hard. I knew I could do what they did, but watching their fluid, precise cruelty made me feel fragile in a way I hated. It was hard to witness them in full force. My own kills had never carried Daphne's chaotic joy or that calm, measured brutality that Mattheo displayed.
A sudden swirl of thick, black smoke curled through the room, rising from the fireplace as if it had been summoned from nothing. Everyone froze. I felt my pulse spike. The smoke twisted and writhed, coiling like a living thing before forming into the serpentine shape of a face, the unmistakable presence of Voldemort himself.
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Even Daphne's manic energy dimmed, her lips parting in a silent gasp. Lorenzo leaned back, expression unreadable, and Theo stiffened, wand tightening in his grip. Draco's jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, staring at the smoke like it might strike at any moment.
The smoke condensed, forming letters, words that hovered in the air like firelight on the stone walls, a command, urgent, clear.
"Ministry official Amelia Bones, siding with the Order. Must be eliminated immediately. Move now. Do not fail."
Mattheo's eyes flicked to each of us in turn, calculating, cold, precise. His lips pressed into a thin line before he finally spoke.
"Get ready. This changes our schedule. We move immediately. Lockwood gave us what we needed, now there is no delay."
Daphne's grin returned instantly, more manic than ever. "Finally! Something... fresh. Something worth it!"
Lorenzo leaned forward, tapping his wand against the counter. "All together?"
Mattheo nodded his head. "Together. We do not fail. We move as one."
Theo and Draco exchanged a look, both silently acknowledging the new target. Daphne was already bouncing on her heels, wand at the ready, eyes sparkling with cruel delight. Lorenzo's grin was sharp, but still carried a charming glimmer.
I was stepping into another nightmare, another cycle of blood and cruelty, where survival meant watching, learning, and when the time came, it meant striking without hesitation. My chest tightened as I forced myself to steady, to inhale, to remind myself that I could endure this. That I had endured before. That I would endure again.
✦
The air shimmered around us as we apparated outside the Ministry, a sharp, metallic tang in my nose that made my stomach twist. The city noises were faint here, swallowed by the cavernous stone and towering windows of the Ministry. I pressed my mask tighter, feeling the straps cut into my cheeks, forcing my shoulders up straight.
"Stay sharp," Mattheo hissed, voice low, measured. "Only Amelia. Everyone else..." He let the sentence hang, and I knew the implication, collateral damage would be acceptable. Necessary even.
Daphne was already dancing along the edge of the street, wand twirling between her fingers, eyes glittering with delight. Lorenzo's smirk was sharp as he surveyed the imposing building, fingers brushing the hilt of his wand. Draco's jaw was tight, eyes narrow, already scanning for anyone who might interfere. Theo moved silently beside me, a shadow in black robes, hands relaxed but ready.
We moved as one, masks hiding any trace of emotion, but I felt it all, the dread, the nausea, the adrenaline hammering in my veins. We crossed the street, and before we even entered, the tension of the Ministry itself seemed to shiver at our presence. The doors swung open under Mattheo's wand, and chaos erupted instantly.
Civil servants screamed, scattering papers like snow, wands raised in panic. Office staff bolted in every direction, some ducking behind furniture, some attempting to raise protective spells, all of it useless against the six of us. Daphne laughed, twirling in place, wand flicking wildly. Sparks of red and green cut across the air, scorching papers, splintering doors, shattering glass.
"Don't run, don't hide, just look!" Her voice was high-pitched, cutting through the screams.
Lorenzo leaned casually against a fallen desk, tapping his wand against his palm as a young clerk ran past him.
"Where do you think you're going, darling?" he drawled. "We only want one person. But you make it so difficult."
Theo was quiet beside me, precise as ever. With a single flick of his wand, he sent a man crashing into a wall, ribs splintering beneath the impact. He didn't look at the man afterward, didn't even check to see if he was alive. He just moved forward, efficient but still deadly.
Mattheo's voice cut through the chaos, low and commanding. "Focus. Amelia only. Everyone else is collateral. Do not stop for anyone unless they interfere with her directly."
My legs shook, my stomach roiling with nausea, but I kept pace. The screams were deafening, and I stepped over a man's broken body without thought, wand ready to strike. I had done this before. I could do this. But the sheer scale, the chaos, the sheer brutality of the moment rattled my nerves.
A corridor opened to our left, and Daphne spun toward it, lifting a man into the air by the scruff of his robes and hurling him into a wall. I flinched at the loud crunch of his shoulder against stone, heart hammering.
Mattheo moved ahead, his wand slicing through any obstruction. Sparks of green collided with curses from terrified Ministry wizards, bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds as each spell struck. Blood sprayed, glass shattered, screams filled the hall. He didn't stop. He didn't hesitate. He never stopped.
Draco was a shadow of precision behind him, cutting down anyone who raised a wand, body after body crumpling without sound beyond the wet collapse of flesh on stone. I tried to keep up, stepping over shards of wood, paper, and bone, wand moving, hands shaking slightly.
Lorenzo grinned at a frightened clerk, dragging him close and whispering something cruel before firing a hex that splintered the desk under him. Daphne spun past, igniting paper and cloth alike with fire curses, laughter trailing behind her like a blade.
I saw the door ahead, thick and imposing, the nameplate reading Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Mattheo's eyes flicked to it, sharp and cold beneath his mask.
"She's in there," he said, voice low, controlled, deadly.
Daphne spun toward it, almost vibrating with energy. "Finally! The fun begins!"
Mattheo held up a hand, stilling her mid-motion. "We do this precisely. She feels the punishment, we leave the rest to fear. Unless I say otherwise."
The door to Amelia Bones' office loomed, polished wood and brass gleaming faintly under the flickering lights. My hands were slick beneath my gloves, wand gripped tight, knuckles white. Mattheo signaled, hand sharp and precise, and Daphne bounded forward, her wand raised, Lorenzo lingered behind, smirking, while Draco and Theo flanked us both, cold shadows moving with deadly precision.
The door swung open under Mattheo's wand, and who I assumed to be Amelia looked up from her desk, brown eyes wide, jaw tight. Her wand was raised, but the flicker of panic was unmistakable. The room smelled of old parchment and candle wax, a faint trace of ink and human fear mixed into it almost immediately.
"Bones," Mattheo said, voice low and dangerous, echoing through the office. "We know exactly who you are, and we know what you've done. Supporting the Order. Hiding behind laws. Pretending the Ministry protects the innocent. All lies. You have choices today. Follow with us, or die."
Daphne circled behind her, fingers trailing along the edge of the desk, knocking papers into a fluttering mess.
"Oh, don't look so serious, Amelia," she said, tilting her head with a grin. "We just want to talk. It won't hurt... much."
Amelia's mouth opened, she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her wand flickered weakly in her hand, defensive, but every instinct told her it was useless.
"I won't leave with you," she said finally, voice quivering, trying to stand firm. "You will not take me—"
Mattheo's eyes narrowed, and his wand flicked toward the door. The world erupted in chaos. Sparks flew as the signal spread through the Ministry. Offices exploded into fire and smoke, ceiling panels splintered, raining debris. Screams echoed down the halls as Ministry employees tried to flee, most colliding with our team or the force of magic we unleashed.
Daphne rushed to the door, levitating a clerk by the scruff of his robes and smashing him into the wall. Lorenzo's wand swept through a group of fleeing aurors, curses cutting through them like knives through silk, bodies tumbling, groaning, blood dark against the polished floors.
Mattheo stepped into the room, voice cutting through the chaos. "Leave with us. Now. Or this entire Ministry will burn for your defiance."
"See, Amelia?" Daphne said, voice teasing. "We're not unreasonable. Just... persistent."
Amelia's wand rose again, feeble and shaking. Her mouth opened, trying to argue, trying to stand, trying to maintain control, as the world shifted violently.
Draco struck first, levitating a chair and hurling it across the office, smashing into the wall behind Amelia with a splintering crash. Sparks of fire erupted where the chair splintered. Amelia's body jerked with panic, and she fell back against her desk, hair falling into her eyes.
Mattheo's wand flicked, a precise hex cutting across her shoulder. Pain lanced through her, a hot, jagged scream tearing from her throat.
"I said leave," he snarled, stepping close, every ounce of cold fury in his voice amplified by the chaos surrounding us.
She shook her head, trembling but defiant. "Never," she whispered, teeth clenched.
That was the signal. Mattheo's hand rose, and Daphne's grin widened like a blade.
"All of you," he commanded, voice carrying across the room. "Make them feel what it means to defy us."
The Ministry erupted into full-scale assault. Desks were levitated, slammed into walls. Spells ripped through glass and wood, shattering everything in their paths. Screams of civilians and Ministry workers mingled with the sharp cracks of breaking bone as Daphne and Lorenzo moved in perfect, terrifying synchronization. Theo and Draco cut down any auror who tried to interfere.
Lorenzo was already in his element, a smirk curved over his lips as he weaved between the terrified Ministry staff. He didn't just cast spells, he toyed with them. A young auror tried to raise a shield, and he twirled, flicking his wand passively, sending a hex that shattered the shield and slammed the man into a filing cabinet. The thud was jarring, accompanied by a sharp crack of ribs breaking beneath the impact. Lorenzo bent close, whispering something too low to hear, just enough for me to catch the cruel glint in his eye as he finished the man with an unflinching curse.
Daphne was a hurricane. She levitated chairs, crates, and anyone who moved too fast, tossing them carelessly into walls. Sparks flew from her wand in rapid bursts, each one leaving scorched marks on stone and wood alike. She laughed a unsettling sound, as papers ignited and screams pierced the air. Every movement of hers was chaotic, violent, beautiful in its deadly precision, and terrifying.
Mattheo and Draco were different. Every hex they cast struck like a knife, leaving bodies crumpled, broken, or burning in a pool of dark, coagulating blood. I forced myself to keep up, wand flicking rapidly, every spell aimed at a threat, every curse deliberate. My gloves were slick with blood from a man I had struck in the chest with a forceful hex, ribs splitting beneath my curse. His gurgle of pain was raw and sharp, and I swallowed, forcing myself to aim at the next one.
I flinched and turned, just in time to see a young witch raise her wand at me. I reacted without thinking, firing a curse that hit her shoulder and sent her crashing into the edge of a marble table. The thud echoed. Blood smeared the floor, crimson and slick beneath my boots. I looked away, forcing myself to step over the body as I advanced.
Theo was faltering. I noticed it almost too late, the rigid precision, the calm he always carried, fractured slightly. A curse grazed his arm, burning flesh through his sleeve. Another hit the ground near his foot, sending splinters into his shoe. He froze for a fraction of a second, long enough for me to see the flicker of panic in his eyes.
I shoved myself toward him. "Nott!" I barked, voice hoarse. "I've got you!"
He glanced at me, jaw tight, trying to regain composure, but his wand trembled in his hand. I pushed past him, placing myself between him and the nearest threat. A man surged forward, wand flaring, and I reacted instinctively, striking him with a brutal jinx that sent him crashing into the wall. Wood splintered under his weight, blood blooming across the paneling where his head had struck.
Theo exhaled sharply, regaining his stance, wand ready, eyes narrowing as he leaned into me for just a fraction of a second, acknowledging the aid.
"Thanks," he muttered, voice low. I nodded, not pausing, there was no time.
We advanced through the hallways moving like shadows of death. Daphne laughed as she threw a group of aurors, slamming them into the ceiling beams before letting them drop with sickening thuds into the stone floor. Lorenzo was flitting between them, weaving curses that tore flesh and splintered bone, whispering cruel things as he executed each kill.
I struck a man who tried to raise a shield. My curse hit his chest, sternum fracturing audibly, sending him sprawling across the marble floor. He tried to crawl, only to have a splintered desk leg crash down, breaking his arm and shoulder. He gurgled, gasping for breath, and I pressed my wand to his temple, finishing the act without hesitation.
Through the smoke and debris, I caught sight of Mattheo. His movements were deadly poetry, every spell, every curse beautiful. Yet there was something in the way he surveyed the chaos, cold and detached, that made my stomach twist. He was a storm, unrelenting, unfeeling, and I had never felt smaller in my life. I watched as he disarmed a man mid-spell, then struck him with a spell that made his ribs collapse inward. Blood pooled around his body. Not a flinch, not a pause. Just pure efficiency.
I advanced again, stepping over bodies, weaving between fires and falling debris, wand striking whenever a threat appeared. I could hear screams, gurgles, and the wet crunch of broken limbs. The air reeked of smoke, iron, and fear. Every step was a battle. Every breath a challenge.
A man surged at Theo again, wand raised, and I reacted instantly, slamming my shoulder into him, sending him crashing into the wall. Splintered wood and blood followed. He hit the ground, convulsing, and I stepped back, wand ready, watching him struggle in vain. Theo didn't hesitate this time, striking with precise magic, and the man was still, bleeding into a spreading pool of red.
Daphne screeched, laughing, twirling in place, sending fire and curses in every direction. She grabbed another clerk by the scruff, slamming him repeatedly into walls until the splintered wood tore his clothes and flesh. I forced my eyes away, forcing myself to keep moving, heart hammering, stomach burning.
"Amelia!" Mattheo barked, and the focus shifted. The screams and chaos around us intensified. Ministry staff tried to raise shields, tried to fight, but the six of us were too fast, too lethal. Spells collided, glass shattered, bone cracked, blood sprayed.
We reached her office again. Amelia was standing defiantly, though trembling, eyes wide, wand trembling in her hand. Before I could catch my breath, Daphne lunged, shoving her against the wall. Mattheo's wand struck, precise and cutting, slashing along her shoulder, making her cry with pain.
I moved instinctively, cutting off anyone trying to interfere, curses striking fast and hard, aiming to incapacitate. A man surged from behind, and I slammed him into a desk with force, hearing the sickening crack of his shoulder. Blood bloomed across his robes, warm and sticky beneath my gloves.
Quickly, I moved next to Theo, pushing my shoulder into his back, placing myself between him and the next attack. My wand flashed, curses cutting through the threat before him. He exhaled sharply, grateful, but the strain was evident that even the most controlled among us could falter under this scale.
Amelia screamed, trying to resist, and that was the signal. Mattheo's eyes narrowed. Draco moved forward, and together they flanked her, wands striking, cutting off escape routes, her body recoiling from each hit. Daphne pressed forward, holding her in place with bursts of magic, laughing as Amelia struggled. Finally, Mattheo's sharp order cut through.
"Draco, restrain her!"
Draco's movements were instantaneous, almost inhuman. He stepped forward, pressing Amelia back, hands and wand working together to force her to her knees. She gasped, struggling, but there was no escaping the strength of his hold. Bloodied, terrified, and bruised, she sank to her knees, cornered, pinned in her office.
The chaos around us began to recede slightly, the Ministry staff either unconscious, fleeing, or incapacitated. But the air was thick with blood, smoke, and the metallic tang of fear. My chest heaved, mask pressing against my cheeks, hands shaking, wand slick with sweat and gore. I swallowed, forcing my breath steady, reminding myself that I had survived, that I had fought, that I had endured.
I looked at Theo, his jaw tight, shoulders trembling slightly, and felt a pang of something I couldn't name. Worry? Sympathy? It didn't matter. We were all survivors here, bound by the same cruelty we executed.
The office felt suffocating, thick with the metallic tang of blood, smoke curling through broken windows, and the acrid bite of fire still smoldering in the corners. Amelia knelt on the floor, restrained by Draco's solid grip, her robes torn and streaked with crimson, her eyes wide and panicked. Every muscle in her body trembled, a taut coil of fear and defiance, and I couldn't stop my own heart from lurching at the sight.
Outside the office, the sounds of chaos were growing louder again. Screams, curses, the crack of splintering wood, and the sharp, wet impacts of bodies hitting stone. The Ministry had begun to regroup. Aurors were circling, trying to coordinate, their green spells cutting across the hallways with deadly precision. A group of them converged inside the office, targeting Lorenzo, Draco, Mattheo, and Daphne as if the six of us weren't all instruments of terror.
"Stay here," Mattheo snapped at me, cold and sharp, eyes never leaving Amelia. But I didn't move. I couldn't. My chest was tight, fingers trembling around my wand.
The first of the Aurors struck at Lorenzo, who barely flinched. He striked and their chest exploded in a shower of blood, another's leg snapped beneath a curse that sent him sprawling into the wall. Yet there were too many of them, converging too fast, and the pressure mounted instantly.
Draco's wand flashed, cutting down a man charging from the side, but another struck him from behind, forcing him to stagger. Mattheo snarled, wand lashing, a hex smashing another auror into a doorway with a sickening crack of bone and wood. Daphne twirled, laughing, sending sparks in all directions, lifting one unlucky clerk and hurling her into the hallway wall.
The Aurors, desperate and coordinated, managed to force a small wedge through the chaos. A handful of them surged into the office, dragging the four of them out with curses, yanks, and brute force. Amelia stumbled to her knees again as the pressure on Draco and Mattheo grew, yelps of pain and curses flying from every direction.
Theo moved first, silent and controlled. I watched him approach Amelia, jaw tight, wand ready. His intent was clear, he was going to end it quickly, quietly, mercilessly.
"Wait," I whispered to myself. My stomach churned, fear curling through me, but I stepped forward instinctively, moving between Theo and Amelia.
He barely glanced at me. "I don't—"
"I'll do it," I said, voice trembling but firm. I raised my wand, drawing on everything I had learned, every brutal lesson Mattheo had hammered into me, every hour of training, every survival instinct.
"Avada—"
I froze. My lips moved, but the words felt wrong. My wand shuddered in my grip. I tried again. Sparks fizzled weakly, dissipating into the air like mist. I cursed under my breath, fingers white on the wand. My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I could feel Theo watching, measuring, judging.
Another attempt, another fizzle. The curses didn't hit, didn't hurt, didn't even ignite. Amelia's eyes flicked between us, realizing maybe that her fate wasn't sealed yet. A brief flicker of hope crossed her face. Then I heard it. Footsteps. Heavy, fast. The unmistakable click of boots on the Ministry floor. Mattheo. Daphne. Draco. Lorenzo.
"Step back!" Mattheo barked, voice cold, full of steel. Sparks of green magic shot past me as they barreled into the office, bodies slamming into desks, paper, and splintered wood. The aurors were caught off guard, scattered by a rapid sequence of precise, lethal curses.
I stumbled backward as the four of them surged past, Mattheo's wand carving a path toward Amelia. My heart froze as I looked toward the space where she had been standing.
She was gone.
My stomach twisted, a cold, sickening knot forming. The floor was scuffed, signs of the struggle visible, but no trace of her body remained.
"Where—" I began, but Mattheo's glare cut me off, freezing the words in my throat. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark, like storm clouds ready to break.
Daphne jumped, but even her laughter faltered, replaced by a sharp hiss.
"She's gone. Somehow, she's gone."
Lorenzo's smirk was gone too, replaced by something sharper.
"And you want to tell me exactly how?" he asked, voice low.
Draco's pale face was unreadable, but his wand had already swept along the office, scanning, measuring, calculating.
"She couldn't have gotten far," he muttered, voice clipped, "but she's fast, trained. Whoever helped her or whatever she used... she's gone."
Theo's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing, and he muttered something low under his breath. I could see his usual icy composure faltering, just slightly as he stared at the empty floor, the space where Amelia had been.
I pressed myself against the wall, shaking, wand still raised, realizing, she had escaped. Against all of us. Against everything we had thrown at her. My own failures, the faltering of my curses, the hesitance, had been a part of it.
Mattheo's voice cut through the haze, sharp and cold. "Search the building. Now."
But I couldn't move. My fingers were stiff, lungs burning, chest tight. I'd tried. I'd tried. But it hadn't been enough.
Draco's hand brushed past me as he stepped forward, muttering incantations to restrain remaining aurors. Daphne whirled, moving toward the windows to ensure no escape route remained. Lorenzo's voice cut sharp as he called out directions, weaving curses that kept the remaining staff in line.
I watched the space where Amelia had been, heart hammering, stomach twisting. I had failed. Theo's hand brushed mine briefly as a silent acknowledgment, almost imperceptible, but heavy. I nodded, not trusting my voice. Mattheo's boots clicked on the floor, making my limbs tremble.
"We will find her," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And when we do, she will not escape again."
I swallowed hard, pressing my mask tighter, forcing my shoulders straight. My hands were still shaking, my lungs still screaming, my mind racing, but I stepped forward again. We weren't done. I knew, deep down, that failure like this would only make him colder, harder, more merciless.
✦
The Apparition back to the safehouse hit like a blow, a lurching, stomach-dropping sensation that left me hollow and trembling. The world snapped into shape in the clearing outside the small, run-down house that had been our sanctuary, but sanctuary felt like a cruel joke now. Smoke still clung to my clothes, my hair matted with sweat and blood. My hands shook, wand still clutched tight, fingernails digging into the leather. Every breath was tight, every muscle wound up, every nerve alert.
Mattheo stepped out first, mask pressed firmly over his face, posture rigid, shoulders squared, his hands moving almost mechanically as if the horrors of the Ministry hadn't affected him at all. There was no word, no acknowledgement of what had happened, not a single sound. His silence was heavy and it gnawed at me more than any scream I had heard in the past twenty-four hours.
Daphne, flitting past him, exhaled sharply, twisting her wand, checking the perimeter. She moved like a live wire, chaotic, untouchable, but even her usual spark had dulled slightly. She flitted in short bursts, fingers twitching, eyes scanning the shadows. Lorenzo leaned against the side of the house, watching the trees, smirking faintly, but his grin didn't reach his eyes. Draco stood apart, unmoving, wand in hand, grim and silent as always.
Theo stepped out beside me, mask slightly askew, hair damp with sweat and grime. His hands flexed and tightened around his wand. I could see the tremor in his fingers, subtle but real. His eyes were wide, alert, haunted. We didn't speak at first. The weight of the Ministry incident pressed down on all of us, but especially on Theo and me. Mattheo's unspoken expectations, his brutal scrutiny, made the air itself heavy, and I could feel my stomach knotting with tension.
Finally, as the others dispersed, some checking the perimeter, others dragging supplies inside, Theo sank to the ground, leaning against the wall of the house. I followed instinctively, crouching beside him, letting the mask off so I could breathe more easily.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. My chest ached with every heartbeat, still tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. The images of Amelia Bones, bruised and terrified, and of the other Ministry staff flashed through my mind, unbidden and relentless. The weight of what we had done, what we had to do, pressed down on me like iron.
Theo's voice finally broke the silence, low, trembling slightly, almost swallowed by the night air. "I don't want to turn into him," he whispered, eyes downcast. His hands flexed in his lap, fingers twitching as though he were trying to squeeze the thought out of his mind.
I looked at him sharply, mask half-off, eyes wide. "Your father?" I asked softly.
He nodded, jaw tight. "Yes. I can feel it, sometimes. The way I think, the way I move, the way I cast, all of it. I see myself in his eyes, in the way I push people, in the way I don't hesitate. I don't want to be that man, Aurelia. That monster. But every day, every mission, I feel closer to him and I fucking hate it."
My chest constricted. I wanted to say something, anything to make it better, but I didn't know how. Words felt fragile, worthless. I pressed my hand lightly to my wand, trying to steady myself as well, reminding myself I was still alive, still breathing, still capable.
I swallowed, voice tight. "Theo, I know." My words were small, shaky. "I feel it too. The things we do, the way Mattheo expects us to be, it's like we're walking that line every single day. And sometimes, I think I'm falling closer than I want to admit."
Theo's gaze flicked up at me, sharp, haunted. For a moment, he looked like a boy instead of the machine of precision he usually was. "Aurelia..." he whispered. "You make it, I don't know... easier, somehow. To feel like I'm not completely lost in it."
I blinked, taken aback, my throat tight. "I feel the same with you," I admitted softly. "It's easier, somehow, to see someone else faltering, someone else scared and know I'm not the only one."
Theo exhaled shakily, leaning back against the wall, staring up at the sky as though searching for some fragment of calm. "I hate that we feel this way," he murmured. "I hate that I'm scared of myself, scared of what I could become. I hate that I can't stop thinking about it every second, about every life we've taken, every scream."
I nodded, fingers tightening on my wand. "I know," I whispered, voice barely audible. "Every mission, every person, I see their faces after, when I try to sleep. I hear their screams when I close my eyes. And Mattheo never lets us forget. He doesn't even acknowledge it. He expects it, and he expects us to feel nothing. But I... I can't. And I'm terrified that one day I'll be as cold as him. As him."
Theo's eyes finally found mine, wide and glistening. "Do you think... do you think he's ever... scared? Of himself?"
I hesitated. "I don't know," I admitted. "I've seen him falter once, maybe twice. But... it's different. He doesn't let anyone see it. He uses it. He turns it into fire, into cruelty. And for that, he's terrifying."
Theo exhaled sharply, jaw tight. "And that's what scares me. That's what keeps me awake."
The silence returned, heavier this time, wrapping around us like a shroud. The distant sounds of the safehouse, the wind in the trees, the faint scuffing of boots on stone, the occasional shuffle of the others moving inside all felt distant, muted, unimportant. Theo's hands trembled slightly in his lap, fingers brushing his wand absently. I watched him, feeling an aching, sharp pang of empathy and fear.
"Do you think we'll ever be okay?" he whispered finally, voice raw. "Do you think we can survive all of this and not become monsters?"
I swallowed, heart hammering. "I don't know," I admitted, voice trembling.
He nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the darkened treetops, as if trying to carve a space of calm from the night. "I don't want to lose myself, Aurelia," he said, voice low. "I don't want to be like him. But every day it feels like a little of me disappears and I'm scared I won't recognize myself soon."
I pressed my hand to his, careful not to disturb the grip on our wands, heart clenching. "I know," I whispered again. "And I'm terrified too. But we're not alone. Not yet."
The coldness of the night pressed down around us, the shadows stretching long across the clearing. From the doorway of the safehouse, Mattheo's boots clicked sharply against the stone, cutting through the silence. His shadow stretched toward us, long and precise, hands at his sides, wand in grip. His mask was in place, eyes unreadable.
"You two," he said, voice low, sharp. "Get inside. Now."
Theo and I exchanged a glance, hearts still hammering, and rose slowly, shakily. The weight of what had happened at the Ministry still pressed down, heavy and suffocating. The memory of Amelia, of her defiance, of the chaos and blood, it was still raw, still vivid.
Mattheo didn't look at us again, didn't speak more than necessary. He turned sharply, striding into the safehouse, leaving us to follow in tense, silent obedience. His coldness, his brutal control, was a knife-edge that cut through the quiet between us, and I felt myself trembling again, gripping my wand, heart hammering, as Theo and I moved after him.
We entered the safehouse, shadows stretching along the walls, the faint smell of smoke still clinging in the corners. The silence of the house was suffocating, unbroken except for the soft scuff of boots. No one spoke. No one acknowledged the weight of what we had done, or the fact that Amelia had escaped. Theo and I sank onto the steps outside, pressed close together, trying to steady our shaking limbs, while Mattheo, Daphne, Lorenzo, and Draco moved inside. The quiet pressed down, heavy and suffocating. Every creak of the floor, every whisper of wind through the trees outside, felt amplified, and I pressed my mask tighter, forcing myself not to cry.
Theo's voice was low, trembling as he leaned against me. "I don't know how much longer I can do this," he admitted.
I swallowed, squeezing my wand tighter. "I know," I whispered. "But we keep going. Because we have to. Because if we don't, they'll break us anyway."
The wind rustled the trees outside. The shadows pressed against us, long and dark, like the things we had done and the things we still had to do. Mattheo's cold presence inside the house, the silence, the unspoken expectations, pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. I pressed my forehead to my knees, gripping my wand, heart hammering, and prayed silently, desperately that I would survive the next day, that we all would, and that we could both hold onto some fragment of who we still were.
After the silence passed and everyone had retreated to other duties around the safehouse, I found myself in the bathroom. My hands shook as I pulled at the straps of the death eater outfit, undoing the clasps slowly, as if the fabric itself were a chain keeping me tethered to what I had just done.
I stood there for a moment, hesitating, heart hammering in my chest. The mask came off first, sliding from my face, and I let it fall with a quiet clatter onto the floor. I could feel the sweat caking under it, the grime and blood from the fight sticking to my skin. My chest heaved as I took a shaky breath, trying to force the adrenaline to calm, trying to convince myself that I was fine, that I was still alive, that I could still breathe.
Then my hands moved to the rest of the outfit. I peeled away the black fabric slowly, carefully, each piece a weight lifted but also a reminder. The robes were torn in places, bloodied and damp, streaked with the crimson of both my victims and my own wounds. My gloves came off last, leaving my hands trembling and sticky with sweat and coagulated blood. I finally stood before the mirror, bare except for the underclothes I had been too exhausted to strip yet. My reflection stared back at me, unflinching. The sight was almost enough to make me collapse.
My hair was matted, streaked with red, white strands clinging to my forehead and cheeks. My eyes were wide, dark-rimmed from exhaustion and terror, pupils darting as if expecting the ghosts of the dead to emerge from the shadows behind me. There were flecks of blood on my arms, my chest, my legs. My skin was pale, sickly, almost translucent under the dim light of the bedroom.
I swallowed hard and shook my head, as if the motion could dislodge the images etched into my mind. The screams, the wet thuds of bodies hitting stone, the metallic tang in the air at the Ministry, I could still taste it, still smell it clinging to me.
I didn't even notice that I was trembling until I opened the bathroom door and flicked on the light. Steam curled faintly from the shower as I turned the knob, letting the water run hot, scalding. The sound of it filling the small, cramped space made my stomach twist, coiling tighter with every tick of the second hand on the clock above the mirror.
Slowly, almost robotically, I stepped in, letting the water cascade over me. It hit my skin like fire, washing over the blood and grime that coated me, but even as it flowed down my body, drenching me, rinsing away the visible stains, I knew it would never cleanse what I carried inside.
I sank to my knees in the warm water, letting it pound against my shoulders and face. I scrubbed my skin raw, fingers clawing at every inch, trying to peel away the guilt, the memory, the horror. The water turned a thick red as the blood mixed with sweat and soap, spiraling down the drain, carrying away pieces of me that I would never reclaim.
But it wasn't enough.
The bile hit me first, a sharp, burning twist in my stomach, and I vomited into the drain. The liquid was acidic, bitter, spiked with the metallic tang of iron, the remnants of adrenaline and fear. I gagged, retched again, trying to purge the taste of the Ministry, of the screams, of the blood from my mouth, but it came back up, over and over. Each heave left my throat raw, muscles quivering, stomach heaving violently, and still I didn't stop.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip my hair, scrubbing at it under the water, trying to wash away not just the grime but the memory of every face I had seen in those hallways. I saw Amelia Bones' terrified eyes flashing behind my lids, Lockwood's body convulsing as curses tore across him, the screaming aurors as we rained fire down on them. I tried to scrub the images from my skin, but they had seeped too deep.
Water poured down my face, over my arms and down into the drain. Each convulsion of vomiting made my chest and stomach burn, my knees buckle beneath me. I could feel my strength waning, could feel the raw, unfiltered horror and guilt bleeding into my bones.
I scrubbed at my hair until the strands felt like sandpaper, fingers raw and blistering. I clawed at my skin until it was pink, until it burned and stung with each movement. The shower head hissed, water spat like tiny knives against my body, and I welcomed it, welcomed the pain, welcomed the illusion that it might somehow absolve me.
My throat ached, raw from retching. My hands shook uncontrollably. I vomited again, dry heaves mingling with hot liquid that stung my throat and lips. My knees were bruised, scraped from where I had fallen to the shower floor, water pooling around me. The steam and heat made it hard to see, hard to think, but every time I blinked, every time I tried to steady my breath, the images came back, the screams, the blood, the faces.
I leaned against the wall, letting the water pour over me, hands trembling violently, tears streaking over my cheeks even though I tried to keep my face down, hidden. I couldn't stop thinking about Theo, his haunted eyes as we left the Ministry, and about Amelia, gone, slipping through our fingers, alive when she should have been dead. I thought about Mattheo, his eyes harsh and unforgiving, and I felt myself shrinking inside, crushed under the weight of what he expected of me.
I tried to tell myself I was strong. I was strong. I had survived, I had killed, I had done what was necessary. But the water couldn't wash away the guilt. My hands were raw, my skin a mess of scratches and abrasions, my stomach twisting and twisting with each dry heave. I vomited again, bile and water mixing in a bitter, acidic swirl, and I pressed my forehead against the tiles, sobs catching in my throat.
I thought of Theo again, trembling beside me on the steps outside the safehouse. His hands had been shaking too, and I had seen the same horror in his eyes, the same terror at what we were becoming. But even as I thought that, even as I remembered, my own shaking hands couldn't stop. My body convulsed violently, and I hurled once more, water splashing back at me, steam curling around my body in thick clouds.
I wanted to stop, wanted to lie down, wanted to curl into a ball and disappear into nothing, but I couldn't. I forced myself to stay upright, scrubbed at my hair again, clawed at the red streaks in my white strands until they were pink and frayed. The water ran red around me, and I didn't care. The metallic taste in my mouth, the burning in my throat, the raw ache in my muscles, it didn't matter.
I vomited until my stomach was empty, until my throat burned raw and my limbs trembled with exhaustion. My chest heaved, my shoulders shaking, my hands quivering until I could barely hold the shampoo or soap. But the guilt remained. Every image, every scream, every flash of blood and death lingered, settled in my bones, refused to leave.
Finally, exhausted, trembling, raw and shivering under the scalding water, I sank to my knees again. My arms pressed against my stomach, my hair plastered to my skin, blood and water and sweat dripping into the drain. My throat was raw, my mouth tasted of iron and acid. I closed my eyes, letting the water cascade over me, trying desperately to wash away what I couldn't, to scrub clean what would never be clean. But no matter how many times I vomited, how many times I scrubbed and clawed and burned myself under the water, the weight of it, the blood, the screams, the lives taken, the screams I hadn't saved, the screams I had caused, would not leave me.
When the water finally ran clear, I forced myself to shut it off. My body trembled from more than the cold. Knees weak, throat raw, skin burning where I'd scrubbed it raw, I pulled myself to my feet, leaning on the wall for balance. The steam had fogged the mirror, but I didn't wipe it clean, I didn't want to see what I looked like now.
I dried myself with a towel that smelled faintly of mildew and smoke, rough against my over-scrubbed skin. My hair, still damp, clung heavy and tangled down my back. I dug through the small trunk at the foot of the bed until I found something to wear, an old shirt, threadbare and faded, and pyjama pants with holes at the knees, the fabric soft only because of how many times it had been washed, worn, clung to. The clothes smelled faintly of dust and disuse, but they were mine, and in a world where even that was rare, I pulled them on with shaky hands.
The mirror still loomed behind the steam as I ran fingers through my tangled white hair. No amount of combing could undo the knots, but I tried anyway, if only to give my hands something to do. I smoothed the shirt against my body, tucked trembling fingers under the frayed hem, and forced myself to stand straighter. I had to be composed. I had to look unbroken, no matter how hollow I felt inside.
I opened the bathroom door. The hallway was dim, lit only by a flickering lantern near the far wall. The air was still, heavy with dust and silence. Standing there, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely, shadows cutting harsh across his face, was Mattheo.
My chest tightened, breath catching hard in my throat. For a moment, neither of us moved. His dark eyes locked on mine, unreadable, heavy, searching. He didn't say anything. I didn't either. Words would have been too fragile, too dangerous, too much. The silence between us said more than language could ever manage.
I straightened my back, forced my shoulders higher even though they shook. I tried to hold my head up, to make it look like I was fine, like I wasn't still trembling, like I hadn't just been on the bathroom floor vomiting until my throat bled. My lips pressed together in a thin line, and I made myself move, one step forward, then another, then past him.
I could feel his gaze following me, burning into my back, catching every stutter in my stride, every quake in my fingers. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet as I walked away, but my body betrayed me. My arms trembled, my breath was uneven, my steps were unsteady. The silence pressed down on me heavier than any scream, heavier than the blood still staining my memory.
As I reached the corner of the hall, I risked one final glance over my shoulder. Mattheo was still there, watching. Still silent. His face a mask, his eyes a storm I couldn't read. Then, slowly, he pushed off the wall and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet, final click. I turned back, shaking, my throat dry, my chest tight, and walked on into the shadows of the safehouse.
Notes:
this isnt really enemies to lovers or truly friends to lovers its some weird inbetween
also if you dont fw long chapters i am SORRY. there is just a lot of content/plot to get through and i would rather not have an indigestible amount of chapters, i am planning 20 per act, but will aim to keep them full of action, and less fillery. no mission in the next one tho yay for them.
Chapter Text
The morning air was sharp and biting, our clothing carrying the faint smell of smoke from yesterdays assault on the Ministry. I stood in the yard of the safehouse, arms crossed, my wand at the ready, watching the others move through the rough-hewn training ground Mattheo had set up. Wooden dummies, crudely carved targets, and piles of broken furniture were scattered across the yard, each scarred from previous practice. Mattheo didn't waste time on niceties. His cold eyes swept over all of us like each one of us were merely disposable.
"Form a line," he barked, his voice low, commanding, carrying the kind of authority that made you move before you even realized it. "No mistakes or hesitation. Unforgivables first. Then combat."
I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. My muscles still ached from the Ministry mission, my body and mind exhausted, but Mattheo didn't care. He never did.
"Avery," he said, sharp as a knife. My head snapped up. His gray eyes were locked on mine, and I felt my pulse spike. "With me."
I nodded, heart hammering, gripping my wand tighter. He didn't smile, didn't hesitate. He simply drew his own wand and stepped in front of me, stance perfect, eyes bleak and calculating. Mattheo stepped closer and said nothing, just gestured sharply with his wand. The air shimmered around us as we practiced the first unforgivable. I swallowed hard, focusing on controlling my breathing.
"Crucio," he hissed, and my wand was up before I fully realized it.
The target appeared, a wooden dummy rigged with faint magical resistance. Mattheo's eyes never left mine as I aimed. I could feel the tension in my arms, the heat of anticipation crawling along my spine. My curse hit the dummy, sparks dancing along its wood like fire. He barked sharply.
"Faster. Harder. More control. I see hesitation, Avery."
I blinked, stunned, my pulse racing. "I... I—"
"I have not asked you to speak of words other than a curse."
I tried again. The curse ripped out of me, jagged and raw, hitting the dummy with a crack that made the splintered wood spray in tiny shards. Mattheo stepped closer, wand poised, and smirked just slightly, a cruel tilt of the lips.
"Better. But not enough."
My hands were shaking, sweat prickling the back of my neck. Every fiber of me wanted to cry, wanted to run, wanted to hide. But he didn't let you hide. He moved in, forcing me to adjust my stance, correcting my posture with precise, rigid movements.
"Wider base. Elbows tucked. Eyes on the target, not your wand hand." His fingers pressed sharply at my shoulders, pushing me into the right position. His touch was rough but efficient, making me unable to flinch.
Then he paired the next exercise, combat. "Hit me Avery," he said flatly.
I hesitated. My hands were trembling. My legs wanted to give out. But the controlling glint in his eyes pushed me forward. I lunged, wand raised, curses ready.
"Stupefy"
He dodged with a fluid, inhuman grace, countering with precise strikes, each one knocking me back, forcing me to react faster, sharper. I stumbled, tripped over the uneven ground, but he didn't hesitate to jab me with a hex that burned my shoulder.
"Again," he snapped.
My body screamed, but I went again. Each spell I cast, each movement, was corrected instantly. He was merciless, pushing me to the edge of my skill, stripping away hesitation, forcing me to respond before my mind caught up.
Around us, the others were at work. Daphne's laughter cut through the morning air as she sent a fireball screaming toward a dummy, spinning and leaping with pure joy. Lorenzo moved like a water, weaving curses with charming cruelty, grinning as each hit tore through targets or smashed wooden bodies across the yard. Mattheo's voice cut through all the chaos again, low and deadly.
"Control yourself. Pain is fine. Hesitation is not. You fail me, I correct you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. His words were sharp, cruel, designed to wound just enough to ignite fear. My hands were trembling, my fingers slick with sweat as I tried to steady my wand. My body wanted to give out, my mind wanted to collapse, but I forced myself forward.
We moved to physical combat. He circled me, strikes coming fast, forcing me to parry, dodge, counter. Each blow I deflected was precise, but every strike he landed on me burned through my defenses, leaving me raw and screaming inside.
"Hit harder," he barked when I feinted too slowly. "Predict me, anticipate me. Don't flinch. You flinch, you're weak. When you're weak, you're useless to me."
I faltered for a fraction of a second, a fraction that felt like an eternity, and he jabbed my side with a curse that left me gasping. My teeth clenched, and I felt tears sting my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I lunged again, twisting my wrist to send the curse faster, sharper. It hit him squarely in the chest, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I had done it right. Mattheo didn't flinch. He caught the magic midair, turning it aside, then countered with a hex that slammed into my shoulder, sending me staggering back a step. Pain exploded through me, white-hot, but I didn't cry out. I couldn't.
"Stand," he said, his voice low, calm, but bitter.
I forced my legs to straighten, fingers clutching my wand so tightly they ached. My breathing was ragged, lungs burning. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging. I blinked it away, trying to focus.
Mattheo circled me, wand poised, eyes scanning every twitch of my muscles, every shallow breath, every flicker of fear. "Physical," he said. "You hit me. Properly."
I lunged forward, wand in hand, but he stepped aside with practised speed. My shoulder slammed into his chest, not hard enough, and he pushed me back, hard, knocking me onto the ground. I hit the dirt with a grunt, breath knocked out of me, and for a second I saw stars.
Mattheo didn't give me a second to recover. He bent down, lifted me by my shoulders roughly, shoving me upright. "You think the Order will give you a second chance?" he snapped, pressing his wand to my chest briefly, sparks licking at my robes. "No. They kill you."
I flinched, swallowing the rising panic. My wand hand shook. My legs felt weak. My vision swam. He released me abruptly, stepping back.
I launched myself forward, heart hammering, casting the Cruciatus curse with all my strength. The spell hit too weak. He sidestepped, flicking his wand, striking me lightly across the ribs with a counter-jinx. Pain seared through me, white-hot, making me gasp and stagger.
"Stop thinking!" he barked. "Stop caring! Control, Avery. Control!"
I tried again, my magic wild, jagged. Sparks flew, the air thick with heat. I slammed into him, forcing my body into the attack, wincing as my shoulder caught a strike he hadn't blocked, the pain was sharp, raw. I gasped, staggering back, fingers gripping my wand until they ached.
Mattheo pressed forward, closing the distance, wand at my chest, his face inches from mine. "Weak," he said softly, venomous, his eyes cold steel. "Pathetic. You think surviving is enough? You think just breathing makes you strong? It doesn't."
I swallowed hard, heart hammering, trying to block the sting of tears in my eyes. My muscles ached, my lungs burned, but I forced myself to stand taller, gripping my wand tighter.
He circled me again, slow, deliberate, like a predator enjoying the panic it evokes. "You're learning nothing from hesitation. I watch you falter. I see your fear. I feel it in your weakness. Do you understand, Avery?"
"Yes," I whispered, barely audible, choking on my own fear and exhaustion.
"Good." He snapped his wand suddenly. A sharp hex hit the ground near my feet, throwing dirt and debris. "Move. Attack. Don't think. Don't feel. Don't hesitate. Kill the hesitation."
I lunged, casting every hex I could, twisting, dodging, striking, sweat and blood mixing with dirt on my arms and face. Each blow he countered, each strike he deflected. Sparks and scorch marks streaked the air, the yard littered with scorch marks, divots, and broken wood from the earlier dummies.
Finally, I faltered. My wand hand shook uncontrollably, my legs gave slightly, and my heart sank. My chest heaved, lungs burning, and I realized I couldn't continue at full speed.
Mattheo stepped forward instantly, slamming the flat of his wand against my shoulder, forcing me upright. "Weak!" he hissed. His eyes blazed, cold fury radiating from him. "Do you think this is acceptable?"
I swallowed, shaking, trying to steady my breathing. "But..."
"No!" He slammed his wand again, close enough that sparks leapt onto my robes. "I don't care if your arms are shaking, if your lungs burn, if your heart feels like it will explode. I don't care! You will perform. You will survive, you will learn."
I could barely nod, tears stinging my eyes, throat tight, chest heaving. Pain radiated through every muscle. I wanted to collapse. To curl up and hide. To disappear. Instead, I lifted my wand again. My hands trembled. My knees threatened to buckle. Mattheo watched, silent now, letting me struggle, forcing me to push through the panic, the fear, the exhaustion.
I lunged forward again. This time, my hexes were sharper, cleaner, faster. Sparks hit him squarely, he countered, but didn't move away as quickly. He circled, striking, pressing, forcing me to anticipate and react in rhythm with him. My shoulder stung from repeated blows, my ribs ached, but I forced myself forward again and again.
My body was raw, lungs burning, arms trembling so violently I could barely hold my wand. My robes were scuffed, my hair damp with sweat, my skin streaked with dirt and blood from minor scrapes.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Mattheo stepped back, chest heaving slightly. He didn't speak, didn't smile. But his gaze held a measure of approval, it was faint, imperceptible to anyone else, but I felt it. I dropped to my knees, hands shaking violently, heart hammering. My lungs screamed, my body was raw from spells and hexes and physical strikes. Sweat stung my eyes, mixing with dirt and blood from previous scratches and fights.
Mattheo's voice cut through the noise of my ragged breaths. "Weak. But you survived. Barely. That's all I ask for now. Barely."
I swallowed, forcing my hands to stop trembling, forcing myself upright, forcing my mask of composure back in place. Around us, the others paused, watching, a mixture of awe, fear, and anticipation in their eyes. Daphne grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"Not bad Auri," she teased, but the glint in her eyes reminded me that it was a compliment laced with danger.
Lorenzo smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers. "Could've been worse," he drawled.
Draco's gray eyes flicked briefly to mine, cold and unreadable, before he returned to his target practice, silent judgment in every glance. Theo gave me a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it grounded me. Mattheo didn't smile. He didn't say more. He simply watched, grim and relentless, the storm at the center of the yard, shaping us, breaking us, forcing every ounce of strength, skill, and fear into submission. I clenched my fists, heart hammering. My body ached. My mind was raw. But I was alive. I had survived him, if only barely.
The yard was a storm of motion. Mattheo's attention had finally shifted, pairing off the others. My chest still heaved as I tried to catch my breath, but the chaos around me was relentless. Sparks flew from wands, curses streaking through the air with violent hiss and crack.
Draco moved first. Pale, sharp, and rigorous, his gray eyes cut through the air like blades. He didn't waste time with theatrics, each hex was calculated, lethal in intent. I could see the subtle flex of his fingers as he split a dummy in half, its charred remains spitting embers into the morning. When Daphne lunged forward, her usual chaos barely contained, Draco's movements adjusted without hesitation.
Daphne laughed, wild and unhinged, twirling her wand in erratic arcs, sending fire shooting into the air. The sparks struck targets indiscriminately, it's wooden posts splintered, the ground scorched, a dummy exploding into splinters midair. She shrieked as she leapt, flipping backward, wand raised, throwing curses like a conductor gone mad.
Draco's eyes flicked toward her just once. Then, with an almost imperceptible flick of his wand, he countered, a shield hex catching her fire midair, snapping it harmlessly to the side, his wand already spinning to deliver a sharp curse aimed at her leg. She shrieked again, laughter breaking into a growl, and spun around to face him, wand swinging wildly.
I could see her nails digging into the earth as she crouched, almost feral, leaping toward him. Draco didn't flinch. He sidestepped gracefully, ducking under a swinging curse, countering with a sharp, cutting jinx to her ribs that made her grunt and stagger. Her hair flew wild across her face as she spun, launching herself again, screams of exhilaration mixing with the sharp crack of wood and sparks of magic.
Theo moved with quiet intensity beside me, jaw tight, wand gripped so hard his knuckles shone white. Lorenzo was in his line of sight, smirking carelessly, tossing curses with calculated ease. But Theo's style was different, more repressed. Each spell aimed not to miss, each movement conserving strength and ensuring impact. Lorenzo twirled, dodging Theo's first hex, letting it bounce harmlessly off a post behind him.
"Come on, Theo," he drawled, grin wide, "you're too stiff. Relax, enjoy it." But his amusement didn't hide the razor-sharp precision of his own attacks. He sent a rapid series of jinxes at Theo, each one snapping through the air like whips.
Theo's wand moved in near silence, countering, deflecting, hitting, stepping closer with unyielding purpose. Lorenzo laughed, dancing back, but each step was forced, Theo wasn't letting him gain ground. When Theo's curse cracked against Lorenzo's side, blood spattered onto the ground.
He only flicked it off with a grin, smirk widening. "That's it? Really?"
Daphne, still circling Draco, was a tempest. Fire, curses, leaps, flips, everything she did screamed chaos. Draco's precision never faltered. He blocked a flaming hex, jabbed another to send her spinning into the ground, barely grazing her with the corner of a curse designed to bruise. Her laughter rang out, delighted and sharp, as she scrambled to her feet, twirling back toward him.
I felt a pang of awe and fear. Watching them fight was like watching nature itself tear into itself. The ground was already littered with evidence of their cruelty, shattered dummies, scorched earth, splintered wood, scorch marks, the occasional faintly magical "blood" from training constructs simulating injury.
Theo advanced slowly, carefully, while Lorenzo whirled around him, flipping backwards, casting curses that snapped against Theo's shields with sparks. One of Theo's hexes hit Lorenzo's arm hard enough to make him stagger back. He grinned wider, licking the imaginary blood from his lips like it was a game.
"Careful, Theo. You don't want to hurt me too much."
Theo didn't smile. He didn't hesitate. Another hex, precise, clean, aimed at Lorenzo's chest. Lorenzo barely caught it with a shield, but Theo followed immediately with a Cruciatus curse aimed at his side. I flinched. Even though it was practice, the intensity of it, the realness of pain made me gulp. Lorenzo twisted, cursed in frustration, then leapt backward with a laugh, agile and alive, dodging the follow-up like a predator.
Draco and Daphne's fight had escalated into full contact. Daphne screamed with excitement, vaulting over splintered wood, sending fire curling toward Draco. He dodged, countering with a sharp spell that struck her thigh, drawing an exaggerated gasp, not quite real, but close enough to make the air thick with tension. She retaliated, sending a jagged burst of magic toward him, which he caught midair, redirecting it like it weighed nothing.
I gritted my teeth, keeping my own practice sharp even as I observed. Each fight was a lesson in cruelty, efficiency, and precision. I could feel my muscles learning to anticipate, my reflexes sharpening, even my mind registering the ways Mattheo was forcing me to process fear and pain simultaneously.
Daphne landed a heavy kick to Draco's side, and he stumbled, but only barely. He spun back with a silent hiss of effort, wand flashing like silver, striking her mid-leap. Her back hit the dirt hard, sending a spatter of mud into the air. She roared and sprang up immediately, grinning, claws at the edge of her wand as if to rend him by hand. Draco's gray eyes flicked to me, assessing, then back to her, unshaken and calculating.
Theo and Lorenzo's duel had reached a standoff. Lorenzo was bleeding lightly from a hex to the arm, Theo's face was pale, jaw tight. For a moment, both men stood, panting, eyes locked, and I realized just how thin the line was between control and chaos, restraint and full-blown carnage.
"Move!" Mattheo barked suddenly. His voice cut through everything like steel. "Push harder! No hesitation! Kill or be killed! Every strike matters!"
Daphne screeched, throwing herself at Draco again, sparks scattering like shards of glass. Theo dove forward at Lorenzo, hexes whipping through the air with brutal efficiency.
By the time the sun was fully up, sweat and grime coating every one of us, the yard looked like a battlefield full of charred earth, splintered wood, scorched grass, and a haze of smoke curling from the scorched dummies. Every one of us was breathing hard, muscles screaming, but none of us had faltered. Not Mattheo, not Draco, not Daphne, not Theo, not Lorenzo and not me. Mattheo stepped back finally, wand lowering slightly, gray eyes sweeping over the group.
"Pathetic," he said flatly, but there was no malice, just judgment. "Barely alive, barely competent. But alive." He looked at me specifically.
The yard felt smaller now, suffocating almost, as Mattheo stepped toward me. His gray eyes were sharp, calculating, and for the first time I noticed the faint curve of his jaw, set so tight it made my stomach twist.
"Now," he said, voice low and controlled, "we run a mock raid. I want aggression, speed, precision. Failure is not an option."
He split us quickly. "Strike team: Avery, Malfoy, Berkshire. You will move through the house as though it's an Order safehouse, you break in, you take down everyone inside. Defenders: Greengrass, Nott, and I will be hiding inside, resistance expected. Do not underestimate us."
"Move!" he barked, and we scattered.
Draco fell into step beside me immediately, wand poised, eyes scanning the interior with sharp precision. Lorenzo leaned back slightly, casually grinning, but there was a tautness in his movements, this wasn't a game for him. I followed closely, heart hammering, wand ready, ears straining for any movement from inside.
The house was dark, shadows pooling in the corners. Mattheo had set up small barricades and furniture to simulate an actual safehouse. My hands shook as I edged forward, stepping over splintered boards, crouching low, wand ready.
Draco moved silently, every step calculated. "Left," he whispered, voice flat, and I adjusted, gliding behind him as he advanced toward the living room. Lorenzo followed, light on his feet, already flicking minor hexes at imaginary targets.
A sudden flare of light from the kitchen, Daphne, laughing, flipping upside down behind a counter. Theo crouched beside her, expression cold, wand sharp.
"Surprise!" Daphne shrieked, flicking her wand. A hex slammed into Lorenzo's shoulder. He staggered, grinned, and fired back with a sharp jinx aimed low. Sparks collided in midair, crackling. I ducked instinctively as the magic ricocheted, scorching the wall behind me.
Draco moved in front, blocking a wild curse with a shield charm. I pressed forward, wand flicking, casting a minor cutting curse aimed at Theo's leg. He twisted just enough to avoid it, smirking at my effort.
"Faster!" Draco snapped, voice flat. "Eyes open. Anticipate!"
I swallowed, muscles trembling as I hurled curses, dodged sparks, slammed into a splintered chair for cover. Lorenzo was darting back and forth beside me, fast, efficient, grinning as he launched a hex that clipped the corner of the counter, it exploded in a small fireball. Daphne shrieked, twirling backward, sending another expulso in my direction. I barely dodged, feeling the heat brush my arm.
Theo's movements were silent and deadly as ever. He deflected a curse from Lorenzo, countering with a cutting jinx that grazed his ribs. Lorenzo yelped, grinned wider, and pushed forward anyway. I lunged again, swinging my wand in a wide arc. Sparks flew, catching the corner of the counter, sending Daphne staggering back. Draco moved with me, his wand a silent extension of his arm, blocking her follow-up attacks, striking at her in sharp, cold jabs.
A hex slammed into the wall behind me, splintering the wood. I ducked, countered, felt the slight sting as my own magic hit its mark. Mattheo twisted and sent a sharp curse toward Lorenzo. Draco moved to intercept, deflecting it effortlessly. The room was chaos, sparks, flying dust, the smell of scorched wood, shouts, laughter, the chaos of Daphne cutting against the calculated precision of Draco and Theo.
I lunged at Theo with everything I had, feeling my chest heave, muscles trembling. He twisted, barely avoiding the attack, and I stumbled past him, crashing into the counter. My wand flicked wildly, striking a piece of furniture that splintered under the force. Daphne gasped, laughing, and launched herself at me, but Draco intercepted, stepping in, wand snapping a shield charm that threw her back.
Lorenzo grinned, bleeding slightly from the minor hex Theo had landed, and moved to flank me. I forced my legs to obey, heart hammering, wand flicking as I tried to anticipate every movement, every hex, every attack. My body was raw, lungs burning, sweat stinging my eyes, and still Mattheo's voice echoed in my head. Every movement was a battle against exhaustion, fear, and the edge of panic. Each hex I cast, each dodge, each strike was a small victory, but the weight of it pressed down, bone-deep, muscle-deep.
Finally, Mattheo barked, "Enough!" The air went still for a fraction of a second, and I sagged against the wall, gasping, body trembling, wand clattering to my side.
He turned to the others, dismissing them with a gesture, leaving me leaning against the wall, breathing hard, feeling the weight of both pride and humiliation, alive, yes, but still not enough for him.
We gathered in the living room without words, the silence thick and unbroken except for the echo of our ragged breathing. There was only one couch, springs broken, fabric torn and a coffee table so battered it sagged in the middle like a snapped spine.
Daphne flopped down first, laughing faintly under her breath, hair wild, cheeks flushed like she'd just come from a party instead of combat. She tugged her boots off with quick jerks, tossing them into the corner. "That," she said, still half-giggling, "was fucking brilliant."
Draco didn't answer. He sat at the far end of the couch, composed as always, though his collar was askew and there was ash smeared along his jaw. His breathing was controlled, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Theo leaned against the wall near the door, one hand clutching his stomach. His face was pale, drawn. He hadn't spoken since the mock raid ended, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room.
Lorenzo perched casually on the ruined coffee table, smirking, tapping his wand against his knee like he was still buzzing with leftover energy. His gaze slid between us all, too bright, too amused. He thrived in chaos, even training that left me trembling only seemed to feed him.
I sat on the floor, the boards beneath me were cool, dust clinging to my skin where sweat had dried sticky. My hair was a tangled mess, white strands sticking to my temples. My wand still felt heavy in my hand, as if my arm hadn't caught up to the fact that it was over.
Mattheo didn't sit. He stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his stance rigid, his expression carved from stone. He looked each of us over, eyes cold, weighing. Not a commander who had fought alongside us, but one who had merely watched, judged. The silence thickened. For a moment, I thought we might collapse into some fragile calm, just breaths, just hearts slowing.
Then the burning started.
At first, it was a faint sting along my arm, sharp enough to make me flinch. I hissed softly, pressing my palm against my forearm as if that could dull it. But it spread fast, the searing pain crawling under my skin, twisting deeper, hotter, until it felt like fire threading through my veins.
A shudder rippled through the room.
Daphne sat up sharply, her smile vanishing. She pressed her hand against her arm, lips tightening in a grimace. "Shit."
Theo shut his eyes, jaw clenching, shoulders bowing as though the weight of it pressed him down. Draco's face barely moved, but his knuckles whitened where they curled against his knee.
Lorenzo's grin faltered for the first time that night, his hand clamping over his sleeve. His eyes flicked toward the floor, mocking charm stripped away, replaced with something sharper, darker.
I swallowed hard, my stomach lurching as the mark burned hotter, searing. My pulse hammered in my throat. The ache wasn't just pain, it was summoning, pulling, dragging us.
Mattheo didn't flinch. His expression didn't shift. He only rolled up his sleeve in one smooth, unhurried motion, exposing the dark mark etched into his skin. The snake and skull seemed alive under the fire of the summons, writhing as though it enjoyed the agony.
"Up," he said flatly. No hesitation. No softness. Just an order.
No one moved right away. We stayed there for one suspended breath longer, the dread settling over us heavy as lead. Because we all knew what it meant. It didn't matter that our training had drained us, that sweat still cooled sticky on our skin, that our lungs were raw from smoke. When the Dark Lord called, there was no excuse. There was only obedience or death.
Theo was the first to stand, stiff, his hand still pressed against his stomach. He didn't look at anyone. Just moved, silent, like a man walking to his own grave. Draco rose next, composed but pale, his face a perfect mask. Daphne groaned, dragging herself upright, her laughter long gone, replaced by something harder, flatter. Lorenzo finally slid off the table, stretching his neck with a loud crack, his smirk tugging back into place like armor.
I pushed myself up last, my legs trembling, my stomach knotted so tight I thought I might be sick again. The burn in my arm pulsed, a steady reminder, we belonged to him. Mattheo's gaze swept across us once more. His eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than the others, unreadable before turning toward the door.
✦
The moment we stepped through the wards and into Riddle Manor, the air changed. It was heavier here, as if the walls themselves exhaled a pressure that pressed down on my chest and slowed my steps. Even the earth felt different here, it was damp, blackened soil that seemed to drink in the night rather than reflect it, smothering the stars overhead. The Manor rose from it like a monument, a jagged silhouette against the sky, sharp roofs and spires cutting upward as though the house itself wanted to pierce heaven. No warmth flickered from its windows. No light escaped. It was a mausoleum of secrets, its walls steeped in centuries of quiet cruelty.
My boots crunched over the gravel path as we climbed the steps, my body already shrinking into itself, shoulders hunching, breath shallow. The others walked ahead of me, purposeful, their movements steadier than mine, as though they belonged here.
The iron doors opened without touch, groaning wide to reveal a corridor that bled darkness. The sconces lining the stone walls burned low, their flames a sickly yellow that licked the air sluggishly, smoke curling up toward the vaulted ceiling. The sound of our footsteps echoed like a procession, each beat amplified, stretched out, until it felt as though the walls themselves carried our tread to every corner of the house.
We passed portraits of dead, all in black, their pale faces long and sharp, eyes following with an unnatural brightness. The air smelled of damp stone, of wax melting slow in the sconces, of something beneath it all, sweet and metallic, like iron left too long in the rain.
The corridor opened into a vast hallway, longer than it was wide, lined with towering windows of stained glass that gleamed black and crimson. The glass distorted the moonlight into fragments that crawled over the stone floor like the shifting beams of a drowned cathedral. Above, the ceiling arched into shadow, disappearing into darkness.
The walls were carved with symbols that looked older than language itself, curling serpents and jagged runes etched deep, their grooves filled with shadow. Flames guttered in sconces between them, casting shapes that moved like specters.
At the far end stretched a table so long it seemed to narrow with distance, its surface polished obsidian, reflecting the flames like liquid night. The chairs on either side stood rigid, high-backed, carved with snakes and skulls. At its head, empty still, waited a throne of darker stone, larger, heavier, a seat meant not just to hold but to dominate.
We moved as one toward it. None of us spoke. The silence was thick, absolute, filled only by the echo of boots against stone and the low hiss of torches. I felt my throat tighten as we reached the table, each of us sliding into our seats with the kind of care one might take in a sanctuary where every sound was sacrilege.
Mattheo took the head of the table in Voldemort's absence, standing behind the throne until summoned otherwise. His shoulders were rigid, his chin lifted. He looked at home in the shadows, pale face lit by the dim firelight. I tried not to look at him, but I could feel the weight of his presence even from where I sat lower down, nearer the end of the table, my place determined long ago.
The other Death Eaters filed in after us, their masks gleaming in the torchlight, silver and bone, each marked by subtle alterations that betrayed the man or woman beneath. They filled the room with a rustling, a scrape of chairs, a hush of cloaks. Their eyes burned above the masks, sharp and intent, fixed upon the throne at the head. No one spoke, no one dared. The silence grew until I could hear my own blood pounding, until even the faint hiss of the sconces seemed deafening.
Then the doors opened and he entered without sound, yet the air bent around him. A ripple passed through the room, not in movement but in presence, a collective tightening, as though every heart clenched at once. His figure was cloaked, gliding across the stone with no wasted motion. Shadows seemed to cling to him, stretching, folding and obeying with ease.
We rose as one. Chairs scraped back, boots struck the stone, bodies bending forward in one seamless wave. Bows deep, spines curved. The sound of our breath caught in our throats as though we shared one set of lungs. My forehead nearly brushed the table's cold edge as I bent, my pulse fluttering frantic against my ribs.
When we straightened, he had already taken the throne. He sat with a stillness that was heavier than movement, fingers draped over the stone arms, long and pale. The shadows gathered close, flames bowing inward toward him as though drawn by gravity.
The windows cast fractured light over us, black-red patterns crawling like veins across the table, over our pale hands, our masks, our faces. The air was heavy, thick with heat from the torches, with the weight of expectation pressing down until I could scarcely breathe. He had not spoken yet, but it didn't matter. We were already listening, already waiting. Already his.
"Please be seated."
The voice unfurled like smoke, low and serpentine, every syllable lingering, winding its way into the marrow of the room. Voldemort's gaze drifted lazily over the long table, red eyes gleaming beneath the heavy shadow of the sconces. No one shifted. No one dared.
No word was spoken, but the silence itself had changed. It was reverence, it was terror, it was awe. Every eye was fixed upon him, every hand folded or clenched, every breath shallow and careful. I sat back slowly, trying to control the trembling in my hands as I slid them under the table. My body ached to fold further, to press my forehead to the stone floor and beg that his gaze would not find me. But I kept my head up, just enough, because anything else would be noticed.
"We gather tonight in triumph." His hands, pale as bone, extended lightly, almost mockingly, palms resting on the arms of his throne. "The Carrows have brought... order to Hogwarts." A thin smile slithered across his lips, joyless, as his gaze flicked to the two siblings down the table. They straightened in their chairs, chests puffing, masks glinting in the firelight.
"The children are learning what it means to serve a greater cause. Punishment is the most eloquent of teachers."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, though no voice rose above the other. Each sound was swallowed by the stone walls, devoured by the firelight. My skin prickled, every hair on my arms stiffening beneath my sleeve. Voldemort let the silence pool again before he turned his head slowly. His gaze landed farther down the table, now resting onto us.
"And yet..." His voice lowered, drawing out the pause until it coiled around my throat. "Not all of my servants bring me such satisfaction."
My stomach turned to stone. I kept my eyes fixed on the table's surface, where the torchlight fractured against black glass. The blood in my veins burned, my Dark Mark prickling like a warning brand.
The six of us sat straighter without meaning to. I could feel Mattheo beside the throne, his jaw set, his shoulders rigid but his eyes calm, at least outwardly. Daphne's breath was sharp in her throat, her nails tapping an uneven rhythm on the polished wood. Lorenzo shifted, though it looked almost deliberate, as though he wanted his restlessness to pass as confidence. Theo's gaze was fixed on the table, rigid and still, but I saw the way his lips pressed bloodless white. Draco however, did not flinch.
Voldemort's eyes slid over us, lingering, dissecting. When he spoke again, his words dripped with false softness, each one a knife.
"My chosen six." The pause was deliberate, curling with disdain. "So young. So promising. And yet—" His tone hardened, the sibilance striking like a whip. "You allowed Amelia Bones to slip through your fingers."
The words struck the hall like a crack of thunder. I swallowed, hard, heat and cold warring under my skin.
"Head of Magical Law Enforcement. A woman of cunning, of influence, and you failed to bring her to me." His eyes narrowed, twin flames of scarlet. "Did she outwit you?" His mouth curved upward in a sneer, the smile brittle, cruel. "Or did your resolve falter?"
No one breathed.
Mattheo's jaw tightened. He said nothing. His silence was a shield, but I felt how brittle it was.
Voldemort's gaze slid across us, landing for the briefest moment on me. My stomach lurched. His eyes were sharp enough to cut, burning through the mask, through my skin, to whatever weakness lay hidden beneath.
"You disappoint me," he hissed, and the sound of it scraped the walls like claws. "You call yourselves hunters, but you return with nothing. You bring me failure and shame, when I have given you power, protection and purpose."
The room shrank around us. I could feel the other Death Eaters watching, their silence thick with hunger, for spectacle, for punishment, for blood that was not their own.
"Tell me," Voldemort whispered, voice dipping lower, colder, his gaze sliding back to Mattheo. "Why should I not make an example of you all?"
The question hung, heavy and poisoned, demanding but not inviting an answer.
"Who..." Voldemort's eyes flared redder, his pale face drawn into a grotesque curve of mockery. "...was responsible for Amelia Bones slipping through your grasp?"
The question struck me like a curse. My body locked. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. It was as though his gaze had pinned me to my chair, and I felt the truth swell in my throat. I had faltered. I had let her escape. I could still see it, the fizzled curse sputtering from my wand, the hesitation that cost us everything.
My lips parted. But no sound came. My tongue lay heavy, leaden, frozen. I stared at the gleam of black wood in front of me, praying the surface might split open and swallow me whole. The others knew. I could feel their awareness prickling along my skin. Theo's shoulder was taut beside me, Daphne's breath sharp. Draco did not move, did not look. He had already buried whatever thought he had deep beneath ice.
"It was me."
Mattheo's voice cut through, low and steady. My head jerked up in shock. His gaze didn't flick to me, didn't betray a thing. He stared forward, expression carved from iron, his jaw rigid but his tone unflinching. "I was responsible. I miscalculated."
Voldemort's eyes flickered, a flicker that might have been amusement. My breath strangled. I wanted to scream at him, to shove the words back into his mouths, to take the blame myself. But I was locked in place, horror cementing me to the chair.
Voldemort's chuckle slithered low, soft at first, then swelling into something shrill, high, and inhuman. The sound scraped along my skull, made my bones ache. "So eager to protect your little flock," he purred, tongue flicking across the air. "How noble."
He rose, the hall bent with the weight of his movement, shadows stretching long and skeletal against the walls. His wand slid between his fingers with casual grace.
"You would claim responsibility, boy?" His lip curled, the distortion of something almost human but not. "You would stand before me, before the Dark Lord, and confess that my blood, my flesh, my heir, was bested by Amelia Bones?"
His voice sharpened, climbed into a pitch that made my stomach clench. "A pitiful Ministry whore?"
Mattheo's hands were white-knuckled fists against the table, but his face did not break. "Yes, my Lord," he said, voice hoarse but steady.
Voldemort laughed, high and shrill, a sound that made the very walls vibrate. The laugh curdled quickly, descending into something far uglier, an edge of fury so sharp it seemed to split the air.
"You shame me," he hissed. "You shame the name Riddle."
The wand rose, slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring the anticipation.
"Crucio."
The curse struck Mattheo with a force that seemed to shake the table itself. His scream tore the hall open, ripped from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and animal. His body convulsed, legs kicking helplessly against the stone floor, spine arching until it looked as though it might snap clean in two.
But Voldemort didn't release it.
He stepped closer, pale face twisted with relish, wand carving cruel arcs in the air, each flick tightened the current of agony ripping through Mattheo's body. His hands clawed against nothing, nails splitting, blood dripping onto the floor as he writhed.
"Pathetic," Voldemort spat, pacing around him as if circling prey. "You call yourself my son, yet you cannot even subdue a woman who dared defy us. You cannot even strike cleanly. You disgrace me every time you breathe."
Mattheo's jaw clenched, strangled sounds breaking from his throat. His skin was slick with sweat, blood staining his lips where he had bitten through them to keep from crying out further.
But Voldemort pressed on.
"You are weak. Weaker even than your mother was, I see her in you, in your pitiful cries, in your feeble resistance. You have inherited nothing of me. Nothing but shame."
The curse intensified. Mattheo's scream cracked, broke, then rebuilt itself into something hoarse and jagged. He twisted violently, shoulder striking the table's edge with a dull crack that made bile rise in my throat.
Beside me, Theo flinched, his knuckles pressed white against his thigh. Daphne's chest heaved too fast, her pupils wide with something close to panic. Draco's mask was intact but his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Lorenzo stared blankly, eyes wide and glassy, as though caught between horror and admiration for Mattheo's endurance. I couldn't breathe. My chest burned. My nails dug so deep into my palms that blood smeared warm across my skin.
Voldemort leaned down, voice low, a hiss against Mattheo's ear. "You will die a nameless, wretched boy if you do not learn. And when you die, the world will not whisper the name Riddle. They will spit it."
Mattheo's eyes fluttered open at that, bloodshot and wild, and for the briefest instant they met mine across the table. His lips parted as though to speak, but another surge of agony ripped the sound from him, his back slamming to the floor as Voldemort flung him down with the curse still sizzling through his nerves.
"Look at you," Voldemort sneered, circling again, his robes whispering across the stone. "Rolling in filth like a common rat. You are no son of mine. You are nothing."
The words flayed him more thoroughly than the curse. I saw it in the way his body trembled, not just from the spell but from the weight of each word, each syllable. He shook, heaved, but still he did not beg, and that enraged Voldemort further.
"Beg!" he shrieked, wand twisting cruelly. "Beg for release, boy!"
Mattheo's scream bled into a growl, his teeth clenched even as his veins bulged, even as blood streamed from his nose, staining the floor beneath him. He refused.
"Beg!" Voldemort's voice was high, shrill, inhuman. "Show me your weakness! Admit you are worthless!"
But Mattheo only gasped, chest heaving, his eyes rolled back, and still no words of surrender came. The curse broke off suddenly. The silence that followed was a vacuum, almost worse than the screams. Mattheo lay collapsed, chest jerking, his arms limp at his sides. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth, his breath shallow, ragged.
Voldemort looked down at him with disdain, lip curling. "A disgrace. You are less than nothing. Even the lowest servant among us would have done better." His gaze flicked to the rest of us, slow and scalding. "Do you see? This is what failure looks like. This is what weakness births. You will learn," he whispered, voice silken and deadly, "or you will die by my hand. And when you die, I will erase your name from this world. Even your bones will be forgotten."
Mattheo, trembling, tried to push himself upright. His arms shook violently beneath him, but he managed to lift his head just barely. His lips moved, bloodied and broken, but I caught the faintest trace of words.
"I... am... Riddle..."
The defiance was small, ragged, but it was there. Voldemort's eyes gleamed, twin coals burning through the half-light of the hall. He lifted his wand again, almost idly, like a man deciding whether to slice open the throat of an insect that had already stopped twitching.
"Crucio."
The curse ripped through Mattheo's body once more. His back arched so violently I heard something crack, either a bone or tendon, I could not tell. His scream started high and shrill before it dropped into a guttural roar, blood bubbling in his throat. He clawed at the stones beneath him, nails splitting further, leaving streaks of red like frantic writing scrawled across the floor.
The smell of him, burnt sweat, iron, something acrid rising from skin too long under strain, choked the air. His body shook until his limbs looked barely attached to him anymore, his throat rasping like an animal caught in a trap.
Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. Mattheo's screams broke, faltered, then became only breathless, voiceless convulsions. His body jerked but no sound came, his throat too shredded to give voice anymore. His eyes rolled back, whites flashing, until finally, his limbs fell slack.
The sound of him hitting the floor was small, a hollow thud, drowned by the silence that swallowed the room whole.
He was still.
So still that I felt something in my chest wrench and twist. A scream clawed at my throat but froze there, burning, because I knew, if I made a sound, if I moved, if I dared, his fury would turn on me. For a moment, Voldemort only stood there, breathing evenly, his expression not one of triumph but of disappointment. A parent looking down at a broken toy.
"Pathetic," he murmured. "My son. Brought low by the weight of his own weakness."
The words dripped, each syllable echoing against the vaulted ceiling, sinking into my skin like hooks. He crouched, pale fingers brushing through the sweat-matted hair from Mattheo's forehead, a parody of tenderness that curdled into cruelty when his lips twisted.
"So fragile. So quick to shatter. You would disgrace me even in unconsciousness." He rose again, wand twirling lazily. "But you are not excused. You are not finished."
The tip of his wand glowed, a thin green light pulsing, and he whispered a word I did not know, but sounded old and terrible. The spell slithered across the stones like smoke, then burrowed into Mattheo's chest.
Mattheo's body shuddered violently, air tearing back into his lungs with a wet, shuddering gasp. His eyes flew open wide, bloodshot and gleaming with a raw, animal terror as the spell forced him back into awareness. He coughed, a sound thick with phlegm and blood, crimson spilling from his mouth to the floor.
He tried to push himself up, his hands slipping in his own blood, his arms trembling like snapped reeds in a storm. His body shook with spasms, every breath scraping like knives. Voldemort only watched. Smiling faintly.
"You see?" His voice was silk, cruel and calm. "Even in death, you are mine to command. You will not rest until I grant it. You will not close your eyes without my leave. Even unconsciousness is not yours to claim."
Mattheo's lips trembled, a strangled moan breaking free, half a word, half a sob. Another lash of pain shot through him. His spine bowed, his skull cracked against the stone as he writhed anew. His scream returned, raw and guttural, torn out of his chest like it had been buried and unearthed again. Blood splattered across the floor, painting the stones in a widening halo around him. It was unbearable. His pain filled every corner of the room, thick and suffocating. It pressed against my ribs until I thought I might shatter with it.
But none of us moved. We sat, cowards, in the shadows, trembling as his agony rang in our ears. But Voldemort, standing above his broken son, basked in it. The screams faded, not because the pain had ended, but because Mattheo's throat had finally given way. What was left of his voice was nothing more than a rasp, shredded and useless. He lay there twitching, his chest heaving shallowly, veins standing out along his neck as his heart struggled beneath the weight of Voldemort's wrath.
Voldemort lowered his wand at last, though the aura of violence clung to him still, shimmering faintly like heat above fire. His red eyes swept the room, deliberate, pausing on each of us as though peeling away flesh and bone, leaving nothing but raw fear exposed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, unhurried, calm in a way that was more terrifying than his rage.
"This failure will not be repeated. The Order thinks themselves untouchable. Bones thinks herself clever. They believe their loyalty to Potter and his allies is enough to shield them." He let the pause stretch, his thin lips curling into something that might have been amusement, though the hall felt colder for it. "We will show them how fragile such loyalty is."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber. He turned then, his gaze fixing on Daphne. She sat straighter, though I saw her fingers twitch where they rested on her lap. Her chin lifted just barely, her mouth set in that familiar defiant curve, but I could see the tremor beneath it.
"Tomorrow," Voldemort said, each word deliberate, ringing against the blackened glass, "you will lead an execution. Not of one, not of few, but of many. A village. Muggles." His eyes gleamed faintly, cruel, hungry. "Every last one of them. Their blood will be a message. Their screams will be a warning. Their deaths will remind the world that to oppose me is to watch everything you love burn."
My stomach twisted, but I did not move.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the sconces burning down the walls. Voldemort's head tilted, snake-like, as he regarded Daphne. "Do you understand, girl?"
Her throat bobbed, but she nodded, steady, her voice clipped but even. "Yes, my Lord."
A pause.
He stepped closer, the hem of his robes whispering across the stone floor, his shadow falling across her. When he spoke again, the words dripped like poison. "I give you this honour because you have proven to be ruthless. Because you are unburdened by conscience." He leaned closer, his voice lowering until it was nearly a hiss. "But do not mistake my gift for trust. One slip. One failure and your fate will mirror his."
He gestured lazily with his wand toward Mattheo's crumpled body.
Daphne's jaw clenched, but her eyes did not waver. "I will not fail you my Lord."
A quiet laugh left him, soft and thin as a blade sliding from a sheath. "No, you will not. For if you do, you will beg for death before I am done with you."
The weight of the room pressed heavier. My lungs ached with the effort of pulling in air.
Voldemort straightened then, sweeping his gaze across all of us once more. "Go forth. Prepare. Tomorrow the world will remember who commands it."
Then he turned, robes whispering as he moved, the sound echoing like a procession down the long hall. No one moved until his shadow had passed fully from the chamber, until the door closed behind him, until the air itself seemed to loosen just enough for us to breathe again.
But the weight of his words remained, clinging to my skin like ash. Tomorrow. A massacre. And Daphne, bright-eyed, wild, always laughing at blood, was to lead us into it.
Draco and Theo moved first. Their steps were quiet, deliberate, carrying Mattheo between them like a fragile relic. Every twitch of his bloodied, trembling body made my chest constrict, and I forced myself not to look away. The dark mark burned faintly on my arm, a constant reminder that he was still ours, and still Voldemort's.
The other three of us followed silently, the weight of the hall pressing down with every measured footfall. The walls, tall and blackened, seemed to lean inward, narrowing the space, echoing our every breath and soft scrape of boots against stone. The torches along the sconces guttered as if in sympathy with the dread settling in the room.
Daphne's usual light energy was muted, her hands resting lightly on her wand as though it might bite her if she loosened her grip. Lorenzo's smirk was absent, even the twitch of his mouth that normally promised sarcasm or danger was gone. Theo's eyes were downcast, muscles tense beneath his sleeves, and Draco's jaw was tight, pale fingers curled over the straps of Mattheo's shoulders.
I kept my gaze forward, but I could feel Mattheo's weight beneath my peripheral vision, every subtle shift of his bloodied form, every ragged breath. He was broken, yes, but alive, and that was terrifying in itself. Alive and knowing that Voldemort's eyes were on him still, somewhere, always.
At the end of the hallway, the tall doors loomed, black iron and carved wood, their weight oppressive. With a silent nod from Draco, we moved through, leaving the vast, dark hall behind. Outside, the moon hung low, pale and cold, reflecting off the stone courtyard like a corpse's eye. The night air hit me with its chill, but it did nothing to clear the frost settling in my chest.
Voldemort's words from earlier lingered in the shadows between us.
Tomorrow. The world will remember who commands it.
The courtyard was empty except for the faint rustle of wind, but each of us felt it as a presence pressing against our skin, whispering in the back of our minds that the Dark Lord watched, that the execution would happen, and that none of us could falter.
We lined up, Mattheo held by Draco and Theo, his arms draped over their shoulders for support. Daphne walked a pace ahead, wand at the ready, her expression unreadable but her body taut with anticipation. Lorenzo followed close behind her, silent, eyes scanning the shadows for any threat, though the danger was not out here, it was the orders, the knowledge of what tomorrow demanded.
I stayed near the back, hands clenched around my wand, every nerve alight. My stomach churned, a mix of fear, dread, and the ever-present guilt that had taken residence in my chest. We were silent, all of us, the only sound the faint scrape of boots against stone and Mattheo's shallow, ragged breathing.
Finally, with a subtle gesture from Draco, we prepared to Apparate. The courtyard stretched before us, open, cold, empty, but the space beyond, the world, waited with unknown horrors. I took a shaky breath, feeling the familiar pull at my core. The Dark Mark burned hotter now, its heat spreading through my veins like molten lead. I gripped my wand tighter, drew in a ragged inhale, and braced myself.
The world blurred around me, stone walls and pale moonlight melting into shadows. The wind, the frost, the distant cries of the night, it all vanished, replaced by the vertigo of being torn from one place and thrown into another.
The air snapped around us as the familiar lurch of Apparition tore through my stomach. Stone walls blurred, the courtyard of the safehouse dissolving into shadow and light, replaced by the cramped, dimly lit interior of our hideout. Dust motes floated in the afternoon sun that had managed to filter through the cracks in the boarded windows.
Daphne moved immediately, like a force of nature, vanishing down the narrow corridor before anyone could stop her. Lorenzo shot off after her, boots thumping against the uneven floor, worry etched into his usual smirk. I caught a flicker of fear in his eyes, one I had never seen before, and it unsettled me.
Mattheo collapsed onto the couch with a thud that rattled the worn frame, one arm draped across the back, dark eyes flicking toward me briefly before he let them drop to the floor. Draco was crouched low by the cabinet, rummaging through a small chest for a healing potion, his movements deliberate, measured, and precise. He found the vial and held it up, examining it, and I could almost hear the silent calculation in his gaze.
I perched on the broken coffee table, the splintered wood pressing into my legs, and let my gaze wander. No one spoke. The silence was thick, almost oppressive, but somehow familiar, the unspoken acknowledgment of what had just transpired.
I cleared my throat and finally broke the quiet. "You—" I started, then stopped, letting my words reform. "Why did you take the blame?"
Mattheo's head tilted just slightly, his dark hair falling across his forehead. His eyes flicked up to mine, sharp, unreadable, and I could feel the edge of his coldness pressing like frost. "Because I am your leader," he said flatly. "Because it was my responsibility to take accountability for failure."
I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "No. Don't do that. You were tortured because of me. Because of us. Because of what I can't do right no matter how hard I try. You shouldn't have had to—"
He cut me off with a glance, eyes narrowing, and the weight behind them was unmistakable. "You forget your place, Aurelia. I take what I must. Do not apologize for that."
I pressed my lips together, frustration rising. "I'm apologizing for you having to live through that for..." I trailed off, chest tightening.
Mattheo's expression didn't soften. His voice was low, flat, almost cutting. "Emotions are a luxury."
I shook my head, annoyed, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "Luxury? Is that what you think? Is that why you think you can just carry all of it while the rest of us sit here?"
His gaze didn't waver, but there was a faint twitch in the corner of his jaw, subtle, almost imperceptible, and I saw it. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence that followed was louder than any words, filled with everything we hadn't said, everything I feared would never be spoken.
I let out a slow breath, lowering my hands to my lap. "I'm sorry," I said finally, quieter now. "I'm sorry you had to go through that for me. I—"
He didn't look at me. Didn't move. The coldness pressed against my skin again, sharper than before. "Save your apologies, Aurelia. There is nothing to be done about what has happened. Only what will happen."
I swallowed hard, anger and guilt twisting together like knotted cords in my chest. I wanted to argue, to shout, to make him understand that what he endured wasn't just necessary, that it had been wrong, unbearable, but the weight of his stare, even in avoidance, kept me silent.
The quiet stretched, filled only by the faint shuffle of Draco as he returned to the couch with the healing potion secured in his robes, and the soft clatter of Theo returning from wherever he had been. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken tension, and I sat there, on the broken coffee table, hands clenched, fighting back the urge to fidget, to make a sound, to do anything to break the heavy weight pressing from every corner of the room.
Finally, after what felt like eternity, Mattheo leaned back into the couch cushions, dark eyes drifting toward the ceiling, voice low and controlled. "I will not be doing this for you again, prepare yourself for tomorrow."
With that, the silence descended once more now suffocating, leaving me to sit there, chest tight, hands trembling, staring at the floor as the enormity of what had happened, and what was yet to come, pressed down on us all.
I stayed still, perched on the broken coffee table, my hands folded tightly in my lap. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, and for a moment I almost convinced myself that if I didn't move, if I didn't breathe too loudly, maybe the weight of the world pressing down on us would ease. Mattheo's dark eyes flicked toward me briefly, sharp and assessing, but he said nothing. He didn't scold. He didn't command. He just watched, and in that silence I felt the full force of all he had endured, the horrors he'd taken without complaint, and the cold distance he always maintained as a shield.
The sound of the door creaking open drew my attention. Draco stepped inside, his movements measured, a small vial clutched tightly in his pale fingers. He muttered something low, almost unintelligible, but I caught the edge of it—"last one." His voice was quiet, like he was handling something precious and dangerous at the same time.
He approached Mattheo, eyes flicking briefly toward me before returning to the boy on the couch. With a precise motion, he placed the vial in Mattheo's hand. The glass was small, delicate, and the liquid inside shimmered faintly in the dim light, crimson and glowing like molten rubies.
I rose slowly, almost on instinct, and moved closer. My hands hovered for a heartbeat before I settled them on Mattheo's face. The warmth of my palms contrasted sharply with the cold, paled blood smeared along his jaw and cheek. His eyes closed briefly under my touch, and I felt a strange, almost unbearable weight in my chest.
"Here," I whispered, though my voice barely carried. "Slowly."
He tilted his head just slightly, letting me tip the potion to his lips. My hands lingered, brushing along the streaked blood on his skin, wiping at it gently, a futile attempt at tenderness in the midst of the chaos surrounding us. The warmth of him, the life beneath my palms, made my chest tighten, and for a single moment I allowed myself to imagine him not broken, not haunted, not a son of Voldemort, but just Mattheo.
The potion slid down his throat, a faint hiss escaping from the vial as the liquid vanished. His lips closed around it, his eyes flicking open to meet mine, sharp and unreadable, but not angry. There was a trace of something softer there, fleeting, before the weight of his coldness pressed back in.
I froze.
The intimacy of the moment, the softness I'd allowed myself, collided violently with the reality of everything else, the blood, the scars, the unrelenting cruelty of the world we lived in. My hands pulled back abruptly, leaving a faint streak where blood had mingled, and I stepped away, my chest tightening, hands trembling just slightly.
Mattheo did not move. Did not chastise. He only watched, eyes dark, the faintest twitch of his jaw was the only hint that he had noticed my hesitation. The silence returned, heavier now, thicker, filled with unspoken words that neither of us dared voice.
Draco lingered near the doorway, pale fingers curling around the edge of the frame, watching with quiet calculation before he finally turned and left. The door shut behind him with a muted thud, leaving us alone again.
I sank back onto the table, staring at the floor, the heat of my palms still lingering where they had touched his face. My thoughts twisted in on themselves, guilt, fear, and something dangerously close to longing all tangled together. Mattheo shifted slightly on the couch, the faintest rasp of his breathing the only sound. He didn't reach for me, didn't command me, didn't even speak. And somehow, that was more terrifying than if he had.
Because in the silence, I realized that he had let me touch him. He had let me tend, even just for a moment. The weight of that trust pressed down harder than any curse, any spell, any cruelty we had endured or inflicted. I looked away quickly, swallowing the tight lump in my throat, pulling my hands to my lap once more. I couldn't stay in that moment. I couldn't linger. I had to remind myself that this was no place for tenderness, no place for weakness.
I pushed myself off the broken coffee table, the scrape of wood against stone loud in the silence of the safehouse. My legs felt heavy, weighted with fatigue and the ghosts of the day's horrors, but I forced myself forward, toward the narrow hallway that led to the small room Daphne and I shared. The door was cracked open just enough to let a sliver of pale light from the kitchen filter in, and I paused for a heartbeat, listening.
The faintest sound of muffled sobs drifted out, making my chest tighten. My hand hovered on the doorknob as I hesitated, unsure if I should enter, but the pull of concern was stronger than hesitation. Slowly, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The sight made my stomach twist. Lorenzo was on Daphne's bed, holding her close, his body curled protectively around hers. Her face was buried in his chest, shoulders shaking as quiet, broken sobs racked her small frame. Lorenzo's arms were steady, his head bent toward hers as he whispered something low, soft, almost inaudible, stroking strands of her hair with gentle precision. His usual flippant grin, the teasing glint in his eyes, was gone. The corner of his mouth quirked just slightly, but it was tenderness, not mockery.
I froze at the doorway for a moment, unsure if I should speak, but the instinct to reach out overpowered hesitation. My lips parted, and I tried to form the words, "What's wrong?" but no sound came. Instead, I only mouthed the question, and Lorenzo's eyes flicked briefly toward me. He offered nothing but a faint shrug, the faintest tilt of his head, and then his attention returned to Daphne.
He leaned down, murmuring softly, the tone of his voice low and steady, almost as if he were trying to calm something that could not be reasoned with. Daphne clutched at him tighter, the warmth of his chest against her face, and I felt a pang in my own chest at the raw vulnerability laid bare in front of me.
Slowly, I moved toward them, the floor creaking beneath my boots. I knelt beside the bed, placing a hand gently on Daphne's shoulder, letting her feel my presence without demanding anything from her. Lorenzo shifted slightly, making space, and I leaned forward, wrapping an arm around her, letting her sob into me as well.
The three of us formed a small, tangled circle, bodies pressed close. Lorenzo's arm remained steady around her, his other hand brushing stray strands of hair back from her damp forehead. My hand rested lightly on her shoulder, fingertips tracing patterns that meant nothing and everything all at once, a quiet rhythm meant to ground us all.
I let my own forehead rest lightly against the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with the metallic tang of blood and smoke that clung to all of us. The heat of her body, the rhythm of her rapid breathing, was oddly comforting. For a brief moment, the safehouse felt less like a ruin and more like a sanctuary, a fragile pocket of intimacy in the midst of the chaos that had become our lives.
Daphne's sobs slowed, her body relaxing slightly against us, and I felt a quiet pull in my chest as the tension eased just a fraction. Lorenzo's whispers continued, gentle, calming, and for a moment I allowed myself to close my eyes, to let the weight of my own fear slip just enough to rest.
We stayed like that for several minutes, no one speaking, the silence between us soft and intimate, holding more than words ever could. I could feel the quiet strength in Lorenzo, the protection he offered, the way his body seemed to anchor Daphne, keeping her steady when the world outside was anything but. I felt the same in myself, the need to shield her now, to be present, to remind her, remind all of us, that even in the darkness, we were not alone.
Daphne's grip loosened slightly, and she lifted her face just enough for me to see her eyes, glassy and red-rimmed, but trusting, leaning fully into us. I whispered her name softly, letting my voice fill the space like a gentle shield, and she responded with a faint nod, a small acknowledgment that she was safe, at least for now.
I let myself rest against her more fully, letting the heat of her body seep into mine, letting the fragile sense of connection steady my own frayed nerves. In this quiet moment, I could almost forget the horrors we'd endured, the blood we'd spilled, the commands we had yet to follow.
After a while, Daphne's breathing started to even out, though every now and then a tremor still rippled through her frame. Lorenzo tightened his arm around her shoulders, chin resting against her hair, while I stayed tucked on the other side, my hand resting gently on her forearm. Together we held her steady, a silent fortress against the weight of everything we could not name.
Her body was warm against mine, the curve of her spine pressed to my chest, and I focused on that, on the steady rise and fall of her ribs, on the faint smell of smoke in her hair, on the rhythm of her breaths beginning to align with mine. But the longer I stayed still, the harder it became to keep myself present. My thoughts started to slip, spiraling out of the dim room and the weight of her in my arms. My eyes unfocused, gaze fixed on some cracked corner of the plaster ceiling, and slowly, quietly, the sound of her muffled breaths fell away. In its place came something else, louder, harsher, dragged up from some corner of memory I had tried to bury.
𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒; 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋
The Astronomy Tower had been theirs that night, at least, that's what they decided after stumbling breathless up the spiraling staircase, clutching bottles half-full of Firewhisky they'd smuggled from the Slytherin common rooms. The air was sharp and cold, the kind that nipped the skin, but the stars overhead burned so brightly they seemed to belong to them alone. Below, faint strains of music still drifted from the Great Hall, but up here, laughter reigned.
They were all still dressed from the Yule Ball, though not one of them looked pristine anymore.
Theo and Lorenzo had abandoned decorum entirely, spinning each other clumsily in the middle of the tower. Lorenzo's tie had been loosened hours ago, hanging in a crooked knot around his neck, and Theo's hair stuck up in drunken angles. They sang tunelessly as they moved, stepping on each other's shoes, stumbling, but never letting go. When Lorenzo nearly toppled backwards into the wall, Theo dragged him upright by the lapels of his jacket, both of them howling with laughter.
Draco, usually so composed, wasn't immune to the night either. His pale cheeks were flushed pink from drink, his silver hair mussed, the starch gone from his movements. Daphne, radiant in her midnight-blue dress, spun under his hand, her skirt flaring around her legs. For once, Draco didn't scowl when she laughed too loudly or tugged him off balance. Instead, he let her pull him in close, whispering something in her ear that made her eyes glitter brighter than the stars. He even smiled, a real, unguarded smile.
Aurelia was ethereal in white, her dress flowing like spilled moonlight around her ankles. The fabric was light and soft, and when she moved, it caught the candlelight in waves. Mattheo stood opposite her, still in his dark suit, though his jacket was unbuttoned and his shirt half-untucked, his tie shoved into his pocket at some forgotten point in the night.
"Come on, Avery," he teased, one hand extended, his grin lazy but warm. "Don't tell me you're too far gone for one dance."
She had rolled her eyes at him, but the Firewhiskey in her blood made her fearless, and her fingers slipped into his before she could think better of it.
He pulled her in with more force than finesse, nearly sending her crashing into his chest. She laughed, breathless, swatting at his shoulder as he grinned down at her, entirely unapologetic.
"Terrible," she accused.
"Flawless," he countered, spinning her clumsily so that the hem of her dress swept across his polished shoes.
The six of them filled the tower with noise and chaos, tripping over one another, partners changing by the minute, arms around waists and shoulders, feet colliding. Lorenzo shoved Draco lightly at one point, causing Daphne to shriek with laughter as they stumbled. Theo tried to dip Aurelia and nearly dropped her, and she ended up on the cold stone floor with both of them in tears of laughter.
Their cheeks were flushed, their hair mussed, their voices hoarse from singing half-remembered songs between gulps of Firewhisky. No one cared who was watching. No one cared what tomorrow would bring. They collapsed in a messy heap by the parapet, the firewhisky bottle now nearly empty, their laughter echoing off the high stone walls of the Astronomy Tower. The night air was crisp, biting at flushed cheeks, but none of them minded.
Lorenzo slumped back first, his suit jacket crumpled beneath him, grinning lazily as he swirled the last sip of whisky in the bottle. "Merlin's balls, I'm dizzy," he announced, leaning his head dramatically against the stones.
"You've had half the bottle," Theo muttered, but he was laughing as he said it, his tie hanging loose around his neck.
"Correction," Lorenzo said, pointing at him, eyes half-lidded. "We've had half the bottle. I was simply leading the charge."
"Leading the charge straight into idiocy," Draco drawled, though there was no venom in it tonight. He had taken a seat beside Aurelia, who, in her drunken haze, had sprawled across his lap without much thought. Draco hadn't pushed her off, he simply shifted his posture, letting her head rest comfortably against his thigh. His fingers drummed absently against his knee, and though his expression remained cool, there was a quiet softness in the gesture.
Aurelia stared up at the stars, eyes glassy, the sky spinning slightly above her. "It feels like they're all moving," she whispered. "Like the whole sky is... dancing."
"Or maybe that's just you about to vomit," Mattheo teased, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her. His dark hair fell into his eyes, his grin crooked.
She lifted her hand weakly and flipped him off, which only made him laugh harder. Daphne slid down beside Draco, her navy-blue dress bunched up around her knees, hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Lorenzo immediately leaned closer, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.
"That dress," he said, voice deliberately low and flirty, "might be the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."
"You're fucking drunk," Daphne retorted, but her cheeks colored slightly as she leaned into his shoulder.
"And you're gorgeous," Lorenzo shot back smoothly. "These are not mutually exclusive."
Theo groaned, throwing a balled-up napkin at him. "Shut up, Lorenzo."
"Never," Lorenzo replied, catching the napkin and tossing it back. "Flattery is an art, Nott. One day you'll learn."
Their laughter rang out again, softer now, tired at the edges, until the six of them settled into a loose circle, shoulders brushing, legs tangled. The whisky bottle lay discarded between them, glinting in the starlight.
"What do you think it'll be like?" Aurelia asked suddenly, her voice dreamy, slurred. "The future, I mean."
"Ugly," Draco said immediately, but Daphne elbowed him hard in the ribs.
"Don't be such a spoilsport," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're supposed to be having fun tonight."
"Fun," Mattheo repeated, amused. "That's one word for it."
"I think," Daphne continued, ignoring him, "we should all live together."
Aurelia blinked up at her, surprised. "All of us?"
"Yes," Daphne said firmly, her words tumbling over themselves with drunken enthusiasm. "One huge house. Bigger than my parents'. Bigger than all of ours. It'll have, like... twenty bedrooms. And a ballroom. And maybe a tower, just for us."
"Obviously," Lorenzo chimed in, nodding sagely. "We'll need a tower. To drink on. And to escape from the children."
"Children? Fuck." Theo frowned, his brows furrowing. "You're already planning children?"
"Obviously," Lorenzo said again, grinning. "We'll get married, all of us, and then—"
"Not to each other," Daphne interrupted quickly, cheeks pink.
"Well, maybe me and you," Lorenzo teased, and she shoved him so hard he nearly toppled backward.
"Shut up!" she hissed, but she was laughing.
Aurelia giggled too, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound felt light, unburdened, like something she hadn't heard from herself in years. "I like it," she said softly. "One big house. We'd never have to leave each other."
Theo glanced around at them all, his expression gentler than usual, almost shy. "That doesn't sound terrible," he admitted. "Not having to... go home."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. For all their wealth, for all their privilege, none of them truly loved the cold estates they'd been raised in, the expectations that haunted every corridor.
"No parents," Mattheo said quietly, his grin softening into something wistful. "No rules."
"No curfews," Lorenzo added.
"No arranged marriages," Daphne muttered, though she laughed after.
"Just us," Aurelia whispered, her voice drifting with the wind. She tilted her head to look at Draco, who was staring up at the stars, his hand absentmindedly brushing strands of her white hair away from her face. "Just us, forever."
There was a pause, a silence so fragile it might have broken with the wrong word. Then Lorenzo clapped his hands together, breaking the tension.
"Right then," he declared. "Settled. Future plan: enormous house, tower for drinking, ballroom for parties, children optional, no parents allowed."
"And a library," Theo added suddenly, his eyes sparking. "I want a proper library, one that would put Granger into cardiac arrest."
"Of course you do," Lorenzo said with a grin. "Nott's wing. Full of books, dust, and misery."
Theo smirked faintly. "Better than your wing, which would just be broken bottles and questionable stains."
The group erupted into laughter again, their voices carrying into the night sky. For a moment, time stilled. They weren't Death Eaters' heirs. They weren't weapons in training. They were just six teenagers, tangled together under the stars, planning futures they'd never see.
The laughter had dwindled, tapering off into softer chuckles and slurred murmurs, the kind of quiet that came only when exhaustion and whisky began to settle into their bones. The Firewhisky bottle lay tipped on its side between them now, dripping its last sticky drop into the cracks of the tower floor. Above, the stars gleamed with cold brilliance, watching their revelry with distant indifference.
Theo leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-shut, Daphne curled into Lorenzo's side despite herself, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders in a gesture that was more protective than mocking for once. Draco sat rigidly upright, though his hand had remained in Aurelia's hair, absentmindedly combing through the pale strands as though it grounded him.
Mattheo's grin had slipped.
Aurelia noticed it first, even through the blur of drink. His shoulders were too tense, his hands restless in his lap, clenching and unclenching as if tethered to some invisible chain. His dark eyes weren't on the stars or their friends, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere much darker.
"What is it Matt?" Aurelia asked softly, voice slurred but still tender. "You've gone all quiet."
Theo turned his head lazily, frowning. "Yeah, what's with you, Riddle? That's not like you."
Mattheo wet his lips, swallowed. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might laugh it off, but the weight in his eyes betrayed him. He dragged his fingers through his hair, then said it, the words they'd all feared without quite realising it.
"He's back."
The air shifted, as if the night itself had drawn in a cold breath.
Daphne straightened immediately, her smile vanishing. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," Mattheo replied, his voice low, almost hoarse. His gaze flicked to the floor, unable to meet theirs. "My father. He's back. Properly. Not just whispers anymore. Not just shadows. He's... here."
Lorenzo's arm tightened instinctively around Daphne, his usual smirk falling away. Theo sat upright too, his face pale even in the starlight.
Aurelia's head spun, and not just from the firewhisky. She pushed herself up slightly from Draco's lap, her white dress pooling around her like a spill of moonlight. "You're serious."
Mattheo nodded once, his jaw tightening. "I wouldn't joke about this."
Draco's fingers froze in Aurelia's hair. His grey eyes narrowed, sharp as flint. "How do you know?"
Mattheo let out a dry, bitter laugh that held no humour. "Because I feel it. Because he told me himself. You think I wouldn't know when the Dark Lord, my own blood, breathes again?"
Silence spread among them, thick and suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hush, pressing cold against their flushed faces.
Daphne's lips parted, her voice a whisper. "What... what does that mean? For us?"
"It means nothing good," Theo muttered, his hands tightening into fists against his knees. His sharp mind was already racing, already calculating the possibilities. "If he's back, he'll want—"
"Everything," Mattheo cut in. His eyes lifted then, dark and burning, meeting each of theirs in turn. "He'll want all of us. Our families. Our futures. You think he'll just let us be?"
No one spoke.
Aurelia felt something sharp coil in her stomach, twisting tighter with every second. The stars above seemed suddenly cruel, glittering like a thousand unblinking eyes. She glanced around at the circle of faces, her friends and in each of them she saw the same shadow flicker. Fear.
"We'll be okay though, right?" Daphne asked at last. Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked at Lorenzo, then Theo, then Draco, desperate for reassurance. "Right?"
Lorenzo pulled her closer against him, his usual arrogance stripped bare, leaving only sincerity. "Yeah. We'll be okay. We've got each other."
Theo nodded slowly, though his expression betrayed doubt. "We've always managed before. We'll manage again."
But the words sounded hollow, even to him.
Aurelia shifted, her body trembling. She felt Draco's arm slip around her shoulders, drawing her back against him without a word. For once, he didn't look smug, or aloof. His face was unreadable, but the pressure of his arm around her was fierce, almost desperate, as though she might vanish if he let go.
Mattheo exhaled sharply, his laugh bitter again. "You don't understand. He won't care that we're young. That we're—" He broke off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. If he says jump, our parents will push us to the cliff's edge themselves."
The silence that followed was heavy, each of them swallowing the truth they already knew: there would be no escaping this. Aurelia closed her eyes, leaning into Draco's chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart beneath the silk of his shirt. She wanted to believe Daphne's words, wanted to pretend they could live in that big house with its tower and library and endless laughter. But the darkness was already creeping in, staining the edges of their bright, drunken dream.
"We'll be okay," she whispered, not because she believed it, but because she couldn't bear to leave the thought unsaid.
One by one, the others nodded, murmuring their assent, though their voices lacked conviction. They leaned into each other, six bodies pressed close for warmth, as if proximity could shield them from what was coming.
Above them, the constellations shone in pitiless silence. The laughter had gone, replaced by the steady thrum of fear in their chests. Yet none of them moved. None of them spoke again. They simply sat together in the shadow of the stars, clinging to a fragile moment of unity, knowing it might be the last time they could pretend the world wasn't ending.
The tower held them close, but the night stretched wide and merciless beyond its stone walls. In that quiet, with Aurelia's head resting against Draco's shoulder, Daphne curled in Lorenzo's arms, Theo's eyes darting uneasily between them all, and Mattheo staring into the abyss of the sky, the six of them sat in stillness, knowing without words that everything had already begun to change.
Chapter Text
DAPHNE GREENGRASS
The ropes creaked when they tightened. The man's wrists jerked once against the splintered wood of the pole before he stilled, breath shuddering, eyes wide and wet in the grey London air. The woman beside him sagged as if her bones had already given up, cheek pressed to the timber, hair clinging damp with sweat and smoke.
I laughed. I couldn't help it, an awful little trill that split from my chest like a songbird shrieking through a storm. The sound bounced off the broken windows of the square and back into me, and suddenly my ribs ached from it. It wasn't funny, not really, but the heat inside me demanded it. My fingers shook, not with fear, no, but with that bright fizzing rush that burned up through my veins and told me I was infinite.
"Hold still, beautiful," Lorenzo cooed, adjusting the woman's chin with two elegant fingers as if posing her for a portrait. His smile glowed like polished ivory under the lanterns. He bent close enough that his lips brushed her ear. "You'll want the crowd to remember your best angle."
The woman whimpered, throat taut like a violin string. I laughed again, higher this time, throwing my head back so the sound knifed through the tension in the square.
The crowd was thick, pressed into the perimeter of the square, hemmed in by the others. Draco, Theo, Aurelia and Mattheo were each at the edges like black statues, faces hidden behind their masks. Crowd control. That was my order. Anyone who spoke, anyone who moved wrong, anyone who dared to look away would be killed. The flashes of green and red light already dotted the cobblestones where those brave enough to resist had fallen.
But it was working. The fear was ripe, tangible, rolling in waves through the packed crowd. Mothers pressed children against skirts, old men clenched hats in gnarled hands, young men trembled with fists that never lifted. I could feel their terror as clearly as my own pulse and it thrilled me.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Lorenzo's voice rang out, smooth as silk and loud as a bell. He was standing just to my right, cloak thrown back like he was making a stage entrance. He looked like he was about to charm an audience at the Opera, not preside over slaughter. His wand twirled in his fingers, gleaming in the light of the streetlamps. "You've been gathered here tonight for a very special performance."
The crowd groaned, shuffling, whispering. I giggled. Couldn't help it. My hands were already twitching with excitement, with too much energy. My skin felt alive, buzzing. Every flicker of lamplight was too bright, every movement too sharp. My heart rattled in my chest like a bird in a cage, wings desperate and beautiful. Lorenzo glanced at me, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He loved me like this, unhinged, laughing. Or maybe not loved. But fed on it. He leaned closer, stage-whispering just for me.
"Darling, I think they like us."
I threw my head back and cackled. The sound burst from me, wild and jagged, sharp enough to split glass. The muggles at the poles flinched. I circled them slowly, boots scraping on the stones. My wand trailed lazily from my fingertips, the tip dragging sparks against the air. The man's eyes followed me, blue, watery, wide with terror. His lips moved, maybe praying, maybe begging. The words didn't matter to us.
"Do you think they know what's coming?" I asked Lorenzo, pitching my voice like I was in on some secret joke.
He shrugged, spinning his wand between elegant fingers. "Muggles never know anything, my love. That's the whole charm of it. Stupid little creatures stumbling about in their cages, pretending they've got control."
That made me laugh again. Except this time it was jagged, broken at the edges. Because something inside me was pulling, sharp and guilty. Not guilt. Not really. Just some quiet thing, far away, whispering that maybe these were people. That maybe the woman's tears looked too much like my own when I was small and mother had locked me in the cellar for screaming too loud.
"Shall we begin?" I sang, spinning in a circle so my cloak flared around me. The crowd gasped.
"Yes, let's," Lorenzo said, bowing like he was presenting a queen. His grin was sharp as glass. "The stage is yours."
I flicked my wand lazily, sent a spark of violet fire spiraling into the air. It cracked like thunder and the crowd shrank back, shoulders folding, heads ducking as if the sky itself were falling. I could almost taste it on my tongue, their collective dread, the knowledge they were trapped in here with us. It slid down my throat like champagne bubbles.
Lorenzo stroked the woman's hair as if she were a courtesan instead of a prisoner. "You're exquisite," he purred, lips barely moving, just for her. "A shame you've got to die tonight. I would have happily ruined you over several evenings."
Her husband jerked against the ropes, face flushing scarlet. "Don't you touch her!" His voice cracked into the air.
The crowd gasped. Heads swiveled. Mattheo was behind the children, two small things, wide-eyed, trembling where they stood like lambs corralled at slaughter. He didn't glance up, didn't blink, only shifted his wand a fraction toward them. The threat was enough. The husband's fury drained into silence, his chest heaving as if he'd drowned and resurfaced to no air.
"Shh," I hissed, tilting my head at him, eyes wide. "Shh, shh, shh. Don't speak." My voice was sing-song, lilting like a lullaby, but it cracked too high at the edges. "You'll spoil the fun."
Lorenzo chuckled. "You hear her?" He clucked his tongue, drawing a finger down the woman's jawline. "Spoil the fun, and Daphne gets ever so cross."
I grinned at him, teeth sharp in the lantern glow. "I do."
The crowd shifted again, a ripple of whispering feet. Theo flinched at the sound, eyes darting, but Draco's sneer carved the air into silence again. I leaned closer to the husband, letting my wand trail up under his chin, lifting his jaw until he had no choice but to look at me. His pulse beat frantically against the wood.
"You love her, don't you?" I whispered. My lips twitched at the corners, as though I might laugh again. "Sweet, foolish love. I wonder how far it stretches, will it snap if we pull hard enough?"
His eyes shone with rage, but also there it was, terror. I could see it glistening behind the fury.
"Lorenzo," I sang over my shoulder, "do be a dear and test it, won't you?"
"With pleasure."
He turned back to the woman with a predator's smile. His hand skimmed her collarbone, fingers tracing the neckline of her torn blouse with such obscene gentleness that I nearly clapped my hands in delight. The woman trembled, squeezing her eyes shut, silent tears streaking down her cheeks.
The husband lunged against the ropes, howling now, voice breaking. "Don't you touch her! Take me instead—"
The children screamed at the sound. Mattheo didn't move, only pressed his wand closer to their little ribs, expression stone. I shrieked with laughter, doubling forward, palms braced against my knees.
"Oh fuck, listen to him! A knight in rags, begging to swap places, isn't it chivalrous?"
My laughter caught too long in my throat and turned ragged, a cough stealing into it. For a moment my vision blurred. A strange pulse throbbed behind my eyes, the pit, always waiting. I blinked hard, forced it back, straightened, smiled too wide.
"Chivalrous," I echoed, softer, to convince myself.
Lorenzo pinched the woman's chin, tilting her head back to expose the pale column of her throat. "You'd make an exquisite canvas," he murmured. "Shall we paint her, Daphne?"
"Paint!" I clapped once, spinning in a circle. "Oh, yes, paint her red."
The crowd made a sound, one collective intake of breath as Lorenzo slid his wand down the line of her throat and whispered a cutting curse. A ribbon of crimson blossomed where the skin parted, staining her blouse.
The husband howled, thrashing uselessly against his bonds. "Stop it! Please!"
"Please," I mimicked, my tone mock-sweet. I pressed my wand to his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart. "Do you think 'please' ever saved anyone? Do you think the world bends for your pitiful word?" I leaned closer until our noses nearly touched, my breath shivering. "No. The world cracks."
I flicked my wand and his ribs snapped inward with a sound like dry sticks breaking. His scream ripped through the night, louder than the bells that had once tolled from the church at the square's edge. The children sobbed, clutching at each other, but Mattheo's wand held them fast like invisible chains. My laughter returned, raw, too sharp, slicing up my throat. It spilled out anyway.
"You hear it?" I shouted to the crowd, arms thrown wide. "Bones breaking like kindling for the fire? That's what mercy sounds like!"
No one answered. Not one dared. Their silence wrapped the square like funeral cloth. Inside, something twisted. The pit opened a crack. For half a breath I thought of my own father, of his hand raised, of my mother's hollow eyes. For half a breath I saw my own bones splintering under invisible weight. I blinked, forced the thought away, swayed on my heels. The euphoric rush surged back, hot and bright. My grin cracked wide again.
"More," I demanded, voice breaking into laughter again. "More, more, more!"
Lorenzo bowed with a flourish, his grin wicked. "As my love commands."
He dragged his wand down the woman's arm this time, slicing ribbons into her flesh as though carving a design into marble. She bit down on her lip until blood welled, refusing to scream, but her eyes rolled with the effort.
Lorenzo leaned close, whispering so intimately the crowd strained to hear, "Don't be shy, love. Give us your music."
When her voice finally broke into a scream, high and tearing, I clutched my chest and spun, laughing and weeping at once. The sound filled me, filled the hollow place, kept the pit at bay. Behind me, Draco's voice cut low to Theo, sharp as a whip.
"Keep them still. One twitch and you're next."
The crowd froze tighter, as if their spines had been fused into a single trembling wall. I stepped closer to the children at last, tilting my head. Their small hands clung white-knuckled to each other, faces blotched red from crying. For a breath, I felt something twist again, something almost tender, almost human. Then Mattheo's eyes caught mine, dark and warning.
So I smiled at the children instead, lips stretched too far, and whispered, "Watch. Watch carefully. This is what love costs you."
My mind burned hot and wild, dragging me forward again, and I let it carry me. The woman's scream still hung in the night like the trailing ribbon of a bell when my eyes caught a flash of white hair through the crush of the crowd, and for a moment the world seemed to sharpen, to burn gold at the edges, as Aurelia's figure cut clean through the chaos. She was a storm in herself, her braid loose and wild, her pale face spattered scarlet as she drove her fists into the face of a Muggle man who had dared to lunge forward, dared to think he could interrupt our spectacle.
Her movements were graceless, frantic, almost clumsy with rage, but each blow landed with a wet thud that echoed over the cobblestones, and I felt my chest swell with a surge of something dangerously close to pride, as though I myself had birthed that fury into her. My laughter broke into something high and wild, not just at the sight of his nose collapsing under her knuckles, but at the fact that Aurelia, my Aurelia, was still standing among us, still bloodying her hands instead of shrinking away, a sister to me in violence if not in ease.
I raised my wand in salute to her, a mock toast across the square, though she did not see it, too consumed by her fight, too caught up in the roar of blood in her own head.
Theo stood with his back too stiff, his jaw too tight, the point of his wand trembling ever so slightly in his grasp, his eyes flicking to every corner as though ghosts would come clawing from the shadows. His fear made him human, and I almost loved him for it. Beside him, Draco was marble and ice, every curse that left his wand precise, his mouth drawn in that elegant sneer that never faltered, never cracked, as though disdain alone were enough to keep the world at bay. He looked as if he belonged here, as if he had been carved for this moment in some cathedral long before his birth, and I could almost admire the art of it.
Mattheo's whole body was turned now, toward the two children huddled just before him, his shadow a jagged monster stretching long and black over their tiny frames in the lantern light. He crouched low so that his face was level with theirs, his wand tipped lazily beneath the chin of the boy, his mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if it weren't so utterly hollow.
I could not hear his words at first, but the way the children's shoulders quaked, the way their eyes darted to their parents bound to the poles, told me enough. Then, drifting over the low thrum of the crowd, his voice came, velvet wrapped around barbed wire.
"Do you see?" he was saying, each syllable drawn slow as honey. "Do you see how easy it is for them to bleed? How soft the skin, how fragile the bone? This is what happens when you grow up believing you matter."
The girl whimpered, and his wand shifted immediately to her cheek, pressing until she flinched away. His eyes glittered like obsidian catching firelight.
"Don't look away," he whispered, so soft I felt the words rather than heard them. "If you blink, you'll miss the best part. You wouldn't want that, would you? You wouldn't want to disappoint Daddy when he dies."
Something inside me splintered with exhilaration. My laugh rose sharp and shrill, and I spun again in place, arms wide, cloak whipping about, dizzy on the chaos, dizzy on the sight of the children's tears reflecting torchlight like jewels. It was obscene, it was terrible, but it was intoxicating. The square ours now and all we were doing was pressing scripture into trembling mouths with every taunt.
The air tasted like iron and smoke, the whole square thick with the smell of scorched timber and the sweat of too many bodies pressed too close, and I thought it marvelous, I thought it divine, I thought the world had never been so sharp or so alive as it was in this moment with the torches flickering and the ropes creaking and the crowd straining to breathe through their own terror.
Lorenzo circled the poles as though they were a stage, each step languid, deliberate, his dark hair catching the firelight like a halo. I mirrored him, stalking the other side, our paths weaving around the two bound figures in a parody of a dance. The man was red-faced, veins bulging at his temple as he jerked against the ropes that would not break, while the woman only shivered, her chin trembling where Lorenzo's fingers had just touched.
"Now, darling," Lorenzo purred, flashing me a grin over the woman's shoulder, "do we start with the knight or the maiden? What's the proper order of things?"
"Order," I repeated, my laugh slicing high through the thick silence. "There's never any order. There's only choice, Lorenzo. And choice is such a cruel little thing, isn't it?"
I skipped closer to the husband, leaned in until my breath fogged against his cheek. "Should it be you first?" I whispered. "So you don't have to watch her scream? Or should it be her, so you know exactly what you've failed to protect?"
He tried to spit at me, but his mouth was too dry, his tongue sticking to his teeth. Only a strangled sound escaped him.
"Her," Lorenzo said, and his tone was teasing, playful, but his eyes glinted with something darker as he brushed the hair back from the woman's face. "Ladies first, isn't that the saying?"
"Imagine his face when you start carving her apart. Imagine how wide his eyes will go." I tilted my head at Lorenzo, lips stretched too wide, my laughter bubbling up again. "Perhaps it's kinder to keep him alive longer, yes? Let him savor every moment."
"Kindness." Lorenzo chuckled low, dragging the tip of his wand along the woman's collarbone, leaving a thin trickle of blood in its wake. "I've never thought of you as particularly kind, Daphne."
"I'm not," I sang back, voice breaking into another jagged laugh. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not—"
The woman flinched as his wand traced lower, and the husband roared, jerking against the ropes, the veins in his neck straining fit to burst. "Don't touch her! You bastards, don't you dare—"
"Ah-ah," Lorenzo crooned, and his grin widened wickedly. "You'll spoil our fun again."
He glanced at me, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes, and for a moment it was just us, playing a game in front of the crowd, feeding off each other's laughter and cruelty like we always had. He winked, and I felt the euphoric heat in me flare even brighter, my pulse racing.
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the woman's.
It was sudden, shameless yet oddly passionate, his hand gripping the back of her neck, tilting her face up, his lips moving against hers while she sobbed and tried to wrench away, her muffled cries spilling into his kiss.
The husband's scream tore the air apart, raw and broken, louder than anything that had come before, and for a heartbeat the crowd itself seemed to surge with it, a shudder of horror rolling through their ranks.
My laughter caught, snagged in my throat like a hook. I smiled, still, because I couldn't stop, because the world demanded it, but it was too sharp now, brittle at the edges. My chest felt tight. I turned my head quickly, as if to share the moment with the crowd, but my eyes flicked back unwillingly, drawn to Lorenzo's mouth still pressed against the woman's, the husband's face contorted with agony.
"Lorenzo," I said, my tone still light, but thinner now, strained like a violin string stretched to snapping. "You'll make him jealous."
He broke the kiss with a laugh, a smear of her blood at the corner of his mouth, and licked it away slow, deliberate, as though savoring wine.
"That's the point, darling," he said softly, eyes locking with mine for just a moment before swinging back to the husband. "What's the fun in cruelty if it doesn't cut the deepest? Besides, you're still my favourite girl."
The woman sagged against the ropes, gasping, tears streaking down her face. The husband sobbed and strained, veins bulging, his eyes bloodshot with rage and despair. The crowd was silent as death, only the crackle of torches and the sound of my own breath ragged in my ears. But somewhere deep inside, the pit yawned wider.
I lifted my arms slowly, wide, as though to gather the whole night against my chest, and the crowd stilled further, as though they feared even to breathe too loudly. My laugh came sharp, too high, but I let it echo across the cobblestones anyway, the note of it shattering the silence like the strike of a bell.
"Witness," I cried, voice ragged and triumphant. "Witness the cost of your defiance! Witness the price of standing against us!"
My gaze swept across their pale faces, feeding on the fear, on the way mothers clutched children tighter, on the way men clenched fists only to let them fall limp again under the gleam of wands at their throats. Each flinch was a sacrament, each tear an offering.
I turned then, slowly, deliberately, back to the two bound figures. The husband's chest heaved with broken sobs, his eyes wild, fixed not on me but on Lorenzo, who still lingered close to the wife, a wicked smile playing across his mouth. The woman herself had slumped, her hair tangled and damp with sweat, lips bruised and trembling from his kiss, yet her gaze still sought her children where Mattheo crouched like a shadow with his wand pressed to their cheeks. She looked at them as though trying to drink them in for the last time, and the desperation in her stare was almost unbearable.
I stepped closer, the hem of my robes whispering against the cobblestones, the tip of my wand catching the light. Inside, something in me was shaking, not with doubt, not with regret, no, never that, but with a feeling that would not let me be still, that demanded I move, I act, I burn.
Lorenzo tilted his head toward me, his eyes gleaming darkly. "Shall we, darling?" he murmured, and his voice was velvet, dangerous, thick with the intimacy of conspiracy.
"We shall," I answered, and my laugh trilled high again, though the sound was jagged, brittle, something broken beneath the shine.
I circled them once more, deliberately slow, dragging the anticipation out until even the crowd seemed to sway with it, until the victims themselves sagged under the weight of waiting. The ropes creaked as they strained against them, the sound like bones splintering.
"You are blessed," I whispered to them as I passed, my voice low enough that only they could hear. "Blessed to be chosen, to be offered up. Do you know? Do you understand? Your deaths will be the foundation of something greater."
The husband spat at the ground, his face contorted with fury. "You're monsters," he rasped. "Filthy, godless monsters."
"Godless," I echoed, tilting my head. The word rolled over my tongue, bitter and sweet at once. "Oh no, not godless. Never that. We have a god, and tonight, he listens."
The crowd shuddered as my voice rose again, carrying over their heads. "Let their blood sanctify this ground! Let their screams bind us in power!"
I lifted my wand high, and the flames of the torches seemed to lean toward me, the shadows pulling longer, blacker. My chest was tight, my pulse frantic, but I smiled, wide and bright, a mask that cracked at the edges but did not fall.
Then I brought my wand down in a swift arc, the motion sharp, decisive, and ropes of magic snapped from its tip, coiling around the husband and wife like serpents, binding them tighter still, pulling their bodies flush against the poles until the wood groaned under the strain. They gasped as the cords dug into flesh, blood welling in thin lines, and the crowd hissed as one.
I could feel them, all of them, the eyes, the fear, the horror and it rushed into me like a tide, like a thousand threads sewing themselves into my skin, filling me, swelling me until I thought I might burst.
Lorenzo had come to stand at my side now, his shoulder brushing mine, his grin dazzling in the firelight. He twirled his wand between his fingers as though this were nothing more than a game, as though we were still children in the dungeons daring each other into cruelties.
"Together?" he said, his tone light, but beneath it something taut, something reverent.
"Yes," I breathed. "Together."
We moved as one, raising our wands, the tips glimmering with green light that pulsed brighter, brighter, until the glow washed across the victims' faces, painting them sickly emerald. The woman whimpered, her eyes closing, her lips moving soundlessly in some final prayer. The husband only stared at me, hatred etched deep, his teeth bared.
"Avada Kedavra," I whispered, and in that moment my voice did not sound like my own at all, but like something vast, something ancient speaking through me.
Two jets of green burst forth at once, twin comets streaking through the night air, striking their targets with perfect symmetry. The husband and wife jerked as the light hit them, their eyes going wide, too wide, impossibly wide and then blank, rolling lifeless as their bodies sagged against the ropes. The sound of it, that instant when breath stopped, when the soul fled, was like a string snapping in the air.
The crowd gasped as though they, too, had been struck. The children screamed, high and piercing, and Mattheo laughed low, dark, cruel, his wand pressing harder against their trembling cheeks.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at the two lifeless forms slumped against the poles, their bodies still twitching faintly with the echo of death. I had killed before, but never like this, never in such splendour, never with so many eyes watching. It felt immense, infinite, as though the night itself had opened to swallow me whole.
But something surged back, wild, unstoppable. I threw my head back and laughed long and loud, the sound of it ricocheting off stone and timber, climbing up into the heavens themselves. My arms stretched wide again, robes billowing, wand still burning with the last glow of the curse.
"Do you see?" I cried, voice ragged with triumph. "Do you see what becomes of those who defy us? This is your future, unless you kneel, unless you obey!"
The crowd broke then into sobs, screams and wails rising as one. Some crumpled to their knees, others clutched each other desperately, children buried their faces in mothers' skirts. The square was chaos again, but chaos on its knees, chaos subdued, chaos reshaped into worship.
The bodies on the poles sagged, heads lolling, blood dripping slow into the dirt. The torches hissed as the wind picked up, scattering sparks across the cobblestones. The night smelled of ash and endings.
For one fractured heartbeat, I felt not triumph, not ecstasy, but a hollow ache that spread sharp and deep through my chest. The sight of their children screaming, the look that had been in the husband's eyes before death, it gnawed at me, threatened to unravel me from within. But I smiled. I laughed. I turned in a slow circle, arms raised, hair whipping wild around my face, and let the crowd see nothing but delight.
I felt Lorenzo's presence before I looked at him, the heat of him at my side, the faint tremor in his arm where it brushed mine. When I turned my head, our eyes met, and in that glance something dangerous passed between us, not triumph, not exhilaration, but terror.
It was there in the thin twitch of his smile, in the faint shake of his wand hand. For all his charm, all his bravado, he had felt it too, the wrongness of the kiss, the cruelty taken one step too far, the eyes of the husband haunting him even now as the body cooled. And in me, in the pit of my chest, the children's screams still rang in my skull, a pitch so high it scoured me raw, so sharp it cut through the laughter still clawing at my throat.
Lorenzo was the first to move. He raised his wand in a sweeping arc toward the sky, his grin flaring bright, deliberate, false.
"Do you see?" he shouted to the crowd, his voice booming, slick with mockery. "Do you see how your protectors fall? How fragile your hope is? This is what you are, nothing but prey at our feet."
I forced my own arm up, my wand glinting in the torchlight. My heart hammered like a war drum, my fingers trembling, but I stretched my grin wider, let my laughter spill shrill and jagged.
"Kneel!" I screamed, my voice cracking, shrieking high enough to make the children wail louder. "Kneel before us or join them!"
The crowd surged with sobs and terror, parents clutching children, men dropping to their knees with their heads bowed, women crying out prayers that fell flat in the cold night air. The square was a pit of misery, and for a dizzy instant it was intoxicating, a drug stronger than anything else. their terror feeding mine, mine feeding theirs, until it spun into a spiral that made me lightheaded. But still, the tremor in my hand. Still, the pit in my chest.
Beside me, Lorenzo's jaw clenched. I saw it, the tightness at the corner of his mouth, the way his grin wavered when he thought no one was looking. He was shaking too, though his voice rang clear as he called out, "Do you hear them, Daphne? Do you hear how sweet their cries are?"
"Yes!" I shrieked back, though the word felt jagged on my tongue. "Yes, Lorenzo, sweeter than any hymn!"
Then, without meaning to, my eyes flicked across the square to Aurelia, panting, her fists still bloodied from the man she had beaten, her eyes wide and wild with something between horror and awe. To Draco, his face pale marble, his wand hand steady but his jaw taut as he looked anywhere but at the children. To Theo, whose knuckles were white, whose chest rose and fell too fast. To Mattheo, crouched still at the side of the screaming children, his eyes black pits, his smirk cruel, yet his shoulders hunched like something coiled too tight.
We were all trembling. We were all breaking and yet we stood.
My laughter ripped out of me, raw, hysterical. I spun on my heel, raised my wand high, and with a scream that felt torn from the marrow of my bones, I unleashed it.
The spell burst forth like a storm breaking open the night. Sparks erupted from the tip of my wand, not golden and gentle like firework glitter but searing white, streaking across the square in great arcs of light. They fell upon the crowd like a rain of false starlight, beautiful and dazzling, until the first one struck flesh and ignited it.
A woman's body convulsed, her scream strangled as her chest burst open in a flash of fire and blood. Another spark sliced through a man's face, peeling skin from bone in a spray of crimson mist. Children shrieked as sparks rained down on them, sizzling into their hair, their clothes, their eyes, each impact a crack, a pop, a spray of gore.
The square became a furnace of screams. They tried to run, but the sparks followed, raining mercilessly, each one finding flesh, tearing it open, igniting it, burning through bodies like parchment. Blood spattered the cobblestones, the air thick with the metallic stench, with smoke rising from charred skin. The torches flickered wildly, almost drowned out by the brilliance of the spell, the entire square lit as though it were noon, yet painted in blood.
I stood trembling, wand raised, sparks pouring still, my laugh ringing high and manic over the horror. "Burn!" I cried. "Burn and bleed and be gone!"
The crowd writhed, bodies falling atop each other, limbs torn, eyes burst, mouths frozen open in silent screams as throats filled with blood. Children clung to mothers only to watch them collapse in flames. Men tried to shield their families only to be torn apart first, their entrails spilling steaming across the stones.
All the while, sparks rained down, relentless, merciless, until the air itself seemed to shimmer with blood-mist, until the ground ran slick and red, until the only sound was the crackle of burning and the wet squelch of bodies collapsing into ruin.
When at last the spell dimmed, when the sparks sputtered out and only embers floated aimlessly in the thick air, the square was silent again. Silent but for the hiss of cooling blood, the drip of gore down stone, the faint whimpers of those not quite dead yet.
I lowered my wand slowly. My whole body shook, my hands trembling violently. My breath came ragged, tearing at my throat. Beside me, Lorenzo still held his wand aloft, his grin frozen sharp on his face, but his eyes were wide, glassy, and his chest heaved with the same ragged rhythm as mine. But the crowd, there was no crowd anymore. Only bodies. Only ruin.
The children Mattheo had guarded were gone, ash and blood among the many. Aurelia stood stiff, pale, her fists limp at her sides now. Draco had turned away, his profile cut sharp, his eyes hard. Theo's wand hand hung slack, his face sickly. Mattheo only crouched lower, hands over his head, silent, shaking.
I swallowed, forcing my smile back, forcing laughter past the rawness in my throat. I raised my arms again as though conducting a hymn, though my fingers quivered.
"Behold," I rasped, voice breaking. "Behold the power you defied. Behold the fate of all who resist."
Though the only ones left to hear me were corpses, though the only witnesses were my own trembling brothers and sister in this hell, I laughed again, long and jagged, because I had to, because if I stopped, the silence would consume me whole. The sparks still floated faintly in the air, settling on blood-soaked cobblestones like the ashes of some fucked up prayer answered.
The silence after slaughter was worse than the screams. It pressed in thick and suffocating, a silence not born of peace but of absence, of the sheer immensity of what had just been ripped from the world. The cobblestones glistened slick and red beneath the sickly glow of the torchlight, the air clogged with iron and ash, every breath heavy with the ghosts of those we had erased. Bodies lay broken in heaps, tangled together in disgusting parodies of embraces, mouths still open in the last shape of their pleas. Limbs jutted at unnatural angles, torsos torn apart by magic, eyes glassy and unblinking, staring up at the sky that had betrayed them with its rain of false starlight.
We stood at the center of it all, the six of us, a circle of black-cloaked shadows ringed in crimson ruin. None of us spoke. None of us moved. Our boots were planted in pools of blood, the wet sound of it sticking faintly whenever someone shifted their weight, but even that was rare. It was as if the massacre had sealed us in stone, each of us frozen in the weight of it, caught between the expectation of triumph and the undertow of horror.
My wand still hung at my side, my fingers numb around it, though I could feel them trembling if I focused too hard. My breath came shallow, rasping, and I couldn't quite swallow the metallic tang on my tongue, like I had swallowed the square whole. I wanted to laugh, Merlin, I wanted to laugh, to shatter the silence, to fill the void with the delighted chorus bubbling still in the edges of my skull, but my throat ached raw, and the laughter wouldn't come.
It was then that I felt it, the faintest brush at my side, as though someone dared the world to notice. Lorenzo's hand, tentative at first, slid against mine. His fingers brushed once, twice, as though testing whether I would recoil. My gaze flicked sideways, but I couldn't meet his eyes, not yet, I only stared at the mess of our boots, both soaked, both planted in the same spreading pool. Then, slowly, his fingers entwined with mine.
The squeeze was soft, almost imperceptible, yet in the cavernous silence it roared louder than any scream had. His palm was clammy, trembling faintly, his skin slick from sweat, but the pressure was steady, anchoring, as though he was staking some quiet claim against the darkness pressing in on us. He didn't look at me, his face was tilted forward, his grin gone, his eyes fixed somewhere in the ruins before us, but I felt the tremor in him, the fear pulsing through the grip, the same guilt curdling my chest mirrored in his unsteady breath.
My own hand tightened in answer before I could stop it. A secret pact, silent, buried beneath the blood and ruin, that we had seen, that we had felt, that we would not say. I let my gaze drift outward, over the others.
Aurelia stood rigid, her pale hair damp with sweat and blood, her fists still clenched though they trembled faintly against her sides. She was unblinking, her eyes glazed as though fixed on something only she could see. There was blood spattered up her neck, on her jawline, and yet she made no move to wipe it away. She didn't cry this time, she didn't shake visibly anymore, but her stillness was its own kind of breakage, like porcelain holding just enough to hide the cracks underneath.
Draco had turned slightly from the rest of us, his profile sharp against the light, his jaw locked so tightly I thought I could hear his teeth grinding. His wand was tucked neatly away already, his gloves immaculate aside from the flecks of crimson near the cuff, as though he had already begun walling off the scene, boxing it neatly into the same compartment where he shoved everything else he couldn't bear. But I saw the stiff line of his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the way his eyes refused to meet any of ours.
Theo looked sick. His wand arm hung limp, his other hand pressed tight against his stomach, as though he could hold himself together through sheer pressure. His face was pale, his lips bloodless, his breaths shallow and too quick. He wouldn't look at the bodies, wouldn't look at us, wouldn't look anywhere but the ground at his feet, and I thought if he blinked too long he might faint straight into the blood pooling beneath him.
Mattheo was crouched low, one knee bent, his forearm draped over it, his head tipped forward, hair hanging like a curtain to obscure his face. His wand dangled loose in his grip, but his knuckles were white, the veins in his hand standing out sharp. He hadn't spoken once since the sparks fell. The cruel smirk was gone, the barbs gone, only silence left, thick and black. He was trembling, though he fought it, his back stiff, his breath audible even in the hush. He looked like a boy waiting for punishment, like a soldier waiting for orders, like a son waiting for his father's hand, and it curdled something deep in my stomach.
I looked away quickly, back down at the wreckage, back down at Lorenzo's hand still bound in mine. The blood had crept between our fingers, sticky, binding, like a vow written not in words but in the ruin we had wrought. His thumb shifted, brushing once against my knuckle, and that small movement nearly undid me, nearly split me open in front of them all.
I squeezed back harder, nails biting into his skin just enough for him to feel it, just enough to hold us both off the edge. His head tilted then, the faintest angle, his eyes finally flicking toward me. In them I saw not triumph, not cruelty, not even the flirtatious bravado he wore like armor, but fear.
Still, we stood. Still, we kept our faces fixed, our silence strong, our masks intact. Because what else could we do? We were the chosen instruments of the Dark Lord himself. In the ruins of this town square, surrounded by the carnage of our own hands, all we could do was stand together in silence, hand in hand, as the blood cooled around us and the echoes of our sin pressed down like a cathedral ceiling collapsing overhead. The sparks had faded, but their afterglow lingered in my vision, burned into me like a stain I would never scrub away.
✦
The safehouse felt more like a tomb than a refuge. Its walls were damp and stained with the weight of years of neglect, the boards warped, the windows cracked and letting in thin streams of night air that smelled of soot and smoke and something damp beneath the floorboards. We filed in one by one, the six of us, shedding silence like our cloaks, though none of us spoke. Our boots tracked blood and ash across the warped wooden floor. No one made a move to clean it.
I found myself at the dining table, its surface uneven, the wood grooved from knives and age, its legs threatening to give if leaned upon too heavily. I sat down because my knees felt like they no longer belonged to me, because if I kept standing I would crumple, because the stillness of the table promised, if not safety, at least structure. My wand sat idle in front of me, streaked with dried red where I had gripped too tightly.
Draco moved with quiet efficiency, not the swagger of arrogance he liked to wear at school, but the kind of silence born from exhaustion, from grim necessity. He opened the cupboard with its weak hinges and produced a plate, chipped porcelain with a crack spiraling like a vein down the side. He placed upon it two fruits, an apple with its skin wrinkling, its shine dulled, and a pear soft in patches, the flesh beneath threatening to spoil. It was all that was left. He set the plate down in front of me without a word.
I shook my head, a reflex sharp and immediate. "No. Someone else should—" My voice was hoarse, scraped thin, but I forced the words anyway. "Give it to Theo, or Aurelia. I don't—"
Draco cut me off with a glance, sharp as glass. His pale eyes held mine, steady, refusing refusal. "You led tonight," he said simply, voice low, the cadence steady but carrying an edge of something that might almost have been reverence. "You deserve it more than anyone."
The words pierced me sharper than a blade. I wanted to laugh, wanted to scream. Deserve? What did that word even mean anymore? Deserve was for children, for fairy tales, for those untouched by blood. But Draco said it like it was truth, like it was undeniable, like I had earned something in the ruins. I lowered my gaze, staring at the fruit, unable to accept but unwilling to insult him by pushing the plate away. The apple sat dull and dented, but my stomach turned at the thought of biting into it, of chewing while the taste of copper still clung to my tongue. My hand trembled as it reached, fingers hovering, until I finally picked it up.
The bite was soft, mealy, the sweetness faded to something almost bitter. Still, it allowed some normality to run through me, the crunch, however faint, the act of chewing, the swallow that scraped down my throat like gravel. I broke off a piece and pushed the plate toward Draco.
He hesitated only briefly, then sat opposite me, the chair creaking under his weight. He took the pear, inspected it with his long, elegant fingers, and sliced away the bruised skin with his wand before bringing it to his lips. His face was impassive as always, but I caught it, the faintest flicker of relief, the smallest loosening of his jaw, as though even rotting fruit felt like a gift.
We ate in silence. Bite for bite, small pieces passed between us, an unspoken rhythm, an unacknowledged ritual. The others had drifted into corners of the house, nursing wounds, scrubbing blood from their arms, collapsing into chairs or onto the floorboards, too hollowed out for food. But here, at the table, Draco and I shared what remained.
I caught him looking at me once, when he thought I wouldn't notice. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly, the gratitude sharp in the corners of his mouth though he never said a word. He looked as though he might speak, might confess something, might acknowledge the unbearable intimacy of eating together in the wake of massacre, but he swallowed it down along with the pear.
But I understood. Words would have broken it. Words would have named it, and naming it would have ruined the fragile reprieve we had carved for ourselves. So we stayed quiet, chewing slowly, passing fruit back and forth, two children grown too quickly into executioners, clinging to the last sweetness left in a world gone rancid.
The plate emptied, aside for a stem and a scattering of seeds. Draco pushed it gently aside, and for a moment, he simply sat there, elbows resting lightly on the table, his gaze fixed on his hands. His breathing was steady, but when he finally looked back up at me, his eyes held something unguarded, the kind of gratitude that ran deeper than words, the kind that said thank you for letting me share, thank you for not letting me be alone.
I nodded once, as though I had heard him speak, though neither of us had.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the wood creak beneath me, my eyes half-lidded with fatigue I refused to name. My stomach was still hollow, gnawing, the fruit barely a whisper against the hunger, but I didn't mention it. Neither did he. Instead, the words slipped out before I could soften them, blunt and too sharp for our quiet.
"So," I said, dry as the boards beneath us, "what the fuck are we going to do?"
Draco's head jerked slightly, his pale hair falling across his temple. For a moment he just stared at me, like he wasn't sure if I was serious, then he gave the faintest exhale that might have been a laugh if he'd had the energy. He looked down at his hands, then back at me, his mouth twisting.
"You're asking me?" he said, voice low but with that familiar edge of superiority, worn thinner now by exhaustion. "As though I've got some grand strategy tucked under the floorboards?"
"You're the clever one," I shot back, a faint smirk tugging despite the heaviness pressing down. "And you're the one with the scowl that makes everyone assume you know what's going on. So. Enlighten me, Malfoy. What's the plan for the rest of our miserable little existence?"
He leaned his elbows onto the table, steepling his fingers, his face briefly illuminated by the sputtering lantern in the corner. "The plan," he said after a pause, "is to make it through tomorrow. And then the next day. And the one after that. Preferably without starving to death."
"Solid plan," I muttered, biting at my thumbnail. "I can see the strategic genius now. Just survive. Revolutionary."
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
"Tomorrow night," he said more seriously, "we'll go into one of the smaller muggle towns nearby. Take what we can, food, supplies, whatever's light enough to carry back. But not too much. If we strip it bare, someone notices. And if someone notices, the Ministry notices. And if the Ministry notices..." His gaze flicked toward the others in the house, slumped in corners and shadows. "Well. You know what that means."
"Yes, I do," I said softly, drumming my fingers on the table.
"We'll also need to start thinking about winter. It'll be here before we know it. This place..." He glanced around the safehouse, the walls so thin you could hear the night pressing through them. "...it won't hold warmth. We'll need blankets, thicker clothes. Boots. Anything we can get."
I snorted, sharp and humorless. "Fantastic. A winter shopping spree, only without the vaults at Gringotts to foot the bill. Who knew the mighty Malfoys and Greengrasses would end up squabbling over moth-eaten coats nicked off a muggle's washing line?"
His jaw tightened, though I saw the flicker of bitterness in his eyes. "We don't have a choice. The Dark Lord keeps us here for a reason. If we go home, we're exposed. We stay in this hole, or we risk capture and capture is worse."
"Right," I said, tilting my head, my smile thin and sharp. "So we just sit here, slowly wasting away, eating apples that taste like chalk and pears that smell like piss, and hope our illustrious leader remembers we exist before our teeth start falling out."
"Daphne—" he began, warning in his tone.
But I cut him off, leaning forward, my elbows on the table now, mirroring him. "No, really, Draco. Tell me you don't hate this. Tell me you don't wake up every morning wondering how the fuck we went from silk sheets and silver spoons to this... this rat-infested coffin." I gestured at the warped beams above us, the flickering lantern light catching on cobwebs. "We're pureblood royalty, and here we are rationing half-rotten fruit like fucking beggars."
He didn't snap back like I half-hoped. Instead, he looked down, his face shadowed, his pale lashes lowering. For a moment he said nothing, just breathed, his fingers flexing against the table as though he needed to hold onto something.
Finally, he said quietly, "Of course I hate it." His voice was almost too soft, stripped of its usual arrogance. "Every second of it. But hating it doesn't change it and neither does pretending we aren't already in too deep to climb out."
The blunt honesty startled me more than if he'd shouted. I leaned back, staring at him, the faint smirk gone now. He was right. We both knew he was right. Still, the absurdity of it, the bleak comedy of our downfall, bubbled up inside me, threatening to spill into laughter I couldn't quite release.
I huffed instead, running a hand through my tangled hair. "Brilliant. So our grand future is stealing socks and stale bread off half dead muggles until the Dark Lord decides we're worth dragging out again. What a fucking legacy."
That time, Draco almost smiled. Almost. His lips curved faintly before flattening again, as though he couldn't quite allow himself the indulgence.
"Tomorrow we raid. Maybe you'll get your hands on something better than pears that smell like piss."
I rolled my eyes, but I didn't argue. My stomach growled quietly in the silence between us, and his eyes flicked to me, catching it. He didn't comment, though his expression softened just enough to let me know he had heard it, and that somehow, absurdly, he was glad I'd eaten what I had. We sat there a while longer, two disgraced heirs in a ruin of a house, planning raids like scavengers and mocking ourselves because it was the only way to stop from breaking.
The boards creaked under my feet as I pushed away from the table. My body felt heavier than it should have, like each step toward the hallway dragged through a tide of invisible water. The lantern light flickered behind me, leaving the dining room in shadow as I climbed the narrow stairwell, the banister rough and splintering beneath my hand.
I wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my mattress, to curl myself tight against the cold wall and stare into the dark until exhaustion pulled me under. Our bedroom was as meagre as everything else in this safehouse, two single beds crammed against opposite walls, the sheets thin, the frames rusting. It was not comfort, but it was routine.
When I pushed the door open, though, I froze.
Her bed was empty.
The sheets were still tucked neatly, undisturbed. No pale hair spilling over the pillow, no slight shape curled on her side as I had expected. For a moment something sharp tugged in my chest, irritation, then worry, then something nameless and fearful.
I turned back into the hallway, the air cooler here, my bare feet soundless against the warped floorboards. A sliver of yellow light spilled from the boys' room. The door was half-open, and something in me already knew.
I stepped inside.
The double bed sagged under the weight of three bodies. Lorenzo lay sprawled on his back, one arm draped loosely over his chest, his dark hair falling untidily into his eyes. Theo was curled at the edge, his knees drawn slightly inward, his face pale, his lips parted as though sleep had eluded him. Between them lay Aurelia, not touching either, her hands folded against her stomach, her head tilted toward the ceiling, her eyes open and glassy in the half-light.
They weren't clinging to each other, not tangled up like lovers or children huddling for warmth. They were just there, side by side, the closeness enough, the silence louder than any confession. Shaken, broken, but together.
Aurelia noticed me first. Her gaze flicked toward the doorway, catching mine, and in her face I saw it, her fear, the fragility she tried so hard to mask at Mattheo's command. Something inside me cracked, sharp and quiet, like a fault line splitting deeper.
I didn't hesitate. I crossed the room, the floor groaning faintly beneath my steps, and slid onto the bed between them. Lorenzo shifted slightly to make space, his warmth brushing mine, but I turned immediately toward Aurelia. I wrapped an arm tightly around her, pulling her against me, her small frame tense for only a moment before it yielded. Her hair smelled faintly of smoke and sweat and the sharp tang of blood.
For the first time that night, I allowed myself to soften. To hold her as though she were something fragile, as though by sheer force I could protect her from the weight pressing down on us all. I pressed my face briefly into the crown of her head, closing my eyes, letting the simple act of holding tether me back from the chaos still burning behind my ribs.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper, trembling but certain.
"We just... didn't want to be alone."
The words pierced the stillness, cutting through the quiet with their honesty. She didn't look at me when she said it, but her truth sat between all of us, undeniable, a confession made for them as much as for me. My chest tightened, but I only squeezed her closer, my hand splaying across her back, my thumb brushing faintly against the curve of her shoulder. I could feel Lorenzo's breath steady beside me, Theo's faint shifting at the far edge of the bed. They all heard it. They all knew.
The silence that followed was heavy, but not suffocating. I could feel Aurelia's shallow breaths against my chest, the tremor that lingered in her aching body, but slowly it steadied, slowly she began to sink into the warmth I offered. Beside me, Lorenzo shifted. The mattress dipped as he rolled onto his side, his arm brushing past my shoulder before settling firmly around me as well. His palm rested just beneath my collarbone, grounding, almost protective despite the sharp edge of his usual bravado. He squeezed gently, and I heard the low hum of his voice slip into the dark.
"Our brave girl," he murmured, and there was no smirk in it, no teasing note. Just the words, soft and unguarded. For a heartbeat I wanted to laugh, to shove him and tell him not to be so sentimental, but the sound caught in my throat, replaced instead by something hot behind my eyes. I leaned back into him, letting the curve of his arm hold me together.
Theo's voice broke through next, hesitant at first, fragile like glass.
"I'm proud of you," he said, and I turned slightly to catch the pale outline of his face at the far edge of the bed. His eyes, usually darting with nerves, were fixed on me. "I... I couldn't have done what you did tonight. Not ever. But you did it."
His voice cracked at the end, shame and awe tangled together, and my chest clenched tight. I wanted to tell him he didn't have to, that he shouldn't want to, that his softness, his fear, was what kept some small sliver of humanity alive in all of us. But the words refused to form. Instead I gave him a slow nod, a faint smile curving despite the exhaustion pulling at my bones.
For a long while, none of us moved. The weight of Lorenzo's arm, the fragile warmth of Aurelia pressed against me, the quiet admission from Theo, it all stitched together into something that felt almost like safety, though I knew it was only borrowed. The air was warm from our mingled breath, the thin blanket tangled somewhere near our legs, but no one reached for it. We didn't need it, the warmth in our closeness was enough.
The door creaked suddenly.
My head lifted just enough to see the pale blur of Draco's figure in the doorway. He froze when he took in the sight, all of us gathered on one bed, Aurelia curled between me and Lorenzo, Theo's knees drawn tight to his chest, my own hand still gripping Aurelia as though she might disappear. For a moment I thought he'd sneer, or scold, or simply turn away.
But he didn't.
He lingered, silent, his gaze flicking over us, something unreadable shadowing his sharp face. Then, without a word, he stepped inside. The door clicked softly shut behind him, muffling the rest of the house. He crossed the room with slow, measured steps, and the bed dipped again as he eased down beside Theo. Theo shifted, pressing his shoulder unconsciously closer to Draco's, and Draco allowed it, his hand brushing faintly against Theo's wrist in something that looked almost accidental. But it wasn't. We all knew it wasn't.
For the first time in what felt like years, there were no walls between us, no barbed words, no sharp edges. Just us, the ones who had slaughtered and burned and destroyed, huddled together like frightened children in the wreckage of our own lives. Nobody dared to breathe too loud. Nobody dared to break it.
This is what keeps us alive.
Not the missions, not the violence, not the Dark Lord's approval, but this. The simple fact that none of us wanted to be alone. The room was warm with our closeness, the air thick with breath and silence, when the door swung open again.
Mattheo stood in the threshold.
He didn't step forward immediately. He only leaned against the frame, shadows cutting sharp angles into his face, his eyes sweeping over us where we lay pressed together on the sagging mattress. Aurelia tucked into my arms, Lorenzo curled against my back, Theo drawn in tight beside Draco, a cluster of bodies where once there should have been distance.
For a long moment he just stared. There was no expression at first, nothing but the hard gleam of his eyes, and I almost thought, maybe he'll understand. Maybe he'll cross the floor like Draco had, slip down beside us without a word, let the night close around us like a fragile shield.
But then the smirk cut across his mouth. Cruel and jagged.
"What the fuck is this?" His voice was low but sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "All of you, piled up like frightened children. Pathetic."
Aurelia stiffened in my arms, her body rigid at the sound of him, and Theo flinched visibly, shrinking back toward Draco. Lorenzo shifted behind me but didn't move away, his arm still heavy across my chest as if daring Mattheo to comment further.
"We're not—" I started, but he cut me off.
"You're fucking weak." He stepped into the room now, slow, deliberate, his boots sinking into the thin rug. "Do you think the Dark Lord would spare a second glance if he saw this? If he saw his Six cowering together, clutching each other like it'll save you from what's coming?"
His laugh was hollow, bitter. He looked at Aurelia as he said it, his eyes locking on her with a venom so sharp it made me want to bite back.
"You think this makes you strong?" He sneered. "It makes you prey. Easy to break. Easy to use."
I didn't even think.
One second I was pressed tight against Lorenzo's chest, his arm heavy across me, his breath warm against my neck, the next I was tearing myself free, his hand shooting out to stop me but finding only air. My feet hit the floor hard, fast, carrying me toward Mattheo before any of them could move, before my brain had the chance to catch up to my body.
My fist connected with his face before I'd even registered the swing. The sound was sickeningly solid, bone and cartilage crunching beneath my knuckles, the spray of warmth hot against my skin as his nose erupted in blood. His head snapped back and cracked hard against the wall behind him with a dull thud that rattled the wooden frame. He staggered sideways, one hand flying up to his face, and I turned on my heel, already walking away, shaking, every nerve on fire.
But Mattheo Riddle was not the kind of boy you walked away from.
Fingers like iron clamped around my hair and wrenched me backwards with such force I cried out, my spine snapping straight as he yanked me off my feet. My skull slammed against the wall with a jolt that sent white stars exploding across my vision. Pain lanced sharp and hot behind my eyes, and I barely had time to suck in breath before he did it again, and again.
"You stupid fucking bitch!" His words were spit-soaked, furious, blood streaking down from his ruined nose, dripping from his mouth. Each curse punctuated by the blow of my head colliding with the wall, the world spinning in flashes of light and sound. My scalp screamed where he gripped, each tug ripping fire through the roots of my hair, each impact making me feel like my skull was splintering open.
"Mattheo, stop!" Draco's voice was sharp, panicked, cutting through the chaos.
Theo was already off the bed, his long frame colliding into Mattheo's side, trying to wrench him off me. The impact made Mattheo's grip falter for a heartbeat, but then his fury doubled, his free hand slamming into Theo's chest, sending him staggering back.
Blood was running down into my eyes, warm and sticky, blinding me. I dropped to my knees when his grip finally loosened, my hands catching against the floorboards slick with my own spit and blood. My stomach lurched, vomit clawing at my throat, and the room was nothing but ringing sound and violent motion.
"Get the fuck off her!" Draco this time, his fists slamming into Mattheo's shoulder, his pale hair flying loose around his face as he tried to drag him back.
Mattheo's curses were feral, guttural, his rage pouring out like poison, and I felt the air shift as another set of hands tore him away, Lorenzo, bellowing louder than I'd ever heard him.
"You'll kill her, you bastard!"
He was behind me now, dragging Mattheo bodily backward, Aurelia's sobs cracking sharp against the walls as she clung to the bed. I was curled on the floor, blood dripping steadily from my nose, pooling at the corner of my mouth, my head pounding with every frantic beat of my heart. The taste of iron filled my mouth, copper and salt. The smell of sweat and fear was suffocating.
For a moment, no one spoke, just the sounds of shuffling, Mattheo's growls, Lorenzo's snarled restraint, Theo's rapid breathing as he pressed back against the far wall, wide-eyed. Then Draco was kneeling before me, his hands trembling as he touched my cheek, smearing blood across his fingers.
"Daph, Merlin—" His voice cracked. "You're bleeding everywhere, fuck—"
I wanted to laugh. The sound came out broken, wet, half a cough. "No shit."
My head lolled sideways, the room spinning around me in nauseating circles. I could still feel strands of my hair sticking to the wall where Mattheo had slammed me, tacky with blood.
Behind Draco, Lorenzo's voice was rising, venomous and desperate, as he held Mattheo pinned against the wall now, their foreheads nearly touching.
"You're out of your fucking mind. She's one of us. You hear me? You lay another hand on her—"
Mattheo spat blood onto the floor between them, laughing through it, wild and unhinged. "One of us? She thinks she's stronger than me. She thinks she can put her hands on me and walk away. Weak little girl—"
Lorenzo shoved him harder into the plaster, the crack of it splintering, Aurelia still sobbing from the bed, Theo's voice murmuring her name, trying to calm her.
I swallowed against the metallic flood in my mouth, my body trembling, but I forced myself upright, clutching at Draco's arm for balance. My whole face throbbed, my vision blurred, but I would not lie broken on the floor in front of him. Not Mattheo. Not ever.
"Let him go," I rasped, though the words cut my throat raw.
Lorenzo's head snapped toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. "Daphne—"
"Let. Him. Go." My voice cracked on the final word, but I stared at Mattheo through the blood and haze, forcing my body to stay upright though every nerve screamed for rest.
Because no matter how broken I felt, I refused to let him see me crawl.
I lay there on the floor, blood dripping steadily from my scalp, down the side of my face, pooling sticky at my chin. My body shook, but I couldn't tell if it was from pain or adrenaline. My lungs worked in ragged pulls, trying to drag air into a chest that felt crushed by the weight of betrayal.
Mattheo didn't speak another word. His eyes, blazing with fury, carved into me with the weight of everything he thought I had just done. And then, in a gesture that made my stomach churn with a mixture of fear and rage, he spat. The thick, wet glob landed on the floor beside me, close enough to send a sharp, acidic tang of his contempt through the room, burning even without touching my skin.
I froze, muscles taut, my chest heaving in a trembling rhythm that matched the bitter pulse at the back of my skull. The metallic scent of blood and spit mixed with the scent of sweat, dust, and the faint tang of old paint and lantern smoke, forming a heavy miasma in the cramped room that clung to every nerve. My fists curled tightly in the blanket beneath me, my nails digging into the fibers as though I could claw back some of the dignity he'd ripped from me.
Lorenzo moved immediately, his jaw set, dark eyes burning with something more dangerous than anger, a kind of wrath that made the hair on my arms prickle. I could feel the weight of it even from where I lay, bruised and throbbing. He followed Mattheo out of the room, stepping with the silent, measured precision of someone ready to strike, and I could hear the door close behind them, the soft click of the lock snapping home like a challenge left hanging in the air. Even from inside, I could feel the tension, the almost tangible promise of confrontation that Lorenzo carried in his gait, a storm waiting to crash.
I sagged back against the floor with a hollow groan, my limbs trembling from the adrenaline still coursing through me, my scalp screaming where Mattheo had torn at it. My fingers grazed my hair and felt the sticky clumps clinging to blood and sweat. I wanted to cry, to curse, to scream until my throat tore open, but no sound came, only the quiet rattling of my pulse in my ears, each beat echoing against the walls like distant drums. Theo's voice broke the silence, low and careful, measured in a way only he could manage.
"Daphne... I can help you clean up. We can get you out of these—" He gestured to my clothes, now marred with dark crimson streaks and dampened with sweat. His eyes flicked nervously to the doorway, tracking the shadows where Mattheo and Lorenzo had disappeared.
I shook my head, my hair flaring out around my shoulders, damp and sticky. "No," I whispered, voice hoarse and ragged. "I'm not going out there. Not yet. If I move, if I go anywhere near him, he'll find something else to be angry about. Let him leave. Let him burn himself out."
Theo's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to insist, but he understood. His hand hovered over mine, lingering as though the simple gesture could heal me entirely. He dropped it, silent, and knelt instead beside me on the ground.
Aurelia slid over, her presence quiet but solid, curling around the curve of my hip in a way that radiated calm, grounding energy. Draco joined, his usual meticulous posture softened in exhaustion. For a moment, I allowed myself to sink into the weight of them, the three of them forming a kind of protective crescent around my battered body, their closeness a silent pledge that no one would touch me again tonight.
They fetched their pillows from the beds and lowered them to the floor, to join me. Draco adjusted his so that my head rested lightly on it, careful not to jostle me, and Theo brought his pillow up, tucking it beneath my legs to support them. Aurelia's hand lingered against my side, brushing lightly, not demanding anything, just present, like a quiet affirmation that I wasn't alone.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the lanterns we hadn't bothered to extinguish, their flames trembling against the walls like nervous spirits. The smell of blood and sweat and fear still lingered, but beneath it, something warmer settled into my chest, the gentle pulse of human touch, the rhythm of their presence. I felt the tremors in my limbs begin to reside, replaced slowly by a numb, pliable exhaustion that let me breathe, let me exist without the immediate threat pressing against my skull.
Draco's fingers found their way into my hair, methodical and gentle, stroking through the tangles and the sticky clumps, smoothing and untangling. Each pass was a tether to something steadier, a quiet insistence that I could relax, that it was safe, at least for now. His hands lingered, light but deliberate, his thumbs tracing small, careful patterns against my scalp, and I felt myself sinking further into him, into the warmth radiating from the three of them.
Theo murmured occasionally, a quiet hum, his voice low and soft, as if the sound alone could erase the last traces of panic from my system. Aurelia shifted, moving closer to tuck her head near my shoulder, letting me feel her steady breathing, the rise and fall of her chest. The weight of her presence was a tether, a quiet declaration that we were still alive, still human, still capable of clinging to each other even in the aftermath of what had just transpired.
Time lost its shape. The ringing in my ears dulled, replaced by the soft brush of hands against hair, the warmth of bodies pressed close, the gentle sighs and murmurs that rose like incense in the room. My head lolled slightly, heavy and thick, and for the first time since the confrontation with Mattheo, I allowed my eyes to drift closed.
I could feel Draco still awake, his hand threading through my hair with a soft, almost ritualistic care, each pass over my scalp slow and patient, grounding me further. I was aware of him, aware of Theo's presence, of Lorenzo's lingering absence, and of Aurelia curled close enough that our shoulders pressed together. It was intimate without being invasive, protective without being smothering, a fragile, wordless shelter that stretched across the floorboards, over pillows, under the dim lantern light.
Sleep didn't come at once, but it came slowly, riding in on the rhythm of breath, the warmth of bodies, the steady, gentle persistence of human touch. My pulse settled, though the ache in my head lingered, dull and throbbing beneath the surface. I clutched at the edge of Draco's pillow lightly, letting my fingers curl around it as if I could tether my mind to this fragile calm.
Draco's thumb moved in slow circles through my hair, the repetition hypnotic, coaxing me downward. My lids grew heavier with every pass, my chest unclenching just a fraction, my body yielding finally to the exhaustion that had been gnawing at me all night.
The room was quiet except for our breathing, the occasional creak of the floorboards settling under our weight, the soft rustle of the blanket as we adjusted. In that quiet, in that tenuous stillness, I allowed myself to feel, not brave, not strong, not victorious, just human, just fragile, just held. Eventually, I drifted completely into the haze of sleep, tangled in pillows and the warmth of those who would not let me fall alone. Draco's hand remained against my hair, light but there, a promise that at least tonight, the world's cruelty could not reach me no more.
Notes:
lowk one of my favourite chapters so far. next one is actually kinda fun stay tuned for crazy stealing and more bullshit
thankyou for reading and i hope that you are enjoying! please always feel free to leave feedback etc