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Chapter Text

“You’re late, Weasley.” 

Arthur Weasley stopped a moment to catch his breath in the middle of the hallway of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, clutching at the heavy stack of papers that threatened to collapse from his grip at any moment. Across from Arthur stood Bartemius Crouch, characteristic scowl etched across his face, and Alastor Moody, whose eyes were glancing at Arthur’s stack of papers with amusement. 

“Sorry, Mr. Crouch,” panted Arthur. “I wanted to make sure I had everything we needed. Quadruple-checking everything—you know how it is. Don’t want to be caught unprepared or to have anything go wrong on this one because of a technicality.” He laughed weakly.

“No, we don’t,” Moody replied before Crouch could. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s worth losing a few extra minutes instead of losing the whole case we’re building up. ‘Course, I don’t expect Malfoy to go down quietly or without peddling his usual bullshit, and you shouldn’t either. But we’re further along today than we were last week, that’s for damn sure.”

The possibility of actually pinning down the infamous Lucius Malfoy as a Death Eater filled Arthur with jittery elation. It sounded too good to be true ( And if things seem too good to be true, they usually are , Moody’s grim voice echoed in his head). The fact he, of all people, was asked by Crouch to help build the case made it seem even more unbelievable. This could be a story to tell my kids one day. 

“I would caution both of you,” interjected Crouch, “to remember that the crux of our case hinges on a Muggle’s testimony.”

Moody scoffed. “That’s an insult if I ever heard one. Aurors practically took the Acheron apart brick by brick. We found more than enough evidence of how these Death Eaters got their jollies.”

Arthur winced. After reading the stomach-churning reports a couple days ago, he immediately went and hugged his wife and sons for a long, long time. 

The Acheron was one of the Lestranges’ estates, and perhaps the most elusive, even before Voldemort’s rise. Rumors have always abounded of the sick and perverse nature of what went on in that seaside mansion. And now—if all went well—they’d be able to definitively tie Lucius Malfoy to the Acheron and its brutality.

“Yes, Scrimgoeur informed me. But evidence that ill-natured events occurred is different from evidence that Lucius Malfoy himself was involved. The only ‘evidence’ we have of his connection is this girl’s statement. And you should know by now that Muggle testimony is often regarded by the Wizengamot as tenuous, to say the least, partly due to the…limited amount of means we have in order to glean the information.”

When he said “limited,” Crouch’s hard eyes flickered to Arthur and narrowed slightly. To his credit, Arthur maintained a neutral expression. The mind and body of an average Muggle typically reacted poorly to magic and potions. The Ministry frequently Obliviated Muggles out of necessity—which sometimes had the unfortunate and unintentional result of causing permanent alterations to the Muggle’s brain—-but drew the line when it came to most other spells. Using magic to forcibly extract a Muggle’s memories often led the Muggle to become catatonic or with a severely diminished mental capacity, and using legilimency to probe deeply beyond surface thoughts could result in similar fates.  Veritaserum made them violently (and potentially fatally) sick. One of Arthur’s first actions after getting his position in the Ministry was to advocate for a stop to these practices on Muggles, eventually resulting in a bill that significantly narrowed the scope of what wizards were legally able to do to them, which made him an enemy of many purebloods. Crouch, apparently, had not forgotten. 

“I’ll conduct this interview as thoroughly as I’m legally able to,” Crouch continued, “but I expect both of you to remember your roles when we enter the room and remain firmly within your boundaries. I’ll be the one asking the appropriate questions about the allegations themselves; you two only discuss points related directly to your respective positions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Moody. “So you’ve told us. About as many times as you reminded us that this testimony will probably go nowhere, actually.” 

Crouch gave an exasperated sigh. “This department is extremely busy now, as you very well know, and we’re stretched thin as it is. I believe in the validity of this girl’s recollection, but I'm also aware that issues of practicality should be considered as well, and we need to pick and choose which leads to pursue. I truly hope I’m wrong and this yields desirable results, Alastor. I really do. ” 

“Hmph.” Moody nodded his head slightly. “Well, guess there’s no use standing around talking about it. She’s right through this door.” He gestured towards the blue door a bit further down the hallway. The men walked towards it and entered.

Inside the room was a table that looked much larger than it actually was, as there was only one person sitting down: a small, pale young woman with long, slightly disheveled black hair, and a guarded expression in her blue eyes. She was wearing a sundress that had some small tears, and was holding a teacup given to her by the healers that was mostly empty, though it was evident that it had been cold for a long time. 

Arthur was struck by how young she looked; surely she couldn’t be any older than Lily and James Potter. He remembered reading in the report that she was found with some bruising in various locations on her body, though the healers had taken care of that. They did not, however, provide her with new clothes, which Arthur thought was an insensitive oversight; the room was freezing, and the poor girl was shivering slightly. The three men approached the chairs across from the young woman, and as they were getting seated, some of Arthur’s papers fell on the ground. As he leaned underneath the table, Arthur surreptitiously took his wand from out of his jacket and cast a silent heating spell, which warmed the room slightly. As he returned to his seat, Crouch gave Arthur a withering look—not even a minute in, and Arthur already went against Crouch's orders. Oh well. 

The men looked at the young woman: Crouch and Moody expressionless, Arthur giving a smile that went unreturned. As Crouch’s notebook and quill began to float in midair to take notes, the woman eyed it warily, gripping her teacup more forcefully. 

“Miss White?” Crouch began. “I’m Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. These two gentlemen with me are Alastor Moody, Auror, and Arthur Weasley of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. We’re speaking with you today in order to inquire about your alleged encounter with the Death Eaters, as well as a potential unauthorized Portkey—excuse me, is there a problem?” 

Her hand was raised slightly in the air, and she was biting her lip. “Um, yes. I-I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up a bit straighter. “It’s just…I have no idea what the hell is even going on right now. I didn’t understand anything you said after ‘Crouch.’”

The quill stopped writing. Moody gritted his teeth and looked at Crouch like Crouch was an idiot, while Crouch himself was staring at the girl with furrowed brows.

 “What Mr. Crouch is trying to say,” Arthur blurted out in an attempt to be helpful, “is that we’re wizards that work for the Ministry of Magic, which is like the Parliament of our world. The wizards that hurt you are breaking the law, and we want to catch them and bring them to justice.”

“Ok…” said the girl slowly, pausing for several seconds as she took a sip of her cold tea. “I guess that makes sense. I still don’t understand some of the words you mentioned though.”

“Don’t worry, Miss White. Those terms aren’t important right now, and if you need to know them later, we’ll explain them at that time.” 

The girl’s cautious gaze rested on Arthur, looking him up and down. He knew that she was understandably uncomfortable.  On impulse (and at the risk of making himself look like an idiot), Arthur decided to do something that he usually reserved for his children. “After all, it would be very unusual if you somehow knew the terms specific to our way of life. Why, I frequently find myself baffled by Muggle inventions all the time! The fellytone, for example. Using electrickacy to talk across long distances is truly extraordinary!”

Sarah looked at him in bewilderment before it dawned on her what Arthur meant. Her expression grew slightly more relaxed, and for the first time he saw Sarah White give a tentative smile.  “The invention you’re talking about…they’re, um, called telephones, actually.”

“Ah! Well, I was close. Next you’ll be telling me that the machines that bring people up and down the stairs aren’t called escapators.” 

Sarah giggled softly. Of course, Arthur knew Muggle inventions and technology perfectly well; he’d be terrible at his job if he didn’t. But acting ignorant for comedic effect usually resulted in younger people feeling more at ease, and he wanted Sarah to realize that the men in this room weren’t the enemy. 

“Maybe Arthur should have your job, Crouch,” Moody muttered, not able to keep quiet any longer. Crouch closed his eyes for a few seconds and rubbed his temples. 

“I made the introduction for the clarity and sake of the record…” he muttered through gritted teeth, opening his eyes and gesturing toward the floating notebook. “If we could focus on the task at hand and remember our assigned roles , gentlemen?” He turned to the girl. “Miss White, as Mr. Weasley stated, our objective is to identify the perpetrators of the crime you say was committed against you. We’d like to get a more detailed understanding of what transpired. Can you please start off by introducing yourself and explaining what your business was at the location?”

“Ok,” the girl mumbled, smiling fading. She looked into her teacup and began to speak softly and without much emotion. “My name is Sarah White. I’m nineteen and I-I’m a university student studying art. I was at the Black Rose that night because Julie–” Sarah swallowed as tears welled up in her eyes. “Julie thinks—thought—that it would be a good idea to put myself in more social situations. I’m a bit…shy, I guess, and don’t really have many friends besides her. She thought that going out might help me meet new people. Maybe even some nice blokes…” 

Eyes growing numb, Sarah stopped talking and started absentmindedly tracing the cup with her fingers. Arthur felt another pang of pity. Crouch flipped through Arthur’s stack of papers, frowning. “This Julie…you’re referring to Julie Williams, correct? The other girl who arrived at the mansion with you?” Arthur cringed inwardly at Crouch’s brusque manner. Sarah nodded. 

“Sh-she was dating another student named David, David Brown, who did part-time work as a magician. Illusions, card and rope tricks, handcuffs, those sorts of things. She’s studying theatre and sometimes acted as his assistant when he would do shows at the Black Rose.” 

 For a brief second, Crouch’s lip curled in distaste before quickly going back to his expression of impassivity. Muggle perception of magic was always a source of mockery and derision from pureblood circles. The more extreme even found muggle “magic” to be an insult towards wizarding kind, an offense on the level of a stranger spitting in the face of a loved one. Arthur could see why this location in particular was targeted. 

“And it was during this performance that you encountered the two men who would lure you out of this establishment, correct?” Crouch pressed. 

“I don’t know if ‘encounter’ would be the right word…I noticed them there, though. They were standing near the back, just watching with these intense expressions. At the time, I wasn’t sure if they were really into the performance or hated it. They didn’t clap or cheer, but would laugh at odd moments. I remember wondering if they were talent scouts or even security or something. They just carried themselves differently from everyone else there.”

“Can you describe what these men looked like?” asked Moody. 

“One had black hair that went down to his shoulders. He had dark eyes and a short beard, and seemed tall and a bit bulky. The other was a redhaired man with shorter hair and a small scar on his cheek, right underneath his eye.” Nerves and excitement flickered in Arthur as him and Moody exchanged glances. Rodolphus and Rabastan . 

“What happened then, Miss White?” Crouch asked.

“After the show was over, the audience started leaving. I went backstage to talk to Julie and David for a while, and we decided to go to a pub afterwards. When we came out, we saw the men in the lobby. There are always stragglers after a performance, so it wasn’t really surprising to see them still staying. I honestly didn’t even think much of it, since there were other people around in the lobby too. When I went to double-check that I had my ID, I realized I left my handbag in the dressing room. After I went to get it, I returned to the lobby and saw that Julie and David were gone. The two other men were gone too. There was another woman in the lobby, so I asked her where they went, and she said she saw the men talking with my friends, and then Julie and David followed them outside.”

“Longbottom already spoke with the straggler she’s referring to,” Moody said, turning to Crouch. “The Lestranges’--”

“The men ,” interrupted Crouch. “It would be prudent to avoid assumptions until all facts get brought to light in the court of law.” He gestured subtly to the notetaking quill. Moody rolled his eyes.

“Alright. The ‘men’--who happen to look identical to the Lestrange brothers, imagine that–were reported by the witness, Alison Shen, to have asked the victims to come outside with them. When the couple seemed to realize what a terrible idea that was and said they wouldn’t, the men took out ‘sticks from their jackets’--according to Shen–and said something, causing the victims to follow them outside without protest. Likely the Imperius, which tracks with what happened later, but wouldn’t want to go ‘making assumptions’ or anything.”

Arthur was aware that his part was coming up soon. He looked at the girl ahead of him, who was looking at Moody with uncertainty.

“Miss White, is there anything else you’d like to add?” asked Arthur kindly.

“Yes…” she said. She hesitated. “T-the men. I found out their names later. They were Rodolphus and Rabastan.”

The three men glanced at each other. While Sarah described multiple Death Eaters in the initial report, the only one she mentioned by name was Lucius Malfoy. And while Rabastan and Rodolphus’s involvement with a property that they own is no surprise, it led to the possibility that Sarah knew the names of a lot more Death Eaters than she let on in the initial report. Could we really be this lucky? Arthur immediately admonished himself for the thought. Nothing about this was “lucky.” They might be able to pin down the Death Eaters, but what the Muggles had to endure, well, it never should have come to that. Arthur wouldn’t wish that fate on his worst enemy. 

“How do you know those were their names?” questioned Crouch.

Sarah shrugged meekly. “I was there for three months…they were there often. It would have been hard not to know. All the people—Death Eaters, I think you called them earlier—they referred to each other by name. I needed to know who was who, in case I was told to, um, go to one.” 

They didn’t keep their names secret because they didn’t expect any of the Muggles to live and speak with us about it. Arthur figured this would be a good time for him to start talking. “So, Miss White, it says in the initial report that you went down the road and saw them entering a felly–er, I mean to say– tele phone box. Can you please tell us more about that?”

“Ok. Um. Well, I thought it was weird because all four of them were entering, and those things aren’t that big. I saw them in the distance and then they were just…gone. I couldn’t see them anymore.” 

“Did you see them touching anything before they vanished?” asked Arthur.

“At the time, no, but I’m pretty sure I know what it was–”

“We’ll get there momentarily, Miss White,” interrupted Crouch. “But at that specific moment, you did not see your companions or the two men touch anything, correct?”

“That’s right. But it did look like they were huddling around something.” 

“And can you tell us what happened after?” Sarah’s eyes fell back to her teacup as she bit her lip. Not for the first time, Arthur wished there was a way to get this information without forcing this poor girl to relive what was perhaps her darkest moment. 

“You can take your time if you need to, Miss White.” Crouch shot Arthur a look; they didn’t have the luxury of time. 

“When I saw them disappear, I rushed towards the box,”  Sarah continued slowly. “I looked inside, and it was empty. I started panicking, and walked back out, wondering if I missed something. I started making my way back to the Black Rose because I saw that the rest of the stragglers from the show were leaving the building, and I wanted to see if they knew anything else. Then, I heard movement and looked back.”

“Did you hear any unusual sound when you looked back, like a popping sound?” asked Arthur, trying to determine if they apparated or used a Portkey. 

“I didn’t hear anything. I wouldn’t have even known that he was there, if he didn’t open the door.” Portkey it is then . And one that Rabastan seemed experienced with using, at that.  “So as I’m sure you know, the redhaired man—Rabastan— was there, in the telephone box. And like an idiot, I ran back towards him, asking about Julie and David. He seemed surprised to see me, but didn’t look nervous and was smiling, so I wasn’t as scared as I should have been. He said that his brother wanted to talk with them because had some experience with magic himself and wanted t-to ‘show David his own magic tricks.’” She trailed off, tears forming her eyes again, which she tried to blink away. “But then he told me Julie and David said they were planning to go to the Grey Wolf instead–-that’s the name of the pub we were planning to go to. I believed him because I didn’t think there was any way he could have known about that detail unless one of my friends told him, but he probably used magic or something to figure it out, right?”

“It is a possibility. Did he mention anything about how they vanished?” Crouch asked neutrally. Sarah frowned. 

“I’m…I’m actually not sure. I know I definitely asked about it, but it’s cloudy when I try to remember exactly what he said. Whatever excuse he gave made me feel like I was the unreasonable one for asking, and that there was a logical explanation for them disappearing in thin air.” Another glance was exchanged between Moody and Arthur. So it seems like Rabastan attempted some kind of low level memory charm then. “And because he was so nice and understanding to put up with my questions,” she gave a hollow laugh, “I took his advice when he told me that I could call the pub and have them be on the look out for Julie and David. I only had my credit card and didn’t have change for the payphone, so when he offered me his coin, I didn’t think twice about it.” Sarah’s eyes started to water and Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “He dropped it in my hand, and that–that’s when it all started. The world started spinning and everything seemed really loud and then…then I was someplace I’ve never been before. It looked like the basement of an old, decrepit building. I knew it was by the ocean because I could faintly smell it.”

“Thank you, Miss White. Telling us all this takes a lot of courage, and I know this can’t be easy,” Arthur smiled at her again, and was pleased to see Sarah give him a small, tentative smile in return. He turned to Crouch and Moody. “Based on the testimony here, the coin was definitely the item enchanted to be a Portkey, and I believe it was the same portkey that was used in the other Muggle disappearances in the area within the past few months. If Rabastan—er, the redhaired man—” Arthur sputtered as he saw Crouch’s irritated expression, “wanted a Muggle, all he would need to do was hand him a coin. Or even easier, just leave the enchanted coin right next to the telephone. If a Muggle wanted to speak with someone over a long distance, he would naturally reach towards the coin and get teleported to the designated location. I’ll bet that the Death Eaters enchanted Miss Williams and Mr. Brown to touch the coin so they all would be transported together.  The… redhaired man probably used to portkey to return in order to place the coin back in the box and re-enchant it.”

Crouch looked thoroughly unimpressed, as this conclusion was fairly obvious to anyone who read the initial report and had a basic understanding of how Portkeys worked. But the Ministry needed someone from Arthur’s department to be present in order to legally check off the boxes, so here he was. “I’ll reiterate that it’s important for all Ministry officials present to keep speculation to a minimum, please. Miss White, tell us what occurred after you arrived at the destination.” 

Sarah shifted in her seat uncomfortably, crossing her arms over the table.  “I heard people talking and laughing upstairs, so I went up, because it didn’t even occur to me that this was some kind of elaborate torture plot; I was just terrified, confused, and wanted to see where the hell I was. When I got to the top my first thought was that it was some kind of satanic ritual—I’ve read about those in newspapers, you know. There was this group of people—mostly men— in black robes, and David and Julie were just kneeling down in front of them. It was like a scene out of a horror film, except it was all real.” A tear finally escaped from her eyes. Moody flipped through the stack of papers and placed a few that had photographs of possible Death Eaters down on the table in front of Sarah. She gasped and lurched back slightly. “Are-are they trapped inside the paper?” she asked, aghast. Arthur thought about how odd it must be to live in a world where photographs stayed still. 

“Sadly, no. You said you saw a group of people. Are any of the men you saw in these pictures?” Moody asked brusquely. Sarah scanned over the images and paused, before pointing. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange (Of course she’s involved…) Elden Mulciber (Not that surprising), Cantankerous Nott and Desmond Avery (These aren’t either, but it’s nice to finally get proof), Calder Wilkes (Now that one’s a surprise) and then, finally, Lucius Malfoy (Finally got you, you slippery bastard). Her eyes remained on Malfoy’s picture as her hand withdrew, before curling her fingers into her palms and biting her lip. Crouch said the names out loud for the enchanted quill before asking Sarah to continue, who looked as though she wished she were anywhere but here.

“When I saw Julie and David I called out to them like a moron, and the people in robes saw me and started laughing and mocking and generally acting like arseholes. I heard this popping sound and then Rabastan showed up. Lucius then did a spell on me and I couldn’t move or say anything.” She paused and then added in, almost as an afterthought: “That was the first spell he used on me. The first spell anyone ever used on me.” 

She stopped talking and she started fidgeting absentmindedly with the hem of her dress nervously, eyes clouded over. Crouch cleared his throat and she looked up, startled.

“S-sorry. Rodolphus did something with his wand and Julie and David woke up and started freaking out, asking what the fuck was going on and then Julie started crying and then she started having trouble breathing and started begging and all those fuckers just thought it was the funniest thing ever. I wanted to help her but I was completely helpless. I could talk but I couldn’t move. They just wanted me to watch,”  Tears were flowing freely from Sarah at this point. 

“Describe the spells these men used on Mr. Brown and Miss Williams,” said Crouch, “and if you can remember, please tell us which individual from the photographs cast which spells.”

“Ok. Well, um, Rodolphus and Rabastan used the pain curse on both of them.”

Moody looked up. “You call it ‘the’ pain curse. Why do you call it that?”

“Well, I mean, there are other curses that cause pain, but there’s only one like that. It’s the one where it feels like you’re getting stabbed by thousands of fiery daggers at once. I had it used on me, so that’s how I know.”

Obviously the Cruciatus. Moody must have thought so too, because he pushed the papers in front of Sarah and asked her to identify anyone else who cast the curse. She looked at Moody with a wry expression. “I was there for three months. Every single person there used it on me, most doing it more than once.” 

“What about Malfoy? How many times did he use it?” Moody asked. Lucius was their prime target, after all. 

Sarah’s expression became blank. “I don’t remember.” 

“Could you give an estimate?”

“No.” 

Moody blinked. Sarah seemed startled at her own bluntness and swallowed before elaborating, “It…it’s hard to describe what it was like, staying there for three months. It’s hard to remember details like that. He used it in the first month, but not too much after that. So I guess, compared to the others, it was like a…medium amount? Medium-low amount? Actually, for that particular spell, it was probably more on the lower end, compared to the others. That awful bitch Bellatrix was the worst. God, I hated her so much. The Lestrange brothers, Elden Mulciber, and Cantankerous Nott, were all really awful too. Oh, and Wilkes. Those were the ones who used it most often.”

Crouch nodded as the floating quill continued to write rapidly. “Please continue your testimony, Miss White.” 

“Ok. So, Wilkes did a spell where David couldn’t talk anymore, and then Nott used on Julie the same spell that caused me to be paralyzed. And then Mulciber used the mind control spell on David.”

The Imperius . Moody asked the same question he did last time with the Cruciatus, and Sarah gave the same answer: Everyone in the Acheron used the Imperius at least once. 

 “And Malfoy?” asked Moody.

“Why do you keep asking about Lucius?” she asked, frowning. “I thought the goal was to get everyone involved caught.”

Moody raised an eyebrow. “Well, considerin’ he was the one you kept going on about when the Aurors rescued you, I thought you’d have a lot to say about him.”

She seemed to shrink back in her seat. “He only used it once,” Sarah mumbled. She did not elaborate. Once is still enough to get a one-way trip to Azkaban .

“Did you see the Death Eaters use the Imperius—the mind control curse—on Malfoy?” Moody asked. 

“What? Why would—-no. No, I never saw that.”

Arthur didn’t bother hiding his grin. Moody pressed on, “How did Malfoy act? At any point in those three months, did he ever seem in a daze? Was there anything that led you to believe that he wasn’t in control of his actions?”

Sarah seemed startled by the question. “N-no, he never seemed to be in a daze…I don’t think anyone was controlling his mind, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve seen what it looks like when people are under control by magic, and Lucius never acted like that. He always seemed like himself.”

Moody seemed to be appraising Sarah closely, then mentioned something that Arthur was wondering about too. “Interesting you call him Lucius and the others by their surnames.”

The comment seemed to spark something in Sarah, as she sat up straighter and looked Moody directly in the eye, which was by no means an easy task. Her voice was even as she asked,  “What are you trying to say, exactly?”

It was a tense few seconds. Then, Moody raised up both his hands in a gesture of peace. “Easy there, kid. I just thought it was odd that you’d be on first-name basis with one of the wizarding bigwigs.” 

“It-it’s not like that,” she muttered in frustration. “I mentioned Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix by their first names too, but you didn’t make a big deal out of that.”

Moody shrugged. “All three have the same surname. It would've been confusing otherwise.”

“I think we’ve had enough of this digression,” Crouch cut in, giving Moody a look of warning. “Miss White, please continue.”

“Right, so, where I last left off…I think I said Mulciber—I’m sorry, Elden —- used the mind control spell. And then—” the previous fire dimmed from her eyes, “then, he used David to…to do things. To hurt Julie. Over and over again. I-I’m really not going to get into it, it's already in that first report, right?”

Crouch nodded, and Julie continued. “Um, so, near the end Julie just stopped crying and moving and I think everyone thought she was dead. And then David was released from control and he saw what happened to Julie and then started crying and saying he wouldn’t live with himself. And then Bellatrix—that evil, evil woman—used the mind control spell again and had him take a knife from the desk and s-slit his throat. Then Avery noticed that Julie was still breathing and Rodolphus said that she would be his and Rabastan’s pet. That’s what they called us, ‘pets.’ Anything to dehumanize us. And then the brothers took her away.”

She hesitated. “After that night, I….I saw Julie a few times. We weren’t allowed to interact, but I did see her. At first, she looked miserable but physically, she seemed intact. The next time, she seemed a bit worse. And then I saw her again a week after that and she was much worse. And then I didn’t see her at all. S-she’s dead, right?”

“Yes, Miss White. Miss Williams died three weeks after your arrival.” Crouch wisely left out the details of the conditions of the body, and what the Lestrange brothers put her through.The fact that a body was even found was noticeable–-the Acheron had a pit where they would be thrown after their death. According to Scrimgoeur, the Aurors suspected that they were planning on having them become Inferi. How do some people become so morally bankrupt?  “Now, I’m aware that the next part may cause some discomfort, but in order for us to build a case against these individuals who hurt you, we need you to tell us what happened.”

Sarah’s expression became blank again. “There’s not much to say, really. They didn’t plan on me being there, so they didn’t know what to do with me. Lucius said they should just kill me, but Nott said that would be a waste.” She shivered and clutched at her arms with white fingers. “It was decided that I would become one of the ‘pets,’ one of the slaves that lived in the house to be used and tortured and experimented on by these—these Death Eaters. Then it became another big argument about who would get me. Since she had partial ownership of the estate, Bellatrix got to make the final decision and gave me to Lucius, since I think they’re related somehow. The only one who didn’t want me ended up getting me. He took me upstairs and then…yeah. That was the first time when….well, it should all be there in that report.”

For the first time, Arthur became keenly aware that there were no other women in the room with them. We should have brought along Alice Longbottom , Arthur thought, annoyed. Crouch flipped through some papers frowning, and then asked, “So, am I to understand that the man you believe to be Lucius Malfoy was the only man who sexually assaulted you at Archeon?”

“No…I was with him the most though. The twisted way they set the whole thing up is that you’re a slave to everyone in the estate, but the person who officially ‘owns’ you takes priority and sets the parameters for what others can do to you, or some other basic things. Regardless of how you’re treated though, the end goal is always the same: Your owner has the Final Say in what happens to you. It’s this whole big thing—I only saw it twice, with Helen and then with Ian—two Muggles who came in later. It’s sick,” she whispered, voice quivering. “And it’s different every time, the way you die. It’s like they compete to see who can come up with the most twisted, more horrifying way to end your life.”

Moody rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking nonplussed. I’ll never understand how he can be exposed to these awful stories on a daily basis. “About how long would you say the Death Eaters kept the other Muggles?”

“I don’t know, it changes based on who the owner is. Some were more…impulsive and the human assigned to them didn’t last long. The average was maybe three weeks.”

“And you lasted three months. Why’s that?”

Sarah’s eyes grew colder. “I don’t know. Ask him when you arrest him.”

“Well, you’re in a better position to—”

Sarah stood up and glared at Moody, fists clenched. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m not an idiot; I know what you’re implying. And it’s not true. Let me make this abundantly clear:  I was raped. Lucius Malfoy raped me. All the other men in there raped me too. He hated me. All of them hated people—Muggles—like me. Everything at Archeon was all about power. Everything Lucius did was just meant to scare or humiliate or mess with my emotions. He’s a vile, wicked, and cruel man, and anytime he acts charming or pleasant or kind, it’s a facade. There were times when he’d make it so I’d almost forget where I was, but then it’d usually be accompanied by saying or doing something the next day or week that would make me want to die. I’m sure that was all part of the entertainment—-making me feel like…well, making me unsure about how I felt. Even now, I-I know he’s awful, so I don’t know why….” she trailed off, and a pained expression crossed her face. She swallowed before continuing. “In fact, that’s probably why he kept me alive for so long. He wanted the smug satisfaction of seeing me die while being completely and totally in l-love with my rapist and murderer. Well, joke’s on him, because t-that never happened. In fact, I’ll be the one living a long, happy life, and he’ll be dropping the soap in wizard jail. Did the flying notebook get all that?”

Crouch snapped his mouth shut and looked at the magic quill, which was still scratching furiously. “Yes, Miss White, we, er, we did,” he finally said. 

This poor kid… Arthur wanted to take her to the Burrow and have Molly cook her a hot, delicious meal. He side-eyed Moody, who—Arthur felt—was entirely out of line with his implications earlier. 

Moody, on the other hand, looked completely unmoved. Arthur wasn’t sure if he actually felt that way or if it was simply his Auror training, but nonetheless, Moody asked, ““Are you finished?” 

Arthur and—yes—Crouch turned to look at Moody in utter disbelief. What a sad day it must be when even Barty Crouch thinks you're acting like an insensitive arse. 

Sarah evidently thought so too, the way her mouth kept opening and closing, before sputtering out, “I don’t know, are you ?”

Moody studied her again for a moment, then actually gave a twitch of a smile. “Yeah, I am.” He gestured for her to take a seat, which she slowly did in confusion. “I’m asking the most questions about Malfoy because he’s the one who keeps slipping away from us., and we want to nail this bastard down.” 

Crouch gave a huff of protest; Ministry officials weren’t supposed to seem biased or personally invested when speaking with witnesses. Sarah didn’t seem to pick up on Crouch’s annoyance and Moody outright ignored it. “I see….that makes sense,” Sarah replied quietly. 

“Did he use any memory spells?” asked Moody.

Sarah looked taken aback by the question. “What?”

“Do you know if he used any memory spells on you?”

Oh. Arthur understood where this was going. Sarah thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe. I’m not sure. I know sometimes he’d talk to me and I wouldn't remember the specifics of what he said afterwards.” Arthur groaned inwardly; this line could come back to bite them. He glanced over at Moody, who seemed to think the same thing. 

Crouch, regaining his composure and sense of control, asked, “How often did you see the man you believe to be Lucius Malfoy?”

“Every few days. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.  He always made himself out to be this important person with a busy life, but I’m not sure how much of it was true and how much was bullshit. Clearly he had enough time to see me.” She hesitated. “He allowed me to stay in a room in the house instead of the cellar where most other Muggles were kept, so whenever I wasn’t ‘entertaining’ people, I went back there. A small creature would sometimes show up with food and water, but I don’t know how he got in or out. It kind of looked human, but had bigger ears and was much shorter. It was wearing rags. ”

“Do you know this creature’s name?” asked Crouch, leaning closer. It had to be a house-elf, and if they could identify the name…

“No. I think it was told not to speak to me.”

Damn.

“Is there anything else you feel we should know?” Crouch asked. 

Sarah paused, before telling them softly about Jane, Helen, Deborah, Ian, Jacqueline, Richard, and Paul, all of whom were other muggles who had the misfortune of being ‘pets’ to various Death Eaters and all died in different yet equally horrific ways before being tossed into the pit of potential Inferi. Some were there when she was first brought in, others arrived later, and Sarah tried her best to identify which Muggle ‘belonged’ to which Death Eater.

“Are you aware if the man you believe to be Mr. Malfoy was given ownership of any other muggle besides yourself?”

Sarah seemed to grow paler and bit her lip. “While I was there, it was just me. I know he had another person before me though. Her name was Caroline, and I think she was the only other one. I only know three things about her. I know his Final Say for her was especially brutal–don’t know the specifics though—and that she had brown hair. I also know this dress,” Sarah gestured to the flowered sundress she was wearing, “belonged to her. He would get really mad if I—or anyone else—asked questions about or mentioned her. I don’t know how long ago she died.”

“When was the last time you and the man you believe to be Mr. Malfoy spoke?”

“Um, about two days before the wizard police raided the estate, I guess. I-I don’t really remember much about what happened then. He and I—um, well, it was just kind of what normally happens and then afterwards he told me something but I forget what. I think…I think he said that it was going to end soon. He really was planning on killing me, I guess….is it weird that I’m kind of curious about how he wanted me to die?”

“Some things are better off not knowing,” Moody said gruffly. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Especially considering Caroline—-well, it doesn’t even matter now, anyway. The wizard police showed up two days later and asked me questions. That’s when I showed them the pit and they wrote that first report. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I woke up in some kind of hospital and a new person came in to ask me more questions, and he said I was going to speak with all of you tomorrow. They brought me into this room, and then you came in and that’s basically the whole story.”

It was at this point that the men began to ask more questions. Arthur only inquired about what happened to the coin, which Sarah replied fell out of her hand when she was transported to the mansion, and had no idea where it was now. Crouch and Moody asked her several more uncomfortable specifics about her treatment at the hands of the different Death Eaters, which she answered emotionlessly. They asked a few other questions about the Acheron itself, the results of which led to dead ends or didn’t reveal anything they didn’t know already. Arthur glanced at the clock; it would be over soon anyway.

“Well, Miss White,” said Mr. Crouch, standing up. Arthur started gathering the papers in a pile. “This is the end of our questions. We’d like to thank you for your cooperation.”  Sarah stood up too. 

“I-I’m glad I could help. At least there was some kind of silvering lining to all of this...you will catch him right? All of them?” 

“We’re going to damn well try, that’s for sure,” muttered Moody, giving Sarah a brief nod.  

Arthur couldn’t help blurting out, “I’m sorry you had to go through all this, Miss White. The men you saw…they don’t represent all wizards. There are plenty of us who believe in morals and basic decency. The upside is, you won’t have to think about this anymore.” 

A puzzled expression came over Sarah’s face. “I don’t understand. I obviously want to move on from all this, but isn’t there some kind of wizard court I need to go to?”

“Your testimony was already recorded,” replied Crouch brusquely, gesturing to the quill and notebook, which were now floating back into his hands. “The Obliviator will be here any moment now.”

Sarah’s face shifted from a look of confusion to horrified realization as it dawned on her what was going to happen. “You-you’re not going to erase my memory, are you?” she whispered.

“Er-yes? That’s standard procedure,” Arthur replied, smile faltering. At Sarah’s look of panic and growing anger, Arthur rushed to explain. “It’ll-It’ll be better this way,  I promise, Miss White! It allows our world to keep its secrecy, and you won’t have to think about the horrible brutality you witnessed and suffered through.”

“B-But this happened ,” Sarah cried out, voice raised as tears welled up again in her eyes. “It happened to me . It happened to my best friend and her boyfriend. Erasing my memories isn’t going to make it not happen. You can’t do this! ” 

“We’re helping you, Miss White–”

“Don’t bother, Arthur,” Crouch interrupted, “the Obliviatior’s here already.”

Sure enough, the Obliviator walked in smiling, along with a scrawny young, nervous-looking man who looked to be about Sarah’s age, possibly a couple years older. Must be a trainee. 

“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” Sarah begged, tears falling. “Let me just have my memories. I’ve lost so much already, just let me keep this, please.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, Miss,” the Obliviator said cheerfully. “We hear talk like that from Muggles all the time. After it’s done, they’re none the wiser and go merrily on their little way. Grayson here’ll do a bang-up job, no need to worry your pretty little head. Isn’t that right, Grasyon?” Grayson’s eyes grew wider as he clutched his wand, nodding stiffly. Sarah’s eyes reflected despair and desperation as she looked at Arthur imploringly

“Please…you said you wanted to help ,” she begged. “You said you weren’t like the others! B-but you lied!” The anger and despair that was festering inside her for the past three months finally had an outlet. Tears flowed down Sarah’s cheeks as she started shouting through her sobs, “Y-you’re just as bad as they are! At least they were upfront with how much they hated us, but you and the people here, we’re like pets to you too, right? Stupid Muggles who can’t do magic, so who cares if we fuck around inside their heads? You don’t think of us as human either. The o-only difference is that you…you all pretend to have some kind of moral high ground because you don’t t-torture us to death. The bar’s so low it must be in hell. I hate you people s-so fucking much.” 

“Goodbye, Miss White,” Crouch said loudly as he exited the room with Moody, Arthur quickly hurrying behind them before shutting the door. He wanted to say something, wanted to convince her that the Ministry was nothing like the Death Eaters, wanted to let her know that he spends his days making sure Muggles like her were safe, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Deep, deep down, an often-ignored part of Arthur whispered that her arguments had some merit. After all, Arthur frequently found himself amazed at Muggle ingenuity in a way akin to how some Muggles might view Chimpanzees using tools. While he liked and admired them as a group, he did think of them as lesser in a way, and it was uncomfortable to be called out on it.

“Don’t think much of it, Arthur,” grunted Moody as he glanced over. “It is what it is. It’s her right to be angry, but there’s no gettin’ around the Statue of Secrecy. You’re doing good work, keeping Muggles safe.” He turned to Crouch. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“The interview went about how I expected,” said Crouch flatly. “It clearly points to Malfoy, but she admitted her mind was addled to some degree. A competent defense can easily claim that her perception of Malfoy’s behavior was influenced by that. Nothing stopping him from claiming he was under the Imperius himself.” 

“Yeah, I thought the same thing,” Moody agreed grimly. “We can use the information that’s corroborated by other sources, but her testimony alone won’t be enough to lock away a man who practically shits Galleons. That aside, we also don’t even know how much of what she said was fully accurate.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise. “You think she was lying?”

“Hmmm, not purposefully. But I think she was holding back to some degree.” Arthur remembered getting that distinct feeling too. “Could be for a couple reasons. What happened could’ve been even worse than what she told us, and talking about it with a bunch of strange old men could’ve made her feel awkward or embarrassed. Or she might’ve developed some kind of twisted loyalty or affection towards him–don’t give me that look, Arthur, it’s happened before and she practically admitted it in there—and because of that, she might feel compelled to keep quiet about certain things. Or maybe she’s just scared shitless that he’ll come back after her, or hell, maybe it’s as simple as not genuinely remembering specifics because he really did use a lot of charms to fuck around with her head.”

“According to the initial reports, she did seem a bit addled,” Crouch agreed. “When the Aurors rescued her from the room, she kept telling them that there were objects they should take in order to get his fingerprints. Why she would think looking at a fingerprint would be of critical importance to anyone is beyond me.”

Moody shrugged. “Guess none of this even really matters anymore. We got what we needed, so we’ll use whatever we can to try to make it so our case won’t fall like a house of cards.” 

“Moody, were some of those comments really necessary back there?” Arthur couldn’t help but ask. “After all she’s been through…”

“Ah, that. Well, the whole story seemed too convenient at first. The only witness we have for Malfoy’s involvement, and she happens to be the only one in the house at the time of the raid? And she happens to survive for significantly longer than all the others, for no discernable reason? If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. She could have been someone polyjuiced as Sarah White, for all I knew. I asked those questions to press her and see if she would slip up. But if it makes you feel better, Arthur, I do believe her story overall.”

Arthur frowned. “I still don’t like you approaching this as some kind of experiment. Sarah’s a real person with feelings.”

Moody sighed. “Yeah, I know. But Crouch didn’t bring me in because I’m so kind to people, now did he?”

Crouch rolled his eyes and was about to respond when they heard a loud creaking noise. The door opened and the Obliviators walked out, the trainee looking even more wide-eyed than before and the senior one with his wand out, with a cheerful smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Behind them, Sarah was floating with her eyes closed, expression serene and peaceful. It really is for the best, Arthur tried to convince himself. 

“Everything’s in order, gentlemen! We’ll get this little lady back home in no time. Quite the lively little one, eh?” he laughed. 

“Thank you, Peasegood,” Crouch nodded. The Obliviators walked down the hallway with Sarah, Arthur’s forlorn expression following them. Then, after a brief discussion about the logistics and future of the case, the three men went their separate ways.

This day would often resurface Arthur’s mind sporadically, but as time marched on, the memory dimmed. He became preoccupied with new Death Eater incidents and new ways to preserve Muggle safety, as well as the new additions to his family. Eventually, Sarah White found herself on the doorstep of her mother’s house one day, in a flowered sundress she didn’t remember buying, with vague recollections of meeting a gentleman with long blonde hair near a telephone box, and abandoning her university plans  in order to live with him in a lovely mansion by the sea. Eventually, the local police would be inundated with frantic calls from Marie White, begging them to look into her daughter’s story, saying that she was a studious, responsible girl who would never do something like this, that the man must have drugged her since so much of the story doesn’t add up, please, please look into it . Eventually, the police would stop mocking Mrs. White’s calls and became preoccupied with two new problems: the disappearance of David Brown, aspiring magician, and the death of his girlfriend, Julie Williams, whose mangled and broken body was found washed up on shore. Though it couldn’t be proven, what happened was clear. Surely, David Brown killed his girlfriend and ran away, the neighbors tittered. And the condition of the poor girls’ body–how dreadful! Who knew David Brown was so depraved? It’s too bad her best friend ran away with a man, otherwise she might have been able to see the problems in the relationship that must have been there and could have warned the poor thing. 

Eventually, the story of Julie Williams and David Brown became a curious footnote to the town of Amberton’s otherwise-uneventful history, and while the feeling of overwhelming guilt and sorrow did not leave Sarah whenever she thought of the couple, she too became preoccupied with a new development in life. Eventually, Sarah would give birth to a baby girl that she felt compelled to name Diana, after the protector of women and chastity, and wondered why the sight of the baby’s blonde hair and grey eyes made her want to cry. Eventually, her recollections would begin to shift over time–memories she once imagined to be bright and cheerful took on a darker tint. Did she really choose to spend most of her time inside because she was afraid of the water? Was there really a butler who would deliver food? Were her lover’s friends really as nice as she remembered? Did her lover actually love her? Eventually, years later, there would be a moment while Sarah was washing the dishes, as she often did, where the gears in her mind—either by fate or chance— shifted and clicked back into place, and her world suddenly made both significantly more and significantly less sense. The plate shattered on the ground as she let out a howl of grief, fury, and despair. 

But in another world, celebrations and festivities were reverberating all throughout. The Dark Lord was defeated by a child, causing the Death Eaters to effectively lose all their power and influence. And eventually, the law did catch up with Lucius Malfoy and the name “Sarah White” was brought into the public sphere for the first time, but as Crouch suspected, it wasn’t able to keep its grasp on him, and he slipped away yet again. Lucius slept many nights content and restful, gorgeous wife curled up peacefully by his side. He would be able to provide his young son with a good life and sizable inheritance, and while not everything in Lucius’s life would come smooth and easy, it was a far better life than Arthur believed he deserved. 

Eventually though, that would all come to an end. The past has a habit of catching up with us when we least expect it, and not wanting to remember our sins doesn’t mean those sins never happened. And eventually, Lucius would, of course, face his reckoning for the sins committed against Sarah White. But that would be another day, and for now he drifted off into sleep, dreaming faintly of salty sea air and screams.

Chapter Text

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Welcome.”

Lucius Malfoy exited the fireplace and gave a well-rehearsed smile to the rotund man sitting in the plush armchair in front of him, who was—at the moment—folding up his copy of the Daily Prophet and placing it on the nearby table. Lucius strode towards him as the man quickly stood up to shake his hand. “Burgess, always a pleasure. Though I confess, I wished that we were meeting under better circumstances. It’s been over a year since we met for recreational purposes.”

“Yes, the Yuletide dinner at the Greengrass house, if I’m not mistaken. Ha! I’m surprised I can remember that much, given the drinks,” he chucked. While Burgess Borthwick’s tone was light and casual, Lucius took a moment to eye him over and noticed his jaw was slightly clenched, and there were a few beads of sweat on his forehead. This made Lucius frown inwardly, but it wasn’t as though he expected anything different, considering the reason for his visit. Borthwick’s expression sobered. “Mr. Malfoy, I would like to offer my deepest sympathy for your father's current condition. Dragon Pox has claimed many great men throughout the centuries. And Abraxas, while not without his share of controversy, is without question a great man who made contributions to our world that cannot be understated.”  

That much is true, at least . “Your sympathy is appreciated, Burgess,” lied Lucius. “The thought of my dear father passing away soon weighs heavily on me and my family. Our time on this Earth never seems to be enough, but Father can at least ascend into the afterlife knowing that he is loved and cherished.” 

Borthwick couldn’t hide a small twitch of a smile at that shameless display of bullshit, but wisely chose not to say anything. Pressing on, Lucius asked, “The letter I received from you indicated that there were some changes regarding my father’s will and the state of the inheritance. I’ll admit I’m curious as to why this meeting needed to be held at the Westwell Estate and not Malfoy Manor.”

Lucius knew why, but wanted Borthwick to say it. Borthwick’s fingers twitched ever-so-slightly. “Ah, well, it was at the request of your father. You see, Mr. Malfoy—you father, I mean—thought some of the changes within the will might result in further questions, which he claims he will be more than happy to answer. Given his condition, however, it would be inadvisable for him to travel to the Manor, as it might advance the progression of his illness. As I legally represent your father and will be overseeing the eventual distribution of assets, I felt it prudent to request this meeting in a way that was most convenient to the elder Mr. Malfoy.”

“Not to worry at all, Burgess, I was merely curious. So, what are these changes, exactly?” Lucius asked lightly, as though he hadn’t been obsessively mulling over possible answers to that question for days. Borthwick swallowed and glanced up the staircase. Father, you’ve got this one on a tight leash . 

“I-I was specifically told by your father to let him be the one to tell you. You two will be speaking privately while I remain down here in the drawing room, and afterwards the two of us will discuss the will.” 

One didn’t have to be a Divination prodigy to tell that the conversation between father and son would most likely go poorly. Whatever it is, he wants to see my expression. But Lucius’s smile didn’t fall or even show a hint of discomfort as he nodded at Borthwick and made his way up the winding staircase. 

Westwell Estate was a summer property that had been in the Malfoy family for generations. Abraxas had moved permanently to Westwell once Lucius married Narcissa, which couldn’t have pleased Lucius more. He would not have put it past his father to keep the main family home of Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire to himself and relegate Lucius and his wife to one of their smaller properties, considering Abraxas was still technically the head of the family ( For now, at least) . As reached the top floor and started walking down the corridor, he ignored the faded pictures of his long-deceased older siblings, who were now peering curiously at him through their frames and began following him. 

“Oh, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” jeered Cassius, his eldest brother. “Things too comfy up there in Malfoy Manor? Must be nice, being able to spend your days rolling in the thousands of Galleons that you stole from me.” As he drifted into the nearest painting, he nudged an image of Lucius’s eleven-year-old self out of the way, who gave a startled cry of protest and looked at his older counterpart with a frown, but made no attempt to follow him, unlike his older siblings. 

“He didn’t steal anything from you , Cassius,” Gaius rolled his eyes as he lazily stepped over a snake that was hissing in the grass of one of the paintings. “You know father always meant for me to inherit everything. He knew you would squander away the fortune we worked so tirelessly to build.”

“‘We.’ Ha! That’s rich coming from you. You haven’t done shit–”

“Stop it, both of you!” scolded Valeria, gently leaning up against the tree that she would later hang herself from shortly after that picture was painted. “Lucius, it’s good that at least one of us was able to leave. Please don’t feel guilty about that.” Oh, I most certainly don’t. And this was true. 

Nonetheless, his eyes drifted for a fraction of a second to an empty space in the wall where his younger sister Lavinia’s portrait used to be. If it was there, Lucius knew that she would let him walk to his father in peace without being bothered and talked at by ghosts of the past that he would prefer to forget. She always had a keen intuition for how he was feeling. But even before her painting was taken down, her image never moved or talked. It couldn’t. That was one of the key signs that something was amiss. 

Lucius considered for a brief second about asking Valeria if she knew what Abraxas was planning, but quickly decided against it. A painting was just a painting, after all: an echo, a remnant of the person who was once its subject. Lucius loathed interacting with them and had a somewhat childish and illogical view that the more he acknowledged them, the more ‘real’ they would become. No, that wouldn’t do. All his brothers and sisters were dead; they had been for some time. 

Also , he thought idly as he turned the doorknob, the man’s always been infamously paranoid. Surely he wouldn’t have any paintings in this room, where they could listen in and gossip freely. 

Lucius’s thoughts were confirmed as he walked into the darkly lit room. There was an unfamiliar fruity scent in the air, the origin appearing to be a small potted tree in the corner with what looked like upside-down radishes growing from it. Dirigible plums, he thought with disdain. Superstitious fool . Curtains drawn over the windows only let a bit of sunlight through, but it was enough to see the silhouette of his father hunched at his desk, rapidly scribbling on a sheet of paper with his back to the entrance and Jormungandr, the serpentine cane (or walking stick—-the Malfoys used the terms interchangeably) signifying headship of the family, propped next to him. 

It was with great difficulty that Lucius restrained himself from rolling his eyes. When Lucius was growing up, Abraxas often would call his son into his study, where he would make Lucius stand and wait—sometimes for hours—until Abraxas finished whatever task he was occupied with before either administering whatever punishment he had in mind or, occasionally, giving advice. The message was clear: “My time is valuable, and yours is not.” But Lucius was no longer a child, and could see it for what it was: A sad, pathetic old man trying to cling on to the little power and relevancy that was rapidly slipping from his grasp every day. And unlike Abraxas, Lucius now was the one with a busy life and places to be. 

He tried to keep the smirk out of his voice as he addressed Abraxas: “Father, it warms my heart to see you up and about. From what the healers have told me recently, movement only comes with you with great difficulty.” 

Lucius heard what might have been a chortle come from Abraxas, as his father slowly turned around to face him. Lucius didn’t bother to hide his smug expression anymore. The greenish and purple tinge that once covered a little more than half his father’s skin had receded in order to make way for the final and lethal stage of the Dragon Pox: a grey, rough, charred texture that made him look more like a walking corpse than a living man. “I’m not dead quite yet, boy, though your cunt of a mother certainly tried her damndest.” It was an open secret that Aurelia Malfoy was the one who intentionally provided him with the handkerchief that carried the disease. “Now shut the door; I don’t want your nosy siblings listening in like a gaggle of bored housewives.”

“My siblings are no longer alive, Father,” Lucius replied automatically, though he did what he was told, over the protests of the paintings in the hall. 

“Of course I know that . Otherwise I wouldn’t have to deal with all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely in Lucius’s direction. Now that the door was shut, Abraxas leaned back in his chair and eyed Lucius over. “Well, if nothing else, you at least present yourself decently. Cassius’s aesthetic sensibilities were so poor, I wondered on more than one occasion if he was fathered by Septimus Weasley. I hear you have to deal with his son in the Ministry. How is the young Arthur?” 

Lucius scowled. “Trying to push through legislation that erodes our kind’s natural rights and props up the Muggles and the Mudbloods, as per usual. He’s a blood traitor if I ever saw one, and his broodmare of a wife ensures that the spawn they can’t afford to take care of will continue to perpetuate their misguided beliefs.” 

“Then it’s certainly a boon to the Ministry to have you working so diligently in order to help stem the tide. And there’s one further embellishment that can enhance your authority to these simpletons. A man’s appearance and the power he wields are often closely intertwined.”  

With that, Abraxas gestured to his left, where Jormungandr lay undisturbed. Lucius blinked, then looked back to Abraxas, who was smiling in a way that Lucius had rarely seen before—a smile that didn’t look quite so malicious and could have perhaps even been genuine. 

“Am I to understand,” Lucius finally said after a long pause, “that you wish for me to officially be recognized as the patriarch of the Malfoy family?” 

To be able to use the family heirloom to conceal one’s wand beneath the gem-encrusted serpent was a high honor, and Lucius thought the only way he would ever receive Jormungandr would be to literally pry it out of Abraxas’s cold dead hands. This has to be some kind of trap . 

Abraxas nodded. “Yes, I do. It should come as no surprise that I never expected nor—in the interest of pure transparency—even wanted you to be my heir. And yet, out of my five children, only you remain. That says a great deal about your ability, Lucius.” 

Hearing compliments, albeit backhanded ones, from Abraxas was unusual. “Thank you, Father,” Lucius replied evenly. 

Abraxas leaned over and picked up the cane, caressing the head of the snake with an almost forlorn expression and murmured, perhaps to himself, “I truly believed Gaius would be the one to have this.” 

Fucking Gaius. Lucius clenched his teeth at the mention of the name. For over a decade, Abraxas suspected Lucius of being the one who poisoned his favorite son’s drink, and made it his personal mission to be as obstructive and spiteful to Lucius as possible. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Lucius didn’t kill, or even want to kill, his sibling—-after all, Abraxas only ascended to being head of the household by orchestrating the deaths of his own two older brothers. He erroneously projected his experiences onto his youngest son, and it was only after a very thorough and expensive investigation that he was finally cleared in Abraxas’s eye. Naturally, his father didn’t apologize.

“Perhaps this is Fate at work,” mused Abraxas, touching the green gemstone eye absentmindedly. “Your eldest brother suspected that I would rather see him dead than to make him patriarch, which drove him to solidify his position by sending the poisoned bottle to his younger brother, under the guise of a gift. A foolish move; it would have been far more advantageous for him to have killed me instead, but then again, Cassius was never a particularly bright boy. Nonetheless, if he were successful, I daresay Cassius would have one day extended this same sense of paranoia and insecurity to you too, Lucius.” 

Abraxas neglected to acknowledge that Cassisus’s suspicions were entirely correct and that Abraxas did, in fact, have him killed. 

“But alas,” he continued, ignoring Lucius’s impatient expression,“I was overconfident, as is customary for men in our position. And when Gaius broke open that bottle to celebrate during that Yuletide celebration many years later, I didn’t think to ask of its origins. After all, the past was a distant memory by then—he certainly wouldn’t have opened the bottle, had he remembered its giver. Or perhaps he would have and, just as I did, underestimated Cassius.  But the lesson learned that day by everyone present during that memorable evening was that no man, no matter how great, can ever truly escape his past. The past is simply the prologue that determines the direction of your future, whether you are aware of it or not.” His eyes locked on to Lucius and possessed an uncomfortable gleam. “And now, you stand before me, the culmination of generations upon generations of our line. Overlooked, just like that bottle of wine that sat collecting dust for so many years, and possessing the same pernicious edge as well. This,” he said, finally placing Jormungandr in Lucius’s hands, “is yours.”

The heirloom was something Lucius always associated with his father throughout his life, and as he held it, he felt all those familiar emotions rush back to him: Awe, frustration, respect, fear, bitterness, uncertainty, love, hatred. “I am honored, Father.” Even though I had to sit through your pretentious ramblings to get it. 

“You should be. You and you alone will be charting the course of the family’s future. And now that you have this,” he gestured towards the cane and frowned, “I suggest using it. That boy of yours is a brat.” 

In comparison to the upbringing of children in other Pureblood families, Lucius would be seen as a fairly strict and exacting parent. In Abraxas’s view, however,  Lucius was too permissive and Abraxas never passed on an opportunity to give unsolicited parenting advice. He knew from past experience that conversations like this would go nowhere, so instead asked, “Has Borthwick been notified about the transfer?”

Abraxas waved the question away impatiently as Lucius unclasped the snakehead to find that his father’s wand was already removed. “Yes, all the necessary paperwork has been filed earlier today.” Lucius waited a few seconds for Abraxas to continue, but he did not.

With frustration, Lucius realized that Abraxas was waiting for him to bring up the contents of Borthwick’s letter. He wasn’t going to play his father’s game just yet, though. 

Lucius took his own wand and attached it to the snakehead, a thrill of pride running through him. “Since we’re being… transparent with one another, I’ll confess I was taken by surprise that you would acknowledge me as the head of household. I was always under the impression that the title would be yours for as long as you remained on the mortal coil.” 

Abraxas sighed and Lucius could see the weariness on what remained of his face. “It appears as though we’re both of similar minds in that regard. In truth, my reluctance to have you as my successor compelled me to request a Blood Tracing. Given my proclivities before this accursed illness, I believed there was a strong possibility of fathering some illegitimate bastard. I was curious to see if they would be impressive enough to deserve consideration for the position.”

 Lucius carefully kept his expression neutral, though he felt his heart starting to beat rapidly. Blood Tracing was a complicated ritual that involved rare ingredients and was usually very expensive. It was typically only sanctioned in case of Pureblood inheritance disputes, and many chose not to do it simply due to concern of what nasty surprises might be found. Could that be the reason for Borthwick’s nervousness? As legal advisor and manager of the will, he would have been there. How the hell did this not get leaked to me? 

Abraxas smirked. “No need to worry; I named you as my successor, didn’t I? For all that time and effort, I saw, clear as day, that you were my only living child.”  

“Then I fail to see the reason for these theatrics. Father, I appreciate you naming me the official head of the family, though—as I’m sure you’re aware—I’ve been acting in that capacity for almost a decade now, and the vast majority of our kind already view me as the Malfoy patriarch. And—as I’m also sure you’re aware—I have an extremely busy schedule because of it. I arrived at Westwell purely because of Borthwick’s letter regarding the inheritance, a topic which, up to this point, has not been mentioned once. So I will ask you, plainly and upfront: What is the change you are making to the will?”

Abraxas blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “Emboldened now that you’re the one holding our symbol, is that right?  That tirade must have been cathartic. I’ll answer your question plainly, too: The change I made is that you won’t be getting a single knut unless you fulfill a very specific condition of mine.” 

A silence descended on the room. Inwardly, Lucius was experiencing a level of hatred and rage he had not felt since before the Dark Lord’s death. Outwardly, his expression remained (albeit with great difficulty) impassive, though his grip on Jormungandr became much, much tighter. “And what condition is that?”

“As I was saying before your unmannerly interruption, I performed the Blood Tracing. I was found to only have one child, but to my surprise and delight, I found that I had two grandchildren.” 

It couldn’t have been Lavinia or Valeria, so that must mean… ”Cassius or Gaius?”

“Ha! That would make things easier for you, I’m sure. But no—the name that arose was connected to you. Congratulations, Lucius. You have a daughter.”

“That’s impossible,” Lucius immediately responded.

 It was impossible for several reasons. First, unlike his father, Lucius loved his wife and never considered for a moment the possibility of having an affair with another witch. Second, even if he did, he couldn’t have more children. Two years after his trial, Lucius found himself cursed by a vengeful husband of an Auror he killed in battle. He barely remembered the woman, but the husband clearly did not forget how his wife’s killer slipped away from the Wizengamot unscathed and decided to take justice into his own hands through the use of blood magic. Now the husband was in Azkaban, and the only remnant of the curse was Lucius’s sterility, as the husband mistakenly believed the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to create more Pureblood children would devastate him. In fact, it did the opposite. Lucius was always concerned about giving Draco siblings, as he feared his children would repeat the dynamics of his siblings and his uncles. Not having to worry about that possibility was like a weight off his chest. Until now, apparently. 

Abraxas’s smile grew wider. “Don’t take my word for it. You can see a copy of the records here.” His father handed one of the papers that was on the desk, which Lucius quickly snatched. He saw the records of the living Malfoys descended from Abraxas: Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Draco Lucius Malfoy, and a Diana Marie White, the latter two being identified as coming from Lucius. He felt a growing sense of dread; “Marie” wasn’t a proper name for a witch child. Who the fuck is Diana Marie White? He scanned the bottom and saw that it was authentic and signed; Borthwick was the expected legal representative present, and Griphook to represent Gringotts. 

“I don’t know who this is,” Lucius replied honestly.

Abraxas frowned, as if Lucius was purposely trying to spoil his fun. “Really? The name doesn’t ring any bells at all? Has it really been so long that you’ve forgotten the details of your own trial?” 

The realization finally came, and it was as though a bucket of ice cold water was poured over him. Diana…White. White. Sarah White. The Acheron. Fucking hell . 

Several different feelings came to Lucius at once. It was a name that Lucius had not thought of in years, a name that was a simple footnote in dusty legal documents. A name of a moment in time that he actively tried and succeeded in forgetting, a name that was now clawing back to the present, determined to be remembered. If this were to get out…Lucius began to grow lightheaded. What would Narcissa say? What would Draco say? This is going to absolutely ruin me. 

“I take it you remembered,” Abraxas drawled with a smug expression. 

Lucius thought carefully on how to respond next, and steadied himself for either response he would receive, unsure which answer would be worse. “Is she a witch?”

There was a pause. “Yes,” Abraxas said, smiling. Lucius relaxed slightly, though that answer brought a completely new set of problems. “Septima Vector sent me a letter confirming it; your daughter’s name is in the Book of Admittance. She was raised amidst the rabble, so they’ll be sending one of the first year teacher’s to bring her into our ways soon. I’m telling you this now so you can make necessary preparations.”

“I take it that your ‘condition’ of the inheritance relates to this girl?” He couldn’t bring himself to call her his “daughter.” Lucius Malfoy fathered a Half-blood child with a Muggle…the headlines could write themselves. The Daily Prophet would be on this story quicker than starving dragons upon a fattened cow. 

“It does. You see, my condition is simple: in order to get your full allotment of the inheritance, you must formally acknowledge the child’s paternity and legitimize her. I want her adopted into the household, and not just tossed money occasionally like the Burkes did with their bastard.” 

“ Why on Earth would you ever want me to do something so self-sabotaging?”  

“I’m getting to that. If she dies before she comes of age, then the money and belongings I will be set aside for her will be automatically given to various Pureblood legacy preservation charities, and will decidedly not go to her next of kin.”

Lucius let out a sharp laugh. “What, you’re concerned I’ll kill her to get the money? While I know it’s difficult for you to understand, there are people in this world who don’t entertain the idea of killing their offspring when they stop being convenient. What I’m grappling with now is the reasoning behind this decision, if there truly is any reasoning beyond simple animosity. Surely you must realize the ramifications of this. I’m well aware of your misgivings about me and my son, but I never expected you to be so petty as to drag the entire Malfoy name into the gutter in order to…what? Prove a point? What would your father say about this, to see you be willing to destroy everything this family has built to satisfy your own ego?”

Abraxas’s eyes flashed dangerously as he stood as tall as his illness would allow him and snarled, “You impudent little shit. I earned my father’s trust and confidence, while you have neither, and never did.”

“Why? Because I shared a womb with a squib?” Lucius sneered. “Because you’d rather trust your ‘gut feeling’ and old wives tales over the opinions of every single medical professional who told you plainly that, no, there is no such thing as ‘womb taint,’ and that my magic wasn’t impacted by her existence existence anymore than your precious Gaius? My academic records should have put those concerns to rest.”

Abraxas scoffed. “You salivating over that Half-blood upstart and his band of lemmings just reinforced my belief that there was something inherently wrong with you. No self-respecting Pureblood would join a revolutionary movement when the status quo suits us perfectly fine. Draco’s woefully limited critical thinking ability and poor conduct don’t exactly reassure me either, though that’s likely due to your poor parenting more than anything else.” 

“And you think bringing in a Half-blood child will…what is it you think, exactly? What’s the desired outcome, besides leaving my reputation in shambles? Or is that enough of a hook for you?” 

Abraxas gave a sigh and slowly sat down. The anger seemed to have left him, leaving a tired old man that looked his age for the first time in the conversation. “Approaching death in this way has been a humbling and haunting experience,” he finally said. “It’s made me reassess many aspects of my life, and consider what could have and should have been done differently. My life that I’m experiencing now is the culmination of all my past actions that led me on this path. A path that—despite our many differences—I don’t want you to follow, Lucius. Altering the will is all meant for the benefit of that goal.” 

Lucius stared in disbelief for a moment, then couldn’t help but let a quiet laugh escape. “Oh, my. I was warned that this might happen. Finding spirituality in old age can be especially appealing for a man with a litany of sins such as yours. And if Abraxas Malfoy has a problem, he naturally needs to make it everyone else’s problem.”

“It’s your problem, son, not mine. This child would exist and go to Hogwarts regardless of whether or not I set forth this condition in the will. She exists because you kept company with inbred fools who encouraged you to be reckless and stupid. And even after narrowly escaping Azkaban, you still associate with their ilk. You haven’t learned anything from that experience, it seems. Poor company is poison to great men.”

“Easy to say for a man who keeps no company.” 

Abraxas gave a wry smile. “I suppose so. Luckily, it’s given me ample time for other pursuits, which have proven far more valuable.” 

His gaze drifted to the tea cup on the left of the desk. What, he now fancies himself to be some kind of amateur tea connoisseur? Or perhaps he—oh no. 

No. 

NO . 

Lucius strode forward to get a better look at the cup, and found his suspicions to be correct. A wave of fury enveloped him. 

“You’re taking away my inheritance because the fucking tea leaves told you to ?” snarled Lucius. 

Abraxas had always been a paranoid man prone to superstition, something Lucius and his sisters would giggle about when they were children. There were always hushed rumors that Abraxas had the genuine Sight, but if that were true, Abraxas never let it be known publicly or even privately to his own family. When Lucius was older, Avery would tell him that perhaps those rumors were on to something, given the amount of fortune and success he accumulated over the years. Complete and utter nonsense, in Lucius’s opinion. There were so many things that Abraxas should have known otherwise. No, his father was just insane. That’s all there is to it. 

“I’m not ‘taking it away.’ I made it incredibly easy for it to be yours, you ungrateful brat. And they didn’t ‘tell me’ to do anything—they simply showed me what would happen to this family if you continue the path you are on.”

“Divination is rubbish. Once I go downstairs, I’m going straight to Borthwick and using this as proof that Dragon Pox has rendered you mentally incompetent. Using a tea cup to determine the fate of the family…Gods above, what utter lunacy.”  

“Oh, I’ve already been found to be perfectly competent—I made sure to do so when changing the will, since I knew you’d just keep bitching for any excuse to render it null and void otherwise.”

“I can’t possibly imagine why.”

“What you don’t understand is that this really is for your benefit. I confirmed my predictions with more than just tea leaves. I used tarot cards, crystal-gazing, dream interpretation, pyromancy, and ornithomancy.”

For a split second, Lucius had the impulse to beat his father to death with Jormungandr in the same way Abraxas allegedly did to one of Nobby Leach’s assistants.

“Well, I suppose if the birds say so, then it must be true.”

“ And I also used my own knowledge, skills, and life experience to make the decision.” He frowned at Lucius. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what the Fates showed me?”

“No.”

Abraxas ignored him. “I saw your old boss. Little Tommy Riddle, coming back around again, like a persistent weed.” Lucius’s blood ran cold. “Going back to pretending he was someone else, instead of some unholy mixture of an incestuous fallen bloodline and Muggle stock.”

“Show some respect,” hissed Lucius frantically, as if Voldemort himself was standing in the hallway, ear pressed against the door. “He’s the heir of Salazar Slytherin!”

Abraxas snorted. “ Respect’? Why on earth should I give him that? What has Tom Riddle done to earn my respect? Because he's powerful? Gellert Grindelwald was powerful. Did I respect him and his ludicrous idea of revealing us to the Muggles? Do I respect the Smiths because they descended from Helga Hufflepuff, or am I supposed to kowtow only to Riddle because I happened to be sorted into the house named after his ancestor?”

This felt like blasphemy. Lucius opened his mouth to protest, but Abraxas kept going. 

“I knew Tom Riddle since the very first day he dragged his little orphan arse to the Slytherin table. I witnessed his sad and fruitless quest to ‘fit in’ with the other Slytherins. I was there in the common room the day he proved his ancestry, acting like he was a god in human form instead of a child who hissed at a garden snake. I saw him clutching desperately onto this idea of having a famous ancestor as if it were a security blanket.  I never bought into any of his horseshit, and the whole reason he drew you into his cult was to get back at me, like I've told you many times before.” 

“While it may be hard for you to believe, Father, the Dark Lord had genuine faith in my abilities.” 

Abraxas looked at Lucius with what could perhaps be described as pity. “He had genuine faith in your ability to give him an obscene amount of money and help finance his little operation. He had genuine faith that having the son of Abraxas Malfoy by his side would give a veneer of legitimacy to his group of instigators. He had genuine faith that you could use your influence to delude scions of powerful families into believing that it was worth it to jump off cliffs for this fool. Quite sad, really. ” 

Lucius gritted his teeth. “ If the Dark Lord does return, then the most prudent course of action would be to remain his loyal subject.”

“Not if he loses.”

Lucius blinked. While he was generally satisfied with his current life, he often wondered what it would be like if the Dark Lord really did return. These daydreams would often end with himself as his Lord’s right hand man, Mudbloods and Muggles in their proper place, and his family being lionized and revered for generations upon generations. Other times, they would end with the Dark Lord brutally killing him and his family as punishment for denying and rejecting his allegiance after the Dark Lord’s fall ten years ago. Not once did he ever consider the possibility of the Dark Lord rising and losing…again.

“That won’t happen. He’s far too strong.”

“He was killed by a fucking baby the first time. Is it that hard to believe he’ll be killed again when that baby’s an adult?” 

“What exactly is it you want from me, Father?” Lucius snapped. “And how does any of this relate to the girl?” 

“I’ll get to that. But when he returns—and he will—I don’t want you to trail after him like you did before, like some simpering, lovesick maiden in awe of the man who took her virginity. My goal is for you to either remain neutral or participate to some extent in whatever opposition emerges.”

Delusional. Completely delusional. Lucius rolled up his sleeve to show his father the Dark Mark, causing Abraxas to curl his lip and recoil in disgust. 

“I don’t need the symbol of your willing subjugation shoved in my face! It’s an insult to—”

“Do you realize what this is? What this means? I took an oath . This bonds me to him and his goals, which I support wholeheartedly. Do you want me to flee when— if —the Dark Lord calls? There is no place on Earth I could go without being tracked down by him. Or perhaps you want me to duel him on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix?” 

“Of course not. Flinging spells at each other like schoolboys is for the disposables like the Prewetts. You’re a Malfoy. I expect you to do what we do best: Provide assistance from the shadows in order to best manipulate the situation so that we come out on top.”

“You’re a lunatic. A complete and utter lunatic. I cannot believe, after all these years, you’re actually suggesting—in this hypothetical scenario—I cast my lot with blood traitors and the like.” 

“I expect you to cast your lot with the winning side. Our line cannot maintain control and influence if we’re viewed as pariahs.”

“The Dark Lord is going to restore our society back to the heights it once was before we began compromising our values to accommodate the Mudbloods and theirs,” Lucius insisted. “Have you not instilled in me since childhood the virtues of Pureblood supremacy? Or is this another epiphany as you crawl closer to the final judgment? Off to join the Temple of Aequitas, perhaps?”

"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. I taught you the values of Pureblood supremacy , yes, and expect you to maintain those views. What makes something superior?”

“To be higher in—” He stopped when he realized where Abraxas was going with this. 

“Exactly. There always needs to be a pecking order. Superiority is only innately possible with the existence of inferiors. The Aequitas folk will, ironically, likely be the most content if little Tommy succeeds. If you support Riddle and he wins, we lose our power. If you support Riddle and he loses, we lose our power. The only way to come out of this with our power intact is to support Riddle’s opposition. Yes, I find their lot to be extremely distasteful, but I have the utmost certainty they’re going to emerge victorious. By the end of the war, it is imperative that you cannot be seen as being on Riddle’s side, regardless of your personal beliefs.”

Lucius was silent for a moment as several conflicting thoughts flitted into his head, which he hurriedly pushed down. “The Dark Lord would kill me if I betray him.” Even voicing the mere possibility of betrayal made his skin crawl. Never. 

“He doesn’t have to know.”

"How would he not know?” 

“Make bullshit excuses or let the blame fall on others; you’re rather good at that. Use various means to guard the mind. Hide from him, and despite your earlier protests, it is possible. There are many possibilities. Despite the mythology he built up for himself, he’s a man, not a god.” Abraxas shrugged. “Perhaps do what your friend Severus did and merely pretend to be a sycophant—not too hard for you, I’d wager—and then use that information to bolster the opposition.”

Gods, spare me from this drivel . “Severus is loyal to the Dark Lord.”

“No, he’s not.” Abraxas gestured to the tea cup and Lucius rolled his eyes. 

“Enough with all this rubbish. I want to discuss the whole reason for being here. Why are you forcing this girl on me?” 

“It relates to my goal of having you not lead this family into total ruin. There is both public and private benefit to bringing her into the family. Publicly, her presence serves as a way to distance yourself from typical Death Eater rhetoric. Taking in this half-Muggle child would put you in a good light with proper society—”

"How the bloody hell does any of this even remotely put me in a good light?”

“It does—or could—with the people who actually matter: the court of public opinion and, naturally, the old Pureblood families.  Because it shows that you—Lucius Malfoy, ‘victim’ of the Imperius and advocate of traditional values—are willing to acknowledge, out of the goodness of his heart, the paternity of this child and bravely face the scrutiny and scandal that would inevitably ensue, because you are placing your child’s needs before your own. It’s a feel-good story and the public always loves that tripe. It can be effective if you’re able to control the narrative.”

It’s not helping Draco’s needs, now that he’s going to inherit less money. Goddamnit. “Who would be stupid enough to believe this?”

“Enough to give the thought validity. There are the genuine idiots, and then there are those who believe it because they want to believe it. Together, they make up the majority of our world. I certainly don’t expect you to convince everyone, but assuming you don’t fuck up too badly, it could manipulate public perception to our benefit.”

“You realize that several of these ‘old pureblood families’ you mentioned support the Dark Lord’s cause, correct? And many of them had family members that were, in fact, Death Eaters?” 

“Sadly, I do. Being a Purebood does not automatically preclude one from being unintelligent, though I fail to see the relevance. The aftermath of this war will not be decided by knuckle-draggers like the Rowles and the Carrows. It’ll be decided by those that never stirred the pot, like the Macmillans, Greengrasses, Shafiqs, and their ilk. ”

“The relevance is that now I have to explain why I’m willingly acknowledging a half-Muggle child to families who want to eliminate Muggle dilution of our race.” 

Abraxas chuckled darkly. “You have an unusual aptitude for making up bullshit on the spot; it shouldn’t be too difficult to come up with something. Tell them the truth: ‘Crazy ol’ Abraxas won’t give me my share of the inheritance unless I acknowledge this child.’ Or, ‘I want to preserve my lineage, since I can’t spawn any more brats.’ You’ll figure out something.”

“And what of this ‘private benefit’ you claim exists?” 

Abraxas looked at him with a frown. “That one should be obvious, isn’t it? You get another child to love.”

This was so ridiculous, Lucius actually laughed. “Your complete lack of self-awareness is astounding , truly. You, of all people, actually having the nerve to talk about parental love. You killed two of your children! ” 

Abraxas shifted in his seat and showed, for a split-second, a rare flicker of discomfort across his face. Lucius savored the moment. Throughout his life, Lucius could count on one hand the times he saw Abraxas being put on the spot, and this was the first time he caused it. Maybe it’s worth it just for this.

“Yes, well…” Abraxas began after a pause, “It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I always…was fond of all you children, even if it didn’t always seem that way.” What a joke . “Even Cassius. I wish I had approached things differently. Lavinia’s end was painless, and she didn’t know what was happening…I realize you and her had an unusual bond, so it’s expected that you’d be sensitive to—”

“If the phrase “Womb Taint” comes out of your mouth, I’m leaving,” Lucius snarled.

“ I simply meant the natural bond that occurs with twins. With this girl,” he rushed on, eager to redirect the focus, “she also should provide some incentive to have you not throw in with the man trying to exterminate her. There is no doubt in my mind that Riddle will eventually move up to those with any Muggle lineage, the self-loathing hypocrite.” 

Lucius smirked. “You’re hoping this girl will…what? Tug at my heartstrings? Cause me to genuinely renounce all my actions as a Death Eater? Perhaps with a choir in the background, like in the plays?” 

“Having a daughter is a special experience for a father. I’m hoping her presence will lead to you making less thick-headed decisions,” Abraxas snapped. “And Draco might actually be forced to gain some independence if he’s not constantly being smothered with attention.”

“A ‘special experience.’ Is that what you call it? I’m sure Lavinia enjoyed the special bonding experience of being killed by her own father.”

Abraxas’s eyes darkened. “You know I had no choice.”

“That’s rubbish. You had a choice. You always had a choice. You could have Obliviated her and sent her to the Muggle world like the Macmillans did with their squib. Or you could have kept her, like the Abbotts.”

“It’s a mercy to die a Malfoy than to be raised among…those people. And why on earth would I keep a squib in my home? As the patriarch, I needed to make decisions for the good of my family. Knowledge of her condition would have brought shame upon us!”

“ This whole situation is going to bring shame to our family ! Why is this difficult for you to grasp? The world has changed since you were active in society. Something like…what I did won’t just be ignored.”

“I’m not expecting it to be. But if you and your son follow Riddle like ducklings, the Malfoy name gets disgraced far more than you nutting in a Muggle ever could. If you follow him, it will take generations for the family to recover our reputation, if it ever does. If you get the Muggle Rights folks uppity, they can’t do any lasting harm because they have no power unless the public gives it to them. You’re going to have to deal with temporary discomfort and embarrassment in order to avoid lifelong shame.”

This child is my lifelong shame . But Abraxas wouldn’t understand that. His father was stuck in his outdated ways, and that was that. 

“This is going to ruin me!”

Abaraxas looked unimpressed. “Don’t be so dramatic. This is far from the worst scandal this family has had to overcome.” 

“It’s the worst I will have to overcome. This won’t go away—people will be talking about this for years.”

“Oh, without a doubt. I’m sure Rita Skeeter will be rubbing one out as she writes. But I explained how it’s necessary to ensure our family’s longevity. Sometimes swallowing pride is necessary for the greater good of the family. And on that note, let’s discuss this Muggle.”

  Ugh, let’s not . “There’s nothing to say beyond what was brought up in the trial.”

“I’m not interested in the sordid details of your little trips to the Acheron, which no doubt pale in comparison to my own youthful excursions. What I do want to discuss with you is how to control the discourse surrounding her and your little liaison.”

There were many points throughout the entire conversation where Lucius thought it couldn’t get any worse, and again and again, he was proven wrong. “There’s no way to spin this in a way that doesn’t make me look terrible.” Because I was.

“During your trial, you used the Imperius defense. Remain consistent with that. Play up how you feel guilty for taking her virtue, as if she was a Pureblood witch instead of common Muggle rifraff, even though it was out of your control. Her memory was erased, so she won’t know enough to contradict your account.”

Fuck, am I going to have to see her again? Lucius pushed the thought to the back of his mind. “How am I supposed to tell Draco any of this? He doesn’t know about my indiscretions at the Acheron.” 

Abraxas peered at Lucius with a curious expression. “Just tell him you went to a house where you could fuck Muggle captives. Surely he knows about basic reproduction at this age, right?”

“I’ll rephrase the question: How do I let Draco know about my indiscretions, while also discouraging him from…this kind of behavior?”

“It’s honestly very simple: A Muggle should not be used for more than one night. Enchant, do your business, and Obliviate. Keeping Muggles locked in basements like your father-in-law did in his heyday is just a sign of one’s own sense of insecurity and perceived powerlessness in other areas of life—so when I heard the news about your little side project, I wasn’t the least bit surprised, unfortunately.”

In retrospect, it was a foolish question to ask Abraxas. His father wouldn’t understand what Lucius was really trying to ask; he couldn’t. The generational gap was too wide. Narcissa and Lucius alone would have to discuss the best way to approach this topic with their son. The thought of the conversations he’d have with his wife and son over the next few days made his stomach churn, and a new wave of spite towards his father washed over him. 

"It's not viewed as…proper nowadays to simply take the unwilling, even Muggles." He saw Abraxas's mouth open and hurriedly continued. "Regardless of personal opinion, you must recognize how this might make matters difficult for him at Hogwarts?"

"Hmph, yes, I suppose I see the bleeding hearts wailing and gnashing their teeth. But such a thing wouldn't be an issue in Slytherin, surely?"

“One would hope not, but Dumbledore’s rot runs deep, and perhaps it may have trickled down....” 

“Well, regardless, your current spiel is how you did all untoward acts under the influence of the Imperius. Within that context, what happened at the Acheron couldn’t possibly be considered your ‘fault.’ Hopefully you weren’t stupid enough to let your son know that your Imperius defense was all hogwash.” Lucius remained silent. “Fucking hell, Lucius. This is why I never wanted you as the heir.”

“Why?” Lucius snapped. “Because I don’t lie about my core values to my son?”

“Your brat can’t keep his mouth shut! If he lets slip that you’re genuinely supportive of Riddle, then everything we worked for is lost.”

“Oh, now who’s dramatic?” Lucius scoffed.

“You need to Obliviate him. Your wife too, if she complains.”

“Absolutely not.”

Abraxas sighed. “Fine. You’ll soon see why my way is better, once you take in the girl.”

That reminded Lucius of a question that was on his mind since he discovered her existence. “How am I supposed to bring her into the household if her mother’s still alive?”

Abraxas raised his eyebrows. “The same way it’s always been done when a Muggle and wizard have a magical child out of wedlock. If there’s proof of lineage, the Ministry takes the child and lets it be raised in the household of the magical parent—usually, the father. If the mother cooperates, she can see her child on occasion if the father agrees. If not, then a standard Obliviation will occur.” 

“I’m not ignorant; I know the standard precedent,” hissed Lucius, annoyed at his father’s patronizing tone. “I’m asking how you expect the girl to go along with any of this, given the circumstances surrounding her birth, which she will undoubtedly become aware of when she enters our society.” 

Abraxas blinked, looking at Lucius as if he were speaking some foreign tongue. “ You’re the father. Make her go along with it.” 

Why did I ever used to look up to this man?  “I’m talking about the state of her mind, not body. You cannot simply take a child—even one who’s part Muggle—and completely uproot their entire life and reveal…certain things about her conception and expect no ill effects. Are you hoping for me to come home one day to find her hanging from a tree? Is that what this is all about? Some kind of warped final lesson before Hel claims you as one of her own?”

Abraxas shifted back in his seat, shadows obscuring his face. Lucius placed his hand on the snakehead which now held his wand, keenly aware of the heavy tension that just descended on the room. He knew he had perhaps gone too far, but honestly, he thought with bitterness, Father deserved it. 

His father always had a noticeable soft spot for Valeria and (in Lucius’s opinion) pampered her in comparison to the others, which made Lucius question often as a child why Valeria experienced frequent bouts of melancholy and why she eventually killed herself. While he was sure his parents knew more, he never once broached the topic with them. He never found a concrete answer to his question and had long accepted that he never would, which was perhaps for the best. 

“No,” Abraxas finally said. His voice was even and controlled. “I don’t want that to happen. That’s why I wrote in the provision that your daughter needs to come of age. I don’t expect you to view her the same way you do Draco, but I also don’t want you to make her life so miserable that she finds death preferable to living in the Manor.” 

“How can she not?” asked Lucius. “She’ll hate me. I–” – raped her mother– “took her mother by force.” He never said it out loud before, but now that he did, it made the Acheron even more real than seeing his daughter’s name on the Blood Tracing document. 

Abraxas shifted in his seat and Lucius could see his father’s face once again, which looked impassive. “The word ‘Father’ has power, especially to a child who doesn’t have one. It shouldn’t be hard to take advantage of those feelings and ingratiate yourself to her; she’s an eleven-year old child. In regards to your previous question, I’d like you to think of how our kind looks in comparison to the Muggles. We can change the very nature of the material world, control it, shape it. We are to them what the legendary gods of old were to us. Did Hercules turn down the opportunity to attain godhood? Did Romulus? Ariadne? Psyche? Your daughter is a Malfoy. She will not turn down a seat on Mount Olympus.”

Not for the first time today, Lucius felt compelled to roll his eyes at his Father’s unnecessary drama and theatrics (which, as Narcissa confirmed, he unfortunately inherited). 

 “Are the Olympians going to judge me, or the Wizengamot? Surely your teacup told you that my…actions with her mother aren’t viewed as proper. This will do the exact opposite of bolstering my image. It puts all those past lapses in judgment back into the public consciousness.” 

Abraxas dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “The Mudbloods will harp on it, but their opinion—like their existence—is worth nothing. They have no significant power beyond being typical grassroots rabble-rousers. As for the Purebloods, there are a couple of factors to consider. First, you claimed you were under the Imperius, which legally absolves you from responsibility. But for those who could see through the bullshit, you needn’t worry. You’re far from the only man who's taken a Muggle woman for sport. While your merry little club was foolish enough to have your debauchery exposed to the world, there are others who keep their varying levels of curiosity and perversity hushed. It’s historically been practically a rite of passage for our kind, up until these Muggle Rights stooges started making noise. I’d wager most families——and, more importantly, most in the Ministry—will be sweating like piglets, praying that no one in the family suggests doing a Blood Tracing and having their own dirty little secrets revealed. It would be more advantageous for them to play into the false narrative that you’re being noble instead of opportunistic.”

Was this true, or was this what Abraxas wanted to believe? His father had a habit of projecting his own vices and viewpoints onto others, which is why he was so adamant in his belief that Lucius killed Gaius. Then again, Lucius was well-acquainted with the darker side of humanity. 

There was certainly no shortage of men who presented respectable facades that were only just that—facades. But were they the majority?

“It’s simply the natural effect,” Abraxas continued, “of our place in the world. As I said before, to them, we are like gods. Did Zeus ask for permission when he sired Helen with Leda? Or Mars, when he took Rhea Silvia and fathered the founders of Rome? Do we wring our hands over how these unwilling women felt, or are they but a mere footnote in the saga of their divine children? The fox preys on the rabbit; the hawk on the mouse. There are those with power, and those without. It is the natural order for the strong to exert their power over the weak.”

“Have you even considered for the briefest moment how this is going to affect Narcissa? Having a permanent reminder that her husband had relations with another woman?”

“Not in the slightest.” Abraxas said with a shrug. “Why should it matter? Her role as a wife is to support you. Your mother” — Mother—shit, I’m going to have to let her know about the girl too— ”often found herself in the same position your wife is currently in. Not the illegitimate children part, but having constant reminders of my infidelity. However, her experiences were allegedly so ‘heartbreaking’—her words, not mine—because the other women were often witches, some of noble birth. She’s hardly alone in that situation, though. It’d be easier to find a Pureblood man who hasn’t had an affair in his day.” 

“I didn’t have an ‘affair,’” Lucius practically spat out the word, “It was nothing. Completely meaningless.” His grip on Jormungandr grew tighter. “I never meant to dishonor Narcissa. I–It didn’t even cross my mind that it could be considered adultery. In order to commit adultery, it needs to be with a person and she…she’s just a Muggle. It was a glorified whorehouse. That’s it.”  

Abraxas’s eyes gleamed. Lucius was very stubborn when it came to not discussing the Acheron, and this was perhaps the most detailed he’d ever been. Abraxas wouldn’t be getting any more than that, though.

“No need to be so on edge, Lucius. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Abraxas paused. “My affairs—or liaisons, or whatever term you want to use—were typically devoid of emotional entanglements as well. Perhaps it would have been better if they weren’t. I could have run away with my new sweetheart and then I would be the one sipping a mimosa while sailing on the French Riviera with a partner my son’s age instead, while your mother would be the one wasting away in this damned estate.” 

The mention of his mother’s new beau—Lucius’s old classmate—caused Lucius’s eye to twitch slightly, but he smoothed his expression over quickly.  “Unlike you, she deserves whatever happiness she could get”— even if it involves fucking Sebastian Laurent — “after putting up with your cruelty and violence for so long. As you said yourself, your current condition is the consequence of your own choices.”

“Yes, and this girl is the consequence of yours.” Abraxas sighed. “Look, it’ll be embarrassing, but you’ll survive. I timed it in such a way that the Potter boy’s arrival will likely overshadow the story, or at least split the focus.” 

 Lucius almost forgot that Harry Potter would be attending Hogwarts with Draco ( and Diana, a voice whispered. He would need to get used to thinking of two children). 

He tried to think of something else to say to his father, but found that he couldn’t summon the proper thoughts or energy. Talking to this man was like talking to a rock: a complete and utter waste of time. As much as he loathed to admit it, he was resigned that this was going to be his life now. He would be known publicly as a man who fathered a child by rape. Goddamnit. Lucius wanted nothing more than to return to his life two hours earlier, where all the past unpleasantness was simply a distant memory. Gods, how he hated his father for doing this to him. 

But…

Was what his father said true? Would Lucius bring the family to an even greater ruin by following the Dark Lord? Lucius’s instinctive answer was “absolutely not,” but maybe, just maybe…

Then, he looked around and surveyed the room. A Divination teacup on the desk, the smell of Dirigible Plums in the air, a fucking copy of the Quibbler with articles about the Rotfang conspiracy circled. No, Lucius decided, the man is simply a lunatic. Nothing more to it. 

But regardless, Abraxas had control of the will, and Lucius had to play along with this insanity. 

Still clutching Jormungandr— at least there’s something worthwhile out of all this —Lucius turned around. “I believe we have nothing more to discuss. I’ll be taking my leave then.” 

Abraxas nodded, expecting nothing else. “I’ll likely be able to squeeze out a few more months, possibly even a couple years.” Of course you will. “While you are now formally the patriarch, I’ll be here for any help you require.”

“Yes, how could I forget how much help you’ve been to me?” 

He expected his father to try to stop him from leaving, but Abraxas said nothing as Lucius opened the door and left on his own terms. He felt his father’s gaze on him as he strode down the hallway, past the echoes in the paintings who were questioning him for details. 

“We heard yelling. What’s going on Lucius?” asked Valeria, brows furrowed with worry.

Cassius's eyes danced with glee. “Looks like someone won’t get the money he stole, I bet.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Gaius drawled. “Who else could it go to? We’re all dead.”

“Is that it, Lucius? Is he playing another one of his games?”

“No,” Lucius replied. Thoughts were swirling in his head and he wasn’t thinking straight. He felt nauseous. “He wasn’t. He truly and honestly believes his fantasies. Our family’s reputation— my reputation— is going to be completely and utterly fucked because of a dying, delusional old man.” 

There was silence. All of his elder siblings gaped at him; not once had Lucius—the real one—ever replied back to one of their portraits. They immediately bombarded him with frantic questions that Lucius ignored as he continued to make his way downstairs. Before he approached the stairwell, however, another echo made itself known. 

The younger Lucius—who had been quiet up until now—poked his head into the painting of a ship lost at sea, and mumbled quietly, ‘I thought things are supposed to get better if you get older.”

Today was a day for firsts, it seemed. The younger painting of Lucius never before addressed his older, real counterpart, instead preferring to hide or glare whenever the real Lucius would return to Westwell. 

“No,” Lucius said honestly. “They don’t. Getting older just opens oneself to a set of new problems. I envy you, in a way, being able to remain fixed in time at such a good age.”

“No you wouldn’t. Not if you could remember what it was like when you were me. But if you miss that, then I guess I am lucky.”

“Say ‘I suppose,’ not ‘I guess,’” Lucius said automatically. “The latter makes you appear uneducated.” 

The younger Lucius scowled and withdrew back to his original painting. Lucius felt a sense of emptiness as he watched him leave, though he wasn’t quite sure why. As he headed down the staircase his melancholy morphed back to agitation. Every step he took was allowing him to get closer and closer to his new reality. The knowledge of his daughter would be following him to Malfoy Manor, following him to the Ministry, following him everywhere. Fuck. 

As Lucius made his way down the spiraling staircase, he saw Borthwick sweating far more noticeably than before, with a feeble expression on his face. Borthwick correctly expected him to be livid, and Lucius turned on him with a snarl. “This amendment is a clear show of his declining mental state due to his illness. I want medical professionals here immediately to declare him incompetent and render the amendment null and void.” 

Abraxas said he already prepared for this, but Lucius figured it couldn’t hurt to at least try. 

Borthwick appeared to actually be shaking as he mumbled his next words: “ Abraxas already—er, you see—he already thought of this, and wrote the amendment on the same day he was declared mentally competent.” Lucius opened his mouth to speak. “And y-yes, he had five different, objective professionals assess him, three of which aren't even native to this country and won’t be, erm, receptive to monetary donations. All the proper documentation has already been filed.” Lucius closed his mouth. “B-but, congratulations on receiving the official headship.” 

“Thank you,” Lucius replied stiffly.

“I-I know it might seem unnecessary, since you have been serving as head of the house for the past several years in all but name anyway.” Don’t remind me. “But Jormungandr has a history and power. It represents so much more than simple headship…why, I’ll never forget when I saw your father bludgeon a man to death with it back in ‘68. The man certainly had it coming, but still…oof.”

“Yes, I’m very familiar with how it’s designed for….practical purposes in addition to ceremonial ones.” 

“Y-yes, right. Well, what made it stand out so much wasn’t so much the beating—though it was rather brutal—but instead the reaction of everyone in the room. You see, it was during a party, and there were all sorts of government officials and other society echelons there. And they just…let him do it. Stood and watched. Even people who were opposed to your father’s views—and there were many, even back then—just let him do it. No one wanted to risk earning Abraxas Malfoy’s ire. And then Abraxas just strolled on out, giving the host enough Galleons to cover the cost of the oriental rug he no doubt stained, mangled corpse just laying there all twisted on the ground. Thirty witnesses just let him walk away with a crime that would get any ordinary man sent to Azkaban. But Abraxas Malfoy is no ordinary man. It’s true power, what your father has.”

Lucius thought of Abraxas’s ludicrous ramblings, and how his days were now spent partially-immobile, in a darkened mansion with only paintings for company. “Had. He had power.” 

“W-with all due respect, Mr. Malfoy…I believe it’s ‘has.’” At Lucius’s incensed expression, Borthwick rushed to continue. “Abraxas has his…faults, as all men do. Several, even. I-I realize you have some, er, reasons to doubt your father’s integrity and decisions. And while you naturally know him much better than I do on a personal level, as legal advisor to your family for many years, I can assure you, Abraxas’s mind operates on a different level from the rest.”

Lucius let a sharp laugh escape him, causing Borthwick to get flustered. “Yes, I’m well aware. Now, in case you’ve forgotten, Borthwick, I received some rather significant news and my day has become much busier as a result. If you’d excuse me…”

“Ah, y-yes,” Borthwick said, looking a bit defeated. He stammered some quick legal information which Lucius only half-listened to, and when he was finished, Lucius grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, and stepped into the fireplace without looking back. 

Leaving Westwell and returning to Malfoy Manor brought a small sense of comfort that Lucius knew would disappear soon. Within the next forty-eight hours, his son would know that he was a rapist. Within the next forty-eight hours, his name would be in every newspaper in Wizarding Britain. Within the next forty-eight hours, everyone of importance would know that he fathered a Half-blood child with a Muggle.

What would the girl even look like? Act like? The thought of having a miniature version of Sarah White stumbling around the manor—a living millstone wrapped around his neck— made him feel sick to his stomach. Would everything really go as smoothly as Abraxas anticipated? Lucius found it highly doubtful. 

And Sarah—no, he wasn’t going to think of it. One problem at a time. 

As he entered the hallway, he saw the love of his life rearranging some flowers in the vases. She looked around and smiled, eyes shining when she saw Jormungandr in his grasp. But when her eyes locked onto his, the glint quickly faded upon seeing his expression. He swallowed.

 “Narcissa, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Chapter Text

The large stretch of land referred to as the Chrysalis Creek Campgrounds was nestled in a secluded, forested area within a twenty minute’s drive of Manchester. Towering trees, bubbling creeks, and winding paths made it the perfect getaway for those wishing to escape the bustling and bothers of everyday life.  

One of those individuals was Kenneth Wilson, a fourth-year Muggleborn Ravenclaw student who had the misfortune of attending Hogwarts during the Blitz in 1940. Like many fellow Muggleborns, the thought of needing to return home during the holidays felt absurd and downright offensive.  But when Kenneth begged Armando Dippet to bend the rules and allow the Muggleborns to stay at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays, Dippet was adamant to stick with the precedent: No student was allowed to stay in the school during the winter holidays, regardless of circumstances—end of discussion.

 It was the first rule that Albus Dumbledore changed when he became Headmaster, and for good reason. 

Kenneth gathered a small, motley group of fellow fourth-year students concerned about returning home and suggested that, since no one else would do it, they needed to protect themselves. He thought of Chrysalis Creek, the grounds where his father—before he went off to fight and die in the war—would often take him to watch the Creek’s famed butterflies. Kenneth suggested they hide out in a cave there, shield it with magic (the warning letter he would later receive from the Ministry would be burned in effigy), and wait it out until they could return to Hogwarts. 

And, for two days, that’s what they did, until a Gryffindor got bored and suggested visiting Manchester for just a couple hours before returning to Chrysalis Creek. All except a sullen Slytherin went into the city, and all except that sullen Slytherin ended up dying a fiery, painful death when the bombs dropped on December 22nd. 

When the Slytherin returned to Hogwarts with a newfound terror and respect for the fragility of life, Dippet made a speech about the senselessness of “Muggle wars” and the “inescapable, unavoidable tragedy” that occurred to those six Muggleborns. The Slytherin and Albus Dumbledore would both listen intently, but would come to very different conclusions.

It would not be the first time Hogwarts failed its students with Muggle parents, and it would not be the last. 

The shielding charm on the cave was never lifted; it never even crossed the Slytherin’s mind to do so. And because of this, the “Missing Cave” of the Chrysalis Creek Campgrounds became a legend, and no Muggle was able to see it in the years since.

That is, until the summer of 1991, when a blonde haired, gray-eyed eleven-year old girl accidentally used magic for the first time. 

“Diana, why don’t you tell the rest of us how you discovered the cave?”

Thirty different pairs of eyes belonging to girls of various ages locked onto her as she swallowed. There was nothing particularly threatening about those eyes, or who they belonged to; after all, every girl in the camp made the same Promise Diana did, saying that they would—on their honor—do their best, do their duty to God and country, help people at all times, and obey the Guide law. Still, they were giving Diana a lot of attention, and if there was one thing Diana White loathed more than anything else, it was attention.

She clutched at her sash—newly received “Explore, Stage 4” badge pinned at the top—and shot a panicked look to the other three inhabitants of her table. Help .

One of them, a freckled girl with sloppily-cut, shaggy red hair, spoke up. “Diana’s got a sore throat, Ms. Layla,” she lied. “I can tell the story since I was there.”

Ms. Layla smiled, not falling for that bullshit for one second. “That’s kind of you to offer, Claire. I know you’re the Patrol Leader of your group, but I’d really like Diana to be the one to tell it, since she was the first to make the discovery. Diana, you can take a drink of water first if you need to.” 

Diana reluctantly took the glass in front of her and put it to her lips, sipping as slowly as possible. She knew this was coming. Layla Abbas—the Girl Guides unit leader and counselor—had been dropping not-so-subtle hints over the past week that Diana had “leadership potential” if she would only be willing to speak up more. Diana had the whole script written out in her head and was inwardly practicing it for hours. So why the fuck couldn’t she remember it now?

Racking her brain, Diana stared blankly at the Rainbows, Brownies, and other Guides, who were now eyeing her with a mixture of wary, confused, and bored expressions. A table of Brownies started whispering and she heard a Rainbow whine to a nearby counselor that she was hungry. 

She could feel the pitying expressions of her friends, which made her feel even more miserable. She looked at Ms. Layla, who was smiling at her encouragingly. Okay, the speech wasn’t going to come back to her so… Screw it, I need to just start already. She put the glass down.

“Hi. I’m Diana. I found the cave.” Jesus Christ… “I was walking outside with my Patrol. We wanted to see if we could find the missing cave because we thought that would let us, um, win the competition for who could make the best map of the camp.” She winced at how tacky and un-Girl Guides-ish that sounded. “B-but we also knew it would be tough because it’s been missing since World War II. Even the people who tried to reach it by traveling through the underground cave system couldn’t see it either. It was like it vanished, as if by—-” Diana’s mouth snapped shut. Nope. Not going to say it. 

Her hands started shaking slightly from underneath the table. “I-I thought we could go to the historical center and the person at the desk let us make copies of the old maps of the campgrounds and the cave system. And t-then we used those maps to the area where the mouth of the missing cave was supposed to be.”  

Ms. Layla blinked at the abruptness of the ending. “Could you please tell us more about how you found the cave, once you received the maps?” she pressed, eyes shining in a way that Diana knew she wouldn’t be off the hook until she told the story.

She hesitated. If she hadn’t sounded like enough of an idiot already, the next part would seal the deal. “The other members of my Patrol fanned out a bit and I just kept looking at the spot where it was supposed to be.” It was like I could sense it was there, but no way in hell am I saying that. “I just kept staring at this hill in front of me and was hoping it could somehow reveal where the cave was and then, um, I saw it. The cave. It was actually built into the hill the whole time but no one realized it, I think. It was strange, like everyone’s minds just wandered whenever they looked at the hill and didn’t notice it was actually a cave. It might have been an optical illusion or something”— or aliens —”But once I saw it, then the rest of my Patrol could too.”

There was silence and Diana thought she heard giggles come from one of the tables. Were they laughing at her, or was she overthinking things again and they were really laughing at some other, unrelated joke? Her face started to heat up; this is why she didn’t want to tell the story. It sounded so damn unbelievable and made her seem like a whackjob. 

“And then we went into the cave!” Claire couldn't help blurting. There were excited whispers now from the tables, and Ms. Layla started frowning. She knew Claire said that to take heat away from Diana, but still… Damnit, Claire…

“I don’t believe you mentioned this part to me yesterday.”

“We just walked a few feet,"  Diana tried to reassure her. “We could still see the light from outside.”

Ms. Layla looked a bit skeptical and addressed the unit as a whole: “As a general reminder, entering any of the caves in the camp are strictly prohibited. We have the barriers set up for a reason. Chrysalis Creek is designed to be safe to freely explore, but purposely bypassing the safety precautions and camp rules can result in serious harm for our campers.”

“But it wasn’t even blocked!” Claire protested indignantly.

Figuring it would be best to just go along with Ms. Layla ( She’s not wrong, either ), Diana said, “You’re right, Ms. Layla. It was dangerous, and we didn’t handle it responsibly.”

Ms. Layla’s warm smile returned. “I'm glad that you realize it. Sometimes our mistakes can be the best teachers.” She turned to the rest of the unit. “Given the initiative Dandelion Patrol showed over the past few days, I think we can all agree that they deserve to win first place in the map-making contest. Even without finding the cave, the map they created shows a great deal of effort and precision.”

Ms. Layla gestured to the bulletin board near the entrance to the pavilion, which was covered with maps from the different patrols.  The vast majority of the girls at camp clearly didn’t give a shit and cobbled something together at the last minute, but there were two that stood out as showing actual effort: “Dandelion Patrol’s” ( aka mine, since Claire, Becky, and Olivia didn’t do anything ) and Tulip Patrol’s. 

Ms. Layla smiled as she went over to their table and gave them their prize, which was a cheap-looking piece of plastic in the imitation of a medal with a #1 on it. But Diana didn’t care about the prize itself—prizes were never the reason why she worked so hard. Getting three hours of sleep the night before to finish the map was worth it for the validation alone.

Then why do I fee like I cheated somehow?

Diana’s gaze drifted to Tulip Patrol’s map, and then at their table where Samantha—the Patrol Leader—was looking at Ms. Layla with rapt attention.  Samantha always put in 110% of the effort; her patrol would have no doubt won if Diana didn’t find the cave. Diana suddenly felt inadequate, like some kind of imposter, as she always did when comparing herself to the brown-haired girl.

Ms. Layla continued, “And with that, it’s time for our final breakfast before heading home to Amberton. Thank you all for a wonderful and successful camp experience!” 

Polite clapping accompanied the end of Ms. Layla's speech as the Rainbows, Brownies, and Guides all began to chat away merrily. Diana eyed her plate with mixed feelings. The pancakes and strawberries looked so tantalizing, but she knew it would be a very long time before she had another breakfast that was anything like what they served at the camp. 

“ ‘You’re right, Ms. Layla. It was dangerous, and we didn’t handle it responsibly,’” mimicked Claire, nudging Diana with her elbow. Diana looked up and relaxed a bit at the gleeful mirth in her eyes. “My God, Diana. You’re more of a suck-up than even Samantha.”

Diana snuck a glance at Samantha’s table, who was listening to the conversation of one of her own patrol members while eating. To Diana’s relief, she didn’t seem upset about losing.

“Was anything I said wrong? It was stupid to go into a random cave that no one’s ever explored. We could have died.”

“Oh come one, we literally just walked in a straight line for a few feet,” Claire scoffed. “Oooh, so scary.”

“There could have been some monster hiding there or something. Like in It with the killer clown,” giggled Becky, a stocky pigtailed girl. 

Olivia put a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear as she delicately dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I think it’s more likely the roof or floor could have collapsed or something. Or maybe there were people who died in the cave and they left, like, malaria and the germs were on the cave walls and then we would die.”

Diana thought back on entering the cave and shuddered. “It’ll be interesting to see what they find when the actual professionals arrive to explore it, though.”

“I’m sure it’ll be on the telly or something. Anyway, I’m just glad we were able to beat them,  Claire smirked, stabbing the sausage on her plate with a bit of extra force and jerking her head towards Tulip Patrol’s table.

Diana frowned. “You should really ease up on Samantha.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? She’s a snitch! You know she told Ms. Layla that I was the one who drew the dicks on the picnic tables! And then when I was watching the Rainbows, she acted all high-and-mighty.”

“That’s because you almost let one drown because you kept talking to Imani.”

Claire’s face grew red. “Ok, well, I didn’t see her helping you out when you were floundering before.”

Ouch. “Was I really that bad?”

“No, you weren't,” Olivia rushed to reassure her while glaring daggers at Claire. 

Diana turned her head. “...Becky?” 

Becky looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Guess that answers my question . Damn it. 

“Ok, well, I appreciate it, Claire. I do. I just think–”

The conversation was interrupted by Becky’s shrieks as she spilled milk all over her sash, and in the resulting chaos, the topic was forgotten. 

As breakfast concluded and the unit was told by Ms. Layla to go back to their cabins and pack their belongings, Diana hesitated. She felt an impulsive whim and decided to act on it before she chickened out. “Um, I need to do…something. I’ll meet you back at the cabin.”

Oh yeah, that wasn’t conspicuous at all . Claire looked at her with narrowed eyes. “What ‘something’?”

In spite of her twisting nerves, Diana said determinedly, “I-I want to try to smooth things over with Samantha.”

Claire actually hissed out loud as if she was stabbed with a fire poker. “What the hell is wrong with you? She’s the enemy!”

Diana giggled in spite of herself. “‘The enemy,’ really? Listen to yourself…this is Girl Guides, we’re not storming the beaches of Normandy. Relax.” 

“ Why do you want to talk to her though?” Olivia asked, tilting her head curiously. “She hates us.”

“I’m pretty sure she just hates Claire, and to be honest, Claire, I don’t really blame her. You’ve been acting like a bitch to her this whole trip.”

“Well, that’s because she’s a bitch,” Claire snapped. “It’s called being reciprocal.” 

“Why so suddenly, though?” Olivia pressed. 

Becky grinned mischievously. “It’s because she’s got a girl crush on Samantha!” 

Claire spun around and looked at Becky, affronted.

“I do not ,” Diana protested, heat rising to her cheeks. “I don’t have a crush on anyone.”  Besides River Phoenix , my future husband , she mentally added. “I admit that I admire her in a non-romantic way—”

“ Why ?”

Because I wish I was her and if I’m friends with her then maybe her goodness can rub off on me . “I don’t know, she just seems like a decent person. She’s so…self-assured all the time. And she’s kind, and genuine.” That was the big one: genuine . “I-I think we—not just me, but all of us—could get along and be friends if we just buried the hatchet. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

Claire scrunched her nose. “Eww, I don’t want to hear any more. Look, we’ll go, but we’re all going to forget this whole conversation happened once we leave the pavilion. Seriously.” 

Olivia and Becky started giggling as they followed Claire. Diana watched them go warily, but ignored her inner butterflies as she focused on her new mission. Well, it’s now or never. Diana made her way over to Samantha’s table, who was also finishing up. 

“Hi, Samantha. IwaswonderingifIcould”— SLOWER —”talk to you for a minute.” Diana asked. The other girls around Samantha gave her a weird look and Diana suddenly regretted this decision. Why am I like this? Samantha studied her with an impassive expression ( How does she do that? ) and nodded.

Now that they were alone, she didn’t know how to start. She was never particularly good with social interactions. “I just wanted to say that I think your map looks really good.”

Samantha gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

There was a pause and Diana realized Samantha was waiting for her to say more. “If we didn’t find the cave, you probably would have won.”

“Yeah, probably.”

God, she’s like the Mona Lisa . What is she thinking? Diana’s palms started to sweat. “Are you upset that we won?”

Samantha shrugged. “No. I didn’t really care about winning. I’m more interested in the whole experience.”

“Oh.” Diana suddenly felt like shit. “That’s…noble.”

“Were you doing it for the prize?”

Diana thought of the crappy plastic medals that were probably bought from some bargain bin. “No, that’s not it. I wanted to show others what I could do, I guess.” Aaaand now I sound like an overconfident arse. Great. 

“Well, I think it’s good that you cared. I remember when you first joined Girl Guides and just complained the whole time.”

Diana winced at the unfortunate but accurate recollection. “I didn’t want to join. My grandma made me because…because she thought it would be good for me.”

In truth, her grandma made Diana join because it doubled as another childcare service and she needed that extra time to work and provide for her granddaughter. Her mother, at that point in time, was in no condition to help.

“What changed?”

Diana smiled wryly. “I dunno, I guess I started believing the Promise the more times I said it. It’s a nice goal, trying to make yourself a better person and help the world.” Even though I know I’m not, and never could. 

Diana considered saying that it gave her some kind of guidance and direction, perhaps even purpose, but it sounded so ridiculously corny in her head that she could only imagine how awful it would be if she actually said it out loud in real life. 

Samantha nodded. “That makes sense.” She paused. “You know, it’s really nice of you to reach out like this. I don’t know how much work the others did with actually putting the map together” — Not much — “but it’s obvious to everyone that you were the brains behind the whole thing. You planned it out and gathered all the materials and stuff.” Oh my God she’s complimenting me.  “You should have been Patrol Leader instead of Claire.”

The inner butterflies she was feeling from the previous compliment turned to ice. “W-well, they asked me but…yeah. You saw why that wouldn’t work out.” Samantha just continued to look at her without saying anything, so Diana swallowed and felt compelled to continue. “I’m not really good with speaking up in front of people. I don’t like drawing a lot of attention to myself.” 

“Why not?” 

Diana felt a twinge of irritation. ”You know why.”

When a person from Amberton heard the name “Diana White,” they thought immediately of Sarah White. And who in Amberton didn’t know the story of her mum, crazy Sarah White? 

Sarah White, who dropped out of university to run off with some bloke, only to get knocked up and abandoned after three months?

Sarah White, who—after several years of hoping he’d return—has some breakdown when she realized it wasn’t happening and started changing her story, claiming she was raped instead?

Sarah White, whose stories and inconsistencies grew more and more absurd and unbelievable as time went on and developed an elaborate fantasy scenario instead of admitting she was pump-and-dumped?

Sarah White, whose mind cracked and was deemed an unfit mother by the courts at one point, and blamed it on wizards messing with her mind?

Yes, everyone in Amberton knew about Sarah White, and Diana hated it. 

Samantha had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I was just asking because you mentioned before about making a difference. You can’t really do that if you want to sit on the sidelines.”

“Oh.” Damn you and your logic . “Well, I guess I won’t be making a difference then.”

Diana wasn’t joking, but Samantha took it as such and giggled. "We’ll see. You’ve still got some years left.”

In truth, Diana wasn’t sure if she’d even be able to continue the program due to the financial expenses, but attempted to fake it anyway. “Haha. Yeah, you’re right.”

There was a short lull, and Diana knew this was the natural end point of the conversation but thought just saying “Bye” abruptly sounded weird. After mentally struggling for a few seconds, she settled on, “I’ll see you at the next event!” If I’m lucky, considering how much this one trip cost.

“Yup, sounds like a plan. Bye!”

The two girls waved to each other and then parted ways, heading to opposite directions of the campgrounds.

It wasn’t completely terrible , Diana thought to herself happily as a blue butterfly fluttered by her head. Thank God. This whole week felt like a dream, as if she were someone else’s life instead of her own. She knew that in a few hours she’d be back in her dreary, run-down neighborhood, standing in front of her small shack of a house with its chipped white paint and overgrown lawn. Smoothing things out with Samantha was a key step to helping Diana achieve what she was hoping for this whole week: to end the trip on a positive note. 

But of course, that didn’t happen. 

Walking closer to the door, she heard a crunching sound and looked down. Underneath her shoe was what looked to be some kind of envelope. Weird. She picked it up, brushed the dirt off it, and read the address.

Diana Marie White

Top Bunk Near The Window, Cabin 7

Chrysalis Creek Campgrounds

136 Sky End Road

Davis Hills, Greater Manchester

Diana flipped it over and saw a crest with four animals and an H on it, as well as a Latin inscription underneath. The only part she recognized was “Draco,” which she knew meant dragon from Ms. Layla’s discussion about constellations earlier in the week. 

She was still looking at the envelope as she quietly entered the room, where the other residents of Cabin 7 were packing. The girls were in the midst of a heated debate about the best ways to sneak into the theater to see Terminator 2, something that Claire had her heart set on for almost a month at this point. Diana was grateful, as it allowed her a bit more time to herself to open the letter. After climbing the ladder to sit on her bunk, she unfolded the letter and read:

Dear Miss White,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. 

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.

Your Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

At the top was the name of the headmaster, as well as a list of what Diana could only assume were meant to be his credentials, though they sounded like complete nonsense.  The second page included a rather detailed list of supplies mentioned in the letter. What. The. Fuck. 

Disbelief, anger, fear, and suspicion all wrestled for control as Diana read the letter again. She glanced over from the bed and looked at her friends, who were still chatting away, oblivious. If this was a cruel, terrible prank, then surely they’d be looking to see her reaction. And she didn’t want to believe that her friends could do something so meanspirited, even if they were annoyed at her for reaching out to Samantha.

Could it have been left by someone from a different cabin, someone else who knew about crazy Sarah White and wanted to mess around with Diana a bit? Maybe someone who was jealous that she discovered the cave? Or maybe it was some kind of widespread prank where a whole bunch of people got letters? But if that’s the case, surely Claire, Olivia, and Becky would be talking about it now? Maybe there was a letter given to one person in a cabin, and they just didn’t realize how insensitive it is for me to be the one to receive it?

Her reverie was interrupted by Olivia, who looked up at Diana’s bunk and said, “Diana, you should really start packing. The bus is going to be here in a couple hours.”

“What did you and Samantha talk about, anyway?” Claire craned her head away from her rucksack. Diana left the letter on the bed and climbed down the ladder, grateful for the distraction, and started grabbing her clothes from the dressers to fit in her rucksack. She didn’t have much and knew it wouldn’t take long. 

“We talked? I don’t remember anything after leaving the pavilion.”

Claire rolled her eyes but smiled as she threw a pillow at Diana, who giggled. No, they couldn’t have been the ones to write it—or so Diana hoped, at least. 

But what if she was wrong? What if her friends really did hate her, like she knew everyone else in the world (probably) did?

Her smile faded. Claire seemed to notice, and furrowed her eyebrows.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” lied Diana. “I just saw something outside that was kind of weird.”

“You know, we saw something weird too,” Becky added suddenly. “There was an owl flying right above our cabin right before we walked in. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it had rabies because they’re not supposed to be out in the daytime.” Becky’s eyes started to grow wide in panic. “I couldn’t really see, but it looked like it was holding trash or something in its beak.” 

At the mention of an owl, Diana felt an impending sense of dread. The letter mentioned an owl too; maybe they were in on it. Was the letter supposed to actually imply that an owl would be used to carry messages?

“Animals don’t get rabies from eating trash, idiot.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “It probably wasn’t an owl, anyway. It could have been a hawk or something, and it didn’t even bite you, so—Diana, what’s that?”

While Olivia was talking, Diana reached atop her bunk and clutched the letter in her hands. “Did any of you wri–”— no, I can’t start with an accusation —”see where this letter came from?” Diana asked, holding it up, heart racing.

She surveyed the expressions of the other girls, who looked genuinely bewildered. But what if they’re just acting? Olivia was one of the leading roles in the school play earlier in the year, after all. 

No, stop it, you’re being paranoid. Just like Mum. 

She handed the letter to Olivia, and Claire and Becky scooted over to read as well. When they were finished, they looked at Diana, mouths agape. 

“I have no idea what the hell that is. Where did you find it?” asked Claire warily. 

“On the steps, right outside the cabin.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been there when we got to the cabin, otherwise we would have noticed something, right?” Becky started to unconsciously chew at the end of her pigtail, as she often did when she was nervous. 

“We didn’t hear anyone walk up to the cabin, though,” said Olivia, frowning. “And these walls are crap—we could hear you walking up along the path, and you only weigh, like, seventy pounds.”

“Why would they do something like this? Do you think it’s because—” Claire hesitated.

“It’s alright, you could say it. I’m pretty sure everyone at this camp knows Mum’s nuttier than a fruitcake and thinks magic people are after her.” It sounded so ridiculous and embarrassing to say out loud and, not for the first time, felt resentment towards her mother boil inside. “Maybe they’re trying to see if I’m going to crack like her.” Diana tried to play the whole thing off nonchalantly, but inwardly, the whole experience was causing her anxiety levels to spike off the charts. Who the hell sent this to me?

Becky bit her lip. “I think you should report it to Ms. Layla or Ms. Janet. Whoever did that should be kicked out of Girl Guides.”

“We don’t know who did it, and maybe the person didn’t have mean intentions. They thought finding the cave was like magic or something, so they made this as a joke.” 

As Diana said it, she knew it wasn’t likely. The discovery of the cave was announced to the rest of the campers at breakfast, and Diana returned to her cabin no more than thirty minutes after that. Who would have had enough time to create a forgery that in-depth? The only people who knew beforehand were the Dandelion Patrol and the counselors. Could it be a counselor?   Maybe one of them has this hidden psychotic side I don’t know about?

“Well, if it’s a joke, it’s not a funny one,” huffed Claire. “I wonder if these names in the letter are actually real people.”

“They sound fake,” said Olivia immediately. “Look at this one. Min-er-va. No one names their kid that.”

“It’s the Roman name of Athena, goddess of wisdom,” Diana said, ignoring Claire coughing out “nerd”. “Whoever made this probably picked names that sounded exotic on purpose.”

“They clearly had a lot of time on their hands,” muttered Olivia, tracing the seal on the back of the envelope with one of her slender fingers. It did seem like an elaborate prank. Who could hate Diana that much, to send that letter?

“It’s probably that bitch Samantha!” Claire hissed. “She’s jealous we won.”

“It’s not Samantha,”  said Diana decisively. “And also, she’s not a bitch.” She had no actual proof that it wasn’t Samantha, but after their conversation Diana felt deeply that Samantha wouldn’t stoop to something so low. 

Claire looked at her with a betrayed expression. “Ok then, explain who it could be. Who hates you enough to mess with you? A Brownie? A Rainbow? Samantha is the only possible culprit! If not her, then someone in her Patrol.” 

“The letter wasn’t there when we left to go to breakfast. After breakfast, I went back late and found it right outside the door. If anyone has the best idea of who it is, it should be you, Claire, or someone in the cabin.” 

Claire’s face started to grow red. “We already said we didn’t notice anything! Are you actually accusing one of us of writing the letter?”

Was she? Diana hesitated. Logically, it seemed the most likely possibility. They knew more details about her mum’s delusions than anyone else besides her grandma. They knew about her “magical” discovery of the cave before anyone else. This might have been a way to get back at her for trying to make peace with Samantha. 

But…would they really do something like this? They were her friends, after all, and always seemed to be sensitive as far as her mum was concerned. Also, the level of thought and effort put into the note seemed a bit beyond the scope of the rest of Dandelion Patrol’s ability level.

“No,” she said finally, and once she said it, she knew it was true. “I don’t think you did. I just don’t think it was Samantha.”

Claire relaxed. Olivia handed the letter back to Diana and chimed in, “Maybe it wasn’t anyone we even know; it could have been another random group.”

Becky then brought up the part that creeped Diana out the most: “But it said where Diana was sleeping! How would they know, if they weren’t in our cabin? Do you think someone was peering through the windows while we slept?”

There was a loud knocking sound on the door which caused all four girls to jump and Becky to shriek. Diana quickly tossed the letter off to the side before Ms. Layla popped her head in, looking around curiously. “Is everything all right in here? The rest of the Patrols are packed and waiting outside. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

There was a brief silence, and Diana was aware that the rest of the patrol was waiting for Diana’s cue. Should she tell Ms. Layla about the letter or not?

“...Everything’s fine,” Diana lied. “Becky had a scary story that she was going to tell us last night, but we were so exhausted from hiking and making the map that we fell asleep pretty early. Since it’s about camp, she wanted to tell us before we left.”

The part about the scary story was true, but the difference was that everyone in Dandelion Patrol completely forgot about it due to all the excitement with the letter. Ms. Layla nodded and looked around the packed rucksacks and folded beds. “You’ll have time for the story while we wait outside for the bus. It’s important to have everyone outside, that way we can get a head count.” 

The girls apologized, and after Ms. Layla closed the door. Diana picked up the letter and folded it into her pocket.

“She’s right, we should start heading out,” Diana said quickly. “I-I really don’t want to talk about the letter anymore. It’s just someone’s cruel idea of a joke. I’d rather talk about how you think we’re going to get into the theater.”

Claire’s eyes lit up as she launched into her Terminator 2 plan. The girls chatted about that all the way as they left the cabin and made their way through the campsite and to the designated area. The conversations drifted to a bunch of different topics as the counselors checked to make sure everyone was accounted for, and did their closing speech where they congratulated all the girls on all their hard work and achievements. During the speech, Diana saw Samantha in the crowd, who smiled broadly and waved. Diana shyly waved back; no matter what Claire said, making peace with her was the right choice. Afterwards, it was just a matter of waiting until the buses came, which was always the most boring part. 

“Ughhh, I don’t know why they make us come out so early!” complained Claire, kicking a pebble with her scuffed-up shoe. 

“Becky, why don’t you tell us the story now?” suggested Olivia. “The one that you were going to tell us yesterday night?” 

This was Becky’s moment to shine. Despite the fact that it was daytime, she yanked a torch from the outside pouch of her rucksack and lit it up under her chin. “It was the year 1977, in America,” she began in a dramatic, spooky voice. Diana rolled her eyes, but smiled. “There were three girls, only slightly younger than us, Girl Guides—or whatever the American version is called—”

“Girl Scouts,” supplied Diana.

“Girl Scouts, who were ready to have a nice week outdoors with the rest of their unit. Possibly trying to get their Explore badge. Perhaps, even, Explore Stage Four. But what they thought would be a night of fun, later turned into a night…OF DEATH.”

“Maybe we should wait until we’re on the bus,” muttered Diana, gesturing towards a group of three Brownies who were looking at them with wide eyes.

“No way, I want to hear this now!” squealed Claire, eyes shining with glee.

Becky lowered her voice into a whisper, but continued, “The three girls stayed in a tent that was farthest away from the counselor’s, and hidden by the showers. One night, there was a thunderstorm.” Becky tried to make thunderstorm noises at this point, which sounded more like someone saying “shush” rapidly and repeatedly. Claire started giggling. “The next morning, the counselor was on her way to the shower, when she finds something unusual in the pathway. It was….a body,” she whispered dramatically. 

Diana frowned as goosebumps crawled up her arms. “If this is a real story, I don’t think we should be discussing it like this. It seems kind of in poor taste. These were real people.” Claire spun around with her hands on her hips.

“I’m Patrol Leader and I say it’s fine. Keep going, Becky!” 

 “I agree with Diana. This is pretty tacky.”

“No one asked you, Olivia. Becky!”

“Ok, ok. So she finds the one body, and it’s in a sleeping bag. And then, she keeps walking, and finds another. And then…the final body. All on the trail, in their sleeping bags. The only clues were a torch with a fingerprint on it, and a bloody footprint that was found in the tent. Oh, and also two months before the murder, a counselor saw that someone went through her stuff and stole her donuts. Inside the box where they were was a note that said ‘I’m going to kill three Girl Guides’ or something like that.” 

“What the hell?” Diana asked, getting into the story in spite of herself. “They got the note and STILL didn’t call the cops or anything?”

“They probably thought it was a prank,” suggested Olivia, twirling her hair in contemplation.

“Still, you don’t just—Becky, did they catch the guy who did it?”

“Ahh, I see you’re getting preeeettttyyyy into this so-called ‘tasteless’ story, Diana. As for the answer to your question”—- Becky paused for dramatic effect—-”No.” All three of the other girls gave cries of anger and protest. “BUT the cops did have a person in mind. He was someone who escaped from a nearby jail and was in there for, uh,”-- here her dramatic storyteller persona slipped a bit as she glanced at Diana apologetically—“ra—um, forcing these women to do…stuff. And the guy who looks at the dead bodies and figures out how they died—don’t remember what that job’s called— said that someone strangled and hit them but also did, uh, the same thing with them. So the sheriff thought the prisoner guy did it. But because the jury is stupid, they voted to not convict him, so the case remains, officially, unsolved.”

Fucking hell, Becky. There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere as the girls stared at each other in silence, Becky biting her lip nervously. Diana’s eyes started misting over and she realized she had tears in her eyes. Shit, I need to stop getting emotional over stuff like this. People are monsters, and that’s just life. This stuff is everywhere and I can’t turn into a faucet every time I hear a story like this. 

Diana noticed that the three other members of the patrol were surreptitiously shooting her uncomfortable glances, and she felt her face grow warm. And now I’m a goddamn circus attraction again. And Ms. Layla wonders why I hate attention?  

Desperate to say something, anything, to direct attention away from the elephant in the room, Diana started to ramble with the first thing that came to her mind, trying to make her voice sound as steady as possible. “I’m really not surprised. How many times do we hear stories about women and girls getting raped or killed and then they’re never given any kind of justice? It’s a lot. And that means there’s a lot of evil men out there who just want to harm us and I don’t understand why.” By the end of her tirade, the tears subsided and Diana felt back in control. 

“Seriously!” Claire chimed in with comfortable outrage. “And why the hell is it almost always men who are doing this crap? And now because I got this story stuck in my head I’m going to be wondering if any random man I meet is the Girl Guide killer. It might even be the postman for all I know.” 

“Y-yeah, same!” agreed Becky, relieved that Diana didn’t seem to be upset anymore. “There’s way too many weirdos out there.”

“So are any of us going to bring up that creepy letter Diana got?” asked Olivia, who was now twirling her black locks with more force. “Like, you know, how that counselor got the creepy letter and then….bam. Three girls dead.”

The group was quiet again. “I doubt there’s any connection,” Diana finally said. “The letter I got was….more bizarre. The other one was clearly a threat but this one was inviting me to go to magic school, and it was signed by a woman.  It’s completely different.”

“But what if the killer changed his motive?” whispered Becky, face white. “It could be the same guy trying to trick you. It’s called reverse psychology. He knows everyone will know it’s him if he writes something threatening, so he’s trying to get you off guard.”

Claire scoffed. “So you think this killer from America moves to Britain and then decides to start killing again, except instead of writing a generic serial killer note he writes an extremely detailed letter where he pretends to be a woman and tries to get Diana to buy a bunch of witch supplies before he kills her?” 

Becky grew red. “I’m just thinking of possibilities !” 

“I-it doesn’t really matter,” Diana mumbled. “We had a fun time, and I don’t want this stupid prank to ruin the whole thing. Olivia, why don’t you get out your camera so we can take a few more pictures before the bus comes?”

Olivia, a bit taken aback by the sudden change in topic, awkwardly rummaged through her rucksack to grab her polaroid camera. Claire gave Diana a “this conversation is not over” look, which soon turned to genuine cheer as the conversation drifted to other, lighter topics. The girls spent the remaining time at Chrysalis Creek laughing, taking pictures, and simply enjoying being eleven. 

The fear and anxiety did not fully disappear within Diana, however. The thought of evil men lurking in the shadows—in plain sight, even—creating webs to trap and lure their innocent, oblivious prey was a thought that often hovered in Diana's mind throughout her life like a persistent raincloud due to her mother's stories. Why do men like that treat other human beings that way? What compels them to violate, to murder, to ruin?

And why did Diana—the unplanned, unwanted child— live while so many other girls and women didn’t? 

It was times like these when the universe seemed so chaotic and apathetic, times like these when Diana questioned the idea that there was some kind of loving deity with a divine plan  that she just couldn’t decipher. She wanted to believe and hoped there was. Sometimes, she felt certain that there was. 

But then, there were times when she would listen to her mother crying in the next room over, or hearing stories about girls her own age suffering terribly, and she felt less certain. 

Nevertheless, Diana said a silent prayer to the three girls who were killed fourteen years ago. She wasn’t sure if praying helped—it never seemed to help her , anyway—but she figured it couldn’t hurt. 

Whether it be fate or pure chance, Diana was alive. And she owed it to all those who died early to live her life the best way she could. 

As the bus arrived at the campsite and the campers started lining up to make their way inside, Diana surreptitiously pulled out from her pocket the crumpled, unwanted letter that showed up outside of Cabin 7. Giving the seal on the back one final disgusted look, Diana threw the letter in the rubbish bin outside with more force than was necessary. And with that, she made her way onto the bus back to Amberton—back to crazy Sarah White.

Chapter Text

Diana could smell Amberton before she saw it. Witherly Lake always reeked of a mixture of sludge, algae, and dead fish, which became far more wide-spreading and oppressive during the hot summer months, and the open windows of the bus let in the full force of the odor. Home sweet home , she thought glumly. After passing the lake, it would be another eight minutes or so before the bus stopped at the drop-off area, and parents would arrive to pick up their children. The thought made Diana’s stomach churn. Maybe she could stealthily slip away before any parent tries to “make conversation” with her mum. Maybe the bus would get into a freak accident and Diana would die horribly and not have to worry about the drop-off at all.

But alas, the bus turned safely into the parking lot and wheezed to a stop. Diana reluctantly gathered her belongings and followed Claire as she moved out of the seat. Exiting the bus, the girls were greeted by a swarm of smiling parents, eager to reunite with their children after a long week of separation. 

Mrs. Zhang—always looking classy and composed—-- arrived first to pick up Olivia, greeting the girls with a warm smile and saying that she’d love to take them shopping before school started back up. Diana smiled weakly and agreed that it sounded fun, though she knew there wasn’t a snowball's chance in hell she would be able to afford any of the outfits at the stores Mrs. Zhang shopped at. 

Mrs. Turner arrived second, smothering a protesting Becky in a hug. She also hugged Diana and Claire and promised the girls she’d try out one of her new recipes the next time they came over, before dragging an embarrassed Becky back to the car.

By this point, the families were trickling out of the parking lot, leaving about half the campers left. Diana was initially relieved there were less people, but as the minutes ticked by, she started to feel the familiar twinge of worry and disappointment for what she knew was going to eventually happen. 

Mrs. Roberts arrived third, upbeat and energetic as usual. She launched into a story about how there was a big drug bust which closed off a bunch of streets, which is why she arrived late. Scanning the rest of the parents with a slight frown, she turned to Diana. “Your mum coming today, Di?” 

Diana knew Mrs. Roberts didn’t mean for it to come across as condescending, but Diana bristled anyway. “Yes, she told me last week she’ll be late because she was going out of town to sell one of her paintings in the afternoon.”

It was a complete lie, and Diana suspected Mrs. Roberts knew, because she said, “It’s no bother driving you home. You have that spare key in your rucksack, yeah?”

 “She’ll come,” insisted Diana, voice a bit more forceful than necessary. Mrs. Roberts nodded tentatively and Claire waved Diana good-bye with a slightly worried look. As they were leaving, Diana noticed Mrs. Roberts talking with Ms. Layla, and gesturing in her direction. Hurry up, Mum…

Eventually,  all the girls and parents filtered out, and it was only down to Diana and the camp counselors.

“Are you sure your mother knows the correct time?” asked Ms. Layla kindly. 

Diana made sure to circle the date in marker on the calendar, as well as taping notes with the date on both the bathroom mirror and Mum’s bedroom door. “Yeah.”

“Perhaps your grandmother can pick you up instead?” 

“She’s out of town today, visiting a friend. She won’t be back until tomorrow night.” 

“Ah, I see.”

There was silence. Ms. Layla’s expression was neutral, but the other counselors' expressions reflected a mix of pity for Diana and frustration with Ms. White.

I never should have come on this stupid trip. The elation she felt earlier in the day depleted completely, only to be replaced with mortification and anger. Of course Mum would flake out; why did Diana ever expect anything otherwise? Hadn’t she learned enough?

The counselors continued to wait as the minutes trickled by. They tried to make conversation with Diana, who clammed up and would only give short responses, afraid that saying anymore would cause her to start crying, and wouldn’t that be the cherry on top of the shit sundae? 

Diana saw Ms. Janet huddled with Ms. Layla over to the side, and strained to hear. “Layla, we can’t keep waiting here. It’s been over an hour at this point. My son’s with a babysitter and I need to get home.”

“I know. I’ll stay here, don’t worry.”

“No, you shouldn’t have to do that. We should call the police. This isn’t the first time—-”

Diana’s eavesdropping was interrupted by another counselor who offered her some trail mix to eat. Twenty more minutes passed, and eventually the counselors too started leaving, until it was only Diana and Ms. Layla. 

“So, Diana, did you enjoy the trip? Before we took the bus, of course,” Ms. Layla asked. 

Diana didn’t want conversation; she wanted to tie weights to her feet and jump into Witherly Lake. 

“Yes,” she replied stiffly, hoping Ms. Layla would get the hint. The counselor plowed ahead.

“Your discovery of the cave was really something else. There might even be some people calling your house, asking to interview you!”

Mentioning the cave caused another ripple of irritation. “I don’t want anyone to interview me. I hate it when I get put in the spotlight. And I didn’t even do anything! I just stood there like an idiot and it popped up. Anyone could have done it. ”

Diana knew she was being unnecessarily rude and cranky, but in the moment she didn’t care as uncharitable thoughts about her mother kept flooding her mind. 

Ms. Layla looked at her with a soft expression. “You’re being too hard on yourself. I saw firsthand how much effort and research you put into finding the cave’s location. Far more than the rest of your patrol, that’s for sure.”

Diana just shrugged. Layla waited another few seconds, then continued. “Sometimes, attention can be a good thing.” Diana couldn't help but give a derisive snort. “You disagree?”

“It might be okay for other people, but not for me.” 

“Why?”

Something inside Diana broke. With the letter and her mum’s lack of appearance, the emotions came to a boiling point and she snapped, “It’s no secret! My mum’s completely off her rocker. She’s a grown woman who thinks magic is real and can’t even do simple things like picking up her kid. Everyone in Amberton knows about looney Sarah White. If they do an article, I’m sure it’ll be mentioned somewhere.”

“Diana, you’re not your mother. You’re not your father, either, and people know that.” 

 Diana stared at Ms. Layla, eyes wide and mouth agape at the counselor’s boldness; was Ms. Layla even allowed to mention Diana’s father? It felt like some kind of professional line was being crossed. The usually-composed Ms. Layla actually looked a bit unsettled and quickly rushed ahead to explain: “You’re carrying this massive weight on your shoulders and pushing yourself so much, but you don’t need to. What you need is to love yourself and have confidence. I wish you could see the girl I see.”

Diana felt many conflicting emotions at that moment, but the most prominent was gratitude towards Ms. Layla. Even though what she says isn’t true. So because of this gratefulness, she felt like smacking herself when a snarky comment escaped and she grumbled, “I wish you could have seen that I didn’t want to make that speech in front of everyone.” 

Diana was relieved when Ms. Layla laughed. “Ok, I suppose I deserved that. But in my defense, I had your best intentions in mind. Speaking publicly and drawing attention to yourself is simply a part of life. Like it or not, you are going to have to do it as you get older. And if you can overcome this obstacle, I truly believe that you could be a great leader one day.”

“You sound like Samantha,” Diana said quietly. Has it really been only a few hours since their conversation at camp?

“Samantha is one of our most perceptive Guides. I saw how you tried to make peace with her at breakfast. Your drive, determination, and compassion are traits I admire in you. And they’re your traits. Not your parents’, yours .”

A rush of affection ran through Diana as she smiled. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that point, a car—no doubt breaking the speed limit—rapidly turned into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in front of the pair. All warm feelings suddenly turned ice cold. A woman with disheveled black hair and bags under her eyes hastily pushed the door open and rushed towards Diana. She smothered Diana in a hug, which her daughter did not return.

“Baby, I’m so sorry! I-I don’t know what happened. I was feeling tired so I took a nap, and I swear I set the alarm clock, except it didn’t ring and when I woke up and checked it it says I never set it, so I don’t know what happened, and then when I started driving all these roads were closed and—”

“It’s fine. Let’s go,” Diana mumbled. She broke free from the hug and quickly headed into the car without looking her mother in the eyes. She sat inside stewing in her anger and the heat (the AC broke weeks ago, but they couldn’t afford to fix it) while Sarah White and Ms. Layla talked. She groaned in frustration as she looked at the empty pill bottle on the ground. Damn it, Mum . Sarah returned back to the car, frazzled, and turned on the ignition. Diana turned around and waved at Ms. Layla, who waved back with a sad yet compassionate expression on her face. She kept waving until Ms. Layla was out of sight. Then, it was just her, her mum, and a heavy silence. 

“I really am sorry,” Sarah said miserably, and Diana believed her.

“It’s fine,” Diana muttered again. It wasn’t. 

Sarah, evidently, agreed. “No, no it’s not. I told your grandma it was fine. I told her that she could go on that trip to see the Baileys, and I could handle it. But clearly, I couldn’t.” She sniffed, and Diana clenched her fists.

“Didn’t you see my notes?”

“I-I did, Baby! I did. I purposely didn’t plan anything else today. I didn’t want to risk forgetting. But then, well, one of my headaches started—you know how painful they could be—-and I took some pills, and then I just wanted to rest for a little bit. I thought I set the alarm clock, I really did.” She smacked the steering wheel forcefully. “Damn those arseholes!” 

Diana didn’t need to ask who “those arseholes” referred to, and she wasn’t going to entertain her mother’s delusions tonight. “What were you and Ms. Layla talking about outside?”

Her grip on the wheel loosened a bit. “We talked about…different things.” She appeared to perk up a bit. “She also mentioned you discovered a cave that everyone thought vanished. That’s amazing, Sweetheart! How did you find it?”

“I’m really not in the mood to talk about it right now,” Diana replied tersely. 

“Oh,” Sarah replied quietly. They drove another minute in silence. Then, Sarah meekly added, “She’s a nice woman.”

“Yeah, she is. Reliable, dependable.”

Sarah frowned, her voice getting an edge to it. “I said I was sorry. Are you going to keep—” 

Something inside Diana snapped as all her emotions boiled up to the surface. “I was waiting three hours , Mum! Do you realize how embarrassing that is?!”

“I– can’t help it! They messed with my head! You know this! If there was a way to make everything normal again, I would!”

Stark raving mad, I swear . “Were you writing in that stupid book again? You always get worse whenever you look at it.”

Sarah’s eyes hardened. “It’s not stupid. It’s the only way people like us—normal people—ever have a chance of getting justice. I need to write down things as I remember them, otherwise I’ll forget again.”

“And what’s the track record for that? How many ‘victims’ have been ‘gotten justice,’ hmm?” Diana knew she was being bratty and needlessly provocative, but her anger at her mother and situation in general overrode her logic or empathy.  So much for that compassion Ms. Layla talked about…

“It—I’m getting closer, I promise. There was a flick playing on the telly earlier today—’The Haunting’—and, and the house in it reminded me of that house—you know the one—and one memory led to another and I was overloaded with all these thoughts and I just had to write everything down before it slipped out of my mind. And I know that’s what probably caused my headache, but I think it was worth it because I remembered a name—Caroline—and I could do research and see if there were any missing or murdered girls with that name in 1980 and—” 

Diana tuned out for the rest of the car ride. She didn’t trust herself to speak without screaming or saying something she would truly regret. I need to talk to Grandma.  

Grandma—Marie White—was Diana’s safe harbor in a sea of insanity. She always had been ever since Sarah had her first breakdown all those years ago. When she was with Grandma, she could pretend to be a normal child instead of one who first learned what rape and torture were when the hardest concept most children her age had to grapple with was how to write in complete sentences. When she was with Grandma, she could pretend to be a normal child who wasn’t constantly paranoid and on edge whenever she saw a male stranger due to her mother’s stories. When she was with Grandma, she could pretend to be a normal child with normal worries instead of being forced to act like some kind of living diary for a grown woman. She didn’t have to constantly be exposed to age-inappropriate concepts the way she was with Sarah. She could just be normal.

“’—of course, when I call the stations I need to be as vague as possible. I’m positive that the magic users must be closely monitoring our communications. For all I know, they already infiltrated the police—-which is probably why they didn’t believe me—-and I can’t imagine they haven’t done the same with the government. I think—”

“You realize they’ll probably take me away from you again, right?” Diana asked bluntly. 

“ ‘They’?” Sarah hesitated. “The wizard government? Do you think your f-fa—um, has anyone contacted you?”

The thought of the letter immediately sprang to mind, but Diana pushed it aside. “I’m not talking about wizards, Mum. I’m talking about the real government. Our government. Remember when I was eight and they said you couldn’t be my mum anymore because you kept having these crazy breakdowns and yelled and attacked me—”

Sarah’s face paled as she clutched the steering wheel tighter. “God as my witness, I never meant to—I, I just….my mind was all jumbled. I’m so sorry! I’m better now, I promise. It’ll never happen again.”

Diana ignored her. She remembered her mum sobbing, screaming that Diana’s father was evil and that she thought Diana might be evil too. She remembered the scratches and the hits. She remembered being locked in a closet and wondering if she’d ever be allowed out. She remembered how, during the day after a breakdown happened, her mum would always be genuinely shocked that Diana was injured and then start weeping when she was told she was the cause, or go about the day as normal, not noticing and remaining blissfully ignorant that Diana was in her own personal hell less than 24 hours ago.

Unlike her mother, Diana White doesn’t forget. 

“And all the times you’d forget to pick me up, or forget to turn off the gas, or forget to give me breakfast or dinner, or pack my lunch? They said you were an unfit mother for a reason. Instead of focusing on what’s actually happening to me, you're wrapped up in these magical conspiracy theories. Do you want them to take me away?” Would you even care?

Tears started to trickle down Sarah’s cheeks  at this point, which only made Diana angrier. However, her anger diluted a little when Sarah asked softly, “No, I don’t want that to happen. But what about you? Do you want to be taken from me?”

“I don’t know,” Diana answered honestly. 

By this point, the mother and daughter reached their house ( shack )—still looking as run-down as Diana remembered it—and were sitting motionless in the driveway, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Sarah was the one who broke the silence. “Th-the courts said it was ok for us to live together again. I have medication and I’m talking to someone about these things, and Grandma’s living with us. Things are better than they were a few years ago, I think.”

“Yeah…” Diana agreed. “I just…I just don’t want it to go back to how it was. It’s been a long time since you’ve forgotten anything this important. It’s a little scary.”

Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over to Diana, giving her a tight hug. Diana hesitated for a moment, then returned it. “I don’t want it to go back to the way things were either. I love you, Diana. I-if I ever said anything differently, i-it was because I wasn’t myself. T-they rewired my brain and I don’t handle feelings the same way I used to. You mean so much to me, and I want you to always know that.”

Diana wasn’t sure how much of that was true, but wanted to believe it—at least what her mum said about loving her. “I love you too,” she said truthfully. 

Sarah smiled and squeezed her hand before opening the car door. Grabbing her rucksack, Diana followed her mother inside her house. The loud rattling of the mounted wall fans greeted her. As per usual, 6 Ironwood Lane looked like a disjointed mess, with clutter scattered about and objects tossed around haphazardly. There was a mess of random ingredients on the kitchen table. Apparently, her mother had attempted to start cooking something earlier, though Diana couldn’t imagine what food would result from the combination on the table. Some of Sarah’s earliest paintings—cheerful, bright ones—were hanging up on the walls. An easel and canvas were set up, and Diana hoped whatever she painted she would be able to sell for a good price. She wanted to be able to see Samantha at one of the events again soon. 

Sarah picked up the TV Guide from the table and handed it to her daughter. “Let’s watch something later tonight. Your pick! I’ll make us popcorn.”

Diana smiled and flipped through the pages, trying to find something fun. The Wizard of Oz was on, but there was no way in hell Diana would put on anything with wizards or witches in the presence of Sarah White.  Alice in Wonderland? Sarah sometimes didn't react well to bizarre images. Raiders of the Lost Ark? Return of the Jedi? Those both involve women in peril, which sometimes Sarah didn’t react well to (despite the heroines’ persistence and triumph), so that was out. They Live? No doubt Sarah would see parallels with the film’s storyline of how only certain people can see ‘the truth’ and her own worldview, so that was out too. Supergirl? 

That seems innocent enou—wait, Kara beats up those two truckers who try to rape her. Never mind.

Diana mentally sighed in frustration as she kept flipping through pages. It irritated her sometimes, the things she had to consider when doing something as simple as watching television with her mother. In the end, she chose a nature documentary about baby birds, which didn’t seem the most exciting, but Diana did like animals, and it was the best of the possible options. 

“You could never go wrong with animals, especially baby ones,” Sarah said with a smile. She heated up a frozen pizza in the microwave and the two of them sat around the table, chatting. Diana happily told Sarah about her experiences at camp. Sarah was a good audience, laughing and gasping and asking questions during the appropriate moments. In the midst of telling her mother how she made the map, Diana’s gaze drifted to the counter, where she saw a stack of letters, unopened. Her heart started to beat more quickly. 

While part of her knew she was being needlessly paranoid, the other part whispered frantic what-ifs. Attempting to act casual, Diana asked mother if the post came for today.

Sarah blinked, surprised at the abrupt change in topic. “Of course, Honey. It’s Saturday. I didn’t go through them though. Are you expecting a letter?”

Ohmygodwhatiftheysentitheretoo . “Y-yes. I’m finished eating, so I was going to look through the pile before heading upstairs and unpacking.”

“Oh.” Sarah looked surprised, and bit her lip. “I thought we could maybe talk a bit more first…I really want to hear about you getting the award.”

Normally Diana would stay, but the anxiety and dread of a letter from a magic school being within six feet of her mother overwhelmed her. “T-there’s not really much to tell. I could go over it when we’re watching the documentary later.”

“Ok, that’s fine, Sweetie,” Sarah said, gaze drifted downward at her pizza. Diana felt a bit guilty, but made her way to the counter and grabbed the stack of letters, hands shaking slightly. 

Bill, bill, Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet, bill, flyer for the summer carnival, bill, and—

There was a handwritten letter with no return address and a seal with a Latin inscription (It actually looks kinda similar to—-NOPE. Stop. Don’t think about it any more ) with an “M” on the back. Unlike the letter from camp, however, Diana knew who sent this one and felt relief sweep over her. 

There was no letter congratulating her on her acceptance into magic school. Thank God . She was a bit annoyed that the thought even crossed her mind; it would have been impossible (or extremely implausible, at least) for someone to leave a letter at both Cabin 7 and 6 Ironwood Lane on the same day. The person who wrote it wanted to get under my skin, and they’ve been successful, unfortunately. If this keeps up, I’m going to be crazy as Mum one day.

Clutching the letter in her hand like a precious piece of gold, she grabbed her rucksack and headed up the stairs to her room to open it. Her room looked exactly like she left it—slightly sloppy, but more organized than downstairs. It had a white carpet and light pink walls, and books and stuffed animals were strewn about on the desk, nightstand, and bookshelves. Diana saw with relief that Sarah had remembered to water the pot of Devil’s Ivy on her desk. 

Knowing who the letter was from, she pulled a dictionary from the bookshelf (she knew she was going to need it), plopped herself on the bed, and opened the letter and began to read. 

My dear D.W,

It pleases me to hear that you found the book edifying. Understanding the past is often key to understanding the future and—perhaps—even our present. Many times I’ve wished that my grandson possessed your innate sense of curiosity and desire for self-improvement, but alas, my wishes seem to be in vain.

In regards to your question about Cleopatra Selene, I can only wager that she believed it would be more advantageous to go along with Octavian’s wishes than to face the alternative. While it would be certainly understandable for her to retaliate against the man responsible for the death of her parents and attempt to claim her throne, Cleopatra Selene likely knew that the resources simply weren’t there for a successful rebellion. The power of the Roman Empire at that time was unmatched, and any attempted coup would have been doomed for failure. Given the legendary cunning of her parents, it is not surprising that she would choose the option that would give her the most benefit in the long run as opposed to a temporary sense of self-righteousness. 

The princess lived for several years in the household of Octavian’s family, and while I’m sure there was severe resentment, I also find it likely that she learned from her hosts. One does not need to have a favorable impression of the teacher in order to learn valuable lessons. And sure enough, when she married Juba II, she brought the Mauretanian kingdom to greatness and ensured her mother’s legacy would not be forgotten by incorporating Egyptian influence into the kingdom’s architecture. Cleopatra Selene was never broken—despite Octavian’s beliefs—and always remembered her birthright and mother’s legacy. The choices throughout her life ensured that she was not known to history as the martyred daughter of Cleopatra and Marc Antony, but instead is recognized as a powerful, influential queen in her own right. 

I imagine your summer will be quite eventful and leave you with less leisure time than expected. However, if you find yourself with a thirst for additional reading material over the next few days, I recommend looking into the House of Tudor—Queen Elizabeth I, in particular. Much like Cleopatra Selene, her survival depended on the man responsible for the death and diminished reputation of her mother. And just as with the Ptolemaic princess, Elizabeth thrived in spite of her circumstances. 

(As a side note, one of my forefathers was supposedly an unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Queen Elizabeth I. How different would the world be if he were triumphant, I wonder?)

As is customary in our exchanges, I’ve enclosed your previous letter within this envelope, along with my grammatical corrections. Be mindful of sentence fragments and run-ons. I look forward to speaking with you soon.

Yours sincerely,

A.M

Sure enough, Diana’s previous letter was also in the envelope, along with several red markings indicating the aforementioned grammatical errors. Ah yes, the mysterious A.M .  

Diana originally came in contact with A.M shortly before school let out for the summer. One of the Girl Guides’ activities for community outreach involved acting as a penpal to elderly individuals from across the county, something that Ms. Layla organized. For the sake of privacy, both parties were referred to only by their initials. Originally, Ms. Layla acted as an intermediary, with her giving Diana A.M’s letters and her presumably giving A.M Diana’s letters, but after the school year ended, the letters started arriving at Diana’s house directly. She wasn’t sure why the change happened, but wasn’t particularly bothered by it, even though she still didn’t know A.M’s address and continued sending her letters to Ms. Layla. 

A.M’s letters often seemed as if they were directed at another adult instead of an eleven-year old child and seemed—in Diana’s opinion—a bit pretentious, but Diana learned a lot from him. Grammar, vocabulary, history, mythology, philosophy—the man seemed to have many areas of expertise, and Diana enjoyed having him as a penpal. He would always recommend certain topics and books to look into (the most recent involving Egypt and the Roman Empire), and gave (admittedly sometimes questionable) advice. 

He always had a lot to say—sometimes too much—and Diana was curious, so one time she did ask Ms. Layla if she could have more information about who he really was. Ms. Layla seemed a bit confused and under the impression that Diana was paired up with a different person entirely, which Diana assumed was just a way to keep the mystery and privacy intact. Ms. Layla didn’t seem to hear or acknowledge that she ever acted as an intermediary to send letters to A.M or receive them from him.

In other circumstances it would be creepy, but A.M gave her no reason to believe he had any ill intentions. Not like the writer of the other letter she received at camp.

After unpacking and showering, Diana threw on her nightgown and headed downstairs and over to the television, where she saw that her mother followed through with her promise to make popcorn. Between bites of popcorn, she finished telling Sarah about her trip at camp—minus the letter, of course—which Sarah seemed to enjoy.

They spent a lot of time fawning over the cute little birds that showed up in the documentary. It was a nice experience, and reminded Diana of when she was really young, back when Sarah White would still speak of Diana’s father in a reverent, loving tone. 

That all changed, Diana remembered with some discomfort, when the two of them were sitting together on the sofa watching television, just like they were now. Diana was only five, and Sarah wanted her daughter to enjoy the historical moment of watching the Challenger space shuttle launch. Jubilation turned to horror as they saw the shuttle explode, and Sarah quickly scrambled to turn it off, though Diana didn’t fully understand what was happening at the time. Sarah acted normal for the rest of the day, but later at night, when she was washing dishes, she had her first breakdown. Diana always wondered if seeing death in real-time triggered something in her, some memories long repressed, or if it was simply coincidence. Either way, nothing was ever the same since then.

“—the cuckoo is a brood parasite that lays its eggs in nests of other birds, such as the Eurasian reed warbler. The cuckoo egg has evolved to imitate the host’s eggs, and the host bird often remains unaware of the irregularity of the egg. Once hatched, the cuckoo chick pushes the biological offspring of the host out of the nest, allowing for the host to divert all its energies to feeding and nurturing the cuckoo chick. This relationship continues until the cuckoo is able to leave the nest and support itself without assistance from the host mother.”

“That’s horrible,” Diana muttered as she watched the warbler, tiny and sleek, feed the gigantic cuckoo chick that looked like it was five times the warbler’s size.  It looked and felt perverse and wrong. “The cuckoo just leaves its egg for some other bird to raise. And doesn’t the mother bird realize there’s something wrong with the chick? I mean, look at the size of it!” 

“Maybe she does realize there’s something wrong, but can’t do anything about it,” Sarah said quietly, looking at the birds with a clouded expression on her face. “She grows up thinking the child is going to be like her, but it turns out to be like its other parent. She already lost everything. Maybe she figures she has no choice but to continue raising it.”

Sarah’s voice was very flat and even, and Diana started to get goosebumps. 

“Or m-maybe she genuinely grows to love the cuckoo as her own, even though it’s different?” Diana suggested meekly.  

Sarah turned to her and smiled sadly. “Yes, I’m sure that’s definitely part of it, too.”

Diana wasn’t sure if they were even talking about the bird anymore. She was about to get up and say something, but Sarah leaned over and kissed Diana on the forehead softly, before gently squeezing her hand. 

They continued watching hand-in-hand until the narrator started talking about how Kingfisher fathers would help build the nest and help incubate and feed their offspring. It was then that Diana asked the question that’s been on her mind since the cuckoo bird segment: “Mum, does my dad know that I exist?”

Sarah immediately withdrew her hand. Diana’s father was one of the topics that they never, ever discussed when Sarah was in her right mind, not since the day of the Challenger launch. She knew she was playing with fire by even mentioning him, but damn it, she wanted to know. 

“Why are you asking?” Sarah kept looking at the screen of the television, though her hands were now clutching the blanket on the sofa.

“I just hate having a deadbeat for a father. I mean, look!” Diana pointed to the telly. The narrator was now showing how male Robins help feed their offspring and protect the nest. “Even these birds do a better job than him. I know what you say about him, and I believe you when you say that he’s a bad person, but is it wrong to just….wish that things were different?” 

“N-no, of course not,” said Sarah, shifting her sad gaze to Diana. “It’s normal to feel that way. And it…it means a lot to me, to hear you say that you believe me about that. The police, everyone else—except Grandma—-they all think I’m lying or delusional.”

Diana didn’t overlook how Sarah avoided answering her first question. “Does he know about me, Mum?”

Sarah’s eyes shifted downward. “No, he doesn’t. He’s not purposely trying to avoid you, Sweetie. But it’s better this way.” She didn’t elaborate.

There was a pause, and then Diana said, “You know, the first few years of my life I had this perfect image in my head of what he was like. You used to say such wonderful things about him,  but then one day everything changed and you started saying the opposite. Now my feelings are just all over the place. I don’t know if he’s good or bad.” I don’t know if I’m good or bad . 

“Oh, Diana,” Sarah whispered, and grabbed her into a hug again. They sat there for a minute in silence, before Sarah continued to whisper softly. “I’m so sorry. Your father, he…he made my feelings go all over the place, too.  Even before I…returned home, I thought, well….” She trailed off a bit before beginning to ramble, just like how her daughter sometimes did when she was nervous. “There was this woman in America named Mary McElroy and there was also a bank robbery in Stockholm—that’s a city in Sweden—and, and what happened to me was a bit like that. And, well, I w-wish the memories I had when you were born were the full truth. I really do. But I didn’t have the full context, and what actually happened, it—it was awful. It’s not fair that you have to go through this. It’s not fair that I have to go through this, with the mixed up memories. It’s their fault, not ours.”

Sarah didn’t say who “they” referred to, but Diana knew who she meant, and it was a reminder that she had to take everything Sarah said with a massive grain of salt. Still, Diana couldn’t help but say, “I get jealous of Claire, Becky, and Olivia sometimes. I wish I had regular parents. Parents who…you know, treat each other kindly, love each other, and get married, like in the films and books.”

Sarah’s eyes started to well with tears and Diana felt like shit for bringing it up. “I-I wish the same thing.”

Diana leaned on her mum’s shoulder and asked, “Could you tell me more about Granddad? Grandma always talks about how wonderful he was, even now.”

Sarah’s eyes lit up as she started telling Diana about her own father—Alan White—who died of cancer before Diana was born. Diana listened attentively, bird documentary completely forgotten, and felt the mix of fondness and yearning she always did whenever her granddad was mentioned. Sarah told Diana how he’d take her to the park to feed the birds, how he’d once saved her from drowning in the ocean, how he would always make the best Shepherd’s Pie. Diana heard most of those stories before, but it was always nice hearing Sarah talk enthusiastically about a positive topic. 

Listening, Diana couldn’t help but feel a bit envious at how comfortable and knowledgeable Sarah was. Diana knew very little about her own father, and the information she did know was often contradictory and tentatively accurate at best, given Sarah’s erratic memory. She knew his name: Lucius Malfoy. She knew he was apparently rich, and that—according to Sarah—-he kept her hidden away in some kind of seaside manor to be used as a servant for powerful people along with some other girls. 

 From the name, Lucius, being reminiscent of Lucifer, to this whole cabal of powerful rich folk who enslave perceived “inferiors” without the authorities knowing, to an escape and pregnancy that came from it, the whole whole story—even even without the magical elements—seemed like something pulled straight from a Hollywood summer flick. Diana didn’t fully blame the authorities for not believing Sarah; she had no proof that any of this happened, after all, and it certainly sounded ridiculous. But looking into Sarah’s eyes, it was hard to deny that she thought it happened, at least.  

Diana’s grandmother believed Sarah’s story to a certain extent. She was furious with how the police treated her daughter, and believed that Sarah was abducted—”by those goddamn Satanists,” Grandma said with conviction—and given a copious amount of drugs, which was what caused the memory issues. The name “Lucius Malfoy”—-the only perpetrator that Sarah could name clearly—-was investigated, and the only thing the police could find was that there was a “Septimus Malfoy” is the past who purchased a bunch of land in the eighteenth century. After driving out to investigate the land and researching possible descendants, the police concluded that there were just empty stretches of land, and there were no other Malfoys that they could find. Questions about who owned the land currently were met with vacant expressions and vague stammerings. Marie White even drove out to Wiltshire to see if the police were bullshitting her, but apparently she wasn’t able to see anything there either. 

But just because they didn’t see anything, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything there, a dark voice inside Diana whispered. After all, didn’t Diana see something that everyone else was able to ignore for decades?

But Diana pushed that thought to the back of her head. After the documentary was long over and the mother and daughter had exhausted their conversation, Diana headed up to bed. She turned off the lights and snuggled under the covers, but couldn’t sleep, mind racing, as it often did, on days that were highly eventful. After an hour of staring at the ceiling and willing herself to fall asleep, Diana got out of her bed and quietly tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. 

As she was heading back to her room, she saw the lights in her mother’s room were on. Diana peeked her head in and saw her mother sitting on the ground, clutching a piece of fabric in her hands.

“Mum?” Diana asked hesitantly.

Sarah spun around, startled. Diana could see now that she was holding her white sundress with a flowered pattern that she used to wear all the time. Out of all her outfits, it was Diana’s favorite, though she hasn’t worn it since the day the Challenger exploded. 

“Y-yes, Honey? Is anything wrong?”

“No, I was just thirsty.” Sarah didn’t look like she had been crying, but her expression looked somewhat…hollow. Empty, even. “Are you ok? I came in because I saw the light was on.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Sarah said, forcing a smile. “You should go to bed, especially since you had such a big day today.”

“Alright,” Diana said, but as she turned her back, Sarah called after her.

“Sweetie?”

“Yes?” Diana yawned.

“I love you.”

Diana turned back to her mother, who was smiling, but had eyes that still reflected a sense of deep sadness. 

“I love you too, Mum.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier in the car.”

Sarah folded the dress and put it to the side. She stood up and walked over Diana, wrapping her in a big hug. “There’s nothing to apologize for, darling. Goodnight.” 

Diana smiled and headed back into the hallway. Though neither of them knew it, that would be the last time Sarah White would ever hug her daughter. 

As Diana went back to bed, her mother’s affirmation allowed her to drift into slumber far easier than before. Tomorrow, she would encounter a magic user for the first time, and her life would change irrevocably. Tomorrow, at this same hour, she would be sobbing uncontrollably, wishing and praying that she could turn the clock back a day. But for tonight, she could sleep peacefully, whispers of her mother’s love still echoing in her mind.

Chapter Text

At the same time Diana and Sarah were embracing in Sarah’s room, Lucius Malfoy was standing outside the doorway of his own son’s room, working up the courage to enter and shatter his son’s perception of him permanently. 

Earlier in the day, Lucius was reminded of how and why he eventually fell in love with Narcissa over the years. He remembered pouring out all the details about his conversation with Abraxas, and Narcissa stood there listening, not interrupting once. At the end of the tale, the only question Narcissa asked him was, “How much longer do we have?” She then told him that she would begin sending letters and reaching out to all her contacts in order to help control the narrative that would soon emerge. Before leaving to meet with Barnabas Cuffe of the Daily Prophet, she told Lucius in no uncertain terms that he would be the one who needed to tell Draco. 

She didn’t specify what time though, so Lucius naturally procrastinated doing it for as long as he could. Why should he be in a rush to forever ruin his son’s image of him?

After Narcissa left, Lucius wrote two letters. The first was written in about five minutes and was addressed to Cornelius Fudge, explaining the basics about the situation and requesting that the custody proceedings be fast-tracked in order to occur during the latest time slot possible on Sunday, and for the identities of the participants involved to be sealed until a judgment is made. While the Ministry was open every day of the week, the amount of people who would be in the building on a Sunday evening would be limited, and Lucius didn’t want to encounter a bunch of rifraff trying to “make conversation” with him about the proceedings immediately after, when the information would be put in the public record. The whole world would find out about it soon enough.

The second letter took significantly longer to write. It was addressed to his mother, and the wastebasket near the writing desk was overflowing with crumpled drafts by the time Lucius finally wrote one he was satisfied with. 

By the time his mother’s letter was sent out, an owl from Borthwick arrived with a copy of the Blood Tracing document. After reading it more thoroughly than he did earlier, Lucius immediately went about the Manor grounds and put fresh offerings in the shrines that were collecting dust. The sheer statistical improbability that both his son and daughter would happen to be born on June 3rd had Lucius convinced that he must have offended some kind of divine presence in some way. He was only placated somewhat by the time of birth listed, which cemented Diana as being younger than Draco. Having an older sibling, even a female one, could have made things a bit more complicated in regards to the inheritance.

Then, he went to the Ministry to file the necessary paperwork. He remembered the clerk’s gaping expression when he told him why he was there, and made it very, very clear that the clerk must be discreet with this information and that if it was leaked, he would know who did it. He remembered Fudge stopping him in the corridor and pulling him off to the side, whispering that he would send a letter later tonight after speaking with the council, but did not expect the transfer in custody to go as smoothly as it did in previous years.

 (“It’s because of that awful business with the Rowles and Dolohovs, you see,” Fudge whispered, wringing his hands. “The public doesn’t have the stomach to see something like that happen again. The Association for Muggleborns and Muggle Rights has been propping those children up as martyrs. N-not that I expect something like….something like that to happen in your reputable household, o-of course! But—you know—there is the matter of Albus Dumbledore to consider.”)

After that, Lucius returned home and opened up his liquor cabinet to pour himself a much-needed glass of alcohol, his first in eleven years. And then a second. And then a third. And so on.

Lucius spent the remaining hours staring vacantly at a spot on the wall, indulging in a rather long episode of self-pity, in which his thoughts drifted to various topics. He remained in his study for some time, the only other contact he had being Dobby, who brought (slightly overcooked) supper into his study. After tasting the meat, Lucius ordered Dobby to take the paperweight and beat himself with it until his forehead was bloody, but even that did not give him the pleasure he often felt when seeing his inferiors in pain. The overwhelming dread was just too great. 

 As the clock ticked by, Lucius realized that it was getting later and later and he’d have to speak with his son soon, otherwise Narcissa would return to find out the conversation hadn’t happened, and that certainly wouldn’t go over well. So Lucius rummaged through his cabinet, found and drank a potion that would clear his mind, and made his way across the mansion to his son’s room.

Which brought him here, about to have what would perhaps be the most uncomfortable discussion of his life.

Sighing, Lucius knocked twice on the door. He heard some frantic movement from the other side and frowned. “Draco, I’m coming in.”

Lucius creaked open the door and saw his son reclining on the bed, clutching onto his copy of A History of Magic—bookmark only a few pages in—that Narcissa wanted him to get a head start on. Once he saw his father, he shifted into a sitting position and looked at Lucius with wide eyes. Usually, if Lucius wanted to speak with Draco, he would talk to him either over supper or would call Draco into his study. Having his father show up unexpectedly at such a late hour was unusual.

Lucius’s eyes scanned the room, noting with faint surprise that changes had been made with the decor since the last time he was there. All Draco’s childhood toys were removed, as were the drawings and posters that once covered most of the wall. Feeling a twinge of guilt, Lucius remembered the last time he was in this room ( And when was that? Weeks ago? Months? ), telling Draco that his room looked childish and not appropriate for a young man going to Hogwarts.

The new room looked, on first glance, like its inhabitant would be a very tidy adult. The layout reminded Lucius of how his own room used to look like when he was Draco’s age. However, a closer inspection would reveal — eliciting mixed emotions in Lucius — that the neatness was simply a facade. A magazine peeked out a tiny bit from under the bed, no doubt what Draco was actually reading before Lucius walked in. The dressers weren’t fully able to shut due to the amount of junk inside, and the closet door was slightly ajar, perhaps for the same reason.

Draco straightened his back slightly. “Yes, Father?”

Lucius maintained a neutral expression despite the inner apprehension that was running through inside him. “I came here to…talk to you about something important.” 

Draco looked rigid and tense, causing Lucius to feel a stab of annoyance. Why does he sometimes get like this? If Draco didn’t do anything bad, then there was no reason for him to be anxious. Lucius was a fair man who wouldn’t punish him unless he deserved it. 

“You’re not in trouble,” he clarified.

Draco’s posture relaxed slightly, but only slightly. His eyes drifted to Jormungandr, causing them to shine in awe and greed, and he finally smiled. 

“That’s really it—Jormungandr? Mother told me that you have now, that you’re the official head of the family, but she said you’d tell me the rest later. How did you get it? I thought Grandfather would never give it up. It’s about ti—” 

“I said that I needed to tell you something important, did I not? I’m uncertain as to why you find it appropriate to bombard me with questions at this time.”

“...Sorry.” Draco’s enthusiasm deflated and he glanced warily at the cane Lucius was holding. 

Feeling a twinge of guilt, Lucius said, “There will be a time for questions later, just not now.” 

Draco looked at him curiously. Figuring this was going to be a long conversation–Lucius took the chair from the desk and brought it to the side of his son’s bed and sat down, attempting to appear more approachable and less formal. Draco blinked at his father, puzzled. Lucius didn’t blame him. Everything about this encounter was abnormal.

Lucius knew Draco was waiting for him to say more, but his mouth grew dry and he couldn’t quite remember how he planned on starting this speech. It was suddenly as though he was eleven again. 

How the hell does one even begin a conversation like this? “Before you were born, Draco, I kept a Muggle as a slave for three months, and I just found out she had a child. That child is now going to Hogwarts, and she’s also being adopted into our family since she’s a Malfoy by blood and your grandfather won’t give me my rightful inheritance unless I formally acknowledge her. Also, you’ll be getting less money in the will because of this. Be sure to act pleasantly towards her.”

No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to start in an unassuming way and then work up to it. 

“What were you trying to hide before I came in?” Lucius asked. He didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but that was the way it came out. 

Draco’s eyes glanced down at the copy of A History of Magic he was holding, and paused, debating whether or not to tell the truth. 

“A Qudditch magazine,” Draco finally said. He knew better than to lie to his father. “I thought it would be okay to take a break for five minutes. I already got a head start on my books for Hogwarts—I’m pretty far in, actually. I’ll probably be top of my class once I start.”  

Lucius doubted that, but kept those misgivings to himself. He wanted to believe his son. “Hmm. Perhaps it's in your blood to be so interested in the sport. My brothers played for the Slytherin team when they attended Hogwarts.” 

Draco’s eyes widened and Lucius mentally kicked himself for bringing them up. “What positions did they play?”

It was very rare for Lucius to bring up his siblings in conversations, so he felt a bit uncomfortable as he said, “Cassius—the eldest—was a Beater, and Gaius was the Seeker.” 

Draco’s eyes gleamed and he smirked. “Once I’m a second-year, I’m going to be the Slytherin Seeker too.”

Of course that’s what you want . The Seeker was the most prestigious position, so naturally, Draco wanted it. Lucius smiled at his son’s ambition. 

“Perhaps. When you’re older, I’ll buy you a new broom, and then we’ll see.” Lucius paused. He knew he needed to bring up the girl, but couldn’t bring himself to do so yet, so he said the first thing that came into his mind. “I can still see the mess in this room. You need to clean it properly. A chaotic room reflects a chaotic mind.”

Draco winced slightly. “I-I know. I’ll do it tomorrow. Or I could do it now, if you want me to.”

 “Tomorrow. There’s something we must discuss that takes priority.”

That guarded expression came back to Draco’s face. Despite what Lucius told him, Lucius could tell that Draco still felt he was in some degree of trouble.

Inwardly steadying himself, Lucius began: “I visited your grandfather early this morning.”

Draco stiffened and couldn’t quite hide the scowl on his face; he knew how Abraxas felt about him, and felt the same way in return. As a thought occurred to him, his eyes lit up. ”Is he dead?” he asked, trying—and failing—to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

Unfortunately not. “No. He wanted to discuss a change he made to the will.”

“What did he want?” Draco asked. His fingers were gripping the sheets. “Is he…am I not going to get any money when he dies?”

Lucius frowned. He’s far too young to even be thinking about that. “You’ll get plenty of money—you’re my heir, remember?” Draco smiled widely, which made the next part difficult. “However”—the smile faded slightly—”you might not be getting… quite as much as originally anticipated. Not because of anything you did”—he rushed to explain as Draco’s mouth opened in protest—”but because your grandfather needs to set aside some of the fortune for the newest addition to our family.”

Saying the last sentence felt like swallowing poison. A half-Muggle child, living in Malfoy Manor. What a disgrace. “My father requested a Blood Tracing, and you have a younger sibling.” 

Younger by nine fucking hours, thank the gods . 

Draco’s eyes widened and his mouth was gaping slightly. Before Lucius could tell him to close it, Draco asked, “Is Mother…pregnant? I didn’t think that was possible.”

Lucius blinked. It was a logical assumption, and the possibility of an unborn child showing up on a Blood Tracing was one that didn’t cross his mind. He wasn’t even sure if a child still in the womb could be traced. “No, your mother’s not pregnant. Your sister is close to you in age”— extremely close –”and was born before that disreputable cretin cursed me.”

“Oh, said Draco, sounding slightly disappointed. Lucius wasn’t surprised. When Draco was very young–—before being able to understand the curse fully—he would sometimes whine that he wanted a younger brother to act as some sort of sidekick.

“Then I don’t understand,” Draco frowned, puzzled. “Did I have a twin that I was separated from?”

The possibility of Lucius having cheated ( No, it wasn’t cheating ) on Narcissa didn’t even cross Draco’s mind, bless him. His son thought the word of him and believed him to be a good man, the kind of man that he wanted to one day emulate. 

Within a few minutes, that pedestal will be shattered. 

Within a few minutes, his son would know that he was a rapist.

Within a few minutes, his son would hate him.

I can’t do this. 

Lucius seriously considered, for a moment, just standing up and leaving. Let Narcissa do it. Let him find out by reading the newspaper, same way as everyone else; anything not to have this conversation.

But that thought was pushed to the back of his mind. No. His fists clenched around Jormungandr. I'm the head of this household. It must be me .

“You don’t have a twin,” he said thinly. “Draco, what do you know about my prior involvement with the Death Eaters?”

“I know the Dark Lord was going to bring our world back to greatness again, and you were trying to help him do that. I know that you had to pretend to be under the Imperius in order to avoid Azkaban since the Wizengamot is full of pathetic blood traitors.”

Abraxas’s suggestion to Obliviate his son whispered through his head for a second, but only a second. “Yes, well, during my service to the Dark Lord, we would, on occasion, encounter Muggles.” He stopped as his throat suddenly grew dry again. He swallowed. “And sometimes we’d…”–— how the hell do I explain this? –—“take certain Muggles and keep them as”–— pets –—”captives.” 

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Because it was fun. “Because it’s simply the nature of warfare. The strong conquers the weak and has dominion over them. Even among Muggles, that’s how it’s done. You’ve read your history books, correct?”

“I did, but I thought we weren’t actually in open war with Muggles...I thought it was more as though we were at war with the Ministry.”

“That’s true, it wasn’t open war,” Lucius admitted with reluctance. “But remember, our goal was to…prove our blood superiority. Enslaving Muggles was a means to do that.”

“I…think I understand,” Draco said. Lucius hoped he didn’t. 

“Right. So, since I was a Death Eater, it was only natural that I would take a couple captives as well.” In truth, only about a quarter of Death Eaters were privileged enough to be invited to the Acheron, but Draco didn’t need to know that. “And what do you recall about captives taken during the ancient wars in the history books? What services did they…perform?”

“They were made slaves. They could be used for labor. They would sometimes be killed for the amusement of their masters.” He started to grin. “In Rome, they would throw prisoners into the Colosseum where they’d fight lions or even each other. Is that what you did, Father? Make the Muggles fight each other?” Draco looked at his father with wonder and wistfulness. “I bet it would have been fun to see.” Gods above, how did he get like this? He’s only eleven. 

“I…it’s true we did sometimes take…amusement in their deaths.” An image of Caroline flickered briefly in his mind. “What about women specifically?” Men were also occasionally kept at the Acheron, though Lucius never had any interest in them. He figured that, for the sake of the conversation, it would be best to keep it simple. 

“Hmm. I don’t really remember. I liked the lions and the chapter where that Greek man drowned 3,000 slaves, but I thought the other chapters were a bit boring.” 

Damn it, how much am I going to have to explain? 

“Captured women would often become…slaves to all sorts of whims for their master, often used for more…personal purposes, ordered around in such a way that is viewed today by most as improper.” 

Draco looked bewildered. “I don’t understand, Father. Did you make them do chores like a house elf?”

 No, Draco certainly would not be at the top of his class this year.

  Fuck my life, and all my choices that led me here to this moment . “They’d be used for intimate encounters, Draco. Similar to what occurs between man and wife. One of those Muggles became pregnant with your sister.” 

And there it was, finally out in the open. Draco stared at Lucius in confusion for a few seconds. Then it clicked, and his face slowly grew pale and his eyes widened in dawning horror. 

“You’re the father?” he whispered.

“That’s correct.” I wish it wasn’t. 

“But how?”

Lucius felt a pang of annoyance. “The same way wizard children are conceived, as I mentioned.” 

“Y-you mated with one?!”

“I–yes, I did.” 

“B-But Mr. Selwyn said that’s beastiality!”  Dorset Selwyn was Draco’s tutor. 

Lucius bristled at the implied offense. “Muggles are our inferiors, yes, but they can still speak and reason and look identical to us. We’re physically…compatible.” Jupiter, strike me down now. 

Faint traces of pink appeared on Draco’s face. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and his expression flickered through several different emotions. “Is-is this some kind of test?”

“...What?”

Draco previously looked shaken, but now he appeared more confident. “I see what you’re doing, Father.”

“Then enlighten me, because I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“You—you want to test my faith in you. To see if I would believe you would be capable of debasing yourself like this. It won’t work; I know you too well.”

Ouch . “I swear by Veritas that I’m not lying to you, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes widened; invoking the Goddess of Truth was no small matter. His gaze drifted down to the book, suddenly finding it interesting. He couldn’t look his father in the eyes, not that Lucius expected any different. He too was glad he didn’t have to look his son in the eyes anymore.

Still, he felt the need to defend himself. “I realize it may be…difficult for a child to understand, but adults, they—this sort of behavior is not uncommon.”

“But Muggles are dirty creatures—they’re lesser beings! That’s what you said!”

Lucius was getting frustrated. “They are. It wasn’t—look, Draco. When the explorers of old would encounter the native women, they would show their dominion by taking them for themselves. They certainly didn’t view the savages as equals, now did they? They knew them to be lesser, dirty creatures.”

Draco didn’t say anything, still staring down at his book. Not being able to take the silence, Lucius continued. “History is full of men who had…relations with women in groups they viewed as inferior—subhuman, even. Both wizards and Muggles share this history. It’s human nature.”

There was another long pause. “But…you said she was younger,” Draco mumbled quietly, so quietly that Lucius could barely hear him. 

“Your sister? Yes, she is.”

When Draco looked up, he had a spark of anger in his eyes. “If she’s younger, then how is it possible? You were married to Mother!”

“Watch your tone. I understand that this is…difficult to accept, but I will not tolerate my son speaking to me in such a way.” Draco’s gaze drifted back down to his book and mumbled a soft, inauthentic apology, eyes still hardened. “In regards to your question, your Mother and I were only recently married at the time.” He initially courted Narcissa because she was beautiful and from a prestigious bloodline; ‘love’ didn’t factor into the decision, though he grew to love her deeply over time. “Make no mistake, this Muggle girl, she–—she wasn’t a mistress in the proper sense. She was, well…” Lucius trailed off. He had no idea how to describe what she was. “She was simply a lapse in judgment.”

Draco started fidgeting with the top of the pages. “So it was…one time?”

Luicus hesitated. He wanted to lie and agree, but the truth would have gotten out eventually. “No, it wasn’t.”

“How—how long was it then?”

It felt longer, but… “About three months.”

Draco turned to look at his father with shock, horror, and—yes, there it was—disgust.

“But… why ?” he asked finally. “Why did it happen?”

Why?

That was the big question, wasn’t it? How many nights before and after his trial had he stayed up late wondering that very same thing? And yet, the answer eluded him. 

Was it because she seduced him like some kind of succubus with her bright, imploring blue eyes, causing him to act on pure lust and emotion?

Was it because he was foolishly second-guessing the decision to marry Narcissa and felt the impulse to sow his oats, and this girl was a convenient receptacle?

Was it because having her at his complete mercy gave him a sense of power and control that he lacked in other aspects of his life? 

Was it because the dehumanization of Muggles was woven into the very fabric of society, making her seem less like a “real” person in his eyes and more like a talking object to act upon?

Was it because he felt like it was some warped way of proving his supremacy as a Pureblood, after being doubted most his life due to sharing a womb with a squib?

Was it because at the Acheron, he didn’t need to put on the mask of a respectable member of society and could engage in whatever twisted whims flitted across his thoughts?

Was it because it seemed normal since everyone else was doing it, and he didn’t want to seem abnormal by abstaining?

Was it because it felt nice to sometimes talk to someone who had no idea who he was and had no preconceptions of him?

Was it because he’s a sadistic fuck who found her physical, mental, and emotional pain and her teary eyes and soft pleads and quivering lips to be extremely arousing?

Was it all of the above?

Was it some of the above? 

Was it none of the above?

“I don’t know,” Lucius replied honestly. “Sometimes power leads one to certain…impulses, many of which, in retrospect, are often poor.” 

“ ‘Poor impulses?’” Draco repeated, a noticeable edge creeping into his voice. He looked at Lucius in a way that took Lucius by surprise. “This Muggle must have been really pretty” — Draco’s voice was now dripping with venom, reflecting a mixture of anger and hurt — “if she was able to lead a Pureblood around for three months like–like s ome kind of prized lapdog !”

Something snapped in Lucius, and a second later, Draco cried out in pain, clutching his cheek. “How dare you talk to me like that?” he snarled.

The rebellious spirit was quickly extinguished. Draco looked downward again and cradled his stinging cheek, mumbling apologies that sounded more genuine than earlier. Still, Lucius wasn’t pacified and familiar, violent impulses swirled through his head. “I do so much for you, and you have the arrogance to sit here judging me ?” 

Calm down. It’s reasonable to expect him to be angry , his conscience–the one that always fretted for the comfort of his son–whispered.  Another smug, oily competing voice that sounded like Abraxas murmured, You did warn him already, though. You need to show your authority again. He never seems to learn.

He stood up and Draco shrank back a bit, but Lucius grabbed his right shoulder tightly.

“She didn’t ‘lead me’ anywhere.” Lucius tried very, very hard to sound calm, but his grip on Draco tightened, and his son bit his lip to stop from crying out. “This girl, she…she was a harlot, everyone knew it. That was her purpose. Why throw something out if it's not broken? That’s why I chose to keep her around. That’s it. I don’t need your insinuations or your attitude.” 

Draco winced and his eyes were watery, and Lucius tried to push aside the guilt that was starting to gnaw at him. Should he go further? The forcefulness of his grip would probably end up causing a bruise, but was that enough? Did Draco deserve more?  After a second of deliberation, he let go of his son’s shoulder and returned to his seat. Draco rubbed his arm, eyes glazed over and downcast.

“So,” Lucius continued as if nothing happened, “I’m letting you know in advance that this is going to cause a scandal, and you need to be prepared. It’s unfortunate that this revelation coincides with your first year at Hogwarts, but there’s no avoiding it. In the coming days, your mother and I will be rehearsing how to answer certain questions. Since the child is a Malfoy by blood, she will be moving into the Manor and living with us. I realize this transition will be…challenging, but I expect you to be welcoming to your new sister.”

Draco’s head shot up and Lucius was pleased ( relieved ) to see his eyes regain their normal sharp, yet non-defiant, look. He opened his mouth, but quickly closed it after. Draco clearly had questions, but didn’t seem keen on asking them. 

“If you have questions, ask them now,” said Lucius, trying to adopt a patient tone. “You know you can always be open with me. I’ll be extremely busy within the next few days and won’t have the time to indulge you then.”

Draco’s gaze dropped again. He asked tentatively, “What’s her name?”

“Diana.”

Draco glanced up again, surprised. “After the goddess of the hunt? I-I didn’t know Muggles knew about her.”

“They know enough, though she isn’t worshiped by them anymore. I can’t say with certainty whether she’s named after the goddess, however. There’s a Muggle princess with the same name, and I suppose your sister could have been named after her instead.”

“Is…is her mother coming to live here too, at the Manor?”

“No,” Lucius immediately replied.

There was a moment of silence. Lucius thought that was it and was about to get up to leave before Draco asked quietly, “What’s she like—Diana?”

Lucius blinked. “I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to her. She was raised among Muggles, so I would caution you to keep your initial expectations low. She’ll be trained to act as a proper Malfoy once she’s removed from Muggle influence.”

“Do you think she’ll be in Slytherin?”

Lucius wasn’t sure if that would be better or worse for the child. He didn’t give her Sorting a second thought, truthfully. “I would expect so. There have been Half-blood Slytherins in the past, and all Malfoys have been sorted there.” 

“Where is she even going to stay when she’s here at the Manor?” A sudden thought occurred to him and he blurted out, “I’m not giving up my room!”

“Are you the one paying taxes?” Lucius snapped. “ I own this home and will decide where she goes.” He paused. “However, you needn’t worry. It makes more sense to put her in an unused room.” In truth, he hadn’t considered that point until Draco mentioned it. She would likely need to stay in Lavinia’s old room, which hasn’t been touched in decades. 

I’m not ready for this.

Draco’s eyes dared to drift toward his father again as his grip on the sheet tightened and the edge in his eyes came back. “I don’t want her to come, Father. I don’t want anything to change. There shouldn’t be Muggle blood in the Manor—it’s wrong.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m the head of the household. You don’t get a say in what will or will not change. She is coming, and that’s final.”  

To Lucius’s irritation, Draco’s eyes started to water again. “Everything about this, everything you did….it-it’s not…it’s not right. Everyone in school is going to hate and make fun of me!”

“Draco, you—”

“They will, I know they will! I thought going to Hogwarts would be amazing, but now I know it’s going to be terrible.”

“This is ridic—”

“How could you do something like this? It’s sick and wrong!” 

“I said watch your tone . I don’t think you want—”

“I hate that Muggle s-slut!” Tears were now starting to trickle out of his son’s eyes.

“If your mother could hear what filth is coming out of your mouth, she’d—”

Draco mustered enough courage (or stupidity) to ignore him and yell, “I hate my stupid sister, who’s also probably a slut. And, I—I— I h-hate you too !”

This time the blow was harder than before, more out of pure shock and instinct than anything else. Draco was now crying freely and several different emotions were rushing through Lucius at once. He latched on to one that was the least debilitating: anger. 

“Stop acting like an ungrateful brat and compose yourself! You think I want this? You think I want any of this? Your whining and sulking does nothing to change the situation. You don’t have to love her. You don’t even need to like her. You don’t even need to like me! You just need to put on a decent enough charade so we don’t get publicly skewered like the Rowles.” 

There was a moment of silence while Draco kept crying softly and rubbing his cheek while Lucius attempted to look stern, but in reality, his insides were completely caving in. 

He hates me. 

After Lavinia died, Lucius went off on his father in a way that was similar to Draco’s rant but much longer and more vitriolic, culminating with an impassioned cry of, “I hate you!” He was thrashed so badly that it took him almost a month for all parts of his body to feel normal again, but the hatred and bitterness never fully healed. And now, Lucius was repeating the same mistake with his own child. 

‘Mistake?’ The oily voice crawled its way into Lucius’s mind again. Oh, please. This was nothing. And it’s not a ‘mistake’ to enforce your authority. He can’t talk to you like that, regardless of how he’s feeling.  Besides, it’s his fault; he keeps doing it to himself. 

Even so, there had to be other ways to react. Hitting him wouldn’t cause Draco to like him more. 

But what does it matter if Draco liked him or not? He’s Draco’s parent, not his friend. He needed to be respected.

And how else was he supposed to react to such blatant disrespect? 

No, Lucius made the right decision. Draco deserved it. 

Still…

Choosing not to think it over, Lucius removed his wand from Jormungandr and muttered a healing spell, causing the darkness to recede from his son’s cheek, which would have otherwise been bruised too. He considered doing the same for the shoulder, but decided against it. He needed to retain at least some pain, otherwise Lucius would seem like a pushover.

“I hope you realize the only reason I’m doing this is because I want your sister to have a good first impression of you,” Lucius lied. “I don’t want her to assume that her brother’s a rude and disrespectful child, even if that’s what you’re being right now.”

Draco drew his knees up to his face and buried it in them. He voiced his next thought so quietly that Lucius almost didn’t hear: “I bet it would give her a bad impression of you too.”

Lucius’s jaw dropped. 

This never happened. Ever.  

To have Draco show multiple signs of insubordination in such a short period was unprecedented, and it was extremely unsettling. What the hell was happening? Was this a possible bellwether of what’s to come? Would he lose control of the whole wizarding world the same way he was losing control of his son? 

He needed to regain the power and authority that he somehow lost in the course of the past hour. “All right, get up,” Lucius snapped. “Clearly I’ve been too lenient with you today and you’ve forgotten your place.”

Draco lifted his head and looked at Lucius with sad, regretful eyes. “I’m sorry…”

“I’m sure you are. Now, do I have to repeat myself?”

Draco got up, but was talking while he did. “I don’t know why I said—it’s just—”— his lip quivered again—“How am I supposed to make alliances at school if she’s following me around everywhere? It’s going to be so embarrassing…”

Fucking hell, “alliances.” Is that what this is all about? 

Lucius tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes, anger dimming. Him and Narcissa weren’t quite sure what caused it, but Draco was somehow under the impression that his first year at Hogwarts would involve him being some kind of Machiavellian chessmaster, “building alliances” and whatnot with students of prominent bloodlines like some kind of eleven-year-old politician. 

Lucius theorized that Draco’s fantasy version of Hogwarts was developed due to him elevating the stories Lucius and Abraxas told him of their own time at Hogwarts into near-mythological status and wanting the same for himself. In truth, all connections of worth had already been forged long before Draco was even born. But Draco had his heart set on this idea, and carrying around the dead weight of a Half-blood sister certainly wouldn’t do him any favors there.

“You’re a Malfoy. It’s in your blood to overcome challenges and adversity, Draco. I have faith in you, even if you don’t have faith in yourself,” Lucius said evenly.

Draco hesitantly looked up at Lucius after hearing praise. Lucius expected him to say, ‘Of course I’ll be able to do it’ in a display of usual arrogance, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Draco mumbled softly, eyes shining again, “I really am sorry.  I–I don’t hate you Father. I swear by V-Veritas that’s true.”  

The ice in Lucius’s heart thawed a bit; it was the first time Draco ever swore by Veritas. He walked over to Draco—ignoring his son’s flinch—and put his hand gently on the shoulder he didn’t grab earlier. “I know. I…realize these circumstances are difficult for you. They’re going to be difficult for your mother and myself, as well. But we will get through this, Draco. But I need you to be strong, composed, and in control. Can you do that for me?”

Draco nodded, looking determined. “Of course, Father.”

“Good.” He hesitated. There was an internal struggle in his mind, one side finally becoming triumphant. “If we were to…end this conversation here, could I trust that you would learn from your mistakes and not repeat them?”

Draco’s eyes lit up, not believing his luck; Lucius had never done something like this before. He nodded rapidly. 

“Very well.” He gestured toward the bed with his cane and Draco went back under the covers, eyes still wide in surprise. 

“T-thank you, Father.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded stiffly. “It’s late. When I leave, I expect you to go asleep instead of reading.”

Draco looked down guiltily. “I will.”

 Lucius turned back to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “It’s only natural for this news to be upsetting, but it might not be as bad as you imagine. Having a sister your own age gives you a best friend and confidante—she’ll be there when no one else is. Being able to attend Hogwarts in the same year is a privilege not many receive.”

Draco looked up at Lucius curiously; he knew Lucius had a twin who died, but didn’t know much else, and but Lucius wasn’t going to say any more on that matter. Lucius continued, “Draco?”

“Yes?” 

Lucius could see his son was tense again, which made him annoyed. “I know you feel that I’m harsh at times, but everything I do is for your continued benefit. You know I…care for you a great deal, correct?”

He couldn’t quite say the words, “I love you.” He genuinely felt it, and he tried to say it many times before, but the words just couldn’t come out. He could say it to Narcissa, so he wasn’t sure what emotional hangups were preventing him from saying it to his son. 

Draco looked uncomfortable. “I…care for you a lot too, Father. And I’m sorry about the things I said earlier. Not just about, um, hating you, but also the other things as well.”

“I certainly hope so. You were out of line and needed correction. Surely you know that if the circumstances were less…unique, you would have–and should have–received more than what I gave.”

Draco nodded. Still, there was a spark of…something, behind Draco’s eyes. Something Lucius never saw there before, something that made him uncomfortable. Whatever it was, he’d have to keep an eye on it.

“Do you disagree?” he asked in a sharper tone. 

“No.” Fear replaced whatever emotion was lurking there. For now.

“I thought so.” Lucius paused. “When we go to Diagon Alley next, I’ll buy you something new as a reward for being polite when she comes. Start thinking about what you might want to buy.” 

“A racing broom?” Draco asked hopefully. 

“Perhaps. Goodnight, Draco.”

And with that, Lucius turned around and headed out of the room, feeling his son’s eyes lingering on his retreating figure. 

As he headed down the hallway, he mulled over the events of the conversation. It wasn’t a particularly good conversation, but he didn’t expect it to go any other way. Given the subject matter, did he handle everything properly? Was he too harsh? Too lenient? Did he mention everything important? Did he leave out anythi—

Lucius stopped. While he may have alluded to the idea, it suddenly occurred to him now that he never actually told Draco, “What I did was wrong.”

But was it?

He fully planned on telling Draco that in order to discourage him from engaging in Lucius’s impulses. And from a legal standpoint, it absolutely was, which is why Narcissa and him decided—after his trial many years ago—that they wouldn’t have Draco grow up in an environment where that sort of behavior was condoned, despite its tacit endorsement in many Pureblood circles. 

But was it morally wrong? 

As he told Draco, it’s simply the law of nature for the strong to conquer the weak. 

Plus, she was a Muggle . She should be honored to have received his seed and birthed a witch child. Hadn’t Sarah talked about how she wanted to live so she could change the world for the better? Lucius made that dream possible; she should be thanking him, really. Thanking him for impregnating her with his child, and for treating her much nicer than some of the other Death Eater treated their pets. He even, on occasion, healed her, listened to her nonsense, fed her, and–on rare occasion–bought her something so she would look nice. 

How could he truly be a bad person if he did that?

And for all her token protests, hadn’t her body always accepted and reacted to him? Surely that must show, on some level, that she knew her place and wanted him in return. Lucius remembered Sarah telling him during the third month that she loved him ( and him laughing and mocking her in return ). How could that be “rape,” then? With the others, perhaps, but with him ? 

As Lucius continued to make his way down the hall, he looked at his tired, haunted reflection in the mirror and stopped. 

Who the fuck was he kidding?

He raped Sarah White. 

Whether it was morally wrong to do so was a separate issue, but he couldn’t deny that at least some of their… interactions were nonconsensual. And once their daughter entered the world, she would know it too. 

“Dobby!” Lucius called out sharply. He didn’t want to think about this unpleasantness anymore.

Dobby popped up instantly when called, as usual. “Y-yes, Master Malfoy? How can Dobby be of service?”

Lucius noted with satisfaction that Dobby’s forehead was still bruised from earlier. “Have there been any letters from the Minister?”

“Yes, Master Malfoy,” whimpered Dobby.

Lucius felt his temper rise. “And why did you not inform me of this?”

“B-because Master Malfoy instructed me not to interrupt him while he was talking with Master Draco, sir.” 

It sounded vaguely familiar; Lucius must have still been drunk when he gave the order. “Hand it to me immediately,” snarled Lucius.

Dobby squeaked and popped out, only to pop back in with the letter a few seconds later. He gave  it to Lucius, who read it and felt himself grow cold.

“Give yourself thirty lashes for keeping this from me.”

“B-but Master said…”

“ Are you contradicting me ?”

“N-no, sir!”

“You should have been drowned at birth. Make it sixty. Go!” 

Dobby vanished immediately. Lucius continued to stare at the letter, aghast. Fudge said earlier that this custody case would not be dealt with as smoothly as previous ones, and that was clear. 

Custody cases were typically dealt with in one of the lower courts. Lucius’s, however, was going straight to the Wizengamot, something that he feared and suspected would occur, but had never actually happened before when a case involved a Muggle parent. Usually these cases were cut and dry (the wizard parent was always favored), but apparently, the desire to bump it up to the higher court was pushed by Dumbledore as a way to “express concerns” about the current precedent and direction of Wizard-Muggle custody arrangements. It was a dressed-up way of saying that Dumbeldore and the rest of the bleeding hearts were upset about the treatment of recently publicized half-Muggle bastard children who met grisly ends at the hands of their biological families. Dumbledore and several others on the Wizengamot apparently felt placing Diana with Lucius would lead to potential safety risks.

Utter rubbish . Lucius wasn’t lying to his father when he said he wouldn’t stoop to killing his own child. Clearly though, there were enough that disagreed. Fudge projected that Lucius would win the arrangement with a 60-40 win, which gave some room for error, but was too close for comfort in Lucius’s opinion, especially since previous cases have never gone with less than 75% in favor of the wizard.

It wasn’t all bad news. The time slot was the one Lucius wanted, and the details and identities of the participants in the case would be kept under lock and key until a judgment is made. 

It wouldn’t do him any good to think about that now, though. About thirty minutes later, Luicus was lying down in bed when Narcissa finally arrived, a few strands of out-of-place hair being the only visible signs of her inner discomfort. 

“How did the conversation go?” she asked by way of greeting.

Lucius thought about Draco. How did the conversation go? He wasn’t fully sure. “He’s upset, not that I blame him. This is going to completely uproot his entire life.”

Narcissa nodded sadly, eyes misting over. Lucius felt more guilt at this very moment than he did in the previous ten years combined. Lucius continued, “His emotions appeared…scattered. They led to some poor choices on his part, unfortunately.”

“You know I defer to your judgment when it comes to our son, but please try to give him some grace. He already has enough difficulty when it comes to processing heavy emotions, and now he’s grappling with several at the same time.”

“I did,” he protested. 

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, but chose not to press the issue. “How did it end?”

Lucius thought of the unusual glint in Draco’s eye, but wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “I believe he’s willing to accept her into the household for the good of the family. He doesn’t like it—understandable, none of us do—but he realizes it’s inevitable. He’s more concerned with how this is going to affect his experience at Hogwarts more than anything else.”

“That’s my concern as well,” Narcissa murmured as she slipped into a silk nightgown ( Gods, she’s beautiful) . 

“The Malfoy name elicits power, regardless if there’s a Half-blood bastard running around. Surely no Slytherin would be stupid enough to pick a fight over this. The other Houses might, but he’d have to learn to deal with them regardless.”

“Children can be cruel,” she whispered as she slipped underneath the covers. “They might smell blood in the water. I worry for him.”

“He’s my heir,” Lucius said with confidence that was perhaps unwarranted. “He’ll learn how to deal with issues like this—it’s necessary. How did your conversations go?”

 Narcissa exhaled and suddenly looked much more tired. Not a good sign. “Barnabas says the public tide has shifted when it comes to custody situations like this. The degeneracy of the Dolohovs and Rowles—” 

“I’m sick of hearing those names,” Lucius hissed irritably. “We’re being conflated with them simply because we’re Purebloods who travel in adjacent social circles. I have no doubt this is by design—Arthur Weasley’s doing, perhaps.”

“Regardless, those trials became spectacles, and now there’s a whole contingent that wants to appear progressive and on the ‘right side of history.’ It’s a farce, but one that’s going to cause us problems. Your father was right in—no, stop, just listen please—he was right in that the best way to go about this is to lean into the ‘feel-good’ aspect of the story. The way it’s going to be reported in the Prophet is that your father did a Blood Tracing and found this girl in the records, and you are going to take it upon yourself to care for the child and bring her up in our ways out of a sense of paternal honor and nobility. The report frames you as someone who prioritizes family and personal responsibility over political views, and this applies whether or not the reader believes your actions were under the Imperius or not. There is no visible benefit to you acknowledging the girl, which leads the reader to conclude that your desire to bring her into the family is genuine.” 

Lucius’s expression clearly reflected his distaste, and Narcissa giggled. “I know it’s trite, but think about the audience we need to appeal to.”

“What does Barnabas say about…the girl’s mother?”

Narcissa’s expression grew more serious. “Nothing, really. What is there to say? She’s a Muggle. It’ll go the way it always does.” Lucius remained silent. Narcissa’s voice developed a slight edge. “Right?”

Lucius realized that Narcissa misinterpreted his silence and told her about the letter from Fudge, inwardly wincing at the expression of horror on his wife’s face. “It should still go our way,” Lucius rushed to reassure her. “It might just be…closer than expected.”

“The Wizengamot? For a child custody case involving a Muggle parent?” she said in disbelief.  “It’s devastating, seeing how far our society has fallen.” She paused for a moment, then asked in a hushed tone, as if fearful of even voicing the thought aloud: “If the Wizengamot proves to be less…prudent than their occupation historically demands, what’s our next step?”

Lucius thought for a moment. “I highly doubt my father even entertained the possibility of the court voting in favor of a Muggle over a Malfoy. Assuming the shock of the news doesn’t kill him then, it’s possible he’d adjust the will, but I could just as well see him concocting some new course of action. Unfortunately, the Quaffle’s on his side of the pitch.”

Narcissa frowned. That was too passive an option, and Lucius agreed. “We could appeal it,” Narcissa suggested. “Wait until more time has passed and the masses shift their attention to centaur rights or whatever social cause is fashionable in a year’s time.”

“Or we could stop tiptoeing around our inferiors and just grab the bull by the horns,” Lucius sighed with frustration. “I’m Lucius Malfoy. If—by some extremely poor lapse in judgment—I’m denied custody, I will get what I want.”

A flirtatious smirk appeared on Narcisa’s red lips. “Oh?”

“Yes.” The more he thought about it, the more obvious it was. “The mother can be dealt with.”

Narcissa cocked her head to the side. “If they suspect foul play, this is going to be even more difficult.”

“I can make her give the child up. She’ll do what I ask—I won’t even need to use magic.”

Lucius was aware they were approaching some uncomfortable territory. Narcissa, to her credit, didn’t pry, but did look at Lucius with one of her unreadable expressions. There was a fairly long moment of silence, which was broken by Narcissa saying, “I spoke with my sister today.”

Fuck . “If there’s anything you want to ask about the Acheron, you could ask me. You don’t need to visit Azkaban just to—”

Narcissa chuckled lightly. “I didn’t visit Bella.”

Fuuuuck . “That’s…unexpected. Why would you visit”— a blood traitor— ”Andromeda now? How many years has it been? A decade? Two decades?”

Narcissa blushed slightly. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I felt the need to talk to someone and Andromeda came to mind. Once I thought of her, no one else seemed like an appropriate choice. She was always the one I used to go to…I never had a need to confide in someone since she left. I was surprised at how quickly she seemed to…accept my presence.”

Lucius supposed that his trial ten years ago didn’t come as a surprise to her or require the need for a confidante, given the proclivities of her own father. She probably even expected it, going into the marriage. The thought made him feel a bit guilty, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

Narcissa continued, “It wasn’t a purely sentimental decision, though—there was a pragmatic reason for me to go to her as well. Being seen with her provides good optics if we’re to convince the public that our family is earnest in our willingness to associate with someone who possesses Muggle blood.”

Lucius fought down his disgust at the thought. “Did you see the husband?”

“Fortunately, no. But I did see the daughter.” She shuddered slightly. “Part of me feels for Andromeda, truly. I don’t think Nymphadora will ever get married. Still, it was…intriguing to see my sister’s child in person. So different from Andromeda, but there are similarities. She also might prove useful—apparently, she’s training to be an Auror.”

Lucius scoffed and Narcissa laughed. “I know, I couldn’t believe it either. An Auror from the Black family…unbelievable.” 

There was another silence, but this time it was natural and companionable. Lucius was the one to break it this time. “I’m sorry for all of this. You shouldn’t have to raise a…a Half-blood. It’s unseemly for a woman of your stature.”

Narcissa leaned over and caressed his cheek. “I didn’t agree to marry the Malfoy heir because I expected an easy life.”

Still, Lucius wasn’t pacified. “Narcissa, she’s going to pollute the Manor with her dirty blood. Our focus should be on our son, but now you and I have to spend our energy on this Half-blood while she pushes Draco out of his designated allotment of the inheritance. She’s going to be a problem, I can tell.” 

 She traced the outline of his jaw. “What do you want us to do about it, then?”

Good question . “I don’t know. There’s really nothing we can do, and that’s what’s so vexing about this whole situation.”

Narcissa yawned and stretched. “Exactly. Then there’s no use discussing it. Goodnight, Lucius.”

Although Lucius was exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. Staring up at the ceiling in the pitch black room, thoughts kept racing through his head until, about thirty minutes later, he said, aloud and unthinking, “But what if she’s like Sarah?”

Narcissa turned over and blinked, groggy. “Who’s Sarah?”

“Th-the Muggle,” he said, keenly aware that him asking this question answered his previous musings of whether or not he recognized—at least on some level—that his behavior years ago was morally wrong.

Narcissa seemed more awake now. “She’s your daughter, too.”

“Yes, but what if the child looks like her, or has a similar personality?”

Narcissa studied him and frowned, and Lucius felt like he was on trial for the second time. 

“This dalliance of yours…you told me it was based on carnal feelings, nothing more. Is that wrong?”

Lucius felt insulted. “How could you even ask such a question? You know what she is.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. Lucius wanted to laugh; the thought of his Pureblood wife viewing a Muggle as competition was absurd. “They were called pets at the Acheron, because that’s what they were. People are sometimes fond of pets, but to love one like one would a wife? It’s farcical. Surely your father didn’t love the Muggle women in his dungeons?”

“Hmmm. I suppose not.” She shifted her position so she was now sleeping on her side. Taking the risk that it was unwanted, he rubbed her arm and felt comforted when she leaned in slightly closer.  She breathed, “Then in that case, does it really matter if she looks or acts similar to the mother?”

Yes. 

It was his home, damn it. He should be able to eat dinner and walk around without feeling discomforted. 

“I suppose not,” he lied. 

“So there’s nothing to concern yourself with.” She turned around to look at him directly, eyes flaming with passion and sincerity of belief. “We will get through this, Lucius. Just because faux concern towards Muggles is in vogue at the moment doesn’t mean it’ll always be like this. The pendulum’s always swinging. Remember all the Squib Rights nonsense in the sixties? The Malfoys are part of the backbone that makes up our world and always have been—everyone knows it. Our family will continue to be the ones to help chart the course and steer society in the right direction. We will not let our world sink.”

Even Aphrodite couldn’t have been more alluring than his wife was at that very moment. He leaned over and kissed her deeply; how stupid was he to have once doubted the decision to marry her? 

They didn’t stop there, and it was two hours later when both of them were ready to attempt sleeping again. Narcissa, exhausted, was the first to drift off, though Lucius—feeling considerably more lighthearted than earlier, with breezy thoughts swirling about—was close behind her. But just as he was about to drift off into slumber, a single unpleasant thought wormed its way into his mind like a bearer of plague, rotting away at all the rest until Lucius could do no more than think about it and only it. He opened his eyes and stared back up at the ceiling. 

Narcissa’s ship metaphor reminded him of a story Sarah told him once of a Muggle ship that was deemed unsinkable ( What was it called again? The Gigantic? The Olympian? ).  It was a grandiose vessel carrying many passengers of wealth, class, and prestige. One night on its maiden voyage, the side of the ship collided with an iceberg, causing the unsinkable ship to flood and eventually—yes—sink. Because the makers were so assured of the strength of their ship, the crew was not trained for evacuation, and there were not enough lifeboats for everyone on board, causing over 60% of the crew to perish. The ship descended into the darkness of the ocean depths, riches and glory rendered meaningless among the fish and algae.

What was the most unexpected part, Sarah said, was the exterior damage. For many years, most of the public assumed that there needed to be a giant gash in order to bring down a ship as enormous and powerful as the Titanic ( yes, that was the name ). But in reality, only six thin, small, little slits were all that were needed in order to flood the compartments and bring down the unsinkable ship, claiming the lives of over a thousand passengers. 

Lucius originally found the story amusing, a testament to Muggle hubris and their inability to do anything right. 

But now? 

Now, Lucius didn’t find it amusing at all. 

He spent the night wide awake, imagining a thin, small, little slip of a girl smiling as his world and everything he worked so hard to build sinks deeper and deeper and deeper into darkness.

Chapter Text

“Mornin’, Di!”

Diana yawned as she stretched and rubbed her eyes, rousing from her sleep. She blinked and looked at the alarm clock next to her bed. Why the hell am I getting up at 8:00 if I’m on summer holiday? 

She turned and looked at her mother who was standing in the doorway. She immediately sat up and became more alert.

“Mum, you look great!” Diana said truthfully. Sarah was dressed in a new outfit: long skirt and neat blouse, along with heels. It made her look more professional and put-together than her usual, casual outfits. 

“You think so?” she laughed and blushed a bit. “There’s an art show in Briarwood, and I’m hoping at least some of them will sell. It should take the whole day, so Grandma might be back before I get back.”

This lifted Diana’s spirits. Whenever Sarah went to an art show, her paintings sold. The problem was her having enough “inspiration” to actually make one that she’s satisfied enough with to sell. 

“Is there any breakfast?” Diana asked, then winced inwardly. It made her sound childish; she was eleven and could make her own food if needed.

Sarah smiled. “Yep, I left food for you on the table. Try not to have any wild parties while I’m away.”

They both knew Diana was notoriously risk-averse; the most rebellious thing she did recently was walk six feet into the missing cave. Also, she hated large gatherings. “I’ll try.”

After saying goodbye, Sarah left and Diana quickly got dressed and headed downstairs. She saw there was toast on the table, with jam plastered on to make it look like a lopsided smiley face. As she was nibbling, she mulled over her plans for today. After the eventful week, she wanted some downtime to just relax, so calling up her friends was out. Maybe the library? Yes, that would work. That would also be the perfect spot to do some investigating of her own.

After finishing breakfast Diana rummaged through the wastebasket to take out the envelope from A.M’s letter that she opened last night. She knew the Latin inscription on the back– Sanctimonia Vincet Semper– wasn’t the same as the one from the camp letter, but she would feel more comfortable if she knew what the hell it meant. The paranoid part of her wouldn’t let up on the idea that there miiiiight be some kind of connection. After all, hadn’t the camp letter mentioned “Draco”—dragon—in its description? And weren’t there dragons featured in the “M” seal? Diana didn’t want to think that A.M could have ill intentions, but she couldn’t be 100% sure.

Gathering her library books to return, Diana opened the door and exited the house, but stopped midway to the street. Her eyes widened in surprise. 

Then, she let out a squeal of excitement. Hastily placing the library books on the ground, she immediately spun around and rushed back into the house, returning shortly after with a bowl full of water that was spilling due to her rushed movements. Near the bottom of the driveway was a silver tabby cat, sharp eyes sizing up Diana.

“Awww, hi there, little cutie! Do you want a pet?” She placed the water bowl down and hunched down to the ground, holding her hand out for the cat to come to her and sniff. The cat just continued to stare neutrally. “I got water just for you.”

The cat kept looking at her, and Diana started to get goosebumps, feeling as though she was being judged. Maybe it was abused or something and doesn’t trust humans . She felt a pang of sadness at the thought. She stood up and backed away from the water bowl, and the tiny part of her mind that was telling her that it was a Bad Idea to pet stray animals felt relieved. “It’s really hot out and you might need it.” Diana kept looking at the cat for about a minute and was about to leave, when something happened.

Without removing its gaze from Diana, the cat slowly and purposely walked toward the water bowl. It leaned its head down—eyes still locked on her—and drank two small sips before lifting its head back up, as if it took the drink only for the sake of politeness. When Diana reached out to touch it, it quickly slinked out of reach, but continued to stare. “I’ll leave the water here,” she said, and continued to make her way down to the library.

When she arrived, she returned the books and started researching what the Latin inscription meant. It roughly seemed to translate to “Purity Will Always Conquer,” which eased some of Diana’s worries. If A.M’s family motto emphasized the importance of having a pure and noble heart, then surely he couldn’t have been the one to write the letter. Unless this is some kind of Aryan reference or something. Ugh, I hope not. 

She spent the next two hours reading books on the Tudors and browsing the fiction section, which caused her to pick out a Choose-Your-Own Adventure book and start flipping through it. Her natural instinct was always to pick the least daring options, which never resulted in a good end. She frowned as she kept getting endings that involved “her” either getting shot or being forced to work for a mob boss, with one ending even combining the two. Does this one even have any possible good endings? 

“Ah, a reader!” squeaked a voice right behind her. Diana jumped, startled, and turned around.

Behind her was a small, mustachioed little man wearing a suit and what appeared to be some kind of light, long jacket ( It’s summer, how is he not sweating? ). She was surprised to see that he was a midget ( No, Diana corrected herself, that term’s offensive, I think. He’s a…a dwarf? A little person ?), since as far as she knew, there was no one in Amberton with that condition. 

The man continued, “Nothing like a good book to sharpen the mind. Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure, after all!” 

Diana forced down a rude impulse to say that they were in a library, so it shouldn’t be surprising that he found people reading. This man seemed nice, and his size made Diana less nervous than she normally would be if a strange man started talking to her. 

She realized he was expecting her to say something, so she swallowed and muttered, “Yeah, I like to read.” Way to show off that wit, Diana.

The man didn’t seem like he minded. “What are you reading?”

Ughhh . Why couldn’t he have picked anyone else in this goddamn library? She hated ‘small talk’ and never knew what to say without sounding dumb. “Um, it’s one of those books that’s  written like the reader is a character in the story. And the main character is kidnapped and gets turned into a monster. You have to find a way to  get back to normal which is hard because you’re like, a monster, so everyone treats you like one even though you’re the same person on the inside.”

“Oh my, that sounds…suspenseful. Did you get the ending you desired?”

“I only went through it a couple times, but I, uh, I either end up getting killed or being forced to work for this mob boss and do bad things. I haven’t gotten the happy ending yet.”

The little man squinted. “A mob…boss? A mob of what? Why does it need a boss?”

Diana looked at him in disbelief. Is he screwing with me, or does this actual grown adult really not know what the mob is? “It’s just, you know, the regular mob. The criminal mob.” The man was still looking at her blankly. “This book takes place in America,” she added, attempting to be helpful. 

There was an awkward pause where the man still looked bewildered. Diana wanted to make an excuse to leave, when the little man spoke up. “Well, I know a little something about being treated differently because of looks.” He smiled sadly and gestured to himself.

Diana suddenly felt guilty for her early thoughts and rushed to reassure him. “You don’t look scary, you look”–Diana was about to say ‘cute’ but realized how offensive that would likely sound–”not scary,” she finished lamely. 

The man smiled. “That’s kind of you to say.” 

Still not convinced he was pacified, she added, “I sometimes know what it’s like to be treated differently, too. My mum’s well, I’m not sure if you’re from around here or not, but people, um, think she’s a bit mad. So when they see me, they either feel sorry for me or think I’m mad too.”

The man chuckled. “It’s not unusual for those who speak the truth to be viewed as pariahs. Your mother’s not mad, Diana. Witches and wizards do exist. Didn’t you get your letter?” 

It was as if the whole world froze. Shock, panic, and despair gnawed at her insides as her eyes frantically darted to the other patrons of the library, who had to be in listening distance and could hear him. But why wasn’t anyone looking at this man oddly?

The man followed her frantic gaze and his eyes lit up. “Oh, no need to worry about them! I used a charm so no one could hear what we’re saying and—wait!”

But it was too late. Diana spun around and bolted out of the library, past the confused patrons, past the sputtering librarian who said she needed to check those books out, down the street and past all the shops and houses. She didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare to turn around, even though she was completely winded and had never sprinted that fast before in her life. 

When she finally arrived at 6 Ironwood Lane, she was feeling the most grateful she had ever felt while looking at its crappy paint job and overgrown lawn. The cat from earlier was still there, tilting its head at Diana curiously, as the young girl stood gasping for breath. She ignored the cat and made her way to the porch in a daze only to step on something that filled her with deep dread.

Sure enough, another letter was there (How? There’s no post on Sundays!) . She opened it with quivering hands only to reveal what she expected: the contents were exactly the same as one she threw in the rubbish bin at Camp Chrysalis. For all she knew, maybe it was the same letter.

This time would be different though. This time, she’d keep it for evidence. Evidence that someone was fucking with her, and that she needed the police to take some kind of action ASAP.  Because the alternative would be to accept that magic is real, which is ridiculous. 

As Diana shoved the letter in her pocket and pushed the door open, thoughts swirled around in her head. Should she barricade the door? Should she call Claire’s mum? Should she call the police now, or wait until she talks to Grandma first? If the man tried to attack her, could she fight him off?

Diana almost jumped again when her reverie was broken by the noise of the cat meowing and pawing on the door. Still in a bit of a daze, Diana let the cat in–not the smartest move, but at this point, Diana didn’t want to be alone, and she’d take any company she could get. Diana locked the door, then found herself moving upstairs in order to read the one book she swore she’d never read.

Diana entered Sarah’s room and picked up the black “memory book” that Sarah revered so highly. As she opened it, she noticed a photograph fall out of the book and on the ground. Diana felt a pang of sorrow looking at it: It was a picture of her mother and another blonde girl, grinning together. Julie Williams . Amberton’s most famous murder victim, and a cautionary tale that mothers would tell their daughters about the dangers of trusting the wrong man.

But if one were to ask Sarah White, they’d get an entirely different story of what really happened to Julie Williams. Diana traced the outline of her mother’s face; she never saw Sarah have an expression like this before, so full of unbridled joy and without a care in the world. This isn’t what I’m here for . No, it wouldn’t be useful to ruminate about possible what-ifs. She needed to focus. 

Diana started flipping and skimming through the book, hoping that something would give her a hint about this tiny little man. But it was a far more difficult task than Diana intended. A lot of the words and phrases seemed disjointed and foreign ( what the hell is Imperius ?) and wouldn’t make sense to anyone besides Sarah. The notes seemed to be in no particular order and often reflected the writer’s own uncertainty. She read one page:

3 magic users who interviewed me:

• Serious, important-looking, intense, irritable and grumpy (Name was Weesly? Maybe?). Can’t remember hair color or length. Cold.

• Shoulder-length light hair (blonde? brown?). Older. A total arse. Acted more casual and laid-back. Name was Alan Moody?

• Red-haired man,  middle-aged, acted friendly and kind, warm eyes. THIS IS A LIE. DO NOT TRUST. HE IS JUST LIKE THE REST.

She flipped to the next page, and then the next, automatically skipping any page where she saw her father’s name (She was not emotionally prepared nor had any desire to go anywhere near that topic today). Still, she couldn’t find any mentions of a tiny man with a mustache. The closest she was was “tiny little creature, silent, brings food, big and bulging eyes. Elf? goblin?” which didn’t quite sound like the man she met. 

Before she could continue, she heard a creaking sound from downstairs and froze. She strained her ears, hoping that she misheard. But she didn’t. There was someone walking around downstairs.

That same mixture of sheer panic and despair that she became accustomed to experiencing today welled up in her again. What the fuck do I do? Could it be Grandma? No, Diana didn’t hear the door open. Wait, if the door didn’t open, then who the hell is down there?

'It’s magic,' a voice whispered in her head. She ignored it. 

What should she do? Fight, flight, or hide?  She surveyed her mother’s bedroom but didn’t find anything that could be used as a weapon. Her mum’s room didn’t have any windows she could escape from. Should she try to sneak into her own bedroom and get out the window that way? Or should she just try to hide in the closet.

And, more importantly, who the fuck was in her house?

She decided to hide. But as she was slowly opening the closet so it wouldn’t creak, she heard something right behind her that made her jump. 

“There's no need to be alarmed, Miss White.”

Diana instinctively spun around and saw an older woman ( at least it’s not a man ) with hair in a neat bun, wearing what looked to be some kind of long dress ( robes? ). 

‘Who are you, and how did you get in here?’ was what Diana wanted to say, but her inner nerves and panic impeded her, instead only allowing her to croak out, “Who’reyouand how d-d-did you…”

The sharp gaze of the woman seemed to grow a bit softer. “I am Professor McGonagall, though I believe you’ve surmised that already. As for how I entered, well,”--she gave a small, wry smile–”you invited me in.”

“I didn’t–” Then Diana stopped. Is she trying to imply that she’s the cat? It sounded insane, but everything about today was insane.

McGonagall gave the young girl a knowing look. “Your suspicions are correct. Sometimes circumstances require me to be a bit lighter on my feet.”

Diana once saw a black-and-white movie where the husband creates this elaborate plan to have his wife think she’s going insane. Was something similar happening here? Were all these people actors? Was this some kind of ruse?

“Magic isn’t real,” Diana said, more to convince herself than anything else. McGonagall regarding her with an unreadable expression and pulled out an actual fucking wand  from inside her robes. Goddamnit . She walked over to the bedside table and picked up Sarah’s alarm clock. Muttering a phrase Diana never heard before, the professor tapped her wand against the alarm clock, and the alarm clock turned into a dove, which flew across the room. 

Well, that’s it then , Diana thought numbly, Magic exists . There were no possible mental gymnastics that could be done to create a ‘logical’ explanation from that. There was no going back from this knowledge. And if magic was real, then Sarah….

Diana’s mind raced with the implications, heart sinking.

Diana muttered the only thing that came to mind that she could say without breaking down from an overload of emotions. “T-that was my mum’s clock.”

McGonagall frowned and waved her wand again. The dove disappeared, only to be replaced with the alarm clock. Diana looked at it blankly. 

“Did…did it die?”

McGonagall tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”

“The dove.” Her voice started to grow more frantic as she tried to push down the growing sense of guilt. “Did it die when you changed it back into the clock?”

McGonagall looked surprised at the question. “No, Miss White, it didn’t die. I simply changed its state of being. It cannot be dead if it's no longer a living creature.”

Diana’s brows furrowed. “But it is dead. It was once alive, but now it’s not. It stopped existing.”

McGonagall peered at Diana with a curious expression. “The fundamentals of Transfiguration will be explained once you begin your studies.”

That jolted Diana back to reality. “I-I’m not going.”

The unreadable expression returned to McGonagall’s eyes. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation downstairs, where we could sit more comfortably?”

Was there even a chance to say no? Would this witch harm her, the way the others harmed her mother? Diana nodded slowly and followed McGonagall downstairs to the sitting room, where they sat in two chairs looking across from one another. The professor muttered a spell and conjured two tea cups out of thin air. McGonagall took one, while Diana just stared down at the other. No way was she drinking from that. 

“I must apologize if you felt I was rude earlier,” McGonagall began as she started sipping her cup. “While I physically transform into an animal, I can assure you my mind remains fully human. The thought of being pet by another human is something I find inherently degrading, though I am aware you had good intentions in mind.”

“Oh.” Diana thought McGonagall was going to apologize for barging into her house unannounced, but perhaps that was expecting too much. “S’okay.”

McGonagall seemed to be waiting for Diana to say more, but when that didn’t happen, she continued, “As I mentioned earlier, I was the one who wrote your acceptance letter. In truth, you receiving it in the first place was a bit of a clerical error. You see,  Muggleborns–that is to say,  witches and wizards with two parents who are nonmagical–have one or more of the faculty members arrive in order to inform them of our world.  Since you are half-blood, the letter was automatically sent to you yesterday and today, though your situation is a bit…unusual.  I can only imagine your confusion when you read the letter for the first time.”

Diana’s mouth started to feel very dry. She swallowed. “So it’s true then? My father was a…a wizard?” It sounded so ridiculous. “My mum’s stories are true?”

McGonagall paused for a moment. “Stories?” she asked casually, but Diana noticed how the professor’s grip on the cup grew slightly tighter. “What types of stories did she tell you?

Does she really not know ? Diana hesitated, mind racing as she tried to figure out the best possible way to answer this question. According to her mother, she wasn’t supposed to have remembered what happened all those years ago. But if they were coming to let Diana know about the magic, then surely…

She decided to throw caution to the wind and asked bluntly, “Did my father use magic to imprison, torture, and rape my mother?”

The professor’s eyes widened and she looked speechless, which Diana suspected, with some satisfaction, did not happen often. Guess that answers my question.   In a way it was validating, but also Diana felt a tidal wave of guilt for all the times she thought her mother was a lunatic. It was also disappointing. Though Diana had accepted that her father was likely a terrible person, she still clung on to some kind of hope that maybe, just maybe , he wasn’t as cruel as Sarah portrayed him as. Now, there was no longer any doubt. 

“That’s—your mother told you that happened?”

If what her mother said was true, then of course this witch would be surprised. Her whole society operates on erasing the minds of nonmagic folk. Diana started to feel a sense of fury building within her at the unfairness of her mother’s treatment. What’s more, she felt a sense of pain and loss. Loss for the mother she could have had–the smiling woman in the picture–if the wizards never tampered with her mind.

“Yes, she did.” It came out more forceful than Diana intended, but she didn’t care. Her anger was growing, and with it, her confidence. “Are you surprised? Did the memory spell not go the way you wanted it to?”

McGonagall seemed taken aback again, but quickly recovered. “I assure you Miss White, that I, nor any of the staff, had any involvement in the decision to–”

“I’m not going to Warthogs,” Diana repeated, this time much more assertively than before. “I–I don’t want anything to do with magic.”

“The name of our school is Hogwarts, and I certainly understand your…reservations about magic. You certainly have reasons to feel—”

McGonagall was interrupted by a frantic pounding on the locked door. Before either could make a move to get up, a squeaky voice cried out, “Alohomora!”

The door unlocked and the tiny man from earlier stumbled in. “Miss White, I swear I’m not here to harm you. I merely—oh, Minerva! You’re here already.”

McGonagall seemed relieved at the interruption. She gave a strained smile to the little man. “Yes, Filius. I see the conversation earlier did not go well.”

“No, it didn’t,” the man said sadly. He turned to Diana and smiled again, not letting Diana’s horrified expression deter him. “My name is Filius Flitwick,” he said with a small bow. “I, too, am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I’m dreadfully sorry for frightening you earlier. Professor McGonagall did say that it would likely work best if we both met with you here, but in my arrogance I assumed that speaking in a public place would make you feel more comfortable. Clearly, that was an error on my part. Yet another example of Professor McGonagall always being right!” He chuckled. 

Diana wanted to tell him that if he–and McGonagall, for that matter–wanted to make her feel more at ease, then barging into her house was not the way to go about it, but the words died in her throat. Flitwick’s arrival derailed the momentum she was building before he came in. Instead, she mumbled, “It’s okay…”

As Flitwick walked on over and plopped himself in another chair ( sure, just go ahead and make yourself at home… )  McGonagall conjured him a teacup, looked at Diana again, then looked at Flitwick. “Filius, it appears we were given some misleading information before coming here. Miss White tells me that her mother has some…recollections regarding Lucius that she was not expected to have.”

Recognition dawned on Flitwick’s face, and he suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Oh. Well, that’s certainly…unexpected.”

“S-so it should come as no surprise that I don’t want anything to do with magic, right?” Diana asked. “And besides, if I go to that school, everyone would know my father’s in jail for doing all those evil things, and I–I don’t want to have to deal with all that.”

Flitwick and McGonagall looked at each other with expressions Diana couldn’t decipher. It was almost comical; if she did go to this magic school, then she’d be as much of a weirdo as she currently was in Amberton. At least here she’d know what to expect.

“I understand your concerns,” Flitwick said finally. “My father was a goblin, and the history between goblins and wizards has been…volatile, to put it mildly. When I attended Hogwarts, I often had to grapple with prejudice from my classmates. Nonetheless, I persevered and never once regretted my decision to attend Hogwarts.”

Goblins. Sure, why not? “But was your mum some kind of sex slave for a bunch of…goblins, only to have her memory modified”—at this point, Diana’s voice started to obtain a slightly hysterical tone against her will—”only to have goblins show up at your house years later forcing you to do what they want?”

McGonagall looked at Diana sharply. “Miss White, I understand this is upsetting, but these types of comments are uncalled for and–”

“It’s all right, Minerva,” Flitwick said, expression a bit dampened. He turned to Diana. “No, but the reason my mother had relations with my father was to pay off a debt.”

“Oh,” said Diana, feeling guilty about her outburst. 

McGonagall sighed. “While I’m aware your experiences with magic thus far have been…off-putting, I’d ask you not to lump us in with the group that behaved improperly with your mother. Just as in the Muggle world, there are those in our world who break the laws and regulations. Those people aren’t representative of our whole society.”

The previous fire started coming back to her. “Well, Mum said that the government erased her memory, so if that’s the case, then, yeah, I think it is, actually.”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I can see why, from your perspective, they might seem comparable, but there are many legitimate reasons for keeping our worlds strictly separate. It is unfortunate that it comes at the cost of Muggles occasionally having their memories modified, but doing so is in the best interest of everyone, Muggle and wizard alike.”

Diana wanted to rip into her, wanted to tell her about just how much her life got fucked over by that little spell, but wasn’t quite that brave yet. So instead, she latched on to another idea, one that, in retrospect, she probably should have brought up earlier. “It’s not worth it to even talk about it anyway, since I don’t even have magic. I know I got the letter, but I’m not a witch. My father might have magic, but I don’t.”

Flitwick smiled. “Oh, you do, don’t worry about that. We have records of every magical child in Britain, and you were in the registry. And of course, the Ministry has a record of you using the Revelio charm on the cave, even if you were unaware of using it. Quite the impressive bit of magic, if I do say so myself!”

Diana thought of the odd circumstances behind the cave, and things started to click into place. It now made sense why the cave only appeared to her when she wanted it to. This realization was accompanied with an overwhelming, oppressive sense of dread.

I’m a witch.

I’m a fucking witch. 

Mum’s going to hate me. 

Diana’s vision started to get blurry as she started blinking rapidly. “B-but I’m not…like him. I’m not evil.”

Both professors looked at her with sympathy and she felt like throwing something. She didn’t want their pity. They were the ones who were ruining her life. 

“Miss White, magic is simply a tool,” McGonagall said softly. “What one does with it is up to the individual. Simply having magic does not make you evil.”

“I don’t want his magic. Magic’s done nothing but cause harm for my family! It’s…wrong and unnatural.”

McGonagall’s eyes flickered to the cross that was hanging on the wall above the fireplace. “I realize it may be a difficult concept to reconcile at first. My own father was a Presbyterian minister, and both he and I experienced a similar struggle when I started showing signs of magic. Soon, however, came to view magic as a blessing, a gift. He told me that if I was born with this power, then there was a reason for it, and it was my duty to use it responsibly. And while it’s been many years since then, I’ve taken those words to heart. It is my hope that you might find value in them too.”

Diana suspected this was likely a calculated manipulation attempt in order to cause her to lower her guard, and took it with a massive grain of salt. Still, hearing it made her calm down somewhat. “But your name’s Minerva. If he was a minister, why would he name you after a Roman goddess?”

McGonagall gave Diana a look that was slightly patronizing. “Are you not named after a Roman goddess as well?”

Good point. “Um, yeah, I am,” Diana said sheepishly. In retrospect, it wasn’t that unusual for kids to be named after mythological figures, even if their parents didn’t worship them. “Sorry. Minerva’s just a bit of an unusual name in the regular–um, I mean–the Muggle world.”

McGonagall chuckled. “So it would seem. In that case, it should come as no surprise that my mother–who was a witch–chose the name, though my father agreed to it. While her personal spiritual beliefs and practices were close to my father’s, she always found the stories of the goddess of wisdom to be inspiring.”

Diana was starting to get curious, in spite of herself. “Your parents married, even though your dad knew your mum was a witch? I thought everything needed to remain separate. Isn’t that why my mum’s memories were erased?”

“My father didn’t know of my mother’s heritage until after they were married. Once a marriage is complete, then it is permissible by the Ministry to reveal our world to the Muggle spouse.”

In Diana’s opinion, it sounded unethical, which tracked with how the Ministry has behaved in the past. Diana didn’t feel like it was fair to spring something that major on a spouse without discussing it with them first. And what would happen if the Muggle parent didn’t handle it well? Would their memories be erased? 

Of course, Diana wasn’t about to say all that; it would have been very impolite, given the amount of personal information McGonagall was sharing. “But you want me to go to this…Hogwarts, right? That’s why you came here, and you didn’t know that my mum knew. Would you have told her about it?”

Flitwick and McGonagall exchanged another look that Diana couldn’t identify. “It’s true that one of our reasons for coming here was to inform you about Hogwarts,” said Flitwick, slightly nervously. “However, there is, er, another reason for our visit.” 

“Miss White, are you familiar with a man named Burgess Borthwick?” asked McGonagall.

Diana tried to rack her brain for anyone of that name, but came up blank. “No. I never heard of him before.” 

“Yes, well,” coughed Flitwick, “apparently, he has a copy of some sort of documentation that says that your mother is—and I’m just repeating what I was told, mind you—that your mother was deemed an unsuitable parent by Muggle courts. Is this…accurate?”

Why is this Borthwick bloke looking for that? Diana’s nerves started to flutter again in her stomach. “Um, sort of. A few years ago, the courts did say that was true. But then, later on, they said it was okay for my mum to live with me since she got better.”  Diana didn’t mention yesterday’s episode. “So right now, I live with both her and my grandma.” 

“So there’s another report that says she’s a good parent then?” Flitwick asked eagerly. Diana didn’t like how McGonagall’s eyes grew more grave.

“Yeah. But, um, w-why is this person looking for that kind of documentation?”

There was another moment of silence where the two professors looked at each other with those unreadable expressions again, and Diana’s heart started to beat fast. McGonagall turned to her and said solemnly, “Miss White, I’d like to warn you in advance that what I say might be a bit…upsetting, but I need you to remain firm and composed.”

Oh fuck . “W-w-what’s happening?” she asked in a voice that was neither firm nor composed. 

McGonagall looked at Diana with soft, sympathetic eyes, eliciting another jolt of panic to run through her. “Diana, you mentioned before that you believed your father to be in prison. However, this is not the case. Your father was tried in our court many years ago, but he was declared Not Guilty.”

“But why ?”

“The court did not believe there was adequate evidence to conclude that he was guilty of this crime, among several others,” she replied neutrally.

“But I'm the evidence. I exist.”

McGonagall gave another wry smile. “Yes, that’s true. However, your existence and connection to him was unknown until very recently.”

“ I–I thought—my mum said–is-is he coming after me?”

McGonagall hesitated. Tears started to well up again in Diana’s eyes as she knew what the answer was. “Yes, Diana. Your father has gone to court and requested custody of you. In situations where magical children of wizards and Muggles are born out of wedlock, it is customary for the child to be placed with the wizard parent. However, Albus Dumbledore—headmaster of of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot—”

“What’s that?” Diana sniffed, several different emotions fighting for dominance.

“It’s the highest court in our world. Dumbledore has reason to believe that if you were to show up at the trial, your testimony might sway the council to allow you to stay with your mother.”

Thoughts of all her failed attempts of public speaking flashed through her mind. No. Nononono.  

“Th-that’s not a good idea.” 

“It could be a great chance to argue in support of your mother,” Flitwick added, trying to be helpful.

“But–Mum. S-shouldn’t she be the one to speak?” Once she said it, Diana realized what a terrible idea that would be. Sarah White, in front of some sort of wizard council, with, presumably, her father in there? Not happening.  

“Muggles aren’t permitted inside the Wizengamot, I’m afraid,” Flitwick said sadly.

“But these custody cases you mentioned are for their children ! How could the courts decide something if one parent can’t even get a chance to speak?”

A spark of determination flickered behind McGonagall’s eyes. “Dumbledore has ensured that your mother’s voice will be heard in some capacity, even if she is unaware of the trial that is occurring. I can assure you of that.”

Diana didn't know what that meant, and wasn’t sure if she liked it. “I d-don’t get why this is even happening. It’s been eleven years and he hasn’t contacted me once. Why does he even want me anyway? I–if all of this is true, then my mum said he didn’t like people without magic, and I’m half regular person.”

McGonagall’s brows furrowed. “Our understanding is that he found out about you very recently. As for why…that, we’re…not quite sure.”

The thought of him using her for some kind of magical ritual sacrifice crossed Diana’s mind and she felt queasy. “How long until this trial?”

“We have plenty of time,” Flitwick said. “The trial doesn’t start until eight o’clock tonight.”

“What the fuck?!” 

She didn’t mean to actually say it out loud, but she was too overwhelmed to care at this point. Both professors looked at her, taken aback. Mind reeling and voice fraught with emotion, she started rambling, “But you just told me today. This is too much and it’s too soon and there’s no way I’d be able to say anything and I really don’t want to see him. I won’t do it. You-–you can’t just come here and tell me things like this. It’s not right. I really think you s-should go.”

Flitwick looked alarmed. “Miss White, we’re here to help you. If you come with us, your voice could be key to–”

“You just said earlier that these cases always end up the same. T-there’s no point. At least this way I can enjoy my last moments of freedom.”

“If you’d just take a moment to consider—”

McGonagall held her hand up to stop Flitwick from continuing. She turned to look at Diana with a grave expression. “Miss White, there’s very little else we can say at this point. I wish you didn’t have to deal with these circumstances, but the fact of the matter is that this trial will happen, whether you are present or not. A small chance is greater than no chance, and sitting aside will almost certainly guarantee a victory for Mr. Malfoy. Albus Dumbledore made it very clear that the decision is to be yours and yours alone. If you ask us to leave today, then we will leave.”

Diana thought about this for the moment. Through her haze of panic and confusion, the thought of her book from earlier popped into her mind. 

She was at a crossroad. She could testify in front of her father and the courts. Explain that she wanted to live with her mother, explain how much her life now mattered to her. See the magical world for the first time. That’s what the protagonist of one of her books would do, if they wanted a good ending. That would be the brave thing to do. 

But Diana wasn’t brave. She was eleven years old, scared as hell, and wanted her mother and grandmother. She thought of the anxiety of speaking up in front of everyone at Camp Chrysalis. She thought of the sadness in her heart listening to her mother talk about her father last night, thought of all the horrifying stories she heard, thought about standing in a room with her father and all these wizards and witches with endless power at their fingertips.

This would be a moment Diana would often look back on and wonder how different her life would be if she chose differently. But for now, her decision was clear.

“No. I’m not going. And–and I’m not going to go to Hogwarts either.”

Both of their expressions fell, though McGonagall didn’t seem that surprised. “Then we’ll respect your decision not to attend the trial. However, the decision to come to Hogwarts in the fall has already been made. Regardless of which parent you end up with, there is no avoiding that.”

“Yes,” said Flitwick sadly, causing the teacups to disappear with a flick of his wand. “I suppose we’ll see you in a month. Hopefully you’ll be in my House. The transition may be difficult, but the staff will support you the best we can.”

Diana didn’t say anything. She got up to open the door, but Flitwick simply disappeared with a pop. Diana gaped.

“I’ll leave through the door,” McGonagall said stiffly. Before she crossed through the doorway, she paused and looked back at Dana. “Miss White, you don’t have Lucius Malfoy’s magic. What you have–your gift–it’s your magic. No one else’s.” 

“I don’t want it,” Diana said bitterly.

McGonagall smiled sadly. “I know. But nevertheless, you do have it, and you’ll be more at peace with yourself once you accept it.”

Diana didn’t say anything in reply, but watched McGonagall as she left through the doorway and then shifted into a cat to make her way down the rest of the path. I don’t even give a fuck anymore.

After the cat was out of sight,  she locked the front door again (for all the good that did) then went around making sure all the other doors, windows, and possible entranceways were locked. Then, she ran back into her room and sat on her bed, huddled in the corner for several hours. She was trembling, but didn’t cry.  There were too many emotions whirling through her head.

Was her father going to just show up on 6 Ironwood Lane and take her back with him? Was he going to talk to Sarah? ( Oh no, that can’t happen .)  Was he going to talk to her grandma? Would Grandma really bludgeon him to death with the fire extinguisher, like she told Diana and Sarah she would if he ever showed up at their house? Would he kill them? Should Diana have gone with Flitwick and McGonagall? Should she call the police? What would she say?

Her reverie was interrupted by a sound of footsteps, and Diana froze as she remembered the events of earlier in the day. Her tenseness morphed into relief once she heard her grandma call out, “Hello? You there, Di?”

Thank God . Marie White was home, safe and sound, and she always knew what to do. Diana felt her eyes welling with tears again, but ignored it as she bounded out of her room and rushed down the stairs. She almost collided into her grandmother at the speed she was going and hugged her tightly.

Marie laughed. “I’m glad to see you too, kiddo.” Diana said nothing and just hugged tighter. Marie’s expression grew more serious. “What’s going on? Why are you crying? Is this about your mum? I heard she had one of her moments again—she called me up to let me know. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have agreed to stay overnight, but—”

“It’s not that,” Diana sniffed. She opened her mouth to explain, but found that she couldn’t. Where would she even start? She pulled out the Hogwarts letter from her pocket and gave it to Marie, who read it with an expression that went from bewilderment to anger.

“Did someone give this to you?”

“It showed up outside my cabin at camp, but I threw it out since I thought it was a prank. But then I saw another outside the house today.”

Marie frowned. “There’s no post on Sunday.”

“I know, but…” she bit her lip. Should she tell Marie the whole story? Diana wavered for a bit, but decided to tell Marie everything: about the letters, about the library, about Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick, and the supposed trial that was happening sometime today. If she couldn’t tell Marie, who could she tell?

After Diana finished, looked at Diana with a serious expression. “Diana, I need you to tell me the truth here. I know this isn’t your handwriting, but did you get someone to write this?”

Diana’s heart shattered. "I’m not lying !”

Upon seeing her granddaughter’s expression, Marie quickly backtracked. “I can see this really upsets you and I know you’re an honest kid…I had to ask though.” She hesitated. “What you’re saying, honey, it….it can’t be real. I’m sorry. I know you believe it to be true, but—”

“Do you–do you think I’m having some kind of mental breakdown? Do you think I’m like Mum? How could I imagine this letter when it’s right here?” Could it be true though? Was Diana just hallucinating Flitwick and McGonagall? Diana wasn’t sure the thought gave her more or less comfort than the idea that witches and wizards were real.

Marie bit her lip. “I didn’t say that. It’s just, well, there is no trial. There’s no wizards. Sometimes what people say can get into our heads, and your mum…”

Diana looked away. She couldn’t make eye contact anymore. “I would never want anything like this to happen. I wish I was hallucinating. I wish I was lying. But I'm not! You always trusted me before. Why not now?”

Marie looked guilty and surveyed her granddaughter’s expression again. Her brow furrowed in contemplation. “You said these nutters mentioned your father was coming to get you, right?”

Diana shuddered. “Yeah….”

Marie was silent for a moment. Then, the gears in her mind started to spin as her mind came to a conclusion she would accept. “Maybe he really is rich and could afford all this crap. These people could have been paid actors.”

“But I saw them do–” Diana didn’t want to finish her sentence.

“You know what I think?” Marie said, voice growing with confidence. “I think there’s a reasonable explanation for this. I think he did put these fools up to it. They might even be part of the same Satanist cabal that kidnapped your mother. Yes, that’s it. They’re being exposed on the telly left and right now—I just heard of a whole ring of ‘em getting busted in Orkney. They can’t stay in the shadows infiltrating daycares and shit anymore, so now they’re like cornered rats. And they’re going to try to take down as many good folks as they can with them, including you and your mother. Well, they’re in for a rude surprise now, because I’m here and won’t let those maggots get anywhere near my girls, you hear?”

Diana wanted to believe that these witches and wizards were like the people from the news, regular humans who could get foiled with the ease of a Scooby Doo villain and sent off to jail, but she knew it wasn’t true. “I think they’re real wizards, Grandma. I saw them do magic though…” she mumbled.

“Remember how those gits gave your mum a bunch of drugs?” She didn’t. This was Marie White’s speculation, but had never been confirmed, though Marie took it as fact. “I’ll bet you ten pence that they did the same to you.”

“But I didn’t eat or drink anything!” That was true. She didn’t even take a sip from the conjured cup for this very reason. 

Marie waved the thought away. “Vapors in the air. It could create hallucinogens.”

Diana wasn’t sure if that was actually true or not, but Marie sounded confident. 

“We’re going to go to the police station first thing tomorrow to report this. Hopefully those fools won’t be as fucking useless as they have been in the past. Worst case scenario, we’ll at least start a paper trail.”

“Shouldn’t we try leaving the house? If my father really is trying to come and get me, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

“It’s easier said than done to get up and leave for an indefinite period of time.” Translation: They didn’t have the money to do so without knowing the specifics. “For now, we stay. I’d like to see him try getting past me. I stabbed a man out of self defense once before, and I’ll do it again, this time with pleasure. Things’ll be fine, don’t worry. But Diana”–she started to look more serious now–”you realize that this needs to stay between us for now, yeah? You can’t go telling your mum about this.”

Diana nodded numbly and hugged Marie, then headed back to bed early. She did not want to wait for her mother to come back from the art show. Her poker face was terrible, and she knew that Sarah finding out that Lucius Malfoy might be coming here would cause a shitstorm of epic proportions. 

Predictably, she couldn’t sleep. Her heart almost jumped out of her body when she heard some kind of thudding noise against her window. She jumped up, turned on the lights, and saw a fucking owl flapping its wings wildly outside her window, letter clutched in its talons.

She stared, debated for a moment, then opened the window, where the bird flew in and dropped the letter before flying back out the window. How sad is it that this isn’t even the weirdest part of my day? She picked up the letter that was addressed to her and recognized McGonagall’s neat cursive. She swallowed and read:

Dear Miss White,

I am sending this letter to regretfully inform you that the court ruled in Mr Malfoy’s favor. Representatives from the Ministry will be coming to your residence in a couple days in order to relocate you to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. Professor Dumbledore will attempt to send another set of Hogwarts representatives to 6 Ironwood Lane before that occurs, in order to best prepare you and answer any questions you may have.

As stated earlier, once you arrive at Hogwarts in September, the staff will support you as best possible. Please remember what I said earlier: Your magic belongs to you and no one else. 

Please feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns you may have, and I will do everything in my power to help. The return address can be found on the envelope.

I will see you on 1 September.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

The rest of Diana’s night alternated between staring numbly at the ceiling, sobbing into her pillow, and wishing for time to rewind so she could go back to being ignorant of the men and women with the power of gods who hid in the shadows. And while Diana was tossing and turning, many Muggles across Britain that night commented on the remarkably high amount of owls that seemed to be fluttering about the night sky. 

Chapter Text

Arthur Weasley was tired.

With his thankless job, such a feeling wasn’t rare, but what was rare was that he was feeling this way immediately following a Sunday, since that was normally his day off.

As Arthur entered the Ministry building and trudged his way through the lifts and floors, his mind raced as he went over the events of yesterday and this morning. Last night, Ginny had a meltdown over not being able to go to Hogwarts in September and being the only child left behind. While Arthur could understand his daughter’s concerns—after growing up surrounded by brothers, it was only natural to fear being an only child—Molly had no patience for the tantrum and demanded that Arthur make her stop. That ended in failure, resulting in Ginny that was crying even louder, Arthur feeling guilty, and Molly being more angry and stressed out. In the end, the twins were the ones who finally got Ginny to calm down, and Arthur and Molly were finally able to sleep.

That sleep lasted for about five hours and ended abruptly when Percy rushed into their room in a panic, saying that Ron wasn’t in his room and they couldn’t find him anywhere. The whole family spread out looking for him, and Arthur ended up being the one to find him about thirty minutes later, sitting in a cornfield looking out with a numb expression. Father and son sat there talking for a long time, where Ron told him that he didn’t think he was ready to go to Hogwarts since he had no talent, everyone there would probably hate him since he wasn’t as smart as Percy or outgoing as the twins, he might as well stay home with Ginny since that’s what he’s been all his life, right? Just someone who exists because his parents wanted a girl. Etc., etc.

Arthur spent his time trying to convince Ron that yes, his family loved him, and yes, he has talent, and yes, he will have a good time and make friends in Hogwarts. It was very unsettling to Arthur that one of his own children could have such deep-seated issues with self-worth that neither him nor Molly picked up on. What issues could his other children be hiding? How could he have failed so much as a parent?

After returning Ron back to the Burrow and seeing Molly weep and hug Ron in a tight embrace, Arthur got ready for work. He groaned as he saw a pile of letters for him on the dresser; Molly had insisted recently that Arthur “leave work at work” and anything work-related he could respond to once he returned to the office (“Don’t they realize Sunday’s your day off?” he remembered Molly snapping irritably the night before, eying the owl that burst its way into the kitchen at 11:30 PM with a frown. “If they want you to work extra, they should pay you extra”). It wasn’t unusual for Arthur to get letters outside of work hours, but it did seem like the pile today was larger than usual. If it was really serious, they would have used the Floo network to get here. My time with my family is important too. Still, Arthur couldn’t help but feel guilty for ignoring them. He grabbed the pile and made his way to work, barely avoiding yet another owl that flew through the open window and dropped a letter in front of Arthur.

Arthur’s mind broke from his reverie as he began to notice that most people around him were murmuring in animated conversation. He heard the name “Malfoy” being whispered again and again, and Arthur felt his skin crawl. What has he done now?

Arthur ambled over to the final lift and made his way in. He was the only passenger, which was a rare occurrence, but one that wasn’t entirely unexpected, considering he was arriving late due to the events earlier this morning. Right before his floor, the light went on and the lift stopped to open in order to pick up more passengers.

As the door opened, Arthur froze and inwardly cursed his terrible luck. Standing right outside were Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy. They were in the middle of what looked like a heated conversation, but once the door fully opened their eyes turned to him. Fudge looked startled, like a deer in the headlights, while Lucius…Lucius glowered at him with an expression of pure venom and loathing that Arthur almost dropped his letters. He was used to seeing Lucius sneer at him with a smug expression like Arthur was an insect he stepped on, but this…this unbridled malice, that was new.

It was also new to see Lucius clutching on to the Malfoy family heirloom. Did Abraxas finally die? Is that what everyone’s talking about?

“Erm—hello,” Arthur said tentatively. “I’m going up.” He pointed to the lights unnecessarily.

“Ah, Arthur, hello,” Fudge said, straining a smile. “We–we’ll take the next lift. That alright with you, Lucius?”

Lucius nodded slowly, eyes still glaring daggers at Arthur.

“R-right. Bye then.” Arthur couldn’t press the button to close the doors fast enough.

After the doors closed, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Whatever gossip was floating around was likely the cause of Lucius’s terrible mood, which probably meant it was good for Muggles, Muggleborns, or the Weasleys. Heartened by this thought, Arthur hummed cheerfully as he got off the lift to his floor and made his way down to his office.

“Morning, Perkins,” Arthur yawned as he pushed open the door to his cramped, cluttered office. With a slight frown, Arthur noticed Wayne Perkins was absent. Odd. He didn’t tell Arthur he was going to be out today. Oh, well. The man deserves a break.

Arthur sat down at his desk, shoved some papers out of the way, and placed the letters down. Before he could open the first one to read, he heard a faint whizzing sound and looked up to see a paper airplane floating in midair. Arthur stifled a groan. Already? This was going to be one of those days, he could tell.

He opened the airplane and immediately recognized Reginald Cattermole’s loopy handwriting.

Hi Arthur,

I was just wondering what you planned on doing about the Malfoy verdict. Mary was extremely upset about it all last night for obvious reasons, and I want to be able to tell her honestly that there’s something in the works that could either shake it up or prevent it from happening again. I know my department is completely unrelated to this, but if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.

The details about Malfoy are pretty sick. It says volumes about your character that you sat on them for so many years so they could only be revealed through the appropriate channels. He wouldn’t have done the same for you.

Why is it always the rich folk who are the most degenerate? Rowle, Dolohov, the Lestranges, the Malfoys…yeesh. I guess it’s just passed on from generation to generation. Makes you really appreciate your own family, eh?

-Reg

Arthur frowned as he read the letter a second time. What the hell was Reg talking about? What verdict? Was he talking about the trial from years ago? Why was this being brought up now? Did something happen to bring it into the public eye again? That would no doubt explain Lucius’s venomous glare–Arthur was one of the key individuals who was involved in building a case against him.

He’ll ask Perkins about it, or maybe one of his other friends when he went to lunch. Arthur took a letter from the pile and began to read.

Greetings,

I’m certain this must be an incredibly distressing time for you, Mr Weasley, given how the Wizengamot’s ruling on the Malfoy case spits in the face of your core principles and everything you work for in your position at the Ministry. Still, I wanted to reach out to you in order to let your voice be heard and give you the opportunity to express the despair and righteous indignation you are no doubt experiencing. The Daily Prophet will be doing a piece on the fallout that includes voices from individuals of varying beliefs and levels of importance, and I believe you would be an ideal choice. Please send me an owl at your earliest convenience.

Cheers,

Rita Skeeter

The Daily Prophet

Arthur started to get goosebumps as the gears of his mind started to turn. Clearly, yesterday there was a case involving Malfoy where the outcome was one that Arthur would disagree with.

So why would Lucius look so angry if he got what he wanted?

Another paper airplane whizzed by Arthur’s head. He grabbed it and opened it.

Arthur, wanna grab a bite to eat later? I’m dying to hear your thoughts on all this Malfoy business!

(Did you even know there was going to be a custody trial? I didn’t. It was very hush-hush).

If you can’t, no worries. I’m sure you’re probably already drafting some kind of legislation or something that could put a stop to all this. I’m telling ya right now: It won’t work. But I know you’re going to try anyway! That’s why I like you: You always step up to protect others, even if it’s going to be unpopular.

See ya soon,

Bob

P.S One of your kids is going to be in the girl’s year, yeah?

Arthur blinked. A custody case? Huh. Information about Malfoy having an illegitimate child (a girl?) being made public would no doubt explain his incensed expression earlier. It did come as a bit of a surprise though; for all of Lucius’s faults, Arthur never heard rumors about him having any side paramours like his father infamously did.

And why did everyone assume Arthur would want to step in? He disliked Lucius for many reasons, but obstructing him from seeing his child for no reason seemed petty and cruel.

He grabbed another letter from the pile, which had neatly written cursive on the front. Because of this, he was surprised to see the letter inside written in crayon.

Dear Mr Weasli,

Hi my name is William and I am not old enough to be a Hogwarts student yet but one day I will be and I’m going to be a gryffindor and also one of the best seekers. I’m writing you this letter because Mummy and Daddy were fighting because of something that happened at the ministry with Mr Malfoy and Daddy works at the Ministry but Mummy says people like Mr Malfoy get away with doing bad stuff all the time and Daddy lets him and Daddy got angry and it was a big problem. Mummy said you are the only one in the Ministry with courage who would fight back. I want you to please solve this problem so my parents stop fighting please. Thank you. Also I took Mummy’s letter to you out and put my letter in instead because this is really important and I don’t know your address. I’m also sealing it back up so she won’t know. That’s why there is no crayon on the envelope but there is inside. It’s because I wrote in crayon but she did not.

Love.

William

Arthur started sweating. What the fuck was happening?

He heard the familiar whizzing sound and gaped as another paper airplane flew by his head. Hands shaking slightly, he opened it.

Arthur, do NOT talk to the press. There are certain parts of the report that are still classified, despite most of it being entered into public record as a result of being foolishly included in the Malfoy case yesterday. Frankly, this never should have happened, and to say I’m furious would be a massive understatement.

Read the transcripts from yesterday and see what information is now public knowledge. Do not discuss any previous details with anyone unless the details are specifically mentioned in the transcripts.

-Scrimgoeur

Arthur put the note down, head spinning. He grabbed another letter from the pile and stifled a groan when he saw the scale and cornucopia seal on the back. Should he toss it? After a brief debate, he opened it.

THE TEMPLE OF AEQUITAS

To: Arthur Weasley

Our Brother in Equity

While we know you have unfortunately declined to speak at our Temple in the past, we are hopeful that the recent decision involving Lucius Malfoy will cause you to reassess this decision.

As you are aware, our Temple believes in the fundamental equity and fairness of all individuals, regardless of blood status, social class, gender, race, and sexuality. Our desire for abolition of the current governmental structure is based on that, as true justice and equality cannot be achieved when one human being holds power over another.

The closeness of the ruling reflects a possible change in our world, one that both you and the members of our Temple view as positive. While we are aware you feel some of our beliefs to be “extreme,” you also no doubt recognize that the numbers of those unsatisfied by the current government’s handling of social issues—and joining our Temple as a result—continue to grow every day. If you need numbers and supporters in order to help push forward any new legislation, we can provide. While we may not see eye-to-eye on every issue, we feel our similarities override our differences.

In regards to matters of theology, there is no conflict between joining the Temple and your family’s own religious beliefs. Our fundamental goals and beliefs are secular in nature and our membership reflects an adherence to a wide variety of gods and goddesses, some choosing not to worship any god at all. Aequitas is simply the personification of the Universal spirit of justice and equity, a spirit that flows through us all, gifting us with our sacred magic.

We hope to hear from you soon.

Yours in Equity,

Apollonius Baros

The Temple of Aequitas, Community Outreach

Nope. If Molly heard of him speaking to “dressed-up anarchists”--her words–he’d never hear the end of it.

Another goddamn paper airplane flew by his head. Arthur yanked it out of the air and read:

Arthur—

I know you’re pulling your hair out over this verdict by now, but this ain’t your fight. Trust me, I’ve seen my share of bullshit decisions made by the Wizengamot and can understand the need to push. But the law’s the law, and your best bet at this point is to accept it for what it is. I feel bad for the kid too, but if you try to speak up and make waves about this, it’s going to paint a target on your back. You are NOT responsible for any of this, so don’t go running on some guilt-driven crusade. You have Molly and your own kids, Arthur. Don’t put that in jeopardy.

Besides, Malfoy’s already gotta be feeling the heat now that so many of the grimy little details are now public record (still can’t believe that happened, haha). And 55-45? Tide’s turning, it seems.

-Mad-Eye

“Feel bad for the kid”? Why would he feel bad? And why would he feel responsible? He racked his brain but couldn’t think of any cases he was involved in that included Lucius and children.

Arthur took the small stack of unopened letters and flipped through them, seeing if any of the letters were from anyone he recognized. His heart stopped momentarily at seeing the familiar sword and shield logo on the back of one of the letters, and quickly ripped it open.

Hello Mr Weasley,

I know we planned on discussing your proposed Muggle Protection Act tomorrow, but I’m going to be arriving at the Ministry at around 11:00 AM in order to see if there’s any time in your schedule to meet today instead. As I’m sure you’ve surmised, the Association is extremely disappointed with the Wizengamot’s judgment involving the custody case involving Mr Malfoy and considers it incredibly tone-deaf at best, considering the recent tragedies of Linda Rowle and Emily Dolohov. We fully plan on advocating for the rights of the child, but require your experience and expertise in order to do so successfully. It is my understanding that you spoke with the mother before Mr Malfoy’s trial ten years ago.

As always, the Association is appreciative of your efforts in defending the inherent rights and dignity of Muggles, and we look forward to your continued partnership and support.

Nia Achebe

The Association for Muggleborn and Muggle Rights

At the mention of Linda Rowle and Emily Dolohov, Arthur’s heart sank. Horrific headlines and transcripts were seared into his mind–the Rowle case was only a year ago, and the Dolohov one three years before that.

Things were starting to click into place. But why did it seem like everyone thought Arthur would be in a position of power to do something? Yes, he tried in the past to push back against Pureblood political agendas several times, but all his efforts had been in vain. Lucius Malfoy’s hold was simply too strong, even if Moody seemed to think the grip was loosening. And speaking of Moody, why did he imply that Arthur would feel guilt over this? Was he referring to the general, directionless guilt he frequently experiences as continuously tries to push Muggle Rights to the forefront, only to have his efforts always seem to roll back forcefully like Sisyphus’s stone of myth? That had to be it; the only time Arthur was directly involved in building a case against Lucius Malfoy didn’t involve any children. It was the time when—

The gears in his mind screeched to a halt.

A child Ron’s age.

Arthur met Sarah White eleven years ago.

Oh, shit.

Arthur looked at the clock: 10:15. He needed to speak with Perkins before Nia arrived.

Arthur was in a slight daze when the next paper airplane fluttered by his head. He reached out and took it, only to wish he hadn’t when he saw that it was covered with letter cutouts from a newspaper, spelling out the following message:

DONT SHOVE YOUR BLOOD TRAITOR FACE WERE IT DOESNT BELONG. IF YOU INTERFERE WITH THE NATURAL ORDER WE WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND GUT YOUR WIFE LIKE THE PIGGY SHE IS AND WE WILL TAKE YOUR DAUHTER AND MAKE HER SQUEAL AND BLEED AND BEG LIKE LITTLE LINDA ROWLE AS EVRY ONE OF HER HOLES GETS

Arthur put the letter down and stopped reading. He rubbed his temples and exhaled before continuing. The letter went on to describe in graphic detail what the writer (and the writer’s “associates”) would do to Ginny, and then concluded by saying he would kill Arthur in a particularly gruesome fashion.

It wasn’t the first time Arthur received a letter like this. Getting death and rape threats for him and his family was an unfortunate reality of having a position that was extremely unpopular among more traditional wizarding circles, and Arthur received around three a year, more when he was trying to push some kind of perceived “radical idea.” The Aurors concluded that it was likely just shittalking and intimidation tactics, but helped him set up stronger defensive wards around the Burrow anyway.

What Arthur found most disturbing is that the way the letter arrived means that it needed to be someone who was in the Ministry building who sent it. Could it be someone that worked on his floor, someone he had lunch with once or twice? Arthur once went to Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Kingsley suspected that it was probably different people who were sending letters, which tracked with how different the threatening letters were in terms of aims, grammar, and sentence structure. Arthur asked Kinglsey once if he thought any of them were written by Lucius, and Kinglsey said they likely weren’t because it didn’t fit his usual modus operandi, and Arthur reluctantly agreed.

Arthur wanted it to be Lucius though; Lucius was a known quantity. But Arthur had no fucking clue who was fantasizing about raping and killing his family, and that thought was terrifying. It was times like these when Arthur reconsidered his job and wondered if it was even worth it.

Dejected, he took another letter from the pile from home and opened it.

Dear Mr Weasley,

I know you don’t know me, but my name is Margaret Edwards. I’m a Muggleborn witch who graduated Hogwarts (Ravenclaw house) back in ‘55. When I heard about the Malfoy verdict, I started crying—it brought back so many awful memories that I’ve kept bottled up for over fifty years. Society has progressed in many ways, but there are some things that always seem locked into place. The treatment of women—Muggleborn and Muggle women especially—is unfortunately one of those things that remain frozen.

When I was a student, I was sexually assaulted by group of Slytherin Purebloods. A token investigation was done and Headmaster Dippet concluded that my claims were not credible, and the boys went on to lead illustrious, successful careers, two of whom currently hold seats on the Wizengamot. I believe part of it had to do with how their Head of House at the time said they were “good boys” and didn’t appear to look too deeply into my claims. Yet oddly enough, a year after my rape, Ophira Farley—a girl a year behind me—was assaulted by a different group. Because her father was an influential Pureblood who raised hell, Dippet somehow found her claims credible despite having less evidence than I did, and expelled the boys.

I have heard countless variations of the same story: Men getting away with committing sexual crimes against women and girls because they are either more charismatic or more wealthy or more powerful than they are. This poor Muggle woman never stood a chance against the infernal machinery that forms the foundation of our society. What makes this so heartbreaking is that this woman is having her life ripped apart not once, but twice.

And what kind of message does this send to the daughter? How will Mr Malfoy view this girl, and how will he treat her? I am truly terrified for this child’s safety.

The reason why I am addressing this letter to you is that I know you are one of the few voices in the Ministry that is committed to championing the protections and inherent dignity of Muggles. You fight an uphill battle, but keep persevering despite the dangers. I realize this is presumptuous of me, but please, please do what you can in order to try to put forward some legislation to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again. Or, perhaps see if there is any way to overturn this decision? I realize it’s a long shot, but the Wizengamot’s judgment is so disheartening to any survivors of abuse. The Muggle Prime Minister during the second World War once said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts.” Your courage is an inspiration to us all, Mr. Weasley. Godric Gryffindor would be proud.

Thank you again for all that you do.

Sincerely,

Margaret Edwards

Arthur’s eyes started to mist over as he re-read the final paragraph. No, It was worth it.

Regardless of his doubts that sometimes emerged, he was doing good work.

Feeling a sudden rush of energy, Arthur got up, ready to leave the office and get a transcript of yesterday’s trial when he ended up bumping right into Perkins, who was trying to enter the room at the same time.

“Arthur!” Perkins exclaimed in surprise. “I was looking for you downstairs. When you didn’t show up today, I feared the worst. You weren’t attacked, right?”

“W-what? No, I wasn’t! Just a bit of a rough morning with the kids,” Arthur smiled weakly.

“Is everything all right?” Perkins asked, brows furrowed. Perkins was a generally mild mannered older man, but he was always keenly perspective. “I tried to send you a letter yesterday, but you didn’t respond.”

Molly’s cries of ‘leave work at work!’ echoed in his head. “Everything’s fine with Molly and the kids now. But Perkins…I, er, I’m guessing yesterday probably wasn’t the best day to take off.”

Perkins chuckled darkly. “No, it wasn’t.” He gestured towards the desks. This is going to be a long story. Arthur and Perkins both sat and Perkins' eyes practically sparkled.

“So, what do you know?”

Arthur sighed. “From what I can tell, Malfoy has an illegitimate kid with a Muggle, which he won custody over.” He hesitated. “And…and I think the mum is the same girl who was mentioned in his trial years ago. The one I interviewed.” And the one I failed to get justice for.

It was only at this moment that the gravity of the situation fully hit Arthur. This child–Sarah’s daughter–was going to be forced to live with the man who raped her mother. Jesus Christ.

Oblivious to Arthur’s emerging horror, Perkins continued, “Yes, that’s the short version. Amazing how this kid managed to spring into existence, since Malfoy was adamant he never touched her years ago.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

While Sarah White’s testimony was included in the case against Lucius (among many other, different crimes), it didn’t get very far. Lucius’s approach was that he never laid a finger on her, but if he did, it wouldn’t have been his fault because he was under the Imperius. There was no hard evidence to directly prove that Lucius was the culprit beyond Sarah’s words, which weren’t given much weight by the Wizengamot. In the end, the rape accusation ended up being dismissed in court, and while it was officially recorded in the trial transcripts, Sarah White’s name and several of the details provided were redacted from the report of Malfoy’s trial available to the public. The only people who knew her name and the full extent of her claims were those who were involved in the trial itself–either in the courtroom, or involved in gathering evidence–and anyone outside who the information was leaked to.

“Well, after eleven years, you finally got your validation, Arthur. There’s undeniable blood proof that Lucius Malfoy blew his load in a Muggle. It must feel good.”

Arthur winced. “It’s not ‘good,’ Perkins. It was terrible that it even happened in the first place. I wish I was wrong.”

“Of course, of course.” Perkins held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, well, Malfoy having some kind of Halfblood spawn running about his house is karma if I ever saw it. Like something out of a Greek play. Ha! Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll cut his eyes out next.”

“It’s not entertainment,” Arthur muttered. “A real child is going to be taken from her mother. Can you imagine what the poor thing’s probably feeling now?”

“Eh, don’t think too much about it. If it’s a big issue, they’ll probably modify her memory,” said Perkins, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe the mother as well. They’ll be none the wiser.”

Sarah’s final, venomous accusations towards him echoed in Arthur’s head as he shuddered involuntarily. “I saw Lucius earlier today—he looked like he wanted to kill me.”

“I’m sure he always feels that way.”

“Yeah, but it was very…obvious today.”

“Well that’s no surprise. Everything about the mother’s testimony is now public knowledge. No more of that redacted shit.”

Arthur’s mind froze. The letters Arthur received made much more sense now. “...Everything?”

“Well,” Perkins amended, “everything about Lucius, anyway.”

Oh sweet Lord. No wonder Lucius looked like he wanted to kill him.

“But…how?”

Perkins leaned back and smiled. “We have Dumbledore to thank for that one.”

“Dumbledore? Why would he be–”” Arthur’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you saying the Wizengamot presided over this custody trial?”

Perkins smirked and nodded. No way.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a whizzing sound and groaned. He looked for the paper envelope and his heart jumped a bit when he saw that it was not one of the Ministry airplanes, but an actual letter being suspended in the air by a pinkish aura. Molly.

Molly always enchanted her letters so once the owl dropped them off in the Ministry-approved location, it could immediately find its way to Arthur without dealing with the bureaucracy of organizing hundreds of letters that arrive at the Ministry on a daily basis. Arthur looked at the envelope, which had uncharacteristically frantic, sloppy writing on the front. The threat he received earlier flickered in his mind as he ripped Molly’s letter open and read:

Arthur Weasley, WHAT IS GOING ON? Owls keep showing up at the house with letters addressed to you. Is everything all right? I haven’t opened any, but the children and I are antsy. I caught the twins trying to sneak one from the pile three times already! Please let me know what’s happening as soon as possible.

Arthur relaxed a bit; his family was safe. “Sorry ‘bout that, Perkins.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, it’s just Molly. She’s—well—we’re not used to getting so many letters. She’s asking what’s happening and I don’t know what to tell her, because I still have so many questions right now.”

“Right, I'll start from the beginning. To put it bluntly, yesterday evening was a shitshow.”

“Huh. Usually those kinds of things only happen on days that I’m working.”

Perkins laughed. “There’s always a time for firsts. While you had a nice and relaxing day with your family, I was here making headway with all the documentation regarding that haunted arcade case in West Yorkshire. I wasn't as, er, productive as I would have liked, so I ended up staying pretty late—until 9:30, give or take–to finish it. And good thing I did, because there was a Wizengamot custody case scheduled at 8:00, and that was the one that’s got Malfoy in hot water.”

“Pretty impressive something like this didn’t leak ahead of time. I had no idea that a trial even happened until this morning..”

“That’s how most people found out. Well, that and being told from the stragglers last night, because the records were made available at 10:00 PM. Details probably would have leaked beforehand if there was more time, but I’m pretty sure Malfoy pulled some strings to get it fast-tracked. It explains why it was in such a dead time slot. The whole thing was very discreet, identities sealed at first and all that.”

“How’d you find out?”

“It was afterwards. As I was on my way out, I saw Clarence Doyle–you know him? He’s one of the stenographers.”

“Not that well, but I do know him.”

“He was the one who was singing drunk at Podmore’s Victory Day party last year. So I see Clarence, and he’s got this big shit-eating grin on his face, so naturally I asked what happened, and he told me he just transcribed the biggest scoop since You-Know-Who’s downfall. He told me that he recorded the transcript for a custody case that proved beyond a doubt that Lucius Malfoy shagged a Muggle and had a child with her. He said it got ugly in there, and Malfoy only squeaked by with only a 55-45 lead, which says a lot about the pulse of the current political climate and means good news for us.”

Arthur hoped so, but he’s been burned too many times to assume anything. “Hopefully. How ugly are we talking?”

“The way Clarence said it went down, Malfoy went up and said that his father ordered a Blood Tracing in order to make all his affairs are in order before he passes—good riddance, if you ask me–and when they did the Blood Tracing, they saw that Lucius had another child besides his son. He said that the mother was a Muggle, but didn’t say any more than that.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Really?”

“Nope, he didn’t have to. I mean, I’m sure they were dying to know, but the judges in custody cases with a Muggle aren’t meant to be a group of gossipy hens, they’re just supposed to acknowledge if there’s proof of lineage. The hows and the whys of conception don’t factor into it. Anyway, Malfoy said it was his duty as a father to bring her into the wizarding world and guide her into our ways and all that crock. There’s the usual back-and-forth with questions and he presents reasons why she should live with him and it seems like it’s going to go the normal way, but when they’re at the end Dumbledore says that since the well-being of the kid must be taken into consideration it’s important to closely examine all possible avenues, and since the mother wasn’t present, he said her words should be entered into the court for consideration. Then he brings out copies of the original, unredacted report from ten years ago, looking as calm and collected as the fucking Sphinx while reading sections of the most depraved shit imaginable. Clarence said Malfoy looked stoic, but I bet on the inside he was sweating harder than a sinner in hell.”

“Haha! Wow.”

“Yep. Didn’t think the old man had it in him.”

“But is that even legal?” Arthur furrowed his brow. “For Dumbledore to enter the unredacted report, I mean.”

“Ehh, it’s a bit of a loophole. As Chief Warlock, he could decide what evidence could be included when making a decision and it was an official report for the Wizengamot, just not one made available for public knowledge.”

“—and because it was entered as evidence for this case,” Arthur continued, eyes growing wider at the implications, “and child custody evidence is always available as public knowledge, then files from Malfoy’s case years ago became public knowledge as a result.” Dumbledore’s brilliant. “No wonder Scrimgoer’s angry.”

“Oh, he’s fucking furious. I haven’t seen him this pissed off since the war. He thinks it's going to set a bad precedent and is drafting a bill to make sure something like that can’t happen again. Not that it’s going to help Malfoy now, though. You can’t put the potion back in the cauldron once it’s spilled.”

“It was clever of Dumbledore. I wish I could have been in the courtroom to see it.”

“Clever, and a bit ethically dubious. Not that I blame him, of course. You know how the Rowle girl was a student at Hogwarts when the bastards killed her, right?”

Linda Rowle, fourteen years old, Hufflepuff. She died during the summer holiday. Arthur remembered reading over the transcripts of her case with a heavy heart and knew them front-to-back. “Yes.”

“Well, Dumbledore was not happy with what happened to the poor kid. I hear—and this is just rumors, mind you–but he’s been having ‘conversations’ with some higher-up folks about the ethics of automatically placing the child of a Muggle and wizard with the wizard parent. Especially when the parent has a history of questionable moral character, like the Rowles and the Dolohovs and the Carrows.”

“That’s probably why he took the case. As Chief Warlock, he would be able to decide if a case should be presented in front of the Wizengamot or a lesser court.”

“Exactly. And Dumbledore’s reasoning for bringing in the unredacted testimony should be obvious: He wanted to show the court that this was the specific Muggle who is the mother of Malfoy’s child. And that was a big deal because back during his trial, he denied that any sexual contact happened at all, and now he has to somehow explain how he could have a child with her if ‘nothing happened.’ It also retroactively puts the ruling of his past trial into question, albeit unofficially.”

“But Lucius still won yesterday,” Arthur sighed in frustration. “How? How could he win when this child’s existence proves he was lying during his trial ten years ago?”

“You’re gonna love this next bit—he claimed that he did, in fact, remember the woman, but didn’t remember her until years after his trial. People's recollections can become erratic when under the Imperius, so that was the approach he went with. He said that, from his point of view at the time, it was true that he did not remember her.”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. “Amazing, really.”

“Ha! I’m not even finished; it gets worse. The judges started grilling him with questions and he had to answer. He pretended like he was remorseful for his actions, and emphasized that she was kept alive longer than most of the Muggles were, suggesting he was operating under some subconscious guilt, even while under the Imperius—”

“Bullshit,” Arthur muttered.

“I know, but him being under the Imperius is the official line. Anyway, while he recounted his side, he laced his words with his usual poison to cause people to second-guess their perception of the whole situation. He implied that her words couldn’t be trusted, and mentioned some inconsistencies, like how the injuries she had when she was found didn’t match up with some of the things she described—”

“But she was in a house of wizards. There are plenty of explanations for–”

“Well, his goal—I’m assuming—was to make her seem like she wasn’t credible. Cast doubt on certain things, and it makes someone wonder what else is inaccurate. And he didn’t come out and say it directly, but he put in subtle jabs and characterized her in a way that made her seem a bit…suspect, in the eyes of the Wizengamot. Promiscuous, I suppose.”

Arthur started to feel sick. “How?”

“Well, he dropped in that she was friends with magicians, and you know what a lot of our folk feel about magicians. Mentioned her outfit she was wearing on the day she was taken to the Acheron, which offended the grannies. He cherry-picked certain parts of her report and made it seem like she was lusting after him.”

Arthur rarely felt hatred. But at that moment, he hated Lucius Malfoy with all his being.

“He’s fucking shameless. What’s his angle, then? Is he saying she fell on his prick and that’s how she got pregnant?”

Perkins leaned back and gave a hearty laugh. ““Haha! What would Molly say if she could hear you now?”

“She’d say worse and be just as disgusted as I am,” he replied, fingers clenched into a fist.

“Probably. To answer your question, he predictably said that their relations were due to the Imperius, which affected his mind and made him unable to control himself. And according to him, she developed some kind of one-sided love for him and was upset and jealous when she found out about Narcissa, so he modified her memory. And then, he says, that memory modification and lingering bitterness is what caused her…uncharitable recollection.”

Arthur closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. “Please tell me that no one bought into this hogwash.”

“Unfortunately, many of them did. You know how silver-tongued he can be; he took a lot of what was in the transcript and twisted it around or ‘provided context.’ It was his word against hers. And, well, the original report does sort of, er, say something to that effect. Right? I mean, weren’t you there?”

Arthur was frustrated. “It’s a complicated situation. She was kidnapped. That kind of thing messes with a person’s mind.”

Perkins looked at him oddly. “Yes, but he’s a wizard. It’s not that unusual to imagine a Muggle fancying one, right? Being taken with a greater being? Especially one who is easy on the eyes. I imagine that’s what went through the judges minds too.”

The queasiness Arthur was feeling felt stronger. “What happened then?”

“Some of the judges started getting into a bit of spirited back-and-forth discussion of whether it could be considered assault if the girl had feelings for him—stop looking at me like that, Arthur—and Clarence thought Amelia Bones was going to get up and start flinging hexes right then and there. And then another judge–a woman—said that she found it difficult to believe that a real victim of assault would tell the details so openly to three strange men, and that sparked another discussion. I’m sure Malfoy must have felt like the cat that swallowed the canary, watching all these powerful judges do all the legwork for him.”

Arthur shook his head and felt–not for the first time–a complete and utter lack of confidence in his government. He also felt some guilt for being one of those ‘three strange men’ even though he knew, objectively, it wasn’t his fault.

Perkins continued, “Dumbledore stepped in and told them to stop the speculation and look over the evidence and make their judgment. Before they did though, Malfoy was allowed to make one final appeal to emotions and talked about how he was regretful and felt guilty of all the actions he did while he was under the Imperius, even though it wasn’t his fault, and that he wanted to be able to see his daughter and provide her with a good life, and how she be a way for him to prove he is committed to being a good man. Rubbish, naturally. But he did weave in a point that Clarence thought was pretty good and must have influenced at least a couple of the judges—he said he had nothing to gain from adopting the kid, and that the only reason he’s doing so is out of a genuine desire to make amends.”

Why did Lucius want to acknowledge a Halfblood child? That was the thought that was bothering Arthur for a while now, and he wasn’t able to come up with any satisfying answer. He wasn’t able to have any more children—was this just a way of ensuring his fortune would go to one of his descendents, in case anything happens to Draco? All of Lucius’s siblings died, after all. Or could there be another reason?

“And then?”

“And then they voted, and Malfoy ended up winning. But it was a pyrrhic victory at best, since now all his dirt is being aired out to the world.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, several different thoughts swirling about in his head. He was shaken out of his musings by a loud knocking sound on the door.

Arthur spun around to look at the clock: 11:00. Shit. Arthur flung himself across the room and back to his desk, frantically pulling out the appropriate paperwork. “Are we expecting someone?” Perkins asked with a frown.

“Yes, Nia Achebe,” Arthur whispered. Perkins’ eyes widened in horror. “Just a minute!” he called out in a louder tone.

“All right,” a calm, cool voice responded from behind the door. Perkins rushed over to his desk and started shoving things in drawers to make his workspace look somewhat presentable. After a minute of rummaging and reorganizing, Arthur called out again and told Nia she could come in.

A tall, dark-skinned woman entered the office, piercing brown eyes taking in every detail, as usual. Nia Achebe was the leader of The Association for Muggleborn and Muggle Rights–-or simply The Association, as it was usually called. Her eyes rested on the pile of letters that Arthur hadn’t removed from his desk. She smiled thinly. “Hate mail or fan mail?”

“A bit of both,” answered Arthur. Nia nodded.

“I didn’t expect anything less,” Nia said gravely. “I’m assuming they’re about last night’s verdict?” Arthur nodded and gestured for Nia to take a seat, which she did. “I appreciate your willingness for this meeting.” Arthur wasn’t even presented with a choice, but felt it would be inappropriate to say that. “The trial serves as an exemplar of the current anti-Muggle bias that permeates our courts, but the closeness of the verdict also serves as a warning that Pureblood influence and control may not be as absolute as once believed. Do you remember the Rorschach test I mentioned a few months ago?”

Arthur was taken aback and needed to think for a moment. “The Muggle experiment with the ink blots?”

“Yes. Different people can look at this and come with drastically different conclusions. Of course, the Association’s outlook is clear. We made a statement about an hour ago. We plan on taking action, as I mentioned in my letter. How many more Muggle women will have their children ripped away from them, only to be sacrificed at the altar of wizard cruelty and indifference? What perversities will this girl be forced to endure before she gets killed, only for the wizards to wring their hands over how tragic it was, but then keep voting for the same inane policies that make these atrocities possible?”

Arthur felt a bit unsettled, as he often did when speaking with Nia Achebe. Nia could be very…intense. Intense and dramatic. Perkins coughed; he was not a fan of her, and Arthur could understand why, even though he liked her well enough. Nia’s passion and dedication was a double-edged sword. It helped her cause sometimes, but it also made her off-putting to the general public, which ended up hurting her cause sometimes.

“So…Miss Achebe,” Perkins said. Nia turned to look at him, as if noticing he was there for the first time. “How are you? No one downstairs gave you any trouble, I hope.”

Nia shrugged. “No one said anything to me.” Not surprising. “I did see some children from the Temple of Aequitas downstairs though; I think the parents sent them to recruit, under the impression that wizards and witches wouldn’t be as antagonistic towards children as they would be to adult members. Little do they know…”

Perkins shuddered. “Creepy little brats. Dressed up like they’re going to a damned funeral.”

Nia’s glare grew a little sharper. “The Temple of Aequitas dresses that way to represent that death is the great equalizer. Several members of the Temple have joined the Association.”

“Oh.” Perkins suddenly looked awkward.

Feeling the obligation to defend his friend, Arthur added, “I’m sure they’re nice people! But still, the idea of children being sent for recruiting purposes is a bit…odd, surely? It can’t be entirely safe, some of the places I hear they’re sent.”

Nia sighed. “Children are given more freedom and responsibility in the Temple than in most places, since to do otherwise would go against their belief in certain individuals holding power over others. And yes, parents get included in that. If this were the Muggle world, some of the things they do would probably get social services involved, but…” She trailed off and shrugged. “There are zero laws in our world specifically intended to protect children, so it’s not surprising that this kind of thing happens.”

Perkins coughed again. (Arthur remembered Perkins snapping to him once, ‘‘If she hates our world so much, there’s nothing stopping her from living with the Muggles”). While Arthur always tried to reach out and be friendly to her, Arthur always felt, deep down, that Nia looked down on him to a certain extent and purposely kept him at a distance, Which was her prerogative, of course, but it stung, considering all Arthur did to try to help Muggles. Arthur wondered what her story was, why she had such a strong disdain for their society, but knew it wasn’t his place to ask.

“So, er, what action do you have in mind, Miss Achebe?” Arthur asked. “I know you mentioned in your letter that you wanted our help.”

“Our long term-goal is getting our people into government positions where we can make a difference. For short-term goals, we’ll be holding protests, putting the pressure on Fudge through our letter-writing campaign and petitions, and including a lot of coverage in The People’s Voice”—that was the Association’s newspaper—”and holding seminars and talks where we educate the public on the historical detrimental effects of forced child separation. If you could provide some statements for our paper, it could be a tremendous help.”

“I can do an interview.” I’d rather deal with the Association than Rita Skeeter. “And those ideas can’t hurt. Just remember to make sure all protests are in locations that are legally allowed.” And not like last time.

Nia nodded seriously. “I know. We’ll make sure not to block the Floo entrances to the Ministry, and only stay on the appropriate streets. And we’re going to make sure to stay off Malfoy’s property. They should still be able to hear us if we use voice amplification charms and—Mr. Weasley, are you okay?”

Arthur felt like he was going to have a heart attack. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Perkins hunched over the desk, shoulders shaking slightly. Laughing, no doubt. “Er, Miss Achebe, y-you plan to go on Lucius Malfoy’s property?”

“Not on it, just outside of it, where the property border officially ends.”

“I, um, I think that’s”—a terrible fucking idea!!!—”very…brave of you. But I don’t quite think it’ll go the way you, erm, the way you think it will.”

Nia frowned. “Why not?”

Where do I even begin? “I have decades of experience with Lucius Malfoy. Please just trust me on this.”

It was times like these where Arthur was reminded that Nia Achebe was only in her mid-twenties, taking over leadership after the previous leader vanished ‘mysteriously,’ and several other members of the organization along with him. Her general seriousness often gave the impression that she was older than she really was. But she had a bit of a naive, idealistic streak when it came to certain things, and this was one of them.

“He needs to learn to fear us and realize how many people are against him, and she needs to know we support her.”

“Trust me, he’s not going to fear you,” Perkins snorted.

“There are other ways to show support,” Arthur quickly added.

Nia’s expression was starting to grow stormy. “Mr. Weasley, I thought you were a fellow Gryffindor? I’m surprised to hear you’d be willing to back down so easily.”

Perkins, ever the Ravenclaw, felt the need to add in a snarky comment. “I’m surprised to hear that you think saving a life doesn’t require bravery, since that’s what he’s trying to do by stopping your suicidal quest right now.”

“Miss Achebe,” Arthur quickly cut in before she could argue back, “seeing a large group of people might intimidate the girl. We really should be trying to focus on what’s in her best interests. And I think you know, deep down, that Mr. Malfoy won’t be intimidated by The Association of Muggleborn and Muggle Rights.”

Nia’s temper seemed to recede somewhat, but she was still stubborn. “Your condescension isn’t appreciated.”

“I’m not trying to be—”

“It’s true that Mr. Malfoy will likely continue to look down on us, as he does everyone who attempts to make any kind of social change. But we need to make her aware that we exist, so that way she could reach out to us if she’s in danger.”

Arthur mulled it over. “I understand the desire to keep her safe, but I…if Lucius Malfoy thinks the Association is reaching out to her, I just don’t see how that could end well. Her best bet is to be quiet and keep her head down. If Lucius–”

The spark returned to Nia’s eyes. “Quiet, scared girls grow into women with powerful voices. She could be the voice our Association needs, the voice Linda Rowle and the others couldn’t be.”

There it is. Arthur tried to maintain a neutral expression. While he did believe that Nia was genuinely concerned with the child’s safety, he also had no doubt in his mind that Nia had an ulterior political motivation, and what Nia said just solidified that. The last thing this kid needs is to be dragged into some kind of political circus and groomed to be the Association’s poster girl.

“Perhaps it’s best if we focus on her present instead of her future,” he said diplomatically.

Nia tilted her head. “ ‘We’? So you do have something planned, then.”

Arthur mentally winced. “Ah–no, no actually I…don’t. I know a lot of people expect me to have something planned, but I’m not really sure what I can do in this case. Changing the ruling won’t happen. I don’t have nearly as much power as people expect me to have.”

It hurt to admit weakness like this, especially since so many people were apparently counting on him. But what could he do? He wanted to help, especially since this was Sarah’s daughter.

Sarah’s daughter…

A wave of guilt washed over him. No, there had to be something he could do.

Evidently, Nia thought so too. “You might not be successful all the time, but this is the only department in the entire Ministry that makes any kind of effort to help the Muggles, or anyone that the ones in power overlook. There’s a reason the Association reaches out to you. You’re a genuinely good man, Mr. Weasley, which is rare, especially in this building. And every Muggleborn in Britain knows it.”

“She’s right, you know,” Perkins chuckled.

Arthur felt very humbled yet overwhelmed. He was right when he said there was no changing the ruling, and trying to make some kind of systemic change to fight the precedent of always ruling in favor of the wizard parent was likely going to be fruitless. As much Arthur hated the idea, Lucius was going to take Sarah’s child away from her; it was a done deal. This whole idea was far outside the scope of his office or area of expertise, but like Nia said, he was the only one that seemed to give a shit enough to try something.

There had to be something Arthur could do to ensure the daughter’s safety. Privately, Arthur doubted that Lucius would do anything to his own child on the level of the Rowles or Dolohovs or Carrows. And in truth, the vast majority of forced placements with the Halfblood child being placed with the wizard parent usually ended up turning out fine–at least publicly (Arthur had no idea what, if anything, happened behind closed doors). Still, the Malfoys, like many old, traditional Pureblood families, tended to be very strict, and Arthur felt it was reasonable to at least worry that some kind of mistreatment might happen, considering the child had ‘dirty blood’ running through her.

So what could he do? How could he make it so that she wouldn’t be harmed? There were laws against murder, against rape, but no laws for–

Arthur turned to look at Nia, gears turning in his head. “Miss Achebe, what were you saying before, about how Muggles have these laws about children specifically? There won’t be a way to overturn the ruling, but maybe if there’s some way the Ministry could monitor–”

Nia’s eyes widened. “Like some kind of wizarding social services?” She scoffed. “It won’t work. Wizard folk are too stubborn and would balk at the government telling them how to raise their kids.”

“Damn right,” Perkins said. “Why would anyone want the Ministry to overreach even more? We already have laws against committing certain crimes. That applies to kids as well.”

Arthur generally agreed, but there was something about this that was nagging at him. “Could you at least tell me about it?”

Reluctantly, Nia explained. Perkins and Arthur both stopped her frequently to ask questions. After she was done, Perkins was frowning and Arthur had a thoughtful expression on his face.

Perkins frowned. “How would that not be misused? What if someone makes something up? Arthur, this sounds ridiculous.”

Nia rolled her eyes. “Considering everyone’s shared school experience involved being hung in chains or flogged, I’m not surprised child pain is so normalized here.”

Arthur shuddered at the memory of Apollyon Pringle and the marks he left. “Actually, I think they’ve gotten rid of those punishments at Hogwarts recently, last I heard.”

Perkins sniffed. “Not sure why. Everyone else went through it, and we turned out fine.”

“I think,” Arthur interrupted, ignoring him, “this approach is the one with the best chance.”

Both Nia and Perkins looked incredibly doubtful. “Arthur, they’re not going to interfere with how a parent raises their child. They just won’t,” Perkins said, exasperated.

“I know,” Arthur said, confidence growing. “I don’t expect them to. But the part I think they might consider–especially with enough public pressure–would be to have someone from the Ministry check in with the daughter every once in a while, just like Miss Achebe said sometimes happens in the Muggle world. If someone saw what was happening with Linda, her death could have been prevented.”

Perkins started laughing. “Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over well. Malfoy’s going to love having someone from the government come into his house—what was it? Every month? Every week? Checking if he’s being a good parent–with ‘good’ being incredibly subjective, by the way—and then–” Perkins stopped, eyes widening. “Arthur, is this some elaborate scheme to see if he has any dark artifacts?” Perkins cackled. “You’re more cunning than people give you credit for. Maybe you should have been in Slytherin.”

Arthur tried to maintain an impassive expression, which wasn’t quite successful. “Well, I mean, that’s not the reason I suggested this,” he said truthfully. “The safety of the girl is the priority. This is just an…added bonus.”

“It’s not going to work, Arthur,” said Perkins, still smiling. “He might actually try to have you killed for this.”

“The way it’s going to be worded is that every time a child is forcibly removed from the Muggle parent, a government representative would regularly check in to monitor how things are going. Look, I don’t expect this bill to go through on the first try. It’s going to probably be one of those that gets watered down to the point where it’s barely recognizable. But I think they’ll go for it, because it doesn’t require them to do much and placates those who weren’t satisfied with–”

“We’re NOT placated by this,” Nia said forcefully. “This is the bare minimum, at best. We want a total upheaval of–”

“You’re not going to get it,” Arthur said bluntly. “Social change in this building happens at a snail’s pace, unfortunately. This is the best way to help the daughter. If she’s in frequent contact with the Ministry, then that loosens Malfoy’s grip on her.”

“And,” Perkins added, eyes sparkling as he realized Arthur’s other motive, “Filing the bill for review also stalls the Ministry from being able to officially remove her from her home right away. Gives her some time to properly say her goodbyes and all that. Especially one that’s probably going to need to go through several revisions before it’s deemed acceptable enough to pass.”

Arthur nodded, then a thought occurred to him. “Does the girl even know what’s happening?”

“That’s why I was late earlier,” Perkins said. “I was downstairs chatting to get some more information, and apparently Dumbledore did send two Professors to her house to speak with her. Didn’t go too well, from what I heard.”

“What about the mother? The one that’s going to have her child ripped away from her?” Nia asked sharply. “Does she know?”

“He’s going to send two more tomorrow. Hopefully the mum and kid will be reasonable. If they try to kick up a fuss when the Ministry comes to remove her, well,” He shrugged. “You know how it goes.”

Nia folded her arms and looked away, eyes clouded over. Arthur hastily suggested beginning the draft immediately–as this was a very time-sensitive situation–and over the course of the next couple hours, the three bounced ideas off one another and Arthur was able to draft an overview of his proposition that he could submit through the courts. It was a purposely ambitious bill and Arthur didn’t expect it to pass right away, but there was enough in the core of it that led Arthur to be fairly confident they’d at least be able to get something after it would be worked down.

“A lot of times this process takes a while, but there’s going to be a lot of pressure for Fudge to do something, and he’ll want to get it over with sooner rather than later. I expect all the bureaucratic nonsense will take about a week, and then he’ll send Ministry officials to the girls’ house when it’s over,” Arthur explained as Nia made her way to the door to leave. “I wish we could stop her from being taken, I really do.”

She nodded and gave a small, rare smile. “You’re a good man, Mr. Weasley.”

And with that, she left, and Arthur hurried downstairs to file the bill for review. Part of him felt the usual nerves he did whenever he attempted something that could create a shake-up, but he owed it to Sarah to at least try.

Was he doing the right thing, though? Throughout the brainstorming session, Perkins offered up some counterpoints. Was it possible that by doing this, he would start a precedent that would actually make things worse? He shook the thought out of his mind as he hurried back up to the office. No, anything was better than what they currently had.

As the rest of the hours ticked by, Arthur wrote back to Molly and continued making progress on unrelated cases and reading the paper airplanes that would periodically zoom by him throughout the day. Given his late day on Sunday, Perkins left to go home early, leaving Arthur alone in the room to think. As his day came to a close, he stretched, yawned, and started getting his belongings ready, before he heard a sharp knock on the door. Ugh, why does this always happen when I'm ready to leave?

“Come in,” Arthur called, settling his briefcase down. Hopefully this won’t take too long.

When the door opened and he saw who was there, his insides grew cold and he knew that would, unfortunately, not be the case.

“Arthur,” Lucius drawled, surveying the messy office with the smug, condescending expression Arthur was accustomed to seeing. “I hear you’ve been busy recently.”

Gone was the barely-restrained anger, instead replaced with Lucius’s usual arrogant composure. Arthur didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign. “You can’t just barge in here whenever you want, Lucius. I’m not Fudge. In fact, I was just leaving and–”

Lucius ignored him and interrupted, “It’s tragic, really, to see the depths to which you’d stoop.”

“The depths that I’d stoop to?” Arthur repeated, indignant. “You’ve really got some nerve, after what you pulled yesterday.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow and looked at him, a charade of innocence. “What did I do, besides exercise my right as a citizen of this country? Nothing I did was against the law.”

He’s trying to get you riled up, don’t fall for it. Arthur gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to waste my time talking about this. I’ll just be going now.”

Arthur made an attempt to leave, but Lucius held out his walking stick to block his path.

“I just want to talk,” he said smiling.

A few different emotions were coursing through Arthur. First was trepidation and nervousness–he didn’t think Lucius would be foolish enough to hex him in a Ministry building of all places, but this whole situation might have backed him into the corner, and a cornered Lucius was an unpredictable, dangerous one. The other was rage at Lucius’s sheer audacity. Don’t let your temper get the better of you; he’s counting on that.

If push came to shove, Arthur did think he would be able to call Lucius’s bluff and leave with no repercussions. But he wasn’t confident enough to risk it, the warning letter still fresh in his mind–even if Lucius wasn’t the one who wrote it.

“Then say your piece and leave.”

“I think it’s abhorrent that you’d try to prevent a father from seeing his daughter. Imagine if someone were to take young Guinevere from you. You’d be heartbroken and despondent for months, I would imagine.”

It’s Ginevra, you arse. And was this some kind of veiled threat? Arthur started to get goosebumps. He tried to look and sound as neutral as possible. “Are you trying to imply something here?”

There it was again, that annoying, mocking smile. “Do you think I’m implying something? Perhaps you’re reading too much into it. I wonder if paranoia runs in your family, or if it’s simply a side effect of your…position?”

You’d know a lot about paranoia running in the family, wouldn’t you? “I’m not in the mood for games today, Lucius. This isn’t the first time we’ve had a conversation like this. We both know I’m not going to be intimidated.”

“Intimidate? I implied no such thing.” Bullshit. “What I did was draw a comparison. A very apt one, mind you, that highlights the personal agony such separation would ensure.”

“No, it’s really not, since you never even met her. The bill I filed wouldn’t separate you. It’s not even meant to prevent you from seeing her. If you could see past your Pureblood bias, it’s a damn good law that could strengthen our society. If everything in your spiel was true, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Hmmm.” Lucius absentmindedly tapped the snakehead against his chin in deep thought. “Interesting. What else is in it?

Goddamnit. Arthur hadn’t intended to tip his hand to Lucius, but he fell into Lucius’s trap all the same. I’ve got to be the most naive department head in this building, Arthur thought miserably.

“You’re not going to get any more out of me than that, Lucius. The only other thing I'll say is that it’s meant to prevent children like her from ending up like Linda Rowle.”

At the mention of Linda, Lucius’s eyes grew much sharper and colder, and he looked much like how he did earlier, when Arthur was in the lift. “It’s insulting, ” hissed Lucius. “This belief that I’d engage in torture and other…perversities with my own flesh and blood. This belief you’re propagating. The way some talk about it, it’s almost as if they're eagerly anticipating it.” His lips curled in disgust. “It’s sickening. I never claimed to be a perfect man, but there are places where even I draw the line.”

“I’m not ‘propagating it,’” Arthur protested, and that was true.“This bill is for the future of all Halfblood children who get forcibly placed with Pureblood parents and covers a wide variety of mistreatment. It’s not meant to be some kind of dig at you specifically.”

Lucius’s eye glimmered again at the tidbit of new information, and Arthur mentally kicked himself. He didn’t want to lose control of the conversation, so blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “If people know you raped someone in the past, then it shouldn’t come as a shock that some are afraid you’d do it again. ”

”But my own child? I’d never…” he stopped, suddenly turning to Arthur with a smile. This can’t be good. “But was it really ‘rape,’ as you put it? The Wizengamot seemed to disagree. I’m certainly not guilty of it in a court of law. And in fact, I believe the impression they gave yesterday was that the majority believed I had stronger moral character than she did.”

It was obvious bait, and Arthur knew it. But even with that knowledge, Arthur couldn’t restrain the fury that flowed through his veins and snapped, “How do you even sleep at night?”

Lucius raised a single eyebrow again (God, I hate that stupid expression). “Comfortably, with my beautiful wife by my side and a bed that likely costs more than your ghoul-infested hovel.”

This just fueled Arthur’s anger even more. “It doesn’t bother you at all that you’re stealing a child away from her mother?”

“No.”

“But why?” Not for the first time, Arthur found himself wondering how a person could be so devoid of empathy.

“Because a magical child needs parents that use magic,” Lucius said slowly, as if explaining a concept to a five-year-old. “It’s in her best interests, not that you would know anything about that.”

“That’s complete bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it?” Lucius paused. “Dumbledore made the poor choice to make the records from years ago public.” Arthur saw with satisfaction that Lucius’s grip on his cane tightened. “The girl will have to go to school with this knowledge, and all her classmates will know it too. Do you truly believe Dumbledore was thinking about her well-being, or was her comfort deemed an acceptable sacrifice in the attempt to discredit me and get me kicked off the Board? The public will see through it for what it is: a political power play.”

“You’re just bitter now that everyone knows you raped a woman. It’s a lot harder to pull the ‘pillar of the wizarding community’ charade with that information hanging overheard.”

“No, people know that this Muggle thinks I raped her,” he said, smirking lazily. “They also know how I responded to the accusations, and it essentially comes down to her word and mine, and–while this may come as a surprise to someone like you–most people believe me.”

Arthur snorted. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Lucius ignored him. “Most people want to believe me. In fact, an early poll from the Daily Prophet–which will be published within the next couple days–indicates that the percentage of people who support me in the case is higher than the percentage I won by. Like it or not, I’m officially not guilty in a court of law.”

“How much money did you have to spend to get those poll results?”

“The problem is, Arthur, you believe that everyone in the world thinks the way you do. They don’t, thankfully, which is why your legislative triumphs are so abysmally low.”

“Well, luckily, I’ll be having another success to add to the list soon enough.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, and Arthur enjoyed the rare feeling of having the upper hand. Lucius continued briskly, “Most people, I imagine, would also be able to see yesterday’s proceedings as a transparent attempt for Dumbledore to push a political agenda, especially given the way in which he went about it. I will be filing a formal complaint regarding Dumbledore’s handling of the case, of course.”

“I didn’t expect anything else,” Arthur snapped. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to leave.”

Arthur pushed past Lucius and into the hallway. Lucius followed him out and Arthur used magic to shut the door. Still stewing in anger, Arthur started to make his way down the hall when Lucius called out to him again, “It’s a bit pathetic, really, how easy it is for you to let misplaced feelings of guilt control so much of your behavior. You feel like you failed Sarah once, so now you’re overcompensating. She forgot everything, anyway. There’s no need to fight this uphill battle.”

As if you would know anything about guilt. “It’s not just about one Muggle. Things need to change. There’s too much injustice in the world, and some people aren’t afraid to take the first steps to fix that.”

“And you think this ‘change’ is good?” Lucius scoffed. “You’re going to ‘fix’ things, is that right? Do you genuinely not see the possible ramifications of this, if Muggle parents are given the same considerations as magic users? How many instances will there be of children who are accidentally killed because they can’t control their magic, or because their parents think them to be possessed or inherently evil? You’re mischaracterizing the reason this precedent exists based on the actions of a few. The majority of placements have no such issues.”

Doubt started to creep into Arthur’s mind, which he quickly pushed away. He wants me to feel this way. “Look, the bill…the bill’s not meant to change the verdict, or even the direction of the court. It just provides guidelines on what happens when a forced placement happens. If she’s not mistreated, then you won’t have anything to worry about.”

Lucius laughed. “Oh? And who decides on what counts as ‘mistreatment’? You?” he sighed and shook his head. “Why the people choose to rally behind you as some kind of Muggle messiah is unknown to me. Your naivety is at the point where I consider it offensive.”

Arthur felt his anger rise again. “Probably because I’m the only Head of Department who genuinely cares.”

“I suppose so. The unintelligent often flock together, so it really should come as no surprise.” Lucius gave Arthur one more condescending look before turning to leave. “That’s it, then. I believe we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

And with that, Lucius started to leave. Although Arthur wanted him gone, there was one thought that kept nagging at the back of his head.

“Lucius?” Arthur called without thinking. Lucius turned around, looking at Arthur with a blank expression. “Why did you request custody in the first place? No one would have known about her if you didn’t acknowledge her.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Lucius asked, lips forming into a wry smile. “I’m a good man now.”

Lucius’s mocking laughter echoed in Arthur’s mind long after he left, leaving Arthur with more questions than answers.

Chapter Text

Diana didn’t tell her grandmother about the letter she received from Minerva McGonagall, the letter informing her that she would soon be ripped away from everything and everyone she loved. The first reason was because to say it out loud would make it seem real, and the second was that Diana still suspected Marie didn’t fully believe her, and from a purely objective standpoint, her coming down from her room with a letter that magically appeared “by owl” didn’t seem to make the story any more believable. If Diana wasn’t clutching the letter in her hand, then she wouldn’t have believed it either.

Marie’s plan to go to the police station the next morning was halted due to an unexpected downpour which caused Witherly Lake to start flooding, and with it, several road closures. Marie, Sarah, and Diana stayed inside the house, the turmoil outside seemingly reflecting the inner turmoil of Marie and Diana. It was an awkward, tense day where they had to pretend everything was normal in front of Sarah, who seemed to pick up on the fact that there was something unusual going on and seemed a bit more depressed and withdrawn as a result. Diana was alert and on edge, half-expecting McGonagall and Flitwick to pop up at random and scare the hell out of her again. But it wouldn’t be them, right? Diana thought, nodding absentmindedly as Sarah told her about the paintings she sold yesterday, oblivious to her mum’s worried expression, The letter said “other representatives” would show up. And just what would these “other representatives” be like? If McGonagall and Flitwick were supposed to be the ones to win her over, Diana didn’t even want to think of what the backup team would be like.

Her friends must have been bored being cooped in the house all day, as Claire, Becky, and Olivia all called and left voicemails on the answering machine. Diana didn’t return a single call, which was a decision that she would later come to regret. She wouldn’t even know what to say—it didn’t feel right to keep secrets, but it didn’t feel right telling her friends what was happening, either. She knew it sounded crazy and she didn’t want her friends to think she was crazy, even though Becky at least would be willing to believe her. And telling other people was against the rules, right? She didn’t want her friends to have their memories modified the way her mother was.

The day concluded without any notable events, and the following day, the downpour subsided to a light drizzle. After breakfast, Marie took Diana to go to the police station as promised. Once they walked into the station and the police saw Marie, Diana knew by the expressions on the officers’ faces that this wouldn’t be a productive conversation. The Amberton police felt that Marie and Sarah were both nutjobs of a different flavor (Sarah for being Sarah and Marie for insisting that Satanists drugged her daughter), and after Diana finished telling them her testimony, there was no doubt in her mind that all three generations of the White family would now be viewed as being completely mental.

Diana avoided eye contact as she described to the police officer the appearances of the little man she met in the library and the woman who showed up at her house. She explained that they talked about magic but left out the parts that actually showed them using magic, until her grandmother interrupted and told her to tell the officer exactly what she thought she saw, as “proof” that she was drugged. Diana felt like crawling into a hole as the police officer coughed politely to hide his laugh.

“Did you happen to bring any of the cups you believe were, er, laced with narcotic substances?” the officer said, trying valiantly to maintain a neutral expression.

“No,” Diana mumbled. She thought of how the cups literally vanished into thin air. “They took the cups with them.”

“Of course they did!” Marie snapped at the officer, eyes narrowing. “If they left them there, do you think we’d be stupid enough not to bring them? Why don’t you call the library to follow up on the midget instead of talking to us like we’re a bunch of idiots?”

Diana winced at Marie’s tone and choice of words. Marie felt like the police dropped the ball majorly when it came to how the police treated Sarah and her rape accusations, and didn’t hesitate to let it show. The police officer bristled. “Mrs. White, I will be contacting the library now, but I do not appreciate this aggressive tone. We’re here to help.”

Marie just glared as he got on the phone to call the library. “A complete waste of tax dollars,” she whispered to Diana, shaking her head. “How much you wanna bet they wouldn’t have called if I didn’t ask them? See, you gotta be willing to advocate for yourself, honey, otherwise people will just walk right over you.”

Diana said nothing, biting her lip as the officer continued his phone conversation. Privately, Diana felt like Marie was being unfair, though she understood where her grandmother’s anger was coming from. The officer hung up the phone and looked at Marie and Diana with a wary expression. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I spoke with Mrs. Parsons, the librarian at the front desk, and she did say that there was a rather short man who entered the library on Sunday. It’s possible this is the man your granddaughter was talking about.”

“Ha!” Marie cried in triumph. She then made her voice louder so one of the other police officers standing by the water cooler–the one who snickered loudly when they walked into the station–could hear. “So there’s proof that we’re telling the truth? Interesting. And what time did the man leave, then?”

“There’s proof that there was a man with that description in the library, not that he said anything about…magic,” The police officer said, brows furrowed. “And as for what time he left…” The officer paused again. “Mrs. Parsons didn’t recall him leaving the library.”

Marie frowned. “‘She couldn’t recall him leaving?’ Come on. How many midgets are there in Amberton?”

The officer and Marie got into another spirited back-and-forth, which Diana tuned out. She knew why Mrs. Parsons didn’t see him; he had to have disappeared from the library the same way he disappeared from her house. She started to feel queasy at the thought of the sheer amount of power these wizards had over regular mortals.

In the end, the presence of the man was enough for the police to tell Marie that they’d keep an eye out, and asked Marie to contact them if anything unusual happened. It was a platitude at best, and Marie was not happy as they entered the car to drive home.

“Unbelievable. As useless now as they were when I kept trying to tell them the truth about your mum,” Marie muttered, beeping her horn loudly at a group of distracted, laughing teenagers wandering around in the middle of the road.

“There’s not much they could do, Grandma,” Diana said. “If we had more evidence, I bet they would have done something.”

Marie sighed, eyes softening. “You’re a good kid, Di, just like your granddad. And because you’re good, you think most people have good intentions. But the truth is, most people don’t. Most people want to just do what’s convenient for them and would be willing to screw you over for it. It’s a sad truth of life. The only person in life you could truly rely on is yourself.” She paused, then amended, “Well, yourself and family. Family’s bound to you by blood. And there’s a power in that like no other.”

Diana knew that Marie was referring to Diana’s maternal lineage, but she thought about the letter about her father and shuddered involuntarily. “If I have to rely on myself, then I’m already screwed.”

Marie laughed, eyes glittering with mirth. “Give yourself some credit, honey. You’re stronger than you think. You got my genes, you know.” She winked.

Diana smiled; her grandmother’s confidence was contagious. Marie turned on the radio and Rod Stewart’s voice filled the car. Diana looked out the window and thought that things might be okay.

That feeling of comfort was short-lived. As the two entered the house, Diana’s skin prickled as she heard voices. Sarah was talking to what sounded like another woman. Not McGonagall, but someone else. Marie was frowning too, and they made their way to the sitting room, where Sarah was pouring tea for two individuals who were seated across the table. Upon hearing footsteps, Sarah spun around, beaming at her daughter.

“Honey! I have some great news! You’re being accepted into a special school for gifted children!”

Diana felt herself grow cold and looked at the pair on the opposite side of the table. The two individuals were polar opposites: one was a round, cheerful, gray-haired older woman with a smile on her face, whereas the other was a lanky, sour-looking, black-haired younger man who was scowling. Marie turned to Diana and asked bluntly, “Is this woman the same one from Sunday?”

While they seemed contemporaries in age, the woman in front of her seemed much less prim and put-together than McGonagall, if the unkempt hair and dirt stains on her outfit were any indication. “No…”

Sarah looked quizzically at her daughter. “What woman from Sunday?”

Diana looked up to her grandmother–Marie was here, she’d take control of this conversation. Marie responded, keeping her narrowed eyes on the two interlopers. “Two other fools showed up on Sunday peddling nonsense to Diana about this supposed school. It’s just a scam, Sarah.” She then addressed the strangers. “We’re not interested. You can leave now.”

The two strangers didn’t move, though the woman’s smile faltered slightly.

Marie bristled. “Well? Are you leaving, or am I going to have to call the cops and have them show you where the door is?”

“Mum!” Sarah cried out in protest.

The woman glanced at the man next to her, who seemed to be sulking and wasn’t about to offer any help. The woman cleared her throat and gave a strained smile. “Before we do that, I think–since we’re all here–some introductions are in order. I’m Professor Sprout, and this gentleman over here is Professor Snape.” Snape’s eye twitched slightly, but Sprout ignored him and continued. “And yes, we are here to talk about a school Diana’s going to be attending, but we also have some not-so-good news to talk about too. Personally, whenever there’s good news and bad news, I always pick the good news first, since it puts one in a more positive, healthy mindset in order to better handle the negative news. So, we’ll start with the good. The good news is that Diana has the privilege of attending a special school for gifted individuals. Highly prestigious, with a very esteemed faculty, if I do say so myself. Diana should have received a letter already, and she already spoke to some of the other faculty. It’s called Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Sarah’s smile fell immediately. Diana felt her mouth grow dry. Marie started to grow red with anger. Before any of the Whites said anything, Sprout continued, “You see, Diana is a witch, and because she’s a witch, our Ministry feels it’s important to—”

“Get the hell out of our house,” snapped Marie. “We don’t want you here.”

Sprout blinked.

“If it's any consolation,” Snape drawled for the first time, “We only arrived at the behest of the headmaster. Personally, I have no desire to be here either.”

“Good. Then go, and don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.”

Sprout turned to Snape, baffled. “Severus, explain to me what’s going on. I don’t have the same Muggle knowledge you do. I know there’s a history here, but—”

Sarah’s eyes were glazed over, but the word ‘Muggle’ stirred something in her, and panic suddenly filled them. “D-diana’s not a witch!” she whispered. “She’s not…she’s not a bad kid. She’s not evil. She’s not.”

Sprout quickly glanced between Sarah and Diana (who couldn’t help but feel tears welling up in her eyes) and frowned. “I understand that you’ve had horrific experiences in the past, and you have our heartfelt sympathy. No one should have to experience the tragedies that you did. But we’re talking about your daughter here, Miss White. Magic itself isn’t evil, and Diana can’t change that she’s a witch. It’s something you’re born with. She always had magic. She’s not a bad person because of it.”

Sarah looked at Diana with traces of fear in her eyes, and Diana’s heart shattered into a million pieces.

Sensing this, Marie snapped, “That’s it, I’m calling the police.” She turned around and stomped into the kitchen to reach the phone.

Sprout turned to Snape in alarm. “What’s the police, Severus?”

Snape gave an overly dramatic sigh. “They’re like Aurors for Muggles.” He raised his voice so Marie could hear from the other room. “These histrionics are entirely unnecessary.”

It was only after seeing these two in action that Diana realized how composed and professional, in retrospect, Flitwick and McGonagall were, and why Dumbledore chose to send them first. Snape and Sprout were clearly the B team. They didn’t seem to understand the concept of tact at all.

Snape took out his wand. Sarah’s eyes grew numb as she folded her arms and gripped them tightly, slouching out of the way. Diana felt panic rise in her. “Please d-don't curse my grandma!”

Snape’s dark eyes locked onto her, and Diana felt like wilting then and there, but tried her best to maintain eye contact despite her nerves. “Hmph. Perhaps she should be a more amenable host then.”

Sprout sighed in exasperation. “Severus…come on, now.” She looked at Diana with a kinder expression. “Your gran will be fine. Professor Snape isn’t going to curse your grandma. He hasn’t done one of these visits in a while, and seems to have forgotten how to behave properly.” She said the last part obnoxiously loud, which Snape pointedly ignored. He muttered a spell under his breath, and Diana waited to hear if her grandma was in trouble, but all she heard was a string of curses, which didn’t mean much, coming from Marie.

Marie walked back into the room, eyes flaring. “What did you do to the telephone? It’s not working.”

“They used magic, Mum,” Sarah mumbled softly, eyes full of tears.

“Bullshit! All misdirection and sleight of hand, that’s what it is. I don’t know why you freaks decided to target our family, but I’ve had enough of it!”

Sprout looked at Marie in amazement. “You think magic isn’t real? But your granddaughter received the Hogwarts letter, I thought? And Professors McGonagall and Flitwick showed up here on Sunday. And, well–we’re here now!”

Diana felt Sarah’s gaze on her, but didn’t make eye contact and stared at the floor instead. Marie snapped, “I know what happened. I still don’t believe it. What I do believe is that you idiots drugged my daughter and granddaughter. And I also believe that you’ll get your arses handed to you in court when you get charged for pulling this shit. What you’re doing is a crime.”

Snape leaned back, a nasty smirk emerging on his face. “Perhaps a demonstration is in order, Pomona?”

Sprout gave him a look of warning. “I’ll handle it.” She raised her own wand and the teapot and cups on the table raised and rotated in midair.

Marie gaped and blinked, and Sarah became more rigid. Diana wasn’t looking at the floating items, but instead was looking directly at Snape, who was examining her closely as if she were a specimen on display. What’s his problem?

The cups and teapot returned to the table, and Sprout looked at Marie expectantly. Marie’s mouth closed and she sputtered out, “Hallucinogens. That’s all it is.”

Now it was Sprout’s turn to gape. Snape rolled his eyes. “Allow me. Perhaps a different form of magic will suffice.”

He stood up and strode a few steps closer to Marie, who was glowering at him. He paused for a moment, staring into her eyes, and Marie winced and put two of her fingers to her temples, as if feeling a headache was coming on.

“Your husband first proposed to you in front of the Eiffel Tower. You were wearing a red dress that you regretted purchasing because you felt it was too much of an expense. You originally rejected him because you were afraid of being chained down by marriage, but a week later you felt you couldn’t imagine living the rest of your life without him and called him back to tell him that. How very…touching,” he sneered.

Marie blinked a couple times as if clearing her mind, then raised an eyebrow in a show of bravado. “Am I supposed to be impressed, Chuckles? Was that supposed to be an attempt at ‘mind reading’ or some crap? It ain’t exactly a secret. You could have asked anyone in Amberton about that.”

Snape scowled. You tell him, Grandma! There was another moment of silence where he looked Marie in the eyes, then said, “When you were in Year 4, you put an anonymous love letter in the desk of Lawrence Bell, who deservedly mocked it. He thought it was Evie Spencer who wrote it and let everyone know, and she ran from the room with tears. You felt awful since you were the cause of her misery, but were far too embarrassed to say anything. Is that common knowledge too, I wonder?”

Marie blinked and paled slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then slowly sat down, eyes guarded and suspicious. Snape sat back down, smirking in triumph, and Diana wanted to punch him in the face.

A heavy silence descended on the room that was finally broken by Sprout. “I trust that cleared up everything, yes?” Marie looked stony-faced, Sarah looked miserable, and Diana looked anxious. Sprout continued, “So, er, like I was saying, we came here for a couple reasons. The good news—well, I thought it was good news, but–the good news is that Diana is accepted into Hogwarts. I thought you might know this already, but well, I was told that only Diana was told and her guardians didn’t know, so we just wanted to make it clear that she’ll be taken care of there and be treated well. And then we have the bad news.” She sighed. “Diana, I’m guessing you didn’t tell your family about the bad news, right?”

The bad news had to be her father coming to take her away. She felt like she was plunging into ice water. Her mother’s reaction was what she was dreading the most. “Um, I told my grandma, but not my mum…”

Marie said nothing, but kept glaring at the intruders. Sarah started wringing her hands anxiously. Sprout cleared her throat. “Ok, well, there’s no use beating around the bush then. I’ll just come out and say it: the Ministry feels like the best choice–since Diana is a witch and all–would be to have Diana live with her magical parent, which would in this case be Lucius Malfoy.”

Sarah let out a strangled cry of protest, then lowered her face so her black hair acted as a curtain to shield her expression. Marie snarled, “You people got a lot of fucking nerve, I’ll give you that much.”

Sprout raised her hands in a pacifying gesture. “It’s not our decision, it’s the Ministry’s. Trust me, we don’t want this, either. We’re aware of the….terrible background situation. We’re just here to tell you that it’s been decided, and we’re going to tell you what your options are.”

“I–He–he can't come here. He just can’t. I can’t see him,” Sarah whimpered.

Sprout fidgeted in her seat. “It’ll be someone from the Ministry who comes to pick up Diana, not him.”

“However,” Snape added, “it is possible that contact may be required, depending on how you choose to proceed.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Marie exploded. “You’re out of your goddamn minds. He skips out on paying child support for eleven years and then has the stones to try to take full custody? Why the everloving fuck would any court give a convicted rapist custody?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Sprout said nervously, “he wasn’t actually convicted.”

Sarah’s eyes glazed over as Marie shook her head in disbelief. “Then you people are goddamn fools, all of you. I refuse to even entertain this idea. Our courts said Sarah had custody now.”

“Your courts don’t matter,” Snape said bluntly. “This change will happen, regardless of your personal feelings. You can sit here bemoaning that, or you could consider your options from here.”

“And on that note, let’s discuss the possibilities,” Sprout quickly cut in, giving Snape another warning look. “We were told that if you accept the arrangement, he would likely be open to allowing some sort of regular visitation. It would provide good optics, which is what he needs now.” She gave a dark chuckle, then grew more serious. “I strongly recommend that, as the other option could be seen as a bit extreme.”

“They’re going to erase our memories, Mum,” Sarah whispered.

Sprout looked alarmed. “N-not Severus and myself! But, er, it is true that if you don’t accept the arrangements and resist the Ministry, then that is the typical procedure. So, I think it’s in everyone’s best interest to take the deal and—“

“I can’t see Lucius again!” Sarah wailed. “He’ll just…no, no I can’t.”

Sprout bit her lip. “There is a third option. The third option is to fully and willingly relinquish your child to the Ministry. You won’t lose your memories, but you won’t see your daughter again unless she chooses to see you upon becoming a legal adult in our world.”

Sarah gave Diana an expression that was a bit difficult to read. Diana suspected Sarah was seriously considering the possibility, and it made her feel a rush of bitterness, insecurity, and despair at her mother’s cowardice. Then again, it’s not like I’m in any position to talk. I’m not exactly brave myself.

“Absolutely not,” Marie answered firmly.

“I can’t have my memories erased again, Mum,” Sarah mumbled. “It—it ruined me the first time. It made me…different. They’re going to take her no matter what.”

The words felt like a punch in the gut. Marie turned to Sarah with a furious expression on her face. Diana shrank back in her seat and blurted out without thinking, “Is there any way to just—just take away my magic? I want to be normal.”

“No, there’s not,” Snape replied brusquely.

“But what if I just…don’t use any magic? Can I stay here then?” If Mum even wants me to stay….

Sprout shook her head quickly. “There can be severe ramifications if a witch or wizard represses their magic. You can become a danger to yourself and to others. It’s of utmost importance to receive the proper training.”

“But all my friends are here…” she whispered.

Snape looked completely unmoved, but Sprout gave a sympathetic smile. “You’ll make new friends at Hogwarts easily, don’t you worry about that.”

“So is that all then?” Marie said, folding her arms. “The reason you came was to say wizards are coming for my granddaughter and they want us to give her up, and you’re saying she’s going to be forced to go to the witch school in September. Is that it?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what it boils down, but–”

“Alright then,” Marie said, standing up. “Message received. You can leave now.”

Snape didn’t need to be told twice. He stood up as Sprout looked at him with a frown. “Come on, Severus, we can’t just leave now. They don’t even know the timeframe!”

“Fine,” Marie said thinly. “Tell us when these other clowns are going to show up, then.”

Sprout’s lips pursed, but she let the insult slide. “As it happens, there’s a bit of a legal holdup that’s preventing the transfer from happening as quickly as it normally does. Professor Dumbledore expects that everything will be ironed out within a week or so, but you likely won’t get a notice before then, with the way things move at the Ministry. Keep an eye out for owls just in case.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Sprout tilted her head at Marie warily. “You haven’t said which option you were planning on pursuing.”

“Because it’s none of your damn business, that’s why.”

“But if we knew, we could help prepare you for–”

“Pomona,” Snape interrupted, “it’s been made abundantly clear for a while now that they’re not receptive to what we have to say. I see no other reason to waste our time any further than we already have.”

“For once, you and I are on the same page, Smiles. Door’s right there,” Marie said, pointing.

Sprout stood reluctantly, but before she made a move to go to the door, Sarah cried out, “Wait!”

Snape and Sprout looked at her. Sarah swallowed, then said in a wobbly voice, “D-Diana can’t live with Lucius. He can be such a cruel man, and Diana…she’s a sweet, soft little thing. It would be like presenting a lamb to a wolf. Please…”

Sprout’s eyes glimmered with sympathy. “Miss White, there are many in our world who share similar concerns with you. In fact, part of the reason for the delay is because there are currently attempts to legally ensure the safety and protection of your daughter, and other magical children who find themselves in similar situations. The staff at Hogwarts…we’re not the enemies here. We’re concerned with Diana’s well-being too. Diana will be safe with us.”

Diana felt Snape’s cold eyes studying her again. “My personal suggestion, Miss White, is for your daughter to be less of a lamb.”

His tone didn’t make it sound like an insult for once, but Diana was unsettled all the same. What is he expecting me to do? Sprout looking earnestly at the Whites. “If there’s anything we can do to convince you that our intentions are noble…”

A strange expression crossed Sarah’s face. “Show me your arm.”

Sprout blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If you want to show that you have good intentions, then…I want you to lift your sleeve up so I can see your arm.”

What was her mother talking about? Understanding flickered in Sprout’s eye as she lifted her sleeve up and showed Sarah her left arm. Sarah turned to Snape, who was looking at her with a stoic expression. He slowly lifted his right sleeve, revealing a pale forearm.

A trace of panic started to emerge in Sarah’s eyes. “Your left arm, not your right.”

There was a long pause, and a heavy sense of tension descended on the room. Sarah swallowed. Sprout and Snape glanced at each other, expressions unreadable. Sarah’s voice raised, reflecting her increasing nerves, “I–I've seen it so many times, and it’s always on the left arm…the mark of the p-people who took me. The ones who—”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. Marie’s eyes started to grow cloudy. “Well?” she asked, with a clear edge to her voice. “Do you need a handwritten invitation, Chuckles? Just raise your sleeve up.”

There was another long voice, then Snape said, flatly. “No, I will not.”

Oh, shit. Diana felt her palms starting to sweat. Was Snape one of the people that abused her mother? Sarah said they sometimes wore masks, right? She wouldn’t have recognized him, if that was the case. Sarah started breathing quicker, eyes full of fear as she backed up a few steps. Marie turned to Sprout with a look of disgust and anger on her face. “So what is this? Some kind of Good Cop/Bad Cop Routine? You make it seem like we have no choice, but really you’re in with the bastards that put my daughter through hell?”

Sprout’s eyes were wide and panicked. “No, i-it’s not like that! We’re not in league with the Death Eaters.”

“Then why doesn’t he show us the arm?” Marie demanded.

Sprout had nothing to say to that. Snape’s eyes fell on Diana again, who was looking up fearfully at him. He then turned to Sarah, who had tears in her eyes. “Miss White, I was not…involved with what happened to you. I made some choices in the past that I regret, but those choices do not reflect my current allegiance. Unfortunately, my word is all I can give to you.”

“Yeah, and your word doesn't mean jack shit,” Marie spat. “Both of you need to get the hell out of this house immediately. During your next little cult meeting, tell my daughter’s rapist that if he comes anywhere near my property, I’ll cut his balls off with my garden shears.”

Sprout looked exasperated. “We’re not working with Lucius Malfoy, Mrs. White. We’re sympathetic to what your family experienced and–”

“Don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining. Get out.”

“Please, just listen to reason!” Sprout begged. “When the Ministry comes, the best option would be–”

“We don’t give a damn about your ‘options’!” Marie yelled. “We refuse all three, and we’ll go down fighting if necessary.”

Sprout gave Marie a look of pity. “I really wish you would reconsider. You have until the Ministry comes to decide.”

“I don’t care what you think. Get the fuck out of our home.”

Sprout and Snape finally made their way to the door. Snape looked back and said emotionlessly, “Don’t bother thinking about traveling. The Ministry will be able to find you wherever you go. This isn’t meant to be a threat, it’s simply a statement of fact.”

Marie opened her mouth to argue, but Snape disappeared into thin air with a popping sound similar to Flitwick’s. After giving the Whites one final, sympathetic look, Sprout did the same.

Marie and Sarah stared in disbelief at where the two professors were for a few seconds. The tension was thick again. Not being able to handle the pressure any longer, Diana blurted out the first stupid thing that came to her mind: “I guess there was no reason for them to even walk to the door.”

After a few seconds, Marie replied, face still pale: “Guess not.”

Sarah then burst into sobs and Marie walked over and hugged her. Diana felt like she wanted to go by Sarah and comfort her too, but the look Sarah gave her earlier was still ingrained in her mind, and she kept her distance. Marie looked at Diana and gave a forced smile. “Honey, is it alright if you head over to your room for now while your mum and I talk for a moment?”

“Um, sure,” Diana murmured, and quickly headed upstairs, thoughts swirling.

It was a lot longer than ‘a moment’—it was a conversation that lasted several hours. Diana wished she could say she stayed in her room the whole time like an obedient child, but that wasn’t the case for today. She opened her door and periodically made her way to the stop of the stairs to listen in on what her mother and grandmother were saying.

“I know it’s hard, but you need to pull yourself together!” Marie whispered urgently. “Diana feels terrible right now, can’t you tell?”

Sarah’s cries got heavier and she said something that Diana couldn’t hear. Marie hissed, “Stop it! You can’t take any more pills than what the doctor said, it’s dangerous. It doesn’t matter what’s happening now.”

Sarah said something undecipherable again, and Marie sighed and said, “I know, I know. I’m going to call the cops again. We’ll figure something out. But you need to be strong here. You’re teetering towards the edge and that cannot happen again. Your daughter’s relying on you.”

Diana couldn’t make out the words her mother was saying, but could pick up on the angry tone. “You’re just saying that because you’re upset,” Marie said with a sigh, “None of this is her fault, okay? She’s still the same kid…”

Feeling numb, Diana crept back to her room. Later that night, her grandma came in to comfort her, acting confident that she had some kind of plan to deter the wizards from coming back. Diana nodded dully, knowing inwardly that any plan was either nonexistent or doomed for failure. Diana said the minimal amount of words, and spent the rest of the night locked in the prison of her own morose thoughts.

Sarah didn’t come to see her that night. Diana didn’t expect her to. She knew what was apparent: something irreparably broke between the mother and daughter that day, and there was no going back.

Chapter Text

When Diana groggily woke up the following morning, the first thought in her mind was: What time is it? The sunlight was shining brightly through the curtains of the window, indicating a later start time than usual. For the first ten seconds, everything was blissful.

Then, reality came crashing down and the memories of the following day collided into her like a truck. Ughh.

How much longer did she have before the Ministry showed up? Sprout said they expected it to take about a week, but there was no guarantee, and the way these people came and went at their own convenience led Diana to fully expect them to barge in on the same day.

Diana felt completely hopeless. Marie supposedly had some kind of plan, but what could the Whites possibly do against an army of superpowered beings?

Her grumbling stomach snapped her out of her reverie. Due to the chaos of yesterday, she didn’t eat anything for dinner besides a granola bar she found in her room. After getting dressed, she made her way to the door, put her hand on the doorknob, and turned.

It was locked.

Goddamnit, Mum.

Memories from years ago played through her mind, and Diana was unable to keep down a growing sense of panic. During some of the worst of her mother’s breakdowns, Diana would sometimes find herself locked in a room or a closet, only to have Sarah release her hours (or sometimes the next day) later, crying and begging for forgiveness.

But that hasn’t happened in years–not since the courts deemed Sarah suitable. Why was it happening now? Marie was living with them, so this shouldn’t be happening, unless—

Diana swallowed. Does Grandma approve of this?

That was a possibility she couldn’t handle. She learned long ago that Sarah couldn’t be relied on and would easily flake, but the thought of losing her grandmother’s support was devastating on a whole new level.

Diana pounded on the door. “Mum!” she hollered. She heard faint shuffling and movement on the other side, the sound getting louder and louder until it was right outside her room. “H-hi sweetie,” her mother said with a trembling voice.

“Where’s Grandma?” she demanded, heart beating rapidly.

“S-she’s not here. She went to the police station, and then she said she was going to try to get tickets to fly us out of the country, if we have enough money.” Snape’s warning of the futility of doing that echoed in Diana’s mind. “She’s also going to borrow something from George Bennett too. I told her it was pointless, but she went anyway. She doesn’t understand…”

George Bennett was a local hunter, and Diana suspected that the ‘something’ Marie was going to borrow was a shotgun. ‘Shoot the wizards’ was a plan that admittedly never crossed Diana’s mind.

“Does Grandma know you’re keeping me locked in here?”

Sarah hesitated before answering. “No,” she admitted. Thank God. “Honey, this—this is just until she comes home. It’s for everyone’s protection. You might hurt someone without even meaning to.”

Diana took a few deep breaths and tried very, very, very hard to make her tone seem even and calm, even though her insides were spiraling all over. “Mum, you’re breaking down right now. I know a lot’s happening and it’s scary, but don’t you remember what you said to me on the way back from camp?” Her voice started to grow wobbly against her will. “You promised things wouldn’t be like how they were years ago.”

Diana heard a strangled cry from the opposite side of the door. “I–I don’t want it to be that way either! But you—I don’t know, everything’s fucked up now. I always thought you might have it but then I started thinking you might be more like me and I just…” Diana heard a sniffle. “Nothing’s like the way it used to be.”

“I’m still your daughter,” Diana said, a hysterical edge creeping into her voice.

“I know you are,” Sarah cried.

Hearing the muffled sobs from the other side caused Diana’s fingers to clench into a fist, as anger began to overpower her nervousness. Why do I always need to act like the adult in the room?

“I’m hungry. I need food,” she snapped.

There was a pause, then: “Let’s just w-wait until Grandma comes back, okay?”

“That’s going to take hours!” Diana shouted in frustration. By this point, resentment and anger had eclipsed her sense of fear. The events of the past few days, coupled with Sarah’s behavior now, had brought her to a boiling point. “Mum, you're paranoid and delusional! I’m not dangerous, alright?”

Sarah said nothing. Without thinking, Diana took her palm and slammed it against the door.“Open it!” She heard a gasp from the other side, and Diana did it again, guided by rage. A dark part of her—one that Diana didn’t like to acknowledge—wanted Sarah to be afraid now as some kind of petty revenge.

She heard shuffling from the other side as Sarah retreated to go to wherever she was previously. Furious, Diana grabbed a pillow from her bed and screamed into it until she could feel her throat growing hoarse. She noticed a dampness on the pillow that she vaguely registered as tears.

She wiped her face with her sleeve and took some deep breaths. I’m going to get nowhere acting like this. I need to come up with a plan. Diana walked over the window and opened it; she was on the second floor, and it seemed like a fairly big drop. Could she try climbing out of it by using her blankets as some kind of makeshift rope, like the kid heroes of a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Book? Does that even work in real life? She touched the windowsill and groaned as she felt lingering wetness from the earlier storms. No, she couldn’t leave from the window, it would be too dangerous. She'd probably snap her neck if she tried.

Maybe that’d be a blessing, a dark inner voice whispered. She shook the thought away.

Diana peered outside. She didn’t see anyone passing through the streets, but should she scream anyway? She hesitated. While she knew this was probably her best bet, it felt really embarrassing to do, especially since it was her own mother who locked her in here.

She sank down to the floor, mentally exhausted and numb. It was almost humorous in a way:

She would normally spend hours in her room willingly, but the knowledge that she wasn’t able to leave created a sense of intense claustrophobia.

Her stomach growled again. She looked at the locked door and remembered Flitwick, who used a spell to burst into her house. Goosebumps started to creep over Diana’s arms. If I’m a witch, then I should be able to use magic, right? She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to even try it, but desperation overpowered her moral qualms.

What did he say again? “Alomondra,” Diana whispered, looking at the door.

Nothing happened.

She sighed in frustration. Maybe I need a wand? No, according to Flitwick, she used magic on the cave without meaning to. So why didn’t the spell work? I’m probably remembering it wrong.

“Alohora?” she guessed. Still nothing. Goddamnit.

She sank to the floor in dejection, but continued staring at the door for several minutes. Sadness, frustration, and restlessness welled up inside her as she kept staring at that stupid white door, staring and praying and wishing that would just open, damnit, ope–

There was a clicking sound. Diana’s heart stopped as she tiptoed toward the door and turned the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

Holy shit.

Diana’s heart started to beat faster. Did she really just use fucking magic? It was one thing to be told that she *could*, but it’s another to actually do it. Even though she met four actual wizards in the course of the past few days that told her otherwise, part of Diana still didn’t actually believe it was true, that she, of all people, had any kind of special ability. Being able to use it at will made it seem official somehow, the final nail in the coffin.

She swallowed and tried to push the thought away. Okay, the door was unlocked. What now? Should she sprint outside and go somewhere? Claire’s house, maybe? But then she’d have to explain the whole story. Hmmm….

No, the best, and safest, course of action would be to sneak to the kitchen, grab something to eat, and then tiptoe back to her bedroom and wait until Marie comes back. Yeah, I can do this. No pressure.

Diana listened carefully for movement, but didn’t hear anything. Quietly, she crept down the stairs (How pathetic is it that I even have to do this?) and slipped into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and was just about to grab a yogurt when she heard—

“W-what are you doing?”

In retrospect, Diana should have expected this. Was anything in her life ever simple?

She turned to Sarah, who had a startled expression on her face and was holding a glass of water in one hand and her pill bottle in the other.

“I said I was hungry,” Diana muttered, grabbing the yogurt. “I’m here to get food, and I’ll go back up when I’m done.”

Sarah’s eyes were wide and she remained rigid. “Hurry and get what you need to go back upstairs.”

An impulse of childishness and bitterness overtook Diana and she intentionally started to move a bit slower as she walked over to the drawers to get a spoon. “Okay.”

Sarah hastily put the pill in her mouth and used the water to wash it down, keeping her eyes on her daughter the whole time. “I know it’s not your fault, but I can’t have you down here right now. It’s not—it’s not good for me, and I don’t want anything bad to happen.”

‘Not good for you’? Another wave of indignation hit Diana. In a display of uncharacteristic stubbornness, she sat down on one of the stools, peeled the top of the yogurt off, and started eating it slowly and defiantly while maintaining eye contact. “I’m your daughter! This is my house too. If you didn’t want me then you never should have kept me.”

Sarah eyed her warily and fumbled with the pill bottle as she popped another in her mouth. “I–I didn’t know you’d be like this. If I knew that you were like him–if I remembered what really happened–then I–I’d—-”

“What?” Diana snapped as she forcibly shoved a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth. “You’d get rid of me? You wouldn’t have me at all?”

Sarah’s silence was enough of an answer. Diana knew what the answer would be before she even asked, but it still hurt.

But there was something else there inside Diana. Something beyond hurt, beyond despair, beyond wistfulness of the what-ifs. Something that was building up in the background for eleven years, something that Diana didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t suppress any longer. After eleven years, Diana White was finally at the breaking point.

“I hate you.”

She didn’t shout or scream it, but instead delivered it in a matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing the weather. Sarah looked as if she’d just been slapped. Instead of acting as a deterrent, Sarah’s expression acted as kindling for the fire that was burning in the background of Diana’s life for the past six years. The fire was now stoked to a degree that it never had been before, and all the emotions bottled up were finally uncorked. “You’re a terrible mother and you always have been.” Suddenly losing her appetite, she threw the yogurt in the garbage can and turned towards her mother, eyes flaring. “I barely had a childhood because of you! Everyone looks at me weirdly because of you! If it wasn’t for Grandma, I’d probably be dead by now. Either you’d kill me—”

“What? No! No, I’d never—baby, please, you have to believe me—” Tears were falling from Sarah’s eyes now, but Diana didn’t care in the slightest.

“Oh, come on. Remember the time you ‘forgot’ I was in the car a few years ago, and I was practically baking in the heat? If you waited another twenty minutes, I would have been dead!”

“That was an accident! It w-wasn’t my fault!” Sarah cried. “They messed up my mind.”

“Or maybe I–I—maybe I’d just off myself!” Diana realized that tears were coming down her own face too now, but her fury didn’t waver.

“Don’t say that! Diana I—” Sarah started to make her way towards her daughter but stopped abruptly. She looked down at her feet and started to grow a bit pale. “H-honey, I think—-”

“I don’t care what you think!” hiccuped Diana through her tears. “I don't care anymore. I’m done.”

It was a curious thing to see; Sarah’s body seemed to grow more rigid, but her face reflected a mixture of terror and anger. “You’re using magic on me now. Stop it! This is why I knew it was better for you to stay upstairs. Y-you’re like him. That was the first spell he used on m—”

“I’m not doing anything!” Diana moaned, grabbing and pulling the tips of her hair in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Mum!”

“Yes, you are! I can’t move!” Sarah shrieked, eyes filled with panic. She was looking around frantically, but the lower part of her body was still.

God, she’s losing it. “You know what?” she said spitefully. “Maybe I will be better off with him.” The word ‘him’ hung heavy in the air; there was no question of whom it referred to. “At least he actually wants me.”

It was a dark thought that bubbled to the surface yesterday night, but Diana dismissed it then. Even now, she wasn’t sure if she believed it or not, but in that moment, the goal was to make Sarah hurt as much as Diana hurt for every day of every year since the day the Challenger exploded. A goal which proved to be effective. Sarah’s eyes locked on to Diana, reflecting a fearful, manic expression, like a mouse caught in a trap. She snapped, voice wavering, “Maybe you would. Maybe the two of you belong together and me and Mum will just—”

“Grandma isn’t the one who treats me like rubbish—you do. I was afraid of you! Even this morning I was. You never had to know what it’s like to grow up with a Mum like—a Mum like you. You had a regular mum and a regular dad who took you to the park and the beach and did normal things.”

“It’s not—”

“S-shut up! I don’t want to talk to you ever again. Just leave me alone!”

Diana ran past her mother and sprinted down to the bathroom, grabbing a box of tissues as she sat on the cold tiled floor, sobbing for what seemed like a very long time.

She was afraid of leaving. A line was crossed today that had never been crossed before, and a relationship that had been building up for eleven years caved in like a house of cards.

‘Relationship,’ Diana scoffed inwardly as she continued to dab at her eyes, Yeah, right. What relationship? Everything I said was true!

…was it though?

Diana didn’t know. It felt cathartic to release all those emotions with no filter, and she felt, in that moment, that she truly did hate her mother. But now that the inner fire had died down, she also couldn’t deny that she also loved her as well, despite the mistreatment she endured for years. Was it even possible to both love and hate someone at the same time? Is that how Sarah felt about her?

Diana took a breath to try to steady herself as she looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess and her face red and slightly puffy, but that could last for a while and she couldn’t stay here forever. Guilt was beginning to gnaw at her and she knew she had to go back and talk to her mother eventually. What she would discuss, she had no idea. But now that she calmed down, she needed to say something.

Her hand went to the doorknob and hesitated for a moment, before turning it slowly. She made her way back, glancing at the hallway clock as she did. Even though it seemed like eternity, she wasn’t in the washroom for that long: only fifteen minutes. She swallowed as she entered the kitchen.

Her mother was there, standing in the same spot, her back to Diana. “Mum,” Diana said tentatively, meekness returning. “I–I wanted to talk, if that’s okay.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, so Diana continued, “I know you’re probably mad at me, and I’m mad at myself, but some of those things I’ve actually been thinking about for a while, so…” she trailed off.

Sarah remained silent. Diana’s skin started to prickle. “...Mum?”

Still nothing. Diana felt her heart pounding as she quickly walked in front of her mother. When she looked at her face, she gasped.

The only sign of movement in Sarah White was her teary eyes, which were darting everywhere around the kitchen, completely frazzled and petrified. It was as if every other part of her body was turned to stone, completely immobile.

Did I do this? “Mum!” Diana cried out. Sarah’s eyes looked at her and reflected that same fear (fear of me) they showed yesterday.

Sarah’s concerns that Diana brushed off and attributed to paranoia came true. The tears that Diana thought were gone in her came pooling back into her eyes. “I–I didn’t mean to do this, I’m sorry. I d-don’t know w-what to do to fix it.”

Should she try contacting Professor McGonagall? She had the address. How long would her mother stay like this? What would she tell her Grandma?

I did this. I really am evil.

Another wave of grief and frustration overpowered Diana as the tears trickled down. She buried her head in her hands; she didn’t want this to happen. She never would have done something like this, especially if this was a spell that—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gasping sound, and Diana’s head jolted upright. She stared, eyes wide as Sarah stumbled, somehow regaining mobility and control of her body.

“Mum! Are you—”

Sarah held out her palm in a stopping motion. “Enough.” Sarah exhaled sharply, placing a hand to her chest. She took in several deep breaths, eyes coming in and out of focus. Diana saw beads of sweat on her mum’s forehead. Was she having a panic attack?

Against her better judgment, Diana said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I could—”

“Of course you didn’t think!” Sarah spun around to her daughter, uncharacteristic rage in her eyes. “You don’t realize the amount of power you have. Is it so hard to believe that, after everything I told you, I know more about magic than you do?”

A spark of indignation that Diana thought was extinguished came back with a vengeance. “That still doesn’t make it right to lock me up like I'm some kind of animal! I was angry because of what you did. If you didn’t act that way, then I wouldn’t have said and done those things.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and crouched down to the floor, fumbling for her pill bottle that dropped during the commotion. “Now you really do sound like your father,” she muttered. “Peas in a pod, the two of you.”

Diana turned around and angrily stormed out of the kitchen, watching as her mother swallowed another pill as she left. For the next few hours, Diana laid down on her bed, mind replaying the events in her head ad nauseam. She felt a mixture of grief, regret, anger, fear, bitterness, and confusion as she thought of both the past and the future.

Eventually, Diana heard a feeble knocking on the door.

She didn’t say anything. She already decided she would not say another word to her mother until her grandma came back.

“Sweetie, are you there?” Sarah’s voice seemed sluggish and exhausted. “Please, I need to know if you’re okay…”

Bullshit. “Go away,” Diana answered, breaking her internal promise. “I’m not talking to you until Grandma gets back.”

There was a pause, and then Diana heard a broken whisper: “I know I’m a bad mum. I know it’s wrong of me to feel this way, but I can’t help it. I’m so sorry, baby. What I said before—-you’re different. You’re not the same as him.”

Diana remained silent. Sarah continued, voice tired and melancholy. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and it wasn't your fault. It comes second nature, and that’s normal for people like you, I think. It’s only natural for the strong to use their power over the weak…that’s what Lucius always said.”

“He’s full of shit, Mum,” Diana mumbled, absentmindedly tracing her fingers over the frayed edges of one of the pillows.

“I don’t know, maybe he’s right. He’s right about a lot of things. He’s smarter than I am.” There was a long pause on the other side of the door, then she continued, dull and lethargically, “You’re going to live with him, you know. It’s inevitable. No matter what Grandma says, it’s happening.”

“We can at least try something,” Diana said stubbornly. She stood up from the bed and crept closer to the door. “We don’t have to make it easy for them.”

Sarah gave a humorless chuckle. “I either get obliviated or have you taken from me. I can’t live with that. I’m sorry…I wish I was stronger like you, but I’m not. I can’t have him getting involved in my life again, I just can’t.”

“So what are you going to do, then?” asked Diana, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She was now standing right next to the door. “Give up?” She wasn’t sure why the thought frustrated her so much, when it seemed like the only logical course of action.

“I feel so tired and dizzy right now…I think I just need to rest. But I want you to know that I love you, Diana. I love you so much—please don’t forget that.”

Diana’s fingers wrapped around the doorknob, but hesitated. The events of earlier today–and her mother’s overall erratic behavior—were fresh in her mind. “I love you too, Mum,” she finally answered. “It’s just…hard, sometimes.”

“I know it is. It’s hard for me sometimes, too,” she said softly. “Goodbye, Diana.”

After another short pause, Diana heard the footsteps that signaled that her mother was leaving and then lifted her fingers from the doorknob and retreated back to the bed. She had a lot of emotions to sort through, but the one that was the most powerful at the moment was exhaustion. And as she laid down in bed, her worries and thoughts drifted away as sleep took her.

She was roused awake by the sound of screaming. Diana jumped out of bed and raced down the hall towards Sarah’s room, where she saw her grandmother rushing out, face streaked with tears. It was the first time ever seeing Marie cry, and that scared Diana more than anything else that day.

“Grandma, what’s—”

“Don’t come in!” Marie shouted frantically. Diana froze up. “Your mum, she’s—Diana, you need to stay in your room now, alright? I need to call 999. It’ll be okay, don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

Diana nodded numbly, knowing that Marie was trying to comfort herself as much as her granddaughter. She returned to her room and sat on her bed, still and quiet, for the next several hours.

According to the paramedics, it was all because of the pills. Sarah took too many within a short period of time, the only question remaining was whether it was accidental or intentional. Marie was adamant it was accidental, a byproduct of her memory issues compounded with her stress, but Diana wasn’t so sure.

Regardless, it didn’t change the fact that her mother was now dead, and that Diana would never hear her voice or feel her touch again.

Diana didn’t feel sad, or even angry. Sadness and anger would come in time, but in that moment, she just felt empty, and emptiness carved out by eleven years of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.

Chapter Text

The news of Sarah White’s death spread quickly around Amberton. Sarah kept to herself and had few–if any–friends, but everyone knew of her, and because of this, the remaining Whites received more messages of condolence than expected. Diana read letters or received voicemails from Ms. Layla, Samantha, neighbors, her friends, her friends’ parents, some of Sarah’s old classmates that she never mentioned, friends of Marie’s who knew Sarah when she was a child, Sarah’s old teachers, etc. The sheer amount of messages both comforted and annoyed Diana; why couldn’t some of these people have reached out to Sarah when she was alive? Why do people always crawl out of the woodwork to talk about how ‘great’ someone is only after they're dead?

Claire, Olivia, and Becky arrived at 6 Ironwood Lane and asked to see Diana face-to-face, but Marie said that her granddaughter wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t see them that day. In truth, Diana asked Marie to turn them away at the door, and keep turning them away if necessary. She didn’t want to see them, not because she didn’t like her friends, but because seeing them wou be an incredibly painful reminder of what she was going to lose, and she wasn’t sure if she could handle that.

Was it selfish? Perhaps, but in the wake of Sarah’s death, something changed within Diana. Nerves and fear subsided, making way for a dull, apathetic sense of resignation that frustrated Marie. It was like the part of her died with her mum, and Diana couldn’t imagine ever feeling–or deserving to feel–genuinely happy again.

There were rare times when she came close though, times where she thought that maybe, just maybe, her ability to feel joy hadn’t been completely broken. Shortly after Sarah’s death, Diana confessed to her grandmother what happened: the argument, the accidental magic, and Sarah’s reaction. She knew Marie was devastated by the loss of her daughter and–while she never said this directly–Diana could tell that Marie blamed herself for leaving Sarah and Diana alone in the house, and Diana wanted to reassure her that it was not her fault. Diana expected—no, wanted—Marie to blame her instead, to feel the same loathing towards her granddaughter that Diana did.

But instead, Marie just hugged Diana. And the next day, she came home with a bag filled with various VHS tapes she rented. They sat and watched the tapes for hours, and Diana realized the common theme: The Wizard of Oz, Kiki’s Delivery Service, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks all included witches who were good people and used their powers in benevolent ways. Diana leaned her head against her grandma’s shoulder, wondering what she did to deserve a woman like Marie White in her life.

On the day of her mother’s funeral, Diana peered at herself in the mirror and saw a girl with a hollow expression, wearing a lacy, knee-length black dress and black headband. It felt unnatural picking out an outfit for her mother’s funeral; she always imagined she would be a middle-aged woman with kids of her own when making that decision, not an eleven-year old child. Then again, I imagined a lot of things in my life would be different…

Heading downstairs, she saw her grandmother, who was wearing a black skirt and blazer, along with a grave expression to match. Her eyes softened when she saw Diana and pulled her granddaughter into a hug. “This is going to be tough for both of us, kiddo. But we’ll get through it. We always do.”

“Are you still planning on leaving tomorrow?” Diana asked. Due to Sarah’s death, the plane tickets Marie originally bought ended up being useless. Nevertheless, Marie was adamant about leaving the country anyway and managed to purchase two more for the day after the funeral. “It’s a waste of money, Grandma.”

“We are going to leave tomorrow, not just me.” She sighed. “Look, I know you already accepted defeat, and I know things seem hopeless now, but I’m not giving up here. We got the police to have someone monitor watch outside our house until we leave, right? Even if it is that idiot Officer Hughes, it’s still progress. And then tomorrow, we’ll be out of here.”

“I don’t want to go,” mumbled Diana.

“I already bought the plane tickets. You’ll like Florida—”

“No,” Diana interrupted, shaking her head dejectedly. “I mean, I don’t want to go to the funeral. I want to stay here.”

Marie put her hands on Diana’s shoulders. “Hey now, no more of that talk. What happened to your mum was not your fault, okay? We’ve been over this.”

“I don’t think I can see her in that—in that coffin. It’s too weird.”

“Seeing her could give you a sense of closure, sweetie. I know it might not seem like it now, but if you refuse to go, it’s going to be something you’ll regret when you’re older. The reason why we’re stopping by the funeral home so early is so that we'll have some time to be there with just the three of us.” Just like how it used to be…

“I don’t think she’d want me to be there.”

“That’s nonsense. Of course she’d—”

There was a loud knock on the door. Both Marie and Diana abruptly stopped talking.

“I think that’s them, Grandma,” Diana whispered nervously. Even though she’d been thinking about this moment for days, her stomach was twisted with nerves.

“On the day of your mother’s funeral? Not a chance,” Marie responded in a low voice, eyes fixated on the door. “I’ll wring their necks with my bare hands if I have to.”

“You can’t,” Diana whimpered. “Grandma, please, just go along with what they say. If I go with them, I can come back when I graduate from their school, but if you fight, it’ll just make things worse.”

There were muffled voices coming from behind the door, and then–after a pause–another knock.

“There are some things worth fighting for, Di.” She reached out and squeezed her granddaughter’s hand. “And you’re one of them. Remember what I told you when we were driving back from the police station?”

Diana’s eyes started to get misty as she leaned in and hugged her grandmother again, who returned the hug. There was a third knock.

“All right, all right, I’m coming!” hollered Marie as she walked over to the front door and opened it.

Outside were three individuals, and based on their outfits, the question of whether or not they were wizards was immediately answered. There were two men and a woman this time: the man that was holding a medium-sized brown bag was around Snape’s age. He had short blonde hair and sharp green eyes, while the younger one had longer, unkempt brown hair andhad a bored expression on his face. The woman had her long red hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes that seemed to sparkle as looked at Diana, who was trying her best not to look and feel intimidated by the three wizards.

“Hello,” the blonde man said, putting on what Diana could tell was a fake smile. “I’m Garrick Stebbins, and this is Braden Bentley and Lucinda Talkalot.”

“Yes, that is my real surname!” Lucinda laughed. “Fits my personality too. You could just call me Lucinda—everyone does.”

Marie and Diana said nothing. Stebbins glanced at Lucinda, irritation flitting briefly across his face before smoothing out, and continued, “As you may have guessed, we’re here on behalf of the Minister of Magic himself, who has graciously extended the exciting opportunity to speak with Diana before her relocation to Malfoy Manor. Now, this normally doesn’t happen, but since these are very unusual circumstances—”

“Tell your Minister he can shove his wand up his arse,” Marie snapped as she moved to slam the door shut. With reflexes and strength that did not reflect his appearance, Stebbins kept the door held open with the hand that wasn’t holding the bag. Marie’s eyes narrowed.

Fake smile still plastered across his face, Stebbins continued. “Perhaps we were given some incorrect information. We were under the impression you were already told about the arrangements.”

“‘Arrangements.’ You people are so full of shit,” Marie snapped. “Listen carefully, because I’m going to tell you the same thing I told those two dumbfucks earlier in the week: Diana. Stays. With. Me.” Marie shook her head in disgust. “Showing up on the day of my daughter’s funeral…Christ. You people have no shame.”

“Wait, she died?!” gasped Lucinda. Her eyes lit up the same way Becky’s sometimes did when she heard a particularly juicy bit of celebrity gossip. Diana curled her fingers into a fist.

“Bloody hell,” blurted out Bentley, who now seemed to be fully paying attention. “Garrick, d’you think Malfoy had anything to do with this?”

“Braden, be professional. It doesn’t—”’

“Even if he didn’t, Rita’s going to pounce on this,” Lucinda interrupted gleefully. “Making problems ‘disappear’ is a classic Malfoy maneuver. In the seventies, didn’t his dad do something like this to one of his lovers and th–”

“‘Lovers?’” echoed Marie, enraged. “How dare you?! That man raped my daughter! The nerve of–”

“Is there a problem over here?”

There was an immediate silence. During the exchange, Officer Hughes had exited his vehicle and walked up to the group of interlopers, eying their outfits warily.

“It’s about time you got here!” Marie exclaimed, a mixture of frustration and excitement at the possibility of law enforcement seeing proof of wizards for once. “These are from the same group that’s been harassing my family.”

Officer Hughes crossed his arms. “Can I see some identification from you three?”

Diana noticed none of the three wizards looked even remotely perturbed, and felt a growing sense of dread. “Of course,” Stebbins said, flashing the officer a smile. He reached into his robes and showed the police officer what looked like some kind of passport. When Hughes looked at it, his eyebrows crinkled before raising, then a dull expression came into his eyes.

“As you can see, there’s no problem here,” Stebbins said cheerfully.

“Right,” said Officer Hughes, nodding. “Everything checks out. I’ll be heading back, then.”

Officer Hughes then turned away and began walking back to his car. Marie, aghast, shouted after him. “Where the fuck are you going?! You didn’t even look at the other two! You’re supposed to arrest these idiots!”

Officer Hughes stopped and turned around, eyes glazed over as if he were in a trance. “They have the authority to be here.”

“Whose authority?”

Officer Hughes didn’t seem able to answer. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked back to his car. Marie turned her attention to Stebbins, who had an innocent expression on his face. “What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stebbins said flippantly. “I’d like to discuss your daughter.”

“Fuck off.”

Stebbins ignored her. “How did she die, exactly? The Minister would be…interested to know.”

“I really don’t give a damn what—”

“She died in an accident,” Diana interrupted, eager to divert attention away from her grandmother. All four eyes were now on her, and she swallowed. “She took too much medicine without meaning to, and she died.” At least, that’s Grandma’s theory… “There was no conspiracy.”

“We’re sorry for your family’s loss,” said Lucinda, suddenly realizing that condolences were more appropriate than rampant speculation. Bentley and Stebbins both nodded, expressing quick sympathies and platitudes that caused Marie to roll her eyes and scoff.

“I know why you came here,” Diana said, voice wavering against her will, “and I want you to know that I’ll…go with you. You can come in the house and I’ll get my stuff, as long as you don’t erase my grandma’s memory…”

The three wizards visibly relaxed at this. “Of course,” said Stebbins. “There’s no need to erase any memories, as long as everyone cooperates.” The three pushed past Marie into the house, Lucinda's eyes soaking in every detail of the Muggle home.

Marie was outraged. “Well, I’m her legal guardian, and I say she’s not going. Your Jedi tricks or whatever that shit was won’t work on me.”

“What we used was something called magic, Mrs. White,” Lucinda said. Diana wasn’t sure if Lucibda was purposely being condescending, or if she thought there was a genuine possibility a Muggle might not actually know what magic was. Marie made a step towards her and Diana tensed, fully expecting Marie to accost this strange woman.

Stebbins coughed loudly, causing the two women to look at him. “Mrs. White, since you are now acting in the role of legal guardian, I want to reassure you that if you allow the relocation to occur without incident, then Lucius Malfoy will allow you to contact your granddaughter on specific occasions.”

Marie laughed at the absurdity and audacity of that statement. “Oh, Lucius will ‘allow’ me to contact my own granddaughter ‘on specific occasions,’ is that it? How fucking charitable of him. Truly, is there no limit to the generosity that flows through his saintly veins?”

Stebbins ignored her again and looked at Diana with his calculating green eyes. “You can gather whatever belongings you want to bring and place them in this bag. Since you’ll be living at Malfoy Manor, I can’t imagine that you’ll need much, but if there are any items of sentimental value, then I suggest packing them.”

The opinion of a child witch clearly held more value and importance to them than that of an adult Muggle. Diana took the bag; it was small and light, and it didn’t look like it could fit much of anything in there. “Thanks…” she mumbled.

“Absolutely not! I forbid this from happening!” Marie exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm. “Diana, stop!”

“Grandma, I want to go.” She didn’t, but the alternative was worse. “Don’t make this difficult. Please…”

Marie turned and yelled at the Stebbins. “You’re taking advantage of a child! First you come into my home, and then you think you’ll take her away from me? She’s all I have left!” Marie’s voice wavered as she blinked back tears. “She’s all I have left,” she repeated again. Then, something happened that Diana never would have expected: The fight seemed to have left her. She sank down into a chair and buried her head into her hands. Diana’ felt her own heart breaking; she had never seen Marie be this vulnerable before.

Irritated at the interruption, Stebbins turned to Bentley. “Braden, could you watch over Miss Malfoy”—upon hearing this, Diana almost physically recoiled—”as she gathers her belongings? You know Fudge wants this done quickly.”

Who or what the hell is Fudge? Bentley nodded and followed Diana as she reluctantly trudged up the stairs, but not before sparing a glance at her grandmother, who was staring vacantly into space now, eyes numb.

Diana felt tears welling in her own eyes as she made her way into her room, Bentley’s cool gaze locked on her. This is it. It’s really happening. With trembling fingers, Diana went through the drawers and closets, assessing what to bring and what not to bring. It soon became apparent that the bag was enchanted and could hold far more than what its outer appearance would convey. There were some things that she definitely wanted to keep–like her Girl Guides sash—and some things she wasn’t sure about, like the unused sketchpad her mother got her for her birthday, which she decided to tentatively toss into the bag as well. There were some things that she knew would be left in the room to collect dust, like the River Phoenix poster that Claire gave her that she was too embarrassed to hang up. Looking at it now, it felt as though it belonged to a different girl, one with extremely different worries and priorities.

Eventually, every corner of the room was inspected, and Diana gave her room one last, melancholic look and she tried to soak in every detail. Her bookshelf, still scattered with books. Her stuffed animals, still looking at her with button eyes and wide smiles. Her Devil’s Ivy plant, which she used to water and care for every day. Goodbye.

In many ways, her outfit was appropriate—today signaled the death of Diana White, and the birth of Diana (ugh) Malfoy.

“Have everything?” Bentley asked as he squinted curiously at a Cabbage Patch doll, one of the many items left behind.

“No.” There was something else, something that she knew she absolutely needed. “I need to go to my mum’s room.”

“Alright.” He trailed her as she scurried down the hall and opened the door. A wave of sorrow washed over her; Diana hadn’t been in her mother’s room since the night she saw Sarah holding that flowered sundress. The sundress–

Impulsively, Diana opened the closet and tossed the flowered sundress into the bag. It wasn’t the reason why she came in, but she had so many happy memories of her mother in it and felt like its presence would be like having Sarah with her.

Now, for the reason I came in here…Diana tried to look as nonchalant as possible as she walked over the dresser and picked up the black memory book. She flipped through it, relieved to see the picture still inside, and casually placed it in the bag, heart beating rapidly as she did so. She knew that book was the most important item in the bag by far, and might help her navigate through this insane world of wizards and witches. Hopefully they won’t search through the bag…

She turned back to Bentley, who was leaning against the wall. “That’s it. I think I have every—-”

There was a loud banging sound, followed by a woman’s shriek and a loud string of curses coming from a man. Diana rushed out of the room, only to feel her forearm grabbed by Bentley, who pushed her behind him as he led the way downstairs, wand out.

Once they made their way down, Diana let out a shriek of her own. Her grandmother was unconscious, suspended in midair by magic. Stebbins was on the ground clutching his bloody stomach, his formerly-composed expression now contorted with fury and hatred. Lucinda was kneeling down next to him, eyes full of panic as she murmured incantations that caused a white glow to appear above Stebbins’ stomach wound. A shotgun was lying on the ground nearby.

“What did you do to my grandma?” Diana cried.

Stebbins turned to her with a venomous expression, the ‘friendly and professional’ facade completely dropped. “‘What did I do to your grandma?!’ That bitch shot me! She said she was going to get tea for us, but when she came back she had a fucking shotgun instead!”

There were three feelings running through Diana: pride for her grandmother’s actions, disbelief that these government wizards would be so stupid as to fall for a simple trick, and–most prominently– fear for the implications of what this could mean for Marie’s well-being. This all but assured that she would have her memory erased.

Bentley didn’t seem concerned and laughed. “Merlin’s Beard, Garrick, you’re dumb. How many times did they go over Muggle weapons in our training?”

Stebbins scowled and looked away. “I know what it was! I just didn’t think she’d attack me with one. I thought this kind of thing only happened with American Muggles.”

“Are you going to erase her memories?” Diana asked, even though she already knew the answer. “You told me you wouldn’t!”

“No, I didn’t!” snarled Stebbins. “I said nothing would happen if she cooperates. Trying to kill me is not cooperating.”

“B-but you’re okay, right? Lucinda’s healing you.” Stebbins was angry, but didn’t seem particularly worried even though he had a gaping gunshot wound in his stomach. “When my mum had her memories erased, it completely messed up her mind. She started forgetting other things, and then fragments of her memory came back. I can’t have that happen to her too! I want her to remember me. I need her to. Please…”

“It’s already been done,” snapped Stebbins. “She’s in the middle of the process right now. Honestly, I don’t know why you need to—oh stop crying, for Merlin’s sake! I don’t see why you feel the need to act so ungrateful. You get an exciting opportunity that most—”

“Garrick!” hissed Lucinda, glancing at Diana nervously, who was wiping tears away from her eyes. She lowered her voice a few octaves, but Diana was still able to hear her faint whispers to Stebbins. “You can’t talk to a Malfoy like that! What if it gets back to Lucius?”

An unidentifiable expression flickered across Stebbins’ face before he smoothed his expression over, looking and sounding much more composed, which Diana admitted was rather remarkable, considering his current condition. “Braden, give me the Sarah White file.”

Bentley handed a stack of papers to Stebbins, who flipped through it casually as Lucinda kept healing him. “I see the person who did the memory modification was…Ridley? Ridley Grayson?!” His eyes widened. “Ha! No wonder why you mum’s memory was all fucked up. Ridley Grayson’s an idiot who couldn’t cut it in the Ministry. He had a mental breakdown and joined those Association radicals—the man’s a joke. We’re real professionals.”

You’re the professionals? You fell for the ‘let me get something in the other room’ trick. "Even if you say you could do it well, I don’t want it to happen at all!” Tears were trickling down her cheeks again, but something Lucinda said earlier got the gears in her mind spinning. Maybe, if she played her cards right…. “I want to be in a really good mood when I meet your Minister, and it would make me feel so much better if you reversed the spell. That’s something you could do, right?”

Stebbins paused for a moment, and the quick glances between the three wizards did not go unnoticed by Diana. “Yes, it’s reversible, but we’re not doing it, at least not now.” He sighed. “Look, memory modification doesn’t have an expiration date. Once you graduate from Hogwarts, you could, theoretically, fix it on your own.”—Diana tried not to let her emotions show at the horrific implications that teenagers in the wizarding world had the ability to modify memories at will—”If not, you could put in a request to the Ministry and chances are, they’ll send one of us back to undo it.” He didn’t look thrilled with that possibility. “If you mother had a witch or wizard adjust her memories a second time, that could have fixed—”

There was another loud knocking sound at the door. Oh God, who is it now?

Diana stayed rooted to the spot, but Bentley, bizarrely enough, made the decision to go to the door and open it. Outside were two other, new police officers.

The taller one began, “We received reports of a gunshot and—”

He stopped talking. As the cops peered inward, they saw Marie White floating in midair, Stebbins bleeding out, Lucinda with her wand out doing the healing spell, and a shotgun on the ground. Both officers backed away and started talking into their radios. Diana could see from a distance that a few of the neighbors gathered in the streets, presumably after hearing the gunshot.

Stebbins looked at Bentley in disgust. “Why the fuck did you do that, Braden?”

Bentley shrugged as closed the door, blocking the view of the accumulated crowd. “I thought it might have been someone for us, like backup personnel.”

“Why do you think it would be backup personnel? The only other one here besides the kid was the old lady. Gods above, and you actually have the gall to say that I’m the dumb one?”

It was at this point that Lucinda’s spell finished, and Stebbins stood up, wound completely gone. He walked over to the blinds and peered through them. “Shit. We’re going to have to do a Scrub.”

Lucinda frowned. “Fudge said not to Scrub.”

“Yeah, but that was when he thought the mum was still alive and it would look good. There was nothing mentioned about this old battle-axe in any of the papers. We’re off-script now, and have been for a while. If the grandmother had her memory modified, then we really have no choice but to do it. It should take care of this problem too, so—”

“What’s a Scrub?” Diana interrupted, heart starting to flitter nervously.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lucinda said lightly, flashing her a dazzling smile. That made Diana worry even more. “We’ll take care of it.”

“If my grandma’s going to forget about me, what about my room? Isn’t she going to wonder why there’s a random girl’s bedroom in her house?”

“Like I said, you don’t need to worry about it.”

“What about my friends, and teachers, and everyone else who knows me? They’re going to be wondering why Grandma suddenly forgot that she had a grandchild.”

Lucinda forced a laugh. “My, aren’t we inquisitive! But like I said before, there’s no need for concern. We’ll handle everything.”

Fuck you too, bitch. After asking her last question, it occurred to Diana that a “Scrub” likely involved washing away memories of her from every single person who knew that a “Diana White” existed—in other words, everyone in Amberton. She couldn’t see any other logical way this situation could be resolved from the wizards’ point of view. In order for their goals to be achieved, the “Diana White” identity needed to die.

At that moment, Diana heard a strangled cry and spun around to see her grandma on the floor in a daze, blinking rapidly, eyes clouded over. Just as Diana was about to run towards her, she felt herself stopped again by Bentley. “She doesn’t know who you are,” he said to Diana bluntly. “Right now, her memories are going to be disoriented, but within a few minutes everything should be straightened out.”

“Where’s Alan?” Marie asked groggily, glazed eyes looking around the room. “Alan, Sarah’s staying over Julie’s house tonight. You need to pick her up because I have yoga class.”

Lucinda guided Marie over to the sofa to sit in while Stebbins looked at Bentley. “Braden, Lucinda and I need to clean up your mess. Take the girl to the Ministry building. She’s supposed to speak with Weasley first, and then Fudge.”

“But you can’t take me now!” Diana protested. Seeing her grandma mumbling so incoherently lit a fire inside her at the injustice of it all, and while she wasn’t ready to fight against the wizards directly, she was not going to leave without doing at least one more thing. “My mum’s funeral is today. If you take me afterwards, then I won’t complain.”

Diana could tell that Stebbins was starting to lose his patience again. “Fudge wants this whole…situation…to be smoothed over as soon as possible. You have my sympathies,”—bullshit—“but you’re going now.”

“You’ll like Florida,” Marie said as she swayed on the sofa, before closing her eyes and leaning back.

“My mum is at the funeral home right now. If you don’t let me see her, I—I’ll tell your boss that you screwed everything up here!” Her heart started thumping wildly, especially as all three of the wizards looked at her frowning. She needed to use her trump card. “And also, i-if you don’t let me see Mum, then—then my father will hear about this!”

In order to truly sell it, she stomped her foot for emphasis, which was perhaps a bit of overkill. She didn’t think her father would actually care, but his name apparently had quite a bit of leverage and she was willing to do something, anything, to see her mother for one final time.

After a moment of hesitation, Stebbins sighed in frustration. “All right, all right, no need to get Lucius involved. Braden, use legilimency on her to see what the place looks like so you can apparate her there, then bring her to the Ministry as soon as possible.”

It actually worked? Diana felt like leaping for joy, but that feeling came to an abrupt halt as Bentley walked over to her and stared into her eyes, and suddenly, she felt something invasive pushing into her mind. It felt like there was something there that shouldn’t be, and memories of the funeral home and the location surfaced. Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling subsided. What the hell was that?

Bentley held out his arm. “Alright, kid, we’re heading over there now. Grab on.”

Diana hesitated. This was really it. Just before she put her hands on Bentley’s arms, she heard her grandmother’s voice: “You’re stronger than you think.”

Diana quickly turned around, but Marie was still seated on the sofa, eyes closed, still in a daze. Was it coincidentally-timed memories of the past, or something more? Diana didn’t know for certain, but whatever it was gave her courage and—for the first time since her mother’s death—a spark of hope. “Goodbye, Grandma,” she whispered, and she grabbed Bentley’s arms.

Immediately after doing so, for a few brief seconds it felt as though she was being flung around on some infernal carnival ride, before the world suddenly came into focus again. If it weren’t for Bentley’s arms steadying her, she would have collapsed onto the floor.

“That’s what teleportation is like?” she said in a wobbly voice. She was extremely nauseous, but raised her head to see the flowers and paintings that decorated the inside of the funeral home.

“It’s called apparation, and it gets easier the more you use it,” Bentley explained. “Do you know where your mum is?”

“Yeah, she’s right in the next room over.” Diana dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m not sure if there’s anyone else in the building. The funeral director was expecting my grandma and I to come early, but—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Remembering her grandma and the plans for the day was a bit too painful.

Bentley did a quick spell, then shrugged. “If anyone’s here, they won’t notice us. Lead the way.”

Diana walked into the next room where, just as she expected, her mother was waiting. With her pristine white dress and black hair laying neatly on her shoulders, Sarah White looked more like a fairytale princess than the lunatic many thought she was. What comforted Diana the most was her calm and peaceful expression; in death, Sarah was clearly able to obtain the tranquility that always eluded her grasp in life.

I wish I opened the damn door.

Diana leaned over and kissed her mother on the forehead before whispering, “Goodbye, Mum. I love you.”

Her grandmother was right; it was important to see Sarah’s body. Because at this moment, Diana knew with utmost certainty that despite being forgotten by everyone who knew her, despite losing contact with the place she grew up, despite everything her father would do, “Diana White” could never truly die. Even if she were to become Diana Malfoy, Diana White would always be there underneath the surface, watching, whispering, and waiting.

Although she was extremely reluctant to leave her mother’s side, Diana knew lingering for too long would push her luck. She went over to Bentley and mumbled that she was ready to go, and took a deep breath before grabbing onto his arm a second time, her grandmother’s words echoing in her mind.

I can do this. I’m stronger than I think.

Chapter Text

When Diana opened her eyes to look at the Ministry of Magic, she could only imagine how Dorothy felt when she landed in Oz. As Bentley guided her through the long, grandiloquent hall, Diana tried to soak in all the details she could: the dark wood floors and walls, the blue ceiling with gold symbols that were in a constant state of movement, the intricately-decorated fireplaces that wizards and witches appear from every few seconds.

The wizards and witches were what Diana kept her eyes on, even as her and Bentley passed an impressive golden fountain. There were just so many of them. Diana knew, logically, that there needed to be a lot in order to maintain their own government. But to see the sheer amount, and to think of the collective power they all had, and the fact that they were living right under the noses of the average British citizen and no one knew about it was incredibly unsettling.

Something else that was unsettling was how normal they looked, aside from their apparel. They were chatting with colleagues, reading papers, and walking about from place to place. It was as though they had no idea of the power they possessed. She knew from her visits with the Hogwarts professors that not every witch or wizard was the cackling villain she imagined her father to be, but it felt odd to see them acting like…normal people. Especially considering the regularity of the crimes they committed against actual normal people–Muggles—on a daily basis.

As they went through security and approached the lifts, Diana noticed that although the vast majority of wizards were adults, there were a couple of children around her age or younger, dressed in black as if they were attending a funeral themselves. They were handing out flyers to people entering the lift, and while most wizards ignored or scowled at them, a few took the flyers out of politeness. When Diana and Bentley passed them, the children tilted their head and looked at her curiously, but Bentley put his hands on her shoulder and steered her into the lift. “Ignore them,” he said simply.

Diana wanted to ask who they were, but her mouth felt dry from nerves. Soon she was going to meet the man in charge of the whole wizarding world, and then, her father. What was she going to say? What did she want to say?

Upon seeing her expression, Bentley gave her a little half-smile. “Don’t worry, kid. Cornelius Fudge—that’s the Minister—is a friendly, decent bloke. Mr. Weasley’s going to be there with you too, so nothin’ to worry about.”

Weasley, Weasley….where did I hear that name? Then, it clicked: he was named in the black book that her mother wrote in. Diana’s fingers twitched; she wanted to reach into the bag and pull it out so she could see what Sarah wrote and be better prepared, but knew that doing it while Bentley was there would be a terrible idea. She didn’t want to give away her secret weapon.

And now I’m going to meet the Minister, too. Diana’s hands started to feel clammy. Just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, she was about to meet the man behind the curtain, the one responsible for orchestrating everything. But in that story, the person in charge was a regular man who creates impressive illusions to mask his lack of power, whereas in reality, the person in charge helps society maintain a facade of normalcy while tremendous power lurks below the surface.

The lift brought them to a wide hallway, where they exited and Bentley continued talking. “This is the floor where the higher-ups hold meetings and all that. It’s right down this hall and then to the—”

He stopped suddenly. Diana followed his gaze to find a young woman with short, curly brown hair leaning up against a wall. When she saw Bentley, she gave a small smile, though her eyes were sharp. “Braden,” she purred. “I was told you’d be here earlier.”

Bentley looked like a deer in the headlights. “Phoebe, darling…I–I was, but I had something to do. An important job for, uh, Fudge.”

Was this Bentley’s girlfriend? If so, why was he acting so weird? Bentley glanced at Diana quickly and said to Phoebe, clearing his throat: “This is the Malfoy girl.”

Diana bristled upon hearing that. No I’m not. Phoebe’s eyes softened momentarily as she glanced at Diana, then grew hard again as they looked at Bentley. “How interesting. I thought I made it clear that I’m strongly against the Ministry's decision on this. You said you felt the same way. Or was that just another lie?”

“O-of course not! I’d never lie to you, sweetheart! But if the man in charge tells you to do something, you gotta do it, yeah? That’s just part of my job.”

“‘You’d never lie to me,’” Phoebe echoed, a dark smirk gracing her lips. “Really? So last week you didn’t catch Grace Zhao’s Golden Snitch when the two of you went out to the Canary Islands, is that it?”

Bentley paled. Diana suddenly looked down at her shoes and felt very awkward and out-of-place. “Grace and I are just colleagues, babe, I swear it! The Canary Islands, that—that was just for work! There’s nothing between us. Hell, I barely think twice about her.”

“You’re so full of shit, Braden Bentley!” a new voice snapped. There was what seemed like a slight shimmer in the air, and a woman with long, straight black hair and a furious expression suddenly appeared in the hallway, holding what looked like a silky, silver cloth. “You told me ‘Phoebe Elwick and I are just friends.’ Did you think that because Phoebe and I work in different departments, we wouldn’t talk?”

Both Bentley and Diana looked horrified, but for different reasons. “Gracie, I didn’t—-I mean, that wasn’t–”

“Don’t you ‘Gracie’ me,” snapped Grace, as Phoebe nodded approvingly. “If Phoebe didn’t lend me this invisibility cloak, you would have continued your lies like you always do.”

They can be invisible too? thought Diana, aghast. It was unbelievable that people with so much power hadn’t taken control of the entire world. Why did they insist on living separately from Muggles?

Bentley swallowed and glanced at Diana quickly. “W-well, now’s really not the time to do this. It’s pretty, um, unprofessional, and—and I need to be escorting this little lady to Arthur Weasley, so—”

“T-that’s alright.” Diana was surprised when she heard herself speaking out loud. “You said it was just down the hall. I can manage from here.”

Bentley gave her a wounded expression, which she ignored. He didn’t seem evil, but he also didn’t seem to have the best judgment, and she wasn’t inclined to help him after he was part of the group that brainwashed her grandma. His own actions put him in this predicament, anyway.

But there was also another, more significant reason she wanted to have at least a minute to herself.

“Are you sure?” Grace asked. “One of us could walk you down, honey.” ‘One of us’ clearly meaning Grace or Phoebe.

“Y-yes, I’m sure,” Diana said, faking a cheer that would hopefully mask her nerves.

“Okay, then,” Phoebe said, giving Diana a wink. “Once you go down this hall, make a right. The room you need to go in is all the way at the very end. Mr. Weasley knows you’re coming, so he might be waiting for you in the lobby. If not, you’ll just have to wait a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Diana said. As she was turning around, she saw Bentley looking like a man on his way to the guillotine, but continued to walk ahead with purpose as she left the man to his fate.

Immediately after turning the corner, Diana dove into the bag and groped around for what she was looking for: Sarah’s black book. She quickly fumbled through the pages and got to the one she was looking for:

3 magic users who interviewed me:

Serious, important-looking, intense, irritable and grumpy (Name was Weesly? Maybe?). Can’t remember hair color or length. Cold.

Shoulder-length light hair (blonde? brown?). Older. A total arse. Acted more casual and laid-back. Name was Alan Moody?

Red-haired man, middle-aged, acted friendly and kind, warm eyes. THIS IS A LIE. DO NOT TRUST. HE IS JUST LIKE THE REST.

Assuming Sarah’s memory was correct, Diana had to prepare herself to meet someone who was cold and serious, which didn’t seem to match up with Bentley’s assurances that she would be fine. Then again, he was probably just saying that so I would relax. Or maybe Mum’s memory was wrong…

She shoved the book back in the bag and slowly made her way down the hall to the room at the very end. Part of her considered making a dash for it, but where would she go? She wouldn’t even know how to leave the floor. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open with sweaty palms.

The office lobby was empty except for three people. A tall blonde man gripping a walking stick was speaking forcefully with a middle-aged man behind the reception desk, who looked absolutely cowed as his trembling fingers raised a teacup to his mouth, eyes wide and glued on the man in front of him. The young woman next to him was frowning and searching through a messy pile of papers rapidly, eyes periodically darting towards the men. Diana stood awkwardly, hoping someone would notice her, to no success.

“—bowing to political pressure. It’s a complete and utter invasion of privacy. When I speak to Cornelius about it, I’ll–”

Irritable, intense, and important-looking? I’m pretty sure that’s the right bloke. Alright, Diana, you can do this. You’re stronger than you think.

“Um, excuse me,” Diana mumbled softly. The blonde man turned to look at her with a scowl, and Diana’s eyes quickly looked down, trying to avoid his sharp glare. “I was told that I was supposed to speak with Arthur Weasley.” She managed to work up the courage to glance upward again. “Are you him?”

The man behind the desk choked a bit on his tea, which managed to spill across a few papers. The woman made a noble attempt to hide her giggles behind a sheet of paper, while the blonde man looked at Diana with utter contempt. Lip curling, he replied, “No, I'm not.” He then turned to the man behind the desk and sneered, “The Temple of Aequitas…how revolting. It’s said that the company we keep reflects our character. And surely, Arthur’s willingness to consort with these fools is a testament to his complete and utter ineptitude. Yet despite all evidence to the contrary, he’s still viewed by the general public as trustworthy and his goals are given a disproportionate amount of attention instead of the immediate dismissal they deserve. Why is that, I wonder?”

What the fuck?

The man behind the counter was trying frantically to wipe the tea stains off the papers and seemed to have no idea how to answer his question. It suddenly dawned on Diana that the blonde man probably thought that she was part of the group that Bentley told her to ignore, the children who looked like they were also about to attend a funeral. She swallowed and returned her gaze to the floor, feeling very self-conscious. In spite of this, she tried to speak up and say, “I, um, I’m a-actually not—”

The blonde man’s piercing gaze was suddenly on her like a bird of prey and she froze up. “You can tell your abysmally neglectful parents that there will soon be legislation that prohibits your kind from scurrying about the Ministry floors like beggars. Perhaps when you see Arthur, you could bring that up to him as well. He seems to have a knack for sticking his nose where it’s not needed and ‘advocating’ for the lowly.”

He waved his hands in a dismissive gesture and then returned his attention to the man behind the desk, where they continued their previous discussion about some kind of bill. The woman looked at Diana kindly. “Mr. Weasley will be here shortly. He has a bit of a busy schedule today, but I’m sure he’ll spare you a few minutes.”

“Okay…” Diana muttered. ‘I’m Diana!’ was on the tip of her tongue, but her innate anxiety compounded with the stress of this morning’s events and the unfamiliar, intimidating circumstances she was in wouldn’t let her verbalize the thought.

Diana waited uncomfortably for another minute and considered slinking out of the room and then possibly making a dash for it, but her musing were interrupted when the door next to the desk opened and a shabbily dressed redheaded man with an unexpectedly warm expression stumbled out. He saw Diana and seemed taken aback for a second before quickly waving her over. She couldn’t hurry out of that room fast enough.

“Nice to meet you, Diana! I’m Arthur Weasley.” At her name, she heard the blonde man instantly stop talking and felt his sharp gaze upon her. She was grateful when Arthur quickly shut the door.

This was Arthur Weasley? Mum definitely got her names mixed up. This man looks friendly and kind and—oh no. Diana shivered, remembering Sarah’s comments in the black book about a redhaired man.

Arthur held out his hand. Diana hesitated for a moment, then decided to shake it. She wasn’t going to trust him, but it wouldn’t be wise to act combative towards a man who had the power to recreate her mind at a whim. “Uh, hi. I-I was told that I needed to speak to you.”

“Yes, of course. Please, take a seat,” Arthur gestured toward the table, smiling. Diana sat, and he plopped himself down next to her. Diana started fiddling with the edge of her dress, nervous. She was alone with this strange man who—according to her mum—couldn’t be trusted. Being around men in general caused her to feel tense, but being with a wizard alone in a closed room made those feelings go into overdrive.

Arthur studied her for a moment, sympathetic. “Diana, do you know why you were asked to speak with me first?”

“Not really,” she muttered.

He was quiet for a moment. “In our world–and by ‘our,’ I mean the world of wizards– there are people who want to help Muggles, people who see their ingenuity and know they’re good people who deserve protection. I’m head of a department called the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. It’s my job to–” he stopped suddenly. “Er, do you know what I’m talking about when I use the word ‘Muggle’?”

“Yeah,” she replied glumly, still staring downward. “It’s a regular human. Someone who can’t use spells.”

Arthur nodded. “Right. So as I was saying, in my department, my job is to make sure Muggles are safe by protecting them from cursed or enchanted objects.” He hesitated again; this conversation didn’t seem easy for either of them. “I know your experiences with wizards have not been good, and you have plenty of reasons to hate our kind. But Diana, I just want you to know that you have support here. Not just me, but many others as well. And we’re going to do whatever I can to ensure your safety and well-being.”

Diana barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes; Flitwick and McGonagall had the same spiel. Platitudes like this were meaningless if they weren’t backed up with action, and nothing done so far had led Diana to believe that any wizard would lift a finger to genuinely help her. She was going to be on her own. “Sure.”

He continued to study her as she picked at the hem of her dress. “I knew your mum, you know,” Arthur continued carefully. Diana’s fingers stopped moving. “I-I was here on the day that she was questioned. Back when we were trying to get testimony to, er–” his face grew a bit red as he trailed off.

“To find out who raped my mum,” Diana replied flatly. Arthur now looked extremely uncomfortable.

“R-right.”

“And now you’re going to send me to live with him, the bloke who ruined her life.” Diana’s voice wobbled a bit as grief and reality hit her in another wave. Arthur looked alarmed.

“No! God, no. I-I mean, the Ministry wants—there is legal precedent, but–well, I don’t want that to happen. I think it’s cruel and archaic. But, that’s a decision out of my hands.” He said it with so much emotion that Diana, in spite of herself, started to wonder if her mother was wrong about him. “I swore I’d do whatever I can to keep you safe. I might not be able to change the court’s decision, but I can at least try to mitigate it somewhat.”

“How?” Diana asked. Then, a thought hit her. “If you want to help me, can you undo a memory spell? They messed with my grandmother’s mind and now she doesn’t know who I am.”

Arthur hesitated. “I’m sorry, Diana. I truly am. But unfortunately, I’m not able to do that.”

Sadness morphed into anger as Diana looked away, clenching her fists. He really was all talk. Suddenly, she felt an urge that was uncomfortable and uncharacteristic, yet extremely powerful. “I’m not surprised, based on what she said about you.”

Arthur looked startled. “She-she mentioned me? I heard that the charm started failing years later, but–”

Part of Diana wanted her to stop. She knew, objectively, that the man in front of her wasn’t the sole reason why everything bad was happening in her life, but right now, he was the face of all her problems, and she could not stand another minute of wizards pretending to care and offer fake sympathy. “Well, she didn’t say it, but she wrote down a bunch of memories in a notebook, to remind herself that she wasn’t actually going crazy after you people brainwashed her.”

“Really?” Arthur’s eyes lit up for a second. “That was very clever of Sarah. Muggle ingenuity never ceases to amaze me!” Diana’s anger reached its boiling point. “What did she say?”

“She said all your friendliness and warmth was just a lie. She said you were just as bad as the rest, and shouldn’t be trusted.” Arthur looked like he’d just been slapped, and that reaction galvanized Diana even more as she continued, voice growing more emotional. She wanted this man to hurt, and this was the only way she knew how. “You ruined her life. You ruined my life.” Her eyes began to mist over with tears. “I grew up with a mum that had trouble remembering what day of the week it was and couldn’t hold down a job. There were times when she forgot to even feed me. Invading her mind like that was like raping her twice. And you were involved in that.”

Tears started trickling down her cheeks against her wishes. Arthur turned white, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it before looking away. That was the reaction Diana was aiming for, but it didn’t bring her the comfort or satisfaction she thought it would. Instead, she just felt tired.

A heavy silence that descended on the room. Diana’s gaze remained fixated on a small crack in the wooden table while she wiped her tears. At a certain point the awkwardness became too stifling, and the sensible part of Diana’s mind told her that it would be advantageous to try to fish for as much information now than to be blindsided later. Before she could open her mouth, she heard a weak and feeble voice ask, “Was it really that bad with Sarah?”

She looked up and was shaken–but not fully surprised–to see Arthur regarding her with shining eyes that were blinking rapidly. His expression looked defeated and exhausted, a far cry from the energetic man who welcomed her into the office. It made Diana feel guilty, but couldn’t muster up the courage to apologize, nor was she sure she even wanted to. “It wasn’t bad all the time, but a lot of times, yeah, it was. I love her, but it’s…complicated. Once the spell started breaking down, my childhood stopped.”

Sighing, Arthur leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his sloppy hair. “A man named Burgess Borthwick”—there’s that name again—”procured a report from the Muggle courts indicating that there were some kind of problems at home. It became a heated topic during discussions within the Ministry this past week, and was unfortunately used as another reason why you should be removed from her care.”

“That’s disgusting,” Diana whispered, clenching her fists. “She wouldn’t have been like that if she wasn’t for—for—”

“—for me,” Arthur finished quietly. “For me, and for Lucius, and for Alastor Moody and Barty Crouch and for the laws fundamental to the workings of our society. I know I share responsibility for this, Diana, and there’s no way to go back and change that. While I know it may not mean much, I’m truly sorry, and I promise that I will do whatever I can in order to help you now.”

There was a moment of silence. Sarah’s warning was blazed into her mind, but the man in front of her seemed so earnest and part of Diana recognized that Arthur was simply a cog in an infernal machine, and the issues she mentioned went far beyond him. It would be dumb to trust him fully, but it would be dumber to cut off someone who was presenting themself as an ally, especially when she currently had none in the government.

She mumbled, “So, um, you…you said that the wizard court already decided that I have to stay there, but said that there was something you could do to make it better. So if you’re not going to bring my grandma back, then what do you mean?”

“R-right,” he stammered, taken aback by the change of topic. “Well, in order to explain, I suppose it’s n-necessary to provide a bit of context. You see, Diana, in our world, it’s unfortunately not uncommon for wizards to have relations with muggle women. Sometimes it’s out of genuine love, but other times it’s…not.” He winced. “And those who misuse their power are breaking the law, of course, but just as with the Muggle world, laws unfortunately don’t always act as a deterrent, especially among those with positions of power or connections. ”

This was true. How many times had she seen reports on the television or newspaper that talked about someone in a position of power getting caught committing some crime, sexual or otherwise? Politicians? Police officers? Church officials? Teachers? Camp counselors? Even parents and other relatives? How many times had she seen a story that contained some variation of ‘He was such a pillar of the community, I never would have thought he could do something like that!’? In Diana’s eleven years, it was becoming apparent that those with power tended to abuse it. “And when a Muggle woman gets pregnant with a magical child, the child is stolen from them and given to the father?”

Arthur hesitated before responding. “Sometimes. Statistically speaking, it’s more likely that most magical children in these situations grow up believing themselves to be the children of two Muggles and stay with their mother. The only time a child is removed is if there's proof of lineage. Usually the only ones who are able to afford a Blood Tracing—that’s typically the ritual that reveals it—are the wealthy families, which is what happened in your case. And because the child typically isn’t—erm—expected or wanted, this sometimes leads to the family treating them in a way that causes the child harm.”

Diana’s heart sank. “Like what?”

“I don’t feel like we need to go into great detail about it,” Arthur said quickly. “And most families do accept their illegitimate child. But the important thing is that we’re making sure that precautions are taken so your safety is a priority. You see, in the Muggle world—well, you probably know this already—but there are these government officials who are actually allowed to enter a man’s home and check on the wellness of their child. Now, while we do have laws against specific illegal actions, we don’t have that type of system here. However, due to the combined efforts of my department and the advocacy of the Association for Muggleborn and Muggle Rights, children in your situation will be receiving regular visits from a Ministry representative in order to check in on their condition. That way, the parent won’t want to, say, transfigure their halfblood child into a rat and drown them if they know they’ll be inspected”—upon seeing the look of horror on Diana’s face, he rushed to add—”N-not that I think you’d need to worry about that, but anyway…it’s the first law that’s specifically meant to protect children. Granted, the specifications in the final bill by the time it passed ended up looking a lot less…involved than what was initially drafted, but some progress is still better than no progress.”

He looked so proud that Diana tried not to let her inner feelings show on her face. Shit. As the daughter of “crazy Sarah White,” Diana had her fair share of run-ins with child services, and didn’t have a desire for history to repeat itself. “Is it going to be the same person, or different people?”

“The same. Since this is such a new idea, there isn’t a department set up or anything, so it would need to fall under the purview of an already-existing one for now. There was debate on which department should be the one to enforce it, but none of the others wanted to take it on for some reason. So, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department volunteered! Granted, there are only two people in the office, myself and my assistant, a wonderful bloke by the name of

Perkins. And given my history with your mother, I thought, well… ” He suddenly looked a bit nervous. “B-but of course, given the circumstances, I could understand if you’d rather see Perkins instead. He really is a nice gentleman.”

“No, that’s ok. I’d rather see a familiar face.” This was true, and she was starting to grow slightly fond of Mr. Weasley and his earnestness against her better judgment. But there was also pragmatism involved. She didn’t want to lose contact with the one person who seemed to be her ally.

Arthur looked relieved. “Great! It works out perfectly, since I’m not sure if we’d have enough money in the department to pay him for the extra duties. But your safety is all the payment I need.”

So, they gave him no funding. Awesome. Already, this is off to a great start. “Isn’t the Association for Muggleborn…something part of the government?”

“No, they’re an advocacy group that I work closely with, though we admittedly don’t always see eye-to-eye.” Diana was curious about those discrepancies, but didn’t want to ask yet. “But I support their goals overall, and their efforts clearly have paid off here. It’s been a while since we had a child of a Muggle assault case that was this highly publicized, so they’ve been making a lot of noise, trying to highlight the injustice-–how the case against Malfoy was handled years ago, how you have to live with him now, all of it. The Association wants significant change, which always unsettles the Ministry. No doubt they’re going to try to talk to you at some point, which is why Fudge wants us to have this meeting. Since I’m going to be managing your case, he wanted me to introduce myself to you first. He’s going to be coming in, him and Lucius.” The room suddenly felt much colder. “This case is attracting a lot of negative attention and Fudge wants to try to smooth this over as soon as possible. He wants it to seem like you’re happy and looking forward to going to Hogwarts and being with your family.”

“But I’m not. I don’t want to live with Mum’s rapist and pretend like everything’s normal, and I don’t want to go to witch school either! Until this conversation with you, everything’s been like something out of a horror movie. Nothing I say matters.” A sudden thought came to Diana. “What happens if I just…refuse to go? I know Muggles get their memories erased, but what about the children–the other ones taken from their parents, like me—who don’t want to go? They can’t have their memories erased, right? Or”—Diana’s mind started to race— “what about the ones with two Muggle parents? The Muggleborns. I–I bet a lot of Muggles would be like my grandma and not want their child to go to a magical boarding school.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “In the case of two Muggles who have a magical child, their memories normally aren’t erased. Instead, they’re given a bit of a…a nudge, I guess you can call it.”

“A nudge?”

“Yes. Er, in their mind.” Arthur looked a bit embarrassed. “It’s not my department, so I’m not sure the specifics, but with the right spell, it’s possible to adjust one’s mentality or attitude and make them more receptive to attending. It—it’s not used often, but—”

“So it’s brainwashing,” Diana said tersely. She could see Arthur start to interrupt, so she continued. “It is brainwashing. You call it a ‘nudge,’ but if someone’s personality or views are forced to change because of some outside force, then they’re no longer themselves. If the children see their parents being brainwashed, I doubt they’d want to go quietly. And they’re given the same ‘nudge,’ too, right?”

Arthur looked drained and much older than he was. “Yes, that’s the way it is. I’m sorry, Diana.”

“So I really don’t have a choice then,” Diana muttered numbly. “It’s go with…him, or get my mind messed with.”

“I’m sorry.” It seemed like he really was.

“I wish I didn’t have to see him,” Diana admitted quietly. “What exactly am I supposed to even say? I don’t like him for what he did to my mom, and I’m sure he doesn’t like me for existing and causing all this drama.”

Arthur paused for a moment, considering what to say. “I really wish I could offer you advice, but I can’t. It’s a terrible situation. The only thing that might make you feel a bit better is that you’ve already seen him once, so at least that surprise is over with.”

“Er, no. I’ve never met him before.”

Arthur looked surprised. “Really? I thought–well, he was in the lobby. I thought the two of you already spoke while you were waiting for me.” Seeing Diana’s eyes widen, he let out a nervous chuckle. “I, uh, I guess I was wrong.”

“Ughh,” Diana put her head in her hands, wanting–not for the first time today–to crawl into a hole and stay there forever. “Yes, I saw him. I thought he was you at first and asked him.”

“Ha! Wow. I’m sure he loved that.”

“He was such a jerk to the people at the desk…”

“Listen, Diana,” Arthur said as he leaned over. “You’re a good person. Lucius Malfoy might be your father, but Sarah White was your mother. And you can choose what you want your life to be like.”

“No, I really can’t.” Diana felt the frustration surge in her again. “You don’t understand—it’s always been like this. It’s like—it’s like—” A thought occurred to her. “Do you know who Sisyphus is?”

Arthur blinked in surprise. “Of course, though I admit I’m surprised someone raised by Muggles would know about the old stories.” That was an interesting tidbit of information, and Diana filed it away for future reference.

“Well, you know how he was forced to push a boulder up a hill and every time he would get to the top, it would always roll down? And then he kept doing that again and again? That’s like me. I wanted so badly to prove that I could make some kind of positive impact on the world, that I was more than just my parents, and I always tried my hardest, but then something would happen and it would come crashing down and I’d feel stupid for even trying. But then a few days later I’d just do the same thing again and then end up feeling miserable again when it fails. You can’t just…escape from reality or fate or whatever this is.”

“You can have a good impact on the world, Diana, I know things haven’t been–”

“No. The past few days just proved that all my hopes and goals were pointless. No matter what I want, I’m stuck here, going to Warthog’s and being bound forever to a person I hate, because of something that happened before I was even born.”

“Diana, I–”

“Can’t I stay with you instead?” she blurted out. “I don’t want to live with him. Please.”

She knew that it was extremely presumptuous and rude to ask, but she was desperate. Seeing Arthur’s startled and hesitant expression, she already knew what the answer would be and wanted to crawl back into that imaginary hole and die of embarrassment.

“I wish you could,” he said softly. The emotion in his voice made her believe him. “But the Ministry is very insistent on you living with the Malfoys specifically. Believe me, I checked to see if any kind of alternate living arrangements would have been possible.” While he was talking, Diana noticed him fiddling with a ring on his finger. Oh. He’s married. For some reason, that thought never crossed her mind.

“I have children of my own, “ he continued, “One of them is a boy your age. He might–”

Arthur abruptly stopped talking. Outside beyond the closed door there were some faint, muffled sounds in the distance that appeared to be slowly growing louder. Diana strained to make out what they were saying.

“—obviously politically motivated and should be dismissed on that basis alone. He’s been searching for an opportunity like this for years–”

“—yes, yes, I agree, but the Association’s been raising up a storm, and these things must be considered for the sake of propriety—”

Fuuuck.

“That’s them,” Arthur whispered unnecessarily. Diana swallowed and tried fruitlessly to smooth out her dress hair. Shit, my hair. It hadn’t been combed since this morning and probably looked terrible. She quickly ran her fingers through it and readjusted her headband, heart beating rapidly. If this was the Prime Minister of Wizarding Britain, she needed to make a good impression and get on his good side. She considered asking Arthur if she looked okay, but based on his outfit—especially when compared to her father’s—she wasn’t sure if he would be the best judge.

“—simply a means to placate the more vocal–ah, I believe this is the room, Lucius.”

And with that, the door opened.

Diana’s eyes instinctively darted away from her father and towards the other man who walked in, the Minister of Magic himself. The Minister was a short, portly man with gray hair and a green bowler hat with a pinstriped cloak. He was wearing the well-practiced smile of a man who's been in politics for many years. “So, this must be the famous Diana!” he laughed heartily, reaching over to clasp her hands in a handshake. Diana, taken by surprise, felt rigid and tense. “My, what an adorable child you have, Lucius. She looks just like a little porcelain doll.”

“Indeed. Her looks will allow her to fit right in with the rest of the family.”

She finally allowed herself to glance at Lucius. Unlike earlier, the man was smiling, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. There was a cold, calculating glint that wasn’t outright malicious—as it was when they spoke earlier—but did nothing to alleviate her concerns. He nodded politely in greeting. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Diana.”

Trust me, the feeling’s not mutual. And in truth, she didn’t think he was being honest when he said that, either.

Diana was relieved that Lucius made no attempts to make any kind of physical contact with her as he and Fudge took their seats. There was a moment’s pause, and Diana realized they were both looking at her—Fudge still smiling, but Lucius’s lips becoming a bit thinner—and it dawned on her that they were expecting her to say something. “Um, h-hi.”

“So,” beamed Fudge, leaning back in his chair. “Lucius tells me there was a bit of a mix-up earlier today. Completely understandable. As it happens, the type of funeral apparel is characteristic of a certain group that tends to drift in and out of the Ministry on occasion. I’ll admit it’s a bit of a curious choice. Is this the new Muggle fashion?”

Was this meant to be a joke? Trying to quell her boiling resentment, she said in a tone as even as possible: “Well, my mum died this week and I was about to attend her funeral when the Ministry workers grabbed me and brought me here. I didn't get a chance to change since I was busy gathering the last of my precious belongings to put in this bag.” She held the bag up for emphasis.

The three men stared at her blankly for a few seconds, and Diana started to get a prickly feeling. Arthur then looked aghast, and it suddenly dawned on her that she never told Arthur about Sarah’s death. She assumed he would know, but if the Ministry workers who came to her house earlier were surprised, then he probably would be too, which means that Fudge and Lucius likely didn’t know before today either. She thought Stebbins and Lucinda would send some kind of report, but clearly they didn’t get around to it yet. Maybe the Scrub is taking longer than expected…

In Lucius’s eye, Diana saw a brief flicker of relief along with another, unidentifiable emotion. His face was soon smoothed back into a neutral expression, but Diana noticed his jaw clench slightly as his eyes drifted towards Fudge and Arthur. Diana followed his gaze and saw that Fudge was looking at Lucius with a slight frown, while Arthur’s fists were clenched and he was shooting Lucius an accusatory glare. Diana suddenly saw an angle of how to approach this.

“W-well, that’s quite unfortunate,” Fudge coughed. “Natural causes, I assume.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Diana said. She wasn’t sure if she was being irresponsible, but dammit, she wasn’t going to make today easy for her father if she had a say in it. “There was poison in her body, but there are different theories about why so much of it was in there. We don’t know for sure.”

That technically wasn’t a lie. Lucius scowled at Arthur, who was glaring back at him. “Cornelius,” Lucius drawled. “I believe Arthur has an unfounded accusation he’s bursting to share.”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, “I just think it’s curious how people tend to die or disappear whenever their existence inconveniences the Malfoys.”

“And yet, you’re still around,” Lucius said, curling his lips in disdain. “Does that not contradict your little hypothesis?”

Arthur ignored him and looked at the Minister imploringly. “Cornelius, this changes things. Perhaps we should—”

“This changes nothing,” Lucius interrupted, eyes narrowing. “This insinuation is entirely baseless. There’s no evidence I had anything to do with this poor woman’s unfortunate death.”

Fudge frowned and leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together beneath his chin, deep in thought. Diana felt her fingers curl upon hearing him refer to her mother as ‘this poor woman.’ How dare he pretend to have sympathy? Diana tried not to let her anger show on her face as she spoke up in a soft voice. She tried to look as innocent as possible, like the little, delicate porcelain doll Fudge believed she was. “Mr. Fudge, I’m a bit frightened. What if my mother’s death wasn’t an accident?” Diana willed tears to well up in her eyes, which wasn’t that difficult considering everything that happened recently. “What if someone forced her to take the poison, and what if that person follows me to this world? What if”—Diana racked her brain trying to remember the name Lucinda mentioned—”what if….Rita ends up needing to write a whole big article about how I died in the newspaper? I don’t want that to happen to me.”

At this, Fudge paled slightly and Lucius shot her a very brief yet venomous glare. “N-now now, there’s no cause for alarm,” Fudge said quickly. “That won’t be happening. Proper precautions are being taken to ensure your transition into the wizarding world goes off without a hitch. And Malfoy Manor is heavily fortified and well-protected—isn’t that right, Lucius?”

Lucius nodded slowly, eyes hard. Diana’s unspoken insinuation was thick in the air, but clearly Fudge didn’t want to address it directly. Diana decided that she’d force him to. “Well, what if—and I’m not saying I believe this, but—what if people think the reason I die is because of my f-father has something to do with my death since he, erm,” Fuck it, I’ll just be blunt. “has a history of harming women.”

Fudge blinked a few times, while Lucius’s expression was unreadable. “Why, I think I see what the problem is!” Fudge said, smiling. “Oh, my poor dear. I thought Arthur would have told you. Arthur, you should have told her!” He chuckled. “You see, child, your father was cleared of all charges.”

The professors at Hogwarts said something about this, that he wasn’t convicted for the crime. Diana didn’t give it much thought at the time and assumed it was simply a case thrown out due to lack of evidence. But how could they truly say he was ‘“cleared” now when she was sitting in front of them?

Diana looked at Arthur in confusion, whose lips tightened into a thin line as his gaze drifted down to the table. Her father maintained that same carefully-constructed, impassive expression. “That’s a bit…unexpected to hear, Mr. Fudge, considering”—Considering I'm right in front of you, you idiot.—“that I’m, um, here. Isn’t my existence proof that a crime happened?”

“Oh, please don’t misunderstand, Miss Malfoy.” Diana died a bit on the inside as she heard that term of address. It must have shown on her face because Fudge then said, “Yes, I suppose the name will take some getting used to, won’t it? But as I was saying, your father was cleared by the Wizengamot, the highest court in wizarding Britain. I can assure you all the evidence was parsed through carefully, and it was determined that all that unpleasantness with your mother–” Diana’s fists clenched from underneath the table and Arthur winced at Fudge’s wording–”among other dreadful allegations were the result of the acting under the Imperius Curse.” At Diana’s blank expression, he added, “That’s a curse that causes the subject to be under the caster’s complete control—truly dark and forbidden magic, that. Completely illegal.”

Wait, what? If Lucius Malfoy was being controlled, then that changes everything. Diana tried to reign in a flitter of hope that threatened to emerge. Lucius being controlled would match up with her mother’s account, and would also allow for Diana to have a regular father. He might be a jerk, but being a jerk didn’t automatically make him a rapist. But was it actually true, or was it bullshit? Arthur kept staring at the table, and Lucius’s expression was composed. “So…is the person who cast it in jail? Is there such a thing as jail for wizards?”

Fudge chuckled again. “There most certainly is! Azkaban, with not a single escapee in its entire history! Quite the deterrent for law-breakers.” His expression shifted slightly into something more serious. “As for the person who cast it, well, we haven’t been able to pin it on a specific wizard, but I can say with utmost certainty that it was a Death Eater. Possibly even You-Know-Who himself! There would be no way of knowing that now, of course, since all that nastiness has been done with for some time.”

Death Eaters. They were the group of dark wizards who kept her mother in that mansion by the sea and made her life a living hell. “I know a little about the Death Eaters, but I don’t know about the other person you’re talking about…sorry. I’ve only been here for a day and found out that magic was real a week ago.”

“Of course, of course. The Death Eaters had a leader you see, and, well, we don’t like to speak his name. Brings up bad memories and all, you know how that is.”

This all seemed too good to be true. And if it seemed too good in Diana’s life, it probably was. “How did you know he was being controlled? What proof was there?”

Arthur looked at Fudge, who shifted a bit in his seat. So that’s it. Mr. Weasley doesn’t believe that Mr. Malfoy–she couldn’t bring herself to actually think of him as her father– was under control.

Fudge said, with a smile that seemed slightly more strained than before, “Court officials looked over the evidence and came to that conclusion. It was many, many years ago, my dear, and I admit the details are foggy. But only the best and brightest sit in our courts, and I have the utmost faith in them, as should you! Besides, your father testified that he was acting under the Imperius.”

He gestured to Lucius, as if expecting him to start chiming in. He did not. If there was a smoking gun (or wand, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was) in the court case, then Fudge would have likely remembered, especially if they’re as chummy as they seemed, and if the case was really as well-publicized as Arthur made it out to be.

She knew she shouldn’t ask this question, but she couldn’t help it: “How did you know he wasn’t lying?”

Fudge looked startled. “I-I’m sorry?”

“How do you know he, erm, told the full truth?” she repeated, becoming very aware of Lucius’s cold gaze now resting upon her. “Is there some kind of truth spell that was used in the trial?”

“There is Veritaserum,” Arthur finally spoke up. “It’s not a spell, but it’s a potion that causes the person who drinks it to tell the truth. The Ministry chose not to use it during Malfoy’s trial.”

Fudge’s expression clouded over and glared at Arthur. “The Ministry made that decision because Veritaserum reveals what a person believes to be true. If Lucius was under the Imperius, then he could have been compelled to believe he was acting of his free will, and say as much. And there’s certainly been cases where the serum proves to be unreliable.”

“If there was a person who put him under the mind-control curse, then wouldn’t he be able to say who they were?” Even though she was talking about Lucius specifically, she didn’t meet his gaze, nor did he participate in the conversation.

Instead Fudge said, “Not if they wear masks, which the Death Eaters did. They wore these skull-shaped things. Hideous, really.”

“I don’t get why someone would want to do something like that…control someone else to harm another person, I mean. Wouldn’t they just–” she tried to search for a way to complete her thought without it sounding really awkward “–do it themselves?”

Fudge sighed. “Miss Malfoy, you’re still very young and innocent. The world of adults can be a perverse one, often guided by base emotion rather than logic. It’s best not to think too much of it. Why did the Death Eaters do anything they did? What makes a man decide to throw away his future for some revolutionary cause? If one must get their jollies from harming others, well, why go after Muggles specifically when there are so many other races that could easily be harmed with fewer repercussions? There was little rhyme or reason where the Death Eaters were concerned. If I was a betting man, I’d say whoever cast the curse thought it amusing to have an upstanding wizard as Mr. Malfoy commit acts of evil. They frequently did it to Aurors and other government officials. Forgive me if I’m bringing up bad memories, Arthur, but didn’t one of your brothers, er, harm his wife while under the influence of the Imperius?”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Yes, he did.”

Fudge’s eyes flashed in triumph. “So you see, it was unfortunately commonplace. Nothing unusual about that.”

“If the trial’s public record, is there… is there any way I could get a copy of the court case? I know you said that you forgot about the details and it would make me feel a lot better if I could see it and—”

“My dear girl,” smiled Fudge, but the warmth faded from his eyes. “You’re only eleven! The language would be far too complex for a child to understand. You should take comfort that your father is a good man who was forced into difficult circumstances.”

“I just don’t think my mum thought he was brainwashed,” mumbled Diana, only realizing she said it out loud when she saw all three men’s eyes locked on her.

“Yes, well,” Fudge gestured lazily, “It would be surprising if a Muggle would be able to pick up on the tell-tale signs of the Imperius. And what’s more, I’m sure it was a very troubling time for her. Very emotional. Sometimes our emotions can play with our perception. Why, just last week I received some concerning news regarding Gringotts, and—-well, it’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I thought I kept seeing a goblin follow me from the corner of my eye, when it was really my house-elf.”

“Diana,” Arthur said kindly. “Just so you know, there are a lot of people out there in our world who have the same concerns you do.”

“Concerns which are ultimately unfounded, Arthur. Lucius has proven time and time again to be a pillar of our community and—”

“I believe,” Lucius’s voice cut in silkily, “that this line of discussion will unfortunately lead to nowhere productive, Cornelius. Arthur has made it very clear for years now that he disagreed with the Wizengamot’s judgment. If he’s not willing to concede that the minds in the highest court in wizarding Britain have more wisdom on this subject matter than he has, then I feel your hopes in getting him to change his mind now are–forgive me–erroneous. He’s also apparently using his newfound position in order to turn my daughter against me, something I expressed concerns about earlier.”

“He didn’t–” Diana mustered her courage and attempted to step in, but Lucius ignored her and kept going.

“—The fact of the matter is, regardless of the personal views of those currently present, I have been legally cleared of all wrongdoing, and I will be adopting her into my household, as is her birthright. The purpose of this meeting is to discuss how best to deal with the usual instigators who will be approaching her with ulterior motives, as well as provide a basic overview of the expectations surrounding Arthur’s involvement in my personal family life.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Fudge rushed to agree. “Miss Malfoy, this relates to the concern you brought up earlier, which leads us to Arthur,”— he gestured to the redhead—“He’ll be checking in with you each month, making sure everything’s running smoothly. Did he tell you about this already?”

“A little,” mumbled Diana. “But I’m still a bit unsure about what he’s supposed to be looking for, exactly. I know you mentioned ‘mistreatment’ but I don’t really get what that means.”

Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “W-well, you see, it's not really the Ministry’s place to tell a man how to run his own home. The courts were quite firm on that…it’s why we had to do quite a few revisions to the bill, had to make the wording all nice and proper. We don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially if a similar…situation to yours arises. Mainly, Arthur here is going to be seeing if any of our laws are being broken. We have laws against murder, of course, maiming, behavior deemed excessively cruel and inhumane—like what happened to Nancy Carrow, the poor sweet girl—other crimes of, er, a more intimate nature.”

Just say rape, you coward. “What if I’m put under the mind control spell and act like I’m fine when I’m really not?”

Fudge’s mouth tightened. “As stated previously, those spells are illegal and You-Know-Who has been gone for over a decade now. There’s nothing to fret about.” Diana said nothing, so Fudge continued. “If you're concerned about anything else, well—you seem like a generally sweet and well-behaved child. I’m sure you won’t give a reason for Lucius to be too harsh, right Lucius?”

If Fudge was expecting some heartwarming reassurances or show of affection to Diana from Lucius, he was sorely mistaken. Lucius surveyed her with his sharp, cold eyes and simply said, “Hopefully not, though I will expect the same level of respect and obedience from her as I do from my son.”

I have a brother? Diana pushed the thought away and said as evenly as she could, “There’s no need to worry, Mr. Fudge. I’ll give my father the level of respect he deserves.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Fudge either didn’t pick up on the subtle insult or chose to ignore it. “Excellent. So, as I was saying, Arthur will be meeting with you and checking in. He will ensure that your well-being is intact and answer questions or concerns you may have that—”

“And—-just for the sake of clarity, since Arthur seems to have gotten the wrong impression earlier this week—Arthur Weasley will not be entering my home, correct?” Lucius interjected.

“Yes, that’s correct, Lucius.” Fudge held up a hand to stop Arthur, whose mouth opened in protest. “No, Arthur, Lucius brought up some reasonable concerns to the council. While we want to provide the young lady with the best transition possible, this isn’t meant to be an invasion of privacy and we certainly don’t want to set a bad precedent. These chats can be done in a public, or otherwise agreed-upon, location.”

“If I do have …concerns, will Mr. Weasley bring them up to you, or the Association?”

Seeing the expressions of Fudge and Lucius reinforced her belief that she made the right gamble by mentioning them. Diana knew very little about the ‘Association,’ but knew enough that they were thorns in Lucius and Fudge’s side. If there’s a way to use that to my advantage…

“He’ll be relaying concerns to me,” Fudge said firmly, looking at Arthur with a pointed expression. “The Association for Muggleborn and Muggle Rights is not part of the government, Miss Malfoy. They do what’s in their power to help Muggles and Muggleborns, but they don’t control the legislature or have nearly the amount of power they like to imagine they have.”

And yet they’re bothering you enough that you’re having this meeting with me. “Since they’re not involved in the government, do you think they’d have enough time to help find the person who might have poisoned my mum?” Diana asked innocently. “Maybe they could help us. I wonder if they even know she died…”

Fudge gave another strained smile and stood up. “M-miss Malfoy, I understand the change can be a bit….daunting, at times, but I have something that I believe might make you feel a bit more comfortable. Gentlemen, I’m going to take my leave for a few moments, but when I return, we’ll talk much more about the Association and how to, erm, address them and their…concerns. I’ll leave the three of you here to chat in the meantime.”

And with that, Fudge vanished into thin air with a soft popping sound, leaving Arthur, Lucius, and Diana alone in the room.

Chapter Text

Predictably, there was no chatting. The silence that descended upon the room was so thick and full of tension in a way that dwarfed Diana’s earlier accusatory outburst against Arthur.

The one who finally broke the silence was Lucius. “Honestly, Arthur. Are there no depths to which you will not sink? Is the Association paying you off so you could adequately feed that litter of yours?”

Arthur flushed in indignation. “Believe it or not, Malfoy, there are some of us in the Ministry who don’t compromise our principles every time someone flashes a Galleon.”

“And I’m sure it’s pure coincidence that you decide to champion this particular cause. Where was your sense of righteous injustice when the Rowle and Dolohov bastards were found?”

“I’m stepping in because I don’t want repeats of those tragedies! No one should have to go through what those poor kids did.”

“And because I’m a Pureblood with respect for my lineage and culture instead of rejecting everything my ancestors fought for, I must naturally engage in the same behaviors of some of my more unscrupulous peers. Truly, your prejudice knows no bounds.”

‘My prejudice? Really?”

“Diana.” She flinched slightly, not expecting Lucius to address her directly. She looked up tentatively. “While I’m sure this man has already made attempts to sully my name–which seems to, unfortunately, have been successful in your case–I would like to provide you additional context in order to better understand the situation. Arthur Weasley has held an unreasonable grudge against me—”

“I don’t have a grudge—”

“—since long before I even met your mother.”’Met’? That’s a kind way of putting it. Diana clenched her fists from underneath the table. “In fact, I believe it’s accurate to say that he was part of the group compiling that case not out of the goodness of his heart, but to get at me specifically. Arthur and I are on opposite ends politically, and I firmly believe that all his attempts to undermine me are merely the result of him wanting to push legislation without opposition—-”

“That’s absolutely not—-”

“—-or,” Lucius continued, voice raising slightly, “it might be simple envy.”

“Envy for what?”

Lucius kept his gaze on Diana while he gestured to Arthur, then back to himself. “As I’m sure you were able to infer, our stations in life are vastly different.”

“There’s more to life than just money, Malfoy,” Arthur said stubbornly. Diana wasn’t sure if Arthur noticed the way Lucius clenched over the snake head of the walking stick upon hearing that.

“Yes, but having a substantial amount of money certainly makes life easier, and what parent wouldn’t want to make life easy for their child?” Diana thought she detected a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, but wasn’t completely sure. “From what I managed to gather, Diana, your home life hasn’t been the most desirable. As Cornelius said, the Malfoys are a very wealthy family. We can give you all the luxuries you were denied in childhood.”

Before, her eyes kept darting between the two men like watching a ping-pong match, but they now settled on Lucius, who was looking at her with an expression that was obviously meant to appear pleasant, though Diana could tell there was another, darker emotion hiding behind it.

He was obviously expecting a reply, but Diana wasn’t sure the best angle to approach this from. Her gut instinct told her to verbally rip him apart for what he did to her mum, but the more pragmatic part that valued self-preservation cautioned against it. Still, she didn’t want to give up without a fight.

“I appreciate the offer,” she finally said diplomatically, “but it’s not really about the money. It’s about Mum. I know what Mr. Fudge said before, but you can see how me living with you is a bit…weird, right? Considering what you did.” She hurried and continued before he could interrupt. “Even if you were being controlled by the Imperial spell, it still happened. It also, I think—“

“Stop,” Lucius ordered, holding his hand in the air. “You will be coming with me to Malfoy Manor. That is non-negotiable. An illegitimate offspring of a wizard and a Muggle is always put with the wizard’s family. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

“That's how it’s always been decided in the past,” Arthur said grudgingly.

“But family doesn’t have to mean parent,” Diana said, a sudden thought occuring to her. “What if––what if I live with one of your relatives instead?”

She thought it was a good compromise, but neither of the men looked as if it were worthy of consideration. “Unfortunately, all my siblings have passed away. My mother is living in France, and she is unable to return to the country at the present moment. I don’t suppose you know how to speak French, so traveling there to attend the native wizarding school would be out of the question.”

“What about your father—my granddad?” Is he still alive? Can I live with him?”

For a brief second, both Lucius and Arthur’s masks slipped as they looked at her with twin expressions of horror. Guess that’s a no.

Lucius, who was the first to compose himself, said, “My father is, unfortunately, very ill and therefore unable to properly…care for a child at this time. So as you see, it is inevitable that you live at Malfoy Manor, our primary ancestral home. While I do agree that the circumstances are…uncomfortable for us both, this is our reality. I plan on making your adjustment to our world and the expectations of the family name a priority. The immediate focus will be on oration, as this seems to be the area of largest need.”

“What’s oration?”

“It’s the ability to speak without seeming constantly addled. Furthermore, you will learn the basic history of both our family lineage and our world as a whole. Narcissa, my wife, will teach you fundamental rules of Pureblood etiquette, as you will be traversing in those circles, even though you yourself are not Pureblood.” His lip curled slightly.

This woman’s going to hate me…

“Are your wife and son, um, okay with all of this?”

Lucius’s eyes flickered. “Narcissa has often expressed a desire for a daughter. My son will soon adjust to having a sister as well.”

It did not go unnoticed to Diana that Lucius completely avoided answering the question. “What about pets?” Diana always loved animals and was hoping that there might be something in that Manor that wouldn’t make her consistently miserable.

Arthur couldn’t restrain himself from answering, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “They have albino peacocks that roam around in their gardens.”

“Really? Wow.”

“Yes, they’re certainly more impressive than the gnomes and ghouls that infect your hovel, Arthur.”

Arthur’s face flushed again. “Diana, while you’re there, also be careful what you touch. Just in case there’s any dangerous, cursed objects lying around.”

Diana was about to ask Arthur how to identify cursed objects when Lucius snapped back, “Ah, at last we get to the essence of this whole farce. You see, Diana, Mr. Weasley’s desire to be the Ministry representative assigned to you is motivated by self-interest, as I mentioned earlier. He’s under the impression that my house is brimming with dark artifacts that I’m just waiting to use on unsuspecting Muggles—”

“—or sell, but that’s not the reason why—!”

“—and he’s hoping that you will report any so-called ‘immoral’ objects or activities to him. He’s using you, my dear, whether you realize it or not. Why else do you think he’s going to these lengths in order to ‘protect’ the offspring of a man he hates?”

Could Arthur be using her? The idea hurt to think about, but her mother did warn her about him, and it wasn’t as if any of the other wizards she met were of any great help to her.

Then again, just because he’s using her doesn’t mean that he couldn’t be a valuable ally. If his interests coincided with hers, then did his motivations really matter? She could use him just as he was (possibly) using her.

Besides, my father could just be lying anyway…

Arthur’s outraged tones jolted her out of her reverie. “Not everyone sees the world the same way you do, Malfoy! I’m helping Diana because it’s the right thing to do. Your feelings on blood purity are clear, and she’s a halfblood. And I-I was there…”

Lucius’s eyes hardened as clenched the snake head of his walking stick again. “If there’s something you’d like to say, Arthur, then say it. Where’s that Gryffindor courage?”

“All right, fine.” Arthur straightened up and glanced tentatively at Diana before continuing. “You know I was part of the group that helped compile the case against you. I heard the testimony. I’m not going to waste my time arguing on whether or not you were under the Imperius, but one thing I know for a fact is that Sarah White didn’t get the justice she deserved.”

“Ah,” Lucius leaned back with a hint of a smirk, and Diana wished she could slap him. “So that’s what this is. You feel guilty about your ineptitude and are now trying to live out your heroic fantasies through my child?”

“It’s not a ‘fantasy.’ A real child’s well-being is the reason for concern here.” Lucius rolled his eyes, but Arthur plowed on ahead. “But yes, I suppose I do feel guilty. I’m not ashamed to admit that. The whole situation was handled…well, it could have been handled much better, and I want to do better, not just for Sarah’s sake, but for the sake of any child who finds themself in this situation.”

“Your penchant for drama and misguided self-importance is truly astoun—-”

A loud popping sound interrupted him as Cornelius Fudge appeared out of thin air, beaming and holding…

“You went to get ice cream?” Diana asked, incredulous.

“Ah, I was wondering if they had these in the Muggle world! Good to see we can skip the explanations, then. Apologies for the delay, gentlemen—and the young lady, too, of course—but Florean had some questions for me about the property taxes and, well, you know how these things go.” He chuckled.

Lucius’s expression was back to the impassive, carefully sculpted mask he wore back when Fudge was previously in the room, and Arthur just looked tired.

Diana saw that Fudge was staring at her expectantly, and shifted uncomfortably. What was he expecting her to say? “Um, that’s alright. I’m sure that being in charge of all the….wizards is really tough. Probably works up an appetite.”

Fudge blinked. “You think—Oh, no, no.” He then threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh. “No, my dear girl. This isn’t for me; it’s for you.” He pushed the cold bowl into her hands as she gazed down at the chocolate, rainbow-sprinkled treat in front of her, trying to process what was happening. “You seemed very glum and uneasy earlier—and that’s not a criticism! Not at all. I understand this all might seem quite the big change, and it’s only natural to feel a bit anxious. So, I thought to myself, ‘Cornelius, what can we do to make this poor girl understand that we only have her best interests at heart?’ And then it came to me in an instant—ice cream! I’ve yet to meet a young child that doesn’t enjoy ice cream.”

Diana stared at the chocolate as many different thoughts entered her mind, the first and most prominent was fury at Fudge’s patronizing attitude. Did he really think that giving her a treat like a toddler would pacify her?

Still, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get anywhere without his favor. Reluctantly, Diana took a spoonful and lifted it to her mouth and swallowed. It really was quite good. “Thanks,” she mumbled. It was only with great effort that she managed to restrain herself from saying, Good thing I have this chocolate ice cream to eat, otherwise I might forget I’m going to go live with my mum’s rapist.

Pleased, Fudge took a seat. “Now, Miss Malfoy, there’s a matter we need to discuss. Nothing too bad, mind you, but it concerns a certain group that likes to make waves, and it’s my greatest concern that they’ll try to—hmmm, how to put this—try to give you an…impression of the Ministry that is not fully accurate.”

Diana had a feeling she knew what he was talking about, but wanted to hear him say it. “Are you talking about the Association? I thought they just wanted to help people?”

Fudge shifted in his seat. “The Association for Muggle and Muggleborn rights has quite the misleading name, you know. The Ministry cares very much about Muggle and Muggleborn rights!” Diana forced herself to take another spoonful to stop her from saying what was on the tip of her tongue. “But this group, well, they don’t agree, and make their opinions known. Quite loudly. And while they represent a minority opinion, they’ve become concerningly adept at manipulating public sentiment with various tales of woe and perceived injustice. They happen to think your current situation provides the opportunity to challenge many ideas that form the bedrock of our society. The perfect storm, so to speak. And since, well, since you’re so very young, we are simply concerned that they will attempt to take advantage of your innocence and twist your words, characterizing your situation as some kind of embodiment of Pureblood elitism and influence over the Ministry.”

“How is that characterization inaccurate, exactly?” Diana couldn’t help asking, although she knew it was unwise.

Fudge frowned and looked at the chocolate cup. “Lucius Malfoy is a pillar of our community, and Arthur will be checking in monthly to assess your well-being. You certainly won’t end up like poor little Lauren Rowle—“

“Linda Rowle,” muttered Arthur.

“—and I thought we’ve already gone over why your concerns are unfounded? Now, enough of that. We’re going to discuss what to say if they—or, more accurately, when they—try to reach out to you. They’ll probably wait until—-aren’t you hungry? You should keep eating. Ice cream always soothes the anxious soul.”

Diana looked down at her ice cream, which was starting to melt. She was about to take another bite when a thought occurred to her which made her feel like she was splashed with a bucket of ice water.

“D-did you mess around with this?” She gestured to the cup. She did start to feel weirdly calmer when she started eating.

“E-excuse me?”

Heart beating and thoughts racing, Diana asked, “It took you a long time to get here. D-did you put some kind of magic potion inside it, something that could make me more relaxed or open to suggestion or something?”

Fudge blinked and goosebumps crawled over Diana’s skin. Lucius looked at both Fudge and Diana curiously, and Arthur seemed to get very rigid.

“Of-of course not! I know you must feel—”

“Is there any way to prove that it’s not?”

“This is absurd!” Fudge sputtered. He looked at Arthur, who was looking at Fudge with an imploring expression. He hesitated, then sighed. “Arthur, if you must…”

Arthur took out his wand, pointed at the ice cream, and said, “Revelio!” Diana held her breath…and nothing happened.

Arthur exhaled a bit and Fudge seemed smugly satisfied. “As you can see, it hasn’t been tampered with in any way. It really is just ice cream, Diana.”

Diana felt like an idiot, not for the first time today. Her face reddened and she muttered, “Sorry.”

“You know, Lucius,” Fudge said, turning to him with a strained smile. “That suspicious mindset must be an inherited trait. Abraxas would be proud, if he were here.” Lucius’s eyelid twitched slightly.

“What did you want me to say to the Muggle Rights group?” Diana asked, trying desperately to bury her paranoid feelings and get the conversation back on track.

“Ah, yes,” Fudge said, leaning back in his seat, more at ease. “Now that I hope I’ve proven my good intentions, I’ve taken the liberty to provide you with a script to follow, should you encounter any of the rabble-rousers while out and about in Diagon Alley, or within the walls of Hogwarts.”

He reached into the briefcase he was carrying and handed a few papers to Diana, who scanned them over quickly. There wasn’t much to remember; it listed various situations and the appropriate platitudes, and they all sounded like bullshit. She started to read a few different ones out loud.

“‘The Ministry trusts the judgment of the Wizerngamot, and so do I.’ ‘While I know the background circumstances weren’t ideal, the Malfoys have been nothing but generous and helped me acclimatize to the wizarding world.’ ‘The Ministry has taken the appropriate steps to ensure the safety of all wizarding children, regardless of background.’”

She looked up, aghast. The rest were similarly Orwellian, or worse.

“You can play around a bit with the wording, but those should provide you with a general template on how to answer any unwanted questions,” Fudge said happily, hands folded in his lap.

Diana considered asking what would have happened if she simply decided not to do this: If she went up to the Association people and begged them to help, to make it very loud and obvious to that staff and students at Hogwarts that she did not want to be anywhere near the Malfoys, or the wizarding world as a whole. She certainly wanted to do that.

But self-preservation kicked in, as per usual, and assessed her options. It was obvious at this point that the Ministry was dead set on separating her from her grandma and living with the Malfoys. Speaking her mind might grant short-term satisfaction, but what of the long-term? What if they decided to alter her memory or personality to make her more amenable to going to Hogwarts, like what Diana suspected most likely happened to the Muggleborns with uncooperative parents? If she played along, then maybe, once she learned enough about magic herself, she could find some way to escape and fix her grandma’s memory. Maybe I’ll even be able to get justice for Mum, somehow.

“Okay,” she decided. “I think I can do that.”

Fudge looked startled for a moment, then he smiled broadly. Arthur looked surprised, while Lucius remained, as usual, expressionless.

“But it might be easy to…forget these lines, if I'm worried about other things,” she added.

Fudge’s smile faltered. “Have I not addressed all your concerns?”

Diana’s heart started to beat a bit quicker. If she played this right, then maybe, just maybe—-“When the people came to take me to the ministry, they erased my grandma’s memories. I just…I want her to live comfortably, and not in Amberton. She-she always liked Florida, so I was thinking she could live there and be given enough money somehow so she could just relax and retire and live a good life. A life”—fuck, this is painful—”a life without me, since I won’t see her or try to see her since this is going to be my new home.”

Voicing it gave the situation a certain finality that made Diana want to crawl up in a ball again, but she tried her best to keep her expression neutral. Fudge drummed his fingers against the table, tilting his head slightly, and Diana started to wonder if she pushed it too far. “She really is your daughter, Lucius! All right, Miss Malfoy, I believe we can find some way to provide your grandmother with your wish. It’ll be irregular, but not unprecedented. The Ministry will handle it.”

“Thank you,” she answered honestly. “I really appreciate it.” Now comes the hard part. “My other concern is about my mother’s death.”

Fudge’s smile thinned. “Yes, yes, that was most unfortunate. Very tragic…but haven’t I already assured you that proper precautions will be taken to ensure your safety?”

“Yes, and I’m thankful, but I’m also a bit worried about what people are going to be saying about it. I just want my life to be as normal as possible, and if there are all these rumors, then it won’t. So I was wondering if I could meet with these Association people and tell them that it was probably just an accident.”

The real reason Diana wanted to meet them was to know who her allies were. She didn’t want to be blindsided at Diagon Alley—whatever that was—or Hogwarts, and if they could do anything to help her, then she wanted to know.

“I don’t believe that’s a good idea,” Fudge said firmly. “If you wish to express your thoughts, I could arrange a meeting with a writer from the Daily Prophet and they’ll publish an article. It’s much safer that way. I know their ideas might seem noble to you, but—”

“But you said I was going to meet them anyway, right? You said they’d try to contact me at Hogwarts or that Alley place. This way, I could meet them on my own terms and be prepared.”

Fudge drummed his fingers on the table, looking contemplative. Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “This idea is absurd. The goal is to discourage contact, not feed into their delusions.”

“It could be a show of good faith, Cornelius,” Arthur said, stroking his chin in thought. “Contacting the Association would make the whole thing seem a bit more…transparent.”

Something flickered in Fudge’s eyes; a mental weighing of risks and rewards that was a daily occurrence for a man in his occupation. Seeing this, Lucius scowled and pushed back, “This child, alone with those vultures?They’ll twist whatever she says into what they want to hear.”

“If a Ministry representative is present, then wouldn’t that alleviate some of the concerns,” Arthur quickly said to Fudge. “I could be there and—”

“You?” Lucius shot Arthur a venomous glare that would have caused weaker men to cower in the corner. “Cornelius, this is a blatant power-grab. Surely you can see how Arthur is attempting to conspire against me with the help of these Mudb—these people. It’s downright insulting.”

“Lucius, there may be value in reaching out and establishing contact with the Association on our own terms. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I cannot deny that they will be using this case as some sort of rallying point, especially given the, er, coincidental timing of her mother’s unfortunate death. I know them well enough at this point to realize they have the grip of a Norwegian Ridgeback and will not simply let this go once enough time elapses. The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to agree with the idea.” At Lucius’s outraged expression, Fudge was quick to clarify: “But of course, it won’t just be the Association, Arthur, and Diana! Certainly not.”

“I refuse to be present for this farce,” Lucius hissed.

“I–I’m aware of that,” Fudge said nervously. “I was thinking about having Burgess attend the meeting. I trust that his presence will be more acceptable?”

Lucius was still stewing in his anger, but didn’t say anything else, which Fudge took as a sign of encouragement.

“Excellent! So, Miss Malfoy, your two concerns will now be addressed. I take it that’s all?”

Diana nodded, still astonished that she managed to get Fudge to give in to both of her ‘concerns.’ Fudge looked at Lucius and smiled. “Now that everything’s been cleared up, you can take Diana back to Malfoy Manor. Arthur, we’ll continue discussing the logistics of a few key items. Goodbye, Miss Malfoy.”

Diana grabbed her bag and opened her mouth to say goodbye to Fudge and Arthur, but before she could, she suddenly felt a cold, firm grip on her forearm, and within an instant, the room vanished.

****

Through the woozy haze that was characteristic of apparition, Diana noticed that her father had—thankfully—released her. Clearly, he didn’t want to touch her for any longer than necessary, which suited Diana just fine.

Looking around, she saw meticulously-trimmed hedges and, sure enough, fucking albino peacocks strutting about, just as Arthur said. There was one peacock that would be within touching-distance if she moved up a few feet, but upon seeing her, the peacock lifted its head and walked away, clearly sensing that the newest addition did not belong. To her right was an ornate fountain with the statue of a diamond woman holding an urn. She looked beautiful, and it was on closer inspection that Diana realized that the woman was moving in gentle, graceful motions, dipping and lifting the urn.

Diana pointed to the statue without thinking. “Is she alive?” she blurted, aghast.

Lucius followed her gaze, then looked coldly back at Diana. “It’s magic,” he said slowly, as if he believed her to be mentally challenged.

Diana had the impulse to say something, but she wasn’t sure what. Now that she was away from Arthur and Fudge, fear and anxiety started slithering through her again, coupled with anger and resentment. Not able to meet his gaze, she turned to look at Malfoy Manor.

It was an impressive yet daunting building, reflecting its age while belying strength. Lucius started walking towards the manor, Diana trailing hesitantly behind. She suddenly started to feel very nervous, as if walking closer to the entrance she was walking closer to the mouth of a beast. Perhaps she was.

Before they approached the doors, Lucius stopped abruptly, causing Diana to narrowly avoid knocking into him. He spun around and assessed her with his icy gaze. “You will be remaining in my custody until your seventeenth birthday, which is the day witches and wizards come of age in our world. While I realize these circumstances are…unexpected, it’s entirely possible for this to go relatively smoothly, should your conduct reflect that of a proper Malfoy. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand what you’re saying.” I’m just not agreeing to shit.

Lucius’s lips thinned, but he said nothing more as he approached the doors, which opened inward upon his approach.

Crossing through the doors felt like crawling into a dragon’s mouth, and Diana suppressed a shudder. The hallway was large and decorative, and the carpet had intricate designs that Diana would have inspected more closely, were she not expected to follow Lucius. There were paintings on the walls of what she assumed were ancestors of the Malfoy family, whose eyes seemed to watch her, until she realized with horror that they were watching her. I’ll never get used to this magical world.

Diana and Lucius approached what Diana imagined to be the drawing room, where she saw two individuals: a gorgeous blonde woman with blue eyes wearing what looked like some kind of dark green evening gown. She had a small yet well-practiced smile on her face, which provided a sharp contrast with the scowling, blonde boy beside her who was glaring daggers at Diana from the moment she came into view.

Guess this is my brother. Off to a great start….

Lucius strode over to the two, standing in the middle. “Diana, this is your stepmother Narcissa, and your brother, Draco,” Lucius said curtly, gesturing at the two.

Her ‘stepmother’ nodded. She had calm, congenial eyes, but there was something slightly sharp around the edges. “You may call me Narcissa, Diana. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the Manor.”

Of course Diana would call her ‘Narcissa.’ It shouldn’t even require clarification; there was no way in hell she was ever going to call this woman ‘mother.’ “Hi,” she mumbled.

Draco continued to say nothing and looked at Diana as if willing her to spontaneously combust. Lucius looked down at his son and frowned, and cleared his throat loudly.

“...Hello,” Draco practically spat.

“Hi,” Diana muttered again.

There was a beat of silence, then Lucius said, “Now that introductions are in order, I believe we can move on. Dobby!”

In a flash, a tiny, brown creature dressed in rags with bulging eyes and ears like a bat emerged out of thin air. Diana let out a shriek as her bag fell to the floor with a thud. “W-what’s that?” she asked, pointing.

The elf seemed to hunch over and wring its hands. Draco sneered. “It’s a house-elf. Don’t you know anything about our world?”

Lucius gave his son a light jab with the walking stick, causing Draco to wince slightly. “As I said previously,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “she has no prior experience with our world and customs. It’s no wonder she’s acting like a slack-jawed fool when witnessing something as basic as a house-elf. It’s simply an effect of being raised around Muggles.”

Diana felt a heat of indignation rise in her. “Well, there are some things I consider myself pretty well-versed in. Like laws, for instance.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened and his lips curled, but before he could speak, Narcissa clasped her hands together and said sweetly, “Dobby, take Diana’s bag to her room, and prepare the table for supper.”

“Y-yes Mistress,” the house-elf squeaked. Oh my God. It’s sentient? Diana suddenly felt awful for her reaction and opened her mouth to apologize, but she could do so, he snapped his fingers and Diana’s bag was gone. She suddenly felt very vulnerable without it.

The rest of the Malfoys then started walking to what Diana presumed was the dining room, and Diana was surprised to see a fresh feast of roasted meat, vegetables, and mashed potatoes already placed on the table. The silverware looked expensive, and the meal as a whole looked far more extravagant than anything Diana had ever eaten in her life.

Supper with the Malfoys was an awkward affair. Lucius was seated at the head of the table, with Narcissa on his right side and Draco on his left. Diana was sitting next to Draco, which was both good and bad: good because it put her farther away from Lucius, but bad because she was sitting next to Draco. The food was delicious, but Diana didn’t have much of an appetite for obvious reasons. While Lucius and Draco mostly remained silent in the beginning, Narcissa attempted to engage Diana in conversation that she responded to with one-or-two word answers (“How was your first visit to the Ministry of Magic?” “Fine.” “Is there a specific clothing style you enjoy?” “Not really.” “What are you most interested in studying at Hogwarts?” “I don’t know.” etc., etc.).

After a certain point Narcissa gave up, and she and Lucius spent the rest of supper discussing some kind of wizarding political drama–besides her own situation—that was happening. Apparently, Lucius had some big news that the Goblins were toying with the idea of using their bank to lend money to vampires and fairies and other nonhuman races, something that Narcissa acted scandalized over and Fudge adamantly did not want. Guess the magical world is just as prejudiced as the human one.

After supper concluded, Narcissa volunteered to walk Diana to her room, which caused Diana’s skin to prickle. The two walked through the ornate halls quietly, until they finally got to a wooden door with a carving of a unicorn and rose in it.

“This will be your room, Diana,” Narcissa added unnecessarily, gesturing toward the door. “If you need any assistance, call for Dobby and he will be at your beck and call. Later this week, I’ll be taking you and Draco to Diagon Alley, where we’ll be getting your supplies for the upcoming school year.”

“Alright,” muttered Diana, grabbing the doorknob.

Narcissa hesitated for a moment, as if debating on whether or not to say something else, but decided on a simple goodbye before turning around in a graceful movement and retreating down the hall.

Diana pushed the door open and blinked. It looked as though it were designed to be the bedroom of a young girl, and Diana wondered if it was made specifically for her, or if it once belonged to someone else. The design of the room served as a soothing contrast to the harshness of the rest of the manor. There was a light purple canopy bed with a soft white carpet and carvings of young maidens and mystical creatures carved into the walls. Unlike the earlier designs, they weren’t moving, which caused Diana to feel a twinge of curiosity against her will. Why do some pictures move and not others?

Her bag was perched neatly on the bed. Diana put her hand in to rummage through, finding—-with a growing sense of panic—-that the bag was empty. Upon closer inspection of the room, however, Diana could see the contents were already organized. Her sketchpad and the black book were perched on the windowsill, and some other books were placed neatly on a bookshelf. Diana quickly scurried over to the windowsill and sighed with relief when she saw the picture of her mum and Julie was still there. After opening her closet, she could see that her clothing was ironed and hung up as well. She clutched at the Girl Guides sash that was hanging up and took a few deep breaths, trying to mentally steady herself as the full gravity of what the next six years of her life would be like.

Because everything was packed, she didn’t know what else to do and sat on her bed, which was so soft that she wondered if it was magic. She then remembered what Narcissa said about the house elf and felt guilty. “Dobby…?” She asked hesitantly.

Just as before, the elf popped into view most immediately. It was wringing the bottom of its rags with his hands and glancing away nervously. “D-dobby begs the young Mistress to forgive Dobby’s horrifying visage, miss. Dobby is here to serve the young Mistress. Anything Mistress Diana requests, Dobby will do. If Mistress Diana wishes for Dobby to wear a mask, he will. If the young Mistress wishes Dobby to close the oven door on his fingers, he will. If—“

Christ, how badly is he normally treated? “I don’t want any of those things!” Diana insisted quickly. “I just—I wanted to apologize for reacting the way I did earlier. It was rude of me. I just didn’t expect—-um, I’ve never seen a house elf before.”

Dobby’s eyes bulged even larger than normal and his mouth gaped like a fish. After a moment of hesitation, he rammed himself into one of the dressers and started opening and closing the drawers on his hands.

“Stop it!” Diana shrieked in alarm.

Dobby immediately stopped and looked at Diana with wide, watery eyes. “Mistress Diana doesn’t need to apologize to a wretched inferior like Dobby, no no no. Dobby must punish himself when he acts above his station.”

Diana had a difficult time wrapping her head around all this, but a fresh wave of bitterness for the Malfoys swept through her. “I don’t want you to do that with me ever.” A jot of inspiration hit her. “I order you to never hurt yourself on purpose.”

Tears were now leaking out of the little elf’s eyes and he said through passionate sobs, “Master Malfoy’s the head of the household, miss. His orders take priority over yours, I’m afraid.”

Figures. Trying to make Dobby feel more at ease, Diana attempted a joke: “So I guess asking you to smother him while he sleeps is out of the question.”

She regretted it almost immediately when Dobby paled and began to look as though he were on the cusp of hyperventilating. “Th-that was a joke.”

“Dobby will still have to report this to Master Malfoy, miss,” Dobby whimpered.

Oh well…“Um thanks for putting my stuff away. I guess I’ll see you around the house sometime.”

Dobby’s eyes glittered with tears again. “The young mistress is thanking Dobby for doing his duty as a lowly house elf! Truly, she’s as kind and gentle as her mother.”

Gentle? Yeah, right. I—-wait. Suddenly, it seemed as though everything came to an abrupt halt. “W-wait, did you…did you know my mum?” Then, Diana remembered the description of a small creature that she originally thought might be Flitwick. A creature that would bring food, a creature whose small stature and bulging eyes seemed a lot like…

“Dobby!” Diana’s heart started to pick up speed. “You knew that my mum was—-that she was being held captive, didn’t you? And remember, I told you not to hit yourself!”

Dobby’s attention reluctantly snapped away from the cabinet he was eyeing. His eyes darted in different directions frantically and his whole body was trembling. “D-d-dobby has said t-too much already, young Mistress! It’s forbidden!”

“I’m not angry with you, I just need to know more about what happened. It’s really, really important to me. Please!”

Dobby paled. “Dobby beseeches the young Mistress for forgiveness, but it’s forbidd—“

There was a loud, pounding on the door that caused Diana to jump. Both Diana and Dobby immediately fell silent.

“I’m coming in,” demanded the voice from behind the door. Diana groaned inwardly—it was Draco.

Diana wanted, needed more answers, but she knew it wasn’t the time. She had—ugh—six more years, so she’d get answers from Dobby at some point—she’d make sure of it. “Go,” whispered Diana. Dobby looked up at her with shiny eyes again before vanishing into thin air.

Without waiting for a response, the door swung open and Draco sauntered in with a smirk. This unnerved Diana; he seemed so hateful earlier today and she didn’t think this expression was a good sign. He gave the room a quick glance over before looking at Diana with his sharp eyes and crossing his arms.

“Thanks for asking before barging in,” Diana muttered.

Confusion flickered on Draco’s face for a brief moment before turning into a scowl. “Why should I need to ask? It’s my house, and you’re not more worthy of inheritance than I am, regardless of what some idiots are saying.”

Okay, that’s an interesting bit of information. “I never said I was—-“

“The whole reason I came in the first place was because I happened to be passing by on the way to my room. I heard you rambling and begging to yourself like a madwoman and wanted to see it. Father and Mother are taking you on as some kind of charity case, but I know you won’t be able to cut it in the Malfoy family. You can’t even make it a day without cracking!”

So he heard her voice, but didn’t seem to know who she was talking to, or about what. The thought made her slightly less nervous, but a new agitation was starting to flutter instead. “I’m not ‘cracking.’ I was”—come on Diana, make up something good—-”doing a Muggle thing.”

Goddamnit…

Draco squinted. “Like what?”

Diana’s mind was racing as it rapidly attempted to weave a bullshit story that seemed semi-plausible, which was difficult since she wasn’t sure what Draco specifically heard. “It’s, um, it’s a Muggle custom when people move into a new house. They yell at the house and ask any ghosts to reveal their wisdom and secrets and stuff. So that’s why I was saying ‘please’ and…um, that’s it..”

Just go away, Diana silently begged, growing red in the face.

Draco, oddly, didn’t sneer, but instead furrowed his brows and tilted his head slightly. “So they confront any ghosts head-on? I didn’t think Muggles could be so…proactive. Hmph. I suppose a broken clock must be right twice a day.”

What the fuck? Ghosts are real too? Then, another thought rammed her into a head-on collision and felt like she was plunged into an icy bath: Mum. Is she a ghost now?

Before she could open her mouth to ask more, Draco continued. “We got rid of all the ghosts in the Manor anyway. Hogwarts is going to have ghosts, but if you try to perform this spectacle there, I’ll make you regret it. You’ll look like a lunatic, which is going to be humiliating for you, but also for me.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” She decided she’d rather get the information on ghosts from another source than dealing with Draco even more. “So, is that everything, or…?”

That was meant to be Draco’s cue to leave, but instead he took it as an invitation to plop himself down on Diana’s bed and take another look around.

“Where is everything?” Draco asked, frowning as he scanned the room. “Are you really so poor that this is all you have? That’s pathetic.”

“I had more,” Diana defended, “I just left them at home…my old home, I mean.”

He stood up and walked over to the closet, pawing through the outfits. “Guess that’s not a surprise after hearing you’d be able to coast along on the family’s wealth. Must be real nice, going from living as a Muggle one day to getting your dirty hands in the Malfoy fortune the next.”

Diana bristled, but tried not to take the bait. Attempting to sound cool and composed, she said, “I don’t care about your stupid fortune. I thought it was obvious earlier today that I’m not happy about being here, but if you’re mistaken, then I guess our worlds really are different. And—”

“What’s this?” Draco sneered, holding up the sash. Diana’s fingers curled into a fist. “It looks hideous. The colors don’t even match. If Mother sees this, there’s no way it’s staying in the closet. I might as well take it and burn it now.”

She snatched it out of his hand and put it back on the hanger before slamming the closet door shut, very narrowly missing Draco’s hands. His eyes widened slightly.

“If you try it, then you’ll regret it,” she snapped. “And also, about what you were saying before…my hands are clean, actually. Which is more than some in this household can say.”

Draco folded his arms. “Are you talking about Father? He did nothing wrong.”

Oh, fuck you. “If you really believe that, then get out. I’m busy and don’t have time for this right now.”

Diana marched over to the door and opened it, gesturing for Draco to get the hell out. To her annoyance, he remained rooted to the spot, scowling. “The only reason you’re acting like this is because you were raised by Muggles. You don’t understand the history of our people, and what it truly means to be a wizard. Anyone else would be thrilled to be in your position.”

Diana put her hands on her hips and scowled right back. “That’s interesting, because some witches and wizards I was talking to earlier said the opposite. They didn’t seem to think it was weird that I’d have a hard time living with my mum’s rapist.”

For the first time, Draco looked slightly rattled, which caused Diana no small amount of satisfaction. “Th-that’s not what happened! You’re just being fed lies by blood traitors and Mudbloods!”

“Oh, really?” Diana’s temper started to flare. “Were you there? I didn’t know wizards could time travel.” I hope they can’t, anyway.

“I don’t need to be there!” Draco’s face started to flush with anger. “Father’s not a bad person. I know what was…said about him, but he’s an honorable, respectable man. We’re in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, you know: one of the families with the purest bloodlines. There’s inherent nobility in the old blood.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Yeah, really ‘noble.’ This blood test said I’m his kid. I don’t know how you could say it didn’t happen if I’m living proof that it did.”

“Obviously there was some kind of….relation, but it wasn’t what you said it was.”

“Oh, you mean rape?” Diana asked innocently, enjoying how the word made Draco squirm uncomfortably. “Maybe Muggles and wizards have different definitions then.”

“Even if what you say is true, that’s his right as a greater being,” insisted Draco stubbornly, no longer making eye contact with Diana and instead glaring at one of the wooden carvings on the wall. “You wouldn’t expect a cat to let a mouse go because it feels sorry for its prey.”

In Diana’s cloudy haze of anger, she recognized that Draco was in the unfortunate position of grappling with the fact that the man he apparently idolized for so long committed an act so terrible, and was struggling with how to justify it. She knew whatever she would say now would just fall on deaf ears, so instead, she decided to bring up a thought that’s been on her mind since her conversation with Fudge. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway. He says the dark wizards used this mind-control spell on him, right? So if that’s true, then it’s not like it was his choice to do something so completely heinous.”

Diana watched Draco’s expression carefully and was not surprised to see a brief flicker of anxiety on his face before he smoothed his expression into an impassive stare that was eerily reminiscent of Lucius’s. “That’s right,” he said flatly.

She suspected the mind control story was bullshit, and Draco’s expression reinforced that belief. He likely knew that the story they fed to the public was different from what actually happened; just spending ten minutes with Lucius was enough for anyone to know that was sympathetic to the Death Eaters’ cause, let alone someone who actually grew up with him. But it seemed that the news about Sarah was something he was kept in the dark about.

If he didn’t know the true depths to which the Death Eaters would sink then may, just maybe there might be hope for him.

Or maybe not, she thought as he forcefully shoved her to the side before stomping out of the room.

After Draco’s footsteps were no longer audible, Diana closed the door and sprawled over her bed, exhausted. Six years suddenly seemed like a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

—Which might cause readers to wonder: Is Sarah White a victim or vixen? The truth may lay somewhere in the middle. Braden Bentley, 26, had this to say: “When I saw her dead body resting in the coffin, I could tell right then that she was a looker. Clear skin, slim body, soft black hair, gifted in the, er, chest area, and—

“Hurry up! How much longer are you going to make us wait?”

Diana’s fingers crumpled the edges of the Daily Prophet, giving a silent prayer that Braden Bentley would encounter a brutal, painful death at the hands of the next girlfriend (or girlfriends) he wronged. While her first impulse was to rip the paper apart like how she felt she was being ripped apart, she knew that it would not be prudent. This stupid newspaper was an important source to understanding this crazy world she found herself in, and it was even more important to hold onto it because technically, she wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place.

When Diana arrived for breakfast earlier that day, she saw Lucius and Narcissa hovering over the newspaper with cloudy expressions. The clouds quickly receded to make way for fake smiles and cheer when they saw her, and the paper vanished in a wave of the wand.

Naturally, that set off alarm bells.

After the stilted and awkward meal, Diana hurried back to her room and summoned Dobby, asking him to get her the paper. He said he was forbidden from doing so, but—as Diana quickly learned—when it comes to Dobby, it’s always a matter of phrasing the question correctly. He couldn’t give her that paper, but apparently it was okay for her to order him to get a new copy of the paper. Diana didn’t give him any wizard money and wasn’t sure how he was able to procure it, but she wasn’t going to ask questions.

“I’ll be out in a second, Draco!” she said as she folded the paper and put it in her dresser. Diana was both proud and surprised to see that her voice remained composed despite her inner fury.

It had been a few days since Diana arrived at Malfoy Manor, and—like she expected—the subsequent days were not much better. She had the dubious privilege of getting what Lucius called an ‘illustrious educational opportunity befitting a scion of the Malfoy line,” which essentially meant that Diana was getting a crash course of eleven years of history, etiquette, public speaking (Diana hated this one), and other subjects that Pureblood children her age were expected to know.

Narcissa was in charge of etiquette, and much to Diana’s annoyance, she still couldn’t get a read on this woman. She was not cruel to Diana and appeared pleasant and cordial—by far the most charming person in the household—but Diana doubted that Narcissa was as gentle and welcoming as she acted. She married Lucius, after all, and was probably as morally bankrupt as he was.

Unless she was forced into it, she thought as she opened the door. She was met with the scowling face of her brother who, unfortunately, had not seemed to have changed his opinion of her.

Olivia always used to tell her about how annoying brothers could be, and Diana didn’t fully understand the struggle until now. Draco was like a persistent mosquito, always coming back to annoy her no matter how many times she tried to deter him. Although he stopped shy of being outwardly aggressive, he would often give a drive-by snarky comment whenever he passed her in the hallway, would find things to criticize about her outfits (which stopped once he found out Narcissa provided a chunk of her new wardrobe) and would often do juvenile antics like ‘accidentally’ pushing into her. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of ‘No,’ or the concept of personal space, or the concept of tact, or the concept of anything besides his own wants. And it was very clear that Draco was used to getting what he wanted, until Diana showed up and upended his world.

“What are you smirking at?” he demanded, folding his arms.

“I’m thinking about how you’ll actually need to be nice for once since your parents are coming with us.”

Draco didn't mind letting his distaste for Diana be known—provided his parents weren’t within listening distance. Lucius and Narcissa wanted him to be polite to his new sister, but Diana didn't feel comfortable going to either of them to complain about Draco. So for now, she just ignored it. He wasn’t the first jerk she met in her life.

“Hmph,” Draco said, sticking up his nose as he began to walk down the hallway, “They’re not going to be with us all the time when we’re there. And they’re your parents, too.”

Diana bit down the retort that Narcissa was not her mother, and began to follow him. ‘There’ referred to Diagon Alley, which was apparently where wizard children bought supplies for school. This was going to be their first “family outing,” which was something Diana was definitely not looking forward to, and she doubted any of the other members of the Malfoy household felt any differently.

This thought was reinforced when she got closer to the fireplace and saw the stony-faced expressions of Lucius and Narcissa. When they noticed the children getting closer, they immediately smoothed out their expressions to appear more pleasant.

“Excellent. The family’s all here,” Lucius said, clasping his hands. The slightly condescending way he said ‘family’ did not go unnoticed. “I trust we’re all ready to leave?”

Since her arrival, her father spent most of his time ignoring her, which suited Diana just fine. The few times he would see her, he nodded his head and offered superficial pleasantries that Diana saw through and responded with either one or two word answers, or no response at all. She wasn’t going to entertain or play nice with her mother’s rapist, and so far he hadn’t pressed the issue. Thank God.

“Yes, finally,” Draco said, shooting Diana a look of disgust that she ignored. She peered at the fireplace. She learned enough over the past two days that this was one of the ways wizards traveled from place to place. Hopefully it won’t be as nauseating as apparating.

“Good,” Narcissa said, nodding at Diana. “Now, when we arrive in Diagon Alley, it is incredibly important for all of us to present a unified front and conduct ourselves in the manner we rehearsed yesterday.”

Diana felt three pairs of eyes lock onto her and she had to resist rolling her own. How could she forget? They spent almost four hours yesterday going over every possible scenario and how to react.

“Diana, it’s likely that during this outing, we’ll be accosted by the group the Minister warned you about.” The Association for Muggleborn and Muggle Rights. Diana didn’t bother to try to hide her smirk, and Lucius’s lips tightened. “Have you memorized the appropriate responses?”

Lucius was talking about the list of bullshit platitudes Fudge wrote down for her on the day she met him. Diana vaguely recalled sticking them in one of the desks and never looking at them again. “Yes,” she lied.

“Good,” Lucius said, though Diana could tell he didn’t believe her. “Regardless, there should be no need for you to speak with those degenerates if the procedures reviewed yesterday are followed.”

Diana thought this was a good time to bring up the obvious, in one last-ditch effort to avoid this entirely. “I know we went over anything, but with magic, unexpected things can happen, right? Wouldn’t it be better if I just…sit this one out and stay home? I’ll be fine with whatever….um, wand…you pick out, and whatever else I need.”

Although she knew it was futile, Diana wanted to at least try, because that would give her more time to read. Any downtime Diana had now was mostly spent reading, either the Elizabethan history library books that she never returned—and likely never would return—to the Amberton public library, or the books on the shelves of the library in Malfoy Manor.

The library in Malfoy Manor was cold and haughty—a sharp contrast with the warmth and brightness of the Amberton Public Library–yet still managed to give off a familiar aura of nostalgia. Diana had memories of curling up on one of the plush chairs in the kids section of the Amberton Public Library and curling up with a book, reading for hours. She remembered the colorful posters, her favorite being a blue one with a lightbulb and comic book style word art that said: Knowledge is Power. It was a corny poster that would be at home hanging on the walls of a classroom, but the adage proved true: knowledge was power. And Diana quickly realized that the only way she was going to gain any modicum of power was to have knowledge about where the hell she was, and what the hell was happening to her.

The more she read, the more she understood about the culture, history, and logistics of the wizarding world. The first book she read, she understood approximately 10% of what was written. The next time, it was 15%, and so on. As she was perusing through the shelves, Diana noticed that the vast majority of the books were dusty. She believed that the library was mainly for show, which was a relief, because if the Malfoys actually read any of the books or knew what was there, they likely would have removed all the books about wizarding law before she could read them.

“Yes, let’s leave her home,” Draco said, eyes wide and hopeful.

Lucius looked at Narcissa, and there was a split-second, unspoken conversation between the husband and wife.

“No,” Narcissa said firmly. “We’ll need to venture out sooner or later. It's unacceptable for people of our stature to skulk in the shadows like some kind of common criminal. We’re Malfoys.”

Your husband is a common criminal, lady.

“Perfectly said, Narcissa,” agreed Lucius, nodding his head.

Diana scoffed inwardly. She noticed Lucius frequently acquiesced to Narcissa, and wondered if he was always this whipped, or if he was trying to get out of the proverbial doghouse for having his affair made public to all of wizarding Britain.

The Malfoys stepped into the fireplace to perform the method of travel that she’d seen way too many times over the past few days. Diana grabbed the clump of Floo powder and—for a split second—considered calling out the name of anyplace else before remembering that she had no one to return home to. Then, she said, clearly but without enthusiasm, “Diagon Alley.”

****

Diana saw pictures of what Diagon Alley looked like in her books, but seeing it in person was an entirely different experience. Much like with the Ministry of Magic, Diana felt herself in awe of the architecture and business of the wizarding world. One thing that was different was that in the Ministry building, no one knew where she was, whereas in the streets of Diagon Alley, everyone seemed to know who she was.

The moment she arrived, she could feel their eyes on her, which quickly diverted away once the rest of the Malfoys arrived. She was told that the Malfoys’ influence was impressive, and that was not an exaggeration. Despite the scandal, there was no mockery or derision from any passerbys. Everyone either avoided eye contact with them completely, or gave them polite greetings and tipped their hats.

Everyone except one woman.

The woman in question had braided hair and looked as if she were in her mid-twenties, and was standing next to a newspaper stand. She was holding a stack of flyers in her hands and attempting to talk to the wizards passing her, some of which shot her a cursory glance, but most ignored her. Upon seeing the Malfoys, her mouth opened slightly, eyes widening when locking onto Diana. Then, Diana saw a flash of anger, and the woman started strolling confidently up to them.

Shit.

Lucius verbalized Diana’s thought under his breath before him and Narcissa put on their smiling facades. Draco looked between his parents and the woman nervously, paling slightly. As Diana suspected, her brother was all talk and no action.

“Mr. Malfoy,” the woman said, a bit louder than necessary. “I suppose the Fates must be at work again. I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

Lucius’s lip curled. “Miss Achebe, I don’t believe you’re allowed to be out here. Surely you haven’t forgotten what happened last time?”

Miss Achebe put one hand on her hip and used the other to gesture to the newspaper stand. “We have a permit now, and can spread the truth without all the bureaucratic paperwork dragging us down.”

Diana’s eyes drifted to the stand, where she saw various pamphlets and papers with headings like, CHILD SEPARATION IS A CRIME and HOW MANY MORE WILL MALFOY KILL?

Clearly, this was someone from the Association.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed as he saw the headings. “It’s curious you feel so strongly about the bureaucratic process, considering you seem to be courting it regularly. This is obvious libel, and I will be taking legal action. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Lucius began to walk and the rest of the Malfoys followed, but Miss Achebe quickly moved in front of Diana.

“Hi Diana,” she said, eyes much warmer now. “I’m Nia Achebe. Fudge said that you were going to meet with us sometime this month. Is that true, or was it just nonsense to keep up quiet?”

“U-um, it’s—”

Diana felt a firm gloved hand grip her shoulder, and Lucius was suddenly behind her, smiling, but with a coldness in his eyes. Diana became keenly aware of the gazes from passersby, who were pretending not to pay attention to the scene but obviously were. Her anxiety began to rise.

“As I was saying, we’re currently on our way to a different destination. The purpose of our visit to Diagon Alley was not to speak with you, I'm afraid.”

Nia ignored him and remained fixated on Diana. “Can I just have a quick quote, Diana? People are interested in what you have to say.”

Diana felt Lucius’s grip tighten on her shoulder in warning, and Diana’s temper rose. Without thinking, she replied, “Sure.”

Nia’s eyes gleamed. “Do you feel held down or limited, in any way, by the administrative process and the—”

Nia continued the sentence, but Diana couldn’t hear what she said. Her brain was clouded from nerves and she started to feel the familiar feverishness and panic that often accompanied occasions where she was expected to speak publically.

She noticed Nia looking at her with a frown, and realized that Nia was waiting for her to respond. Fuck, what was the question? Something about holding down? Her mind blanked and she blurted out the first thing that came to mind that sounded somewhat deep: “I think that, sometimes, the….um….the very things that hold you down can also carry you up.”

Nia squinted and Diana prayed that whatever word vomit came out of her mouth answered the question in some capacity. Lucius, for what it’s worth, seemed satisfied and said, “Good day, Miss Achebe,” as he steered Diana back towards Narcissa.

The further she moved away from Nia, the closer the feelings of guilt and regret came to the forefront of her mind. Diana knew from the moment she said ‘sure’ that she wasn’t going to say anything publicly that skewered the Malfoys, and only said that to make Lucius sweat a little.

Still, doing anything to make Lucius happy caused her to shudder. Her response was intended to work towards her own goal and benefit herself, not him.

The Malfoys continued to walk silently until Nia was out of listening distance. Then, Lucius said, “That was a surprisingly profound sentiment, Diana. I looked over the prewritten replies Fudge gave to you, and that one certainly wasn’t on the list. You were able to come up with that on the spot?”

It’s Dumbo. I got that quote from fucking Dumbo. Diana nearly wore out the VHS tape at her house when she was younger and could almost fully remember the movie’s script. “Yes,” she lied.

Pleased, Lucius turned to Narcissa, who was now smiling warmly. “Diana, how would you like a pet?” Narcissa asked.

Diana blinked. Draco turned to look at his parents, stormy-faced. “Why does she get a pet and I don’t?” he whined.

Lucius’s smile fell and turned to a scowl. “You had your chance with the puffskein. Stop complaining and take some comfort in the fact that Diana was able to reply in an articulate manner and didn’t bring disgrace to our family.”

She fully planned to ‘bring disgrace’ to the entire Malfoy family eventually, but knew that doing so now—as an eleven year old child who didn’t know magic—would result in failure. She needed to protect herself, first and foremost. “Can I have a cat?”

Narcissa nodded. “Of course. We’ll stop off at the pet shop after you and Draco get your wands and books. But first, we have to get the most important item on the list. Do you know what that is?”

Diana didn’t remember what the list entailed, and would have assumed wands would be the most important. “Pens and notebooks?” she guessed.

Three sets of eyes stared at her with blank expressions. “I’m talking about uniforms,” Narcissa said carefully. “It’s a prestigious sign of your admittance into Hogwarts. You and Draco are going to go to Madame Malkins to get your robes. Your father and I will be heading into Flourish and Blott’s and Olivander’s.”

Diana saw Draco smirk at her from the corner of her eye, and Diana felt alarmed. Not because she thought Draco would do anything really bad, but the idea of being alone without an adult in this wizarding world was frightening. As much as she disliked Narcissa and Lucius’s ‘company,' at least they were adults, whereas Draco was someone who thought a lot more than he actually did.

Perhaps sensing her reservation, Narcissa said quietly, “It may not be…prudent, for all of us to travel in one group for the whole duration of our visit here. Your father and I will be speaking to certain individuals, while the two of you get your robes. Remain in the store once you have finished.” She shot Draco a sharp look. “We will rejoin you afterwards.”

“Stop looking so worried, we’re just trying on clothes,” Draco muttered to Diana once Lucius and Narcissa left and the siblings started walking again. “It’ll be boring. Nothing important ever happens in Madame Malkin’s.”

****

Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions lived up to its name. The interior of the store seemed larger than it appeared on the outside, and Diana had no idea where to even begin.

Draco, fortunately, seemed far from a stranger to the shop, and brusquely called over a short, cheerful witch to get Diana fitted for her uniform. The woman–Madame Malkin—seemed friendly enough, but as always, Diana didn’t let her guard down and gave short, somewhat-evasive responses while the woman made conversation with her. Madame Malkin clearly knew who her new customers were, but was professional enough not to say anything or even let how she felt show.

After Diana finished, it was Draco’s turn. Just as he was about to go up, the bell near the front of the story chimed to signal the arrival of another guest, and the second store clerk started measuring Draco while Madame Malkin hurried to the front of the shop. Draco’s eyes glanced towards the entrance, then hardened as he looked at his sister.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” he hissed.

Diana was genuinely baffled. “Ruin what? Your robes?”

“I’m not talking about these stupid robes!” he whispered forcefully, causing the store clerk to frown as she continued measuring. Draco gestured subtly to a scrawny boy with glasses and messy black hair who was trudging his way towards them alongside Madame Malkin. “That boy's probably our age. Are you really that dense, or do you still not get it?”

Then it clicked, and Diana couldn’t help but snort derisively and roll her eyes. She ignored her brother’s glowering expression, which quickly smoothed over once the black-haired boy got closer. Over the past couple days, Draco never missed an opportunity to brag to Diana about his upcoming role to ‘help forge alliances with other noble families and strengthen the Malfoy name.’ At first, Diana took him at his word and assumed Hogwarts would be filled to the brim with miniature politicians, but after seeing Narcissa smile indulgently at him and Lucius’s subtle eye roll, Diana realized it was more likely that this was some kind of exaggerated fantasy to prop up his already-hefty sense of self-importance. Perhaps his insistence was born out of some desire to delude himself into believing that their family name hadn’t taken a massive hit in the court of public opinion.

“Hullo,” Draco said as the boy stood on a stool next to him. “Hogwarts too?”

“Yes,” said the boy quietly.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands,” he said. Diana was somewhat impressed by how cool and controlled Draco sounded, even though she knew he inwardly felt otherwise. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first-years can't have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Dear, sweet Lord….

This is how Draco thought he could win people over?

Diana could see from the expression on the boy’s face that this was going poorly. She weighed her options: part of her wanted to watch Draco crash and burn, but the other part actually felt a tiny degree of sympathy for her brother and his complete and utter inability to read the room and navigate social situations. And if Diana, of all people, felt sorry for someone’s social inadequacies, then it was a serious situation.

Then again, he’s probably not used to dealing with ‘commoners.’ Which this scrawny boy clearly was.

She made her choice. “You don’t see why eleven-year olds having a high-speed tool that can fly them anywhere is a bad thing?” she scoffed. “Really?” The boy turned his surprised green eyes to her, and she addressed him directly: “Just ignore him. That’s what I do.”

Draco’s neutral mask slipped in an instant and he scowled. “It’s just a broom, Diana. Gods, you’re such an embarrassment. You need to get used to our ways.”

“You’re new to all this, too?” the boy asked her. ‘Too.’ So this boy must be Muggleborn. And although he didn’t bring himself to ask it, Diana could perceive the question lingering behind in his eye: If she was new to this world, how did she know Draco?

“Yeah,” she said. “Draco and I are half-siblings. We have the same father but different mothers. I didn’t know I was a witch until a couple weeks ago.”

“I didn’t know I was a wizard until recently either,” he said, seeming to grow a bit more at ease now. “I was raised by Muggles.”

Diana saw the look of disgust on Draco’s face that the boy–thankfully—seemed to have missed. Draco appeared to lose all interest in the conversation, which was a good thing: Diana was extremely curious to see how this boy's experience was compared to hers.

But how could she phrase it in a way without stirring up bad memories? “Did you have someone from the school show up to talk to your family? What was that like?”

“I did,” he nodded. Then, his eyes lit up and his face broke into a smile. Diana was surprised at how much the smile transformed his face. It looked nice; he didn’t seem like someone who smiled often. “And it was bloody brilliant. My cousin has a pig’s tail now, and it still hasn’t been removed!”

Wait, what the fuck?

Draco snickered, and Diana felt a creeping sense of unease with the black-haired boy. She could tell there was this lingering sense of…sadness? Heaviness? A lingering sense of something when she met him. But to find a permanent disfigurement of another child entertaining?

Is this kid a sociopath or something?

Seeing Diana’s expression caused a shade of red to cover the pale boy’s face. “Th-that’s, um, he—he’s a cruel, nasty person,” the boy rushed to explain. “My aunt and uncle, too. They hated magic, and they hated my parents for having magic, and—”

“Your parents had magic?” Draco interrupted, suddenly looking at the boy with more interest. “Say, what’s your surname?”

The boy swallowed and glanced at the door nervously. Diana could tell he was reluctant to answer for whatever reason, which was a feeling she knew quite well given her new legal surname. “Stop grilling him, Draco.”

“Stop using words that don’t make sense!” he shot back, fingers twitching.

“Now, now,” chided Madame Malkin, who was still working on the other boy’s outfit. “There’s no need for this. Let’s all get along. We’re almost done here, anyway.”

There was a sense of quiet that descended for a few seconds until Draco asked, “Do you know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” mumbled the boy.

‘Obviously he doesn’t know the houses if he was raised by Muggles, you idiot, ’ Diana wanted to say, but didn’t, for the sake of keeping the peace while the store clerks were there. “There’s four. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and…Slytherin.”

She felt ridiculous saying those nonsensical names out loud, but from what she read, the founders were practically deified by wizarding society and taken very seriously.

“How do they decide who goes where?” the boy asked curiously.

That was a somewhat difficult question, and one Diana wasn’t able to find a clear answer for. “They’re based on personality, I think. Gryffindors are supposed to be brave but reckless, Ravenclaws want more knowledge, Hufflepuffs are kind and loyal—”

“They’re brainless followers, that’s what they are,” sneered Draco. “Gryffindors are dumb, but Hufflepuffs are a different breed of dumb. A Gryffindor would rush in to fight an army of trolls without a plan while a Hufflepuff would try to appeal to appeal to their nonexistent ‘better nature.’”

Diana saw Madame Malkin’s lips thin and rushed to intervene. “Well, I think Hufflepuff seems like a nice house. And then there’s Slytherin. That’s the house for…” Diana trailed off, not sure how to finish while remaining relatively objective. Death Eaters—the group that targeted her mum, Julie, and David—were almost entirely composed of Slytherins. But Slytherins also made up the majority of government officials, businessmen, sports players, and enough other occupations in the wizarding world that made Diana uncertain as to whether the house itself was the cause of the degeneracy.

“Accomplished wizards,” Draco said proudly. “The ones with cunning and ambition. The ones who go after what they want and take it and don’t let anything stop them.”

Diana wasn’t sure if that was an intentional slight against her mum or not. While he had no qualms picking on her, he generally steered clear of that topic, though she couldn’t count out the possibility that he’d stoop that low eventually. “And that’s not always a good thing,” she snapped.

Draco caught her gaze and looked almost embarrassed for a split second before resuming his characteristic haughtiness and pride. “Ignore her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve been raised in this world my whole life, and I know what I’m talking about. Slytherin is the house of greatness. If you’re in Slytherin, those Muggles you were talking about earlier wouldn’t dare speak against you. It’s the house of the powerful, not the powerless.”

The scrawny boy’s gaze drifted to Draco, looking slightly cautious, but much less wary than earlier. “You make it sound like it’s the best one.”

“It is,” Draco said confidently, smirking slightly at Diana.

Diana opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Malkin’s assistant finished up with Draco, allowing the siblings the chance to finally leave.

“See you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said Draco, only allowing himself a brief glance back before leaving through the doors.

“Draco, Narcissa said to stay in the shop and—-” Aaaand, he’s gone. Sighing, Diana turned to the black-haired boy. “Thanks for not strangling him with the measuring tape. I know the way he talks to people isn’t…normal.”

The boy smiled slightly. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met any other wizard children besides you two.”

She winced. “We’re your first impression? Sorry to hear that.”

The boy’s smile grew, and a warmth came into his green eyes. “It’s alright.”

There was a loud, obnoxious knocking on the glass window near the entrance, and Diana saw Draco scowling. She gave a sigh of irritation. “I should go. It was nice meeting you.” Even though you might be a sociopath.

“Goodbye,” he said, as she hurried to leave.

As she opened the door and left with Draco, she felt a pair of curious green eyes lingering on her as she did.

****

After finding and reuniting with Narcissa and Lucius fairly quickly—and enduring the expected “we told you to wait!” speech from Narcissa—the siblings headed into Ollivander’s to get their wands.

It felt extremely surreal to be standing in a shop looking for a magic wand to purchase, and—not for the first time—Diana felt extremely out of place. The shopkeeper was an old man with piercing eyes who—like Madame Malkin—had enough tact not to say anything, even though he clearly knew who the Malfoys were. After trying several wands, Draco found one that “chose him” and—-eventually—Diana followed. The siblings’ wands were both made of Hawthorn wood, though their cores were different. Draco had unicorn’s hair, which is what Diana wished she had.

Instead, the wand that worked best with her had something called Thestral’s hair. Diana had no idea what the hell a Thestral was, but was able to discern through snippets of conversation that it was a type of horse with a connection to death, and usually resulted in unstable wands. Maybe when I cast a spell, it’ll backfire and kill me, she thought hopefully as she ran her finger down the smooth edge. After trying other wands to no avail, her father and stepmother reluctantly concluded that the Hawthorn-and-Thestral-hair wand was the best fit and they were willing to purchase it, though they were frowning as they did.

After that, the Malfoys split up again: Narcissa took Draco to Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment, while Lucius—much to her disgust—was the one who took her to the Magical Menagerie to buy her pet.

Diana wondered at first why he volunteered when the disdain was mutual, but it soon became clear: He wanted to make a big public show of affection. This was meant to be a calculated PR move that allowed him to play the role of the indulgent father, regardless of her complete lack of enthusiasm or reciprocation. As she perused through the store, looking at the owls, Fire Crabs, toads, ravens, owls, puffskeins, rats, and cats, he periodically showered her with (clearly fake) warmth and affection that would have been amusing to watch if she wasn’t the recipient. Instead, she found it insulting, though she noticed with horror out of the corner of her eye that it seemed to be working on at least some wizards, who smiled or nodded subtly. She wanted to throw one of the Fire Crabs at those idiots.

There were, however, some who didn’t fall for the fact. The ones who avoided eye contact or the ones whose lips curled downward. The ones who made Diana realize that maybe, just maybe, the wizarding society might be as lost as she thought.

Diana always had a soft spot for animals and was tempted to exploit the “long-lost heiress” role by asking Lucius to buy the whole Menagerie in front of the whole store. Instead, she focused on the cat section and struggled to maintain a composed expression in the face of such cuteness. Traditional witches were always depicted with black cats, so Diana went straight for the opposite: an adorable white kitten with soft blue eyes who was curled up to the side away from the other kittens. When Diana held her finger out and the white kitten nuzzled it with her head, Diana knew that was the one.

As they were leaving the store–cat snuggled in a carrier—Lucius attempted to make small talk. “So, what will you name your new pet?”

The pent-up irritation that was building in her from Lucius’s earlier bullshit caused her to have a flash of boldness. “Sarah.”

She was willing to put up with the “happy family” facade in public, but despite what she implied to Nia earlier, she was not browbeaten and wanted Lucius to know exactly what she thought of him.

The ‘caring father’ mask dropped in an instant and he looked at her with such rage that Diana was sure he would have slapped her if they weren’t in public. His face was back to his usual composure within an instant. “Absolutely not.”

“But why?” she pressed in a light tone, knowing she was pushing boundaries but too inwardly incensed about his faux-affection in the Menagerie to care. “I thought you said it was ‘paramount to preserve and respect the memory of this Muggle woman.’”

Diana was echoing one of the most egregious quotes from the newspaper article, where Lucius offered fake sympathy as if he wasn’t the man most responsible for ruining Sarah’s life.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that?”

Diana shrugged. Lucius sighed irritably and said, “I realize you hold ill will towards me, but as the Minister said, I was cleared of all charges. I was acting under the Imperius spell, not of my own free will. In fact, from a certain point of view, I’m almost as much a victim as—”

He stopped his sentence short; even Lucius Malfoy wasn’t quite shameless enough to finish that sentence.

“If it’s not your fault, then why do you care?” Diana asked, inwardly steamed but trying to keep her tone even.

“It’s a blatant insult to my wife.”

She clutched the straps of the cat carrier tighter. “Your behavior was an insult to—”

Diana stopped when she saw Draco and Narcissa walking towards them in the streets, Narcissa using her wand to levitate several bags. When she saw the kitten in the cat carrier, a small smile graced her lips, while Draco looked like he swallowed a lemon.

“Why’d you get a white cat?” he complained. “Everyone knows black cats are the proper companion for a witch.”

“Draco, shush,” scolded Narcissa. She turned to Diana and asked gently, “What’s its name?”

She didn’t look at Lucius, but could feel his glare of warning on her. She purposely paused for a moment before saying, “....I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to decide,” she said, gesturing to the bags behind her. “Lucius, shall we return to the manner? I believe we’ve finished all our shopping and have made a sufficient public impression.”

“...Yes, I believe that’s for the best,” Lucius said, eyes still locked on his daughter.

Given the disparity between Diana’s response to Nia and her response to him, Diana knew that Lucius wasn’t sure what to make of her yet, and she was fine with that. The less he knew what she was thinking, the better. Knowledge was power, after all, and the last thing Lucius Malfoy needed was more power.

****

At the same time Diana was looking at the pets in the Menagerie, Harry Potter was deep in thought as he ate his chocolate and raspberry ice-cream with Hagrid, the gameskeeper of Hogwarts and Harry’s own personal savior.

He smiled as Hagrid rambled about Gringotts and Quidditch teams and other topics Harry knew little about. The simple act of being in Diagon Alley and listening to Hagrid talk was enough to fill him with a giddy sense of excitement.

Even now, it was hard to believe this was really happening. It was hard to believe that, after ten years of loneliness and misery, someone came to free him from the Dursleys. And not only that, but he found that he was special—-a wizard. And just any wizard, but a wizard who was able to defeat a fearsome dark lord as a baby, and everyone loved him for it.

It was like something out of a storybook, and Harry often caught himself unconsciously pinching or scraping at his skin in order to ensure that no, this was not a dream or some cruel prank of the Dursleys, and yes, he really was the beloved hero of the wizarding world and could do magic.

“What’re you smilin’ about, Harry?”

“I’m just thinking about how wonderful this all is,” Harry said truthfully, a bit embarrassed.

But it was true: everything about this world really was wonderful and whimsical. Even the ice cream he was eating was the best dessert he ever tasted in his life.

“Heh,” Hagrid chuckled, grinning broadly. “If you think this is great, just wait ‘till you get to Hogwarts!”

Hearing the name of the school filled Harry with a mix of excitement and nervousness. “I met two Hogwarts students in Madame Malkin’s.”

“Did you now?” Hagrid said, brows raised. “What’d you think of 'em?”

“The boy seemed a bit stuck-up, but after I talked to him a bit, he wasn’t as bad as I first thought,” Harry said as his thoughts drifted to the pair of siblings. “And there was a girl who was nice, but…” Harry’s voice trailed off as his face started to flush.

Hagrid’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he wagged his eyebrows. “Oh? A girl?"

“I-it wasn’t like that!” Harry insisted, face growing even redder. He shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth in hopes that it would cool him down.

Yes, she was pretty, but that wasn’t why he was blushing. He recalled the expression of horror on her face when he laughed about Dudley’s pig tail. She probably thinks there’s something wrong with me, he thought glumly. Maybe there is.

Was it wrong to take pleasure in Dudley’s misfortune? Maybe. But did Harry feel bad about it?

No, not even a smidgen. Even if it was wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to care about Dudley and whatever effect that had on Dudley. He remembered the cupboard, the beatings, the taunts, the lack of love. He remembered being five and crying himself to sleep, wondering why his family hated him. He remembered the moment when he accepted that nothing he could do would ever change their feelings, and the numb, aimless existence he had afterwards, which was only broken by the arrival of Hagrid.

He knew the Dursleys would have found it hysterical if Harry was the one with the pig tail. So why shouldn’t he feel the same way about Dudley?

The blonde girl didn’t know what the Dursleys did to him, how miserable his existence was. She didn’t know how it felt to be that powerless.

Powerless…

“Ah, I didn’ mean to tease you, Harry,” Hagrid said, eyes full of worry. It took Harry a moment to mentally process that Hagrid was worried about him.

“O-Oh, it’s fine!” Harry rushed to assure him, more careful now of his expression. “I was thinking about something else. You said we’re heading out to get my books and cauldron, right? Where are we going to get them?”

Hagrid’s eyes lit up as he started telling Harry about Flourish and Blotts, and while the two of them headed down the streets of Diagon Alley, Harry allowed his thoughts to drift back to the conversation in Madame Malkin’s. He thought about the four houses and their qualities, and mused over which house he’d like to be in.

The thought of asking Hagrid about them didn’t cross his mind; he learned enough in Madame Malkin’s. And in a towering yet decrepit mansion across the country, Abraxas Malfoy gazed into his teacup with a pleased expression.

The dominos were beginning to fall.

Chapter Text

“But Mother! I don’t want her here, and she doesn’t want to be here, either! Why can’t we just dump her in a Muggle orphanage?”

Narcissa Malfoy’s face remained cool and composed, but those who knew her well might have been able to notice the barely-perceptible tightening of the lips. I don’t want her here either, my darling.

With a brief flick of her wand, the dresses and robes in her wardrobe hovered, allowing Narcissa to parse through her collection without obstruction. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times, Draco,” she said with a sigh, running her hands down the velvet emerald sleeve of one of her winter robes. “She is staying. You must compose yourself, my dear. This behavior hardly befitting for the heir to the Malfoy household.”

Draco crossed his arms and sulked, but said nothing. Despite her chastisement, Narcissa’s heart ached for her son. She was tempted to scoop Draco in her arms and murmur that she didn’t want the stain of her husband’s infidelity plaguing their household either, and that the girl’s presence devalued her more than it did him.

But she didn’t. Because the one thing Narcissa Malfoy knew above all else was the importance of maintaining proper decorum. Instead, Narcissa allowed herself to give her son a soft smile as the dresses rotated once more. “I know it’s been…difficult, but you’ve been rising to the challenge admirably, Draco. I’m proud of you.”

While her son’s expression still looked sour, the edges around his eyes thawed slightly. It wasn’t a lie, either; Narcissa was impressed with Draco’s restraint towards Diana, though she knew it was solely due to his fear of displeasing Lucius.

Lucius…

Thinking of her husband caused Narcissa’s finger to twitch slightly. She remembered sitting on their bed last night, watching him pace around their bedroom restlessly like a jungle cat.

****

“—can barely form a coherent sentence, stumbles around with the grace of a baby giraffe, is arrogant and delusional enough to act as though she is superior to us. I don’t know how we’re supposed to endure this nonsense for the next six years.”

Narcissa folded her hands on her lap. “It’s been one week, Lucius. This arrangement will never be desirable, but in time, she’ll learn to conduct herself properly. She’s already made a slight amount of progress.”

‘Slight amount’ might be a bit generous, but Narcissa was observant enough to recognize that Diana was soaking in knowledge of wizarding customs, even if she feigned ignorance.

“Hmph. Not nearly enough, if you ask me.”

Narcissa’s voice adopted a cooler tone and raised an arched eyebrow. “Perhaps you would prefer instructing her in etiquette?”

Narcissa had the rare privilege of being one of the few who could see Lucius Malfoy rattled. He rushed to course-correct. “O-of course, I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were—”

She raised a hand and Lucius stopped. “For eleven years, she was raised in a low-class environment, and the standards and expectations reflect that accordingly. You must temper your expectations, dear.”

“Yes, I suppose I must,” muttered Lucius, looking weary. He walked over and sat on the bed beside her, and she put her hands on his arm. “Being in her mere presence is humiliating, let alone being seen with her in public. And if she’s sorted into Hufflepuff…” He closed his eyes and Narcissa saw a vein on his neck throb. “The amount of mockery Nott and the others will feel entitled to give us will be unbearable.”

Narcissa’s light fingers trailed up his arms and began to caress his shoulders. “We won’t be in the public eye forever. This will pass, my love.”

He subtly leaned into Narcissa’s relaxing motions. “Yes, I suppose that’s the only consolation. I look forward to the day when I can raise her properly without the constant interference and hand-wringing of these simpletons.”

Narcissa’s fingers ceased in their movement and she frowned, though Lucius couldn’t see her expression from behind him. “That day will come, but remember, your father’s gaze will still be on you.”

When Lucius’s eyes opened, they were blazing with a simmering fury. “By all accounts, the man should be dead by now. I’m convinced his spite is what’s sustaining his existence.” His mouth deepened into a scowl. “As arrogant as he is delusional…perhaps the girl gets it from him.” He scoffed at a memory, and closed his eyes again. “Throwing in my lot with Dumbledore and the rest of those Order fools…it’s patently absurd.”

Narcissa resumed her motions as her husband continued to rant against Abraxas’s perceived ineptitude. She whispered her agreement and offered the appropriate wifely platitudes when the times in the conversation were appropriate.

But in truth, she didn’t find the idea quite as absurd as her husband.

Narcissa Malfoy was, and always had been, a supporter of the natural order of the world. She knew the proper place of wizards, witches, Muggles, and Mudbloods, and felt that allying themselves with blood traitors was about as desirable as agreeing to live with trolls.

But Narcissa was also a mother, and the best interests of her son must always come first.

****

Feeling a rush of affection for the boy, Narcissa lowered her wand, causing the dresses to hover. She walked over to Draco and brushed her lips against his forehead.

“Mother, I’m eleven!” he protested, blushing a bit. “You don’t need to keep treating me like a child.”

She smiled indulgently. “I’m aware you’re a young man now, but you’ll always be my boy.”

And I'll do anything to keep you safe. Even if it means holding my nose and working with filth.

Draco’s lips pursed into a pout, but Narcissa could tell it wasn’t fully genuine.

Narcissa wasn’t prepared for the extent that having a child would change her worldview and priorities. While she firmly supported the idea of blood purity, the radicalism that often accompanied those ideas no longer held the same appeal it once did. She enjoyed the safe, comfortable existence their family shared since the fall of the Dark Lord. There was a certain power to the status quo, and the idea that the Dark Lord could return and upend everything they worked for was an unsettling thought.

And she did not want her son to become a Death Eater. As long as she breathed, it was simply out of the question.

And so, from the background, Narcissa began to subtly move the pieces in place. She hoped nothing would need to come of it, but if Abraxas was right, it would benefit the family immensely to have multiple options available. While her husband remained stubborn and oblivious, Narcissa was ingratiating herself with key individuals whose favor could potentially prove advantageous.

****

“I confess I didn’t expect this, Cissy. The first, I could attribute to a temporary lapse in judgment due to your husband’s misconduct. But the second?”

Narcissa took a sip of tea to shield the bottom half of her face and give her a moment to mentally compose a response. “I’d wager I’m more surprised than you, Andromeda.” She put the cup in the saucer and looked at her sister to create a facade of humility, which was more difficult than she anticipated. “But after our conversation, it made me realize how much I missed having a sister. I know we may never see eye-to-eye politically, but I’m hopeful we'll be able to work on repairing our relationship nonetheless.”

Andromeda arched one eyebrow—a classic Druella Black expression all three Black sisters picked up on and adopted as their own. “While I’d like to believe in your honesty, surely you can understand my skepticism?”

Narcissa nodded and set her teacup saucer on the table. “I do, and I don’t begrudge you for feeling that way. But if you have reservations, I certainly don’t wish to intrude where I’m not wanted.”

“I didn’t say you’re not wanted,” Andromeda replied quickly. Narcissa smirked inwardly, but outwardly maintained a neutral mask. “However, my family doesn’t have the privilege of being able to brush ‘politics’ aside so easily. The concept of blood purity directly affects my husband and daughter, and their perceived worth in our world.”

Narcissa nodded in a way that she hoped would come across as sympathetic, even though she had no sympathy for her older sister. It was her decision to marry a Mudblood, after all. She knew what she was getting into. “Your feelings are understandable. I know the importance of keeping one’s family safe.”

“Indeed,” Andromeda said stiffly, bringing her teacup to her mouth and taking a sip. “And speaking of family…I’m assuming part of this visit has to do with that poor child?”

Narcissa bristled inwardly. She should be saying, ‘poor Draco.’ “Yes. The girl’s living with us, and I have concerns about how she’s adjusting. It’s quite a change, going from living in a Muggle household to a wizarding family as prestigious as the Malfoys.”

Andromeda did not bother hiding her disgust once she heard the word ‘prestigious.’ “Cissy, the kind of…behavior our Father engaged in with Muggles was wrong, legally and morally. I know it seemed like—”

“I didn’t come here to be lectured,” Narcissa redirected firmly. “I was merely curious if you knew ways I could make her transition more comfortable.”

Andromeda’s expression morphed into one that was more unreadable. “I do. And it’s good that you’re thinking about her comfort, because the rest of the world is watching your family very carefully.”

“I’m well aware,” Narcissa replied coolly, meeting her sister’s gaze without flinching.

****

And the world was watching. Lucius didn’t realize how important it was to get on the girl’s good side, but Narcissa did, and was determined to make that happen.

Narcissa raised her wand again and the dresses and robes continued their rotation. “You need to be strong, Draco. You’re the culmination of not just your paternal lineage, but mine as well. Always remember this.”

“I know,” he sulked. “It’s just…hard sometimes.”

Narcissa was the only person Draco felt comfortable showing vulnerability to throughout his life, and it warmed her heart that—despite his age–-he still felt that way.

“Life will always throw obstacles in our way, Draco, but I know you have the ability to overcome them. You’re stronger than you think.”

You are your mother’s son, after all.

****

The next day, Narcissa knocked on the door to Diana’s room at daybreak. After a minute, the door creaked open, and Narcissa was met with a curtain of disheveled blonde hair and a groggy expression. “Whuh y’doin..?”

Narcissa plastered a fake smile on her face. “Good morning, Diana. You’ve been working hard this week, and that hasn’t gone unnoticed. Today I’m going to be taking you on a trip to somewhere very special. Get your finest winter robes and meet me downstairs by the fireplace.”

Diana rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times. “...what?”

Not for the first time, Narcissa wondered if the girl had some mental deficit. “Today we’re going on a trip,” she repeated, slower this time. “Get your finest winter robes and meet me downstairs by the fireplace.”

“I heard what you said,” she mumbled, now looking more awake and guarded. “Where are we going?”

Diana always seemed to be on guard and suspicious, which Narcissa couldn’t fault her for. Perhaps she can fit into this family yet. “We’re going to a place called Hyperborea. It’s a land located in the north, so you must dress warmly. In order to get there, we’re going to need to travel to the Ministry and use one of the Portkeys there. We’ll be able to bypass the usual waiting time if we leave now.”

Diana looked fully alert. “I never heard of that place before.”

Narcissa was tempted to roll her eyes, but knew better. “I’d be surprised if you did, since it’s a community of all wizards and witches. Even among our kind, the Hyperboreans are…”—how to put this kindly?—”reclusive. They’ve kept to themselves for centuries, but do occasionally permit outsiders to visit certain locations. Now get dressed; I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Narcissa waited patiently by the fireplace as the minutes ticked by. Eventually, Diana came trudging down the stairs, winter cloak clasped around her neck in a sloppy fashion. With a brisk wave of her wand, Narcissa readjusted Diana’s robes in a way that was more in line with the expectations of a family of their standing. She ignored the way the girl’s body tensed up and the glare directed at Narcissa.

“Shall we?” asked Narcissa, gathering a clump of Floo Powder in her hands. Diana reluctantly did the same.

It’s a tragedy, Narcissa thought bitterly as they made their way through the Ministry building in order to get to the Transportation office. A month ago, Malfoy Manor was full of comfortable, content inhabitants. But now? Now, everyone who lived there was angry and miserable. Yet another reminder to never grow complacent.

Despite the stares and stolen glances of passerbys, Narcissa strode proudly and confidently to the Transportation office, a stark contrast with Diana’s shy and awkward stumbling. The inside of the office looked larger than the outside would indicate, with various talismans and artifacts adorning the walls. As Diana gawked at the items, Narcissa filled out the customary paperwork and bureaucratic nonsense given to her by the office clerk—a frowning gray-haired man. No doubt a supporter of Weasley. Uneducated fool…

After paying a hefty sum (I certainly hope this won’t be a waste…) the clerk removed from the wall the Hyperborean stave that functioned as a Portkey. Diana’s eyes shone with curiosity as she examined the animal patterns carved into the stave. Narcissa tried to hide her smile; she knew she made the right choice of destination.

Grasping the stave immediately brought forth the uncomfortable sensation of traveling by Portkey, but within seconds they arrived at their destination. Narcissa almost stumbled as Diana knocked into her, looking pale and woozy. Alarmed at the prospect of her vomiting, Narcissa had her sit on the grassy field as both of them took in Hyperborea.

Narcissa’s eyes wandered downward and smiled as she saw a wide-eyed Diana looking at the expanse of the magical dome that encased the realm. The barrier ensured that Hyperborea maintained a climate of eternal spring, a stark juxtaposition with the icy peaks and snow visible from beyond the dome. On the inside, a vast expanse of green was visible: meadows, trees, and forests covered the landscape, with two rivers running through the land. Although the buildings and statues looked–and were—ancient, they were well-kept and looked new.

The building closest to them was smaller, more like a hut than anything else. A Hyperborean man was sitting next to a table on the outside, arms folded and eyeing the visiting pair warily. Narcissa knew the majority of Hyperboreans were against the idea of any outsiders entering the dome, but just as in Britain, politics could be complex.

After giving Diana a minute to recover, she strode over to the table, where the man gestured toward the cup and knife on the table. Narcissa took the knife and pressed it against her thumb, making sure the droplets of blood fell into the cup, before handing the knife to Diana. Her stepdaughter didn’t take it.

“It’s required that all visitors offer a few drops of blood before entering,” explained Narcissa.

Diana squinted at the cup, then at the man who was seated, who looked unamused. “But why? Is this blood ritual some kind of….satanic thing?”

Not for the first time, Narcissa had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “No, the Hyperboreans don’t worship Satan. The blood is kept so it could be used to keep track of any visitors.”

And assures retribution if anyone breaks the rules, Narcissa thought, but chose not to say. She noticed the man smirking from the corner of her eye. Yes, it would be best if Diana remained oblivious to the darker side of this land, and one of the reasons the mere existence of the Portkey in the Ministry was controversial.

“But was it even washed?” Diana asked, aghast, pointing to the knife. “It seems unsanitary. What about the germs?”

‘Germs.’ It was a foreign word to Narcissa. A Muggle fear, perhaps? “These steps have been followed countless times. There’s no need for concern. If you’re concerned about using the knife, I can do it for you to ensure the wound isn’t too deep.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Diana said, snatching the knife from Narcissa’s hands. After a brief moment of hesitation, she pressed the knife into her thumb and winced as the drops trickled into the cup. It was always an odd experience, performing blood magic so casually in Hyperborean soil while the same actions could have severe consequences in the Ministry.

As Narcissa expected, the wound was cut too deep. She took out her ebony wand and whispered a healing spell, causing the wound to begin the healing process. “Thanks,” Diana muttered.

That’s progress... “You’re welcome.” She turned to the Hyperborean guard. “We’re heading to the Temporal Gardens.”

The man gestured lazily to a nearby path. Narcissa gave a polite nod—that the man did not deserve—and began to head down it, Diana trailing behind her. “Why didn’t he say anything to us? Does he understand English?”

“If he’s manning the table in the visitor’s area, then he undoubtedly understands English. He simply chose not to speak. The natives here can be a tad…haughty.”

Diana laughed at that for some reason, but didn’t say any more. For a few minutes, they continued to walk in silence, taking in the sights. Life-sized wooden carvings of men, gods, and creatures from Hyperborea’s past could be seen at various distances. They passed the bearded, blonde men and women in white dresses who shot them looks of curiosity before continuing their tasks of tilling the farmland, weaving cloth, plucking flowers to make garlands, and gathering kindling for tonight's Wicker Man sacrifice, something that Narcissa knew Diana must not see, under any circumstances.

And she had no desire to see it either. While Narcissa could appreciate the beauty of the country, she always found the Hyperboreans to be…unsettling in their backwards ways. Their relative isolationism from proper society established a culture that walked the line between primitive and advanced. Their lives seemed very slow, very tranquil, which had its own appeal, Narcissa supposed, but not the kind of life she would ever want.

Eventually, they arrived at the destination. Near the entrance to the garden was a woman etching a symbol into a runestone. She looked up when she saw the two visitors and pointed inward to the gardens. Without saying a word, Narcissa walked through the archway.

“Is this it?” Diana whispered. “No offense, but the walk to get here was more interesting.”

The “garden” didn’t have much foliage—there were dirt paths that led to dirt circles, with stones outside the circles that had writing on it in the Hyperborean language. Once the Hyperborean woman was out of earshot, Narcissa replied, “You’ll see why I brought you here soon. Walk into the circle over there.”

She pointed to one of the nearby circles, and Diana’s eyes narrowed. Narcissa’s lips thinned and she walked into the circle first, Diana only going after her. Once they entered the area, there was a shimmer and the world around them changed: it looked as if they were now in a eucalyptus forest, and their winter robes suddenly seemed like a detriment instead of an asset. .

“Where are we now? Are we still in that hyperplace?”

“Hyperborea,” Narcissa corrected, “And yes. This is a type of magic meant to create additional space.”

Diana wandered closer and then saw what they were waiting for. From out of the bushes It was a little doglike creature with a long tail and stripes running down the back. Diana looked like she was about to faint.

“Th-that looks like a Tasmanian tiger!” she breathed, eyes wide as saucers as the animal tentatively made its way closer and closer.

Narcissa smiled, one of the few times today that it was genuine. “It is. The Hyperboreans have a penchant for Divination and love of the natural world. Throughout history, their scouts have ensured the continuation of species that would have otherwise died out long ago.”

Narcissa had no interest in animal welfare but knew her stepdaughter did, and bringing her here seemed to be a good judgment call. The opportunity to pet a Tasmanian tiger was too great to ignore. The girl was crouching by the creature and petting its head reverently, as if in a daze. When she saw baby Tasmanian tigers peeking their heads over plants, she let out an unladylike squeal and started babbling about how this was “the most amazing thing ever.”

Narcissa wasn’t sure how long they were there, but after Diana was satisfied, she turned to Narcissa and beamed, which was a very unfamiliar expression coming from the girl. It looked nice. “What other animals are there?”

Narcissa guided her back in the direction they came from, which caused the air around them to shimmer, and they were in the garden again. Over the course of the next couple hours, they entered the other circles and saw the Great Auk, Passenger Pigeon, Quagga, and more.

“I didn’t know magic could do something like this,” Diana whispered, still in awe as she stroked the beak of a Dodo.

Because the girl’s back was turned, Narcissa didn’t bother hiding the look of triumph on her expression.

After they saw all the creatures, Narcissa decided to take Diana down the hill to the nearby village so they could get a bite to eat before returning to Britain. Going through the gardens triggered a change in Diana; she was no longer the reticent, quiet girl, and instead babbled on without a filter, talking about the animals and the habitats and speculating about all the ways magic could be used to stop or reverse human impact on the environment.

Narcissa, for the most part, was content to let her talk. It was by far the most conversation she’d seen from the girl, and she didn’t want to do anything to discourage it. Upon arrival in the village, Narcissa heard the familiar tunes of lyres and heard and saw singing and dancing, no doubt getting a head start on celebrating the festivities for later that night. While Diana’s eyes were roving over the dancers and the wooden sculptures of hands reaching out from the ground, Narcissa purchased a plant-based dish that the two could share.

She was pleased to see Diana still seemed enthusiastic and receptive when they sat on a wooden table to eat. Because of this, she didn’t bother correcting the girl when she started gobbling her food down like an uncultured commoner instead of a refined lady.

“What’s the wizard religion like?” Diana asked between bites as she eyed the golden statue of Apollo, wreathed in garland in the town square.

‘Wizard religion.’ How quaint. “There is no ‘wizard religion.’ While the majority of British wizards follow some form of Christianity, others follow the old gods, or a combination of both, and for others, no gods at all. I wasn’t aware that Muggles only had one religion.”

“They don’t,” Diana said quickly. “Does Hyperborea have a Ministry, too? Do all countries?”

“No, different countries have different forms of government. Most countries today have some form of elected ruler and the wizarding communities are separate from Muggle ones. Hyperborea is more….old-fashioned, and ruled by three priest-kings. In America, there isn’t a centralized magical government at all. Witches and wizards live alongside Muggles, though my understanding is there’s some kind of group that ensures the existence of wizards remains secret.”

“Wow,” Diana breathed, nibbling her legume. “This is…a lot. It would actually be really cool if I didn’t—”

She trailed off and her expression grew gloomy again. Frustrated, Narcissa attempted to coax more conversation out of her. “‘If I didn’t what?”

Her gaze lifted, and when it did, there was a spark of defiance in Diana's eyes. “If I didn’t know the awful things magic could do.”

There it was, they were getting closer to the heart of the matter. “I know you have a low opinion of magic. But magic is a tool, much like how Muggle weapons can be used for a variety of purposes. You saw today the beneficial effect it can have on the world.”

Diana was quiet for a moment and stuffed some more legumes in her mouth. “Small, ladylike bites,” Narcissa chided gently. Not for the first time, she felt a pang of longing that she would never be able to birth a daughter of her own.

Diana blushed a bit, but followed Narcissa’s instructions. Then, she said, “I don’t get how you’re okay with this.”

Narcissa knew what Diana meant, but wanted her to say it. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“With your husband raping a woman, with me being here, everything. Why aren’t you upset?”

Narcissa blinked and felt herself growing still. She wasn’t used to such bluntness, and took a moment to compose an appropriate response. “Don’t misunderstand, Diana. The past couple weeks have been…difficult for me as well. But I am the Lady of Malfoy Manor, it is my duty to conduct myself in a manner appropriate to my station. If there’s nothing that can be done, then I must accept the situation with grace and maturity. I’m hoping you feel the same.”

“I don’t,” she muttered. “I can’t just…accept it. You know what he did to my mum.” Her voice started to waver and Narcissa shifted her position. Narcissa found it difficult to muster sympathy for the Muggle woman, considering how much she ruined Narcissa's life, but was able to feel some degree of pity for the child. “The Hyperboreans didn’t just accept that these animals were going to be extinct, they went out and saved them.”

‘Because they had the means to do so,” Narcissa said gently. “You don’t. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

Diana looked down and fiddled with her legumes, her morose expression a sharp contrast with the laughter of carefree children in the background. “Why did you bring me here?”

Narcissa leaned forward a bit. “I brought you here so you can understand that magic is more than what you think it is.”

“I know that’s not the whole reason.”

Narcissa laced her fingers in her lap. “I want what's best for my family. And what’s best for my family is what’s best for you.”

Diana glanced up skeptically, but didn’t say anything and popped another legume in her mouth. The silence was tense and awkward, but it was broken by a smug, gravelly voice.

“Narcissa, my dear! What a fortuitous surprise.”

Narcissa felt her toes curl, though such a reaction wouldn’t have been discernible from the outside. She turned to see an elderly man with a sullen, brown-haired boy beside him. The man’s smile was friendly, though his eyes were calculating. “Cantankerous. I was under the impression that the ministry forbade you from using the Ministry Portkey after that unfortunate incident two years ago. Surely you didn’t enter Hyperborea the other way…”

Cantankerous Nott’s eyes glanced downward as he lazily waved the thought away with a gesture of his hand. “Of course not. You should know by now, my dear, that wealth and influence goes a long way.”

Stop staring at my chest, you lout. “Of course,” Narcissa nodded politely. She looked at the young boy beside him—Theodore, she remembered. The boy’s countenance always seemed gloomy and forlorn, and today did not seem to be any different. “What brings you here?”

“The summer sacrifice, of course.” Damn. Narcissa looked at Diana from the corner of her eye, who grew paler and put her food down. “I wanted to show young Theodore what a proper wizarding society looks like. One that doesn’t tolerate blood mixing and never found itself beholden to the riffraff. And speaking of blood mixing, is this the girl?”

Narcissa felt Diana tense and inwardly cursed her luck. If she knew Cantankerous Nott, of all people, would be here, she would have prepared the child adequately. “Yes, this is Diana.”

The boy’s expression suddenly reflected more interest as he peered at Diana. “....Hello, my name is Theodore. We’re going to be classmates this year. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Diana’s eyes flickered from the boy to the gold statue, then—after a few beats—responded. “...Hi….nice to meet you, too.”

“The blonde coloring is from Lucius, of course, but the facial features are all from the mother. The resemblance is quite uncanny, actually. I can’t imagine what Lucius feels every day when he sees her.”

Narcissa saw Theodore wince slightly. Narcissa silently prayed to any other god that might be listening that Diana wouldn’t take the bait. She could tell the implication did not go unnoticed by her stepdaughter, who was growing even paler and her eyes were widening. Her mouth opened slightly and she turned to look at Narcissa in panic.

Narcissa was extremely grateful that Diana was looking to her for guidance instead of confronting Nott head-on. “He feels the desire to instruct her in our ways, I can assure you. Now, Diana and I will be taking our leaves. Good day, Cantankerous, Theodore. Come along, Diana.”

Narcissa gracefully stood up and began to follow the path back to the hit the portkey brought them to, Diana scrambling behind her. Narcissa could feel Cantankerous’s cold gaze on her, but gave the man what he deserved: no reaction.

Once they made quite a bit of distance, Diana leaned in. “Narcissa, than man—”

“Not now,” Narcissa whispered lightly.

“What was he talking about? My mum—the sacrifice—and—?”

“I said, not now,” she whispered, firmer.

They went back to the hut and the same man from earlier pointed to a Galleon they needed to touch in order to transport back to the ministry building. Once Narcissa signed the paperwork again and they left the office, Diana began her bombardment of questions.

“What sacrifice was he talking about?” she hissed as they walked through the crowds and towards the fireplaces that would allow them access to the Floo Network. She looked far more frazzled now than she did during the conversation; clearly, the walk back got her worked up.

“The Hyperboreans have a very different culture from ours. During specific times of the year they have certain…rituals. Of course, that sort of thing would be illegal in our society, but—”

“I can’t believe I thought those folks were okay!” Diana cried out in exasperation. “They’re just as evil as the wizards here!”

Narcissa bristled, but also felt slightly uneasy at the possibility of the child making a scene in the Ministry and scanned the crowds to make sure no one was listening in. “I hardly think it’s fair to apply British values to a separate society. If you grew up in Hyperborea, you’d find those rituals normal.”

“That’s the same excuse I heard about why your husband raped my mum. There’s right and there’s wrong, and those things don’t change.”

Narcissa was tempted to roll her eyes at the girl’s naivety. Was I ever that pig-headed? “You’re entitled to your own beliefs.”

Diana’s eyes narrowed at the patronizing tone, but didn’t say anything else as the pair grabbed a handful of Floo Power and returned to Malfoy Manor. Her husband and Draco were in Knockturn Alley for the day, which left Narcissa and Diana alone.

“Who was that nasty arsehole with the gray hair?”

“Language, Diana. And his name is Cantankerous Nott. He’s a powerful man, and not the most pleasant, as I’m sure you surmised.”

“Cantankerous? That’s his real name?” Diana scoffed as she slouched down on the sofa. “It fits.”

Narcissa allowed herself to give a small smile. “Perhaps his parents had the gift of Sight.”

Diana didn’t smile back. “Th-those things he said about—about my mum. He was there. He had to be. I—”

Narcissa inwardly debated how to handle this, but figured practicality would be the best option. “I’m sure he was.” Diana looked stricken. “He didn’t address you on purpose. He wanted you to lose your composure.”

“Well, it worked,” she snapped, tears forming in her eyes.

“It did not. I’m proud that you were able to maintain a sense of decorum.” Diana said nothing. “There’s no getting around it. In our social circles, you will be encountering children of men who knew your mother.”

“Raped my mother, you mean.” She stood up and glared venomously at Narcissa. “How could you not be bothered? You’re a woman!”

Narcissa’s mouth thinned. She expects me to have solidarity with a Muggle simply on the basis of gender? “I refuse to engage in this topic any more. I already told you my feelings earlier, and have nothing more to say.”

Diana said nothing, but spun around and stomped to her bedroom. After the girl was out of sight, Narcissa felt a twinge of uncertainty in her stomach. Was she being too firm? Did she undo any good will she established earlier in the day?

Narcissa didn’t see Diana again until dinner. Her stepdaughter was quiet as she usually was during that time, jabbing at her potatoes while listening to Lucius tell Narcissa about deals he made in Knockturn Alley. Throughout her husband’s recollections, Narcissa examined Diana closely from the corner of her eye. She didn’t seem angry anymore, but there was…something behind those eyes. Something that made Narcissa uneasy. When her husband pressed them about how their day was, Diana said nothing–typical–and Narcissa kept it light and vague.

Later that night, Narcissa found herself at the girl’s door again, much as she did in the morning, except the door was slightly ajar. Feeling like she was twelve again, she peeked in to see Diana sitting on the bed, looking down at something in her hands with furrowed brows.

Narcissa opened the door and Diana looked up, startled at the creaking sound and unwanted visitor, before shoving whatever she was looking at behind her. ”Hello, Diana. May I come in?”

Diana’s wary eyes met Narcissa’s cool ones. “Well, you’re already pretty much in here, soooooo…..”

Narcissa forced a smile and sat down next to her on the bed, ignoring Diana’s rigid body posture and hardening eyes. “The room is getting untidy. You should have Dobby come in tomorrow to organize your belongings.”

Diana shrugged. Clearly, Narcissa needed to change tactics to elicit a response. “Whatever you were holding, it must have been quite fascinating to hold your attention.”

Diana’s hands clenched the sheets of her blankets. “It’s nothing,” she muttered.

Should she press? It was advantageous for the Malfoys to get on the girl’s good side, and it would be easy to find what was there without Diana’s cooperation; she could order Dobby to find it without her step-daughter even knowing. But this was turning into a power play, and Narcissa couldn’t let Diana think her rudeness throughout the day would just be ignored. “I’d like to see it.”

Diana’s eyes looked up, a mix of fearful and challenging. “It’s nothing, just a photo.”

“A photo of what?”

Diana’s frown deepened into a scowl and her eyes grew sharper. Sometimes, Narcissa really could see the Lucius in her. “Just my mum, that’s all…”

Oh? “I’d like to see it,” she repeated. And now, she genuinely did.

The moment was tense; Narcissa knew Diana was wondering if it would be confiscated, and Narcissa was pondering the same thing herself. She aso wondered if Diana would challenge her on this, and what would happen afterward. But after a moment of hesitation, Diana reached behind her and pulled out the photograph before slowly handing it to Narcissa, who tried to overlook the hatred in the girl’s eyes.

Looking down at the picture (How odd, to have pictures that don’t move), she saw two young women: a blonde one, and a raven-haired one. Cantankerous Nott was right—Diana did look like her mother, who Narcissa surmised was the black-haired one. The girl had a natural beauty to her, with soft eyes of an ingenue who had no idea what horrors were in store for her.

She was pretty, that fool Bentley was right about that. But seeing this photo made Narcissa more confident that it was as Lucius said—a youthful indiscretion. He wouldn’t be intrigued by an empty-headed, doe-eyed fool. That woman might have had her husband’s body, but Narcissa had his heart.

“Can I have it back?”

Narcissa’s eyes flickered upward. After a pause, she handed it back to Diana, who snatched it away quickly as if Narcissa would pull her hand back at any moment.

“What did you come for?” Diana muttered.

Narcissa wasn’t quite sure herself. There were a lot of thoughts in her mind, but the one she settled on verbalizing was: “I came to tell you that we’ll be doing more lessons on social etiquette. It’s paramount that you learn how to hide your emotions better. I keep mine masked around you. You should do the same.”

Before Diana could respond, Narcissa stood up and strolled to the door, closing it on her way out. As she walked down the hallway, she recalled with alarm that her advice to Diana was something Druella Black told her when she was about to start Hogwarts.

Narcissa wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Chapter Text

“Go ahead, pick one! You can choose anyone you like.”

Diana’s eyes surveyed the delectable array of chocolates, cookies, lollipops, and other sweets. If it wasn’t for the chocolate frogs leaping atop the counter and the children floating a few inches above the ground after chewing the Fizzing Whisbeees, Honeydukes could have easily passed for one of the high-end sweet shops Mrs. Zhang would sometimes take her and Olivia to.

“Um…” Diana looked up at the menu and tried to find the cheapest treat which, to her horror, was something called Acid Pops. The next couple items–Cockroach Clusters and Caramel Cobwebs—didn’t seem promising either. “I’ll take the…Chocoball?”

Arthur Weasley hastily handed the cashier a few silver coins he couldn’t afford while Diana admired the mixed scent of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate. She wasn’t quite sure why the man insisted on paying, considering Diana was no longer strapped for cash while Arthur was, but assumed it was a matter of personal pride. The concept was foreign to Diana, since she never had any qualms letting others cover the cost of anything when she was in Amberton.

As they left the shop and wandered through the grounds of Hogsmeade, Diana’s eyes naturally gazed up towards the foreboding castle towering in the distance. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was hard to believe she went from living in a shabby, two-story house with paint peeling off the exterior to living in a real Medieval castle to learn magic.

Entering the Hog’s Head, Diana could see why this was the spot chosen for their Ministry-required monthly contact. It was sparsely populated by a few shifty-looking individuals, and the only person who gave them any attention was the bearded owner. They sat at one of the tables as Diana unwrapped her treat and began to nibble.

Diana assumed the chocolate was meant to appeal to her (nonexistent) sense of childhood, but whereas Fudge's attempt was patronizing, Diana knew Arthur’s stemmed from concern and didn’t mind as much. Maybe he’s trying to get me to act more like a normal kid.

But she wasn’t a normal kid, and hadn't been since the day the Challenger exploded. She was exposed to topics she shouldn’t have at too young an age. Despite her teachers calling her “wise beyond her years,” she knew she wasn’t wise, just someone forced to grow up too early.

She followed her gaze to where Athur was staring, faint frown etched on his face. Burgess Borthwick was sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room, head buried into the Daily Prophet which covered most of his face. She remembered him from the Association meeting and stuck up her middle finger.

“Diana, that’s unnecessary,” Arthur chided gently. She wasn’t sure when, but at some point he stopped calling her “Miss White.”

She just shrugged. Arthur sighed and leaned his chin in his hands as he looked at her solemnly. “How are things at the Manor? All things considered, of course.”

“Everything’s okay,” she mumbled, taking another bite. “I’m learning things. My father ignores me, my brother annoys me. Narcissa’s…alright. She teaches me about things.” Diana paused. “She brought me to this zookeeping murder cult.”

“Ah. Good ol’ Hyperborea,” Arthur sighed warily, running a hand through his messy red hair. “Some of the more traditional among us have a rose-colored view of their isolationist ways. Of course, they’re not a reflection of the Ministry’s values, or the worldwide wizarding community as a whole.”

Diana wasn’t in the mood. “I haven’t seen any dark artifacts either.”

“Tha-that’s not why I agreed to do this!” Arthur sputtered, face flushing. He regained composure and asked more seriously, “I wanted to check in regarding the Malfoys, but I also wanted to talk about the Association meeting.” He hesitated before asking, “Are you…alright?”

Was she? Diana took another bite so she didn’t answer. Memories of the Association meeting the previous week flickered through her mind like a movie reel.

****

The purpose of the meeting, in Fudge’s mind, was a gesture of goodwill to placate concerns about possible mistreatment. It was there she first encountered Burgess Borthwick, whose name was previously mentioned by Fudge as a man whose presence would appease Lucius. Diana wasn’t sure of his exact position or connection with her birth family, but he seemed to essentially function as a government toadie that kissed up to the Malfoy family. Superficially friendly, but Diana wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

To his credit, he didn’t interfere much and remained generally hands-off throughout the entirety of the meeting, which must have been a challenge given Nia Achebe’s…passion.

Nia was as intense as she was the day Diana first saw her in Diagon Alley. She did most of the talking, but also had a habit of putting words into Diana’s mouth (“I understand why you didn’t wish to speak up in Diagon Alley. The Malfoys flaunt their influence and power like a Chinese Fireball during mating season, and it’s easy to see why someone in your position would feel intimidated. Luckily, I’m not.”)

Diana did an interview for The People’s Voice, which was the Association’s newspaper. Narcissa prepared her thoroughly for this, and Diana mulled over what she should say for a while now. She gave rehearsed, neutral answers that were designed to drum up sympathy. Her responses did not directly cast the Malfoys in a bad light, but were vague enough to possibly be interpreted that way, depending on the reader. In the end, both Nia and Borthwick seemed satisfied.

If it ended there, everything would’ve been fine. But as they were wrapping up, Diana spotted a man near the entrance of the building. A man with dark, disheveled hair and haunted eyes, huddling off in the corner in an overcoat. Diana’s first assumption was that this man was on drugs, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was.

Arthur followed Diana’s gaze, and when he saw the man, his eyes bulged. “M-miss Achebe, this is extremely inappropriate!”

Nia looked at Arthur, challenging. “Ridley’s a changed man. And Diana deserves a chance to get closure.”

Borthwick perked up, suddenly interested, and Diana felt like sinking into the floor. Arthur’s face grew red as the man trudged towards them slowly and stiffly, as if held down by the chains of Jacob Marley. “I’m strongly against this,” Arthur sputtered.

Before Diana could ask what they were talking about, the man approached them and mumbled so quietly Diana needed to strain to hear: “Miss White, I’m so sorry. I came here because of Nia…”

Diana didn’t want to look into the man’s sorrowful blue eyes and stared at her shoes instead. “I don’t understand. Who”—there was no way to say it without sounding rude—“um, who are you, exactly?”

The man seemed to grow several shades paler as he looked at Nia in panic. Nia looked unconcerned as she told Diana, “This is Ridley Grayson. He’s the man who obliviated your mother.”

Diana froze.

Nia said more about how the Ministry recruited him fresh out of Hogwarts because of his “promising OWL scores.” She explained how they “took advantage” and “weaponized” his Muggleborn background, and how he “saw the light and recognized the depth of the Ministry's depravity” after obliviating Sarah, but Diana was only vaguely registering Nia’s words. Her startled eyes remained locked on Grayson’s weary ones.

There was finally a lull which caused Diana to realize Nia was finished. “...I feel awful about it,” Grayson weakly added.

“I say, Ridley,” Borthwick began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I’m surprised to see you here. Last I heard, you abandoned wand life and went to live among the Muggles.”

“I–I did,” Grayson stammered. “But I didn’t snap my wand, I just…haven’t used it in the past five years.”

“Yet I read a testimonial from you about Ministry back-dealings in The People’s Voice in ‘89,” he purred. “So you live amongst Muggles, except for the times when the Association drags you out to make a statement, is that it?”

Nia’s eyes flashed as she turned towards Borthwick. “How dare you insinuate this is some publicity stu—”

“I think we’re done here,” Arthur added quickly, looking at Diana with concern. “Miss Achebe, we should—”

“Diana hasn’t even had a chance to talk to him yet,” Nia protested, folding her arms. “The importance of getting closure with the wizard responsible for obliviating one’s parents cannot be understated. I realize it may be hard for purebloods”—she spat the word as if it were a curse—“to understand. I would have given anything for an opportunity like this.”

Arthur suddenly looked very tired. “But she’s not you, and—”

“I want to talk.” Diana surprised herself by speaking up. She wasn’t sure if what she said was true, but she was tired of adults making decisions for her. “But can I speak with Mr. Grayson…alone?”

“No,” Borthwick replied flatly. “The minister set clear parameters for this…visit. I am to be present at all times.”

“Okay.” Fuck you too. “Well, can I do it with just me, you, and Mr. Grayson then?” She turned to Nia and Arthur, both of whom looked taken aback. “Sorry, but it’s kind of…personal.”

Nia was the one who recovered first. “Yes, of course. You can use this room in the back.”

Once they entered and the door was shut, Grayson looked nauseous, as though he expected her to start screaming at him. A month ago, that’s what Diana thought she would do if she was ever in this situation, but looking at him now—a sad shell of a man—she couldn’t.

There was only one phrase she could bring herself to utter: “Why did you do it?”

Grayson’s shoulders slumped, and he looked like a man much older. “In this world, Muggles aren’t viewed as people, not really. There’s a callousness, a disregard, that’s so normalized, I started thinking it was normal, despite having Muggle parents myself. I know it’s not an excuse, but it is an explanation.”

Diana couldn’t determine how she felt about that, and there was a moment of quiet. Unable to take the awkward silence, she blurted, “Is what Mr. Borthwick said true, about you giving up magic?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Diana asked in spite of herself. “It must be hard going from being able to do everything to doing nothing.”

“It was hard the first couple months,” Grayson admitted. “Everyday tasks take longer when I can’t use a wand. But my wand has so many bad memories, it’s liberating, in a way, choosing not to use it.” They both ignored the scoff from Borthwick in the corner. “I was perfectly fine not using magic for the first eleven years of my life. After the first few months, I fell back to that habit.”

“If you don’t use magic anymore, how can you get a job?” Diana asked. She wasn’t emotionally prepared to discuss why he came to the Association building, so grappled for any other conversation topic she could find. “You can’t put down that you went to Hogwarts on job applications, right?”

For the first time today, the corners of Grayson’s lips turned upward. “No, I can’t. Before I went to Hogwarts, I was viewed as—um, not to sound arrogant, but, well—I was considered something of a prodigy by my teachers, when it came to science and mathematics. I reached out to one of my old teachers, and I’m not going to bore you with the details, but I ended up doing low-level entry work in a lab, but now I’m working with a professor at Oxford. Biology. Virology. I forgot how much I missed learning about something other than magic.”

“That’s neat.” There was another long silence as Diana fished for another conversation topic. “What House were you in?”

“Ravenclaw.” Grayson’s smile faded. “I sometimes wonder if I was sorted differently, would I have followed the same path….in Ravenclaw, we’re encouraged to seek knowledge and learn more, but I never stopped to wonder if I should. Since I was Muggleborn, I always wanted to discover more about the world, but like in Frankenstein—you know what that is, right?”

Did he think she was an idiot? “Yes.”

“Just like in that story, there are some things Man isn’t meant to know.” His eyes began to moisten. “I’m truly sorry, Miss White…for what I did to your mother.”

“I believe you,” she said quietly, and it was true. There was no doubt in Diana’s mind that Grayson’s remorse was genuine. Mulling over their conversation and her own feelings, there was really only one thing she could say. “I know that what happened to Mum wasn’t up to you. I don’t know if Mum or Grandma would, but…I forgive you.”

It was simultaneously the hardest and easiest phrase for her to say. In some ways, she wished he was a smug bastard so she could hate him.

But that died once she saw Grayson’s tender expression. “Thank you,” he whispered softly. “You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that. Now I can finally snap my wand and leave all this unpleasantness behind me.”

“Wait! Y-you don't have to do that,” Diana stuttered. “Giving up your magic isn’t going to make the Ministry stop existing, it’ll just stop you from knowing what’s going on.”

Grayson chuckled darkly. “I have no desire to follow the going-ons in this awful place anymore.”

“I want you to,” Diana said before she could think about it. Grayson and Borthwick both stared at her and she rushed to explain. “It could be good to have someone with your knowledge on”—she almost said ‘my side’ but remembered Borthwick was there—”um, helping out, like how you did with writing in the paper. You know things other wizards don’t. About what it’s like to be a memory-eraser and….and other stuff.”

Grayson looked a bit wary, and Diana felt a stab of guilt. “...Alright. I’ll continue as I've been doing.”

“Thank you,” she replied, forcing a smile.

In truth, Diana’s reasoning for wanting Grayson to maintain a connection to the wizarding world was selfish: she wanted an ally for The Plan.

“The Plan” was vague and almost nonexistent, but she knew she had one. Or, more accurately, was going to have one. And it would be something that would cause the Malfoys to tremble and upend the entirety of wizarding society. Something that would bring justice to all the Muggles the wizards screwed over, literally and figuratively. And she would be the catalyst.

Eventually.

But as much as she hated to admit it, she had been learning things from the Malfoys, and one thing she grudgingly accepted was that she wouldn’t be able to enact The Plan without a base of support. So far, her base consisted of Arthur and Nia, but if she could add a former Ministry worker who felt indebted to her, that might get her one step closer to her ill-defined goal.

As they left the room to rejoin Arthur and Nia, Diana tried not to look behind her as she felt Borthwick’s cold, calculating eyes drilling holes into her back.

****

“I’m fine,” she replied evenly. “How’s Mr. Grayson doing?”

“He’s doing well. I’d like to speak with him more about his ‘science.’ It’s so ingenious, how Muggles can—”

“Arthur!” a hearty laugh erupted from across the room, and Diana and Arthur both snapped their heads to look at a very large bearded man thudding towards them. Diana tensed. “I didn’ expect ter see yeh here so soon! How’s Charlie?”

“Hello, Hagrid,” Arthur greeted, waving at the larger man. “Charlie’s doing fantastic! He’s working at a dragon sanctuary in Romania.” Arthur gestured towards Diana. “Hagrid, this is Diana. She’ll be starting classes in September. Diana, this is Hagrid, the groundskeeper of Hogwarts.”

“N-nice to meet you,” Diana mumbled. Arthur’s reaction caused her to feel a bit more at ease, but she was still intimidated by the man’s size.

“Diana?” Hagrid echoed. “The Malfoy bastard?”

Hagrid’s default volume was loud, which naturally caused a few heads to flicker in their direction. Diana felt her cheeks burn.

“Yes,” Arthur said with a strained smile. “And we’d prefer to keep it low-profile.”

“Sorry, sorry,” muttered Hagrid. He looked around, noticing the eyes on them for the first time. “Well, what’re yeh lookin’ at? Mind yer own damn business!”

Mentally, she tried to do what she did when she unlocked the door to her room: Apparate, apparate, apparate.

It didn’t work.

Hagrid’s gaze fell from the patrons to Diana, and seemed to soften. “Sorry yeh have to live with the Malfoys after what Lucius did to yer ma. Ministry’s daft as a brush.”

“It was nice seeing you, Hagrid,” Arthur said as he dug out a few knuts to leave on the table. “But I’m afraid Diana and I must be going.”

Subtleties seemed to be lost on Hagrid, and he continued on as if he didn’t hear. “Are yeh lookin' forward to gettin’ sorted?”

“Not really,” Diana answered honestly as she stood up. “I’ll probably end up in Slytherin.”

Diana went through all the possibilities, but none of the others seemed to fit. Gryffindor was the house of the brave, and she certainly wasn’t—her unwillingness to testify in front of the Wizengamot proved that. Ravenclaw? Her marks in school were average, and she wasn’t particularly creative, either. She enjoyed reading as a hobby, but didn’t think she had the same hunger for knowledge that seemed characteristic of the house. She wanted to be Hufflepuff; the hard work and loyalty reminded her of the tenets of Girl Guides. And while she did consider herself to be hardworking, the reason why she worked hard throughout her life seemed more suited for the emerald house.

Hagrid laughed and shook his head. “Slytherin’s only fer bad eggs, an’ you aren’ one, no matter who yer father is.”

Such faith from a stranger who knew her for about one minute should have been encouraging, but it only made Diana feel worse.

“There are some good Slytherins,” Arthur said, standing up. Diana could tell he was trying hard to be diplomatic and unbiased.

Hagrid scoffed. “Name one within the past fifty years who was famous for somethin’ good.”

There was a brief pause. All Arthur managed to come up with was, “W-well, there are unsavory characters from other houses, too. Like Sirius…” Hagrid visibly sobered, piquing Diana’s curiosity. “I’m sure Diana will excel no matter where she’s sorted.”

He probably knows I’m going to Slytherin, Diana realized glumly as they exchanged goodbyes with Hagrid and exited the Hog’s Head. This was reinforced when Arthur whispered, “Sorry about him. He’s a well-meaning chap, but is a bit, erm..”

“Enthusiastic?” Diana supplied.

“Indeed. He’s a tad biased against Sytherins because one turned him in and got him expelled.”

“Really?” Diana’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

Arthur winced slightly, perhaps realizing this wasn’t an appropriate conversation topic. “It’s not a secret, per say, but it's not really something a student should…” He trailed off and sighed at Diana’s imploring eyes. “He smuggled some sort of monster into the castle, which was suspected of killing a student.” At Diana’s expression, he hurried to clarify, “I don’t think the creature was responsible, and neither does the current headmaster! It was just suspicion driven by—in my opinion—prejudice towards half-breeds which made him an easy scapegoat.”

“People die in the school?!”

“Not often, but yes, it does happen. Occasionally.”

“And it’s not just wizards I need to worry about, but monsters, too?” she groaned.

“No,” Arthur said quickly. “Monsters stay in the Forbidden Forest outside Hogwarts. As long as you don’t trespass there, you should be safe. The only things you need to worry about in Hogwarts are Peeves the Poltergeist and moving staircases.” The “only” things I have to worry about are ghosts and moving staircases. Lovely. “I have sons who’ll be attending Hogwarts, and one of them’s your age. I’ll make sure they explain the ropes to you and help you with anything you need.”

Diana wasn’t sure if Arthur’s sons would be like miniature versions of him, but she hoped so. Average schoolboys would be miserable if they were bogged down by her instead of relishing in freedom away from home.

Diana’s eyes drifted towards the castle again. She hadn’t even gotten on the Hogwarts Express, and already she was overwhelmed by stress.

****

Back at Malfoy Manor, Diana had another stressor to contend with: Draco.

For the past week, her brother had been dropping hints about an “interesting room” he wanted to show her. But whenever she’d press him about it, he’d respond vaguely, sharp-blue eyes darting from side to side. The way he’d immediately clam up whenever Lucius or Narcissa entered the room caused Diana’s bullshit meter to go off the charts.

Growing up in Amberton predisposed Diana towards cynicism, but one didn’t need to grow up there to realize Draco was attempting to lead her into a trap. A trap leading to what, she had no idea, but had enough awareness to demonstrate no interest whatsoever. Which wasn’t hard, because she genuinely didn’t care.

But Diana realized early on that Draco wasn’t accustomed to hearing the word “No,” and hearing the words leave her lips caused him to–without fail—come back the next day like a snooty boomerang.

“How pathetic,” he sneered, leaning against the doorframe while Diana lay sprawled on her bed reading Magical Mishaps. She thought she would be able to relax in her room after returning from Hogsmeade, but apparently not. “I guess some people have no desire to better themselves or go beyond their station.”

“I guess so,” she retorted, flipping to the next page. ‘Perhaps the most egregious case of splinching occurred in 1957, where Errett Elderton found himself melded to the back of Waldo Goodwin’s head during an ill-fated attempt at apparating without a license …’ Ewww.

Draco tried a different tactic. “Mother and Father are both away. You’ll never get another chance like this, you know. I’ve seen the secrets inside, but you’ll head to Hogwarts like a naive and ignorant puffskein.”

“I think I’ll manage,” she replied evenly. Noticing his scowl from the corner of her eye, she added. “You realize this isn't going to work, right? I’m not lying when I told you: I don’t care.”

“You should.” Draco folded his arms, a nasty smirk emerging on his face. “There might be something that lets you summon ghosts. Maybe even Muggle ones.”

Diana stilled, eyes glued on a page she was no longer reading. Arthur’s words of poltergeists corroborated what she already learned about the wizarding world: ghosts were real. Which meant the continuation of the soul was no longer a hypothetical, but something with tangible proof.

Which meant her mother might be out there in some capacity.

She turned her cool gaze to Draco, who met her eyes challengingly, though she picked up on a subtle twitch of his finger that hinted her brother wasn’t quite as bold as he appeared.

If she went to this “interesting room,” would she be able to contact Sarah? Would I even want to?

“...Alright,” Diana finally agreed. Draco’s eyes were alight with glee and malice. “But just so you know, I’m fully aware this is a trap.”

“It’s not,” Draco insisted, though the triumphant glint in his eye indicated otherwise.

But how much harm could he do, really? The worst he could do was kill her, which Diana wouldn’t mind that much. Actually the worse he could do is transfigure me into an object or animal, or remove my bones, or trap my soul in an object, or be driven crazy by pain curses, or—

In retrospect, there were a lot of things worse than death in the wizarding world.

****

Diana always felt like a mouse in a maze whenever she had to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of Malfoy Manor (“If you can’t even find your way to the dining room, how do you expect to get around Hogwarts? I’m not going to escort you around like some house-elf”) and today was no exception. Luckily–or unluckily—she had Draco forging ahead. Eventually, he brought her to the drawing room and lifted a carpet next to an ottoman.

Diana didn’t see anything unusual at first, but Draco knelt down next to one of the floorboards and pulled out what looked to be the wizarding equivalent of a switchblade. Before Diana could open her mouth, Draco ran the blade across the tip of his thumb pad, watching intently as two droplets of blood dripped to the floor. The floor then began to wobble, as if it were water camouflage to look like mahogany. Then, as if Draco were Moses parting the Red Sea, the floorboards sank inward and pushed to the side, revealing a pathway with stone steps that led downward to a hidden cavern.

Wow.

Draco began to descend the steps, beckoning Diana forward, who followed after a brief moment of hesitation. “How did you do that?” Diana couldn’t help but ask. “I thought we weren’t supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts.”

“It’s not a spell,” Draco drawled as if she were an idiot. “It’s blood magic. This is a secret passageway that allows any Malfoy entrance, as long as they prove their lineage. Father keeps his most valuable artifacts here.”

Diana bit her tongue in order to stop from asking why his ‘most valuable artifacts’ were kept in a place where two eleven-year olds could access easily. Was Lucius truly arrogant enough to think his son wouldn’t sneak behind his back?

Yes. Yes, he is, Diana thought gloomily as they reached the base of the steps and into the secret room.

Once cursory glance around the room would allow anyone to realize the owner had to be evil, insane, or both. Ancient tomes, gnarled hands, preserved eyes, masks, bones, and ostentatious jewelry were shamelessly on display. On one shelf sat an honest-to-God dragon skull, and over another hung a horrific tapestry of what Diana assumed was the Hyperborean Wicker Man ritual.

“What are we looking for?” asked Diana as she eyed the black clock leaning against the wall, watching its minute hand move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Draco stood near a table with several emerald, satin scrip bags perched atop. “Take one of these bags. They’re enchanted and have a lot of artifacts inside. We can go through them in your room.”

Diana folded her arms. “Why don’t we go through them now?”

“Because we don’t have enough time,” Draco hissed, face starting to flush slightly. “Mother and Father will be home soon.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, Diana squinted. “You know what, Draco? I’ll pass. I don’t need to contact Mum after all.”

Draco’s face looked almost comical. “B-but this is your one chance!”

“I’m good, thanks.” She turned around and walked up the steps, paranoia nipping at her heels. She wondered if Draco would grab an object and bludgeon her with it, or use an artifact to kill her or sap her energy.

Regardless, her concerns were premature. She didn’t hear anything at all as she ascended the stone stairway and retreated to the library.

****

One thing Draco wasn’t lying about was that Lucius and Narcissa did come home within the hour. Once she heard them step out of the fireplace, Diana scuttered back to her room, hoping—as usual—to avoid any conversation. She decided to kill some time by double-checking to make sure her suitcases were packed with what she needed for Hogwarts, which ended up being extremely fortuitous: By doing so, Diana discovered Draco’s plot.

Nestled within the confines of her suitcase was a small emerald bag. A bag which children were obviously not supposed to move from its secret vault of valuable dark artifacts.

The plan seemed clear: Draco plants the bag on Diana, Draco lies about how Diana snuck into the secret vault and stole the bag, Draco gets rewarded while Diana gets punished.

Would Lucius believe her if she told the truth? Draco evidently thought not, but Diana privately suspected Draco was being naive. How would Diana even know about the vault if not for Draco?

Well, time to see what’s so valuable. In what was–in retrospect—not the wisest decision, she turned the bag over and dumped the contents on the floor, stopping only when the items piled up to her mid-calves with no signs of slowing down. How deep does this thing go? Some objects looked appropriately evil, like a serrated blade and small box with skulls engraved on the cover. Others looked fairly innocuous, like a quill, a marble, a carving of an angel, and a small black book.

Diana’s brows furrowed as she picked up the book and read the back. Winstabley’s Bookstore & Stationers…I went there with Grandma! Memories of their trip to London and Vauxhall Road flitted through her mind as she flipped through the first few pages. The date indicated the book was published in 1943, and there was a smudged name on the inside cover: T. M. Riddle. Flipping through the rest of the pages, Diana’s eyes widened as she came to a conclusion.

It wasn’t a dark artifact at all—it was a Muggle diary!

But why wasn’t the owner able to write in it? Diana thought of worst-case scenarios and reasons why Lucius might have the book, and felt goosebumps creep over her body. Could the owner be like her mother, who had her own black book where she recorded information about wizards? Could Lucius or another wizard have erased the contents of the diary?

Or could this book be a dark artifact? Diana shook her head, immediately dismissing the thought as she began putting the other items in the bag. It was clearly Muggle-made, so the only way it could be fucked with would be if a wizard did something to it. And unlike the coin that caused her mother to teleport, she was able to open the diary safely (which was really foolish, actually…), so it couldn’t be enchanted. After every other object was returned to the bag, Diana’s hands rested on the black cover and hesitated.

“Dobby,” Diana whispered. In an instant, the house-elf appeared, hands wringing and eyes bulging upon seeing the bag. “Draco’s trying to frame me. Can you put this back before my father finds out?”

“Dobby is sorry, mistress,” he groveled. “Only those of Master Malfoy’s bloodline can enter his secret chamber, certainly not a house-elf as loathsome as Dobby…”

A sense of dread began to engulf Diana. If that was the case, there’s only one option available. “Um, Dobby…I know you’re not going to like this, but I need your help with something…”

****

Forty minutes later, there was a sharp knock on Diana’s. She sucked in a breath and reluctantly put Magical Mishaps on her nightstand before heading to the door. Moment of truth…

As expected, Lucius Malfoy towered, out-of-place and haughty, in the doorframe, curling his lips downward slightly as though there was an unpleasant smell. Next to him was Draco, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.

“Yes?” Diana asked innocently.

“I was informed that you took it upon yourself to take something that belongs to me,” Lucius said thinly. “I’m here to pursue whether such an accusation holds merit, or if it’s a substantial waste of my time.” He shot Draco a withering look, which made Draco’s eyes harden with determination.

Draco likely already thought of ways to counter her claims that he was the one who showed her the room, so Diana decided to play dumb instead. “I didn’t take anything.”

Lucius sighed dramatically (and unnecessarily) as he pushed past her into the room and—like she predicted—stalked straight over to the suitcase where the bag was hidden. He opened the latch and rummaged through her belongings before turning to glare at his son with the intensity of several white-hot suns. Draco’s nasty grin vanished.

Without dropping eye contact with Draco, Lucius hissed through gritted teeth, “Accio scrip!”

Nothing happened. Lucius paused for several seconds. “First the nonsense with the topiary, now this.” Although Lucius’s tone was quiet, it had enough power as though he were shouting. “I’m disappointed, Draco.”

Watching Draco’s shattered expression made Diana almost feel bad. Almost.

Diana recalled earlier how she told Dobby she needed two things: 1. A knife, and 2. A distraction. The ‘nonsense with the topiary’ was the distraction; apparently, when Draco was five, he used unconscious magic to animate the topiary, causing them to wreak havoc. Dobby used his own magic to achieve a similar effect, which caused Draco’s parents to be occupied and gave Diana enough time to rush to the drawing room, enter the vault, and return the bag to its rightful position before Lucius was none the wiser.

“I don’t get it,” Diana lied. “What’s going on?”

Lucius slowly stood up, eyes narrowing. “Draco’s taken to fabricating lies in order to create an illusion of self-importance. Rest assured, you won’t have to worry about these false accusations any longer. This will be dealt with.”

Draco paled, looking like a prisoner on the executioner’s block. Not my problem, not my problem, not my…ugh. Goddamnit….

“Well, I did go into your secret room,” Diana admitted. Lucius stared, and Draco’s mouth opened slight;y. “I took one of the bags, but put it all back. Sorry. I didn’t know it was off-limits.”

She didn’t particularly like Draco, but she didn’t want him to get hurt. Especially by Lucius.

“What was inside the scrip bag?” Lucius asked coldly, folding his arms and drumming his fingers.

Diana’s earlier suspicions were right—Lucius didn’t believe she could have found the room on her own. But she came prepared. “Rings,” she replied, remembering one of the other bags on the table she peeked into when returning the one placed in her room. She didn’t want to draw attention to the bag that was really in her room. “Gold, silver, all different kinds.”

“I see.” There was a pause. “Why?”

That was a question she wasn’t prepared to answer, and needed to bullshit on the spot. “They looked pretty. I never owned pretty things like that before coming to the Manor.”

“How did you find out about the hidden room?” Lucius demanded. “Surely someone of your…background…wouldn’t be familiar with blood magic.”

“There’s a bunch of books on family history,” Diana began, which was true. “Narcissa told me to read them, so that’s what I’ve been doing. One mentioned the secret chamber.”

This was easily the weakest part of the story and could easily be checked, but Diana was clinging onto the hopes that Lucius would be too lazy to go perusing through the multitude of volumes on Malfoy family history, if the dust on the books were any indicator.

“Which one?” he questioned, piercing gaze fixated on Diana.

“I don’t remember,” she replied, hoping her tone came out even, but wasn’t entirely sure. “It was one of the old ones. I think.”

There were a few beats of silence where Diana felt like a frog being mentally dissected, then Lucius leaned back and said, with a slight mocking edge, “Then I suppose Draco should be grateful for your clarification.” His tone then grew lower, more serious. “That room is off-limits. If I see you there again, there will be consequences.”

Diana nodded and watched as he stalked off, cloak flapping behind him like a bat. Once the thundering of his boots could no longer be heard, she turned to look at Draco, who was frowning at her with knitted brows.

“What?” she snapped impatiently. “I got you out of trouble. You should be happy.”

“You must think I’m stupid,” he jeered. Yes, yes I do. “I’m not going to fall for any of your tricks.”

Diana flopped on the bed and pulled Magical Mishaps from the nightstand and opened to the page with her bookmark. “It’s not a trick. I just hate the idea of him hurting anyone. And I’m not going to keep arguing about it, so if you don’t have anything else to say, then leave.”

Diana felt his eyes on her for a few moments, before hearing the door creak shut and faint footsteps in the hallway. After she was sure she was alone, she reached under her pillow and pulled out the black diary.

She lied before; she didn’t put it all back. She kept this one little thing that might be a clue to uncovering the truth behind other Muggles Lucius and his death eater friends tortured. She stared at the book intently and tried to remember what Mr. Weasley did when he suspected Fudge enchanted her ice cream. Revelio, Revelio, Revelio…

She thought the word intently in her mind and whispered it a few times, but nothing happened. She had no idea if her mental spell worked or not, and probably wouldn’t until she went to Hogwarts and learned magic. From where she was standing, the object really did seem like a normal Muggle notebook.

Which means the owner really was a Muggle or Muggleborn…

Diana crept over to her suitcase and buried the notebook deep underneath her robes. She would do more investigating when she was away from this den of vipers.

As she drifted into an uneasy slumber later that night, Diana’s heart broke for poor T. M Riddle and the tragic fate he (or she) no doubt experienced at the hands of those evil wizards.

Chapter Text

After the incident in the secret room, Diana noticed a change in Draco. They weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, but the venomous animosity seemed to have dimmed. When she passed him in the hallway the next day, he ignored her instead of taunting her with his usual drive-by snarky comment. During supper, he glanced at her once and scowled instead of glaring at her throughout the entire meal.

The day after that, he didn’t look at her during supper at all. And when he passed her, he gave her a small, barely-perceptible nod.

And so it went that the tension continued to fade with each passing day, to the point Diana could have, perhaps, described their interactions as civil.

Maybe miracles do happen…

A couple days before the Malfoy siblings were scheduled to depart from King’s Cross station, a great horned owl rammed into the window during breakfast, screeching and scratching against the glass. Upon seeing the owl, Lucius’s lips curled downward in his familiar expression of haughty disgust. With a brief flick of his wand, the window swung open.

The owl swooped over the table with a gust of wind, and dropped a letter in front of Lucius. It didn’t leave immediately, preferring to perch itself on the headrest of a nearby, unused chair. Its dark coloring and piercing gaze emanated an aura of menace and regality. He looks like he can be the animal sidekick of a Disney villain...

Diana glanced up at Draco and Narcissa, who were both staring attentively at Lucius while he read the letter. Narcissa’s lips were slightly pursed, and Draco’s fists clenched over the silver spoon in his hand.

Lucius’s cool gaze shifted upward from the paper and settled on Diana. “Your grandfather asks that you visit the Westwell Estate,” he announced “He wishes to speak with you.”

Diana recalled the looks of horror on Lucius and Arthur’s faces when she suggested living with her paternal grandfather. She began to feel queasy. “Oh.” There was a beat of silence. “When?”

“Today. I want to get this over with.” He stood up. “My father is afflicted with a disease called Dragon Pox. Am I wrong in assuming this is the first time you heard of it?”

What do you think? “No…”

He gave a condescending sigh which Diana felt was unwarranted, since he was the reason for her limited wizarding knowledge in the first place. “In order to familiarize yourself with its effects on human skin, Narcissa will show you pictures of a few hapless souls plagued by the disease. That way, you won’t make a fool of yourself when you see your grandfather for the first time.”

He glared at Draco, who scowled and stared intently at his plate, stabbing the cooked horklump forcefully.

After breakfast concluded, it was as if a cloud of gloominess descended upon the already-bleak Manor. Lucius and Draco sulked in their rooms. Narcissa quickly showed Diana the Dragon Pox pictures—which were beyond horrifying—and gave Diana an impromptu lesson on Lucius’s father, Abraxas Malfoy. What worried Diana the most was how tense Narcissa seemed throughout the whole lesson. She made Diana practice the proper greetings and courtesies multiple times, instructed her on which conversation topics were off-limits, and several other do’s-and-don’ts that Diana would no doubt forget by the time she saw Abraxas.

If the normally-unflappable Narcissa was unsettled by the mere mention of Abraxas, just how depraved was this man?

There was only one person in this Manor she could count on to give a blunt answer. After changing into the dress Narcissa picked out for the visit, Diana poked her head into Draco’s room, silently praying his recent goodwill would last.

“Hi Draco,” she began. He remained on his bed reading a Quidditch magazine and gave a grunt of acknowledgement, but didn’t look up. “So…I’m leaving in thirty minutes. I was just wondering….what’s he like, our granddad?”

She never had experience with a grandfather. The only one she knew—Alan White—died before Diana was born, and she was always envious of how her classmates could speak of theirs casually. Since this was the man who raised Lucius, she wasn’t expecting any tales of how Abraxas baked Shepherd's Pies or fed birds in a park.

“He’s an old fool, past his prime but refuses to admit otherwise. He’ll despise you,” Draco remarked, flipping the page. “But he despises everyone. I doubt you’d get on his good side even if you drank five Felix Felicises.”

She didn’t know what Felix Felicises were, but got the gist. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Hmph.”

Diana closed the door before she pushed her luck. Sighing, she trudged to her room.

What was she getting herself into?

****

To her irritation, Burgess Borthwick was there to greet Diana and Lucius once they arrived in the drawing room of Westwell Estate. While her father shook hands with him and made small talk about politics, the Gringotts break-in, and the Nott family, Diana’s eyes roved around the Estate, soaking up every detail.

There were clear similarities in design between this building and Malfoy Manor, but while the Manor seemed polished and lived-in—despite the coldness of its inhabitants—Westwell Estate was the opposite. The carpet gave off a musky smell, and the shutters were slightly crooked. A thin line of dust covered the mantelpiece, as well as most surfaces. The color palette looked washed out and faded. Overall, the mansion appeared decrepit and aging, worn and weary. A tomb for its sole inhabitant.

Diana didn’t realize her father ascended the spiraling staircase until Borthwick coughed politely. She turned to the Walrus-like man, who inquired, “Well, are you excited for Hogwarts?”

“Not really,” she replied honestly. She glanced at the staircase, palms growing a bit sweaty. “Where did he go?”

“Your father wished to speak with the elder Mr. Malfoy alone. He should be back to bring you to your grandfather shortly.”

“Oh.” There was a thick, awkward pause. At least, it was awkward for Diana. She didn’t like being alone with strange Muggle men, let alone strange wizard ones, though she knew—logically—nothing would likely happen. But she had no idea what to say either; she didn’t think ‘How does it feel being a toadie of this family?’ would go over well. “I’m going to look around, if that’s alright.”

“Your father didn’t say you could,” he replied lightly, twirling his voluminous mustache.

“He didn’t say I couldn’t,” she countered, trying to sound conversational instead of confrontational.

Borthwick hmphed. “Very well…”

Diana had no real aim for exploration in mind, but decided the closest hallway would be a good starting point. Biorthwick trudged behind her like a persistent snail as she peeked her head into the dining room, a library slightly smaller than that of Malfoy Manor, and a couple disused bedrooms. Tiptoeing through the grandiloquent yet abandoned estate, Diana couldn’t help but feel as though she was surveying the remnants of the Titanic.

“Does Granddad even come down here?” inquired Diana, trailing her fingertips on the surface of a dusty desk.

Borthwick looked a bit taken aback by the reference to ‘Granddad,’ but recovered. “No. His illness limits his mobility, I’m afraid.”

One of the bedrooms had a white-and-pink color palette, with various porcelain dolls and figurines adorning the shelf.

“Did I have an aunt or great-aunt?” she wondered aloud. She refused to walk further in to see if she could spot any clues; she’d seen Child’s Play, after all.

“Your father had four siblings, all deceased,’ he answered smoothly. “Now if you’re not going to enter, I suggest we move along.”

Diana pulled herself away from the doorframe and blinked, surprised. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Did he kill them, like he killed the Muggles?”

Borthwick’s beady gaze held an expression Diana couldn’t identify. “No. And as a reminder, your father was acting under the influence of the Imperius curse.”

Diana tried to mimic Narcissa’s poised, condescendingly skeptical look, but feared her single eyebrow wasn’t arching right. Borthwick’s mustache twitched, but he didn’t say anything else, and neither did she.

As they continued wandering down the hallway, she spotted a glass door leading out to a garden. She placed her hands on the silver knob and turned.

Stepping into the wild, overgrown garden was a warm, welcome reprieve after the dark deadness of the mansion. Diana spread out her arms and basked in the sunlight for a few seconds. Ivy curled up around a navy birdbath like a snake, and two nearby swings hanging from a tree branch were rusting.

Did my father used to play here? It was unsettling, thinking of Lucius Malfoy as a child. She wondered briefly if he was born evil or became it, but found the question too disconcerting and quickly pushed it off to the side.

One irregularity that escaped Diana’s view from the mansion was a tree stump. She pointed to it as Borthwick eyed the garden with distaste. “Why was that one cut down?”

He fidgeted, clearing his throat. ”W-well, you see…”

The faint, familiar clatter of dragonskin boots interrupted the tranquility of the garden, causing Diana’s emotions to cloud over. Sure enough, Lucius appeared, face like a thundercloud.

She felt her mouth grow dry. “I, uh, I just wanted to—”

Lucius ignored her and turned to Borthwick, snarling, “Gods above, that man’s a lunatic. Completely out of his mind.” Despite her father’s harsh tones, Diana felt herself relax slightly, knowing the ire wasn’t directed at her.

Borthwick held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Malfoy, Abraxas is—”

Now it was Lucius’s turn to ignore Borthwick. He gestured for Diana to follow and didn’t bother looking behind him as he stalked down the hallway.

Diana retraced her steps through the mansion and followed Lucius up the winding staircase. As she continued through the halls, she noticed—to her delight and horror—that the portraits were beginning to move.

She read about this in one of the books at Malfoy Manor, but never saw it up close until now. All paintings at Malfoy Manor were of landscapes, objects, and animals. She didn’t expect to see a brown-haired youth with calculating eyes smirking at her as he walked beside the ocean. “Lucius,” the youth in the painting drawled, “Is this the girl?”

“Oh my,” a soft, breathy voice caused Diana’s head to snap towards a blonde teenager with a shimmering necklace of silver and emerald, standing in a field of flowers. The girl put her hand up to her mouth. “She looks like Lavinia.”

“Ignore them,” Lucius hissed. His pace grew quicker, and Diana tried to keep up.

“I still can’t believe you nutted in a Muggle!” another, older brown-haired boy cackled. He stood next to a painting that included the birdbath from earlier, only the garden was much tidier. “Are you going to fuck a goat next, like Aberforth?”

Diana bristled. “Those are rumors, Cassius. Rumors!” chided the girl with the necklace.

“I can’t believe it either,” the first boy chuckled. “Truly, our lineage is in shambles. You realize this will have to be recorded in our genealogy books now?”

“I can’t believe it either, Gaius,” the girl admitted, putting her hands on her hips. As they were walking, the paintings seemed to travel through the other portraits to keep up with them. It was quite fascinating, but also quite creepy. “Lucius, how could you? This is something Father would do!”

Diana noticed out of the corner of her eye, a portrait of a blonde boy around her age lurking on the peripheral, eyeing them warily. She stopped, but even though it was for a second, Lucius yanked her forearm tightly, causing her to cry out in surprise.

“When you’re with him, remember the proper decorum Narcissa instilled in you,” Lucius said in a low voice. Diana’s mind momentarily fritzed as she continued to be dragged along. What proper decorum? Narcissa taught her a lot. What was she supposed to do? Help…

But before she could ask, they arrived at a wooden door at the end of the hall with a dragon carved into it. Grasping the bronze knob, Lucius swung it open.

The room was covered in shadows, and Diana had to blink a bit before her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The first thing she noticed was the smell—an unholy combination of radish and plum, emanating from a small potted tree in the corner. Through the dimness she was able to make out a small man sitting hunched over in a chair by the desk. When he grasped the desk to help him stand up, Diana could see, through the faint traces of light peeking through the edges of the covered window, the gray, charred scalelike skin that marred parts of his face and neck. She was glad Narcissa showed her the Dragon Pox pictures in advance.

“So, this is the famous halfblood who's been causing my son so much woe,” he purred, eyes gleaming in a way she didn’t like.

And I’ll be causing a lot more. But she remembered Narcissa’s whispers of the importance of “appealing to his ego”—of which, she inferred, was rather large—and swallowed her pride.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she recited, dipping into a small curtsey, Curtseying was as old-fashioned in the wizarding world as it was in muggle world, and would likely elicit raised eyebrows from most modern purebloods than not. But judging by Abraxas’s pleased expression, it was the right gamble.

“Ha! See, Lucius?” he chortled. “She’s been in the world a month, and already has more manners than your son.”

Lucius’s lips tightened. “Well, now you’ve seen her. Is that all?”

Abraxas turned his head towards Diana and winked. “Forgive your father’s lack of tact, my dear. He inherited his mother’s rudeness, you see.”

Diana couldn’t help but feel a faint smile emerge on her lips. She knew she probably shouldn’t trust this man, but his demeanor—rightly or wrongly—made her feel more relaxed. At any rate, he didn’t seem to hate her the way the rest of her new family did.

Lucius glanced at Diana’s expression, and his own darkened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Abraxas cut him off. “No, you’re fully aware that is not all, Lucius.” He turned to look at Diana again, eyes softening. “As the eldest female Malfoy by blood, there’s a birthright for you, dear child.” He gestured towards a stand in the corner, which held a silver box adorned with jewels. Diana inched a bit closer in order to make out the details. There was an engraving of a red-haired woman surrounded by dwarves on the lid.

“Father, this is completely inappropriate,” Lucius hissed, banging Jormungandr against the floor for emphasis. “That should be given to Draco’s daughter or granddaughter.”

Abraxas scoffed. “You’re assuming there’d be a witch foolish enough to procreate with him again after achieving a male heir. And even so, Diana would still be the rightful successor.”

“What’s in the box?” she cautiously questioned.

He smirked. “Open it and find out.”

Diana hesitated, but did as he asked. Inside was a sparkling necklace of silver and emerald that looked as if it was worth more than the entirety of Amberton and its surrounding towns. “Is this…for me?” Is he trying to buy my affection, too?

“Didn’t I already say that?” Abraxas sighed airily. “Go ahead, now. Pick it up and put it on.”

Lucius shot Abraxas a look she couldn't quite identify, and his gloved fingers flexed around the head of Jormungandr. Diana reached out and picked up the smooth trinket. Once she put it around her neck, she blinked in surprise; it was heavier on her neck than it was picking it up. Much heavier—about three kilograms. When she looked up, Abraxas’s eyes were dancing with mirth, and her father’s expression was blank.

“It’s been far too long since the Brisingamen adorned the neck of a Malfoy,” Abraxas stated, a faraway look entering his eyes.

Diana ran her fingertips around the emeralds. She wasn’t an idiot. “What it is? I know it’s a necklace, but what else?”

“Smart girl,” he chuckled. “According to the legend of yore, it once belonged to the goddess Freya. Whether it’s true or not, who can say? Perhaps this necklace was the basis of the myth, or simply a trinket that was named after that which caused the gods so many problems. But it doesn’t matter at this point. The Brisingamen is intrinsically linked to our bloodline and acts as a complement to Jormungandr. And now, it’s yours.”

“Wow.” Narcissa would wince, but what was there to say to that speech? “Thank you.”

Although it was very pretty and managed to be more classy than ostentatious, she already decided it would be staying in her trunk. It was extremely uncomfortable, and beyond that, no way was she drawing attention to herself beyond what’s necessary.

“How does it feel?” Abraxas inquired, rubbing his chin.

“It’s heavy,” she admitted. Once the words were out of her mouth she regretted it, thinking they might have come across as rude. But Abraxas didn’t seem to mind.

“It doesn’t have to be. Its weight fluctuates based on how its wielder feels about their place in the family. Near the end of its previous bearer’s—Valeria’s—life, she could barely move once it was placed around her neck.” Abraxas’s eyes grew clouded.

Diana wanted to ask more about the previous bearer, Valeria (the girl from the picture?), but thought better of it. ‘What’s the point of wearing it, then?” Diana winced, it sounded a lot less rude in her head. “I didn’t mean, um…that didn’t come out right… sorry…”

Lucius’s lips curled in disgust. Abraxas’s eyes sharpened as they snapped back towards Diana. “There is a ‘point,’ one you’ll find most beneficial.” He smiled and spread out his fingers. “It’s enchanted to protect the wearer’s mind, you see. The Confundus, Legilimency…Obliviation….spells such as these will be powerless against you.”

Diana’s heart leapt and hope began to flutter. Her biggest fear was having her memory modified, and while she believed that Lucius wouldn’t do anything now while he was under so much public scrutiny, what’s to stop him from doing it once she fades from the public consciousness? The Brisingamen’s power seemed almost too good to be true.

But if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Her smile faded, fingers brushing against the emeralds. Already she felt her neck growing sore, and the necklace was only around it for a couple minutes. If what Abraxas said was true and the necklace was connected to her mind in some way, she was surprised it didn’t weigh as much as a boulder yet.

And of course, there was the psychological component of wearing a necklace advertising her paternal lineage, which she despised. Even if it wasn’t heavy, would she want to wear it anyway?

She lifted the necklace off her neck and returned it to the box, feeling more at ease once the weight was removed. “Is there another catch?” she asked. “Besides the weight, I mean.”

Abraxas stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not a catch, per say, but if anyone besides a female in the bloodline touches it, they’ll experience a searing pain comparable to the Cruciatus.”

More proof she was a Malfoy by blood. Ugh…

Abraxas turned to Lucius, giving a dismissive hand gesture. “You can leave now.”

“What?!” Lucisus’ face grew red with anger.

“Has your newfound position swelled your head to the point where you can’t hear someone right next to you? I said, ‘You can leave now.’ I want to talk to my granddaughter alone.”

Diana felt goosebumps creep over her. Something flashed in Lucius’s eyes, and Diana suspected he was inwardly debating whether or not to argue. Diana wasn’t sure which option she would have preferred. But after a moment of deliberation, Lucius turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him without giving either of the room’s inhabitants a second glance.

Abraxas’s posture visibly relaxed once his son left. He hunched down into the chair again. He gestured to an open chair. “Sit.”

Feeling like a dog, Diana sat down. There was a pause, and she felt a desperate need to break up the stifling awkwardness. “What type of fruit is that?” she asked, pointing to the tree in the corner.

“Dirigible plums,” Abraxas replied, steepling his elbows on his knees. “They enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary. A narrow mind weakens a man, and while there are many choice words that could be said about me, ‘weak’ has never been one of them.” He smiled wryly and gestured toward his face. “Despite my current affliction.”

“How did, um,”—Diana realized belatedly how rude the question might be—”I don’t know much about magical illnesses. How did you catch it?” She hurried to clarify. “Sorry if this question seems rude, I was just won—”

Abraxas held up a hand, and Diana snapped her mouth shut. “There’s never a need to apologize for seeking knowledge. As it happens, this is the work of your paternal grandmother. Typically, Dragon Pox is contracted through exposure to certain breeds of dragons that aren’t native to Britain. Or, in my case, contact with something or someone that contains the disease. While there is a cure, it’s ineffective for someone of my age. If the Ministry had a modicum of intelligence, they’d use the Muggleborns to develop something akin to vaccines for our most pressing maladies, but alas.”

Diana looked up, startled. “You know about vaccines? I thought–well, the Malfoys, the ones I’m living with, don’t seem to know much of anything about human society. Er, I mean, Muggle society.”

“Because they're idiots,” Abraxas scoffed. “Though I am—thankfully—not a Muggle, I make sure to familiarize myself with their world. My son hasn’t yet realized the value to be had in all kinds of knowledge, even that which causes us discomfort.” He began to count with his fingers. Firearms. Computers. Vaccines. The atom bomb. Traveling to the goddamn moon. They may be inherently inferior, but ignoring how they overcompensate for their shortcomings is the height of hubris. All it takes is one niffler to ruin a bank.”

Diana wasn’t sure what a niffler was, but felt as though she understood the gist. Palms growing sweaty, she leaned forward and asked, as casually as possible, “You think Muggles could…”—she wasn’t sure exactly what she was getting at, or what he was getting at, for that matter—”win, if there was a war between Muggles and wizards?”

It seemed insane. She knew what wizards were capable of. How did any normal person stand a chance if the enemy side was capable of mind controlling the Prime Minister?

Abraxas guffawed loudly, making Diana feel like an idiot. “A worldwide war between wizards and Muggles. Ridiculous. Getting over one hundred governments to work together—Muggle or wizard, let alone both—is utter fantasy. I know you’re familiar with history. You read books on both World Wars back in April, yes? Any conflict between Muggles and wizards will be more…subdued. Strategic. They may be weak, but they do have the potential to disrupt our lives. Drastically, as it may be. Those who refuse to admit that are fools.”

Something Abraxas said caused her heart to start beating quicker. “How did you know I read books on the World Wars? I only tol–”

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

“Are you….A.M?” she blurted. Her mouth felt dry. “The person who was sending me letters?”

Abraxas Malfoy. A.M. When she showed Claire one of the letters, she laughed and said the writer sounded like a “pretentious arse.” Olivia guessed the writer was wealthy, and Becky believed (before A.M mentioned a grandson) the writer to be elderly. All three guesses were correct, it seems.

“Indeed I am,” he smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you face-to-face.”

She felt a stab of betrayal. “How did you find out about me before my father did? We were sending letters for months.”

“I was responsible for the blood tracing, so you have me to curse and thank for your current predicament.”

“If you never did the blood tracing, does that mean I'd never go to Hogwarts?” she questioned, clenching her fingers on her lap.

“No, that would have happened regardless.” He leaned back. “I imagine your mother and grandmother would have experienced the typical fate of reluctant Muggles as well. Your recognition as a Malfoy heir was my doing, however.”

“You ruined my life,” she accused. “I didn’t want any of this!”

“These histrionics are unnecessary,” declared Abraxas, waving his hand in dismissal. “I gave you an opportunity. Like Cleopatra Selene, you can use this to achieve greatness.”

“She never forgot her mum,” Diana reminded him, voice developing a steel edge. “When she left Octavian’s family and became queen, she brought in people from her mother’s court to make buildings and designs based on Egypt.”

“If the memory of your mother spurns you forward, fine,” he shrugged. “I don’t understand it, but fine. So long as you move forward.”

His apathy grated on her, and she felt the urge to throw the Brisingamen at him and see if it really could cause searing pain.

But that wouldn’t do anything. She would still be known as Diana Malfoy, not Diana White. If there was a spell to go back and change the timeline, Lucius would no doubt have done it already to get rid of her.

She took a few deep breaths to center herself, then asked, “Why did you reach out to me? If my mum was a Muggle, wouldn’t it be better to pretend I didn’t exist?”

Abraxas l laced his fingers together. “I’ve made some…mistakes in the past that only become evident when nearing the end of one’s life. Having another grandchild—especially one who’s competent—is an appealing thought.”

Putting your wants above mine is still a mistake. Granddad of the year here…“What else?”

Abraxas’s lips curled upward in a manner reminiscent of Lucius. “Clever. You do think like a Malfoy, as much as you like to believe otherwise.”

“I don’t—”

Abraxas kept going, ignoring her. “I’ll be frank: Your father, while he has his strengths—and I’m not blind to them, regardless of what he thinks—has certain…vices and vulnerabilities…that may lead this family to ruin. While I admit I’m uncertain of the specifics, your presence is one that will ultimately strengthen the Malfoy name and our position in society, ensuring that we are perceived as being on the ‘right side’ of history. Highly subjective, naturally, but necessary.”

“I don’t want to help the family,” she remarked, crossing her arms. She knew it might sound childish, but she didn’t care.

“I doubt it’ll be intentional, but that will be the desired effect. And in the end, that’s all that matters.” Abraxas drummed his bony fingers on the desk next to him. “Have you heard the name Voldemort?”

Diana blinked at the sudden change of topic. “The evil bloke my father served?”

“Yes. He’ll be returning soon.”

“Wh-what?” stammered Diana. She grew rigid in her seat.

“I’ve already informed your father, but tell no one else, not even your brother.”

Diana’s mind began to race. From her research, Voldemort was the “You-Know-Who” Fudge mentioned. She knew little about him except he was the lunatic her father followed and he had a hatred towards Muggles and Muggle sympathizers. “Wasn’t he killed by a baby?”

“Yes, and now that child is a young man ready to attend Hogwarts. You must ingratiate yourself to the boy, Harry. Draco lacks the necessary tact and social awareness to do so, but you don’t.”

“He might not even like me,” Diana mumbled. She didn’t have any friends that were boys back at her old school.

“He will.”

“How do you know?” she asked, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice.

He gestured towards a teacup on his desk. “I have the gift of Sight, which allows me See and interpret the future. It is my hope you’ll one day have it as well.”

“Can’t you look into the future to see if I’m one or not?” she gibed.

Abraxas smiled wryly. “Interpretation is not as straightforward as it seems. I receive glimpses, images, but the context must be pieced together, and is often missing entirely. In my divination for your upcoming school year, for example, I See a man with two faces—which may be literal or metaphorical—and a black book.” Diana felt her heart stop. “The two may be connected, though I’m uncertain.”

“Is the book good or bad?” inquired Diana, trying hard to sound casual. She became keenly aware of Abraxas’s piercing gaze on her and regretted putting the mind-shielding necklace back in the box.

“I abhor that infantile terminology. ‘Good or bad’...bah. The book is a necessary stepping stone on this family’s path to greatness. That is all you need to know.”

There were two black books it could be: her mum’s memory book, or the diary that belonged to T.M Riddle. Could either one help her get justice for the mistreated Muggles?

But that wouldn’t bring her family to greatness, would it? Unless Abraxas misinterpreted and the family it helped was Diana’s maternal, not paternal, family. Hmm…

Diana was tempted to ask what she should do if she happened to, hypothetically, encounter the book, but didn’t want to raise suspicion. She also didn’t fully trust her grandfather. While he seemed more affable than Lucius and she had a history of corresponding with him already, she wasn’t naive enough to believe he genuinely had her best wishes at heart.

“Did you See if I’ll ever see my grandma or friends from Amberton again?” Diana asked quietly.

“Those are irrelevant.” Diana’s eyes narrowed. “Your important allies will be the Potter boy, the Greengrass and Parkinson girls, the Longbottom child, and….as much as I am loath to admit it….the Weasley brood.”

‘Allies.’ Like she was going off to war instead of an eleven-year old going to school. I might though, if this Voldemort bloke comes back.

“I’ll be sending you letters throughout the school year, much as I have done in the past.” He gestured towards the door. “You are free to leave now, Diana. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Oh,” she replied, taken aback by the suddenness. Then, she thought of the expression of horror that would be on Narcissa’s face if she saw her graceless bumbling. She curtsied again. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Abraxas chuckled. “The pleasure was all mine. Don’t forget to bring the box with you.”

Diana stood up and walked over to the stand, picking up the box. It was lighter than the necklace was around her neck.

When she walked towards the door, Abraxas opened it with a flick of his wand so she would be able to leave while carrying the box. “Thank you.” She hesitated, a thought occurring to her. “The paintings in the hallway…are they alive?”

It was on her mind since she first heard them talk. The idea of sentient paintings opened yet another ethical can or worms, much like Professor McGonagall’s transfigured bird.

“Not in the traditional sense. The moving paintings in our world are created through a difficult enchantment, and the level of sentience changes depending on the artist. Most are created through the artist drawing from their memories of the subject, and are thus limited in knowledge by what the artist knows. But there are other spells, of varying degrees of legality, that draw from the subjects’ personal memories. Regarding the ones in the hallway, I had a very gifted painter from Romania perform the enchantment to draw feelings and memories deep from the minds of my children.” His eyes grew softer and cloudier. “Perhaps it worked too well.”

“Could a painting of a Muggle move too, or just wizards?” she asked, hoping she wouldn’t come across as too eager.

Abraxas seemed to understand what she was getting at, and his face grew solemn. “If the subject is drawn from the memories of the artist, it’s possible. If the artist draws from the memories of the subject, then it’s a different story.The more accurate depictions are the ones taken from the memories of the subject, but even then, it’s not a replacement for the dead.”

Diana looked at him startled, and he gave her a knowing look. She blushed and looked down at her shoes. “I-is my father’s picture in there?”

“Yes. He’s the shy, skulking fellow.”

“Oh.” Her fingers tightened around the box. “Well, thanks for giving me the necklace. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Diana. And good luck.”

Once she crossed through the door frame, she heard the door close behind her with a thud. She was about to continue walking and then head straight down the stairs, but was struck by a sudden impulse. Instead, she moved closer to the paintings.

“Oooh, you have the Brisingamen!” breathed the older blonde girl with the necklace of silver and emerald. Valeria.

“Huh. I really thought he’d kill you for diluting the blood,” Cassius mused, stretching as he sprawled out on a sofa.

“He must really dislike Draco,” Gaius snickered.

The older boys seemed like arses, so Diana stared imploringly at Valeria when she asked, “Does the Birsingin, um, Brising—does this necklace really protect your thoughts?” Valeria nodded gravely. Hope fluttered in Diana’s heart. “How do I make it lighter?”

“You don’t,” Valeria whispered, eyes shining with sympathy. “...Or at least, I didn’t. You need to be at peace with both yourself and your position in the family.”

Then I'm screwed. If anything, the box seemed to grow heavy after hearing that.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the young blonde boy from earlier peering at her from a painting of a dark forest. His sweet, gentle features made him seem almost angelic in contrast with the foreboding trees and shadows present within the painting.

She remembered what Abraxas said and realized, to her horror, this was a younger Lucius.

Diana bit her lip. She hated thinking of her father as anything other than something that sprung into the earth fully-grown, ready to terrorize women.

So she was surprised when she found herself walking towards it. She swallowed. “H-hi…”

In an instant, the boy’s angelic appearance twisted into a demonic scowl. “I’d never breed with Muggle filth and dishonor the Malfoy name!” he hissed, voice edged with venom.

Diana felt heat rising in her cheeks; what did she think he would say?

“Too late!” cackled Cassius. “She’s got the box with the Brisingamen, yeah?”

“Oh, just ignore them, Diana,” Valeria chided, putting her hands on her hips as she glared at Cassius and Lucius’s paintings.

Diana’s eyes roamed over the rest of the hallway and counted the figures in the paintings. “Wait…I thought there were supposed to be five siblings. I only see four. Where’s the fifth?”

A blanket of quiet descended on the room, and the paintings ceased their movements. The younger Lucius’s eyes grew downcast, and he crept away from sight, moving into the other paintings and going further and further away.

“She was a squib,” Gaius said finally. “Father took care of her.”

The word sounded so silly: ‘squib.’ But the grave expressions on the Malfoys’ faces indicated it was no laughing matter.

“Oh,” she muttered, pretending to know what the word meant.

Valeria recovered first. “Don’t let the fact you have some dirty blood make you think you’ll never get anywhere. There needs to be a shakeup sometimes. New perspectives can allow you to view things in a different light. It could have helped us.”

“Thank you,” Diana said, looking up at the older girl. “Well, I better get going. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Valeria smiled.

“And tell Lucius to talk to us!” Cassius called out as Diana headed towards the staircase. “Just because he pretends we’re not here doesn’t mean we aren’t!”

****

When Diana descended the staircase, she noted with relief that Borthwick was gone, though her father was—unfortunately—still present.

“What did he say to you?” Lucius demanded, tapping his cane on the marble floor for emphasis.

She wasn’t sure why, but she found the gesture aggravating and offensive. “I don’t know. Stuff.”

“What kind of ‘stuff’?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Despite her irritation, she had enough sense of self-preservation not to push any further. “He talked about seeing the future.”

She debated how much to reveal, but her concerns turned out to be unnecessary. He immediately lost interest.

“Hmph,” Lucius scoffed. He dug his gloved fingers into the Floo Powder.

“He’s not as bad as I thought he would be,” Diana decided. Lucius’s fingers stopped their motion. “He’s a bit…different, but he was nice to me and—”

“You think that because you’re a naive fool,” Lucius sneered. “All my perceived vices and sins, anything that causes the Muggle-lovers to wring their hands, he did, and worse.”

“Did he rape my mum too, or was that just you?”

The words came out of her mouth before she could think about them. Lucius’s face cycled through several different shades of red. “As you’re well aware, I was found innocent in a court of law,” he spat venomously. “I refuse to discuss the matter further.”

Diana felt too emotionally raw to verbalize anything else, but whatever expression she had on her face caused the anger in Lucius’s eyes to dim. He regained his cool, aloof demeanor. “Diana, this antagonism is…unnecessary. It would benefit both of us if we were to put aside our differences. Surely there’s something you’d like me to purchase for you, as a gesture of my goodwill?”

She saw seeds of this back at Diagon Alley, but the level of delusion was staggering. She swallowed and found her voice again. “You can’t buy me off. I’m not the Minister.”

There was a small twitch of something in Lucius’s face that might have been a smile, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Without saying a word, he tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace and bellowed, “Malfoy Manor.”

After he was gone, Diana considered, briefly, trying to go somewhere else, but chickened out and followed. When she materialized from the fireplace, Lucius was already in the midst of stalking down the halls, ready to do God-knows-what.

“Wait!” she blurted, a sudden thought occurring to her. He halted and coolly turned his head towards her. “What’s a squib?”

This was the wrong thing to say. Lucius’s face grew stormy as a thundercloud. “Did my father say anything about this?” he demanded. “Did the words ‘womb taint’ drip out of his mouth?”

“N-no,” she stammered, inwardly wondering what the fuck compelled her to ask him. Narcissa—or even Draco—would have been the logical choice. “One of the paintings mentioned squib. He said your other sibling was, uh—”

“Don’t talk to them,” Lucius hissed, leaning against his cane. “Their existence is perverse. As for what a squib is”—he regarded her with a look she couldn’t identify—”I’ll show you.”

Shit.

Lucius gestured for Diana to follow, which she did, despite the difficulty of matching the speed of his long, powerful strides with her short and frantic ones. She was surprised when they ended up at the door to her room, which Lucius swung open.

Her white kitten—which Diana had yet to name—remained curled on the bed, poking her head up to see the new visitors before dropping it back down. Lucius gestured vaguely around the room as Diana placed the box on the ground. “ A squib is a pitiful thing born to wizard parents, but unlucky enough to be lacking in magical ability themselves. This bedroom used to belong to a squib many years ago. Do you know why she’s not here?”

Diana had an unsettling suspicion of what would happen to a magicless daughter in a family as prideful as the Malfoys. She swallowed and—not trusting herself to speak–shrugged.

“She was deemed no longer fit to be a member of the family, and eliminated by my father.” His voice took on a mocking edge. “I wonder, do you still think he’s ‘nice’?”

She shook her head quickly. There was a nasty smirk on his face as he continued.

“Years ago, when I was ignorant and naive, such a thought perturbed me. But I’m no longer a naive boy and understand now the importance of strength and blood purity. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and the great and noble chain that has extended through generations should not be eroded by idiotic sentiment. Those with magic are always better than those without. ”

As he said the last word, he poked her shoulder with the tip of his cane. There was something so patronizing about that gesture that caused rage to roar throughout her mind. Perhaps unwisely, she stomped towards the dresser and grabbed the photo of Sarah and Julie. She shoved it against his chest, enjoying the brief, rare, gaping expression of him looking taken aback. When he raised the photo to look at it, his face immediately transformed into a carefully sculpted mask. His lack of reaction incensed Diana more.

“You people with magic think you can do whatever you want. My mum’s mind was so messed up, she couldn't stand the thought of another boyfriend because of you.”

That finally got a hint of reaction: The corners of Lucius’s mouth curled upward in a barely-perceptible smirk, and a tidal wave of fury crashed through her.

“Does looking at that picture make you feel anything? Is there anything inside of you?” Diana demanded to know. In her voice was rage, but also desperation, and grief for the life she lost. Tears pooled in her eyes and her voice began to crack as she asked, “Or are you really just that evil?”

The smirk vanished, and Lucius suddenly looked tired and weary instead of smug. “It’s difficult for you to understand, being raised by Muggles…they’re a different breed, you see…”

She wasn’t going to put up with this shit. “You don’t regret anything, do you?” she asked flatly, snatching the photo from his hands.

When she was a child (well, younger—she was still one, despite how she often felt) Diana always hoped her father would have a change of heart or some kind of realization where he genuinely regretted his actions. It wouldn’t erase his wrongs, but it would have made Diana feel slightly better about coming from his sperm.

Naturally, after meeting Lucius, she put those hopes to rest.

Which is why she was startled when he looked at her with open surprise. For a moment, she could see how the boy in the painting was the same man in front of her.

“Of course I do.” It was as though the world stopped moving, and for a brief moment, she was irrationally hopeful. Then: “This ruined me and my family.”

Despite the Brisingamen being tucked away in its box, Diana felt weighed down and heavy. She sank into her bed and turned her head away, unable to look at him. As Lucius made his way to the door, she found her voice again. “What was her name, the girl whose room I have?”

“Lavinia,” he replied, after a pause. The hand that wasn’t gripping Jormungandr lingered on the doorframe. “And you’re lucky I’m your father and not Abraxas. He’s the one who’s evil and wretched.”

“Must run in the blood,” she couldn’t help but mutter.

Diana thought Lucius considered himself too dignified to roll his eyes, but apparently that wasn’t the case. The door shut with a bit more force than was required.

Closing her eyes, she turned to lay on her side but winced. When she rolled up her sleeves to see why, she noticed faint bruises from when Lucius gripped her arm earlier.

She let out a sigh of frustration, which caused the kitten to wander over and nuzzle her head against Diana. She continued to cuddle with her pet long after her tears had dried. There was a lot to think about. Lucius, Abraxas, paintings, dark lords, squibs, Sarah, and—of course—Hogwarts.

She hated the idea of going there, but after what happened today, she was cautiously optimistic. She needed to be free from the shackles of the Manor, needed to get far from Lucius.

Yes, it was a school for magic, but so what? There’s no way anyone there could be worse than my father.

Meanwhile, the black diary remained tucked in her suitcase, waiting and eager.

Chapter Text

”I’ll miss you so much, my dear,” Narcissa Malfoy cooed, pulling her son in a warm embrace and kissing him on both cheeks.

“Mother,” Draco hissed, traces of pink appearing on his face. His eyes darted around rapidly, as though unable to comprehend that people in King’s Cross Station had other things to do besides staring at the Malfoys. “That’s enough!”

Diana wanted to snap that Draco was lucky to have a living mother, but restrained herself. Instead, she tightened her grip on her cat carrier, turned her head and tried to distract herself with her surroundings: the smoke of the engines, the whistling and screeching of trains pulling in and out of the station, the laughing and chatter of the bustling crowds. Sometimes she’d spot individuals with mismatched clothing, owls in cages, even an idiot with a wand sticking out of his pocket, an unwelcome reminder of where she was going, and how blissfully ignorant Muggles were of the dangers lurking among them.

Lucius placed his gloved hand firmly on Draco’s shoulder. Despite his strict standards and general distance towards his son, Diana never doubted he held genuine affection towards Draco, which was reinforced by the rare warmth spotted in his eyes. “I trust you’ll do our family proud, Draco.”

“I will, Father,” promised Draco. The unspoken addition of ‘unlike her’ weighed heavy in the air.

As if on cue, both parents turned towards Diana. Lucius’s eyes grew cooler, though his small smile remained fixed in place. Narcissa’s eyes were indecipherable, a testament to her own mother’s capability in instructing her daughters.

“Diana, my dear, this is an exciting moment in every young witch’s life. Do try to wipe that sour expression off your face, will you?”

Diana wasn’t consciously trying to appear gloomy, but Lucius’s words all but ensured her expression would stay that way. He sighed. “I have the utmost faith that Hogwarts will be the opportunity needed to cultivate your appreciation for our world and your heritage. As much as you wish otherwise, you are a Malfoy by blood. The Brisingamen is proof of that.”

He gestured toward the adornment on her neck, which weighed heavier than normal. She loathed wearing this stupid thing—despite the protection it offered—and felt like a prized poodle at a dog show. “I doubt it.”

The edges of Lucius’s lips twisted downward, but before he could say anything, Narcissa gently touched his arm. “Darling, we have some time before the children need to board. Perhaps you could elaborate more on the coursework expected from him at Hogwarts while I speak with Diana.”

Lucius’s lips thinned, but he did what his wife asked and pulled Draco off to the side. Narcissa turned toward Diana and raised one perfectly-shaped brow. “Diana…”

“What?” The girl crossed her arm, unable to repress the pout on her face.

Narcissa crossed her arms in return. “You know what.”

“Well, I don’t want to go,” sulked Diana. “I’m not going to pretend to be happy about it.”

“You need to have manners,” chided Narcissa. “Even among the four of us, it’s important to maintain decorum. And how many times have we spoken about the dangers of testing my husband like this?”

Today it was ‘my husband’ instead of ‘your father.’ Interesting. Maybe he’s finally getting out of the doghouse. “Sorry,” she lied.

“No you’re not,” sighed Narcissa. “But I suppose that can wait for now. Within the next few months, you’ll learn social graces by necessity of being in Slytherin. Soon they’ll come as naturally as breathing.” Diana scowled, both from the assumption of her sorting and reminder of her destination. “Do you want to stay at the Manor? Because that’s the alternative if you do not receive a proper Hogwarts education.”

“No…” grumbled Diana, minutely shaking her head.

Narcissa’s eyes softened. “I’m well aware you have reasons to be hesitant, and I’ll spare you the platitudes of how this will be a good opportunity. What I do want to remind you of is that you’re not alone.”

Diana’s brows furrowed. “There are going to be other children…like me at Hogwarts? Is that what you mean?”

She doubted her father was the only wizard who took advantage of a Muggle, and suspected several “Muggle-borns” were actually dual products of assault and Obliviation.

“I wasn’t referring to that,” Narcissa replied evenly. “I was talking about your brother. Draco. Growing up in your other home, you never experienced the value of having a sibling or understood the uniqueness of that type of bond. At Hogwarts, the two of you need to support each other, lest you allow it to wither and fade.”

For a split second, Diana thought she saw Narcissa’s eyes grow misty, but it was over in a blink. “Furthermore, you also have me, and while I confess my reasons for investment in your success are selfish, they are genuine. If you have any problems with the girls—or anything at Hogwarts—please send me an owl.”

“Okay…” mumbled Diana. She was starting to feel a strange pit of…something…in her stomach. It couldn’t be sadness, because what was there to feel sad about?

“Good.” Narcissa tilted her head in the direction of Lucius and Draco, who were speaking in hushed tones and glancing periodically at Diana. “I believe they’re finishing up as well. Do you have any other questions for me?”

“No.” Then, before stopping herself, she muttered, “Thanks.”

Narcissa smiled tightly, but Diana wasn’t sure what she was thanking Narcissa for, exactly. Thanks for offering to help? Thanks for putting up with my shit over the past month? Thanks for not turning me into Cinderella?

Regardless, she had no time to dwell on it. Draco and Lucius rejoined them, and after another session of “I’ll miss you’s” from Narcissa to Draco, the siblings walked in front of the brick wall they were supposed to run into in order to reach Platform 9 ¾.

It sounded completely mad, but Diana knew enough about the wizarding world at this point to just go along with it. Besides, the worst that could happen would be that it wouldn’t work and she’d get a concussion or go comatose, which was still preferable to living with the Malfoys or going to Hogwarts.

Before Lucius or Narcissa could say any more, she ran towards the wall and didn’t look back.

****

Clearly, Draco didn’t receive the same speech Diana did. After reaching the platform and boarding the train without incident (unfortunately) Draco said, without looking back, “I’m going to find Crabbe and Goyle.”

Although she never met the pair, she heard enough about them from Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius to paint a dismal picture. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were—in charitable terms— Draco’s “friends,” though from what Diana gathered, they were bred to be Malfoy lackeys since birth. Diana wasn’t sure if they were genuinely as dim-witted as the Malfoys perceived them to be, or if this was another case of the Malfoys underestimating those they view as lesser. They also had fathers who were Death Eaters, which made Diana’s blood boil at the implications.

“You said ‘I’m,’” observed Diana. She grabbed the back of his robe so he couldn’t scamper off. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know,” scoffed Draco, rolling his eyes. “Find a compartment or something.”

He yanked the robe out of her hands and bolted off. Looks like our ‘bond’s’ off to a great start.

Diana sighed as she navigated through the train, searching for an empty compartment. It was obvious why he didn’t want to be seen with her, and she understood why. She certainly didn’t enjoy his company, but for reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint, frustration bubbled inside her all the same.

Finally, she spotted an empty compartment. Scooting inside before someone else could, she immediately pulled the Brisingamen off her neck and stuffed it unceremoniously in the suitcase. She closed the sliding door, plopped down, and unhooked her cat carrier, allowing the white kitten to stretch and meow happily.

The train whistle signaled the start of the journey, and sure enough, a rumble of movement followed shortly after. No turning back now.

After Diana fiddled through her suitcase and pulled out Hogwarts: A History, she had only a couple minutes of reading before the rat-tat-tat of knocking caused her to groan. Gently picking up the kitten from her lap, she moved to open the sliding glass door and allowed the girl with bushy brown hair to push her way in.

“Hello,” she greeted breathlessly. “The other compartments are crowding up. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” The girl plopped herself down without waiting for a response, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

Granger. The name didn’t ring a bell, which meant she wasn’t from a family of dark wizards or politically connected. “I’m Diana”—she made a split-second decision—”White.”

“Your kitten’s adorable,” cooed Hermione, eyes sparkling. “Such a precious little thing. Is it a boy or girl?”

Diana smiled. Anyone who liked animals couldn’t be evil. Maybe this girl was like her. “Girl.”

“I always wanted a cat of my own,” Hermione continued to ramble. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Hermione’s eyes bulged. “How could you not know? She’s your pet!”

Diana was a bit put off by the judgmental tone, but couldn’t deny it was warranted, especially since she had the cat for a couple weeks now. After Lucius dismissed the name Sarah, she considered Marie before realizing it would be too painful to keep saying. Her other name ideas of Snowy and Icy were disregarded by Narcissa as “too banal,” which left Diana at Square One. “A name’s important and I want to make sure it’s a good one. I’ll come up with one…soon.”

“You should name her after famous witches,” suggested Hermione, letting the kitten sniff her fingers. “I see you’ve already cracked open Hogwarts: A History. I read it three times already. How many times have you read it?”

Diana started to sweat. “Um—”

There was another loud knock on the sliding glass, except this time it was a woman pushing a cart full of sweets. Grateful for the momentary reprieve, Diana used her Malfoy money to purchase everything on the menu that didn’t look like living (or dead) animals or insects. As a result, she ended up with only a tiny handful of treats and handed one to Hermione.

“Thank you!” she chirped, opening the box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “So, how many times have you read it?”

Diana thought the arrival of the trolley would distract Hermione from her train of thought, but apparently not. “Once, but I skimmed mostly, so I’m reading it again.”

“You shouldn’t skim, otherwise you could miss out on important details,” Hermione chided, popping a red bean in her mouth. “Do you remember Morgana and Nimue?” Diana opened her mouth, but Hermione kept plowing ahead. “Those could make good names. Oh, and Helga and Rowena of course. I would say Helena too, but since her ghost haunts the castle it might be in poor taste. Speaking of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, which house would you like to be in?”

Diana blinked, trying to catch her bearings. Hermione's raw intensity and pushiness reminded her of Claire’s caricature of Samantha. “I’ll probably end up in Slytherin.”

In a gesture Diana felt was unnecessary, Hermione brought her hand to her heart and her eyes widened again. “Slytherin? You know the sort of people who end up in Slytherin, right? I thought you said you read the book so—oh! Perhaps you skimmed the chapter. It’s called—”

“I know what Slytherin is,” Diana interrupted, nibbling her Pumpkin Pasty. Seeing Hermione feel this way towards dark wizards made her feel hopeful, but also compelled to defend herself. “I don’t support the blood purity stuff, but I can’t think of any other house that matches my qualities.”

“Well, I”—she smiled and puffed out her chest—”want to be a Gryffindor. It seems like the best house by far. Though I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad, either. I’m quite clever and probably wouldn’t have trouble with the riddles in front of—”

A harsh banging caused both girls to jump. Diana slid the door open (again) and a sullen Draco shoved his way in, lips twisted in a scowl. He sat down next to Diana with a huff and crossed his arms. The kitten mewled and nuzzled his side in greeting, which he ignored.

Asking how it went would be redundant. Diana held out a Bubble Brew as a peach offering, which Draco snatched and gulped down without a word of thanks, staring intently out the window.

Hermione, however, demonstrated less tact. “You look positively dreadful. What happened?”

Draco jerked his eyes away from the window, and his scowl morphed into a sneer. “That’s not any of your business, now is it?”

Hermione flushed slightly, but didn’t say any more. Draco took another swig of his soda, and—eyes drifting to Diana—decided to unload anyway. “If you must know, Theodore Nott’s a bloody backstabber. That’s what happened.”

You’re complaining about backstabbing but want to be in Slytherin? “What did he do?”

“He’s taking what’s rightfully mine!” Draco practically shouted, causing the kitten to scamper back to Hermione’s lap.

Diana vaguely recalled Theodore Nott from her trip to Hyperborea. His father was awful, but he seemed alright. Then again, it’s not like two minutes are enough to know a person. “Are you talking about Crabbe and Goyle?”

“Them, and everyone else! They’re fawning over the weedy bastard like he’s Apollo descending from Mount Olympus. Nott, of all people. His family doesn't have half the legacy or influence the Malfoys do. It’s pathetic, really. Goes to show how weak-minded some people are, I suppose.”

Diana’s brows furrowed. “I don’t get it. Are you jealous or something? People are allowed to like other people beside you, you know.”

Draco looked at her with outrage. “Jealous?! Jealous?! Why would I be jealous of the scion of a family whose only accomplishments are to ride on the coattails of other, greater families?”

“I didn’t mean—”

”I knew you wouldn’t understand,” snapped Draco, grabbing the container of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans and popping three in his mouth at once. Between chews, he clarified, “You don’t understand how Slytherin works. They think they smell blood in the water and are trying to back the strongest Kelpie.”

“Why is Theodore the stronger, um, Kelpie?”

“He’s not,” Draco emphasized forcefully. His eyes grew colder, glaring daggers at Diana. “That’s just what they think. And you should know why, sister.”

Why should I—oh.

Ohhhh…..

Diana felt stupid for not putting the pieces together before, but she was also surprised that Lucius’s bad publicity was significant enough to impact Draco’s social circle. She knew for a fact that Cantankerous Nott was not only a Death Eater, but also a man vile enough to have participated or been complicit in her mother’s abuse.

So it’s about optics then, Diana decided. The Malfoys having egg on their face with Diana’s existence besmirched the family name—at least for now—causing Draco’s dream of being the presumptive Slytheirn prince to go up in flames. Instead, the soon-to-be Slytherins coalesced around the newcomer who came from a dark and powerful family but without the public baggage.

Before Diana could figure out how to reply, Hermione’s eyes darted back and forth between her and Draco. “Sister? You’re siblings? Oh, how foolish of me….it should have been obvious, really.”

Diana leaped at the chance to change topics. “Hermione, this is Draco. Draco, Hermione.”

“What’s your surname?” demanded Draco, straightening his back.

“Granger,” replied Hermione with no hesitation.

“Granger,” echoed Draco, smugness and disdain dripping from his lips. “That’s not a wizard name.”

“No,” agreed Hermione, nonplussed by Draco’s palpable arrogance. Diana had to give the girl some credit. “They’re dentists.”

Draco frowned. “What on earth is a dentist?”

“They’re Muggles who clean teeth,” supplied Diana, mentally filing the question of how wizards kept their teeth clean for another day.

Draco’s lips curled in a manner reminiscent of his father’s. “So you’re a mudbl—”

Diana stepped on Draco’s feet, causing him to wince. She thought she was being subtle, but judging by Hermione’s puzzled expression, she wasn’t. Desperate to change the topic again, Diana quickly asked, “How did you find out you were a witch?”

She didn’t give much thought of the question before it left her lips, but after it did, she realized she was genuinely curious. Hermione seemed a lot more confident at peace with the idea of a wizarding school than she was.

“We received the letter in the post,” Hermione recalled, face brightening at the recollection. “Of course, my parents and I thought it was a prank at first.” Sounds familiar. “Then several more letters arrived at our house, day after day, and then the deputy headmistress—Professor McGonagall—came to visit. She told my family all about the wizarding world, and Hogwarts, and—oh, it was so wonderful! I always knew I was different, and this proved it.”

Draco shot Diana a triumphant smirk. ‘See? This mudblood appreciates the gift of magic. Why can’t you?’ Ignoring him, Diana asked cautiously, “And your parents were okay with all of this?”

Hermione’s smile faded. “No, they weren’t…not at first. They insisted I go to a Muggle school, no matter how much I begged.” She pouted at the memory. “Honestly! They can be so narrow-minded sometimes.”

“What changed their mind?” questioned Diana, skin starting to prickle.

“I’m not entirely sure,” admitted Hermione, stoking the kitten’s neck absentmindedly. “Workers from the Ministry came and talked to my parents when I was visiting my grandparents, and whatever they said convinced them to send me to Hogwarts.”

Diana felt her stomach plummet into and icy dread, but before she could say anything, another restless knocking interrupted her thoughts. Oh, for God’s sake…again? Really??

She opened the door, giving a stocky, wide-eyed boy with dark blonde hair the opportunity to ask breathlessly,”My toad–Trever–he’s m-missing—have you seen—”

He stopped upon seeing Draco, whose cool, light blue eyes danced with a mixture of amusement and condescension. “Longbottom. Why aren’t I surprised you’ve lost something already.”

Longbottom’s face flushed as he glanced at his shoes. “My toad, I d-don’t know where he went…”

He said more, but mumbled so softly it was inaudible. A twinge of sympathy tugged at Diana’s heartstrings.

“You look”—like you’re about to pass out—”kind of tired. Why don’t you rest, and I’ll look.” A spark of eagerness and self-importance flashed in Hermone’s eyes, so Diana rushed to add, “Hermione, can you watch over Neville? I think he might have that wizard disease…the one that happens when you feel really upset and stressed.”

Diana had no idea if one such illness really existed, but apparently gambled correctly.

Neville paled. “N-no I don’t—”

“Now that you mention it, I do see the telltale signs of Augery’s Agony,” Hermione mused, squinting her eyes as she mentally dissected Neville like the toad he was looking for. “Or perhaps Bramblepox. Do you feel chills? Have you seen rashes in unexpected places?”

Diana swiftly made her exit amidst Neville’s sputtering answers and Hermione’s relentless interrogation. After making her way down the end of the passenger car, she took a deep breath. The conversation brought a multitude of emotions to the surface, and she needed space to breathe. She needed to be alone.

“You expected me to sit with Longbottom and the mudblood? Are you insane?”

Diana didn’t hide her groan as she turned around to see Draco, arms crossed and scowling. “You need to stop calling people mudbloods. It’s not going to help you make friends, and you’re going to need all you can get if you’re already getting iced out.”

“I’m not ‘iced out,’” protested Draco, though the pink on his ears indicated otherwise. “It’s just taking them a bit longer to come back to their senses. And I don’t need friends anyway. I need allies.”

“Okay, fine, you need ‘allies,’” corrected Diana, rolling her eyes. “Like I said, you’re not going to get them by calling people mudbloods or insulting them, like you did to that boy earlier.”

“I don’t want or need an alliance with Neville Longbottom,” Draco sneered, “and I don’t care a bloody whit about his stupid frog.”

Nevertheless, he accompanied Diana as an unnecessary hanger-on, lurking in the background as she went to the different compartments, inquiring about the toad. Sometimes they’d hear animated whispers after leaving, and while Draco appeared outwardly nonchalant—despite no doubt hearing them—such occurrences made Diana nervous and eroded her willpower to continue their quest. She was about to call it quits when she decided to open one more compartment. “Hi, we’re looking for a missing toad. He’s—”

She blinked. Inside were two boys her age: one was a freckled redhead munching on a chocolate frog, and the other was a scrawny black-haired boy with glasses. The same black-haired boy she saw at Madame Malkins. “Oh, it’s you.”

She said it with surprise instead of disdain, but winced at how rude it sounded nonetheless. What would Narcissa say?

The boy with glasses smiled nervously. “H-hello...”

Draco popped his head in, curious about the irregularity. “Nice to see you again, I suppose,” he drawled, and the black-haired boy quickly nodded. Draco’s eyes then drifted to the other boy in the compartment. His lips curled into a sneer. “Oh and I know you. Red hair and a hand-me-down robe…you must be a Weasley.”

Diana’s eyes immediately locked with the redhead’s, who looked not at Draco but at her, with the panic of a deer caught in a trap. This was clearly the son Arthur told her about, and like she predicted, he was less than thrilled with being her mandatory friend.

He stared down at his shoes while Draco’s eyes returned to rest on the scrawny boy. “I don’t believe you ever told us your name.”

“Oh, um…” The boy started to blush. “It’s Harry…”

Holy fucking shit.

Draco suddenly looked much more interested. “Harry…Potter?”

Harry nodded, without much enthusiasm. Diana could practically see the gears spinning in Draco’s mind.

There were a few seconds of thick heavy silence before Draco continued, voice lighter than before. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.” He hesitated, before adding, “And I suppose…you’re not doing a bad job so far. The Weasleys are…okay.” His fingers started to twitch as the redhead’s (and Diana’s) jaw dropped in disbelief. “A strong lineage despite their lack of success in all avenues of life…perseverance in the face of failure can sometimes be commendable.” His mouth twisted what Diana assumed was supposed to be a smile, but looked more like a pained grimace. “I can help you there, too.”

Draco stuck out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry glanced at the redhead, who appeared just as confused as Harry.

Please don’t laugh at him, Diana silently begged, palms sweating.

There was another beat of silence, then Harry tentatively reached out and shook hands with Draco. Diana exhaled, and Draco’s forced “smile” relaxed into something more natural.

“I-it was nice meeting you again,” babbled Diana, wanting to leave before either one of them fucked this up. “See you both at Hogwarts.”

After an exchange of murmured, awkward goodbyes, the Malfoys exited the compartment and rushed back toward their compartment. “I think that was good,” Diana whispered to Draco. “Alliance number one down. Two, possibly.”

“You realize it was utter nonsense, right?” Draco whispered back, rolling his eyes. “The Weasleys are blood traitors. It’s simply more advantageous to pretend otherwise, given the circumstances.”

Diana knew ‘the circumstances’ didn’t simply refer to how the Weasley boy befriended Harry: It also related to Arthur’s involvement with Diana and—as a result—the Malfoys as a whole. She also knew Lucius would rather have swallowed glass than consider making peace with the Weasleys. Draco had to realize this, too.

But—regardless of whether or not the plan would be successful in the long term—he still chose to try it. A pertinent reminder that no matter how much influence Lucius had on him, Draco was still his own person.

Diana smiled. “I know. It was still good.”

“Shut up.”

But Diana couldn’t help but notice the way the corners of his lips flickered upward in a small, rare, genuine smile in return.

****

They spent the remaining amount of time with Hermione and Neville, who—to Diana’s relief—found Trevor (“He was in my suitcase the whole time!” he exclaimed, beaming). Draco remained quiet for the duration of the trip, though it was a calm quiet instead of the sullen silence of earlier.

At long last, the train arrived. They exited into the cool autumn air and put their luggage on a separate carriage before following the booming, boisterous voice of Hagrid. He guided the first years through a narrow path that led to a dark lake. Hermione gasped in delight upon seeing Hogwarts for the first time; Diana couldn’t deny the castle looked even more impressive at nighttime, lit up and sparkling.

Like an anglerfish…

Biting her lip, Diana boarded a rowboat with Draco, Hermione and Neville, feeling a tug of anxiety at being separated from her cat and creeping dread for what was to come. They glided their way across the lake and traversed the stone pathway leading to the castle entrance.

Professor McGonagall was the first one to greet them, causing disdain to coil within Diana. She pointedly ignored the woman’s speech about the Sorting Hat, as well as the brief gaze of pity that flickered in her direction, while the group of first years made their way through the ancient halls of the castle.

I shouldn’t be here…

This thought was reinforced when about twenty pale, transparent spectral apparitions steamed through the walls. Despite being prepared for it, she let out a shriek, along with several other students. One of the ghosts—a monk—smiled and stopped to talk to them, but Diana couldn’t focus on what he was saying. Seeing the ghosts reminded her of her mother, which brought a fresh wave of fear and resentment.

It wasn’t fair that Sarah White, Julie Williams, and David Brown died as the result of wizards’ callousness, viewed as playthings instead of fully-fledged people with hopes and dreams of their own. It wasn’t fair that her mother couldn’t be a ghost and stay with her, simply because she was born without magic. It wasn’t fair that these wide-eyed idiots around her were naive enough to view the castle as a place of wonder and enchantment instead of a breeding ground for future monsters.

None of this is fair.

The scowl remained fixed on her lips even after entering the Great Hall and all its grandiloquence: the floating candles, starry ceiling, golden plates and goblets, even the worn, frayed wizard’s hat perched innocently on the stool that inspired so much reverence from the school’s inhabitants The deceptively cute song it sang and the animated chatter of her fellow-first years cause her scowl to deepen. Every student called up felt like another dagger in her side.

“Boot, Terry.” Ravenclaw.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin.” Hufflepuff.

“Granger, Hermione.” Gryffindor.

“Greengrass, Daphne.” Slytherin.

“Longbottom, Neville.” Gryffindor.

Everyone looked so damn happy. Diana wanted to scream they didn’t deserve to be happy, not while they lived in a world where Muggles were treated like animals. Worse than animals, even. Lucius didn’t torture her cat, but he had no trouble tor—

“Malfoy, Diana!”

That’s not my name. As Diana trudged her way to the stool amidst the whispers, she surveyed the excited faces and felt nothing but contempt for every student, staff member, ghost, and any other thinking entity that inhabited this wretched castle. How many of these Pureblood children had fathers, like her own, who took perverse pleasure in Muggles’ pain? How many Pureblood students felt the same way? How many of these Muggleborns had parents whose memories were modified, like Diana's mother? How many Muggleborns were cheerful only because the Ministry modified their memories?

I hate magic, she thought bitterly as the Sorting Hat was placed gently on her head.

“Oh, my,” the Sorting Hat murmured in her ear, a far cry from the bombastic cheer exhibited earlier. “I’ve seen minds like this before, and it’s never easy. A mind that’s suffered pain and hardship no child should have to face is a tragic thing indeed.”

I’ve experienced pain and hardship because of people like you. She dug her nails into the edge of the stool.

“‘People’ like me?” the small voice echoed, this time laced with amusement. “Why, I’m no person, I’m a hat. Though I daresay there would be much better off if people acted more like hats and less like people.”

Diana couldn’t help it: her lips twitched into a small smile. Agreed.

“Now, regardless of how much you wish to pretend otherwise, you are a witch, my dear. You may deny it, chafe at it, tear at it, but the birthright is yours, and repressing it will do more harm than good. I sense much anger and fear in you that could easily take on a life of its own. In fact, it’s already on the precipice of doing so.”

I should be angry. I should be scared. Wizards ruined my life.

“A life can never be ‘ruined.’ Every life is unique and worthwhile, and if you’ve seen as many minds as I have, you’d agree. Horrible events can happen beyond your control, yes, but the way you react, the choices you make—that’s a special power no one can take away. As your grandmother said, you’re stronger than you know.”

I don’t feel strong, admitted Diana. But I want to be. I need to be.

“Oh?” the Hat pried in amusement, though they both knew full well what she was thinking. “Why’s that?”

One day I’ll either be in charge of this world or destroy it somehow, she mentally proclaimed with a bit more pomp that was necessary. I’m still deciding. But either way, there’s going to be big changes, and these wizards will learn they shouldn’t have messed with the Whites, or any Muggle for that matter.

“Ah, such ambition is admirable indeed…you’ll find your best chance to win’s in SLYTHERIN!”

Diana took off the hat; it was disappointing, but not fully unexpected. She made her way to the Slytherin table, which was no doubt packed to the brim with children of magical rapists, some of whom likely participated in the abuse of her mother. Their grinning faces reminded her of sharks.

Stop. They’re just kids like me, she tried to tell herself as she sat diagonally from the black-haired prefect.

But kids can grow into monsters. She saw what her own father looked like as a child. Who’s to say others at the table wouldn’t have similar fates?

“Welcome to Slytherin,” greeted the black-haired prefect, beaming. “I’m Gemma Farley.”

Farley. Diana recognized that name; Narcissa would want her to play nice. “Nice to meet you. I’m Diana.”

“Have you met the other first-years on the train?” asked Gemma, gesturing to the opposite side of the table.

Crabbe and Goyle were there, of course, mumbling something to each other as Draco walked up to the stool. Next to them sat Millicent Bullstrode, a stocky, black-haired girl who didn’t look any more thrilled than Diana to be there. From what she could recall from Narcissa, Millicent’s father–a scion of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families—married a Muggleborn, causing quite the scandal. Across from her sat a skittish brown-haired girl—Tracey something?—who was one of the first girls sorted into Slytherin. Narcissa didn’t mention anything about her, which meant she wasn’t socially significant in Pureblood circles.

The only first-year who was looking at her instead of Draco was Daphne Greengrass. Diana heard a lot about the Greengrass family, and Daphne didn’t disappoint. Unlike Diana’s wavy, unrestrained locks, Daphne’s straight blonde tresses were pinned up by shimmering butterfly clips which no doubt came from the Greengrass’s famous jewelry collection. Her soft smile belied the calculating gaze in her amber eyes.

Diana gave a fake smile in return before turning back towards Gemma. “Not yet,” she said, watching as Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on Draco’s head.

She expected Draco’s sorting to be short and swift, but ten seconds of waiting soon became thirty, and thirty became forty-five, and forty-five became a minute. Judging by the whispers at the Slytherin table, she wasn’t the only one surprised.

A sudden, horrific possibility rammed into her like a truck: What if Draco wasn’t sorted into Slytherin? It sounded mad, but crazier things had happened. She didn’t particularly like spending time with him, but there was no doubt she would like to have someone familiar beside her as she weathered the dragon’s den that was Slytherin.

Luckily, her fears proved unwarranted. The Sorting Hat called out “SLYTHERIN,” causing the table to clap politely and Diana let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Thank God.

Draco walked over to the Slytherin table and sat down next to Diana, lips thin. Diana shifted uncomfortably. “Lucius will be pleased we both got into Slytherin.”

She thought the idea would cheer him up, but instead, Draco’s eyes clouded. “I suppose.”

Diana opened her mouth to say more, but snapped it shut after the table erupted into a thunderous applause. Theodore Nott made his way to the table, smiling, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes. As predicted, Crabbe and Goyle fawned to him once he sat down. Draco’s fingers twitched.

As Professor McGonagall continued to call the names of various students, Diana’s gaze drifted to the High Table. The bearded man in the golden chair in the center could only be Professor Dumbledore, the man who—according to Arthur—advocated for her to stay with Sarah instead of Lucius. She recognized Hagrid, Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape, the latter three causing a fresh wave of bitterness and guilt to wash over her as she recalled their last encounter (What would Mum say about me being here? What would Grandma say?). There were others she didn’t recognize, including a man in a turban whose eyes locked onto Harry as he shuffled up to the stool.

Obviously, the hero who vanquished the evil wizard’s going to be in Gryffindor, she thought, rolling her eyes. Her eyes drifted back to Professor Snape. Watching McGonagall place the hat on Harry’s head, the man’s lips curled, as if smelling something rotten.

Diana realized with a pang of horror that he was going to be her Head of House. He was an arse, which would be bad enough, but he was also a Death Eater. Or former Death Eater, if he was to be believed.

Then again, like Marie said, his words didn’t mean jack shit. His disdain towards Harry might already be indicative that his allegiance wasn’t as saintly as he claimed.

In fact, who's to say a lot of people at her table wouldn’t want misfortune to come to Harry, either? Their families might be holding a torch for Voldemort, like she suspected her father did. Harry would have greater chance of being safe if he was in—

“SLYTHERIN!”

A dead silence enveloped the Hall as Harry nervously took the hat off and handed it to Professor McGonagall, whose gaping expression was surely a rarity. It only lasted a couple seconds, however, before she composed herself. The Professors at the High Table did the same.

All except Snape.

Snape, who looked frazzled and aghast, as though he was punched in the gut and thrown in a pool of spiders simultaneously.

It was both cathartic and comical, seeing the arrogant, unflappable man so thoroughly shaken. A giggle escaped Diana’s lips, piercing through the blanket of silence and causing her face to burn. That broke the spell, and the Slytherins—and the rest of the hall— clapped politely as Harry made his way to the Slytherin table and immediately plopped himself across from Diana and Draco, face flushed but pleased.

“I’m shocked,” Draco said bluntly, leaning forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “I thought for sure you’d be a Gryffindor.”

Diana wondered if Harry noticed the smug way Draco’s eyes flickered towards Theodore’s, who did not look happy: ‘Yes, Harry Potter chose to sit next to me. Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?’

“It wanted to put me there,” admitted Harry. “But I remembered what you said in Madame Malkins, about Slytherin being the house of the powerful, and, well, I kept asking for Slytherin, and I guess the Hat agreed.” His eyes locked onto Diana’s. “That’s part of what makes this place so magical, right? Being able to make big choices like that.”

Diana recalled Draco’s olive branch to the Weasley boy, the way Harry went against everyone’s expectations, and her own conversation with the Sorting Hat. “Yeah,” she said, her vow to the Hat echoing throughout her mind. “Maybe you’re right.”

For once, Diana dared to hope.

Chapter Text

Despite her disdain for Hogwarts and its history, Diana couldn’t help but feel a twinge of curiosity regarding the placement of the Slytherin common room. Was it simply the product of Salazar’s twisted mind, or was it placed there as a final ‘fuck you’ from the other three founders after their falling out?

Nevertheless, it proved appropriate. If Hogwarts was a gilded prison, it was only fitting for Diana to sleep in the dungeons.

The other first-years gaped in awe as they made their way past the stone corridors and tutting portraits leading to the Slytherin common room. Upon entering, Pansy and Tracey gave a sharp intake a breath; Diana found the action needlessly dramatic, but couldn’t deny the ornate furniture combined with the greenish tint of the lamps and lake outside the windows created a distinct ambiance. Grand and regal, but cold. “You’re here for now, but don’t get comfortable” is what the stone walls seemed to say.

Don’t worry, I won’t.

Harry decided to state the obvious. “We’re underneath a lake!” he whispered, eyes brimming with excitement as the infamous giant squid whizzed past.

“Maybe the glass will break and we’ll drown.” If only I could be so lucky …

Draco shot her a glare, but Gemma chuckled. “Don’t worry, these enchantments are meant to last,” she assured, strolling over and giving the window a few hard knocks. “Now, I know you’re all eager to unpack, but before the boys and girls split, Professor Snape has a few words.”

Diana’s head whipped around in confusion, along with several other first-years. Silent as carbon monoxide, Professor Snape somehow managed to slip into the common room unnoticed and was now storming towards them, robes flapping about like Dracula. Despite Gemma’s proclamation, Snape looked like he would rather kiss a snail than give a speech. Any shock from earlier evaporated, leaving behind a scowling, haughty man whose disdain was palpable as he glared daggers at poor Harry.

“Who among you,” he drawled, folding his arms and tapping the insides of his elbows with bony fingers, “feels you are deserving of Slytherin?”

Everyone’s hand raised tentatively, except for Diana, who didn’t think the House was good enough to ‘deserve,’ Goyle, who was distracted by the squid and missed Snape’s question, and Harry, whose hand vacillated between raised and lowered.

“Such a response is predictable, albeit disappointing.” Snape’s eyes locked back onto Harry. “Though the show of false humility is new.”

Harry blinked, and Diana’s eyes narrowed.

“Not a single one of you deserves to be here,” Snape continued bluntly, scanning the rest of the first years. Once his gaze rested on her, she looked down at her shoes. “We come into this life—regardless of lineage, wealth, or lack thereof—deserving nothing. Everything is earned through ambition. An ambition which must be continuously fostered, lest it wither on the vine. Your sorting is the first, not final, step towards greatness. By the end of the seventh year, we shall see which among us truly deserved to be placed in Slytherin.”

Diana dared to look up; Harry’s face flushed and it was his turn to stare at his shoes while Snape glowered at him. “This is the house of ambition and cunning, not unwarranted arrogance. It is expected that you uphold the dignity and pride of our House, which I already see will be unachievable for some of you. And let me be perfectly clear: If I so much as suspect idiocy or recklessness, there will be harsh consequences.”

Diana waited for more, but apparently that was it. Snape spun around and stalked away with the haughtiness of a bat.

“Thank you, Professor!” Gemma smiled and clapped her hands together. “Girls, follow me. Boys, follow Felix to the left.”

Before they separated, Diana leaned in towards Harry and whispered, “Was he the one who came to your uncle’s house to tell you about magic?”

“No,” replied Harry, the wind clearly knocked out of his sails. “I never met him before today.”

If there wasn’t a personal vendetta, then it had to relate to Snape’s past as a Death Eater. Glancing around the room, her heart grew heavy with dread; Slytherin was the worst possible house for Harry to be sorted. Not only did he need to contend with his Head of House holding a grudge over his master’s demise, but his classmates might want to see him dead too.

Before she could open her mouth to say something, Gemma’s light tone cut through her thoughts: “Diana, come on! We’re waiting on you.”

She hesitated, but Harry already scampered off to join the rest of the boys. Diana tried to catch Draco’s eye, but he didn’t bother to say goodbye. Instead, he whispered something to Harry, which drew forth a smile from the messy-haired boy.

Grudgingly, she turned towards Gemma and the rest of the girls, who—aside from the prefect—all gazed at her coolly and appraisingly.

She stifled a sigh and followed them to the girl’s dorm. She really hoped this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Harry alive.

****

“Here we are!” Gemma announced with a flourish, gesturing towards the green and silver beds. “Your new home away from home.”

Somehow, the girls’ belongings were already in the dorm, and Diana heard a faint, familiar mewl that made her heart flutter. She quickly rushed over and opened the cat carrier, allowing her white kitten to rub up against her leg. To her surprise, she heard another meow, though this one sounded cranky. Milicent approached the second carrier and opened it, allowing a disgruntled black cat the opportunity to stretch.

“Hardly.” Pansy plopped on a bed and yawned and as the rest of the girls began unpacking. “These house-elves should be sacked—I don’t see a single fresh fruit anywhere! And the company”—her lips curled upward—”is a bit more diluted than I’m used to.”

Diana hoped she would be able to go at least 24 hours before drama started, but apparently that wasn’t meant to be. In her worry, however, he forgot she wasn’t the only half-blood: Tracey blushed and focused on unpacking her robes while Millicent’s eyes narrowed. The stocky girl took a few steps toward Pansy. “There something you want to say, Parkinson?”

Daphne perched daintily on the edge of the bed, eyes gleaming with amusement. Gemma gave a weary sigh.

Pansy put a hand to her chest in an illusion of offense. “Of course not, Millicent. I simply—”

“Pansy, enough of this rubbish,” snapped Gemma, traces of good-humor vanished. “Starting a row with your fellow Slytherins on your first day? Really?”

From what Diana could recall from Narcissa’s lessons, Gemma’s mother and Pansy’s father were siblings. But despite her wealth, Gemma seemed to possess a surprisingly level head. Wonder how that happened…

Pansy’s face reddened, but her eyes flashed with defiance. “Oh, I wasn’t saying anything about them specifically. I simply meant in general.”

Gemma wasn’t buying it. “These are the girls–the Slytherins— who will be with you every day for the next seven years while you sleep. So if I were you I’d be mindful of what you say. Not saying something will happen, just speaking ‘in general.’”

Pansy’s lips pursed, but she remained while Gemma gave the halfbloods a strained smile. “Feel free to let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be in the room right at the end of the hall.”

After mumbled goodbyes from the first years, the door shut with a thump. There were a few beats of silence, then…

“Well,” chimed Daphne, clasping her hands together, all smiles. “Now that that’s over with, I think it would be fun to get acquainted with one another. Perhaps we can play a little game.”

Millicent rolled her eyes. “I’m sick of you and your games,” she spat, petting the black cat with a tenderness at odds with the venom dripping from her voice. “All of you know who I am, and who my mother is, and I’m not going to spend another moment entertaining you fools.”

Millicent yanked the curtains around the bed shut, separating her from the rest of the world. Daphne exchanged a raised eyebrow with Pansy, a silent “Can you believe her?” hanging in the air. In unison, their eyes skipped past Tracey and locked onto Diana.

Fuck.

“What about you, Diana?” asked Daphne, smile belying her appraising eyes. “Would you like to play?”

“Um”—helllllll no—”I’m kind of tired, so—”

“I’ll play.” Daphne and Pansy’s heads turned in unison; Tracey’s fingers twisted with the top of the blanket, but her eyes flashed with determination. “W-what kind of game is it?”

“Oh, I’m sure you heard of it.” Pansy grinned like a shark. “It’s called’ Truth or Dare.’ Even the Muggles play it, I’m told.”

Diana relaxed; in the past she always picked truth and lied about it. Tracey’s tense posture loosened as well.

“It won’t take long, Diana,” assured Daphne, rummaging through her trunk to pull out a bottle and glasses. “This will be a marvelous opportunity to know more about you.”

“Come on, sit!” giggled Pansy, gesturing towards the green rug.

Diana bit her lip. She wasn’t naive enough to believe Pansy and Daphne’s intentions were pure, but getting on their bad side early on wouldn’t be advantageous either.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Diana fished through her own trunk before finding and casually placing the Brisingamen around her neck. For whatever tricks they had planned, Diana wasn’t going to let them forget who they were messing with. The Malfoy name might be tarnished, but she’d been in public enough times to witness the power her surname evoked.

Tracey Davis, Diana realized with a pang, might not be so lucky.

The way the necklace attracted Pansy’s eyes like a magnet reinforced her decision. She sat down next to Tracey, watching as her kitten sniffed Millicent’s cat. The cat hissed, causing the little thing to scamper towards Diana. Bully…

“What a cute little kitten,” cooed Pansy while Diana stroked its head in comfort.

Diana noticed that, unlike Hermione, Pansy didn’t bother asking the kitten’s name. When Daphne pranced over with the bottle and glasses, her eyes locked onto the Brisingamen as well. She placed the glasses on the carpet and began to pout.

“Is that alcohol?” squeaked Diana. Surely, even in the wizarding world, eleven-year olds weren’t allowed to drink. An intoxicated child and magic would be a terrible combination.

“Of course not, silly,” smiled Daphne. “It’s just pumpkin juice.” She raised her glass. “To our first year at Hogwarts! Cheers!”

Daphne, Pansy, Diana, and Tracey clinked their glasses. But while the other girls downed their drink, Diana brought hers to her lips, creating the illusion of drinking without swallowing a drop.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t as subtle as she thought. “Diana, you didn’t drink anything!” scolded Pansy. “It’s bad luck not to drink after making a toast.”

“I’m, um, I’m good, thanks…” she muttered.

Daphne tilted her head to the side, curious. “Is it because you don’t trust us?”

Diana considered lying, but to do so would be an insult to everyone in the room. “Yes.”

Daphne reached over and plucked the glass from Diana’s grasp. Daphne took a few sips before returning it, maintaining eye contact all the while.

“Now it’s got germs on it though,” Diana protested weakly.

Pansy and Daphne blinked. Tracey’s hands started to fidget, and her lips twisted into a scowl. “Just drink it, already…”

Daphne and Pansy furrowed their brows, but Tracey’s piercing gaze remained locked onto Diana. Searching frantically for another excuse but finding none, Diana brought the drink to her lips and took a few sips. It tasted like regular pumpkin juice—perhaps slightly fizzier? Daphne pushed herself off the ground. “I’m getting another glass. You ladies start without me.”

“Get me one too, Daphne!” Pansy called after her. Her eyes then settled on Tracey, smug like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Why don’t you go first, um…what did you say your name was?”

It was a superficially innocent question, but Diana picked up on the subtle jab: Tracey—and ehr family—weren’t worth remembering. “Tracey Davis,” the brown-haired girl mumbled, face flushing again. As Daphne returned with the second round of cups, Tracey’s determined eyes drifted towards Diana. Oh no…“Diana, truth or dare?”

“Truth…”

“What makes you think you belong in Slytherin?”

Like Pansy’s, the question by itself seemed innocent, but the tone in which it was delivered was certainly not. From the way Pansy and Daphne’s eyebrows shot up as they drank their second glass, they noticed it too.

What the hell is this girl’s problem? “Because I have a lot of ambition.”

“It’s your turn, Diana,” Pansy said coolly.

She was tempted to use her turn to ask Tracey what her problem was, but more pressing matters at hand. Instead, she turned to Daphne. “Daphne, truth or dare?”

Daphne smiled. “Truth.”

“Why do you want to play this game? The real reason, I mean.”

Daphne gestured vaguely with her hands. “I want to know what you’re like, and this is the best way to get to know someone.”

There had to be more to it, but Diana wasn’t sure what. Daphne turned back towards Tracey, eyes sharpening. “Tracey, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” whispered Tracey, shifting under Daphne’s hard gaze. Unlike a couple minutes ago, her face was pale and eyes unfocused.

The smile on Daphne’s face didn’t look so angelic anymore. “What gives you the audacity to pretend you, the product of two common mudbloods, are of higher standing than a Malfoy?”

Diana shifted uncomfortably and was about to speak, but Tracey opened her mouth first. “Because I’m a coward and frightened everyone will make fun of me for having no lineage. I thought it’d make me look stronger, but it only made me look like a fool.”

Daphne and Pansy doubled over in a fit of giggles as Tracey’s face flushed scarlet. Diana looked at the glass in front of her, heart sinking.

“W-hat did you do to me?” stammered Tracey, eyes misting.

“Should we count this as your turn?” Daphne asked innocently. It might have been Diana’s imagination, but she could have sworn one of the wings of the butterfly hairclip fluttered briefly. “Pansy, you haven’t gone yet. Why don’t you answer the poor dear?”

“Truth, then…” smirked Pansy, tracing the rim of the glass. “Just a little extra spice added to the pumpkin juice, to loosen the lips.”

“The truth position? Veritasomething?” blurted Diana, mind racing. It was what her father avoided taking during his trial. “I thought the Ministry controlled how that stuff was used. How did you get it?”

“I’m a Greengrass,” Daphne replied with a shrug, as though that explained everything. Probably stole it from her parents…

“I don’t understand,” whimpered Tracey. “Wh-why am I the only one saying these things?”

“Because we have nothing to hide,” giggled Pansy.

“They have an antidote and put it in the second drink,” Diana answered, stomach churning. Whyyyy did I agree to this stupid game?

Pansy frowned while Daphne winked. Tracey sniffled. “But that’s not fair…”

“We’re Slytherins.” Daphne raised a single eyebrow in a manner reminiscent of Narcissa. She turned to her friend. “Pansy, you haven’t gone yet.”

“Ohh, right.” Diana didn’t like the gleam in the raven-haired girl’s eyes. “I’ll pick…Diana.” Shocker. “Truth or dare?”

Truth or dare, indeed. Now that there was a genuine threat to picking truth, the decision was much harder. Any dares would presumably be as degrading as truth—if not moreso. Was there something else added to the drink that would compel her to perform the dares? The thought was horrifying, but if she picked truth, her darkest, most private secrets could be exposed.

Maybe.

Diana didn’t feel any different. But did that mean she wasn’t affected?

The third possibility, get up and walk away, would be something that was obvious in retrospect, but in the moment Diana remained rooted to the floor. She’d met her share of bullies in the past, but Claire would always be the one to put them in their place. Being vulnerable and weak like this reminded her of when the Ministry workers came to her house. That thought steeled her resolve and filled her with rage.

How dare they.

Perhaps sensing this, Pansy’s eyes flashed with cruel merriment. “What’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever done?”

The image of Sarah in the kitchen, immobile, flashed in Diana’s mind. But she couldn’t let Pansy and Daphne know that. She couldn’t. “Look at your face.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped and face grew scarlet, while Daphne sat up straighter, no longer smiling. Diana heard an indistinct noise from somewhere that Diana realized must have been Millicent.

She tried not to let her nervousness show. In truth, she didn’t expect to be able to say the words out loud. She drank the pumpkin juice. So why….

Her hands knocked against the silver necklace.

Oh….

The Brisingamen. For once, she was extremely grateful for her lineage.

“How did—” Daphne began.

Diana didn’t let her finish. She’d seen enough of Lucius and Narcissa’s interactions with others to know that once one has the advantage, it was important to keep pressing forward. “Daphne, truth or dare?”

The Greengrass heir’s lips thinned. “Truth.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, gesturing to the cups. “Gemma said not to start anything earlier. I-it’s not right to bully your—”

Daphne rolled her eyes in a manner unbecoming of her lineage. “‘Bully?’ This is just some harmless hazing. Everyone does it, even Muggles. I thought you’d be used to it.”

Diana ignored the jab and tried not to look away as Daphne’s hard eyes pierced into her. “Now. It’s my turn, Diana, truth or—”

“No,” Diana interrupted, sounding much more confident than she felt. She tried to think of what Narcissa would do, and vaguely recalled something the woman said weeks ago. “I refuse to engage with this frivolness any longer. I’m going to bed, and you should do the same.”

Keenly aware of three pairs of eyes digging into her, she scooped up the kitten and retreated into the bed, drawing the curtain around her. Five minutes later, she buried herself under the covers in her nightgown, heart thumping. She heard the soft mumble of indecipherable voices and shuffling from the other side. Eventually the rest of the lights turned off.

Still, Diana didn’t relax. Her mind raced for about an hour; she wondered what tomorrow would bring and speculated whether or not signed her death warrant. She remembered, to great irritation,that the word was frivolity, not frivolness, and felt like a moron. And just when sleep was about to take her, she heard a murmur that slicked through the silence.

"I really wish one of you girls picked dare,” Daphne whispered wistfully. “It would have been much more fun that way.”

Nope, not sleeping tonight.

****

Judging from the bags under Draco’s eyes the next morning, her brother got about as much sleep as she did. Harry seemed fine though, locked in discussion about different types of wizarding sports with Blaise Zabini. When their eyes met, Harry’s quickly darted away, face growing red.

Probably found out about my parents. Diana tried not to let the thought bother her–she’d be getting that reaction a lot, no doubt—but it was easier said than done. The chattering and laughter echoing through the Great Hall grated on her ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Her eyes drifted across the Hall, people-watching as she tried to push thoughts of Harry and last night out of her mind. At the Gryffindor table, she spotted Arthur’s youngest son, Ron, holding court with other first-year boys and laughing raucously. A couple girls her age were engaged in deep conversation, and off to the side was Herimione, munching on bacon in solitude. After noticing Diana’s eyes on her, Hermione beamed and waved, which Diana returned.

She wished she was brave enough to be in Gryffindor. That table looked full of rowdy, regular kids like the ones who carved dicks into the picnic tables at Camp Chrysalis instead of the hoity-toity adult wannabes that populated the Slytheirn table.

Hermione might have been pushy, but she didn’t have the same self-importance as Daphne or Pansy.

And speaking of which…

Diana’s eyes narrowed as she glanced towards the girls. To her annoyance, Pansy was staring at her, lips curled in distaste, while Daphne and Tracey were engaged in deep conversation.

It was as though the events of last night didn’t happen. Diana didn’t speak to Pansy and Daphne, or vice versa. The only person she spoke to this morning was Millicent, who accosted her in the bathroom.

****

“I can’t believe you took the drink. I thought you Malfoys were supposed to be smart.”

Diana had no idea why Millicent thought that, considering the trouble Lucius was in, but went along with it anyway. “Well, it didn’t work on me, so….”

“True,” Millicent agreed, shooting her a curious look as she placed her hairbrush on the counter.

She turned around as if to leave, but Diana quickly grabbed the taller girl’s arm, to Millicent’s obvious displeasure. “There are three of us and two of them. We shouldn’t ha–”

One look at Millicent’s cloudy expression caused Diana’s jaw to snap shut. Millicent yanked her arm away. “This isn’t Hufflepuff. There is no ‘us.’ Look at Davis.”

Diana’s gaze drifted towards the mirror, which allowed a partial view of the bedrooms. Tracey sat tentatively on the edge of the bed as Daphne braided her hair while Pansy held up a mirror. Does this girl have no dignity?

“I don’t get it. How can they act like nothing happened?” whispered Diana, fingers clenching as Pansy said something that caused the other two to laugh.

“Parkinson and Greengrass know it’s valuable to have a hanger-on, especially one as easily cowed as Davis. Davis goes along with it because both her parents are Muggleborn and she’s smart enough to realize she’s not going to survive here without some kind of protection.”

Diana wasn’t sure if “survive” was literal or hyperbole, but goosebumps crept up her arms all the same. It only took one night in the Slytherin dorm for her to feel like running into the Forbidden Forest. How was she supposed to survive the next seven years?

Millicent’s black cat strolled up to its mistress and purred as Millicent bent down to scratch its ears. “What’s your cat’s name?” asked Diana.

“Nyx.” Millicent’s brows furrowed. “And I’m not interested in making friends, Malfoy. If that’s what this is about.”

“T-that’s not it. I was just curious. And don’t call me that.” She wilted under Millicent’s stare. “Please.”

Millicent’s expression was unreadable. “Alright.”

As Millicent walked away, Diana looked enviously at her white kitten, which snuggled up on her bedspread. If only she could be that carefree….

****

“Diana,” Pansy chimed, twisting her mouth into a slight smile, “I didn’t know you were friends with Mudbloods.”

“What’s a Mudblood?” asked Harry through mouthfuls of potatoes. Diana noticed the same thing last night, like he was afraid the food would get ripped out of his hands. If there was one thing to be grateful to Hogwarts for, it was that food was in no short supply.

“It’s a racial slur for wizards and witches with Muggle parents,” responded Diana. His eyes met hers and widened. Oh, now you want to look at me?

“It’s not a racial slur!” protested Pansy, offended. “It’s a blood slur.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t understand. Why is it bad for wizards to have Muggle parents?” He took a sip from his glass of milk. “My mum had Muggle parents.”

Foot, meet mouth, Diana thought smugly and pink peppered Pansy’s cheeks.

Unfortunately, Draco came to her rescue. “Of course it’s bad! They bring their Muggle ideas and values, and erode the very integrity of our society. They expect us to accommodate them, not the other way around.”

It was an obviously rehearsed speech that parroted what she was sure his parents told him again and again since birth; she doubted Draco even know what the word “eroded” meant.

And based on what she observed, it was also blatantly false. Purebloods no doubt maintained the power, and the “radicals” Lucius and Narcissa complained about merely wanted to give Muggleborns an equal voice.

Luckily, Harry could smell the bullshit. “Oh,” he said flatly.

“What Draco’s trying to explain—albeit ungracefully—is that Muggleborns sometimes bring ideas that are harmful to wizarding society as a whole.” Theodore’s voice was smooth and confident, a far cry from the sullen boy she saw in Hyperborea. “Some of them, I’m sure, are good people. But think about what you told us last night, about your aunt, uncle, and cousin. If people like them had magic, do you imagine they’d comply with our laws, or complain loudly about every little thing?”

Both Harry and Diana frowned, albeit for different reasons. Diana didn’t know much about Harry’s maternal relatives besides Harry calling them “cruel and nasty,” but revealing that kind of personal information to strangers in Slytherin was a bad call. The poor kid had no idea he was swimming with sharks.

“And out of all the Muggles you met,” continued Theodore, resting his chin in his palm, “all the hundreds upon hundreds, how many did you say helped you, again?”

“No one,” Harry mumbled, so quiet Diana almost didn’t hear over the commotion in the Hall. Her heart ached and felt a stab of bitterness towards Theodore, who no doubt knew the answer to the question.

Triumph flashed in his eyes. “Now think of all the wizards who helped you. Doesn’t that say something about the quality of our world compared to theirs? We look out for our own.”

The statement was so ridiculous and audacious, especially after the bullshit last night, that Diana couldn’t stay silent. “Wizards do plenty of bad things to each other, too. They torture, kill, bully”—the last one was not in the same league as the others, but at least it got Daphne and Pansy to scowl—”and their society isn’t that great, either. It’s got most of the same issues as the Muggle world, only worse because of magic.”

Pansy sneered and leaned forward. “If you think this”—Pansy gestured to the Great Hall—”is so awful, then why don’t you leave?”

Diana wasn’t sure if that question was out of genuine ignorance of purposeful malice, but either way her temper flared.

She opened her mouth but felt a sharp kick to her shin. Draco sipped his pumpkin juice nonchalantly, but the white knuckles clenched around the glass told a different story. Diana willed herself to reign in the fiery emotions and form an answer that was true to herself but wouldn’t embarrass the hell out of him by mentioning Lucius specifically. “I can’t. Because of the ‘quality’ of this world.” She turned to Harry, who was looking at her hesitantly. “Harry, there are a lot of wizards—a lot of families—who are powerful and respected because of their bloodline. But that doesn’t mean they’re good people. A lot of them are awful and do terrible things. But people look the other way because they’re rich and strong. Those are the types of families that run this world, so when Theodore and probably everyone else says being pure’s better, just remember that.”

From Harry’s eyes, Diana could tell he understood what she was talking about despite not mentioning her parents and situation by name. “There’s also Vold–um, You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters,” he acknowledged. “There were a lot of people who followed him.”

“Right. And I’m not sure if you know this,” added Diana, confidence growing, “but more than half the people at this table have Death Eater parents. So next time someone tries to sell you on blood superiority, just remember that.”

Judging by the look of horror on Harry’s face, he did not, in fact, know this.

Draco sank into his seat. Theodore’s face transformed into a cool, impenetrable mask as his dark eyes met Diana’s for the first time. “The Death Eaters were a political movement. The Dark Lord claimed he could protect and strengthen the future of our kind, which is why so many were willing to join him in the first place. Yes, he ended up exploiting and twisting that dedication and it became extreme in the end, but the overall idea behind it was sound. Just because someone happened to be a Death Eater doesn’t mean they’re necessarily a bad person. So many spoke out against the Dark Lord afterwards for a reason. In fact, if he never came into power, I think the movement would still be around.”

“But he started the whole thing!” argued Diana, trying and failing to keep her voice even.

“No,” said Theodore, drumming his fingers on the table. “These ideas were around long before him, he just gave them a voice. If it was someone like, say, Professor Sinestra who was in charge, then not only would the Death Eaters still be around, but over half the school would join, I think.”

Another kick from Draco, whose face grew paler by the second as Diana’s reddened with fury.

The empathetic nods from their classmates added a massive amount of kindling to the flame.

Whether Theodore genuinely believed what he was saying or whether it was a means to placate his classmates and establish his position as Slytherin’s new golden boy was irrelevant. Diana couldn’t, wouldn’t, let that bullshit slide.

Hoping to come across as firm but not unhinged, she forced out a brief, “Well, I disagree. Obviously. I know what that kind of thinking leads to.”

She wanted to say more, but her mind was fritzing and she didn’t want to say anything that would make her look stupid.

Theodore smiled and folded his arms on the table. “What about you, Draco? Do you agree with your sister?”

Draco looked like a deer in the headlights. His eyes darted to Harry, then Diana, then flickered toward the rest of the table. “I, er, well, blood purity is important, certainly….” He grew stronger. “And there’s no denying we’re inherently superior to Muggles and should protect our culture from their degenerate influence. But”—his gaze flickered downward and a tinge of pink blossomed on his cheek—“I don’t—I don’t think dedicating yourself to one person is particularly cunning or ambitious. We’re not followers, but were made to act as such and that led to some, um…poor choices. So…no, I would not join the Death Eaters.”

Diana gaped at Draco, along with the rest of the table. Despite the clamor of the Hall, she would have heard a pin drop.

She wasn’t sure if this was legitimate, or if Draco was playing this angle to look good in front of Harry. Either way, unfamiliar pride and affection bloomed in Diana’s heart.

Theodore recovered first, and his voice had a disbelieving edge when he replied, “Interesting. I wonder what your father would say.”

“I don’t care what he says,” snapped Draco, and Diana realized for the first time what initially spurred this rebellion. “And if the rumors are true, you’re the last one to talk about wizards helping their own.”

Several looks were exchanged between nearby Slytherins, and although Diana didn’t know what her brother was referring to, she knew Draco was treading in very dangerous water. Theodore’s face darkened. “You don’t want to go there.”

A thick, heavy silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Draco didn’t press the matter, so Theodore smoothed his expression and turned back to Harry, who was watching the exchange wide-eyed. “As I mentioned last night, Harry, Draco’s family has fallen on some hard times due to a bout with the Imperius curse. He’s angry and lashing out, but his behavior—and his father’s—are not representative of Pureblood values and attitudes.”

Draco’s courage might have evaporated, but Diana was more than willing to pick up the slack. “It’s not just my family, it’s everyone’s family. When I saw you over the summer, your father practically admitted he—he knew my mum. A-and that means, he–it’s–”

The last thing she needed right now was tears, so she gulped down some milk while trying to corral her wild emotions. Though Diana knew, objectively, most of the table were wrapped up in their own conversations, it felt as though everyone’s eyes were on her.

She tried to distract herself by watching Crabbe and Goyle, who didn’t find the conversation compelling and snickered as Crabbe pressed his wand into the bench. Diana wanted to stand up and crane her head to see what they were looking at, but was too drained to do much of anything.

Theodore shook his head. “No he wasn’t. I don’t recall him saying anything of the sort.”

“That’s right,” nodded Daphne. “There’s no evidence of wrongdoing. He never went to trial, unlike some.”

Diana knew this was bait, but didn’t care. “Both of you are so full of shit.”

Tittering broke out across their side of the table, and Pansy held a hand up to her heart. “Oh my goodness, Diana. I can’t believe someone of your lineage is so undignified…”

It was another double-edged comment that caused her to grit her teeth, but this time, she chose to remain silent.

Theodore gave Harry a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry all this”–he gestured to Diana and Draco–“had to ruin your first breakfast at Hogwarts. Runs in the blood, I suppose.”

Harry’s face was an impenetrable mask. “It’s fine. I’m not hungry anymore.” He stood up and looked toward Diana and Draco. “Are you coming?”

Draco, Diana, and Theodore glanced up in surprise. Theodore’s jaw clenched, Diana felt a smug stir of satisfaction. “Yeah.”

As they walked down the aisle, Diana finally spotted the cause of Crabbe and Goyle’s snickering: Crabbe used the tip of his wand to burn a crude, carved depiction of woman’s tits into the bench.

Perhaps some Slytherins weren’t so different from Muggle children, after all.

****

The month of September went as well as expected. Due to her highly-publicized situation, the majority of her classmates acted stilted and awkward around her, though no one started shit or asked any uncomfortable questions. Sometimes she’d get looks of sympathy, other times confusion.

Although the older students no doubt had a better understanding, Diana wasn’t sure how many first-years understood the full scope of her situation. By age 11, most kids in Amberton had a basic understanding of how babies were made and understood that engaging in that process against one’s will was a crime due to media exposure or conversations with parents and siblings. Diana knew even younger due to her mother’s propensity to overshare during her most unstable moments. But she had no idea whether that knowledge was the norm among wizarding children.

The Slytherin students, at least, seemed to understand—or acted like they did. But at least for now, no one used it as ammunition. There were occasionally vague, snide comments about Lucius’s fall from grace when Draco was in earshot, but like she witnessed during her trip to Diagon Alley and Truth or Dare, the Malfoy name still commanded a level of respect.

Despite Tracey’s faux pas, she acclimatized nicely with Daphne and Pansy and seemed as content to be their lackey as Millicent was to be a loner. Daphne and Pansy would sometimes make subtle jabs, but for the most part, they ignored her, preferring to lick their wounds over and remain cautious over Truth or Dare’s unexpected turn.

Diana prayed the girls would stay away, because the Brisingamen—perhaps foolishly— often found itself collecting dust in her trunk instead of around her neck. Despite the protection it offered, she couldn’t bring herself to wear it every day for three reasons: 1. It was gaudy and ostentatious, 2. It felt like a mark of ownership by the Malfoys and betrayal of the Whites, and 3. It was extremely uncomfortable to wear. Abraxas warned her about the weight and its connection with her mind, but as the month progressed and she attended classes, it grew heavier with each passing day.

But how could it not? Attending Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Potions served as a reminder of Sarah and how the Professors fucked her life beyond repair. With the exception of Snape, they were all kind to her—either out of sympathy or guilt, she wasn’t sure—but Diana didn’t care. She sat in the back of class, sullen and nonparticipating, every time.

The effect was diminished slightly by the bushy-haired girl practically bursting out of the seat next to her, whose hand shot upward to answer each question without fail. Despite being in different houses, Hermione latched onto Diana and was one of the few people Diana felt she could call a friend, though she purposely kept their conversations surface-level. They reminisced over Muggle shows, books, and music, gushed over the food in the Great Hall, and complained about fellow students, with Ron Weasley being the main target of her ire.

Arthur’s son seemed to be thriving in Gryffindor and could always be seen with a gaggle of boys surrounding him. Although he shared several classes with Diana, he never initiated conversation with her, nor she with him. She would sometimes catch him looking in her direction awkwardly, as if wanting to say something, but despite his house, he never quite worked up the courage.

As an extension of her friendship with Diana, Hermione also became friendly to Harry and Draco, much to the latter’s annoyance. But because of Draco’s own small pool of allies, he didn’t say all the nasty things to her he was no doubt thinking.

That being said, Draco was still Draco. Although he managed to make a favorable impression on Harry, eventually he couldn’t help but say something snarky and offensive, and the green-eyed boy was quick to give as good as he got. Diana would sometimes try to mediate—to varying degrees of success—but the two boys would inevitably work through whatever argument ensued and could be found speaking to each other later, playing wizard chess or discussing a homework assignment.

Much to Draco’s irritation, Theodore also successfully smoothed things over with Harry. While Harry inexplicably gravitated towards the Malfoys, he wasn’t outright antagonistic towards the rest of the Slytherins. Whispers of ”Do the Malfoys have Potter under their thumb?” didn’t bother him—he was becoming far more adept at handling public scrutiny than she was. She sometimes spotted him skimming blood supremacy pamphlets in the common room curiously, though he never discussed the topic and others were wise enough not to broach it after the debacle during the first breakfast.

Both Narcissa and Lucius eagerly jumped onto her and Draco’s newfound friendship with the legendary Harry Potter. Diana privately questioned how Lucius could mentally reconcile having his children eating next to the same child who killed his master, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise—Lucius was nothing if not opportunistic. She also wondered how much he knew about what Draco said about him, or Draco’s lack of favor in Slytherin, but Draco didn’t offer up the information and Diana didn’t pry.

During the first week of classes, she received separate letters from Lucius and Narcsisa congratulating her on her sorting. Lucius’s was short, stiff, and formal, whereas Narcissa’s was much lengthier and analytical, offering strategies and suggestions for future social interactions with the Slytherin girls.

How Narcissa found it out, Diana had no idea. But she couldn’t deny the woman’s advice was helpful, and her letters remained folded in the nightstand while she crumpled and tossed Lucius’s letters into the rubbish bin. She also suspected Narcissa might have played a role in why the prefects had a “surprise” inspection of the first-year girl’s dorm by the end of the first week, and why Daphne and Pansy would be spending every Saturday in detention until the winter holidays.

Although Diana told Narcissa certain things about her life at Hogwarts, there were several aspects that remained private. One was her frequent nightmares about Sarah, Marie, and being a witch. Those nightmares were so disconcerting that in the middle of the night when she jolted from slumber, she would sometimes see a black mist hovering above her bed, which vanished within seconds.

She reluctantly concluded hallucinations probably were just as bad to have in the wizarding world as they were in the Muggle world.

Another aspect left out—one that Narcissa found out about anyway—was the fact that she simply sucked at magic.

Transfiguration, Charms, and any subject involving wand usage often resulted in pitiful sparks emitting from the end of the wand. On the off chance she did manage to successfully cast a spell, it either lasted temporarily or was leagues below the quality of other students’ spells. For classes that weren't heavy with wand usage, such as Herbology and Potions, she performed somewhat decently, though her erratic homework submissions and overall apathy resulted in poor marks.

The only classes she put effort into were History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and she was the only student in the grade—perhaps even the school–who looked forward to the former. Professor Binns’ delivery of material admittedly wasn’t the most engaging, but the content was fascinating. Also, it was taught by a ghost, which opened up a theological can of worms. The few times she lingered afterwards, the ghost glided through the walls before she could muster the courage to ask questions about the afterlife.

Considering her persistent paranoia, Diana got the most use out of Defense Against the Dark Arts. She bristled at the way some of her classmates mocked Professor Quirrell’s stutter and skittish mannerisms when out of earshot. It couldn’t be easy talking in front of a crowd every day; he reminded her of how she sometimes had difficulty speaking up in front of people.

Although it was only the end of September, apparently Diana’s marks were poor enough to get flagged, resulting in a conversation with Professor Snape. The man’s office was drabby and dingy, with a faint, foul odor of plant mixtures lingering on the bubbling vials, preserved fingers and animal bones, and other ingredients encased in glass. The Potions master leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers.

“Your marks are utterly abysmal, even for a first year,” he said by way of greeting. “Professor Dumbledore insisted I speak with you about them.”

He peered at Diana from the other end of the desk, who felt like a specimen under a microscope. “I d-don’t know why my wand doesn’t work right.”

“The headmaster believes you—not the wand—are the reason for this ineptitude. A wand is in tune with its master. If your mind resists, the wand will resist.”

“I think I have good reason to,” Diana replied, slight edge creeping into her voice.

Snape raised a single eyebrow. “Do you? What, pray tell, is ‘reason’ enough to sabotage your own education?”

He knew full well the reason. Diana’s lips thinned as she tried to focus on the jarred Lacewing flies on the desk instead of his sour face. “I don’t like magic.”

“And yet, you’re a witch,” he sighed. “Regardless of your…unfortunate circumstances, that remains true. No amount of struggling or protesting will change your birthright.”

It was just her luck that the only spell she really wanted—one that could remove magic— didn’t exist. “I can’t just…stop feeling this way,” she mumbled.

“If you have even the slightest modicum of concern for your future, it’s necessary you find a way. Dwelling on the past won’t lead you to anywhere worthwhile.” Diana was sorely tempted to ask him if he got over his own past, considering the smoldering looks he gave Harry, but thought better of it. His dark eyes narrowed all the same. “Nevertheless, your marks are the result of an overwhelming lack of effort, not simply poor spellcraft. Your most recent essay wasn’t worth kindling. Neville Longbottom received a higher mark than you.”

“I don’t care if I fail,” she muttered, looking at her black shoes.

“Neither do I, but as your Head of House I’m required to have this conversation with you.”

Why did a man who so clearly hated children ever become a teacher? As Diana stood waiting to be dismissed, she felt his cold eyes pierce into her.

“Something else on your mind, Miss Malfoy?” he drawled.

Yes. First, don’t call me that. Second, stop acting superior to me, because you’re an evil Death Eater so nothing you say has any value.

In reality, her face heated up and she shrugged, mumbling, “Nothing that hasn’t been mentioned before…”

After another moment of feeling like a Lacewing fly trapped in a jar, he made a vague hand gesture and dismissed her. She couldn’t dart out fast enough.

****

One thought weighing heavily on her was Snape’s Death Eater status. She tried to push aside the question of whether or not he “knew” her mother and instead focus on something more tangible: was Harry in danger?

The rest of the staff seemed convinced he wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean it was true. And if the staff weren’t willing to take action, then Harry would need to defend himself.

But what if the staff were right? Harry knew Snape disliked him, but knowing Snape was a Death Eater (either currently or formerly) would add a heaping of stress.

Would telling him be worth it if she was wrong? Would not telling him be worth it if he found out later and got mad she didn’t tell him?

Perhaps I should contact Mr. Weasley?

A cloud of gloom descended upon her. She thought of his brood of redhaired boys, none of whom had spoken to her. Contacting him now made her feel awkward, different from regular kids.

But there was one other option.

This evening, the Slytherin common room was sparsely populated aside from a gaggle of sixth-year girls gossiping in a corner and a fifth-year boy sleeping on the couch. Draco sat in an emerald chair next to the fireplace, scribbling furiously on a foot of parchment. Diana looked down at her own Potions “essay,” which consisted of four sentences so far. She plopped herself down on the chair next to him, and he grunted in greeting.

Might as well be blunt. “Draco, did you know Professor Snape’s a Death Eater?”

Draco’s eyes remained glued to the parchment, tapping it with his quill in contemplation. “Of course I did. How did you know that?”

Her heart sank; despite all evidence to the contrary, she hoped he would say ‘what are you talking about? He’s not a Death Eater! He was one of Dumbledore’s agents who pretended to be one.’ “D-doesn’t matter. How did you know?”

“Father.” Draco peeled his eyes from his parchment, and sighed after seeing Diana’s scowl. “They knew each other at Hogwarts, and he considers Professor Snape a friend.”

Any friend of Lucius was an enemy of hers. “Do you think Harry’s in danger? Professor Snape doesn't seem to like him that much.”

Draco scoffed, “If Professor Dumbledore thought there was the slightest chance their golden boy was in any danger, Snape would be thrown into Azkaban quicker than the Chudley Cannons lost the World Cup in ‘84.”

“Then why do they keep him around?” Diana asked anxiously.

“Perhaps father was right and Dumbledore’s mind is addled,” Draco smirked.

“So he could do something to harm Harry, then?” she pressed, fingers twisting into the plush cushion.

Draco shook his head. “That would be stupid, especially since the Dark Lord’s gone and everyone worships the ground Potter walks on. It would attract too much attention, and I can’t imagine he’s stupid enough to want the Demetor’s Kiss.”

“Is that why none of the other Slytherins are doing anything bad to him? They’re afraid of negative attention?”

Many students in Slytherin lost family due to Voldemort’s fall and Harry’s triumph, so seeing frequent attempts to befriend the boy filled her with confusion.

“For some. Others understand it’s socially advantageous to get on the wizarding messiah’s good side. And there are those who want to make a favorable impression because they think”—Draco smiled bitterly—“Potter might be the next great dark lord. That’s why he was able to defeat You-Know-Who. It was the Fates at work.”

The possibility seemed ridiculous, but a chill creepy down her spine all the same. “Do you—do you think that could be true? Could Harry be, um, could he do that?”

Draco’s eyes clouded and drifted to the fireplace. “Could be. He doesn’t show it that much, but he has a lot of…”—he searched for the right word—“problems. A lot of anger and bitterness. Maybe even more than you. Those Muggles did a number on him.”

‘Maybe even more than you’ was quite the high bar. Diana was dying to know more, but Harry hadn’t brought up anything about his past to her, nor had he asked about hers, and it didn’t seem right to inquire. “But Harry’s not—he’s not evil. He couldn’t be a dark lord.”

“‘Evil.’” Draco rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing, but”—they debated on the existence of evil before and he could tell from Diana’s expression this would start another argument—“I agree Potter doesn’t seem the sort. He’s too self-righteous and moral. Plus, he hates attention and wouldn’t be able to stand the fawning sycophants.” Draco’s lips twisted into a scowl.

“I think you should still watch out for him. You’re in the same dorm and there might be—”

Draco rolled his eyes and stood up, stretching. “Potter he can watch over himself. You need to watch out for yourself. Greengrass and Parkinson, but also your marks.”

“Ugh, not you too,” she grumbled, slumping down in the chair.

“Every letter I get from Father is the same: Your sister’s marks are atrocious, make sure she doesn’t shame the family, tell her she needs to wear the Brisingamen, blah blah blah. It’s quite dull, really.”

Aside from the terse letter of congratulations regarding her sorting, she didn’t receive a single letter from Lucius. “He brought shame to the family, not me.”

“I know.” His blue eyes met hers. “I’m heading back to the dorms. Finish your essay, and try to make it more than two paragraphs this time.”

For about five minutes after Draco left, Diana stared blankly into the fireplace, mind swirling with various thoughts. After another five minutes of staring at the parchment, she retreated to the girl’s dorm.The essay remained unwritten.

****

The nightmares intensified over the next several days, and with it, the floating black mist. The mist now seemed to linger longer than it used to, though it was difficult to tell in the blackness of the room. It also appeared to shift and churn, and remained even after she pinched herself.

This particular night, the mist lasted longer than it ever did before, and because of this, Diana noticed something previously overlooked: the mist appeared to be tethered to her chest by stringy, smokey shadows. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, there was no denying the mass in front of her was darker than her surroundings.

Diana hoped it was a hallucination, because if it wasn’t, then what could it be?

Part of her felt compelled to reach out and touch it, but fear gripped her throat and she remained under the covers, immobile, staring deeply into the void.

It reminded her of a quote from the muggle world, something she heard in a movie or TV show or a book. Something about gazing into the abyss, and the abyss gazing back.

She shivered and snapped her eyes shut, digging deeper underneath the blankets. After about a minute, she dared to open her eyes.

No black mist, only the canopy and curtains of her bed. She steadied her breath, yet despite this, her heart hammered all the same. Gently pushing the curtains aside, she peered at the clock illuminated by the blue-green tint of the lake: 4:00 AM.

No use going to sleep if I have to wake up in a couple hours.

Sighing, she reached over and grabbed for her wand from the nightstand. “Lumos,” she whispered, and light emanated from the tip. Granted, it was a dim, shoddy light, but it would serve her purposes and have the added bonus of not waking up the other girls.

She tiptoed out of bed and fumbled through her knapsack to grab her mother’s black book, hoping to peruse through it to find clues about the other assailants, and whether or not their children were her classmates. But after snuggling under the covers and flipping it open, she groaned. It wasn’t her mother’s blac notebook at all; instead, she grabbed T. M. Riddle’s diary by mistake.

It would have been simple to get out of bed and exchange the books, but she was too lazy and thought of another idea instead: drawing.

Although her mother was an artist, Diana’s artistic ability was…lacking. Yet despite this, the impulse to draw was strong. Perhaps it was irrational, but Diana felt that drawing would show that she hadn’t abandoned her maternal lineage, that she was Sarah White’s daughter more than she was Lucius Malfoy’s.

So she snatched a quill from the nightstand and began to draw. She sketched herself on the bed, black cloud hovering around her, attached to her body with a black strand. It wasn’t a particularly good drawing and her eyes in the picture looked soulless, but at least she could tell it was supposed to be a girl laying in a bed. I guess that’s progress?

Or it would have been, if the drawing didn’t disappear a few seconds after she lifted her quill off the page.

Diana blinked, but before she could whisper “What the fuck?”, new, unfamiliar words in cursive much neater than her own bled into the page.

That’s a lovely drawing. Am I right in assuming it’s meant to depict an Obscurus?

Diana stared at the page trying to process what was happening. When she saw more words beginning to form, her throat constricted.

Nope. Nopenopenopenopenope.

Her sweaty hands slammed the diary shut and quickly tossed it next to her knapsack. She stared at the top of the canopy with wide eyes for the rest of the night.

The next day, she’d muster the courage to open the diary again. But for the rest of this particular night, she remained blissfully unaware of the soul scraping at the edges of his prison.

Chapter Text

“Draco, if a person was—hypothetically—transfigured into a book, would they be able to communicate with whoever opened it? Making the words appear on the page, for example?”

Harry glanced up from the book he was reading, curious to hear Draco’s answer. But Draco’s eyes remained fixed on his essay while his quill glided across the parchment, effortlessly reciting the different uses of Horklump Juice. “No. They’d be limited to whatever a regular book can do. That’s why it’s transfiguration. You transfigure your properties into something else.”

“I know that,” lied Diana, trying to match his condescending tone. It was a lofty goal in which she failed. “I was just wondering.”

“Why?”

Diana’s palms began to sweat. “Well, um, look around us.” She gestured to the towering bookshelves surrounding the trio. “What if someone turned someone else into a book and hid them here in the library? There’d be no way to find them.”

After the words left her lips, Diana shuddered. The relentlessly regular exposure to magic over the past few weeks caused her walls to lower slightly, but this hypothetical scenario was a much-needed reminder of the horrors of magic.

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you worried about Pansy and Daphne?”

Aside from some passive-aggressive remarks, Pansy and Daphne had been steering clear of her, though Diana suspected Round 2 was somewhere on the horizon. Still, it provided a good out, so she nodded.

Draco sighed. “Then you’re worrying for nothing. That type of magic isn’t taught until the sixth-year, and their parents wouldn’t be foolish enough to teach it to them beforehand.” He paused, then mused, “Then again, Daphne’s parents were stupid enough to leave Veristerum unsecured.”

Diana was tempted to remind Draco of how Lucius left his secret chamber of dark artifacts unsecured, but bit her tongue.

“If anyone goes missing, the Professors could handle it.” Easing slightly, Harry dipped his quill in the ink pot and continued writing. "I think. If they have a way to tell who has magic in order to send out the Hogwarts letters, they'd probably be able to tell if someone in the school got lost.”

Diana stifled a groan. Harry had an annoying tendency to think the best of the magical world.

“Hmph. Perhaps. Mother told me once about a time she transfigured a classmate into a Puffskein and dumped her into one of the pens they used for Care of Magical Creatures class. Somehow, the Professors knew not only that the girl had been transfigured, but also where she was.”

Diana glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye; as she suspected, Harry didn’t seem perturbed by casual mention of magical sociopathy. She recalled how he laughed about his cousin sprouting a pig’s tail, and pushed the uncomfortable thought out of her mind.

“Being in the library reminds me of another question I forgot to ask before,” Diana babbled, as though the idea occurred spontaneously instead of something she obsessed over hours before this conversation. “I know you said a person transfigured into a book can’t do anything special, but what if someone was just sort of…sucked into a book because of a spell? Is that even possible? To be trapped forever that way?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. There’s magic for practically everything.”

A month ago, Draco would have rather eaten a slug than admit he didn’t know something. In spite of her whirlwind of thoughts, she was pleased at that bit of progress. It was more than she could say for the diary.

****

The previous evening, Diana mustered the courage to open the diary for a second time. Armed with a quill in one hand and a useless wand in the other, she swallowed and took the plunge. Hello?

Just as before, her words seeped into the page, and an unfamiliar neat cursive emerged in its place. Hello. If I frightened you earlier, you have my sincerest apologies. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with someone, and it seems I forgot my manners. My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Might I ask your name, and how you came by my diary?

After a moment of deliberation, she bit her lip and wrote, Diana White. I found it in a dark wizard’s lair.

Diana was a common enough name for a witch, but in case Tom wasn’t who he said he was, it would be prudent not to reveal her surname or too many details surrounding her acquisition of the diary.

And, perhaps selfishly, she wanted the chance to let someone new know her by her real name.

You must be a very talented witch if you were able to get past his defenses. Might I ask the name of this wizard?

Diana brought the top of the quill to the page a couple times, tiny traces of ink seeping into the page, Then, in her childish scrawl, she wrote, I don’t feel comfortable saying.

Fair enough. While wariness and distrust are often derided as undesirable characteristics, I’ve found they helped me a great deal as a child from a Muggle orphanage sorted into Slytherin.

A wave of empathy for this unknown boy washed over Diana. Your parents are Muggles?

There was a brief pause before the words returned.

My father was, but I never knew him. My mother was a witch and died giving birth to me.

Was it even possible for witches to die from something mundane as childbirth? And if Tom’s mother was a witch, why did she drop him off at a Muggle orphanage instead of bringing him to other wizards? Was Tom’s father a willing participant, or was he bewitched?

Many questions sprouted in Diana’s mind, but she couldn’t think of a way to ask them without being rude. So instead, she wrote, I’m sorry about your mum. Mine died right after I got my Hogwarts letter, and I was sent to live with my father. I never knew him growing up either, but he’s a real tosser. And I’m a half-blood too, except my father’s a wizard and my mum’s a Muggle.

I appreciate your sympathy, but it’s not necessary. I’ve come to terms with my past a long time ago.

Diana then asked the question she’d been wondering since the beginning. When was that?

1943. Diana’s eyes bulged. Since you’re writing to me in English, I’m assuming the Allies won.

Yep, we kicked their arses. It’s 1991 now.

There was a long pause. I didn’t realize how much time had elapsed since I entered this diary.

Diana shifted in her spot, goosebumps creeping up her arms. Did someone trap you in there?

I suppose so.

Who?

I’d rather not say, for personal reasons. The last thing I want is for an innocent girl to be placed in danger because of me.

Diana frowned. It’s okay. You can tell me.

I’m sorry, but that matter must remain private.

Diana sighed quietly, but couldn’t begrudge Tom for being reticent, especially when she said something similar earlier. Fair enough, she echoed. And I’m sorry someone did this to you.

Thank you.

Sympathy towards Tom and hatred for purebloods welled inside her. She imagined blonde-haired, smirking Slytherins mocking and abusing poor Tom for years, finally culminating in their final, vile prank to remove impure blood from the wizarding gene pool. Poor Tom, who spent decades lost and alone inside the book, miserable and yearning for salvation.

Diana couldn’t save her mother or herself, but maybe, just maybe, she could save Tom.

I could still help, she scribbled. I’m only a first-year student so I don’t know a lot of magic. But there might be a spell or something in the library. Or I could ask people who might know more, like one of my professors, or even Professor Dumblefore. He’s supposed to be really powerful.

Tom’s response was fast, hasty, and uneven; a stark contrast from his earlier, immaculate script. I’d rather you didn’t. Though I’m aware of his reputation, I have no love for Professor Dumbledore, and believe the feeling is mutual.

Diana scrunched her eyebrows. Is he the one who put you in the diary?

He was the professor sent to inform me about the magical world. The first time I witnessed a display of intentional magic was when he lit my wardrobe on fire. That wardrobe had several cherished possessions of mine inside, and I was not pleased, to say the least.

What the fuck? Diana scribbled, aghast.

Indeed. He interpreted my behavior as obstinate, and I believe his actions were an attempt to ‘send a message,’ so to speak. In retrospect it was, perhaps, a valuable lesson, as it allowed me to witness the sheer power of magic.

What about after going to Hogwarts? Did he burn any more of your stuff?

No, but later behavior certainly didn’t endear him to me, either. In regards to your previous question of whether he locked me away in this book, I unfortunately must repeat my previous declaration that this matter will remain private.

Did this imply that Dumbledore was the one to imprison Tom, or was she simply overanalyzing and letting her paranoia run rampant?

He helped me, she wrote, heart thumping so loud she thought she’d wake up Millicent. It’s a long story, but when the wizard court wanted to put me with my father after my mum died, he tried to stop them.

After the ink seeped into the page, she immediately regretted her words. The kindly Dumbledore with the half-moon spectacles who says nonsense words during speeches could just as easily be the same man who burned an orphan boy’s possessions, just like how the “pillar of the community” Lucius Malfoy could torture other humans for amusement.

When I attended Hogwarts, it was precedent to place a half-blood child born of wedlock with the magical parent in order to protect the child from Muggle superstition or inability to handle a child’s magic. I take it this hasn’t changed.

Sadly, no.

I wish I had better news for you, Diana, but if Professor Dumbledore tried to help you, he likely has a hidden agenda. I strongly advise against trusting him.

Diana blinked, taken aback by the mention of her name despite being the one to offer it. Okay. She yawned, fatigue wrapping around her like a blanket. It’s getting late, so I’m going to turn in for the night.

This was a pleasant conversation. I hope we can have more of them.

We will. I know what it’s like to be hurt by wizards. I’ll help free you, Tom.

I hope so. Sweet dreams, Diana.

****

Waking up the following morning was what she imagined a hangover felt like; her mind was jumbled and the previous night seemed like a fever dream. Sleeping on it caused doubt to fester inside her, wondering if “Tom” really was who he said he was.

Still, she kept knowledge of Tom secret. She didn’t trust any of the adults, and the thought of telling Harry, Draco, and Hermione made her nervous and guilty, though she wasn’t sure why. Attempts to glean information from Draco appeared fruitless, so Tom would need to wait until she had some time in the library alone.

Instead, Diana decided to shift the conversation to another pressing matter.

“Is there a type of magic that could cause me to get sick and miss flying class tomorrow?” she grumbled.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Too many to count, and no I won’t tell you which ones.”

“I don’t understand you sometimers, Diana. We’ll be flying.” Harry's eyes glimmered with excitement. “How do you not find that exciting?”

“Plus you don’t even need to use a wand, so there’s actually a chance you might be somewhat decent at it,” chimed Draco.

“You want to balance yourself on a small broom twelve feet up in the air, and say I’m the crazy one?” Diana shook her head in disbelief. “Knowing my luck, I’d fall off the broom and crack my neck.” Hmm, maybe that’s not such a bad idea, in retrospect…

The librarian’s shushing and piercing glare caused the trio to lower their voices, but didn’t stop the argument.

“We won’t die,” whispered Harry. “There’s probably some kind of magical protection on the field.”

“Hooch won’t have us go that far up anyway,” added Draco. “We’ll go no higher than six feet. Probably.”

Diana glanced warily between both boys. They butted heads a lot, but Quidditch was one topic where they were on the same page.

Regardless, the thought of self-preservation reminded Diana of something else.

“Harry, did you get the Student Association pamphlet?”

A fifth-year Ravenclaw girl ambushed Diana in the hallway earlier and gave her a pamphlet advertising a student club that Diana surmised was an extension of Nia’s group. The Ravenclaw asked if Diana could give one to Harry, and she agreed. But when the time came, her mouth grew dry and she stuffed it in one of his books when he wasn’t looking. She guessed ahead of time what his reaction would be, and she was right.

Harry’s lips twisted into a scowl, and he suddenly found the book in front of him very immersive. “Yes, but I’m not going.”

He didn't provide elaboration, and Diana didn't ask why. Everyone knew by now the topic of Muggles was a sore spot with him.

Draco nodded his head in approval. “Good. All those fools want is to use you as a prop or squeeze some Galleons out of you. Don’t squander your family’s riches on something as exploitative as ‘donating.’”

The sneer in his last word was practically tangible. Diana gritted her teeth.

****

The bright sunlight served a stark contrast to Diana’s gloomy expression as she trudged toward the field with the rest of the Slytherins for flying lessons. Madame Hooch was an austere woman whose no-bullshit attitude reminded Diana of Marie. Still, sympathy flickered in Hooch’s eyes when she read Diana’s name during roll call.

I’m probably the only one who’d rather be in History of Magic than this, Diana thought glumly, fingers clenching onto the shitty broom she’d be expected to fly. At least Professor Binns showed no reaction to her name. She wasn’t even sure he knew about her predicament; the ghost seemed so detached from everything besides his subject.

When the students tried to raise their brooms from the ground, Diana performed as effectively as she did with her wand. But she wasn’t the only one, at least—Hermione, Theodore, and a handful of other students had the same problem. In truth, she was relieved: No chance of flying, now.

Hooch strolled around the class, offering praise, advice, and chastisement when necessary. She told Draco he’d been holding his broom wrong for years, something that caused Diana to smile, though that smile faded when she saw Seamus lean over to whisper something to Ron, both boys smirking.

Her fears about the dangers of flying later proved true. Neville somehow ended up twenty feet above ground and fell off his broom, miraculously breaking only his wrist. Madam Hooch escorted him off to the hospital wing, leaving with a warning not to touch the brooms. Once she and Neville were out of sight, Draco quickly snatched something off the grass.

“What kind of idiot takes a glass ball with them to them to flying practice?”

Parvati put her hands on her hips. “It’s not his fault. We weren’t supposed to be flying as high as he did.”

Draco ignored her and shook the ball. The inside shifted from white to red.

“Neville said it was a Rememberball—” Diana’s mouth snapped shut, sensing Hermione’s impending interruption before she heard it.

“Remembrall.”

“Right. If it’s red it means you forgot something.”

“These things are bloody useless,” scoffed Draco. “They don’t even let you know what you forgot. Longbottom’s better off without it.”

Draco put the Remembrall in the pockets of his robes, and Seamus pointed. “Oi! Malfoy’s stealin’ Neville’s Remembrall!”

All heads snapped towards them. Harry took a few steps forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s not stealing it. He’s going to give it back later.”

“No he won’t. Trusting him is like trusting a pixie.” Ron took a few steps forward, courageously matching Harry’s glare. “Seamus is right.”

In truth, Diana wasn’t sure what Draco’s intentions were. But he did himself no favors by saying, “You know what? I think I will keep it. I’ve been meaning to get a new paperweight.”

But both Harry and Ron ignored him, their gazes locked onto the other since Ron first spoke up. “What’s your problem?” Harry finally asked, but despite the bluntness of the words, his tone was soft.

It was a good question. Draco had never been openly antagonistic towards Ron, and Harry and Ron clearly got along well on the train ride.

Then again, she recalled Harry trying to talk to Ron during the first week of classes, and Ron’s mumbled polite greetings and overall reticence. It didn’t take long for the boy-who-lived to eventually get the hint.

Ron seemed to prefer the company of the Gryffindor boys, but Diana sometimes spotted him glancing at Harry with a forlorn expression. Which begged the question: Why was he acting like this?

“N-nothing! I just think it’s odd, the company you keep. Says a bit about you.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up the same time Diana’s did, and shocked titters and gleeful whispers ran through the class like wind brushing against a field of grain. Ron’s ears started to redden, but he maintained focus.

“If there’s something you want to say to me,” Harry began, voice noticeably frostier, “then say it.”

“Give me the ball,” Diana mumbled into Draco’s ear. Draco was only half-listening, absentmindedly passing it to his sister while he walked over to Harry.

“Potter’s right, Weasley. Clearly, you’ve got something on your mind, so spit it out before you get a headache.”

“Everyone needs to settle down,” Theodore cut in smoothly. “There’s no need to do this now.”

Pansy and Daphne pouted.

Draco spun his head around towards Theodore and arched one eyebrow in a manner reminiscent of his mother. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Nott. Stop injecting yourself into conversations where you’re not wanted.”

Theodore shrugged, annoyingly unflappable. “Suit yourself.”

“Nott’s right though,” Hermione said anxiously, tugging both sides of her bushy brown hair. “Madam Hooch will be back any minute now.”

“I–I’m just saying,” protested Ron. “You-Know-Who killed your parents and you—and you’re a Slytherin! So was he. And I see you eating breakfast and having nice chats with children of Death Eaters like it’s—I just—I just don’t get it. Slytherin’s all about blood purity and has been for centuries.”

Diana wasn’t quite sure what happened next. One minute, the Remembrall was in her sweaty palms, and the next, it was like a jolt of static ran through her body and the Remembrall was suddenly in the air, soaring higher and higher until it was caught in the fragile branches of a nearby tree.

In unison, her classmates’ heads snapped from watching Harry and Ron to looking at her. She gulped.

Lavender Brown pointed at Diana, eyes bulging. “She threw the Remembrall!”

Oddly enough, the one who stood up in her defense was Pansy. “How?” she demanded. “She has arms like a Bowtruckle, and it couldn’t be magic because her wandwork is abysmal.”

“Then how’d it end up in that tree?”

Everyone looked at Diana expectantly, but she couldn’t muster any words beyond, “Uh, I don’t know…I’m not sure...”

Her face felt like it was on fire, but what she said was true.

“I’ll get it,” declared Ron, eyes flashing with determination. He mounted his broom and lifted a few inches from the ground, wobbling.

“Your broom’s too unstable,” Harry said bluntly. Based on what they saw during flying class, Ron’s handling of a broom was better than Diana’s, but not great. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ve been using a broom my whole life,” snapped Ron as he continued to float higher and higher, “You just started. I know what I'm doing.”

His claim wasn’t supported by the broom jerking around underneath him, causing him to wobble and almost fall downward. Most of the Slytherins—as well as some Gryffindors like—erupted into a fit of giggles, though the Gryffindors at least had the decency to try and hide it.

Ron’s face matched the color of his hair, but wounded pride was a powerful motivator. Slower–but steadily–he drifted towards the tree, hand splayed outward.

In a sudden yet graceful motion, Harry hopped onto his broom and took off, catching up to Ron in no time. By now the boys were too high up to hear what they were saying to each other. Harry flew in circles around Ron, and while Diana knew Harry well enough to know this wasn’t the boy’s intention, doing so after Ron’s fumble rubbed salt in the wound and created an illusion of arrogance.

Harry glided towards the tree and snatched the Remembrall from its precariously-perched position. A burst of uncontrolled speed caused Ron’s broom to lunge forward, but Harry dodged. Ron’s broom swiveled, and he lunged forward to grab the ball again, but Harry dodged for a second time. Hermione shrieked and Diana felt her heart stop as she watched Harry dodge again and again, trying and failing to decipher what they were saying through the movement of their lips. Then, Ron feinted and managed to finally grasp the ball clutched in Harry’s hand, causing the two boys to struggle in a morbid game of tug-of war.

Now, it wasn’t just Hermione shrieking and gasping, but most of the girls. What were they thinking, fighting over that stupid ball instead of holding onto the broom?

The struggle resulted in the Remembrall fumbling and plummeting downward to the field. But before it hit the ground, Harry swooped downward with the speed of a swallow, plucking the Remembrall from the air and landing and dismounting in one fluid motion.

The field erupted into cheers, classmates crowding around Harry as Ron slowly descended downward, eyes clouded. The cheer was undercut a few seconds later by Professor McGonagall stalking towards the field, shouting and furious.

****

It wasn’t until a couple hours later that Diana—and the rest of the Slytherin common room—learned what happened to Harry. After taking a ridiculous amount of points from Slytheirn and Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall demanded Harry follow her inside the castle. When he returned to the common room, his face was stormy as a thundercloud. If he questioned why a giant mass of Slytherins were huddled in one spot, he didn’t show it.

“Well, what’d she say?” whispered Pansy, wide-eyed.

“She brought me to Professor Snape and told him I was a natural with the broom, and that she’d never seen anything like it. She said I was as good as Charlie Weasley and someone named Higgs.”

A few older students’ ears perked up at that, and their eyes snapped in Harry’s direction. The only reason Diana knew about Terrence Higgs was because Pansy and Daphne spent an entire night gossiping about him. Despite having a Muggleborn father, Higgs was sorted into Slytherin and was the Quidditch team’s seeker for several years. His parents had concerns about pureblood radicalization and Higgs’ declining self-worth, which apparently culminated in him calling his mother a blood-traitor and saying he wished he’d never been born and contributed to the “dilution of blood.” The Malfoy scandal over the summer and Lucius’s evasion of consequences (again) was the cherry atop the shit sundae that finally caused his parents to pull him from Hogwarts and homeschool him. If the rumors were true, the Higgs family—Muggle grandparents and all–relocated to America, which had a different set of challenges but lacked the same stigma with blood status as magical Britain.

“She also said,” continued Harry, “that she thought I should be the new Slytherin seeker.”

If there was anyone in the common room not paying attention, they were now. “Why would she do that?” asked Tracey, wringing her hands. “Doesn’t she want Slytherin to lose?”

“He’s the boy who lived,” snorted Millicent. “Normal rules don't apply.”

Theodore rubbed his chin in contemplation, and Diana suspected he was thinking the same thing she was. Harry was the boy-who-lived, but also just a boy. The savior of the wizarding world, forced to grow up in squalor. Although Diana was far from McGonagall’s biggest fan, she knew the woman had innate compassion inside her. Well, compassionate by witch-standards, anyway.

“What did Professor Snape say?” an older, muscular brown-haired boy asked. Diana vaguely recognized him as Marcus Flint, the Quidditch captain.

“He said”—Harry deepened his voice to imitate the Potion’s Master—”‘Perhaps Mr. Potter feels the rules don’t apply to him. I can think of no other reason why he expects a reward for flagrant disregard of rules and authority.’”—Harry’s voice returned to normal—”And them he and Professor McGonagall argued about it. It’s not—argh!” He plopped down on the sofa, exhausted. “I don’t understand why he hates me so much.”

Gemma shot Harry a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think there’s many people he does like, Harry.”

“But he hates me especially. I know it.”

No one said anything to that.

“Did he end up agreeing with her?” asked Flint, leaning forward slightly.

“No.” Repeating that fact knocked out the fight out Harry, and he slouched deeper into his seat. “And he wouldn’t budge, no matter what Professor McGonagall said.”

Draco felt compelled to defend Snape. “First-years normally aren’t allowed to play.”

“They could though,” said Daphne, ever the shit-stirrer. One of her butterfly clips flittered. “I heard they bent the rules for this one first year—Hiro Suzuki—who played for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team in the past.”

“Hiro transferred from Mahoutokoro, and they start school four years earlier than we do,” Gemma said. “It’s a different situation.”

Flint stood up, eyes sharp and focused. “I’ll talk to Professor Snape. We need a seeker, and if you impressed McGonagall, then I’m not damn well letting this go without a fight.”

****

Yet despite Flint’s best efforts, Snape remained unmoved. The next day, Diana traveled to the library alone, Draco having finished his essay and Harry preferring to stare into the fireplace of the dorm room, sulking. Not that she was actually planning on using the library for schoolwork.

She looked at past class records, which corroborated Tom’s story. In 1937 there was a student named Tom Riddle admitted into Hogwarts and sorted into Slytherin, which would make him 16 at the time of his imprisonment. She tried to see if there were any books on curses or spells to transfer a person’s consciousness or spirit into an item, but anything vaguely related to that topic was in the Restricted Section. She left the library dejected, but admitted—as she trudged through the halls—that her plan to free Tom on her lonesome was likely too ambitious for a first-year, especially one who couldn’t do proper spells.

Along the way, she spotted the Ravenclaw prefect who gave her the pamphlet talking with Percy Weasley. Diana lowered her head behind a curtain of hair, as she often did whenever spotting one of the Weasley children. It was probably as awkward for them as it was for her.

“Wait, Diana!”

Luck was not on her side today, it seemed. Diana glanced up as the blonde, curly-haired Ravenclaw (Penelope, she remembered) beckoned her over. Shit.

“Hi…” Diana muttered, forcing a smile.

“Hello! I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to joining the Student Association.”

Diana wasn’t sure what Percy’s expression was like, since she was determined to stare at Penelope’s bright green eyes instead. “I did, but I think I’d rather focus on adjusting to my classes for now. Sorry…”

In truth, she was curious about the Student Association and their goals, but lacked the courage to attend a meeting on her own. The disappointment on Penelope’s face was evident, but she didn’t press.“I understand. What about Harry?”

Harry’s scowl from earlier clouded her mind. “He wants to lay low, too,” she answered politely.

Penelope sighed dramatically and twirled blonde curls around her finger. “That’s a shame. Miss Achebe will be disappointed.”

Curiosity tugged at Diana’s mind, despite her desire to end the conversation. “You’ve met her?”

“Yes. I’m one of the student liaisons. I know Ridley Grayson, too—I heard you met him over the summer.” She tilted her head in contemplation. “He’s brilliant. In the Ravenclaw dorm, we have a challenge board of unfinished pet projects students weren’t able to complete before graduation. I’ve been trying to finish one of Mr. Grayson’s that involves developing a pathogen that infects only Animagi and prevents their ability to transform, actually. Unfortunately, it’s more difficult than I anticipated…“

“You’re brilliant Penny,” simpered Percy. “If anyone could solve that conundrum, it’s you.”

“Why, thank you, Percy” she preened.

“...What’s an Animagi?” asked Diana, wondering if this was yet another creature she needed to fear.

“A wizard who has the ability to transform into an animal,” responded Percy. “All Animagi are supposed to be registered with the Ministry, but there’s bound to be those who slip through the cracks. If you find a way to stop their transformations and sell it to the Ministry, you’d be a rich woman, Penny.”

Penelope giggled. “Oh, Percy, I’m not doing it for the Galleons. I’m just curious to see if it’s possible, that’s all.”

You want to create a pathogen because you’re “just curious”? Is there anyone in this school who’s not completely mental?

“Well, thanks for following up with me,” said Diana, laughing weakly. “I’ve got to go now…”

Penelope went back to business. “Of course. Like I said, it’s a standing invitation, and you don’t have to join in order to attend one of our meetings.”

Diana nodded and turned to leave, but stopped after hearing someone clear their throat loudly. She glanced back at Percy, who now looked more uncomfortable. “One moment, please, Diana. I was wondering if we could talk alone. Penny, dear…”

Understanding flickered in Penelope’s eye. “Of course.” She reached out and squeezed Percy’s hand, causing him to blush, and pranced away, leaving the two of them alone.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Diana. Father’s said good things about you, and you have my deepest sympathy.”

Diana’s mind started to fritz. It made sense that Arthur would talk about her, but it still felt like a betrayal. What kinds of things did he say?!!

What-ifs and oh-my-gods raced through her mind, causing her to choke out, “Yeah.” She wasn’t sure if Percy even asked a question, but if what she said made no sense, he didn’t let it show.

“In my last correspondence with Father, he said Ron told him he spoke with you. Is that true?”

Diana tried to rack her brain for any time Ron spoke with her, but came up blank. Maybe he said hi on the train? Or maybe I’m confusing him with Harry? “Yes,” she lied.

Percy’s posture eased. “Good. Father asked him to since you’re in the same year, but I’ve noticed he’s been acting…differently, since the Sorting. More social, which would normally be a good thing, but also boastful and arrogant. He’s not usually like this. Now he’s more like a….”

“Git?” Diana supplied. Then, quickly added, “Sorry…”

“No need to apologize. I suppose you’re right,” sighed Percy, shaking his head. “I don’t understand it.”

Diana thought of the group of boys always clustered around Ron. “Maybe he likes the attention.”

“He gets plenty of attention at home. Mother’s always giving him chores and the twins rope him into their pranks. And Ginny wouldn’t stop pestering him about Hogwarts.”

Diana privately suspected that wasn’t the type of attention Ron wanted, or needed. The Weasleys could be the best parents in the world, but with seven children, a couple were bound to get overlooked, especially if they weren’t a prefect, expert seeker, or only girl.

“I’m sure everything will work out in the end.” It was a phony phrase; when were things ever that simple? “Thanks for checking in with me.”

Percy nodded, said goodbye, and left, leaving Diana with a lot to think about.

****

“Hi, Ron.”

Ron froze, eyes darting in her direction for only a brief second before continuing to scan the courtyard. “H-hello…”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Diana said, trying her best to look as though her heart wasn’t beating as rapidly as a hummingbird’s.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he mumbled.

“You’re waiting for me. I wrote the letter.”

As expected, that finally got Ron’s attention. She tried not to feel guilty, observing how the guilt in his eyes morphed into anger.

The plan she hatched in order to force this conversation was something that involved a level of trickery suitable for a Slytherin. Capitalizing on Ron’s need for approval and external validation, Diana wrote an anonymous fan letter gushing over how brave Ron was during the Remembrall incident and expressing a desire to interview him for the student newspaper. Diana didn’t even know if there was a student newspaper. Either way, he fell for it. “Sorry for tricking you, but Percy said you were supposed to talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” scowled Ron, eyes diverting once more.

Diana’s fingers curled inward. “I didn’t throw Neville’s ball, if that’s what this is about.”

She didn’t think it was, but it was good to put it out in the open.

“I know,” muttered Ron, shoving his hands in his robe’s pockets. “It was probably Greengrass or Zabini or someone. It’s something they would do.”

“So why don’t you want to talk, then?” she pressed.

Ron’s face heated up. “What do you expect me to say? It’s”—he gestured vaguely with his hands—”weird. Everything’s weird. And I don’t want people to think, y’know, think I’m–um—”

“Weird, too?”

“Right.” Guilt crept back onto his face “I know I probably sound like a git, but people like me now and I don’t want them to think I’m odd and ask me questions about you. So, sorry, I guess.”

“That’s alright. I didn’t want to talk to you or your brothers either, no offense.”

Ron looked relieved. “Good. I hate it when my parents do that. They tried to force me and Ginny to be friends with this one girl because she happened to live near us, and now I can’t smell dirigibles without wanting to puke.” He shook his head in disgust. “Parents…”

“Is that why you have a problem with Harry? Because you think being friends with him would attract unwanted attention?”

For once, Diana couldn’t decipher Ron’s expression. “I don’t have a problem with Harry.”

Diana folded her arms.“Then why’d you attack him during flying class?”

“I didn’t attack him!” protested Ron. “I tried to get the Remembrall, and before that, all I said was it’s odd he’s so comfortable at the Slytherin table. Is it a crime to say the obvious?”

“You only started going off on him after Seamus did,” remembered Diana, twirling a few strands of her hair. Then, she stopped. “Wait, did you do it to prove yourself to the other Gryffindors? Since he’s getting so much attention, going at him would make you seem stronger, or something?”

Once she said it, she knew she hit the bullseye based on his reaction. “N-no! That’s not—stop acting like you know everything about me!”

‘I’m not trying to, but Harry’s my friend, and I don’t want him to be upset anymore.” Diana recalled something Ms. Layla used to say. “There are ways to make yourself feel better without making someone else feel bad. Your dad probably wouldn’t be happy to hear you're starting issues with Harry.”

She pushed too far. The insecurity and vulnerability in Ron’s eyes were now replaced with determination and bitterness. “So what? My dad’s great, but I’m not like him. I don’t want to be.”

Of all the things she heard since coming to Hogwarts, this was the most surprising. “Why?” she asked, aghast. “I’d give anything to have a father like yours.”

The anger in Ron’s eyes dimmed, and he looked down at his shoes. “You only see the good parts,” he mumbled. “When I’m older, I’m not going to ignore my family because I’m too busy taking on all the world’s problems. If that makes me a bad person, then fine. Maybe I don’t deserve to be in Gryffindor.”

When he left, the tears prickling in Diana’s eyes matched the ones she saw in his.

****

True to the stereotype, wizards and witches went all-out for Halloween. Floating pumpkins and live bats (this can’t be sanitary) decorated the Great Hall, and the scent of beef, lamb, potatoes, pumpkin pies, pudding, eclairs, and jams wafted through the air. From what Diana gathered, reasons for celebration reflected the usual relaxed mishmosh of wizarding belief, ranging from an adherence to old pagan traditions, traditional celebration of the beginning of Allhallowtide, or secular admiration of the overall aesthetic.

For Diana, Halloween was the time of year when Sarah’s paranoia was most prominent, and didn’t have many happy memories of the holiday as a result. Still, it was a throwback to normalcy. Or as normal as it could be with real ghosts gliding through the walls, anyway.

As she was nibbling her pumpkin pie, her ears twitched as heard the name ‘Hermione’ coming from a few seats next to her. She craned her neck to see Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey huddled and whispering with shit-eating grins on their faces. A quick glance at the Gryffindor table revealed Hermione’s absence. She frowned.

Debating briefly whether or not it was worth it, Diana decided to take the risk. “What were you saying about Hermione?”

Pansy’s nose scrunched up, as if she just watched a cockroach darting out of Diana’s mouth. “This is a private conversation. Stay out of it.”

How ‘private’ can it be if you’re discussing it in the Great Hall?

Daphne dabbed her napkin to her lips delicately. “Now, Pansy. I’m sure Diana has a good reason for interrupting our meal. And we’d be more than happy to tell you about Hermione…provided you ask nicely of course.”

Diana rolled her eyes and stabbed into her pie, pretending it was Daphne’s face. Fuck it. I’ll ask Hermione later.

But their exchange caught Harry’s attention, who leaned to the side, frowning. “Is Hermione okay?”

Pansy and Daphne exchanged a brief look, a silent conversation while Tracey battered her eyelashes in an oblivious Harry’s direction (eww…).

Pansy gave Harry a fake smile. “I overheard Parvati tell Lavender that Hermione’s crying in the girls’ toilets because of something that awful Weasley boy said to her during charms.”

Harry’s eyes clouded over. “I’m going to tell him something. Whatever his problem is, he needs to stop.”

“You’re going to say something now?” squeaked Diana as Harry stood from his seat. The other Slytherin girls’ grins widened, eager to see the show. “B-but this is the feast.”

“So? There’s no rule saying I can’t go to a different table, is there?”

“If you do that, I’m disowning you as an ally,” said Draco, tone bordering between flippant and serious. Diana rolled her eyes. “This isn’t the first time someone’s said something to get under Granger’s skin, and it won’t be the last. You can’t have the spine of the flobberworm if you want to survive Hogwarts. You’re not helping her by butting in every time she faces a challenge.”

“And you’re not helping by looking away every time because it’s more convenient,” Harry shot back.

“You realize what table you’re sitting at, right? Perhaps the Sorting Hat was right. You should be in Gryffindor.”

“I’ll check on Hermione,” blurted Diana, scooting away. She wanted to be away from the conflict and unable to handle the secondhand embarrassment if Harry actually did go up to the Gryffindor table.

“Fine, but I’m still going.”

“No you aren’t. If you do that, Potter, I’ll turn all your books into frogs.”

“You don’t know how to do that.”

“Of course I do.”

“You can’t even transfigure a mouse into a cup properly.”

Draco and Harry’s argument faded as she shuffled away from the Slytherin table and toward the doors of the Hall.

Ugh. Boys…

****

“He hates me. Everyone hates me.”

Diana handed Hermione a towel from the hooks, which she buried her face into. Diana bit her lip. While she had a lot of empathy for Hermione, she was never the most articulate person and feared saying something that could make her feel worse. “I don’t hate you. And neither does Harry, or Neville, or—” She was about to say Draco, but wasn’t sure. His disdain seemed to have dimmed since the train and he stopped sneering whenever she was within six feet of him, but he was still Draco.

As if reading her mind, Hermione sniffled. “I think your brother does, sometimes.”

“He’s grown up in a family with a lot of…prejudice,” Diana began carefully, “towards Muggleborns. He’s reconsidering a lot of the things he grew up thinking were normal. It’ll just take some time…plus there’s all the stuff about his—our—father, and, well, he’s going through a lot…”

“You’re right,” whispered Hermione, and to Diana’s horror, a fresh stream of tears started running down her cheeks. “Look at me, how selfish I’m being. Everything’s so much harder for you and him.”

“You’re not selfish. It’s normal to feel upset if people are being mean. My dormmates are like that too.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. “It’s not just students at Hogwarts. Even before coming here, no one wanted to spend time with me.”

Diana debated whether she should explain why, but figured this wasn’t the time. “I didn’t have many friends before coming to Hogwarts, either. Just Claire, Becky, Olivia…and Samantha, kinda. So only four people.”

“That’s more than I ever had before coming here,” murmured Hermione, slouching against the wall.

“Even now, I still don’t have many. Just you, Harry, Draco, and my cat, if she counts.”

“I wish I could have been sorted into Slytherin,” sighed Hermione. “Then we could share the same dorm.”

Diana shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t wish that on any Muggleborn. Slytherin’s full of self-important, Pureblood arseholes. You’ve got the better end of the deal, being in Gryffindor. It means you’ve got courage.” Something I wish I had…

“I don’t feel courageous now,” mumbled Hermione.

Diana shrugged helplessly. “I don’t feel particularly cunning now. All I’m doing is babbling.”

Hermione smiled shyly. “You made me feel better.”

A bubbly feeling tugged at her heart. This was the first time Diana felt Hermione was a “friend friend” instead of a “Hogwarts friend.” “I’m glad. Will it make you feel even better if I told you Harry’s going to march over to the Gryffindor table and tear into Ron?”

The sound Hermione made was a mixture of a gasp and a giggle. “He didn’t!”

“I left before I could see if he did, but he was definitely planni–”

Her mouth suddenly snapped shut, a faint, foul smell of sewage and waste pushing its way into her nose. Within seconds, the floor began to rumble and a dull thudding grew louder and louder, accompanying the growing intensity of the smell.

A gigantic, misshapen gray-skinned creature pushed its way inside the bathroom, dragging a large wooden club behind it. Frozen in horror, Diana’s mind vaguely registered the creaking sound of the door closing behind it.

Who could it be? Daphne? Pansy? They were prats, but would they actually want Diana and Hermione dead?

Breath quickening, she glanced at Hermione, though her heart sank when she saw the bushy-haired girl was just as petrified as she was. A thousand thoughts and feelings buzzed in her mind, but one outshone the rest.

Diana reached into her robes with trembling hands for her wand, which almost clattered to the floor due to her sweaty palms. “A-alohomora,” she spluttered. The tip fizzled with sparks for a second, but the door remained locked. Shit.

Then, Hermione found her voice. She let out an ear-piercing shriek, rousing the troll’s ire. With a loud bellow, it spun around towards Diana and Hermione, raising its club high and swinging down with all its might.

Diana wished she could say she bolted out of the way or thought of a life-saving spell at the last moment, but that would be a lie. Instead, she crouched down in a ball-like defensive position. But when the troll brought its club down, an odd sensation enveloped her body, and she felt she was somewhere very far away, floating, where Hermione’s shriek was a distant muffle. She didn’t feel like a normal girl; instead she was something different, greater.

Then, she was back. And instead of a bloody mess of guts and sinew, the only thing left behind were several broken sinks, and a pale-face Hermione an inch away from them, looking as though she were about to faint.

The troll let out an angry, confused bellow, and fear gripped Diana. A brief flicker of black whipped out from her and struck the troll like a viper, causing the creature to fall backwards and stumble.

Before she had time to think about it, the doorknob wobbled. But instead of three professors running into the bathroom to save them, it was three hapless first-years: Harry, Draco, and…Ron?

For the next minute, everything was a blur. Ron—despite his previous misgivings—proved he was a Gryffindor through-and-through by grabbing a pipe and flinging it at the troll’s head. Though it bounced off the troll’s skull impotently, it provided the distraction needed for Draco to dart towards the girls. “What are you waiting for? A written invitation?” he demanded. “Move. We need to get out of here before this thing kills us.”

Diana looked up in time to see Harry launching himself upward and grabbing the troll’s neck in a chokehold, right before sticking his wand up the troll’s nose. Ron took out his own wand, pale and shaky, yet determined.

That was enough to snap Hermione out of her trance.“Swish and flick,” she Hermione, gesturing the motions.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” shouted Ron, and to Diana’s delight, the club hovered in midair, aligning itself with the troll’s thick skull. For a moment, it looked as though everything would be fine.

Then, Draco had to ruin it.

“This one must be the runt of the litter,” jeered Draco. “So ugly, stupid, and pathetic, even for a troll.”

Draco’s voice acted as a magnet, and the troll let out a furious bellow and stumbled closer to Draco. The club fell to the floor with a thud.

“Malfoy!” shouted Harry in frustration. “You idiot!”

The troll raised its arm and looked at it in confusion before realizing the club wasn’t there. Nevertheless, he raised his palm to swat Draco and the girls as if they were gnats.

The odd sensation from earlier began to stir inside her, but before anything happened, Draco pulled out a black box from the interior of his robes. The skull pattern was vaguely familiar, and she recalled with a jolt that it was one of the items from the scrip bag that contained the diary.

“Potter, Weasley, stand back!” Despite the false bravado, Draco’s tone held a tremor. Harry and Ron did as Draco asked, and her brother opened the box. A bright, blinding light shone from the box with such intensity that Diana had to look away.

But when the light dimmed, the troll vanished, and the lid of the black box slammed shut on its own. A quick survey of the room showed no one sustained serious injuries, though everyone was understandably shaken.

Ron was the first to voice the question on everyone else’s mind, thrusting a finger towards the box. “What the bloody hell is that?”

Draco’s face was paler than normal, but his tone was steady when he said, “Father told me to use it if my life’s in danger. I think this counts, don’t you agree?”

“But where’d it go?” asked Harry, straightening his glasses. “Is it…dead? Or was he transported somewhere?”

Draco shrugged.

Ron let out a low chuckle. “Judging by the skulls on the box, I doubt he’s taking a vacation to the Canary Islands, mate.”

Harry blinked, startled at the use of “mate,” but Ron didn’t notice. Instead, his eyes locked on Hermione and Diana. “Are you two okay? We heard Professor Qui–-”

Hermione wasn’t listening. She pushed herself up from her spot on the ground and flung herself around Draco’s neck. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Draco looked taken aback. He tentatively patted her back once, and then a second time once his hand didn’t immediately turn to acid upon touching a Muggleborn.

Ron crossed his arms. “Hey! Harry and I did most of the work. All he did was open that stupid box.”

Hermione broke the embrace and threw her arms around Ron and Harry. Then, to her surprise, she rounded on Diana and hugged her too.

“I didn’t even do anything,” protested Diana weakly, returning the hug. But Hermione didn’t let go.

It was at this moment Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell arrived. Quirrell’s face paled upon seeing the damage, while Snape remained inscrutable as always.

“Are any of you injured?” When the students shook their heads, McGonagall brought down the fire and fury. “You had specific instructions to return to your dormitory. I’m assuming there’s a good reason you’re here instead of there.”

Draco slithered in smoothly like the snake he was. “Diana and Hermione were in here, and we wanted to make sure they got out safely. Has the troll been caught yet, Professor?”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “The professors will handle the troll, Mr. Malfoy. Considering this bathroom’s current state, I’m assuming you’ve had a run-in with the creature already. Did you see which direction it went?”

“Left,” Draco replied immediately.

“I find it rather curious,” drawled Snape, “all five of you escaped a troll unscathed. Miraculous, even.”

“We hid when the troll came, and it didn’t see us. The brute was hardly what you could call intelligent.”

“And yet you say he went to the left. Odd, considering that was the direction we came from.” Snape glared at Harry as if he was the one who came up with the lie. “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, we have yet to see a troll. Remarkable, truly, considering we did a thorough investigation of every area of the castle except this wing. How peculiar that the troll appears to be missing, with only the word of five first-years to go by…”

“We saw him go to the left. I don’t know why you didn’t see it,” insisted Draco, doubling down.

The students had an unlikely ally in Quirrell. “W-whoever had the power to grant the troll access m-might h-have had a w-way to v-vanish it as well.”

The professors couldn’t deny the possibility. McGonagall’s lips thinned, and she nodded. “Return to your dorms immediately. And no more heroics.”

The five of them couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

****

“In case it wasn’t evident from my lead,” Draco began once the Professors were well out of earshot, “No one’s supposed to know about the box. So no blabbing to your father, Weasley.”

“I won’t,” huffed Ron, indignant.

“To think I defeated a troll and can’t even tell anyone,” grumbled Draco, shaking his head in disgust.

“I wasn’t just you,” sighed Diana. Harry smirked.

“That’s alright. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other times where you valiantly throw yourself headfirst into danger.”

Hermione giggled, and Ron shook his head. “Honestly, Malfoy. You had a troll-killing box the whole time and still gave us grief about coming up here.”

“Technically, it might not be dead. And besides, Father said this box has a one-time use. I wanted to make sure it counted.”

“What could be worse than a troll?” asked Ron, aghast.

Diana began counting on her fingers. “Daphne and Pansy, dark wizards, dragons, those giant spiders that are supposed to live in the Forbidden Forest…”

Ron paled.

“Speaking of dark wizards, what kind of magic was that, Diana?” asked Hermione, lowering her voice to a whisper and surveying the rest of the hall to triple-check the first-years were alone. “I won’t tell, I’m just curious since your spellwork in class seems a bit”---to her credit, Hermione tried to find a gentle way to phrase it–”lacking.”

Diana felt like she did back in Amberton, when she accidentally messed up the school computer and caused the screen to go blue. “Um, I didn’t do any spell…”

“Yes you did,” insisted Hermione. “You turned into this…this black smoke! One second you were there and the next, you weren’t.”

Diana tried to laugh, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “No I didn’t…how could I? You know my magic skills are terrible. Maybe it was just the stress of the trauma that made you think I did.”

There was something inherently disturbing about forcing Hermione to question reality, especially when she knew the girl was right. It reminded her of how Sarah’s story was discredited and a huge wave of guilt washed over her.

But not huge enough to override her self-preservation instinct.

“You did seem a bit out of sorts,” agreed Harry. “Not that anyone can blame you. First the troll, then the box—”

“I’m shocked at the amount of contraband that’s able to get into Hogwarts,” interrupted Diana, eager to change the topic. “Don’t the house elves check the bags?”

“House elves?” asked Hermione, brows furrowing.

The group’s chatter echoed in the empty halls as they continued to walk through the castle towards their dorms. Eventually, they reached the hallway that would lead to the portrait that granted entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Ron stopped, suddenly looking shy and hesitant.

At first, Diana thought he’d simply leave, but he surprised her. “I just wanted to say—er, I know I’ve been a real tosser lately…and, well, I’m sorry.” The last few words were so quiet they were practically a murmur. “I don't know why I—well, that’s all I wanted to say, really.”

Tentatively, Ron stuck out his hand towards Harry.

“I didn’t notice anything peculiar,” shrugged Draco. “You didn’t seem different from anyone else in our dorm.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped. Harry, at least, understood what Ron was getting at. He stuck out his hand, and Ron visibly relaxed as he shook it. Ron looked at Draco, who shook his head vehemently.

“You don’t need to touch my hand, Weasley.”

“Good.” Ron’s eyes drifted towards Diana, who gave a small, encouraging smile which he returned.

“Well,” Ron said, clearing his throat and pulling at his shirt collar, “We’ll be seeing you, then.”

Hermione waved goodbye while reminding the Slytherins about the homework due tomorrow, and Diana was happy to hear Hermione and Ron having a friendly conversation as they walked closer to the portrait.

This was the start of something between the five of them. What it was, she wasn’t sure, but it was something important.

****

The experience with the troll exhausted Diana, but not enough to go to bed without asking the question burning in her mind. Clutching the diary and draping the curtains around her bed tightly, she scribbled. Hi, Tom? Are you there?

Yes. It’s nice to speak with you again, Diana. Or, as close to speaking as I can get.

Swallowing, she put her quill to the page, mentally preparing herself for any answer he would give. Before, you mentioned that I drew an Obscurus. What is that?

An Obscurus is a dark, parasitic force created when a young witch or wizard tries to repress his or her magic. It dwells within the host, emerging when the host loses control of their emotions and sometimes overtakes them completely. Since its presence poisons the host, it leads to an almost certain death.

Diana stared at the page for several seconds, dread weighing down her heart. Oh.

Even since Sarah died, Diana wanted to do the same. But facing this impending fate, she couldn’t deny part of her wanted to live. Thoughts of Draco, Harry, and the incident with the troll played in her mind. The grandmother she wanted to see again, and friends from Girl Guides she wanted to return to. How could she do that dead? Is there any way to reverse it?

I don’t believe so. Tears prickled in Diana’s eyes. Is this simple curiosity, or is there another reason you’re interested?

After a few seconds of indecision, she threw caution to the wind. It’s me. I’m the Obscurus.

When Diana’s tears fell, they seeped into the page.

Hush now, don’t cry.

But Diana couldn’t help it. The tears kept flowing as she thought about her mother’s death and the obliviations of her grandmother and everyone else who knew her as Diana White. So much suffering happened because of her, and now there would be no chance of making it worthwhile.

Diana, you’re not facing this alone. I’m here now, and you can always count on me to help.

Diana took the quill and began to write, unevenly, You said it leads to a certain death.

An almost certain death. There might be a way to help, but it may prove to be a bit… unpleasant. It involved gathering the blood of roosters.

That was enough to shake her out of her misery. I’m not killing roosters.

While I admire your compassion, the life of a bird is not worth more than yours.

Yes it is.

Which house are you in?

Diana knew what he was getting at. Slytherin.

I would have guessed Hufflepuff.

I wanted to be Hufflepuff. I used to be part of Girl Guides, and the Original Promise and Law says how we’re supposed to be loyal, helpful, courteous, and respectful of all living things. Those definitely aren’t Slytherin traits, but I guess I take after my father after all.

She drew a frowny face, which seeped into the pages along with the words.

Why don’t you tell me more about your time there? I’d love to hear more.

And so she did. She spent most of the night writing about Girl Guides, her old friends, her mother and grandmother, Ms. Layla, and that horrible day when she first received her Hogwarts letter. She also told Tom about the troll attack, her brother, and eventually the truth about her father’s brutality and her captivity in Malfoy Manor. Although Tom pressed about Abraxas, she said it would need to wait until tomorrow.

She had a rough day, so it was only natural to feel as though energy was seeping out of her body.

Chapter Text

Are there any photographs of you?

Diana’s sloppy scrawl was soon contrasted by meticulously elegant cursive. Perhaps, but you needn’t waste your time searching. I’ll show you.

Diana didn’t know if the diary could see her expression, so she tried not to gape at the sketch; apparently, artistry could be added to Tom’s many talents. But the professionalism of the drawing came second to the thought occupying the larger part of her mind: Tom Riddle was stunningly attractive, possibly even on par with River Phoenix.

You look really nice. Then, flushing, she scribbled, It’s a nice picture. Once you get out, you should go to art school.

The sketch gave a small half-smile, and Diana’s heart fluttered. Even if I possessed the desire to attend a Muggle institution, I fear my level of artistic ability would hardly be enough to grant entry. Luckily, I have other interests and pursuits.

Like genocide?

The sketch dissipated. What?

Diana stifled a groan. Whenever she found herself getting comfortable, the guarded, ladylike Diana Malfoy disappeared, replaced by bumbling, socially-incompetent Diana White. I meant it as a joke, like how Hitler couldn’t get into art school. But now I’m realizing it was probably very offensive, especially since the war was going on when you got trapped in the diary. I’m really sorry, Tom.

I wasn’t offended, merely taken aback. Whatever happened to him, anyway?

Diana tried to remember. I think he shot himself in a bunker.

Dying like an underground rat instead of going out in a blaze of glory? Fitting.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she scribbled in frustration, I still can’t believe the wizards just let all those people get sent to concentration camps. And they didn’t help the Allies fight at all! If Hitler conquered Britain, surely that would affect them, too?

I’m sure a few wizards attempted to help in secret, especially Muggleborns. But the Ministry had a strict policy of nonintervention unless wizarding society itself was threatened, which even extended to students. In fact, during the holiday I was sent back to London during the months of the Blitz.

Diana clenched the quill so tightly, she thought it would snap. That’s awful.

Perhaps you view it as such, but it reinforced two important lessons. The first was that one ultimately must rely on himself and no one else, something already known from my time in the orphanage. The second is that to wizards, witnessing Muggle conflicts is akin to watching chimpanzees fight in the wild. There’s no benefit for higher beings involved; at best, they’d end up covered in animal filth. If I wanted to remain safe, I needed to take matters into my own hands.

I need to prioritize my safety as well, Diana added. But is it really possible to do everything alone? I want to avenge my mum, but I don’t know if I could do that alone.

Allies can be useful, provided you maintain a healthy emotional distance. I take it you’re wondering about the upcoming meeting?

Diana’s stomach flip-flopped. Though she hadn’t been successful in encouraging Harry to attend the Student Association meeting, Hermione somehow found out and latched onto it with the intensity of kneazle pouncing on a rat. Adamant that she, Diana, and Harry attend for the “educational benefits,” she achieved the impossible in convincing Harry to attend based on how the Student Association allegedly offered summer programs and other opportunities in the wizarding community during the summer holiday.

I am. I’m hoping the people there might be able to help me, though I’m not sure how. She paused, then added, Help me with my father, not the Obscurus stuff.

Thoughts of the Obscurus sank her spirits and caused a spike of anxiety at the possibility any ‘long-term planning’ might be for naught.

I hope your endeavors are successful. And if you ever reconsider your thoughts on the roosters, please let me know. I’d hate for something unfortunate to happen to you.

I will. A smile tugged at her lips. You’re way too nice for a wizard.

You’re not the first witch to tell me that. Stay safe, Diana.

****

Despite Draco’s sneers and Ron’s eyerolls and the titters of their Slytherin classmates, Diana, Harry, and Hermione finally ventured to the Muggle Studies classroom being used to house the meetings. Despite what the purebloods believed, the students in this classroom didn’t seem like revolutionaries clamoring for the guillotine. They talked, laughed, and leafed through books and newspapers, only stopping to whisper and stare curiously upon Diana and Harry’s arrival. Penelope immediately broke conversation with a bespectacled Ravenclaw girl and hurried over to them, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I’m so pleased you came,” she gushed. “From our last conversation, Diana, I was under the impression you and Harry weren’t interested. Am I right in assuming your Slytherin classmates played a role in that decision?”

“Um,” Diana began, cheeks heating. “N-no, Harry and I were just curious about some things…”

Penelope’s eyes latched onto the sullen black-haired boy. “Of course, of course. I also realize, Harry, that in retrospect, you might be confused why we extended you an invitation. You see, even though you’re not Muggleborn, you were raised and grew up among Muggles, so I’m sure you must have sympathy for their systemic mistreatment.”

Harry’s lips thinned, and Diana rushed to do damage control. “He wants to know about the jobs.”

“Oh.” Penelope blinked in surprise. “Well, yes, the Student Association can help you make job contacts, especially if you wish to pursue a career in the Muggle world.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Is that even possible?”

Diana remembered Grayson saying he did work in a lab, but doubted all wizards who abandoned wizarding society had traumatic, faith-shaking experiences like his. “It’s easier to have an advantage over Muggles than a social disadvantage over Purebloods we face here,” explained Penelope, “so it’s not particularly uncommon. But the Ministry has the arrogance to look down on those who do, as if they aren’t the reason so many prefer to leave! And there are whispers of legislation being passed that require check-ins for those who abandoned wizarding society, and possibly even mandating their wands be snapped. There’s always some injustice to fight, and that’s why our Association is important.”

Hermione and Diana nodded, but Harry’s expression was neutral. “...I heard there were jobs students could do, not just adults,” he finally said, eyes glancing up hopefully. “The ones during the summer. I know it’s the beginning of the year, but I was wondering if I could sign up early.”

“Oh, those jobs. I admire your initiative, Harry, but they’re only for fifth-years and above.”

Harry’s expression instantly fell, eyes clouding. Either oblivious, or simply choosing to ignore, Penelope plowed ahead. “There’s so many people who’d love to speak with you. Janice!” She waved her arm and the brunette Ravenclaw she spoke with earlier shuffled over. “Janice, this is Harry, Diana, and…”

“Hermione,” the bushy-haired girl breathed, enraptured by the new arrival. “And you’re Janice Pepper? The same Janice Pepper who wrote the four-page exposé in The People’s Voice about the disparities of Muggleborn employment opportunities?”

Janice blushed and diverted her eyes while Penelope smiled proudly. “It’s not really an exposé…I just crunched some numbers.”

“Stop being so modest,” scolded Penelope. “If it was ‘just’ number crunching, you wouldn’t have rankled all those old big shots.”

Janice adjusted her glasses and smiled. “Today I’m just the treasurer.”

“It was nice meeting both of you,” Harry said, flickering a forced smile. “But we have to go and study.”

Penelope’s expression faltered. “But the meeting hasn’t started yet!”

Diana was disappointed but didn’t fault Harry for backing out, especially since the carrot used to dangle over his head had been snatched away. It was a miracle they made it to the classroom, honestly.

Hermione didn’t have the same thoughts. She placed her hands on her hips and argued, “We finished everything last week, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes drifted to Diana with a silent plea. She bit her lip; the right thing to do would be to give him an out, but then again, she had a goal and was a Slytherin.

“Hermione’s right. But what I said earlier about wanting to focus on schoolwork is true. We’re just here to listen and won’t be talking about anything…personal.”

One of Narcissa’s pearls of wisdom was that if you want to generate interest, it is important to act cool and aloof. Desperation is tangible, she said. And while Diana doubted her stepmother would approve of using the strategy in this context, it was–Diana believed—the most advantageous way. Her mere presence at the meeting made a statement, but her lack of personal involvement created plausible deniability.

Also, remaining quiet would decrease the chances of her saying something idiotic.

Penelope’s eyes shone with understanding, albeit with a twinge of disappointment. “Yes, of course. We appreciate you being here all the same.”

Janice glanced at the clock. “We’re going to be starting in a few minutes. Take a seat wherever you like.”

And so it began.

****

The meeting itself went about as expected. There was a lot of technical and legal jargon used by older students Diana didn’t know, but she understood the gist. Students discussed laws, articles in newspapers, advocacy work, and general venting about perceived injustice, both within and outside Hogwarts. At one point, conversation ventured off-topic towards the Halloween troll and theories, such as whether the rumored unicorn deaths in the Forbidden Forest had any connection to the troll’s presence. Harry shifted in his seat a couple times, and Diana could tell he was restraining the urge to spit out his absurd yet steadfast belief that it was Professor Snape’s fault.

While Diana had no love for the Potion’s Master, she found Harry’s idea borne from wishful thinking more than anything else. Harry’s “evidence” was that he spotted Snape walking with a limp later in the day after the troll attack and had a “suspicious” demeanor. But Diana knew there was ultimately one reason Harry suspected Snape: he hated the professor and was looking for an excuse to villainize him. In Diana’s opinion, there were plenty of reasons to hate Snape already without making up far-fetched scenarios, but Harry needed external confirmation and validation of Snape’s evil. His denial of Harry’s potential place on the Quidditch team cemented a mutual animosity Diana feared could lead to serious harm, considering Snape was a former Death Eater.

Which begged another question: should she tell Harry about Snape’s history?

One one hand, Harry deserved to know, especially if Snape really did have lethally malicious intent. He might not have been responsible for the troll, but who’s to say he wouldn’t try to get revenge for his old master? Or maybe Harry was right, and Snape did unleash the troll in the castle and cover up his tracks? Then again, if Snape’s history was pure history and he really did change, then revealing it to Harry would be like dropping a match in a puddle of gasoline.

Maybe Granddad was onto something, Diana thought glumly as Penelope bolted upright, exclaiming she forgot her basket with small “thank-you-for-attending” gifts in her dorm. If he really could tell the future, maybe he’ll know Snape’s plan. He knew about Tom’s book…

And the man with two faces…

Diana frowned while the classroom erupted into casual chatter following Penelope’s departure. Could Snape be the man with two faces Abraxas Saw, one face representing his performance as a professor and the other showing allegiance to Voldemort?

She wished her life was a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book so she could skip around and find the best path. Every choice led to more questions, and she wondered especially if attending the meeting was one she’d regret. The lull in structure following Penelope’s absence made them vulnerable, and cracks were beginning to form. Hermione jumped into a conversation between three less-than-enthused third years, asking questions and babbling about class choices. Kevin Entwhistle and two Hufflepuff fourth-years started swarming poor Harry.

Panic flickered through her as Harry miserably but politely fended off questions. And while she knew the right thing to do would be to stand by him or interject, the selfishness and insecurity of not wanting anyone to ask her questions took control. Her eyes flickered for an out and she found one, slipping away.

“Freddie Mercury died?” she questioned, scanning the cover of The Times. It would explain why some Muggleborn had enchanted statues to sing different Queen songs this morning. But the news felt inherently unreal, and it was difficult to accept that the “real world” kept moving while she was on a place so different it might as well have been on another planet. “That’s so sad…”

“Never saw what all the fuss was about, personally.” Justin Finch-Fletchley shrugged. “Still, it’s a shame.”

“My mum used to like his music.” Don’t think about her, don’t think about her… “And I did too. How did you get a normal newspaper?”

“Mother sent it to me,” Justin announced proudly. “Father’s made several good investments recently, and now we’ve finally made the list of Britain’s Top Ten wealthiest citizens.” He huffed his chest outward and Diana smiled cordially.

“Congratulations.” It would have seemed more impressive before living in Malfoy Manor, but being in the Top Ten was no small feat. “Your family must be very proud.”

A flicker of something crossed Justin’s face so briefly, Diana wondered if it was a product of her imagination. “The interview’s on page 2, if you’d like to read it.”

Without waiting for a response, Justin pushed the newspaper into Diana’s reluctant hands. Must be karma for abandoning Harry…

Scanning the article proved her assumptions correct. As indicated by the double-barreled surname, the Finch-Fletchleys inherited a tremendous sum of wealth. Justin’s father, Lionel Finch-Fletchley, had connections and–the article implied–tugged the pursestrings of several government officials. The article also included expected fluff regarding charitable endeavors such as funding scientific research and organizations meant to locate missing persons.

It was the latter that caused a cold chill to creep through Diana’s body, each subsequent line dragging her deeper into a pit of dread. “Um, I didn't know you had a sister, Justin…”

“Yes. Caroline.” Diana’s fingers gripped the edges of the paper tighter. “She’s my half-sister, actually, from Father’s first wife.”

“Sorry if I’m being rude,” rambled Diana, face heating. It might not be the same Caroline. In fact, it’s probably not. I bet there are hundreds of Carolines and I’m sure there’s more than one missing, so…

“That’s quite alright,” hummed Justin. “She went missing before I was born, so it’s always been history to me.”

“What year was that?” Diana asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“1979.” Fuck. “And despite what the tabloids say, she didn’t run away to America. We’ve come to accept she’s likely deceased at this point, but some type of closure would be nice, is all.” His face fell for a moment before perking up. “But I’m sure there’s some spell that could shed some light on the matter, and when I graduate I fully intend to put it to use. Magic’s a wonderful thing, hmm?”

“Y-yeah,” she croaked.

Justin, misunderstanding her expression, rushed to add, “Oh my! You have my apologies, Diana. I wasn’t thinking…”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, schooling her expression into a neutral mask. “Justin, I was just wondering…how did your parents react to you being a wizard? Or the magical world in general?”

Justin chuckled at the memory. “Simply stunned! In complete and utter disbelief.”

So not even the Finch-Fletchley’s connections could provide knowledge of the magical world. Diana was tempted to ask if they acted differently or showed any other signs of Obliviation, but knew she would be pushing her luck with the next question: “Does anyone in the government know about magic?”

Once the question left her lips, she half-expected an SIS operative or Ministry official to burst out of nowhere and tackle her to the ground. But instead, Justin leaned forward conspiratorially, face serious and voice at a whisper. “Between you and me, a select few at the top are aware. I don’t know more than that, though. I’m not supposed to know that.”

Diana nodded as Penelope returned with a large, enchanted basket. For the rest of the meeting, Diana’s mind was a whirlwind of dread, confusion, worry, and indecision. She only realized they were at the end when students—sans Harry–-started clapping at something Penelope said, and she listed some dates and times of future meetings.

“Before we go, I’d like to thank our newest members for coming,” beamed Penelope.

“We’re not new members,” Diana immediately clarified, proud of how steady her voice sounded.

“Of course, of course,” nodded Penelope.

“Well, I’d love to join,” effused Hermione, practically bursting in her seat when she reached to scribble her name on the scroll.

“Wonderful!” Penelope clasped her hands together and looked expectantly at the Boy-Who-Lived. “What about you, Harry?”

“No thank you,” he said politely, though he looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.

“That’s a shame,” pouted Penelope. “Ah, well. It’s a standing invitation.”

That should have been the end, but there was a subtle yet perceptible shift in atmosphere amongst the students. Quiet murmurs reached their ears and a fourth-year Hufflepuff leaned forward, eyeing Harry skeptically. “Why don’t you want to join? You lived among Muggles, yeah?”

Diana answered for him. “He wants to focus on school.”

Janice smiled and crossed her legs, clasping her hands on her lap. “We’ll be more than happy to help if you’re struggling with schoolwork, Harry.”

Diana’s palms started to sweat. Hermione, sensing the danger too, gathered up her belongings and rushed to say, “We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you!”

“Ooh, don’t forget to take your gift!” Penelope reminded them, gesturing to the basket. The gifts inside looked like relatively cheap trinkets, but it was a nice gesture all the same. Hermione’s hands dug in and pulled out a self-inking quill. Diana wandered over to the basket too, praying for this would be over quickly.

But Harry remained rooted in his spot. Penelope still smiled, but there was an analytical coolness around the edges of her eyes. “Was there something about the meeting you didn’t like, Harry? Was there something you thought should have been addressed?”

“No,” mumbled Harry. “It was fine…”

“You don’t look fine,” huffed an older Ravenclaw boy.

“You can be honest with us,” smiled Janice. “Advice helps our group grow.”

Diana’s eyes didn’t leave Harry while her fingers pawed through the basket, lifting a Remembrall. Come on Harry, just leave…

“I did think there was something that could have been done better,” Harry admitted quietly. Shit…

“Oh?” Janice tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but this all seems very one-sided,” Harry said plainly. “It doesn’t consider why some of these laws exist. Like the one about not discussing magic with a Muggle partner until marriage. If they told them before they were married and then broke up, is it better for them to be Obliviated?”

“The rule operates under the assumption Muggles are inherently untrustworthy,” Penelope said, steel edge developing in her tone. “There shouldn’t be any discussion of Obliviation at all unless there’s proof the Muggle’s revealing our world to others.”

“And we shouldn’t even have the Statute at all,” murmured a Gryffindor. “It’s not like they could do anything against magic. The barrier between our worlds exists solely for wizard convenience.”

“Someone isn’t automatically trustworthy, or even good, just because they’re weaker.” Harry stood up and slowly gathered his belongings. “A lot of Muggles–most, I think—would love to hurt us if they could. We shouldn’t give them a chance.”

“So you agree with the Ministry,” Penelope concluded, pursing her lips.

“Not with everything,” Harry mumbled, shaking his head. Despite the contention, he reached into the basket and pulled out a Chocolate Frog. “But a lot of the discussion today made it seem like Muggles are children, which is what you complained the Ministry was doing.”

There was a moment of tense, heavy silence. “G-goodbye!” Hermione said, face red as she scooted out the door. Diana quickly followed, and the door thumped shut behind her. A moment later, Harry followed, expression blank.

“Well, that certainly could have gone better,” Hermione sighed.

“Sorry,” mumbled Harry. “I was the one who said those things. They won’t take it out on you, I don’t think.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” apologized Diana. “I kind of left you to dry back there.”

“It’s fine…”

“You raised valid points, Harry,” said Hermione. “They shouldn’t be afraid of exchanging ideas.”

The conversation continued on their way to the dorms, though Hermione did most of the talking. Diana would sometimes feel Harry’s eyes on her, and she too would glance at him when he wasn’t looking.

Neither of them said anything, but a lot could be communicated through silence.

****

Upon returning to her dorm, Diana immediately pulled out the diary and scribbled furiously. She told Tom about what happened at the meeting, her conversation with Justin, suspicions about Caroline, her guilt and frustration regarding Harry, and her guilt for feeling that frustration. She poured her heart and soul into the diary and continued writing until her eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion and remorse.

When she awoke, she was no longer in her dorm room. Instead, she was in the castle hallway, staring at a message painted in blood on the walls:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

In many ways her life already felt like a horror movie, but seeing the message reached a new level. It spiked even higher when she looked down and noticed the blood on her fingertips and Janice Pepper’s body on the ground, face contorted in agonizing terror.

Diana did what she always mocked horror movie heroines for doing: she shrieked loudly, attracting unwanted attention. Stumbling a few steps backward, she barely registered the puddle of water dampening the ends of her robes. Her eyes remained transfixed on Janice and the panic in the Ravenclaw’s eyes.

Was she dead? Diana didn’t see any chest movements, which was a sharp contrast with her own heartbeat thumping so rapidly, it felt as though it would burst out of her chest. Her gaze alternated between her bloody fingertips, the message, and the body beside her, breath hitching and tears pooling in her eyes.

“What’s this?”

Diana shoved her fingers into her robes’ pockets. “I–I don’t know, Professor. It was like this when I got here.”

Professor Quirrell didn’t seem to pay her any mind, eyes glued to the bloody wall. His face was pale, but his eyes reflected confusion and curiosity.

“How is this possible?” he murmured, bringing a finger to his chin.

Diana wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself, but started babbling anyway. “Idon’tknow. I just came and saw Janice on the floor and the message. Is she—is she…dead?”

Professor Quirrell lowered himself to examine the girl on the floor, and Diana mustered the courage to take another look. Despite the blood on the walls, she didn’t see any wounds on Janice. Quirrell looked at Diana with an inscrutable expression and avoided her question. “Did anyone else see this?”

“Um, I don’t think so…”

It was odd, seeing the normally-nervous Quirrell acting calm and in control while she remained a stuttering mess. His eyes returned to the message. “Good. Tell no one…we don’t want there to be a panic. The professors will handle it.”

“What does that mean?” she whimpered. If it really was her Obscurus that harmed Janice, would she be executed? Sent to Azkaban? Sacrificed like the Hyperboreans? Quirrell’s unusually-cool gaze rested on her, and though his mouth didn’t move, Diana thought she heard whispering. He stood up slowly. “As I said, it would be best to forget what happened.” He reached into his robes, but his fingers halted as his eyes snapped in the direction of approaching footsteps.

Diana’s heart plummeted when she saw its source. Professor Snape surveyed the scene in front of him with a clenched jaw, dark eyes landing on her with the intensity of a hawk spotting its prey. “I trust there’s a good explanation for this, Miss Malfoy.”

“She d-d-discovered the b-b–”

“I didn’t ask you, Quirinus.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” blubbered Diana, cognizant of the wetness at her fingertips. The tears finally began to fall. “I l-liked Janice and don’t know what the message means. I was in bed one moment and here the next. I think I sleepwalked here.”

“You…sleepwalked,” he echoed flatly.

“Y-yeah?” she mumbled, bottom lip wobbling.

“And yet, you managed to avoid whatever fate befell Miss Pepper. How odd.”

“M-miss Pepper may h-h-have been s-s-specificaly t-targeted,” suggested Quirrell. “Perhaps by w-whoever let the t-t-troll into the c-castle.”

Snape’s lips curled in displeasure, and Diana wiped her eyes. Though she knew she should stay quiet, the question escaped her lips. “Because she’s Muggleborn? Or b-because she wrote that article?”

“That’s none of your concern,” snapped Snape. “Miss Malfoy, you will return to your dorm. Quirinus, get the Headmaster.”

Quirrell nodded and scurried off, leaving Snape and Diana alone. Giving the message one last glare, Snape stalked away, gesturing for Diana to follow.

“What did Professor Quirrell say when he found you?” he asked sharply once they were out of sight of the message.

“He asked me what happened, so I t-told him what I told you. Then he said not to mention it to anyone.”

Snape scowled. “Hmph. Teaching for almost a decade, yet still nauseatingly idealistic enough to believe a first-year’s capable of keeping her mouth shut.”

He was right, but she felt compelled to give a token protest. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “At the very least, attempt to keep the embellishment to a minimum.”

“But I saw a dead body!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Is this like…normal for Hogwarts?”

“Miss Pepper wasn’t dead, merely petrified.”

“Ohthankgod.” Relief swelled in Diana’s chest, followed immediately by trepidation. What story would Janice tell when she woke up?

Snape studied her curiously, perhaps wondering the same question. He halted his movements. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Diana did as he asked. His cold gaze pierced into her mind as he asked slowly, “Do you have any inkling as to what may have caused Miss Pepper’s affliction?”

“N-no…”

Snape frowned, and in an instant Diana felt as though her mind plunged into a murky pond. Her thoughts grew foggy and hazy, and a throbbing sensation spread through her forehead. Thoughts of the black smoky presence above her bed, the black shadows that slashed the troll, reading a passage on Obscuruses at the library—

With all her willpower, Diana squeezed her eyes shut, and doing so allowed whatever magic connecting them to dissipate. The normally-stoic Snape looked taken aback for a second, but the growing realization of happened prevented her from appreciating it. “How long have you seen this shadow for?” he demanded sharply.

“You went into my mind!” she cried. Ohgodheknowsheknows…shit. I should have worn that stupid necklace…

Snape reimagined his composure and stuck his chin out. “Believe me, Miss, Malfoy, your mind is a place I have no desire to be in. Nevertheless, there is a petrified body in the corridor, and drastic events require drastic solutions.”

“I can’t believe you did that!” she shrieked. Mounting fury was beginning to overpower the trembling panic inside her.

A brief, small touch of understanding flickered in his eyes. “Your mind wasn’t…impacted in any way. Now, regarding the Obscurus—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t have time for these histrionics. As a Head of House, I’m obligated to ensure the safety of my charges—including yourself—which I cannot do unless—”

Diana didn’t hear the rest of what he said. She took off sprinting down the corridors, feeling as lost and vulnerable as she did the day she was first taken from 6 Ironwood Lane.

****

It was the middle of the night and her dormmates, thankfully, were still asleep when Diana threw the curtains around her bed and grabbed the diary.

Tom, do you remember the last thing I said earlier?

As usual, the response came quickly. You mentioned reconsidering your opinions about the roosters. Why? What’s wrong?

Roosters. Could it be rooster blood on the wall? First she felt a wave of relief, then horror.

I killed roosters.

Maybe.

Diana’s fingers dug at the roots of her hair, and she stifled a cry of frustration. Slamming the diary shut, she buried her head in the pillow. After a moment, she took some deep breaths and tried thinking logically.

There were a lot of things to worry about, but the one that occupied her mind the most in that moment was the violation of her mind. Luckily, this was something she planned for.

Tom could wait.

After one final breath, she whispered, “Dobby, Dobby, Dobby…”

There was a popping sound, and the small house-elf appeared on her bed, hunched over and wringing his hands. His bulging eyes darted around, shining with trepidation.

Family house elves typically weren’t permitted on Hogwarts grounds, but there were workarounds; before the school year began, Diana ordered Dobby to appear every time she called his name three times.

“Dobby, one of the professors went into my mind. He said he didn’t mess anything up, but I don’t trust him. Could you see if he was lying?”

“Oh yes, Mistress!” he exclaimed. “It would be Dobby’s pleasure to do as Mistress Diana asks!”

“Shhh! A little quieter, please,” she murmured, praying none of the other girls heard.

“Oh yes, Mistress. It would be Dobby’s pleasure to do as Mistress Diana asks!” he repeated, whisper-yelling.

Dobby snapped his fingers, and Diana felt a tingling sensation run over her body that lasted for a few seconds. Over the summer, she found out that a family’s house elf’s magic is linked, to a certain extent, with the family they serve. As such, they have the ability to tell—if asked–whether or not one of their masters had minds recently tampered by an outsider’s magic.

“No, Mistress Diana.”

Diana let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “What about Draco?”

Dobby closed his eyes for a moment, and his fingertips glowed. Then, his eyes widened. “H-he was, Mistress…”

Her heart stopped, recalling with creeping horror the way the Neville’s Remembrall clouded with red smoke when Draco held it. “When?” she asked, sharper than intended.

“D-dobby knows not, Mistress!” His bulging eyes welled with tears as he twisted the edges of his pillowsack. “Stupid Dobby, stupid Dobby…”

“It’s not your fault.” Before he could wallow in self-pity, she rushed to say, “Is there any way to guess? It couldn’t be something from years ago, right?”

Dobby sniffled. “The one who cast the spell on Master Draco must have done so within the last month or two, otherwise the trace would be gone and Dobby’s feeble magic wouldn’t be able to detect it.”

It had to be someone at Hogwarts then. Shit. She pulled out the Remembrall from her pockets and held it up in front of Dobby. “Could I also use this to tell if someone modified my memory? When Draco held one of these before, it turned red.”

Dobby placed a spindly finger on the Remembrall’s surface. “Yes, but Dobby thinks it might be difficult. The Remembrall lets the holder know if there’s anything they forgot, but Mistress Diana only wants to know if she forgets due to magic.” An unusual spark lit up the house-elf’s eyes. “B-but with the young Mistress’s permission, Dobby can modify the Remembrall to only change color if what’s being forgotten is due to a recent spell.”

“Thanks, Dobby. That’s very helpful.”

Dobby bowed so low, his forehead almost touched the bedsheets. She considered telling him about the message, Janice, and diary, but given his mandatory allegiance to her father, Diana figured the less said, the better. So she dismissed him and spent the rest of the night speculating and mulling over the next steps.

****

The Brisingamen made her feel like one of the peacocks strutting about the grounds of Malfoy Manor, especially when the Slytherins’ eyes sparkled and looked at it with a sense of awe and covetousness. But she was willing to sacrifice some of her dignity if it meant shielding her mind.

Despite the events of the previous night, neither Snape nor any other staff member spoke to Diana, though she suspected it was only a matter of time. And while the head table seemed subdued, the students in the Great Hall chattered away, none the wiser.

Diana changed that later in the courtyard, where she told Draco, Harry, Ron, and Hermione the basics of what happened—excluding the blood on her fingertips, of course.

Ron swore loudly enough that a few passing students looked over curiously. In a lower voice, he said, “I can’t believe they’re keeping this a secret!”

“They’re trying to stave off panic,” whispered Hermione. “Still, we deserve to know. Diana, are you absolutely certain she’s petrified?”

“That’s what Professor Snape said…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “So it was probably a lie.”

“I hope not,” murmured Hermione, wringing her fingers. “Poor Janice…”

“Yes, yes. It’s very sad and all, but let’s focus on the Chamber.” Draco’s eyes sparkled with interest. Ron scowled.

“Mate, would it kill you to show the tiniest bit of sympathy?”

“I said it’s sad!” argued Draco.

“What is the Chamber?” interrupted Harry. “And what’s all that business about an heir?”

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Draco began, intoning dramatically, “is a Hogwarts legend. According to the story, Salazar Slytherin placed a hidden chamber inside Hogwarts that none of the other founders knew about and could only be accessed by him or one of his descendants. Inside the Chamber was a creature powerful enough to purge the castle of the impure. This is going to be—quite possibly—the most historic event in our lives.”

Could it really be a monster instead of her Obscurus? Could she really be that lucky?

But what about the blood…

Hermione folded her arms. “What do you mean ‘impure’?”

Diana suspected Hermione already knew, but Ron spelled it out. “He’s talking about Muggleborns. Git.”

Draco flushed. “I–I didn’t put the monster there! Salazar Slytherin did. And besides, Hermione, I doubt you’d have anything to worry about since you’re different from the other Muggleborns.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So I’m a ‘credit to my race?’ ‘One of the good ones,’ is that it?” she demanded.

“It’s a compliment,” he said slowly. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

While Hermione was fully justified in being annoyed by Draco’s wording, Diana also knew getting him to feel something other than disdain for a Muggleborn was no small miracle.

“If Muggleborns are being targeted, then Hermione shouldn’t be walking the halls alone,” said Ron.

“If I can’t, then no one should,” huffed Hermione. “It’s not right for this to be kept secret from the other Muggleborns. Unless…oh. Oh! Maybe it’s not all Muggleborns. It might only be certain ones, and the Professors already know whos’ going to be targeted.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with the meeting?” Harry bit his lip. “With me?”

“I’m sure it’s a coincidence,” Diana rushed to assure. “But I wonder how much longer they’re going to keep it a secret. The Ravenclaws must notice Janice is gone by now.”

Speaking up caused the attention to return to her, something she instantly regretted. “Diana, you said you sleepwalked?” Hermione prodded. “And that’s how you saw the message?”

Panic gripped Diana’s throat, and her mind searched for something she could say that didn’t make her suspicious.

“I think so. B-but I might have been cursed.” Aaaand this is another thing I’m going to regret. Doubling-down on the lie, she took out the Remembrall from her pocket. “I told you Snape tried going into my mind and that made me scared. So later I called Dobby–the Malfoys’ house elf—and he used his magic and said—and said, um, that he put magic on this to tell if someone’s mind was affected by magic.”

“Dobby can’t do that!” Draco countered. “He’s too weak.”

“Have you asked him if he could?” Draco’s silence was enough of a response. “House elves can do a lot more than you think. Their magic is different, but it’s not weaker.”

“Let me see that.” As Diana expected, Draco yanked the Remembrall from Diana’s hands, and the ball immediately turned red. The color on Draco’s face was almost as vibrant. “What does that mean? Are you saying someone had the audacity to use magic on me?”

Ron snickered and touched the Remembrall, which turned clear. “Probably Nott or one of your dorrmmates.”

“It wasn’t Nott,” Harry said, much to Draco’s displeasure. He touched it, and when nothing happened, gave it to Hermione.

To Diana’s shock, it turned red.

“S-someone went in my mind?” she squeaked. Ron’s expression grew serious.

“Blimey. Maybe it was Snape.”

“He wouldn’t do that to me,” protested Draco, face paler than normal.

“He would.” The gears in Harry’s mind began turning. “There could be more than one staff member in on it too, like a big conspiracy. Maybe things like this have happened in the past and we just didn’t know about it.”

Hermione squeezed her hands in her lap. “I don’t know about this. It’s hard to believe the Professors are capable of something so vile. Even Snape.”

“It’s not hard to believe at all.” After a second of indecision, she landed the coup de grace that took the heat off her completely. “Snape used to be a Death Eater. I found out when him and Professor Sprout came to my house over the summer. Mum asked to see his arm and he wouldn’t let her because he has one of those Death Eater tattoos.”

“It’s not a tattoo,” hissed Draco. “It’s the Dark Mark.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione paled, and Hermione started blinking so rapidly Diana thought she might pass out. “It’s really true?” Diana nodded.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” asked Harry, and Diana winced at the anger in his tone.

“I’m really sorry, Harry. Professor Sprout said he’s changed and isn’t a Death Eater anymore, and in the beginning of the year I didn’t want to get involved and cause problems. I know it was selfish…but with what’s happened yesterday, there’s a good chance he might still be a Death Eater, and—”

“He can’t be a Death Eater!” whimpered Hermione. “He just can’t! Dumbledore wouldn’t have hired him otherwise.”

“Unless he’s Obliviating Dumbledore,” replied Diana. “Or putting him under the Imperius…”

“Or Dumbledore’s in on it,” suggested Harry. “Maybe he’s secretly been working with Death Eaters the whole time.”

“He’s not,” Draco insisted. “If he was, my father would know, which means I would.”

“Well, there’s a lot of things he knows that you don’t,” said Diana. Draco flushed and looked away. She held up the Remembrall in her hands. “Look, we might not know who wrote the message”—ME. It was me!—”or who petrified Janice or tampered with our minds—”

“It’s Snape,” Harry murmured underneath his breath.

Diana continued as though she didn’t hear him. “—or even if it’s the same person. We don’t know what their goals are. But we do have this Remembrall we can use and knowledge of what’s going on. So at least we’re prepared and know what we’re getting into.”

Months later, Diana would look back and laugh at her naivete.

Chapter Text

“We can’t keep this contained, Headmaster. Students are asking questions. Earlier today I saw Potter"—Severus practically spat the word—”and Nott discussing the Chamber. Surely you can see why that combination might prove…concerning.”

“Hogwarts was founded on the principles of learning, Severus,” Albus said calmly, steepling his fingers together on his desk. “I, for one, am pleased to see Harry take initiative in expanding his base of knowledge.”

A vein in Severus’s neck bulged. “Wouldn’t it be….prudent,” he asked through gritted teeth, “to make a statement now, to control the narrative?”

“And tell the students there’s a creature of indeterminate origin”—likely a basilisk—”in an unknown location somewhere in the castle, whose attacks are spurred on by Voldemort himself?” he replied, watching the man flinch at the mention of his previous master’s name. “I do not believe so, Severus. But alas, that may change in the future.”

“And how is the Pepper family faring in all this?”

Albus suspected Severus knew the answer. “I see no reason for them to be informed. Miss Pepper is not deceased, and as you’re aware, Pomona is in the process of brewing a cure.”

The Peppers finding out would result in the Association finding out, and the Ministry plants inside the Association would in turn cause the Ministry to find out. And while Albus wasn’t naive enough to believe Janice’s petrification could be concealed forever, he was in no rush to expedite the process.

“Which will take months. How is she supposed to catch up on a year of schooling?”

“With Ravenclaw tenacity,” he said lightly. At Severus’s scowl, he added, more seriously, “She’ll receive special tutoring. Filius has already volunteered.”

“And when the parents find out you’ve been concealing their daughter’s…condition?” hissed Severus, clutching the edge of Albus’s desk. “What then?”

“Then we weather the impending storm,” Albus said bluntly, leaning back in his chair. “I realize this situation is less-than-ideal, but our options prove limited, I’m afraid. Maintaining discretion regarding Miss Pepper’s condition will result in justifiable condemnation from the Association, but revealing the existence of a creature within our walls targeting Muggleborns will certainly stoke the flames as well, especially so soon after the unpleasantness with Miss White—”

That name incited Severus’s other major concern. “When can I expect her removal?”

“I have made no such plans, Severus.”

“Because of your preoccupation with other matters requiring your attention?” he prodded despite knowing the answer.

While there were many, many matters that required his attention, most of which Severus knew nothing of, Albus couldn’t claim them as a reason for not moving forward with Diana White’s removal. Instead, he spent the previous evening with a glass of elderflower wine in one hand, the other rifling through various photographs of Ariana scattered on the table. “No. It’s because she will not be leaving this castle.”

Severus let out a disdainful hiss. “Regardless of whether she’s responsible for opening the Chamber—”

“She’s not.”

“Even if she’s not, she’s still a danger. With all due respect”—Albus had to stop himself from smiling; whenever someone said ‘with all due respect,’ it was more often than not coupled with the implication he was a doddering old man. He was used to people thinking of him that way, though it didn’t make it true. “— your unwillingness to take action puts the safety of every living inhabitant of this castle at risk.”

“Hmph!”

Albus glanced at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black in the corner of his eye, who had—aside from that contemptuous grunt—managed to avoid verbalizing his opinion, though his stuck-up nose and haughty expression made his intentions clear. He wanted Albus to put Severus in his place, but that simply wasn’t Albus’s preferred approach.

“I will handle it, Severus,” he repeated.

Recognizing a useless battle when he saw one, Severus’s expression soured, but moved on to another pertinent topic. “Have you decided when to make a move on Quirinus? The longer we wait, the more attacks can happen.”

“Ideally soon, but that all depends on what proof we’re able to attain, and so far what we have is…tenuous, to say the least. Has he said or done anything more concerning than usual since opening the Chamber?”

Severus’s lips curled in disgust. “He’s been exceptionally nervous, practically jumping at his own shadow. He sometimes mutters to himself when he thinks he’s alone, and I trust you saw his pale countenance this morning at breakfast. Hardly the celebration of victory one might expect.”

“Something might have interfered with the plan in some way,” mused Albus, “which could be why Miss Pepper is petrified instead of deceased. I believe there’s likely a connection with Miss White’s presence.” He sighed. “I suppose it all comes down to whether her arrival was a joke of the Fates, or if he enchanted her and brought her with him intentionally, as we discussed yesterday. If it’s the former, he might suspect she witnessed something of concern. If it’s the latter, then perhaps he foolishly attempted to control the Obscurus for some purpose and something went awry. Or perhaps he intended to frame her for opening the Chamber before you arrived, possibly without Voldemort’s foreknowledge. And I can’t imagine his ego would be pleased with that.”

“Quirinus had out his wand when I encountered him,” recalled Snape. “Whether her presence was coincidental or not, I believe he was about to attempt a spell of some sorts. Unnecessary, given how she remembers nothing of the incident. Otherwise it would certainly have been at the forefront of her memory.”

Albus chose not to revisit their discussion about the decision to use Legilimency against Diana. “There’s also a more mundane possibility to Quirinus’s behavior we haven’t discussed: The likelihood that our newest Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor might have realized he’s gotten a bit over his head. He’d hardly be the first to regret his dealings with Voldemort.”

He looked pointedly at Severus, who showed the tiniest hint of pink on his cheeks. “I take it the Stone has been moved?”

“Naturally. Though I cannot tell you where at this moment, for obvious reasons.” The less who knew of its newfound location inside the Mirror, the better. Before Severus could press, he redirected the conversation by asking, “I trust you are prepared for tomorrow?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” Because of Diana’s consistently poor marks, a meeting was going to be held tomorrow with both Diana and Lucius. It wasn’t a meeting Albus looked forward to, and Severus even less so. ”Once again I must reiterate, Headmaster, that tomorrow presents the perfect opportunity to suggest she be removed from the castle.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be.” Albus leaned back. “You’re still in good graces with Lucius, I assume?”

Severus’s face shifted into a neutral mask. “That’s correct.”

Albus knew that, despite everything, Severus maintained a fondness for Lucius. Understandable, considering how much Lucius helped him and the challenges he encountered as a young half-blood in Slytherin, back when the youngest Malfoy son still had some degree of open-mindedness.

Of course, that wasn’t enough to stop Severus from feeding information to the Order about the Acheron, causing Sarah White’s liberation and Lucius Malfoy’s current headache.

Albus smiled wistfully. Though Severus was never extended an invitation due to the Lestranges’ prejudices—something Albus suspected he was thankful for—Severus listened and learned as Lucius had one too many drinks. He recalled Severus’s account years later of how Sarah distrusted him when he arrived with Pomona, unaware she was speaking with her savior. Diana disliked Severus for the same reason, and Albus wished he could reveal the truth, but a child knowing that information would be too precarious, and the needs of the many outweighed those of the few.

“Good. Someone else you might consider establishing a stronger rapport with is Harry.” Snape’s expression darkened and Albus stifled a sigh. “He’s Lily's son, Severus.”

“And James’s.”

“We’re not our fathers,” he said gently, but with a pointed look. Severus’s scowl deepened. “Harry’s sorting should have alleviated that concern.”

While causing me concern…

“He still demonstrates the same unearned arrogance, the needless flaunting of rules, and the expectation of preferential treatment,” Severus spat.

Albus doubted Harry demonstrated any of these qualities to a significant extent, but knew when Severus was in too deep to argue. “I daresay Minerva was quite pleased you didn’t give him special treatment.” The Slytherin team was going to be trounced this year without a good Seeker, another thing Albus felt guilty for. His philosophy had always been to let students work out their issues amongst themselves, only recognizing now in his twilight years how that likely contributed to the bigotry and hostility present within these castle walls. The Higgs situation could have—and should have—been handled better. “But try to see Harry as his own person. I daresay he has more in common with you than his father.”

Severus’s lips thinned. “Will that be all, Headmaster?”

“I’m afraid not, Severus. Since Lucius will be here tomorrow, is there anything concerning we should mention about Draco?”

“There are several things he might find concerning. Us, not so much.”

Albus smiled. He wasn’t often surprised, but the Malfoy scion shedding—or in the process of shedding—his family’s prejudices was a pleasant one. He even spotted Draco and a Muggleborn girl, Hermione Granger, alone in the library once, and speaking with Professor Quirrell after class another time. “Excellent.”

“As I said, Nott’s the one to worry about.”

Albus’s smile faded. Theodore Nott was the type of person who wrapped bigotry in pleasantry—the most dangerous kind. “Are his beliefs genuine?”

“It’s difficult to say, though he’d certainly want them to be.”

Albus nodded somberly. Though he often didn’t put stock in the rumor mill, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cantankerous Nott really did kill murder his wife after she experienced a change of heart and tried leaving with Theodore. “Then that will be all, Severus. I’ll see you tomorrow, first thing in the morning. And do try to be a bit more genial when we see Lucius. I know these parent meetings are your favorite part of the profession, there’s no need to hide it.”

Severus huffed and barely restrained from rolling his eyes. It was the same expression he saw from Severus many times as a student when Albus said something exceptionally lighthearted during speeches in the Great Hall. Always carrying such a heavy burden…never given the opportunity to be a child…

It reminded him of another Slytherin with a stolen childhood boy who did the same thing, fifty years ago.

****

During his time as a Professor, Albus made efforts to read Muggle literature and keep up-to-date on current events to bridge the gap between worlds. His increased responsibilities as Headmaster put a stop to that habit—something he’d since regretted—though a few texts and passages stuck in his mind decades later. One particular passage was from an American author, Ernest Hemmingway: “The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

Despite the vast differences between their worlds, human nature remained the same. The world killed more often than it broke.

He hoped Diana and Harry would grow strong at their broken places, both their sakes and the worlds’.

Though, looking at the girl now, she didn’t seem very strong. Her face was pale as a ghost, fists clenched atop her knees, eyes wide as saucers. If not for the gaudy bauble decorating her neck, he never would have guessed she had Malfoy blood.

But looks could be deceiving—Albus of all people should know that. Just the fact that she hadn’t attempted fleeing showed strength of character, especially considering who sat next to her. Lucius Malfoy’s lips were curled in the characteristic Malfoy sneer (is it practiced, or simply in the blood?) while his pale fingers drummed against the head of Jormungandr.

“Diana”—Albus couldn’t stomach calling her Miss Malfoy, but Miss White would be needlessly adversarial—”do you know why we called you here today?”

He smiled kindly but Diana’s face, if possible, grew even paler. She nodded. “It seems you’re having a bit of a difficulty adjusting to Hogwarts. Understandable, really. After all, your integration into wizarding society was very…abrupt. Do you feel you’re lacking in some basic knowledge that is putting you at a disadvantage compared to your peers?”

She shrugged feebly.

“He asked you a question,” snapped Lucius, tapping his cane against the floor for emphasis. “Speak up.”

“I–I don’t know,” she squeaked. Lucius rolled his eyes.

“The reason we’re here today is to discuss your marks. Currently, they are…less-than-satisfactory, though I don’t believe it’s anything beyond help. As your Head of House, Professor Snape is here to review them and offer his valuable insight.”

Confusion flickered on Diana’s face. “Wait, this is about my…marks?”

‘‘Not the Obscurus?’ was the silent question.

“Yes.”

Diana’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but traces of rigidity could still be seen throughout her body. She was no longer scared, but suspicious. Perfectly reasonable, as much as he hated to admit it.

Lucius banged the end of Jormungandr on the floor in another unnecessary gesture of impatience. “What did you think this was about? Have you not read a single one of my letters?”

“Umm…”

Occasionally during breakfast, Albus would see Draco use his wand to set fire to envelopes Diana held up. I suppose that’s one mystery solved…

Lucius exhaled and massaged his temples. “Severus, read them to me.”

Severus unrolled the parchment and recited the list of marks for her classes. With every passing letter, she sank deeper into her seat while Lucius’s face grew stormier.

“I’m passing History of Magic,” she said weakly.

“The most useless class,” snapped Lucius.

“All our classes have value,” Albus reminded him. “However, I have noticed your lowest scores are in classes that involve heavy wand usage. Are you having difficulties performing spells?”

“Kind of,” she muttered, growing red. “I don’t know why. It worked in the shop…”

“Its core is made of Thestral hair,” sighed Lucius. “Notoriously unstable, but no other wand worked.”

“But it did work once,” echoed Albus. “Which shows us that Diana is capable. The wand always chooses the wizard—or witch, in this case—and wands which contain this particular core are attracted to those who have suffered profound loss.” Albus enjoyed seeing the flicker of discomfort on Lucius’s face. “However, in order to master the wand, its wielder must be willing to accept death, which is no small feat, especially for a child so young.”

“...I know I can’t bring Mum back.” For the first time today, an edge of defensiveness and irritation seeped into Diana’s voice. She sat up straighter. “And I know she can’t be a ghost either. I did accept it.”

“Death can occur in many forms, my dear. Life leaving the mortal shell is simply one of them.”

Her brows furrowed for a moment, then: “Are you talking about the death of my old life?”

She was sharper than he thought. “Yes. But death is not the end.” From under the table, Albus did a subtle gesture to Fawkes, who had been perched silently atop a cabinet for the duration of the meeting. The phoenix’s wings spread out majestically, and a melodious coo echoed throughout the room. Diana’s jaw gaped in amazement while both Lucius and Severus rolled their eyes at the perceived theatricality. “The Phoenix is a mighty creature that suffers death, yet rises from the ashes stronger and more resplendent than ever. You will one day do the same.”

Diana glanced at him with a look she couldn’t decipher before staring back down at her shoes. Lucius scoffed. “These dramatics are hardly necessary or appropriate, and your assumptions are baseless conjecture. No, Dumbledore, this is simply a case of willful disobedience and apathy, and requires the appropriate solution.” He leaned back in his chair. “I realize many parents of this generation are softer than flobberworms when it comes to enforcing any kind of discipline on their progeny, but I believe in the value of methods that have worked for centuries. Methods that were enacted when I was a student. I’m unsure if your aversion to the old methods are a result of catering to the bleeding hearts, but I will give permission and sign any necessary form to have her hanged in the dungeons, or caned, or whatever punishment you find suitable.”

Diana grew several shades paler.

“No,” Albus replied, quiet but firm. Though it wasn’t technically banned, Albus made it clear he wanted his staff to pursue other means of correction. And despite Lucius’s beliefs, parents had nothing to do with his decision to step away from the more traditional methods; he never received any pushback besides the occasional complaint of Apollyon Pringle’s admittedly-troubling overzealousness. The decision was something he reached on his own and regretted not doing decades ago, instead corroborating to the culture of violence because that was always ‘the way things were.’ “Even back then, those punishments were never used for academic performance. The most effective avenue, I believe, is for your daughter to attend supplemental lessons.”

“I’ll start handing stuff in,” blabbered Diana, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. “I don’t—I don’t need a Professor giving me extra lessons.”

“The work you submit demonstrates a woeful misunderstanding of key concepts,” drawled Severus, “and every lesson in class builds off previous ones. Even if you are successful in focusing on the future, it’s impossible to regain that missing knowledge without supplemental coursework.”

“But I don’t need an adult for that,” she protested weakly. “I have a friend who can teach me. Hermione Granger. She has the highest marks out of any first-year.”

“I refuse to have a Mudb—” He caught himself and started over, more calmly. “I refuse to have a Muggleborn instruct you in the ways of Magic. Absolutely not. My daughter will complete these…remedial lessons, Dumbledore. I trust you have a Professor in mind?”

“Yes,” said Albus, smiling. Diana shot Severus a look of agitation and folded her arms, mumbling something under her breath. “What is it, Diana?”

“I just said,” she mumbled, face growing pink, “what does it matter if I fail? Once I graduate, I’m going back to the Muggle world.”

As far as Albus was aware, this was the first time she expressed that desire. Still, no one in the room was surprised.

“If you fail,” Lucius said slowly, “not only will you bring shame upon this family, but we’ll have no choice but to have you stay in the Manor throughout the year and receive lessons from a private tutor—or several, judging by the ineptitude reflected in the report. I don’t believe that’s a particularly desirable situation, do you?” Diana shook her head quickly; it wasn’t ideal for either Malfoy. “Good. So I take it Severus will be in charge of the supplemental lessons?”

Diana’s shoulders slumped, and Severus looked as though someone was holding a dead niffler under his nose. “Unfortunately, I’m unable to offer lessons of this frequency,” lied Severus. “However, the Headmaster already made arrangements.”

That was Albus’s cue, and he looked forward to seeing the expression on Lucius’s face. “I will be in charge of providing Diana with the additional instruction she needs.”

Lucius’s face did not disappoint. “Wh—no. No, absolutely not! Why would you eve—no. It’s not appropriate.”

“Why not?” he asked innocently.

“Because that’s not the job of the Headmaster! It’s absurd. Surely there must have been someone in the history of this school whose scores were lower.”

“It’s simply a matter of convenience. Unfortunately, Diana's level of need requires more involvement and time than the Professors can provide at this point in the school year. I have concerns that a fellow student would be able to address her needs as well.”

Diana’s eyes widened, finally putting the pieces together of why Albus really wanted to get her alone. She shifted in her seat and bit her lip.

“I find that hard to believe, given your own amount of…involvement, not just in running the school, but also the manner in which your hands seem to be in every aspect of wizarding life.” It was a not-so-subtle reference to his presence at the Wizengamot trial. “Surely you have better uses of your time.”

Albus smiled brightly. “On the contrary, children are our future and take utmost priority.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “I see this for what it is, Albus. A transparent attempt to undermine my authority, corrupt my child’s mind, and dig for information with all the shamelessness of a niffler. Just like Weasley.“ He tsked in disgust.

Years of practice prevented Albus from telling Lucius he did all the damage to his child’s mind on his own. “I understand your concern, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word that I have no intention of ‘corrupting’ anyone. My concern is solely academic performance.” Years of practice also eliminated his lying tics. “Perhaps Severus can inform you of any changes in behavior or attitude. As Head of House, he would see her far more regularly than I would.”

“Hmph.” Lucius fiddled with the head of Jormungandr, and Albus could practically see the gears in his head spinning. Wondering whether Diana’s access to Albus could provide Lucius with some sort of advantage, no doubt. Albus went for the coup de grace. “If you would prefer to withdraw her from Hogwarts, that is well within your right, though it’ll be a shame to see her go.”

Lucius finally caved. “How often will these lessons be?”

“Once a week, or once every two weeks. It may decrease in frequency as the year progresses.”

“I see.” Lucius’s fingers clenched around Jormungandr’s slivery serpentine head. Then, they loosened and he stood up. “Thank you, Headmaster, for your generous, highly irregular offer. Diana, I expect these marks to improve.”

She mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an affirmative. Lucius gestured to the door with his cane, and she hurried out without sparing him or Severus a second glance. Lucius stalked out afterwards, though he had the time to give Albus one last glare.

Albus remembered a time when seeing that expression on Lucius was a rarity, back when he was a polite yet solemn boy, masking a large entanglement of insecurities and anxieties. Back when he was a victim to the world instead of a victimizer.

He stifled a sigh; sometimes he forgot that Pureblood children were victims of the cultural malaise present in their society, albeit in a different way than Muggles and Muggleborns. And while Albus learned long ago he couldn’t change the past, there was still a chance to help children of the future.

****

“No.”

Albus restrained a sigh. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, knowing it would incense his brother even more. “You understand why I require discretion, given the sensitivity of her situation.”

Aberforth let out a grunt of derision as he continued wiping the glass with a less-than-clean rag. Not many things surprised Albus anymore, but knowing that his brother did make efforts to clean the Hog’s Head and the inn still looked like…this…was one of them. “Hasn’t that poor kid been through enough? Don’t rope her into whatever plan you’re brewing, Albus.”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said it’s for her benefit.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t feel my request is unreasonable, Aberforth.”

“Reasonable?” Aberforth echoed in disbelief. “You have the gall to come in here after God-knows how many years, asking that I close my business? And expect me to be okay with that?”

“I didn’t expect you to be okay with it, though—in the interest of clarity—I would like to reiterate that I’m asking it to be closed for one hour at most.”

“Unlike you, I don’t rake in a huge salary. Every hour counts.”

Yes, the two patrons that would have shown up would make quite the financial difference, I’m sure.

“I will compensate for whatever”—measly—”galleons you would have made otherwise. Triple it, even.”

“That’s not the point,” Aberforth said gruffly, tossing the silverware into the rack with unnecessary force. “I’m not one of the countless sycophants who thinks the sun shines out of your arse. You knew what I’d say before you entered the damn door. So why the hell would you come here?”

Mentally steeling himself for the multiple directions the conversation could take, he said, simply: “Ariana.”

Aberforth’s face grew a dangerous shade of red. “How could you even have the stones to say her name?” he hissed.

“This girl suffers in a similar way. I couldn’t help poor Ariana, but I might be ab—”

“So this isn’t about the girl anymore. It’s about your own ego,” accused Aberforth. He threw the rag on the counter and folded his arms, glaring at his brother. “You’re using this child, who's been used and manipulated by every adult wizard she’s met thus far, to placate your own sense of well-deserved guilt over Ariana. Get ou—”

“She’s an Obscurial.”

Aberforth paled. His mouth snapped shut, and Albus rushed to elaborate before he could recover. “Her performance in school is lacking. Primarily, I believe, due to her unwillingness to accept her lineage. She doesn’t want to be a witch, and who could blame her? But this resistance to her magic and disdain for herself has allowed this Obscurus to flourish. If she accepts her magic and place in the world, it could be managed, and hopefully even destroyed.”

“Albus,” Aberforth said quietly, “you can count on one hand the amount of recorded cases where a witch or wizard frees themself from their Obscurus.”

“And if all goes well, this will require you to use the second.”

Aberforth no longer appeared angry, but dejected. “You can’t put other students at risk just to placate your guilt and savior complex.”

“From what I gather, she hasn’t attacked anyone. She’s merely seen its…presence. And there are factors working to our—”

“Your,” corrected Alberforth.

“Everyone’s advantage. She didn’t develop her Obscurus until age eleven, much later than most. It’s still in its fledgeling stage, which means it may not be as deeply rooted into her psyche. This is the optimal time to take action.”

“Still…” Aberforth sighed and ran a calloused hand through his hair “Aren’t you the one always going on about how the needs of the many outweigh those of the few?”

He winced slightly. “Yes, well, I never claimed to be immune to the occasional bout of hypocrisy.”

“Occasional?”

“If action is taken now, there’s a good chance for Diana and the rest of the students of Hogwarts to remain safe. I simply want what’s best for everyone.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” snapped Aberforth. “Then what?”

“Then I do what is necessary and follow traditional procedure.”

Aberforth closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, sighing again. “So I’m guessing you’re not nearly as busy as everyone thinks, if you’ve got time to carve out a big commitment like this.”

In truth, the decision to be this involved with Diana couldn’t have come at a worse time, given the need to find what remained of Voldemort and put an end to this Chamber madness. But as much as Albus hated to admit it, Aberforth was onto something when he mentioned how this was a way to redeem himself for handling things poorly with Ariana.

“I’ll make do.” With a time-turner, if necessary. “Like you said, Aberforth, this girl has been failed on every level. Can you fault me in wanting to give her a chance?”

Aberforth was quiet for a long time, his gaze drifting toward the painting Albus purposely avoided looking at from the moment he entered. When Aberforth raised his pointer finger, that’s when Albus knew he won. “You get one hour. Saturday, from 3 to 4. That’s it.”

“Thank you, Aberforth,” Albus said, smiling. “Truly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Aberforth. “Now get out.”

“Do you have any extra glamor wards, by chance?” Albus asked casually as he wrapped his purple scarf around his neck.

“...Why?”

“If it’s not a bother, I’d prefer that you put them up on Saturday. She might be intimidated eating alone, and no progress can be made unless her mind is at ease.”

Aberforth rolled his eyes. “Get out, Albus.”

Though his brother’s voice lacked the bite from earlier, he did as requested. And as he walked through the door, he dared to glance at Ariana’s portrait for the first time in decades.

She smiled back at him.

****

The crisp November wind tickled Albus’s beard, causing a small smile to emerge on his face. The walk to Hogsmede would allow him to catch the wonderful sight of changing autumn leaves, and a welcome respite from the stuffiness of his office. He was just waiting for—

Ah. Perfect.

“Welcome, Diana,” he said, smiling brightly as the girl poked her head out of the castle doors. “Ready for a new adventure?”

The question was rhetorical; the poor girl looked as though she were about to faint.

She shrugged feebly, and Albus gestured for them to keep walking. “I always love the changing of the seasons. Things would be awfully boring if they stay the same? Leaves falling off creates new growth in the spring.”

He expected to get a lapse of sullen silence, and for a moment he did. Then, she murmured, “Why can’t there be a spell to freeze them, so they stay the same throughout the year?”

Technically there did exist such spells, but…”A life frozen is not worth living. Everything must change and eventually pass, as is the way of all living things.”

Diana’s lips thinned and she turned away, and Albus stifled a sigh. Curse his inability to restrain himself from being poetic. “I know you’ve experienced a great deal of change this past year.”

“Yeah.” She said nothing else, and Albus didn’t push.

As they continued to walk, he picked up on small details others might overlook: the sweat beaded on her forehead, the short breaths, the way she kept adjusting her necklace. “Is everything alright? You look a bit tense.”

“This necklace is heavy,” she muttered, looking away.

Albus wasn’t naive enough to believe that was all, but suggested, “I can perform a charm to make it as light as a feather. It would have to be remove first, otherwise—”

“No!” she blurted forcefully. Albus blinked. “I, um, I’m good, thanks…”

“I see.” Albus decided to stop beating around the bush. “Diana, you have nothing to fear from me, though I understand why you’re concerned. Could you tell me why you think you’re here?”

“My marks…”

“What else?” he prodded gently.

“Janice Pepper…” she whispered, not making eye contact. “I know she wasn’t taken to the hospital for that Muggleborn illness.”

The cover story for Janice’s absence was that she needed to be taken to St. Mungo’s immediately due to catching one of the magical maladies that sometimes emerged within Muggleborns. The few that existed were rare, but could potentially stretch out over the course of a year. Nevertheless, Filius Flitwick informed Albus that some of the Ravenclaws were suspicious of Janice’s sudden departure, a headache he’d need to deal with later.

“That’s correct. And why else do you think you’re here?”

She said nothing, though her face reddened.

“Diana, do you know what an Obscurial is?”

He knew she already knew the answer to this question from Severus’s account of her memories. She nodded feebly, tears welling in her eyes.

“Then I can assure you your predicament has nothing to do with the misfortune that befell Miss Pepper.”

She looked up in confusion. “But I was right there, next to…” She bit her lip.

“The message about the Chamber of Secrets,” Albus finished, gently. “But Diana, an Obscurus does not petrify, nor does it write messages on a wall— especially since you had no prior knowledge of the Chamber. An Obscurus lashes out in hurt, in anger, in fear. It’s an extension of yourself, an entity that is created from and replicates strong emotion. What happened to Miss Pepper is outside of your purview, and what I believe to be the result of very coincidental, yet very unfortunate, timing ”

He was fudging the truth slightly; while the Chamber of Secrets could only be opened with Voldemort’s assistance (and must therefore have been a result of Quirrell), he was still deciding whether or not her presence there was coincidental. Currently, he leaned towards Quirrell enchanting her, though he had difficulty pinpointing a rationale for why. Nonetheless, he certainly couldn’t tell Diana a wizard might be infiltrating her mind.

“...What is the Chamber of Secrets?” she asked tentatively. “Every time I ask someone, I get a different answer.”

He chuckled lightly. “Such is the way of rumors. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I cannot shed any light on that matter, as I have never ventured into it myself, should such a place even exist. As Professor Snape told you, the Professors are investigating the matter of the Chamber thoroughly. You needn’t worry, my dear.”

Diana’s shoulders slumped. “...Okay. But if you don’t think I wrote the message but know I’m—I’m an Obscurial, then am I still going to get sent to the wizard jail?”

Albus’s lips twitch upward at the idea of an eleven-year old in Azkaban. Fudge would faint from the optics alone. “You,” he said, more confidently than she (and he) felt, “are going to learn to control and manage the entity until it vanishes completely.”

“I can do that?” she asked, eyes bulging. “I thought everyone who had one dies!”

“Many do,” he replied truthfully. “But there are several factors working to your advantage that the others didn’t have.”

“Like what?”

“At the risk of sounding arrogant, myself.” This was the first time he saw a real smile from her today. “I believe your difficulties with wandwork correspond with your inner resistance to magic, which created the Obscurus. In order to heal the Obscurus and cause it to vanish, we need to first heal the emotional wound caused by magic.”

“That’s impossible,” she said sullenly, folding her arms. “You know what happened to me.”

He did, perhaps more than most. He still relished in the memory of Lucius’s expression when he stood and recited his misdeeds in front of the Wizengamot. “Some wounds heal scarred, but they’re healed all the same. Learning to accept magic does not mean accepting the injustices wrought upon you. It simply means accepting yourself, which is something every student who walks through these castle doors struggles with. Yet they often leave with more self-knowledge than they had coming in. In your case we must expedite the process a bit.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” she sulked. He knew better than to say it out loud, but she looked a lot like Lucius at that moment.

“Through these lessons. Your father is under the assumption these sessions are strictly related to spells and textbooks, but the most important knowledge for you to glean is that of self-discovery. I shall tell you more on that matter later. I’m quite famished, you see, and would love to get a bite to eat before we begin.”

She looked at him skeptically, but said nothing. Inwardly. Albus smiled. Today was going to be a day she would look back on fondly, a day where she could be a child instead of a miniature adult.

Something that he should have done with Tom, but never did.

****

Despite his previous grumbling, Aberforth enacted the glamor wards. Though Albus and Diana were the only guests in the Hog’s Head, the illusion cast suggested a handful of other patrons present. However, if one were to inspect carefully, he or she would notice the patrons’ patterns consisted of a loop that would repeat every few minutes. None of them so much as glanced in the direction of him and Diana, which was the most important part.

“Why isn’t there anyone else here?” she whispered, clutching at her elbows with pale fingers.

Albus blinked; this was another rare surprise. Without using the Revelio spell, the only way she should be able to see through the illusion would be if she had fairy blood in her, or if she was holding some kind of magical object that inherently dispelled illusions or protected one’s mind.

His eyes landed on the necklace. Ah. Of course.

He had long wondered what secrets the fabled Brisingamen held, and though its exact nature still remained a mystery, he at least now had some degree of insight.

“I suppose we should count it as a blessing,” he said lightly. She nodded in agreement. “Let’s take a seat over there.”

They headed to the least grimy-looking table, and Albus pretended to look at the faded menu while Diana inspected it for real. Her jaw was clenched and her fingers kept fidgeting; he didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know how she was feeling.

“I read your quote in The People’s Voice. The one about how what ties us down can also lift us up. It was very inspiring.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks reddened. “Thanks…”

He tilted his head slightly. “Were those your own words, or were you instructed to say them by your father and stepmother?”

“No.” She hesitated, then added. “I stole it from a Muggle movie. I panicked and that was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Ah. Well, I shan’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

Her gaze fell again. “I kind of wish I said how I really felt, but I didn’t want to draw a lot of attention.”

“Understandable.” Albus started to say that she’d become braver as she got older, but stopped himself. There was his Gryffindor bias again, heightening the importance of courage over all else. There were other strengths, and other ways for her to achieve her goals. “Is there anything else on your mind?”

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did that stuff my father said really happen here? Getting hung in the dungeons…caning…things like that?”

“Yes, but that type of consequence has not been enacted in Hogwarts for a long time, and I have no intention of changing that.”

“...I think he does things like that at the Manor, to Draco,” Diana said, so quietly Albus had to strain to hear. “Maybe not the same but similar. And if he does it to him, then it’ll definitely happen to me. He hates me.”

She didn’t seem angry or anguished, and the matter-of-fact way she had it pulled at Albus’s heartstrings.

“It would not be uncommon,” he said evenly. “Parents–of any blood— often repeat punishments parents enacted. I take it that type of consequence would be a stark departure from your life in Amberton.”

It was a casual statement with a deeper intent behind it. During Lucius's custody trial, Burgess Borthwick showed Muggle reports stating that Sarah White was deemed to be an erratic, unfit mother, and there was a stretch of time where Diana was raised by her grandmother before Sarah was granted access to her child again. According to the Muggles, Diana’s basic needs were not met, and there were troubling physical and verbal altercations between them that caused the Muggle courts to feel such placement wasn’t safe.

Of course, Albus strongly suspected Sarah’s erratic behavior and mood swings were a result of the brain chemistry being altered by the Obliviation, which begged the question of whether or not she was truly at fault for the behavior. But regardless of the reasoning, her actions did bring harm to her daughter, and it did cause Albus’s determination to waver for a few seconds, wondering if his push to keep Sarah and Diana together was yet another example of him being blinded by his own ego and ambition.

“I wasn't caned or chained to walls or whatever,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. That was all he got out of her about that topic. Her gaze then fell, and her fingers curled atop the table. “Is there any way for me to stay at Hogwarts instead of going back to the Manor for the winter holidays?”

“Yes, though you would need permission from a parent or guardian. Remember that if anything…concerning occurs, it's within your right to bring it up with Mr. Weasley. While he might not be able to ensure your comfort, he can at least ensure your safety.”

Thoughts of poor Linda Rowle struggling against her watery tomb filled his mind. He pushed them away.

Diana scowled and slouched down in her chair. “He basically told me the only thing he can do is make sure I don’t get killed or tortured like those other Halfbloods. At least I can’t get chained up in a dungeon….we don’t have a dungeon.” She hesitated, then, “I mean, I don’t think we do, but the Manor looks like the stereotypical rich villain’s mansion, so maybe it’s hidden in a secret passage behind a bookshelf or—wait.” Suspicion crossed her features. “In Hogwarts: A History, it talks about the changes in school rules over the years. It doesn’t say anything about it being banned.”

Albus was surprised she read it, given her marks. “Officially, it’s not. There is a large amount in wider society who support the use of such punishments, and though I’ve been transparent with my thoughts on the matter, making an official statement would draw unnecessary focus and stir the proverbial hornet’s nest. So we simply do what we want while those who would be vocal remain oblivious or apathetic. As time progresses and the students of today become the parents of tomorrow, I imagine an official change would no longer be seen as controversial at all.”

Diana’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s a Slytherin way of thinking.”

Albus smiled. “I suppose so. The Hat did consider placing me there.”

“Do you think it’s smarter, then, to not rock the boat?” she asked with hesitation. “Or at least not make it obvious?”

“It depends on the situation and its different facets. There are times when tact and cleverness can be more advantageous in the long run, but change is impossible without those willing to stand and speak up for what they believe in, even if it’s unpopular. I do so myself, at certain times.”

“I know…” She fiddled with her necklace and looked away. “Was someone upset because Janice spoke up? Is that why she was petr—wait. Why’s that bloke talking to an empty chair?”

Albus, grateful for the distraction, followed her gaze and winced. Poor Aberforth was keeping up the charade of wards, and Albus commended him for commitment to the bit. “Perhaps a bout of madness induced by stress or—ah, there he comes now—”

“Welcome to the Hog’s Head,” he barked, shooting Albus a withering glare. I suppose he heard me.

Diana shrank down in her seat at Aberforth’s abrasive tone. Honestly, that man has no tact.

Albus gestured his head towards Diana, and the hint finally drilled its way into his brother’s thick skull.

“Mornin’,” Aberforth said in his friendly tone, which admittedly didn’t sound that friendly to strangers. But it was a noticeable difference from earlier. “What do you want to order?”

“Um, I’ll have some fish and chips, please…”

Aberforth scrawled it down his notebook. He turned away without sparing Albus a second glance, but that didn’t stop Albus from adding, “I’ll have the lamb stew.” He gave a vague grunt of acknowledgement.

“This is my brother, Aberforth,” Albus said to Diana, smiling.

She gaped and snapped her head back and forth. “Really?!”

Aberforth frowned. It wasn’t a secret per say, but he normally didn’t like it when students knew. “Yes, and if I do lose my marbles, it’ll be because of this one here.” He pointed to Albus.

“Ah, just a little humor,” he said to Diana, winking.

It suddenly occurred to Albus his lighthearted jab at Aberforth earlier might have been in poor taste, considering Sarah White’s perception among the Muggles. But luckily, it had the desired effect of putting Diana at ease, and she smiled hesitantly as Aberforth huffed and stalked off to make their meals.

“I didn’t say this before, but I heard what you did for Mum during the trial,” she murmured, gazing down at the table. “Thank you. Not many people helped out.”

“It was my pleasure. And you needn’t feel guilty for not attending.”

It was only in hindsight that he recognized how poorly he handled the situation. He should have gone instead of Minerva and Filius, but he prioritized politicking over one of his future students.

Diana’s bottom lip wobbled. “She’d be so upset to know I’m here.”

Albus pressed his palms against the table and leaned in closer. “She’d be upset to know you’re going to see a unicorn?”

Her eyes lit up.

****

In the middle of the day, it would be difficult for an outsider to glean why The Forbidden Forest got its name. Sunlight shone through the tree branches. The only sounds heard were the nearby babbling brook, the birds’ melodies, and whispers of the wind weaving through the grass.

“How much longer?” she whispered excitedly. He smiled. Perhaps he was being sexist, but the stereotype of girls loving unicorns usually proved true in his experience, and it appears he gambled correctly.

“Not much further. Do you remember your instructions?”

“Mhmm.” Diana was much more talkative walking to the forest than she was traveling to the Hog’s Head, asking questions almost entirely related to unicorns: What colors were they? What food did they eat? Can wizards transform them into humans? Can they fall in love with humans? (That one gave Albus pause) Can they bring people back from the dead?

She also broached the topic of the dead unicorns, which somehow made its way to the school grapevine despite his best efforts to keep it contained. He gave her the same vague, canned response he did whenever a student inquired about the topic, though it did make him realize he probably shouldn’t have brought a student into the forest given the attacks. Then again, Voldemort wouldn’t be so brazen as to try anything in Albus’s presence. Not at this point in time, anyway.

“There it is,” he whispered once they reached the final row of trees that guarded the clearing. “Go on.”

She looked up tentatively. He nodded encouragingly and she trembled forward, pushing the bushes aside.

The white unicorn was curled up and resting, a portrait of tranquility. Upon sensing her arrival, its head jutted upward. It stood up abruptly, yet stayed still like Albus expected. Earlier, he visited the clearing and filled a bowl with Drought of Peace and ambrosia berries on top, a unicorn’s favorite treat. That calmness should last throughout the day. Not that he should need to use it, but he didn’t want the unicorn to pick up on Diana’s nerves and scatter.

And it didn’t. The unicorn remained stationary as Diana reached into her robe pocket and pulled out the ambrosia berries. It reached down and began munching while she reached up with a trembling hand to pet its mane. She let out a quiet squeal and her eyes danced with joy. “I can’t believe this is happening! I’m really petting a fuc—a unicorn! This is wicked!”

As Albus expected, the unicorn took to Diana completely and nuzzled her neck. “Holy shit!” she blurted, excitement removing the language filter. Albus chose not to comment. “This is the best day of my life.”

The unicorn looked comfortable enough for Albus to step out of the shadows. “This particular unicorn doesn’t have a name. Would you like to do the honors?”

“Me?! Um, well…I think…yeah. I think it’s gotta be Amalthea,” she breathed, completely enraptured.

None of the unicorns really had names, but Diana seemed happy. “A beautiful name, if a bit unorthodox. Though I must tell you this unicorn’s male, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Um, how about Lir?”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Where’s the rest of his family? Were they killed? Is Lir the last unicorn?” She gasped softly. “Oh my god…this really is just like the movie…”

In truth, Albus was concerned. When he came earlier he spotted two others, though there were plenty of non-Voldemort related reasons why they might not be here. “They might be off grazing in another area of the forest. Do you know why you’re able to get so close to it?” She shook her head. “Unicorns are attracted to those of great purity.”

“I think I read something about that in the Muggle world,” she said, blushing slightly and avoiding eye contact. “No boys, otherwise no unicorn.”

“I’m afraid that’s a misconception,” he chuckled. “Purity is not tied to physicality, but rather something found deep inside oneself. By touching Lir, it’s a sign you are pure of heart, Diana. Despite your magic, and despite your lineage. I want you to look into the creature’s eyes.” She bit her lip, but did as he said. “Do you sense evil in him?”

“Of course not,” she replied, offended. She gave him extra pets in reassurance.

“Unicorns are creatures of magic who could not exist without it,” he explained. “Magic is a tool. It can be used for dark purposes, but it can be used by those pure in spirit.”

He saw a glimmer of…something in her eyes. Then, the bushes rustled. Lir reared up on his hind legs and bolted off as Firenze trotted into the clearing. Diana’s eyes widened like saucers. “Hello, Albus.”

“Firenze.” He smiled, though inwardly irritated at the inconvenient timing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have news of the dead unicorns.” Albus was grateful for his eighty-plus years of maintaining a neutral mask. “Another was found last night near the whistling stones. Its silvery blood painted the leaves, along with its viscera and entrails.”

Diana let out a strangled cry. “I see,” Albus said, smile straining. “Thank you for informing me, Firenze.”

“Ronan saw its killer flee into the shadows and toward the direction of the castle. Pale and foreboding as Death itself. ”

“Yes, I understand. Firenze, this is Diana, a student here for remedial studies. We really must be going now, but I do appreciate the information.”

Firenze focused his intense gaze on the trembling young girl. “Hello, child.”

“H-Hello…”

His gaze returned to Albus. “There’s more: we have news of the beast lurking within the castle walls.”

Now he really wished they left the Hog’s Head five minutes earlier. “Yes?”

“I ventured into the den of the Acromantula, despite their desire to entomb me and feast upon my flesh. I bargained with their leader—”

“Wait wait wait!” blurted Diana, growing three shades paler. “What’s an Acromantula?”

“Giant spiders larger than yourself that gather in the hundreds and burrow deep within the forest.”

If she didn’t look like she was about to faint before, she did now. “Th-they’re here? In the forest? Where we are?”

“Not in this area, but yes. They informed me that the creature within the castle is an ancient beast hundreds of years in age, but they dare not speak its name.”

That information provided nothing he didn’t know before. “Thank you, Firenze. That information will be of utmost use.”

He nodded. “It is my hope the unicorn that just left the clearing does not meet its grisly death at the hands of whatever entity is tearing these beautiful beasts apart.”

“As do we,” Albus said, inwardly fuming as Diana’s eyes filled with tears. “Goodbye, Firenze.”

Firenze nodded and trotted out of the clearing. “Centaurs are an honest, admirable race,” Albus explained once he was out of earshot, trying to ignore the poor girl’s sniffling, “though tact admittedly isn’t one of their strengths. Why don’t we head back to the castle?”

He originally wanted to spend a bit of time having her practice spells, but this conversation practically undid everything he built up during the past two hours.

“Wh-what about the giant spiders?”

“As Firenze said, they’re deep within the forest. We won’t encounter them if we retrace our steps.”

“This is such bollocks! Sorry, but it is. I can’t—I can’t believe I’m walking in a forest with giant man-eating spiders!” she cried, tugging at the ends of her hair in panic. “Oh my god!”

Damn it, Firenze. “Yes, well, it is called The Forbidden Forest for a reason. But even if we were to encounter one—which we will not—I have enough knowledge and spells to keep us safe.”

“No offense,” Diana began, a steel edge creeping into her tone. Albus braced himself. “But you haven’t caught the killer—wait, two killers—inside the school. And you also kept the school open. That judgment seems a bit odd to me.”

Yes, they were definitely undoing all progress.

Albus counted to five in his head, giving both Diana and himself time to calm and formulate their thoughts. He genuinely could not remember a student—especially a first year—ever speaking to him this way, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. But there were a multitude of factors at play: her current terror, a history of justifiable mistrust of adult wizards, and lack of respect for wizarding institutions in general. He needed to remind himself of that.

He also needed to remind himself she wasn’t Ariana. This girl was jaded, suspicious, angry—everything Ariana was not, though she had every reason to be.

“Miss Pepper is not dead, and the other has not brought harm to any students. I understand you’re upset, but this is not an appropriate—”

“Can’t you teleport us out of here?”

“No, one cannot Apparate in or out of the school grounds. Let’s continue our walk, shall we?”

They spent the next few minutes in silence. Eventually, the anger radiating off her dimmed into a vague sense of unease and guilt. Stepping over a log, she said shyly, “I think I have an idea for catching the unicorn-killer. Why doesn’t someone use magic to replicate the scent or sounds of the unicorns, and then lure the killer into the place with the giant spiders? Then the spiders could kill and eat the unicorn-killer.”

Albus eyed her warily. Yes, she most certainly wasn’t Ariana.

But maybe that’s why she’ll survive…

Chapter Text

Quirinus Quirrell had never been brave.

As a child, he possessed many fears: dragons, vampires, werewolves, boggarts, dementors, and, for some reason, centaurs. Goblins eager to snatch wizard boys from bed and use their blood in fiendish rituals. His father’s temper when Quirinus did something to embarrass him. The stray, beady-eyed kneazle that peered at him through the fence as though he were a tantalizing mouse. The possibility his grandfather might come back as a ghost and haunt him like he promised. And while adolescence and adulthood often weathered down childish fears, for Quirinus, it did the opposite.

He had never been brave, but he’d always been inquisitive, and the more he learned, the more frightening the world became. Obscure diseases, vile beasts, cursed artifacts, a thousand ways a die, two thousand ways of torture that could make one beg for death—the world was an open book, and like a good Ravenclaw, Quirinus devoured it. Eventually, his passions led him into Academia, where he’d impart his knowledge onto others and learn until his heart’s content. And he was satisfied with that, mostly.

But not fully.

For although Quirinus had never been brave, he was rather inquisitive, and the latter spurs the former a surprising amount. No longer content with the books stuffing the shelves of the Hogwarts library, or even his own library, Quirinus instead longed for knowledge that wasn't written in ink, knowledge only given to a select few. And the only man who could bestow it was none other than the most feared man in wizarding Britain.

Quirinus’s family never bought into notions of blood purity, and neither did he. But there were certain…ideas…in Lord Voldemort’s platform that could be palatable: Namely, his support of research free from morality-based legislation which, combined with his alleged ability to overcome life’s greatest mystery, compelled Quirinus to seek him out. He spent years tracking rumors of the fallen Dark Lord, only to have leads continuously slip from his grasp like Tantalus reaching for the vine. But then one fateful day, he heard rumor of a shade in Albania, and it was inquisitiveness and bravery—or perhaps ignorance and cowardice—that caused him to strike a Faustian bargain. Ownership of his body was a small price to pay for knowledge beyond mortal comprehension, and their symbiotic relation lasted well until the day he stumbled upon something that Should Not Have Been.

Quirinus had never been brave, and today he was very, very frightened.

He gulped, sweat trickling down his brow as he creaked the door to his office shut. Before he did, he quickly glanced down the corridors, though entering his own office was hardly suspect. Still, paranoia reared its head every time he communed with the Master, a natural effect of the Malfoy heir and Granger girl stumbling upon him talking to ‘himself’ after class one day. They hadn’t even entered the classroom before Voldemort sensed their presence and alerted Quirinus to perform the Obliviation.

The office looked meticulously neat as usual, the only exception being a slightly-askew stack of books on the mahogany desk. He moved closer to fix it, but froze as a light yet commanding tone slithered around him. “Unbind me, Quirinus.”

With quivering fingers, the professor obeyed, draping the purple turban over the chair with the reverence of sacred vestments. He was grateful he couldn’t see the Master’s expression and certainly wasn’t brave enough to glance at the nearby mirror. Still, Voldemort’s tone left no room for misinterpretation. “Your raging ineptitude continues to disappoint me. How many weeks has it been since the Chamber’s opening? And yet here you stand, empty-handed.”

“I-I’m sorry, Master.” This time, the stutter was real. “I’ve scoured every inch of the castle, but haven’t found anything.”

“It must be here,” Voldemort hissed. “A mere child wouldn’t be able to open the Chamber without…additional assistance.”

He heard the smirk and shuddered. Voldemort told him—albeit reluctantly—about the Horcruxes (Qurinus suppressed a smile at the thrill of forbidden knowledge), and though he refused to reveal how many were created, Quirinus surmised it was enough that Voldemort himself wasn’t 100% certain which item was the culprit. He seemed to be leaning towards the diadem or the diary, the latter of which he entrusted to Lucius Malfoy. But if the diary was responsible, Quirinus didn’t understand why he would be foolish enough to give it to one of his children.

“Have you made progress with the girl?”

“No, my Lord,” mumbled Quirinus. Voldemort should know this, He was attached to the back of his head, after all. Yet many times the Dark Lord seemed (Hecate forgive me for this thought) ignorant to the activity around him in a manner that couldn’t be attributed solely to the turban. Quirinus suspected Voldemort sometimes entered a trancelike state similar to the Dreamtime legends, though for what purpose, he couldn’t imagine. “I understand your concerns about Abrax–”

“‘Concerns?’” echoed Voldemort. “Does a man ‘concern himself with the flobberworm beneath his boot? Abraxas is a weak, deluded old fool clinging to an illusion of power. Nothing more.”

Quirinus wisely bit his tongue. “I misspoke. I simply meant your…conclusion that, as Abraxas’s grandaughter, the two might be colluding with one another. I’ve been intercepting her letters in the Owlery and see nothing that indicates any contact whatsoever.”

“You believe you know the situation better than I?”

“N-No, Master, I simply—”

“Abraxas is a conniving snake who’d love nothing more than to disgrace me. The possibility of collusion—willingly or unwillingly—through his descendants cannot be discounted.”

“I understand, b-but, er, you said—you said she knows nothing.”

“And here I thought you to be clever. A pity.”

Quirinus bristled, but knew a rhetorical response when he heard one. He waited until Voldemort chose to elaborate. “Before Severus’s untimely arrival on the day of the Chamber’s opening, I was only able to parse surface thoughts. While the Obscurus may present a challenge, I require an opportunity to delve deeper into the recesses of her mind. You must get her alone, Quirinus, especially since your most recent plan was an abject failure.”

Unable to find a way to circumvent the ancient spell barring males from entering the girls’ dorms, Quirinus placed an upperclassman—Gemma Farley—under the Imperius curse as a sleeper agent. Every other night, the prefect awoke and crept into Diana’s room in search of wayward Horcruxes. Every night she’d be met with a blanket of black, a silent guardian eager to protect the room from intruders. And every other morning, Gemma and Diana would wake none the wiser to the previous night’s conflict.

Quirinus’ hands began to sweat. “She’s attracted Dumbledore’s attention. I’m not certain whether—”

“Ah yes, our second possibility,” Voldemort murmured silkily, “which, perhaps, is more likely. He was here the last time the Chamber opened, and timing cannot be coincidental.”

“You believe Dumbledore would cause injury to a student?”

Immediately after the words left his lips, he braced himself.; Voldemort didn’t respond well to doubt. Luckily, his master was too fixated on the possibility to care. “Yes. He’d do anything, so long as it fits his ill-defined sense of ‘greater good.’” He scoffed. “Tragic, really, how well he pulls the wool over everyone’s eyes. The man was a friend and confidant of Gellert Grindelwald, and parents willingly place their children under his care. Disgraceful…”

Curiosity tugged at Quirinus. He heard rumors, but… “Him and Grindelwald? Truly?”

“Yes, and at the risk of sounding like schoolyard gossip, I heard they were possibly more than that. It wouldn’t surprise me—the man’s judgment leaves much to be desired.”

“It’s difficult to imagine him with a man so—” His kneejerk response was to say ‘evil’ since it was the most common word used to refer to Grindelwald. But Quirinus hadn’t believed in infantile concepts like ‘good’ and ‘evil’ since he was a boy. “—Antithetical to his current values.”

“Despite his posturing, he’s less morally upright than one would imagine. In fact, he once burned an orphan’s wardrobe right in front of the child, or so I’m told.”

Quirinus stifled a sigh. That was too cartoonishly evil to accept at face value, and it cast doubt upon Voldemort’s earlier rumors. Not that he’d ever tell him that, of course.

“And isn’t it curious,” continued Voldemort, “how this madness starts right after Dumbledore convinced Flamel to give him the stone?”

“Yes, the timing is rather odd…”

“If Abraxas truly has no involvement—which I’m not yet convinced of—then I believe Dumbledore is using the hapless child as a proxy to discredit Lucius and the blood purity movement as a whole. An Obscurial with her history provides a convenient scapegoat that would draw attention once her predicament is known. He either allows the Chamber to be opened or oversees it, ‘solves’ the crime, stokes fears of Muggleborn mistreatment and creates public discourse, all while sitting comfortably, sipping the elixir of immortality content with the knowledge no one would oppose him. The arrogant fool…”

“H-He won’t be unopposed, Master.”

“Of course not. He doesn’t know about us, and one mustn’t underestimate the power of the…unexpected.”

Quirnius heard the growl, and knew exactly what ‘unexpected’ event Voldemort’s thoughts drifted towards. “And if the girl…isn’t involved? The third possibility?” he asked feebly.

‘Then it’s none other than Harry Potter.” Voldemort spat the name like a curse. “Who else?”

Harry didn’t seem all that impressive in class, but Voldemort suspected they possessed some sort of link which allowed him to tap into the Dark Lord’s power—perhaps a Horcrux embedded into his scar that fateful night, awakened upon entering the school grounds. “Though I am all but certain the girl is the culprit. You must establish rapport with her, Quirinus. Use your shared history to gain her trust, if needed.”

It took a moment to understand what ‘shared history’ he was referring to, and when he did, his lips curled. Like the girl, his existence was a product of a wizard taking a liking to an unwilling Muggle. The Quirrell family was well-off, but not obscenely wealthy to the point where those less fortunate actively rooted for their downfall, and Quirrell couldn’t recall any publicity surrounding his integration into wizarding society. Then again, such an occurrence was commonplace at the time, and not worthy of any fanfare beyond his father’s irritation of an unplanned child.

When Pomona spoke of kinship and dropped hints of how it might be a ‘great deal of help’ for Diana to form a connection with a professor—especially one who experienced similar circumstances–he restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Unlike the Malfoy girl, Quirinus was largely satisfied with his station in life and had no desire to rock the boat and turn his lineage into his entire identity like those Association rabble-rousers. He couldn’t deny a period of curiosity (and twinge of adolescent rebellion) where he immersed himself into learning about Muggle society and culture, which led him on the path to becoming a Muggle Studies professor. But he always looked upon that world through a distant, objective lens.

Since he was brought into wizarding society at such a young age, he couldn’t recall his mother’s face, or even his birth name. That was the one piece of knowledge he never felt any compulsion to uncover.

But of course, any misgivings were irrelevant now.

“Yes, Master.”

It was a shame, really. Miss Malfoy was a quiet girl who seemed to enjoy his class–one of the few who did. In any other year he’d enjoy having her as a student, but this was anything but a normal year.

“I sense your hesitation, Quirinus. Need I remind you that you pledged your body to me? Our fates are intertwined, now and forever.”

“I know, Master.”

“Is it possible you find yourself regretting our union?” Quirinus could hear the sneer in Voldemort’s voice. “Preferring a life of solitude? A life without me?”

“No.”

Quirinus was surprised at how firm his voice sounded, but realized it was true the moment it left his mouth. “I don’t regret a moment of your presence and wisdom. You’ve initiated me into a world I never imagined possible, and every day I feel thankful you chose me above all others.”

“I see.” There was a long pause, and Quirinus wondered if he laid the sycophantry on too thick. “Then put on that blasted turban and let us depart.”

Quirinus’s heart leapt, and he did as ordered. Voldemort’s voice was much less hostile than it was earlier, and Quirinus exited the office at ease.

He wouldn’t have been at ease if he stayed a few moments longer to witness an ashen-faced blonde girl peek out from behind the desk.

****

Diana didn’t want to break into Professor Quirrell’s office. In fact, she was adamantly against the idea, something she mentioned to Tom multiple times. Yet despite this, she somehow found herself in his private office, holding a book on Albanian wilderness in one hand, with the other wrapped around the knob of a desk drawer.

It was an odd juxtaposition; her mind felt light and scattered, but her heart thundered with the intensity of a jackhammer. As the world around her grew into focus, she hastily shoved the book onto the pile and stumbled backwards, eyes darting around the room. She didn’t see any frozen bodies or bloody messages. But she had no doubt whatever caused her to sleepwalk last time (the Obscurus?) brought her here without knowing.

But why? And how? Memories flickered through her mind. A week ago, Gemma told her Quirrell never used to wear a turban, and Diana made the mistake of mentioning it to Tom. He felt that sudden change indicated Quirrell had ‘something to hide,’ which Diana thought—not knowing what she knew now—seemed vaguely racist. His theory regarding the Obliviations was that Dumbledore and Quirrell were in cahoots, and the only way to eliminate Quirrell as a suspect would be to investigate his office to look for ‘clues’ while he was teaching. Diana rejected the possibility immediately, and Tom eventually agreed she was right. Then she tucked the diary away and tried to take a quick nap before—

Wait, the diary…

Diana’s heart sank before mentally slapping herself. No, Tom couldn’t be responsible for this. He was half-Muggle and trapped within a book. Not only would it be impossible, but he’d have no motivation.

But maybe there were some inherent dark properties of the book itself. Lucius owned it, after all, and it had enough power to trap a wizard within its pages. Then again, she wrote in the diary almost every day, and with the exception of the night of Janice’ petrification and this afternoon, nothing happened.

Maybe Dumbledore was mistaken, and it really was her Obscurus, this time acting on subconscious curiosity regarding Quirrell’s possible guilt.

But I wouldn't have known how to break through the wards…unless Professor Quirrell doesn’t have wards in here. No, that’s stupid—of course he must have them. Maybe they’re the reason I broke out of the trance?

Her fingers fumbled into her robes pockets, and breathed a sigh of relief upon feeling the smooth silver of the Brisingamen. She clasped it around her neck and grimaced as it pulled down with the force of an anchor. One of these days, my neck will snap…at least then my problems will be over.

She was about to head out—and hoped no one was watching—before distant footsteps caused her to stop midway. Her legs made the decision before her mind did, and she soon found herself huddled and cramped behind the large desk as the office’s owner finally emerged.

What happened next was something out of a horror film: Her mild-manner professor unfurled his turban, revealing—through a glimpse in a nearby mirror—a twisted, snakelike visage fused to the back of Professor Quirrell’s head. Throughout the entirety of the conversation, her hands shook and sweated. She held her breath, mentally pleading to any god in existence that Quirrell wouldn’t change his angle so the second head could see her the way she saw him.

For once, her prayers were answered. Quirrell exited the room none the wiser, leaving Diana with the unenviable task of making sense of what she just saw and heard.

She waited another minute before tentatively peeping outside and slipping through the door and down the corridor. As she paced down the hall, her mind trembled with the crushing weight of her thoughts.

She was far from an expert on the wizarding world, but recalled reading about wizards being fused together via apparation in Magical Mishaps. What was it called again? Splinching?

But splinching didn’t explain the way Quirell and the other man interacted with one another, with Quirrell calling the other man ‘Master.’ House-elves aside, she didn’t think slavery existed in the wizarding world, and the only modern-day wizard she read about that inspired that level of deviation was the elusive Lord Voldemort.

She shuddered, feeling as though the suits of armor stared at her as she rushed through the halls towards the Slytherin dorms.

It couldn’t be him. Quirrell literally sat right next to Dumbledore—the strongest wizard of the modern age—every day during breakfast. She refused to believe he and the other professors were incompetent enough not to realize Voldemort was attached to the back of their coworker's head. And if Voldemort survived and was trying to keep a low profile, it made no sense to put himself in a school with hundreds of wizards. Plus, if what Arthur said was true, the castle grounds were protected by wards and charms that prohibited entry by malicious forces.

But it let me in. And something’s killing the unicorn and petrifying students…

Still, even if it was Voldemort, that wouldn’t explain the contents of the conversation. The splinched man and Quirrell were trying to uncover the culprit—why would he try to help Muggleborns instead of celebrate their suffering? And why would a bigshot like Voldemort lower himself into worrying about who was behind the petrification?

The splinched man sounded like an arse, but that didn’t mean he was Voldemort. It had to be someone else; that was the only option that made sense.

Diana whispered the password, watching dully as the stone wall slid open. Whoever he was, he suspected her, and for good reason. Maybe Dumbledore was wrong and she was responsible.

Maybe Dumbledore was the one controlling her in the first place.

Diana’s bottom lip wobbled. She hadn’t communicated with Abraxas since August, so out of the possibilities raised by the mystery man, Dumbledore was the option that made the most sense.

She didn’t want to believe it, but also knew the futility and foolishness of placing full trust in adults. During their first lesson, she got the vague impression Dumbledore had an ulterior motive, but wasn’t sure if it was the result of her paranoia. Then again, being paranoid and being right weren’t mutually exclusive.

And what stone was that bloke talking about? And why did he think Harry might be involved? Is that even possible?

A dainty, delicate cough interrupted her thoughts, and she stifled a groan as Daphne gave her a pointed look from across the room. As usual, Pansy and Tracey flanked the Greengrass heiress, the former sneering while the latter’s eyes narrowed in a mix of hatred and envy. Millicent flipped through a book on her bed with Nyx curled beside her, ignoring the other girls as usual.

I don’t have time for this shit.

Diana flopped down on her bed, the Brisingamen staying around her neck.

“See how she ignores us? So rude…” Daphne sighed airily, making no attempt to lower her own voice. “We’re just trying to be friendly.”

“At least she doesn’t look like a zombie this time,” giggled Tracey.

Pansy’s lips twisted into a scowl. “You shouldn’t joke about that. My great-uncle’s corpse was used in a reanimation ritual, and it’s absolutely horrid.”

“O-Oh, sorry,” squeaked Tracey, cheeks flushing.

“I’m sure Tracey didn’t know,” hummed Daphne. She redirected their conversation back to their common enemy. “And she wasn’t anywhere near as rude as Diana was when Theo tried speaking with her.”

The white kitten leapt on her bed and snuggled next to Diana, though the added warmth did nothing to stave off the cold chill creeping over her. She didn’t remember Theodore speaking with her. It must have happened when she was (Possessed? Cursed? Controlled?) heading to Professor Quirrell’s office.

She had no choice but to swallow her pride. “What else did you see?”

All three heads turned in unison. “You think we have nothing better to do than watch you?” jeered Pansy.

Daphne chose a more diplomatic approach. “All we saw was you drifting through the common room like the Grey Lady. But we understand,” she said, voice brimming with false sympathy. “Adjusting to the magical world must be difficult. If you have any questions or need help, all you need to do is ask.”

“I do have a question, actually.”

Daphne blinked, and one of the butterfly clips pinned in her hair fluttered in surprise. “Yes?”

It was a lofty gamble with a chance of backfiring, but if anyone would know, it would be these rich bitches. “Does the wizarding world have slavery? Besides house-elves, I mean.”

Pansy’s face scrunched. “Of course not, we’re not barbarians like Muggles.”

“Muggles don’t have them anymore, either,” Diana defended. “It was just a question…”

“Wizarding Britain doesn’t have slaves, and never has,” clarified Daphne. “But in other places of the world, perhaps…I heard stories of what the wizards of Thule sometimes do to captive Dwarves.”

“What about humans?”

“Oh!” Pansy’s eyes lit up. “I rea–um, my great-aunt read in that Quibbler that there were a couple isolated tribes in the Amazon and Africa and America and other primitive places that did that! I can’t remember if they took Muggles or other wizards, though.”

Daphne giggled. “The Quibbler, Pansy? Really? You can’t believe anything in that rag.”

Pansy’s face flushed. “I didn’t read it. My great-aunt did!”

“I read they have them in Hyperborea,” mused Tracey, twirling a lock of brown around her finger. She bit her lips when the others looked at her in surprise. “I-I think. It might be indentured servitude or something like that…”

“But nothing in Britain?” repeated Diana.

“No.”

Daphne tilted her head. “Why are you so interested in this, Diana?”

She knew this line of questioning was coming, but it was annoying all the same. “Just curious.”

“This topic couldn’t have come out of nowhere,” she pressed.

“Don’t you have to go to detention?”

An ugly scowl maimed Daphne’s pretty features. With a huff, she stood and beckoned Pansy and Tracey to follow her outside. Diana rolled her eyes; Tracey didn’t even have detention, so there was no need for her to get up beyond dramatic effect.

The knowledge this was the last detention for the enchanted pumpkin juice incident put Diana in a foul mood. She laid in the bed for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours until the aggravating sound of her kitten using the bed as a scratching post caused her to groan. “Stop it, cat.”

“You still haven’t named her?”

Diana jumped; she’d forgotten Millicent was there. “Not yet.”

The kitten kept scratching until Diana lifted her up and moved her to a different section of the room.

“Why were you asking about slavery?” asked Millicent.

Diana paused; she wasn’t used to the other girl asking questions. “I heard someone–an adult—calling another person Master, and he kind of, um, acted like a slave, I guess? They didn’t know I was there, and it was weird. And this happened over the summer, in Diagon Alley.”

She added the lie at the end to protect herself and, possibly, Quirrell. Another lull of silence descended, and Diana shifted back into position on the bed. Then, she jumped again as a paperback landed on the bed with a soft thump.

Her brows furrowed as she inspected the cover. In the center stood a shirtless pirate with an impressively-toned chest and lock black longs waving dramatically in the wind. Kneeling at his feet was a scantily-clad blonde woman in chains. Diana flipped the book over, surprised to find it was a Muggle publication, and read the blurb on the back indicating the book was about a pirate and his kidnapped ‘wench.’

“My mum reads these. She got them from my grandma. There’s a whole set of ‘em.”

“Oh.” Diana didn’t know what the appropriate reaction would be, so settled for a simple, “That’s neat.”

Millicent scoffed. “The only reason I’m telling you is to show you some adults like this.”

“Like what?”

“Slavery, genius. Not, like, actually owning a person, but imagining it. Or imagining they’re the slaves. It’s a thing some adults do, called role…something.”

Diana’s eyes popped out like saucers. “What? Why?” Her eyes roved over the cover again, nauseous. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been that surprising. Wasn’t her mother essentially a slave?

She tossed the book back to Millicent before the fleeting image of her mother in place of the book’s heroine could take root.

“I don’t know, they just do. Some of them, anyway.”

“Wizards too? Not just Muggles?”

“Yeah.”

“Eww.”

An unfamiliar look crossed Millicent’s face, and Diana took a moment to recognize it as bashfulness. “I know it sounds gross, but they’re…not that bad. Mum doesn’t know this, but I read most of her collection. They’re actually quite good—sometimes. I brought some from home, if you ever want to borrow them.”

Her gut instinct yelled ‘Fuck No,’ but she was socially shrewd enough to recognize an attempt at building a connection. “Thanks. Maybe I will, after the holidays.”

Not.

Mentioning the holidays brought forth another wave of gloominess. Both her and Draco expressed desire to stay at Hogwarts, though Lucius and Narcissa insisted they spend the holidays at the Manor.

“What’s wrong?” asked Millicent, noticing the sudden change in expression.

Diana didn’t want to discourage the possibly-fleeting camaraderie, but couldn’t tell the truth either. “The person I saw was a man. Could that whole…thing…with fake slavery happen with just women, or could it happen between two men?”

It certainly matched with the talk of ‘union’ and ‘pledging his body’ to the man who ‘chose him.’

“Don’t see why not,” shrugged Millicent.

“Okay.”

There was another long pause, and then she added hesitantly, “This might seem random, but is there any way for two people to be combined into one?”

“Splinching, but you’d have to be sloshed to the gills to mess it up that badly. If there’s another way, I don’t know how. Why? Were the two men you saw splinched?”

“No,” she lied. Though she didn’t witness it, she felt Millicent’s eyebrows raise. “I was just thinking,” she began to ramble, “about, like, the best way to torture someone. Not so I could do it, but so I can protect myself if anyone tries anything.”

Millicent chuckled. “This isn’t the Muggle world. There are no limitations to what people like us can do. You can go over every twisted scenario in your head, and there will always be someone more twisted who can do things you’ll never dream of. Your best bet is to hope Fortuna likes you.”

On that cheerful note, Millicent flopped on her side, ending the conversation.

****

Tom didn’t seem particularly shocked after hearing about the splinched man’s existence, but did ask many questions about him and the mysterious stone.

None of that matters, she scribbled furiously. I sleepwalked again! This definitely means I'm somehow responsible for what happened to Janice.

There’s no reason to jump to conclusions, especially since there was no body this time, Tom swiftly responded,

Why was I in Professor Quirrell’s office then? We just talked about him, so the Obscurus could be acting on my subconscious. Or maybe I really was being controlled…

I find the latter to be a more likely possibility, and agree with your professor’s conclusion.

I know, she wrote, feeling sick. You were right the whole time. I just don’t get why he would use Muggleborns as bait if he helped Mum.

Tom made it very clear over the past month how he didn’t trust Dumbledore, and how the old man had a well-hidden callous streak. The splinched man corroborating the story about the wardrobe quenched the flickers of doubt about Tom and entrenched suspicions of Dumbledore. But when she tried to speculate about the man’s identity (assuming he must be an old classmate of Tom’s or a child of one who heard the story) the boy in the diary prevaricated, claiming the memories were ‘too painful.’

I understand you’re feeling conflicted, but that’s a testament to his strength as an effective manipulator. Remember, he’s a wizard—and one with high social standing, at that. It’s impossible to achieve such an important position without engaging in unscrupulous activities. I have no doubt Dumbledore is involved with your current predicament, the Obliviations against your allies, and the deaths of the unicorns. Remember how he knew their locations?

But they didn’t run from him, she argued. The unicorns would sense danger. They can see inside people’s hearts.

That much wasn’t a lie, at any rate; she looked it up to confirm Dumbledore’s assertions.

Then perhaps the unicorn killer is a different culprit, he reasoned. But he is behind the Chamber’s opening. The stone all but confirms it.

Do you know what stone he’s talking about?

If my suspicions are correct, He’s referring to the stone of Nicolas Flamel, an item said to provide the key to immortality.

But what does that have to do with the Chamber?

If he catches the culprit responsible for opening the Chamber, it will reinforce Flamel’s faith in him and prove the stone is ‘safe’ under his watch. Of course, the ‘culprit’ is none other than a hapless first-year placed under the Imperius, one that has a condition that makes her a convenient scapegoat. No one will ask questions or think deeply about it because everyone else will be relieved the halls of Hogwarts are safe once more.

Diana’s eyes blurred, but she blinked the tears back. I can’t believe I almost fell for his rubbish!

There’s no need to be so hard on yourself. Manipulation under the guise of kindness is always the most insidious, and I truly apologize if my words caused discomfort.

A drawing of a rose emerged on the page, and Diana’s heart fluttered.

****

The next day she awoke in high spirits, relieved to see the emerald green of her canopy instead of the walls of an unknown location. The only thing slightly askew was the faint smudges of ink on her hands, but what did she expect falling asleep after writing in the diary?

She reached into the nightstand and pulled on the Brisingamen after getting dressed. It suddenly occurred to her that she should probably wear the necklace even while sleeping, but the possibility of never getting a reprieve from that wretched thing was horrifying.

She woke late enough that the bedroom was empty, but the common room was packed. Goosebumps crept up her arms as she watched fellow Slytherins huddled in groups having animated conversations. She scanned the room, and after seeing Harry and Draco weren’t present, attempted to leave through the door.

Gemma blocked her path and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Diana. Professor Snape said everyone needs to stay inside.”

The thought of not having the freedom to leave caused her to panic like a mouse in a trap. “Why?”

Gemma’s eyes flickered to the side, so briefly Diana would have overlooked it if not for Narcissa’s tutelage. “He didn’t say why, but I’m sure we’ll find out s—”

“It’s because a student was murdered!”

Dread slammed into her as she spun around. Pansy’s eyes danced in merriment as she pranced closer to her cousin and Diana.

“We don’t know that for sure,” chided Gemma, placing a hand on her hip. “This is how rumors spread.”

Pansy placed a hand on her own hip in mockery. “Oh, really? Why are we stuck in here then? And Araminta Bellingham’s your friend. She’s the one who said Kevin Entwhistle was found dead next to a suit of armor.” She said the last part purposely loud enough so heads turned. “You don’t trust the words and eyes of your own friend? Poor Araminta…”

Diana’s heart sank. Kevin was a Hufflepuff in her year; they never spoke, but it was sobering hearing someone her age was attacked. It made everything seem more dangerous somehow.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “He might have looked dead, but that doesn’t mean he is. There are lots of spells that mimic death at first glance, and it’s not like Araminta had time to check before the professors rushed over.”

Diana swallowed. “Were there any, um, messages left? From the…killer?”

“There was!” squealed Pansy. Diana’s heart stopped. “It said, ‘The Heir sees the two behind the one,’ written in black ink all across the walls!’ Isn’t that exciting? ‘The Heir!’ It’s just like the legend of the Chamber of Secrets!”

What the hell is wrong with this girl?

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” snapped Gemma, flicking Pansy’s forehead. The younger girl glared, but grudgingly rejoined Daphne and Tracey. Despite the chaos in the common room, Daphne was a portrait of serenity. Tracey, much less so.

Diana shuffled off to the side, trying to avoid further conversation and quell her hammering heart as she waited for her brother and Harry to emerge from the boys’ dorm. Eventually they did, looking bewildered at the amount of students.

“Kevin Entwhistle’s another victim,” she breathed, rushing over. “But I don’t know if he’s dead or petrified.”

Harry stared at her blankly, while Draco’s eyebrows scrunched. “Who?”

“Kevin Entwhistle,” she repeated, pausing for the name to register. When it didn’t, she let out a hiss of frustration. “He’s in our year! Hufflepuff, curly black hair, sits in the back during Charms class.”

Still no reaction.

“Bloody hell,” she exhaled. “You’re both impossible.”

Draco jutted his chin haughtily. “Why should I be expected to remember the names of every lowborn?”

“You, I‘m not surprised. But you?” She looked at Harry in dismay, who had the grace to look embarrassed. “Come on Harry, you have to know him. He was one of the students who spoke with you during the Association meeting. He was with two older Hufflepuffs…”

Recognition—albeit vague—finally sparked in his eyes. “Oh, him. Huh….I suppose they really are targeting people who attended the Association meetings.” His eyes widened as a sudden thought struck him. “Hermione!”

“The idiot’s supposed to be escorting her down the halls.”

“Ron can’t be there all the time,” corrected Diana, “and we agreed to rotate, Draco. It’s not fair to put it all on him.”

“We’ve been slacking off on it anyway,” sighed Harry. “Getting complacent…”

“And we can never be complacent,” Diana said, a steel edge developing in her tone.

Draco nodded, though Diana suspected it was for a different reason. “Were there any messages left behind?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said glumly. She told them more details about Pansy’s account and then, in hushed whispers, about her sleepwalking into Quirrell’s office, seeing the splinched professor, and the suspicions about Dumbledore. She left out the parts about the romance and him suspecting Diana and Harry, but either way, it had an impact. Harry looked shaken, while Draco’s eyes shined with glee.

“He’s splinched?” Draco repeated with a Cheshire grin. “That would explain why he’s not married.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he’s just not interested,” defended Diana.

“He’s the only son of Palinurus Quirrell, he has to continue the line. But to think: a man his age, foolish enough to be splinched? And a professor, no less!” He laughed. “He must be an embarrassment for his whole family.”

“You’re such a git,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t tell anyone, Draco,” she warned. “Otherwise I’ll never tell you anything again!”

“Alright, alright.” He sobered. “So….this confirms it. Dumbledore is responsible. Looks like I was right after all.”

“I can’t believe I almost fell for it,” mumbled Diana. “He really did seem like he wanted to help me...”

“Because he’s using you. He doesn’t do anything without his own agenda. The sooner you realize this, the better.”

Draco was biased; he felt Dumbledore ruined his family over the summer and had been indoctrinated into disliking the ‘Muggle-lover’ since birth. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

“He’s got his hands in everything. In fact,” he drawled, turning to Harry, “I bet you all the Galleons in my inheritance that not only was he the one who put you with your aunt and uncle, but he also knows perfectly well how horrid they are.”

Harry’s expression darkened. “Why do you think that?”

“You’re the savior of the wizarding world,” Draco replied with a slight trace of mockery. “You think they don’t have someone keeping an eye on you? Probably wizards pretending to be Muggle neighbors or something.”

“You’re wrong,” snapped Harry. “They wouldn’t see them and me and then just…do nothing.”

Diana could tell from his tone that Draco was entering minefield territory, but her brother plowed ahead anyway.

“For a Slytherin, you’re hopelessly naive,” scoffed Draco. “People are only in it for themselves. You should know this by now.”

“You’re wrong,” repeated Harry, voice low and dangerous.

Diana bit her lip. Harry could get very…intense…sometimes, but Draco habitually poked the sleeping bear. While the Boy-Who-Lived was affable in many ways, there was no denying he carried darkness within him.

Could he be involved somehow, like Quirrell’s partner suspected? Harry appeared genuinely ignorant of Kevin’s existence, which tracked with his tendency to focus on people and things that interested him to the detriment of everything else. He was certainly oblivious to Tracey practically throwing herself at him, at any rate.

But even if he wasn’t a willing participant, he could still be the culprit via the Imperius or a different spell. He had no shortage of enemies, after all.

No, I’m the culprit! I had smudges of ink on my hands!

“I can ask Professor Dumbledore when I see him tomorrow,” she squeaked, hoping to ease the tension. That finally dragged Harry’s eyes away from Draco, but his brows furrowed even deeper.

“Your session’s not canceled?”

“It might be,” she shrugged,” but I haven’t heard anything.”

“If he is responsible, you shouldn’t see him again,” said Harry. “It’s not safe.”

“He’s right,” agreed Draco. “Pretend you’re sick.”

“I’ll have to see him again at some point,” she argued. “And he doesn’t know that I know. Maybe I can get information somehow.”

“You can’t outmaneuver Dumbledore. Even the Dark Lord couldn’t.” Draco’s eyes darted around as though Voldemort would apparate and drag him down to Hell for those treasonous words.

“What if there’s a way to create some kind of safety net?” speculated Harry. He adjusted his glasses. “Maybe when we see Hermione later, we can ask if she knows the spell that could make someone talk to animals. Maybe you can—I know this is going to sound really daft, but maybe you can bring your kitten, or stick Scabbers in your pocket. If something happens, they could run back to the castle and we’ll know what happened.”

In spite of everything, Diana giggled at the ridiculous mental image. “Like Lassie?”

Muggle references were sometimes hit-or-miss with Harry, but this time he got it. “It’s just a suggestion,” he mumbled, face heating. “Until we get a better idea, it’s better than nothing.”

“Talking to animals?” scoffed Draco, with the sour expression he often had when he didn’t understand a joke. “There’s no spell that can do that.”

Harry frowned. “There has to be. A few months ago I spoke with a snake. That had to be unconscious magic, right?”

Draco’s jaw dropped, eyes flashing from shock, to excitement, and then, finally, dread. Harry looked as disconcerted by Draco’s reaction as Diana felt.

“What?”

****

“How many descendants do you think Salazar Skytherin has?”

Dumbledore paused, the spoon of elderberry soup hovering right outside his mouth. Diana shifted on the wooden bench, grateful for the raucous laughter of patrons, clanging utensils, and flute and harp music within the tavern. If she craned her neck to the side, she could peek outside the tavern door and witness the expanse of cavernous layers and fairy lights that illuminated the underground land of Thule.

Despite Draco’s speculation, Dumbledore did not cancel their lessons. She suspected he wanted to get away from the castle, and so did she—though she’d prefer if she wasn’t accompanied by their primary suspect. Still, she couldn’t hide her amazement after entering the magical boat that turned what would have been a multi-day journey into one that lasted a few minutes, and gaining access to the mystical kingdom of legend.

“Am I correct in assuming this question relates to Mr. Entwhistle’s predicament?”

“Yes,” admitted Diana, seeing no sense in lying.

“Truth be told, I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned this earlier.”

“Well, I’ve kind of been distracted by…everything here.” She gestured to the tables of braided Thulians decked in furs and blue face paint, as if plucked from the pages of a Viking story. “Is Kevin, um, dead?”

“No. He will recover, much like Miss Pepper.” He placed his spoon in his soup bowl and stood. “As I stated previously, the Professors will handle it.”

She bit down yet another retort, though this time part of it slipped through, albeit in a more tempered way than what she was thinking. “You said that last time.”

“And it will prove true.” He peered at her from behind half-moon spectacles. “Did you experience anything within the past few days you find concerning?”

You mean besides the two-headed man? “No. I was asleep when it happened”

Not for the first time, she felt like a frog with its insides splayed open, ripe for dissection. Her fingers instinctively brushed against her necklace. “How many descendants does Slytherin have?” she repeated, determined not to let Dumbledore evade the question.

“The lineage has been well-traced, and to preemptively alleviate your concerns, you don’t share a singe drop of blood with Salazar Slytherin.”

Just answer the sodding question, already!

She took a bite of potato, trying to act casual as she asked, “Does he have any living descendants?”

“I suppose it comes down to your perception of living.” Diana’s patience frayed. “None of the students in Hogwarts are descended from him, so you needn’t worry. Will you be staying at Hogwarts for the winter holidays?”

She was annoyed—but not surprised—by the sudden change of topic. “No.”

If her father or stepmother signed the form, Dumbledore would have known, and she suspected this was an attempt to gauge how she felt about it. But if he was going to be reticent, then so would she.

“I’d like to talk about Harry, actually.”

“Ah, of course. I imagined our conversations would eventually drift towards him.”

She decided to be blunt. “Is there any way for him to stay at Hogwarts over the summer? His Muggle relatives are horrid.”

Dumbledore’s expression grew somber. “I’m afraid not. Though it may seem unfair, it is imperative Harry stay with his blood family.”

“Like I had to stay with mine?” she couldn’t help but snap.

A brief flicker of discomfort crossed Dumbledore’s features. “I understand why you’re upset, but this is a different situation. Has Harry spoken to you about his family?”

“Sort of.” She’d been able to glean bits and pieces, but Harry wasn’t one to emotionally unload like Hermione. “I can tell it’s something bad. I don’t think they even want him.”

“Nonetheless, they accepted him.” He placed his spoon in his soup bowl and stood. “I suppose we should head out, lest we miss supper at the castle. Though I’m not sure I’ll have any room left after this.”

Anger flared in her, both at his dismissal of Harry’s predicament and his attempts to brush her off. “Did you know he was going to live with them after his parents died?” she pestered. “Are wizards guarding his house?”

“The focus of today is you, not him,” he replied, polite but firm. “Now, we should make haste. Remember, the gentleman at the gate said we must speak with the Völva before leaving.”

To Diana’s satisfaction, he didn’t sound particularly enthused. Dumbledore wasn’t someone often caught off guard, but like Diana, he didn’t expect the attention they received when entering Thule. Apparently, it was a tradition for the inheritors of the Brisingamen to make a visit to Thule at least once in their lives.

The childish part of her wanted to stay at the table and sulk, but she reluctantly followed him through the door. He tried to make conversation about neutral topics and she gave clipped responses in return. Eventually silence descended, the emotional gap widening as they descended down the widening dirt path.

She tried to distract herself by watching the Thulians, though her eyes darted away whenever she felt their own eyes on her, or—more accurately—her necklace. The most interesting aspect of Thule’s inhabitants wasn’t their attire or facepaint, but rather their ‘wands.’ They didn’t look like wands in a traditional sense, but some Thulians carried staves and staffs, while others carried swords or axes used to channel enchantments. She couldn’t help but feel a tug of awe and subsequent guilt at being fascinated by something magical.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” he asked, as if sensing her thoughts.

“No.”

The more she saw of Thule, the more this choice of destination surprised her, especially since previous lessons made it seem as though Dumbledore wanted to show her the elusive ‘gentle side’ of magic. But for many years, Britain had been supporting Thule in a proxy war against the dwarves that lived even further below, not wanting the ‘optics’ of a wizarding community succumbing to nonhumans. Likewise, the amount of support the dwarves received from Goblins, Fey, and other nonhuman races prolonged the war indefinitely.

“What do you find troubling about this society?”

“Um,” she blinked, uncertain. “No one really remembers how the war started, but they dedicate their lives to fighting the dwarves, and neither side tries to make peace.”

“And aspects you find admirable?”

“They take care of their squibs,” she remembered. “And value them just as much as magical children. And the people seem nice and friendly—unless you’re a dwarf, I suppose.”

Dumbledore nodded. They passed a painted mural depicting a god underneath a sprig of mistletoe, a bitter reminder of the upcoming Christmas. “And do you recall the poetry reading we passed by earlier?”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t make heads or tails of it since it was in the native Thulian tongue, but she enjoyed watching the village leader in front of a group of clapping, squealing children.

“The inhabitants of this realm are equally skilled with their words as they are with a blade. Truly remarkable. Not for the first time, I find myself perturbed we have such a dearth of fiction writers in magical Britain, though the same cannot be said of Muggles.”

The Völva’s hut grew closer, and it looked much taller and imposing now than it did before, and her stomach twisted with nerves. “I still don’t understand why you brought me here.”

“Just as in Thule and Hyperborea, there are multiple facets to any society. There are always elements that can—and should—change, but such change is impossible without those on the inside willing to take a stand. This land, as far as I’m aware, has no dissenting voices and thus, stagnation and endless war are its only fate. But magical Britain possesses a diversity of opinion with steadily growing voices, though I know it might not seem that way at times.”

She focused on the grooves of the black wooden door, thinking of all the people who helped or sympathized with her. Mr. Weasley, Nia, Phoebe and Grace, Hagrid, Ridley Grayson, Penelope, and Janice. Draco, sort of. Harry and Ron and Hermione and—

Her fingers clenched against her forearms as those sparkling blue eyes sliced under her skin. Dumbledore might be an actor, but he was a damn good one.

Luckily, she didn’t have to answer. The door creaked open, and a sullen redhaired girl not much older than Diana stepped out. “My mother will see you now.”

Diana took a breath and entered, eyes widening as she took in the woven tapestries of goddesses, battles, and creatures adorning the interior of the hut. The other girl swiftly headed towards the back, pulling aside a leather curtain with runic symbols hung and whispering to the woman obscured behind it. “She needs a moment to prepare the seidr. You”—she pointed to Dumbledore—”will wait outside once it begins.”

“Why?” Diana whispered as the girl retreated behind the curtain to rejoin her mother. She tried not to feel jealous.

“Seidr’s a type of magic similar to Divination. In Thule, it’s traditionally been considered women’s magic. According to Thulian legends, the very essence of magic itself comes from their goddess Freya.”

He gestured toward one of the ornate tapestries, where the goddess of love and war stood radiant, smiling breezily with outstretched hands above several dwarves bowing in supplication. A necklace of silver and emerald clasped around her neck.

Diana’s eyes bulged. “Holy shit.”

“Indeed.”

She remembered Abraxas offering many possibilities about the origin of the Brisingamen. “It doesn’t just look similar, it looks identical! Did she—does she—really exist, or was this a legend that came after the necklace?”

“Alas, matters of theology elude me. At any rate, your necklace appears to have a rather rich history.”

The more Diana stared at the tapestry, the more confident Freya’s expression seemed. Though if what she read in the books was true, Freya had no reason to be.

She tore her gaze away and looked at a different tapestry, where the soul of a Thulian was led away by the Valkyries, leaving behind the body of the warrior-mage with his hand wrapped around his stave. “I hope all these stories aren’t true.”

“Why?”

“Well, look at that one. The people here think you can’t go to Heaven or whatever their version’s called unless you die in battle. So someone could be the nicest person ever, but if they end up getting really sick and dying, they’d be screwed. That’s not fair.”

But when are things ever fair?

“I understand your concerns, certainly. However, keep in mind this is only speculation. Outside of this realm, most wizards don’t share these particular beliefs of the afterlife.”

She knew for a while there were a variety of spiritual beliefs in the wizarding world, and like their Muggle counterparts, most British wizards regarded it as largely a private affair. The majority seemed to ascribe to some form of Christianity, albeit with a heavily Gnostic slant, but she’d heard plenty of cultural references to Celtic, Roman, and Greek pantheons as well. And while she wasn’t sure how much or how little involvement a hypothetical divine presence would have in her life, death was inevitable.

“If wizards can do so much, why can’t they create a spell to figure out what happens for sure after you die? Or which gods–if any–are real?”

Dumbledore smiled wryly. “Some mysteries are beyond even a wizard’s knowledge, I’m afraid.””

“People must know something,” she pressed, “especially with all the ghosts floating around the castle.”

His smile dimmed. “We know there is a Beyond, and magic allows us to understand the nature of souls in a more empirical way than our Muggle counterparts, who must take its existence on faith. Yet the larger, philosophical questions such as our reason for being—should such a reason even exist—or the exact nature of divinity and the afterlife remains beyond our grasp.”

“Do Muggles have souls?” she asked tentatively. “I–I know they can’t become ghosts, but will they go to the same Beyond or whatever when they die?”

She said it so quietly, so nervous of the answer, that she wasn’t sure he’d hear.

But he did, and his eyes softened. “Of course, Diana.”

It was at that moment the leather curtain of the hut’s entrance flapped open. “She’s ready to see you now.”

Diana bit her lip, but Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. She followed the girl, catching one last glimpse of the headmaster exiting the hut before the dark curtain obscured her view of the outside world. A heavy whiff of charcoal and incense filled her nostrils as she turned to face the Völva.

The woman sat in the midst of a red painted circle, deckled in dark blue robes and a sheepskin cloak. Bracelets and necklaces of animal bones adorned her neck and wrists, and blue facepaint circled her deep brown eyes. Unlike her daughter, the woman’s long red hair hung loose, and she smiled warmly as she gestured for Diana to sit in front of her, next to a clay bowl with clear liquid and a few leaves floating on top. Different-colored balls of thread lay in the center of the red circle.

“Hi,” squealed Diana. Her eyes started watering from the incense as she sat in the designated location.

“Hello child.” Unlike her daughter, the Völva’s English barely had an accent. “My name is Solveig. It has been a long time since one from your line has entered this sacred space. Back then, I stood where Thyra is.” She smiled at her daughter.

Diana didn’t know how to respond, so instead asked, “Why did you want me to come here?”

“The women in your line wield the Brisingamen, and if Freya deems you worthy, then it would be remiss for me not to offer you this blessing. Take a ball of thread and wrap the end around your right palm.”

She plucked a silver ball and did as the Volva instructed, insides churning all the while. “I, um, I don’t know what any of this is for. I didn’t even know my relatives used to come here until today. Everything just kinda happened at once.”

“Yes, that much is apparent. Thyra, bring more candles.”

Diana decided to be more direct. “What’s going to happen?”

“You will be sent on the path to discern your place in the world and what is to be.”

Her and Dumbledore would make quite the cryptic pair.

Frustration bubbled within Diana. “Could you be a little more…specific, please?”

“Soon, all will be made clear.” Solveig paused. “In a sense.”

As they waited for Thyra to return, a thick, heavy awkwardness filled the air—at least from Diana’s perspective. Solveig smiled cheerfully and was the one to finally break it. “You must feel honored your family was chosen by the Mother of Magic.”

“Um, y-yeah…”

She tilted her head, amused. “What ails you, child?”

“Nothing…”

Solveig raised an eyebrow as Thyra returned with the candles. Diana lasted about a minute before she caved. “I just—I don’t want to sound rude or ungrateful, but some of the stories about her are kind of…”

She trailed off, hoping Solveig would get what she was referring to. If she did, she didn’t say anything, but her daughter did. “I believe she’s referring to how Freya laid with four dwarves to receive the Brisingamen, Mother.”

Diana’s cheeks heated. “Y-Yeah…”

After receiving the necklace, Diana poured over legends and myths surrounding it, only to be disappointed by the mythological progenitor essentially pimping herself out because she wanted a pretty trinket. So much for female empowerment.

“Why does the legend bother you?’

“Because she just kind of”—Diana searched for a polite way to phrase it, but found none—”treated herself like a prize. An object, I guess. And if she’s a goddess then she shouldn’t do that. In my opinion,” she added quickly.

Thyra’s eyes narrowed. “Why on earth should–”

“Thyra, please. You may leave us now.”

The girl glared, but obeyed. Solveig looked contemplative, not angry, but Diana started babbling nonetheless. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to offend, I just—”

“There’s no need to apologize for answering truthfully. However, I would like to offer a different perspective. An object has no control over who wields it, but Freya made the conscious choice to lay with the dwarves. She did not ‘give up’ her body. She used her power as a woman and used it to her advantage to get what she wanted. In our culture, we do not see that as a sign of weakness.”

“I didn’t say she was weak,’” Diana protested weakly. “I just don’t think it’s right.”

Solveig smiled. “Then it’s her ambition you take issue with? I was under the impression that was a trait valued in your family.”

Diana opened her mouth to argue, but couldn’t find a way to articulate her thoughts. Solveig showed her an angle she hadn’t considered, but the idea still felt off. She wasn’t sure if it was British cultural norms, her young age, or discomfort surrounding the nebulous concept of sex in general, especially as a result of her mother’s experiences.

She gestured to the candles. “What’s the next step for the ritual?”

“Now you will drink the nectar from the bowl. I will hold the other end of the thread, invoke the goddess’s presence, and you will be taken on a journey into your deepest self.”

Diana gulped, and the ritual began.

Looking back on that moment weeks, months, and years later, she couldn’t recall the exact steps, everything seeming like a blur through the haze of stress, incense, and what Diana suspected to be hallucinogens. She remembered the sweet, tangy taste of the liquid, Solveig thumping her distaff on the ground while chanting in her native tongue, eyes rolled to the back of her head, the incense growing thicker and thicker, the room spinning. She remembered Solveig holding the other end of the yarn and wrapping it around her fingers like a spiderweb, remembered the blade of panic slicing through her in a moment of clarity, and the animalistic urge to bolt like a frightened rabbit. And then—

And then she was everywhere and nowhere at once, floating and sinking, existing and not existing, spiraling through a whirlwind of thoughts, feelings, and magic. The only clear image she could see was a towering tree—one that she knew, somehow, would later become the stump she saw at Westwell Estate. A bolt of lightning struck, cracking and splitting the tree’s center. And from the sparks, ruins, and ashes, she saw herself emerge, clawing out amidst the tree sap, though she had no eyes or mouth or ears. Then, the girl shifted into a gray cat, and then Diana became the cat instead of an observer, running faster and faster towards a building storm in the distance. The storm clouds morphed into a black beast, a large smoky entity that devoured her in one fell swoop.

She fell deeper and deeper like Alice down the rabbit hole, passing snippets of times-yet-to-come.

Lucius in his study, disheveled, tracing the rim of an empty wine glass perched atop the desk.

Her and Draco on a bus (no, that can’t be right, there are beds inside), her brother’s eyes tired and bloodshot while she learned against him in a deep slumber.

A cluttered, cozy home she’d never seen before, sewing needle knitting a blanket in midair.

Diana, laying in a large, empty area with pillars lining the walls. Crouched next to her was Tom (and her heart leapt, even then), a boy of flesh and blood instead of black ink.

An older man she’d never seen before reading The Times, a tear dripping down his cheek while a BBC broadcast played on a telly in the background.

Ridley Grayson and that same man arguing in a laboratory.

Harry and Professor Quirrell standing in front of a large mirror in another unfamiliar area, Harry clasping a ruby stone in his hands and while Professor Snape stood on the opposite side with his wand out. Harry’s eyes narrowed, and didn’t break contact with Snape’s as he placed the stone in Quirrell’s eager hands.

And then she sank deeper and deeper until she couldn’t make out anything besides misty shadows. Eventually they dissipated, one by one, until there was nothing left besides herself.

She drifted through the water, like the mermaids or fish she’d sometimes glimpse through the dorm window, filled with a serene calmness she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She vaguely recognized a need to get to the surface, but had no desire to do so. She wanted to sink further into the watery depths, forever and ever.

But when she finally raised her head, she spotted light breaking through the surface. A woman’s hand plunging into the water, reaching and searching.

Sarah’s hand.

Diana pushed herself forward with more strength she thought possible, extending her arm, insides in a panic as she hoped and prayed Sarah wouldn’t disappear. She swam and swam until she finally, finally grasped her mother’s hand.

The sensation lasted only for a moment, but it was the most wonderful moment of her life.

Light filled her vision, and when she blinked again, she was in the Völva’s hut, Solveig grasping her hand with a satisfied expression on her face. “Your mind has been cleared, and you have Seen. How does it feel, child?”

Her eyes prickled with tears, and she blinked again and again, gathering her thoughts as her heart’s rhythms slowed to a semi-regular pace.

There were so many conflicting emotions pulsing through her veins: giddy euphoria, guilt and horror at the loss of control, gratefulness and peace and grief and loss.

But when she opened her mouth, she decided to express a separate thought. She wasn’t sure what it meant, or how she felt about it, but something—for better or worse—was changing.

“My necklace feels lighter.”

Chapter Text

“You know how particular he is with his dragon meat. Have you reminded Dobby to ensure it’s not overc—”

“This isn’t the first dinner I hosted, dear,” interrupted Narcissa, the rarity of such an occurrence cutting through Lucius’s anxious haze. He took a deep breath and watched as she adjusted her silver earrings in the mirror.

Enough. You’re acting as inept as Weasley. You are in control.

“I apologize, love. I’m well aware of your…many talents…” He purred the last two words, tracing his finger down her sides. The way her lips curled upwards confirmed it was the right move. “And never meant to imply otherwise. But surely you understand the reason for my trepidation.”

“Your father has dined with us before.”

Lucius resumed his pacing. “Years ago. And never on Christmas Eve!”

The previous evening, Abraxas’s horned owl shattered yet another window before dropping a letter unceremoniously in Lucius’s soup bowl, inviting himself over at the last minute. Abraxas’s streak of seclusion during the past several years was now apparently at an end, and Lucius was too fearful of him cutting off the pursestrings to complain, though the sudden change caused him no small amount of discontent.

“If I survived hosting my Aunt Walburga, I can survive him.” She took a brush from the dresser and ran it through her silky blonde tresses. “You mentioned he looks favorably upon Diana. Perhaps he wishes to see how she’s integrating within our household.”

“Perhaps.”

He felt another stab of irritation, recalling how his daughter effortlessly and undeservingly won his father’s favor. The only logical explanation was that Abraxas either knew it antagonized Lucius and crafted the illusion out of pettiness, or that it was affection borne from perceived usefulness, similar to how a wizard looks favorably upon his wand.

Narcisa paused her brushing motions and looked sharply at him from the mirror’s reflection. “We need to worry less about him and more about the rest of society, if we want our son to have a future.”

Lucius stopped and winced internally at the memory she was no doubt referring to. The Greengrass’ famous annual Yule celebration occurred a few days prior, and Draco and Diana happened to both get sick the morning of and couldn't attend. Later that night, Lucius spotted a torn wrapped in the rubbish bin with the only legible words being “UKING PASTILLES– EXPERI.” If his children really did take some substance that incited their symptoms, that meant Draco lied to his face, and the flickers of rebellion the night Lucius told him about Diana were now long-term.

The thought was extremely disconcerting, but not quite as disconcerting as Lucius’s reception during the Yule feast. Acacius Greengrass was charming and disarming as ever; if he did hold any negative feelings towards Lucius, he kept them well-hidden, and they clearly weren’t significant enough to warrant a removal from the guest list. Lucius didn’t experience any issues with his inner circle beyond playful ribbing about his situation either.

But Acacius Greengrass cast a wide social net. Some guests weren’t part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and thus lacked the shared purity, purpose, and history that overcame indiscretions of the flesh. Some guests didn’t have histories entwined with the Death Eaters, and a few, somehow, lived their whole lives without taking bribes. These were the ones who proved troubling. He wasn’t naive enough to believe everyone enjoyed his presence in the past, but with the exception of a few knuckle-draggers like Weasley, everyone always made sure to put on a good show. The cool reception he received from those guests signaled they no longer felt the need to brown-nose, a disturbing bellwether that didn’t bode well for his family’s future.

Not that he could blame them, after the disastrous poll results in the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. Only sixty-three percent of the respondents expressed sympathy towards his ‘Imperius-induced’ lapse of judgment. Sixty-three. Back when society still had traditional wizarding values as its backbone, he would have skirted through this with a comfortable seventy-five, at minimum. For the first time in his life, associating with a Malfoy might be perceived as disadvantageous.

“This will pass,” Lucius asserted with entirely-fabricated confidence, “like you said. We must simply endure until then, with the strength that comes from our bloodlines.”

To his alarm, she didn’t immediately agree. Instead, she placed her hairbrush on the dresser and sat on the bed, fingers resting daintily on her lap. “It’s going to require more than time,” she began, dread pooling in Lucius’s stomach. “It will require a shift in alliances and a more delicate touch.”

The pointed look made it clear the ‘delicate touch’ was beyond his power. “What are you proposing?”

“To start, we must swallow our pride and stop antagonizing our ideological opponents. We simply cannot afford to stoke the fires of old feuds, and it would, perhaps, be even more advantageous to…smooth things over, so to speak.” She raised her palm before he could interrupt. “I don’t want or expect sudden friendships. But I’m very aware of the precariousness of our position, and dampening overt hostilities and removing ourselves from the line of fire could get us back on course.”

“You’re referring to Andromeda,” Lucius surmised. Narcissa made plans to meet her sister after Abraxas returned to Westwell, and had been subtly hinting she’d like Lucius to come with her.

But that was simply never going to happen.

“Yes, but not only her.” Narcissa’s gaze drifted away from Lucius, causing another flare of anxiety. “After Diana’s first lesson, I sent a letter to Dumbledore expressing our gratitude that he took time out of his schedule to instruct her.”

“Th-This is ridiculous!” His thoughts fritzed like bursts from a broken wand. “We shouldn’t debase ourselves like this!”

She shook her head and sighed softly, “Lucius, please…you cannot put your pride before me and Draco.”

“A man without pride is nothing! You will cease these communications, Narcissa. I forbid it.”

On any other day, he might have realized what a Bad Idea it was to continue in this conversation, but the accumulated stress fogged his mind with a dangerous mix of panic, desperation, and bull-headedness that overpowered Slytherin self-preservation.

Narcissa’s eyes hardened as she stood slowly. “I suppose you have some other means of preserving our standing then? Something you’ve kept close to your chest for important reasons, no doubt.”

The sarcasm dripped off her lips like poisoned honey, but he was too wrapped in his haze of self-martyrdom to care. “Of course there is.”

“Really.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

“Yes. The Dark Lord will return, and when he does, our status will—”

Narcissa laughed, short and sharp, a stark contrast with her usual melodious chuckles that always incited warmth in his heart. Now, he just felt cold. Cold, and angry. “He isn’t coming back, we should be grateful for that.”

“How can you even say that?” exclaimed Lucius. He gestured vaguely around them with Jormungandr, saying nothing and everything at once. “Look at us! I—We need him, Narcissa. He can restore things to the way things were, the way things should be.”

The smoldering intensity in Narcissa’s eyes dimmed, replaced with wariness and—

Good Lord, is that…pity?

She turned her back to him, putting on elegant silk gloves. “Not everything, I hope.”

It took a moment to understand what she meant. “Of course not,” he rushed to reassure. “I’d never disgrace you like I—no, it won’t happen again. Never. I swear on my family name.”

“I know,” she replied. But when she turned back to him, her face was a porcelain mask of cold beauty. “Your father will be here soon. I’m heading downstairs to ensure all the preparations are in place.”

“Narcissa…”

A flicker of softness entered her eyes. Nonetheless, she turned around. “We’ll speak more later, dear.”

He instinctively reached out as she stepped forward, but hesitated. His fingers curled inward while she moved further away and through the doorframe. He remained rooted in the spot until he could no longer hear the click of her heels.

How did everything go so wrong?

His grip on Jormungandr slackened, one sweaty hand threading through his long blonde locks. For the past few months, he and Narcissa had presented a united front, both in public and inside the home. While the situation wasn’t ideal, he thought things between them, at least, were fine. Had he been misreading the signs?

He took a deep breath that did little to quell his frantic thoughts. Narcissa and him always acted as a team, weathered every storm, and for her to go behind his back like that was unheard of. Could it be…she didn’t want him anymore?

Lucius sat on the bed, stomach churning as he drummed his fingers against the mattress in contemplation. While he was under no illusion that his surname was the deciding factor in accepting his marriage proposal, he believed she grew to love him as a person. Like he did for her. But perhaps he was wrong. He could usually gauge her moods regardless of how well she tried to conceal them, but now he felt as ignorant as his first year of marriage. The year he kept leaving to visit—

No. Don’t even think of it.

He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. His father used to tell him stories of the fallen kingdom Atlantis, and while he used to write them off as useless tirades, perhaps Abraxas was trying to prepare him for this moment. After all, Lucius watched as the kingdom he spent decades building crumbled to ruins within hours.

But he wasn’t going to be swept away in the tides like the Atlanteans, leaving nothing left in the world to show for it. No, he would not go down without a fight. He was Lucius Malfoy, damn it, and that name still meant something, regardless of what some fools might think.

He stood up abruptly, fingers clenching around the snakehead of his walking stick as he strode into the hallway with purpose. Mentioning the Dark Lord earlier was an impulsive action thought of in the moment, but upon further reflection, he wasn’t wrong. Voldemort would be the greatest chance of restoring his family to the heights they deserved. Of course, there was that small matter of his purported death, but if, by some miracle, he survived…

He passed the candles, pine cones, wreaths, sun symbols, and mounted horns decorating the Manor for Yuletide. He paused briefly in the drawing room as his eyes locked onto the excessively-large straw goat standing forebodingly opposite the fireplace. Narcissa hated it, but he purchased it upon learning it was once owned by the famous skald Eyvindr Skáldaspillir and preserved via enchantment.

For reasons he couldn’t identify, he felt a swell of irritation at making that lofty purchase. Those feelings only increased as he entered his secret chamber underneath the floorboards and surveyed the dark artifacts around him. Some were spoils of war, others were bought for their prestige or thrill of owning such a dangerous artifact. It all felt so empty and meaningless now. Immature, even—like a child pretending to be a dragon hoarding treasure.

He shook his head and grabbed one of the enchanted bags perched atop a shelf. There was one item, at least, of true value. But as he continued digging and removing artifacts from the bag, a cold chill crept through him. His searching grew more frantic, and by the time he reached the bottom of the bag, his worst fears were confirmed.

The diary was missing.

Dread swallowed him, and he broke out into a cold sweat, ransacking other bags like a man possessed. He scoured every inch of this room, only to come up empty-handed. Trembling fingers ran through his normally-immaculate blonde hair as fury, terror, and despair swept through him.

Narcissa was right; I should pray he doesn’t come back. If he finds out I lost the artifact…

Taking an unsteady breath, he tried to view the situation logically. The room and bag were only accessible by members of his blood, and while the enchantment could theoretically be dispelled by an extremely-skilled curse-breaker, Malfoy Manor itself had numerous traps and enchantments to ward off intruders. The chance that someone could get through all of them unnoticed was minimal, and since he refused to believe he was careless enough to misplace an item entrusted to him by the Dark Lord, that left his children. Draco wouldn’t be stupid enough to steal from him, but—

Then, it hit like a lighting bolt. Over the summer, Draco claimed Diana took a scrip bag from the secret room. Lucius didn’t believe it at the time, but now? Now, he had no doubt in his mind. Her entire existence centered around dragging him deeper and deeper into the throes of misery.

He stalked out of the room and up the stairs, a tiger poised and ready to hunt its prey. Rage clouded his mind, and while part of him knew he needed to step back, knew that he had a history of terrible judgment when undergoing tremendous stress, he couldn’t. The stronger (or weaker) part clamored for blood and alcohol, a habit he thought he broke a decade ago.

Those were the days, he thought wistfully, quickening his pace as he stormed towards his sister’s old room. The days when he could effortlessly fling Unforgivables around like second nature, even after downing several bottles of the strongest wine. The days when strangers feared and respected him. The days when his wife didn’t sneak behind his back. The days he never had to worry about his son hating him.

The days when that face was confined to the Acheron instead waltzing the halls of Malfoy Manor, reminding him daily of his failures as a husband, father, and man.

When he spotted the door, adrenaline spiked through him. But before he could yank it open, a sudden pop caused his fingers to curl inward.

Dobby visibly recoiled and curled into a ball at Lucius’s unhinged expression, whimpering and wringing his hands. “M-Master Malfoy, Dobby offers his most pitiful apologies for having you endure my loathsome presence.”

The only thing keeping Dobby from experiencing a tidal wave of pain was the knowledge that he was necessary for meal preparation. “Then why,” hissed Lucius, “are you here, knowing what poor judgment it is?”

The house-elf sniveled, “Th-The Mistress wanted me to inform you that the former master has arrived, sir.”

Of course.

Of fucking course.

****

Diana remained blissfully unaware of Lucius’s fury at the time, but fifteen minutes earlier, she experienced a rage of her own. Laying on her bed with a half-eaten box of Honeyduke’s chocolate beside, she re-read the Daily Prophet article to confirm that, yes, sixty-three percent of these idiots still supported her father, and forcefully crumpled the paper into a ball before glaring at the ceiling.

How? Fucking how?

Fuming, she attempted to toss the newspaper into the rubbish bin and missed spectacularly, which did little to improve her mood. Every time she started to maybe—maybe—reconsider that the majority of wizards might not be evil, and that it was really the government and some rotten apples at the top to blame, shit like this happened.

She sighed and pushed herself off the bed, grabbing the crumpled ball and shoving it in her magical bag instead. If Narcissa or Lucius checked or—more accurately—had Dobby check her rubbish, it might be problematic if they saw the kinds of pamphlets and articles she was reading. It was more logical to wait to dispose of it until her return to Hogwarts, which couldn’t come fast enough.

Though she told herself otherwise, deep down she assumed she’d eventually get used to Malfoy Manor. But returning for the holidays brought the sense of Wrongness back in full force. The Christmas season—or Yuletide season, as they called it here—was so different in the White household. Sarah would play Christmas carols on loop, and Diana would bake Christmas cookies with her or Marie every weekend. They’d put up a small, fake Christmas tree that was probably still collecting dust in the attic of 6 Ironwood Lane, along with stockings by the fireplace. After Halloween, Sarah took out the snow globes, wreaths, reindeer decorations, and nativity scene. Diana remembered the paint chipping off Joseph’s face, the frayed thread hanging off the bottom of her stocking no one bothered to cut, and how the ‘pine-scented’ hand soap smelled like orange. She missed all of it.

She even missed attending church. She thought it was boring when Marie took her on normal Sundays, but there was something special about the Christmas and Easter services that made her feel a part of something bigger, a piece in a cosmic puzzle where she was more than just the offspring of her crazy mother and evil father. She wondered if she’d ever feel that way again, or those feelings had floated out of reach permanently. They certainly weren’t being replaced by the Malfoy’s customs, at any rate.

In the Wizarding World, December 21st signaled the start of Yuletide, which was a week-long celebration that served as an amalgamation of the traditional Yule, Christmas, Saturnalia, and other winter traditions. The focus of each day varied, and whether families celebrated all, some, or none was up to them. Though Narcissa’s family came from a nominally Christian background, the Malfoys adhered to the more traditional pagan customs, and Diana interested in seeing what they were like, especially since she she used the experimental Puking Pastille Ron gave her to get out of the Greengrass’ Yule feast. But once again, she was disappointed. The White house may have been small and shabby, but it had so much heart compared to Malfoy Manor, which was adorned in an outwardly grandiloquent manner, yet also seemed sterile and performative. She’d seen far more faith and sincerity in the few hours spent in Thule than the days in the Manor after returning from Hogwarts.

Which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but if the holidays didn’t mean anything to Lucius and Narcissa, why put up all the decorations? It was yet another example of going through the motions, pretending to be something they weren’t.

Doesn’t that ever get tiresome?

Diana’s eyes drifted towards the clock; Abraxas was officially scheduled to arrive at 7:00, but Narcissa said he’d always arrive 20-30 minutes late for dramatic effect. She trudged to the closet and sighed, running her fingers across the delicate black lace. For the past few months she felt as though she was living someone else’s life, a dark fairytale princess living in a magical castle with an enchanted necklace and elfin servants. And sometimes, during her weakest moments where she allowed herself to forget the context, she didn’t mind it. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t an outfit suited for Diana White.

A sudden streak of rebellion caused her to rummage through the closet and carefully remove her mother’s white flowered sundress. Five minutes later, she tilted her head, inspecting herself in the mirror. Their height difference made the dress hang longer on her than it did Sarah, and it fit looser in certain areas due to her scrawniness. But the black silk shawl and stockings did a decent job of transforming the sundress into a winter ensemble. Her father and stepmother might be unhappy, but oh well. So was she.

Dobby popped in, eyes bulging upon seeing her outfit. Stuttering, he informed her of Abraxas’s arrival and popped back out before Diana could inquire as to why the poor house elf seemed even more rattled than usual. She headed to the drawing room, butterflies roosting inside her stomach.

The first face she saw was Draco's sullen one, then Narcissa's pursed lips when she spotted Diana’s choice of attire. Lucius’s face was the one that gave her pause. For a brief second he looked—for the first time—completely rattled, which quickly clouded over with fury and venomous hatred that pinned her like a butterfly on a collector’s board. She felt weak in the knees and, with all her might, fought the instinctive urge to bolt upstairs. Instead, she walked down with her head held high, allowing her to spot the final guest who was smiling at her like a shark.

“Finally!” chortled Abraxas. “The whole reason I bothered setting foot in this wretched place.”

“Hello, Grandfather.” Diana smiled politely and curtseyed.

She still wasn’t sure how to feel about Abraxas; he was one of the few people in her corner, but even without overhearing Quirell’s conversation with his lover, she knew her grandfather had a checkered past, and suspected he might be one of the aristocratic bullies responsible for trapping Tom in the diary. But if nothing else, she wanted to ask more about his vision.

Lucius finally tore his glare from Diana and redirected it towards his father. “‘Wretched?” he echoed lightly. “How unfortunate it must be, to fall so deep into the throes of Pox-induced dementia that you’d insult your own ancestral home.”

“When I was Master of the Manor, I had enough sense not to put up garish monstrosities like this,” he scoffed, gesturing to the straw goat.

“That’s a sacred relic made by Eyvindr Skáldaspillir.”

“I’m aware. It still looks hideous.” He leaned his weight into his wooden cane, entwined by two carved snakes. “Surely that wasn’t Narcissa’s doing.”

“No, it was not. And speaking of what I didn’t pick,” she skillfully redirected, “Diana, is there a reason you didn’t wear the dress I picked out for you? It was custom made at Madame Malkin’s, and if there is a defect, I must know.”

“No defect,” mumbled Diana, feeling a sudden, irrational stab of guilt. “I just wanted to wear this…”

“Why?” snapped Lucius. His eyes were cold, sharp, and more incensed than she’d ever seen them before. It frightened her, and she cursed her past self for giving into childish impulse.

She shrugged feebly, but before Lucius could respond, Abraxas swiftly interjected, “It’s just a dress, Lucius. There’s no need to interrogate the poor child. After all, it’s not like she’s on trial.” His lips curled upward at Lucius’ icy expression. “Now, let’s eat, shall we?”

****

“I must say, Father, I was surprised to receive your letter. Considering your health, I was under the impression the healers advised against Floo travel.”

“And yet, I’m here, no worse for wear. To your great disappointment, I’m sure.” Abraxas inspected the dragon meat carefully on his fork before nodding, apparently satisfied. “It appears these old bones still have some life in them, at least when given the proper motivation.”

Lucius flashed a fake smile to Abraxas, causing Diana to squirm in her seat. Her father’s aggression had been replaced with the usual charade of normalcy, but something still seemed…off. “Yuletide? How uncharacteristically sentimental.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Abraxas, rolling his eyes as he brought the wine to his lips. “I wanted to spend time with my granddaughter before I shuffle off this mortal coil. That’s all.”

Diana looked up and he smiled, friendly but calculating. She quickly lowered her gaze so she wouldn’t have to look at anyone else.

“How sweet,” said Lucius, lips tightening. Draco scowled and pushed his spoon forcefully into his potatoes, sighing under his breath as Narcissa quietly chided him for putting his elbows on the table.

Abraxas ignored him and stared intently at his granddaughter. “How is school, child?”

“Good. I’m making…friends,” she said, remembering his talk of alliances. “Harry and Ron.” And Hermione, she added silently.

He nodded in approval while Lucius’s face twisted at Ron’s name. “Excellent.”

“And I also went to Thule.”

Lucius and Narcissa’s head snapped in her direction, surprised. “How?” demanded Lucius.

“With Dumbledore,” she mumbled. “He took me there during one of my lessons…”

“It should have been one of us,” he seethed. “A Malfoy by blood. Who does that man think he is?”

“It is unpleasant,” Abraxas agreed. “But perhaps this is for the best. If Diana ingratiates herself towards him properly, she could be the first Malfoy to gain his elusive trust.”

A vein throbbed in Lucius’s neck, and a slight smile flitted across Narcissa’s lips. “No. This is–this is an absurd suggestion. The you from twenty years ago would have laughed.”

“Because we were in a different social and political climate. It isn’t a sign of weakness to adapt to changing circumstances.” Abraxas smirked and steepled his hands underneath his chin. “And let’s be honest, Lucius: You wouldn’t take her there, and I can’t with these brittle bones. Place personal feelings aside and look at matters objectively.”

“You always have a canny eye for such things, Father,” Narcissa said smoothly. “I believe we find ourselves in agreement.”

Lucius opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Instead. He reached for the wine bottle in the center and poured himself a glass.

Diana swallowed and asked, in an attempt to lessen the tension, “Grandfather, I was wondering if we could talk later? About school and other”—she remembered from his letters he hated the word ‘stuff’—”things talked about last time.”

“Of course,” hummed Abraxas. Lucius’s grip tightened on the goblet.

“Diana,” he began, fake smile straining, “Your grandfather will be leaving right after supper. Anything you wish to say can be said now.”

“She doesn’t need a hovering nursemaid,” Abraxas gestured dismissively, then refocused his attention on Diana. “I already have an inkling as to what you’ll inquire. We’ll speak after—”

Lucius slammed the goblet down on the table, six startled eyes snapping in his direction.

“No, you will not,” snarled Lucius. He stood up and pointed Jorungandr at his father. “You gave this to me. I’m the Master of Malfoy Manor, and I will decide what is or is not appropriate.” He sat down slowly, though the hardness in his eyes remained. “I can bring her to Westwell later in the week, if need be, but Narcissa and I have other matters to attend to after the dinner and it’s presumptuous to expect us to alter our plans to accommodate your whims.”

Diana couldn’t decipher Abraxas’s expression. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he finally said, after a long pause.

Lucius’s brows furrowed, but when he saw his father wasn’t going to say more, his shoulders relaxed and supper resumed, albeit silently. A couple minutes in, she felt a foot’s nudge against her leg and glanced in Draco’s direction. Unlike everyone else, he seemed to enjoy the blowup and mouthed ‘Wicked’ to her. She couldn’t help but smile in return.

Their silent exchange went unnoticed by Lucius and Narcissa, but Abraxas looked on with interest. Any plans of addressing it would be lost to time, as the crashing arrival of a short-eared owl shattered the window and silence. It glided across the table and stopped in front of Diana, dropping a letter on her lap. Her stomach churned as she opened it.

Hello Diana,

You have my deepest apologies for not contacting you sooner. Lucius notified me of the political brouhaha over the summer, but I attended a retreat in Shangri-La before your arrival and just recently returned.

(As an aside, it was absolutely breathtaking. The natural world has a healing quality far more effective than anything at St. Mungo’s.)

I’d love to see you in person, but crossing into British territory would put myself in a vulnerable position I’d rather avoid. So unless you plan on entering France anytime soon, we unfortunately must remain separated until Abraxas’ funeral, which I’ll gladly attend. Hopefully, it shouldn’t be too much longer.

If I know Abraxas (and I do), he’s no doubt roped you into one of his plots. Do not be fooled by his facades; he lies, manipulates, and destroys until nothing remains. He’s very skilled and you won’t even realize it’s happening. No matter what he says, do not trust him.

And on the topic of trust, please do not be quick to judge poor Lucius. My son is a good man, and despite what those media vultures say, it’s not fair to dismiss all his accomplishments because of one little mistake. If you could speak to the press and extol his virtues

Diana blanched, but forced herself to continue.

it would be exceedingly helpful.

The two of you are always welcome to stay at the villa, though I understand Lucius harbors some reservations regarding my relationship with Sebastian. Please let your father know that Sebastian wishes for reconciliation. He misses the friendship they used to have, and would love to catch up soon.

I’m unsure if this letter will arrive in time given the distance, but if all goes well, you should receive it on Mother’s Night. While I’m sure the distance between rudimentary Muggle life and the destiny and birthright of a witch is vast and—perhaps—overwhelming at times, always remember that the Norns have woven your fate for a reason. On this holy night, recall the memory and spirits of your aunts and the future the Norns will bear witness to, a time of new beginnings and hope.

Your Loving Grandmother,

Aurelia Malfoy (soon-to-be Laurent)

She blinked, but before she could mentally or emotionally process the contents of the letter, Lucius snatched it from her.

“I recognize that handwriting anywhere,” growled Abraxas as Lucius skimmed through the letter. “Well? What does she want?”

“She introduced herself to Diana,” he said simply, returning the letter to her. “And”–his eyelid twitched–”she’s marrying Sebastian, apparently.”

Abraxas let out a string of colorful swears.

“Father,” Narcissa said, growing frosty. “Need I remind you there are children present?”

“Bah, they’ve heard worse. What else do you expect me to say? That disloyal, backstabbing, slattern...a vile cu–”

“I can’t say I’m particularly pleased either, but I refuse to have you speak ill of Mother in my presence,” interrupted Lucius. “And surely, this turn of events comes as no surprise.”

“It does. I thought she had more self-respect than to abandon the Malfoy name in favor of Laurent’s, but clearly, it wasn’t only her looks that deteriorated.”

“Did the tea leaves forget to mention this would happen?” mocked Lucius.

Abraxas scowled, but the question dimmed his temper. “I must hand it to the boy,” he said grudgingly. “If nothing else, he certainly showed that legendary Gryffindor courage. Stealing my wife—my wife— like that…hmph. Balls of a Hungarian Horntail on that one.”

“It’s not like you made it particularly difficult,” muttered Lucius. He poured another glass of wine for himself.

“No,” sighed Abraxas, “I suppose not.”

“This is not an appropriate conversation,” Narcissa repeated, voice deathly low, “to have at the dinner table with children around.”

Draco observed the exchange with the excitement of a Quidditch match, but Diana was grateful for Narcissa’s interjection. She took the opportunity to inquire, “The letter mentioned Mother’s Night? What’s that?”

Abraxas frowned. “An ancient celebration. Most of its traditions have long been folded into Yule proper, so I can’t recall the specifics…it was something of a woman’s holiday, if memory serves.”

“Mōdraniht—Mother’s Night—was meant to honor the tripartite goddess who supposedly weaves our fates,” Narcissa said. Diana looked at her in surprise. “On this evening, the dísir—do you know who they are?”

“Yes,” she replied, recalling one of the ballads she overheard in Thule. “They’re spirits of the dead.”

“Female ancestors, specifically. On this night, they traverse through the veil weakened by Odin’s Wild Hunt a few days prior. They watch over and, perhaps, communicate with their descendants, guiding them to their destinies.”

Narcissa dabbed her lips with the napkin daintily, and Abraxas smirked and answered the question Diana and Draco were wondering. “Ah yes. I sometimes forget you’re also a child of the Rosiers. Good on Druella for imparting the wisdom of the Old Ways.”

“Only some,” she clarified, sipping her wine glass, “and purely for educational purposes. We certainly didn’t celebrate.”

“Why not?” Diana asked hesitantly.

“There’s no need. No one celebrates Mōdraniht anymore.”

“I meant, why did people stop?”

“Hmm. I suppose the meaning was lost.”

Before she could inquire further, Narcissa turned to Abraxas and redirected the conversation, asking for his opinion on some of Fudge’s recent ordinances and rumors about Gringotts lending money to nonhumans. It became difficult and boring to listen to, and her thoughts drifted to the recent conversation.

What ‘meaning’ was lost? The wizarding world unfortunately seemed to have some degree of misogyny present in its backbone, much like its Muggle counterpart. Did she mean women’s power? Narcissa didn’t seem much of a ‘female solidarity’ type, with the way she remained with Lucius even after learning what he did to Sarah.

Thinking of her mother caused pain to blossom in Diana’s chest. On Yule, it was customary to remain indoors to escape the attention of the phantasmal ‘Wild Hunt’ that allegedly circled the skies looking for prey, yet if her mother was one of the dísir, she’d stay outside all night in the freezing cold if need be.

But Diana doubted it was true. She doubted many things were true, though she hoped she was wrong.

****

“I don’t understand,” Draco repeated, capturing one of Diana’s pawns with his rook. “Out of the hundreds of gods, the one Muggles flock to the most is the one who dies—to humans, no less!”

“Well, he doesn’t stay dead,” said Diana, rubbing her stomach warily as she eyed the board. Her stomach still didn’t feel 100% after those Puking Pastilles, but it was a lot better than before. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

“I know that. Mastery of life has an obvious appeal. I just meant the process of submitting to humans and dying. It’s disgraceful.”

Diana bristled. She never considered herself particularly religious, but a tide of indignation rose in her nonetheless. “Like I said, that’s the whole point. A god who’s willing to become human and die for the sake of humans.” She sighed and moved her pawn back. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I do understand. It’s an appealing thought to Muggles, but a higher being sacrificed oneself for lesser entities is contrary to the natural order. I suppose it’s only natural for Muggles to think of themselves as special, or worthy of divine attention and affection, which explains why Christianity managed to get such a foothold in—oh. You’re in check, by the way.”

Diana groaned and reassessed her options on the board. Draco grinned cheekily and continued, “Anyway, our ancestors always favored the strong gods. That’s what those shrines around the Manor are for, though we barely use them nowadays.”

“He is strong, it’s just—it’s just a different kind of strength.” She moved her piece. “Caring for other people, even the worst of the worst, takes a lot of strength and power, I think. Probably more than throwing lightning bolts around or whatever.”

“Compassion isn’t a strength,” he argued. “It makes you weak and gives enemies an advantage to exploit.”

“Is that your father’s thought or your own?” she snapped, temper fraying.

“Our father’s. And he’s right in this case.”

“No he’s not,” she insisted.

“If you think so, why don’t you forgive him then?” he sneered. “Turn the other cheek. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Her face heated and fingers clenched. Eyes brightening, he moved his rook one final time. “Aha! Checkmate!”

****

She couldn’t imagine ever forgiving Lucius; such an event would be a miracle in its own right, especially since it was more likely for Snape to start juggling than Lucius ever admitting he was at fault.

“Grandfather,” Draco began idly, “is it true you were at Hogwarts when the Chamber of Secrets was last opened?”

Narcissa and Lucius stilled. News of Kevin’s petrification reached the parents, which led to the retroactive recognition of Janet's petrification, the coverup, and the resounding political shitshow which got Muggle Rights activists up in arms.

“It is,” replied Abraxas, more interested in cutting the roasted boar.

Draco remained undeterred. “I’m not sure if you heard, but two students this year have been petrified.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Would you please tell us about that time?” her brother requested.

Narcissa smiled tightly. “Once again, I don’t believe that’s an appropriate conversation to have on Christmas Eve, of all nights.”

“Nonsense, I enjoy reminiscing about the past.” Abraxas lifted the fork to his mouth to chew, taking a bit longer than necessary for dramatic effect. “It happened during my final year. The Chamber opened, a juvenile message was scrawled on the wall proclaiming themselves the Heir of Slytherin, and a Mudblood died. There was the usual hand-wringing and politicking, but nothing came of it, just as nothing will come of this.”

“Do you know who the culprit was?” Diana dared ask.

“I do.”

“Who?” Draco demanded, leaning forward eagerly.

“I don’t believe—” Lucius interjected. But the next words stopped him in his tracks.

“Voldemort.”

Draco’s eyes bulged, and Lucius started coughing on a piece of meat. Narcissa’s lips curled downward. “I thought—didn’t he die?” Draco asked.

“So the story goes. And yet, here we are, '' Abraxas sighed theatrically. “Like a cockroach, it appears he scuttled off somewhere instead. Unless, of course, he really did pass and his reach extends from beyond the grave. Wouldn’t both those options be unfortunate? He’d surely go after all those who wronged him.”

Harry… she gripped her spoon tighter as Lucius glowered, pouring himself yet another glass.

“Lucius,” whispered Narcissa, placing her hand gently on her husband’s arm. “You’ve had enough.”

“Yes,” agreed Abraxas, though his eyes sparkled. “Perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought you swore off drinking years ago.”

Lucius pulled his arm away from Narcissa, and even her sculpted mask wasn’t able to hide the shock. But he said nothing, instead electing to bring the cup back to his lips.

“They’re the same? You’re positive?” Diana prodded. “Did he—how do you even know? Wouldn’t that be a big secret?”

“To those outside the Slytherin dorm, perhaps. But the young Voldemort was driven by ego and a pathological need for attention, which led to him stupidly bragging to his loyal sycophants. It got back to me, naturally.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, aghast. Could Voldemort have been the one who imprisoned Tom? “I mean, if someone died…”

“Because it was far more important I keep my contact within his circle, and to reveal that information would expose the leak. But don’t feel too much pity for the Mudblood, my dear. That girl was insufferable, and her removal from the halls was a net positive.”

“If it was the Dark Lord last time, who do you think is doing it now?” queried Draco.

Abraxas scoffed. “How the bloody hell should I know? It’s been years since I set foot in that school. But, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d assume it was either Voldemort himself or someone he instructed to follow in his footsteps. Or, perhaps, someone who benefits from maintaining the illusion of his presence.”

“At any rate, the two of you have nothing to worry about,” Narcissa assured her son and Diana. “You come from esteemed wizarding lineages.”

“It does if Hogwarts gets shut down,” grumbled Draco, slouching against the back of his seat.

“Ridiculous. That will never happen,” said Abraxas. “Not even if the creature kills twenty mudbloods. Hogwarts is a cornerstone of our cultural heritage, and a centralized school for wizards is too valuable and convenient for the Ministry to give up. What else could provide them with documented records of every young wizards’ primary personality traits, talents—”

Lucius finally rejoined the conversation, though from the paleness of his skin and the way his eyes were unfocused, Diana suspected he was starting to feel the effects of intoxication. “Not everything is a conspiracy, Father.”

“I never said it was—they’re very transparent about it. You need to ask yourself why.”

“Yes, but your phrasing…” Lucius sighed and gestured vaguely with his hand, then refilled his glass.

Draco didn’t relent. “There are still other issues. It increases tensions between Muggleborns and Purebloods.”

“Which have always existed,” Lucius interjected before Abraxas could speak. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing of. It makes you look foolish.”

Draco’s gaze lowered to his plate, but something sparked in him, and his eyes met his father’s. “If they think they’re being targeted, it’ll make them more isolated. That could make them radicalized and join the Association, and then things will be worse for us.”

“The Association is nothing,” he hissed, glaring daggers at Diana. “They hold virtually no power, and any they do have is solely the result of proper wizards giving an unearned boon.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Draco said quietly. “Ignoring them is a mistake.”

Abraxas watched Draco, fascinated, as if seeing him for the first time. Lucius’ jaw dropped, and Narcissa cleared her throat.

“I believe it’s time for dessert.”

****

The duration of the feast mainly consisted of Narcissa and Abraxas speaking about various current events. Lucius stood up midway, claiming his head wasn’t feeling right and he was going to retire for the evening. Before he left, he said Abraxas and Diana could have their private conversation in the drawing room before returning to Westwell. He also took the bottle with him.

“You,” said Abraxas, pointing a bony finger at Draco as they made their way to the fireplace, “surprised me today.”

Draco blinked, startled. “How?”

“You’re coming into your own instead of existing as one of your father’s appendages. Good work.”

“Oh. Er, thank you…”

“I hope you had a lovely evening, Father,” Narcissa said politely. “Do you plan on attending the candle-lighting ceremony tomorrow, or—”

“No,” he snorted. “One of these feast-days is enough, and I’d rather swallow glass than see the Notts and Yaxleys again. Now, let me and Diana speak.”

Narcissa and Draco looked slightly put off, but they acquiesced. Abraxas took out his wand and performed a silencing spell before turning to his granddaughter. “So, I take it the school year has been rather eventful?”

“Yes.” She wished she read Aurelia’s letter before requesting this meeting. Still, he was her best shot at gathering information. “I saw the man you were talking about. The one with two faces.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Oh?”

“He’s splinched, I think, and he was trying to figure out who opened the Chamber of Secrets. He thought, um, you were involved…”

“Do you believe I am?” he asked with amusement.

She hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but nothing’s ever certain.”

He nodded. “It’s wise to be cautious, though for once, I don’t have my hands in this.”

“How does he know you?”

“Hard to say. I’ve made many enemies over the years.” He waved dismissively. “Don’t meet with this person alone.”

“I won’t,” she said quickly. She made very, very sure of that after overhearing Quirrell’s conversation. “I also found the black book.”

“And what does it reveal to you?”

“...Spells,” she lied.

She didn’t think Abraxas believed her, but at least he didn’t prey. “Remain on guard, and don’t let Lucius know. He’s going to want it from you, but you must remain firm. Events are unfurling the way Fate intends.”

A spike of panic shot through her. “When’s he going to find out?”

“Tonight, if he hasn’t already.” At her horrified expression, he chuckled and placed his scaly hand atop her head, surprisingly gentle. “You needn’t worry, Diana. You possess more strength than you think.”

****

Sure enough, Abraxas’ prediction proved correct. Narcissa left to visit her sister about an hour after Abraxas’ departure, and a shaken Dobby popped into the library an hour later, interrupting a conversation between herself and Draco and apologetically informing her that Lucius requested her presence in his study.

Pushing open the door, her anxiety heightened. Lucius stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking worse than he did earlier, though—judging from the several empty bottles on the desk—the fact he was able to stand was a small miracle.

He didn’t beat around the bush with bullshit like he did months ago. “Over the summer, you stole a scrip bag from my chamber underneath the drawing room floor. One item from inside remains missing. What did you do with it?”

She was so, so grateful for the necklace around her neck. “Um, what item?”

The sudden slam of his fist on the table caused her to jump. “The diary, you stupid girl! Where is it?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I–I put everything back…”

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, leaning back against the bookshelf. The smile tugging at the edges of his lips scared her more than his words. “I don’t believe you understand the precariousness of your position. If you hand me the diary now, that will be the end of it. If you don’t…”

“T-Then what?”

He opened one eye: calculating with an underlying volatility. “Then you will not be happy. But we needn’t get to that point. Perhaps…yes, perhaps there’s something you’d like in return? A new pet or dress?"

Rage slowly filled her heart, remembering Solveig and the vision. She was respected in the Völva’s hut. Valued. Now…now she was treated like a child. Which she knew, objectively, she was, but didn’t feel like it for years.

She hated it.

“The only thing I want is to go back to my grandma’s.”

He gave a short laugh which did nothing to placate concerns about his mental state. “As do I, but alas, there are some things that escape even my reach.” His smile vanished and eyes hardened. “That’s the problem: You’re incapable of seeing reason and the opportunities laid in front of you. Everything about you is designed to upset me. Getting cozy with my father, wearing that dress, flaunting my failure, stealing Narcissa and Draco from me, and–and the diary…do you know what will happen to me if I don’t have it?”

She shook her head, which was apparently the wrong answer. In one sudden movement, he grabbed a glass and flung it at her, which she narrowly avoided. The glass shattered and her heart started hammering.

“I’ll be ruined!” he snarled, voice breaking, eyes wild and bloodshot. “I’ll be dead or in Azkaban and—and we’ll be even more disgraced than we were when you arrived!”

Diana swallowed, eyes darting around the room. Lucius was always an evil snake, but this was the first time seeing him completely unravel at the seams. Desperation, fear, and fury—along with a heavy dose of alcohol—were a powerful combination.

Any strength she had in the dream was a distant memory, and she battled the urge to confess.

I can’t, Tom’s counting on me.

“Sorry, but I don’t know what book you’re talking about,” she whimpered, blinking back tears.

Lucius’ face twisted in rage as he grabbed his serpentine cane. “Get over here. You’re going to experience a mere fraction of the pain I feel.”

She expected something like this would happen eventually, but now that it was here, she felt completely unprepared. Her legs remained rooted to the spot despite her mind screaming for her to move. Unable to maintain eye contact, she glanced downward, only for her breath to catch in her throat.

The desk and location Lucius was standing would have prevented him from seeing it, but circling her legs slowly were two dark shadows, like twin alligators waiting for their prey. In the light of the study, she noticed for the first time that they emanated from her legs, attached by a thin black strand.

“N-no. You’re drunk and not thinking right and I don’t think—I don’t think it’d be…safe.”

“Of course it’s not ‘safe,’” he spat. “You’re going to be in pain. That’s the point. Now get over here before I make it worse.”

She shook her head, confidence growing as the circling shadows picked up the pace.

Lucius hissed, twisting open the top of his cane and thrusting his wand in her direction. “You’re as vexing as your mother.”

Something in her snapped.

“Go fuck youself!”

Animalistic fury filled his eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut as Lucius snarled, “Crucio.”

She braced herself.

…

But nothing happened.

After a few seconds, she tentatively opened an eye. Whatever rage-incited stupor Lucius was in seemed to have abated, and surprise, horror, and resignation filled his eyes as he stared forlornly at his wand. He didn’t look like the proud, smarmy bastard strutting through the streets of Diagon Alley, or the man fueled by barely-restrained fury. Instead, he looked like a hollow shell of a man: sad, broken, and pathetic.

“I–I’m sorry. I never should have done that.”

Diana blinked, unsure which of the many sins he was referring to and taken aback by the sudden change in temperment. “...Done what?”

The shadows around her leg stilled as he slumped down in his seat. “I always did want a daughter,” he confessed, after a long pause. But his eyes weren’t on Diana, instead flickering numbly to the empty bottles. “I just wish things were…different.”

She remained silent as he threaded his fingers through his long blonde hair. There was another long pause until he said, finally, “Leave me.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

****

When she returned to her room, Draco was waiting. She summarized what happened to the best of her ability, and when she finished, Draco glared venomously.

“You’re lying!”

Indignation spiked, mixed with hurt. It had been a long time since he looked at her that way, and she thought they’d gotten past this. “I’m not! Why would I lie?”

“Because Father wouldn’t do that. And if he did, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now. You’d be frothing on the ground or in St. Mungo’s or something.”

A cold chill crept through her. What the hell was Lucius trying to do? “Okay. Well, if you don’t believe me, can you go back to your room? I want to sleep.”

But Draco remained rooted to the spot, searching her face for something he apparently couldn’t find. The hard edges of his eyes dimmed, replaced with horror and despair. “You’re really telling the truth?”

She nodded. Draco sank onto the bed, eyes glazing over and immune to Freya’s head rubbing against his arm. Then, after a moment, his eyes sharpened and his head snapped in Diana’s direction.

“We’re leaving in five minutes. Pack a small suitcase and meet me by the fireplace.”

“What? Why?” she asked, a deer in the headlights. “Leaving where?”

“Diagon Alley first.”

“But—”

“Stop wasting time!” he hissed, heading to the doorframe. “Just hurry up, and don’t let Dobby see you.”

She reluctantly did as he asked, trepidation swirling inside her.

****

“I think those blokes are looking at us,” Diana whispered, peering nervously at the leering men outside the bar. She moved closer to her brother, who let out a hiss of frustration.

“I mussed my hair to blend in with the ruffians, and they still recognize me? Damn Fortuna…” He sighed, oblivious. “Hoods up.”

She followed the orders, stomach flipflopping. Diagon Alley was quieter than it was during the summer, but busy enough that witnesses could theoretically testify to their presence. Their cluelessness made them stick out like sore thumbs already, and their robed ‘disguise’ did nothing to deter attention, instead making them look like little blonde Satanists.

“How much farther?” she asked, Freya meowing from her cat carrier.

Draco said nothing. He turned to head into a nearby alley, but Diana grabbed the sleeve of his robe. “We can’t go in there, it’s dangerous!”

“Being out here is dangerous,” he argued. “We’re in the open!”

“There’s nothing down there besides that creepy old lady,” she whispered. “Where are we even trying to go?”

Draco said nothing, but pulled away from the alley, at least. Panic started to rise in Diana’s throat. “Draco, you do have a plan…right?”

He didn’t make eye contact. Diana groaned and buried her head in her hands. “Oh my God…”

His cheeks turned pink.“It’s not like I had a lot of time to come up with one!”

“We have to go back,” Diana declared, glancing back. The men from the bar were heading in their direction, and Diana grabbed her brother’s hand to bring them back on the busy streets.

“We can’t. It’s not safe.”

“It’s not safe here,” she muttered as they came to an intersection. She glanced up at the sky and decided to follow the brightest star. Please God. if you’re there, we could really use a miracle.

He shook his head in exasperation. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” she begged. “What was the spell he used, and why was it such a big deal?”

Draco’s eyes flickered around to ensure they weren’t being watched. “It’s called the Cruciatus,” he whispered, so low Diana had to strain to hear. “It’s one of the Unforgivables, like the Imperius.”

She swallowed. “What does it do?”

“It causes the recipient an unimaginable amount of pain, like being stabbed hundreds of times by heated daggers.”

‘Oh.” Her throat grew very dry. “So, it’s, um, a mental spell? It gets into your head and makes you think you’re in pain?”

“It doesn’t make you ‘think’ it,” he snapped. “It happens. It doesn’t leave scars, but it does something with the body’s nerves. Some people never recover.”

“Oh,” she repeated, horror giving way to confusion. She touched her necklace absentmindedly. “Why do you think it didn’t work then?”

Draco was quiet for a moment. “To cast an Unforgivable, you have to really mean it.”

It took a few seconds for it to click. “So he didn’t really want to hurt me,” she surmised, trying to cheer him up. “Not like that, anyway…”

“It doesn’t matter. He didn’t know the spell wouldn’t work. He never should have tried it.”

“He didn’t seem right in the head. He was soused, and really stressed and scared about—”

“Stop defending him!”

Her hackles rose. “I’m not defending him,” she clarified. “I’m just trying to…”

She trailed off, but Draco finished the thought. “‘Make me feel better?’” he scoffed. “Nothing can make me feel better right now. Using the Cruciatus on one’s offspring, even in our circles, is considered barbaric. I mean, there are sometimes rumors, of course, like the one with Nott…”

They stopped as a crowd of women with shopping bags crossed in front of them. “What rumor?” Diana asked, alarmed.

“I’m not saying this is true, but I heard his father uses it on him to teach pain tolerance.”

Diana’s eyes bulged, horrified. “Holy shit, that's awful. Poor Theodore…”

“Not ‘Poor Theodore,’” bristled Draco. “He’s the worst! Cantankerous should have practiced the Killing Curse instead.”

Diana rolled her eyes, then frowned. Following the star led them to a dead end (of course…), and they would need to start retracing their steps. “Look, we can’t just keep walking around here randomly. You mum went to her sister, right? Do you know where she lives? Maybe we can meet her there…somehow.”

Draco shook his head. “If he used it on me, she’d leave with us in a heartbeat, but if it’s you…I don’t know. I think she’s going to try to smooth things over and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“But you don’t want that,” she concluded. A disheveled man on the street took out his wand, emitting light from its tip. Diana tensed despite his disinterest in the pair.

“No, and neither should you.” He folded his arms. “Honestly, Diana, you’re being far too blasé about this.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I always assumed something like this would eventually happen. The only thing shocking to me is that it didn’t work.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes widened. When Diana followed her gaze, hers did the same.

A purple triple-decker bus was somehow zipping through the streets of Diagon Alley before screeching to stop next to the man. She held up her hand to shield her eyes from the blaring headlights, but Draco grabbed it quickly and broke into a sprint.

“I read about that. It’s the Knight Bus,” Draco panted as they finally reached the bus before the doors closed. He yanked off his hood.

Diana had so many questions, but remained silent as the pimpled conductor eyed them up and down. “You with this gent?” he asked, gesturing to the man with his thumb.

“No,” Draco said quickly. “But we need to be here anyway.” He reached into his robe pocket and thrusted a handful of Galleons at the conductor. “Let us stay for as long as we want, don’t ask questions, and if anyone asks, we were never here.”

The conductor saluted as they sat on one of the beds in the farthest corner. She thought they might attract stares, but people here seemed largely involved in their own affairs. The middle-aged man with a stained shirt and bags under his eyes they saw earlier leaned his head against the window. An old woman laid down on the bed, sniffling. A harried mother endured her toddler-age child pulling her hair and complaining he was hungry. Everyone seemed involved in their own little world, so Diana tentatively lowered her hood.

The bus zoomed through the streets, and after a mini panic attack, she realized they weren’t actually going to hit anything (despite logic dictating otherwise) and relaxed again. The relative quiet of the Knight Bus’ interior allowed her to hear the fuzzy melody of “O Holy Night” over the radio, and she unconsciously leaned against Draco. The events of the day were catching up to her, and she didn’t realize how exhausted she was until now.

“How many people do you think usually go on here?’ she yawned.

“How should I know?” he said, attempting to sound snippy, but only succeeding in a hollow mimicry. “Do I look like the kind of person who normally takes a bus?”

“I’m just wondering if we should get off now before more people show.”

“I—I don’t…” Draco hesitated, surveyed the bus again, and bit his lip. Diana instantly regretted asking the question.

“We could tell the driver to bring us back to the Manor,” she said gently. “Honestly, I think it’s better for—”

“No,” Draco said sharply. “We’re staying here.”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

Guilt and nerves twisted inside for a minute, but they dimmed as lethargy took over. She eventually drifted into a state where she didn’t know didn’t know if she was sleeping or awake, or shifting between the two. She definitely looked out the window at the whizzing sceneries at some point, but her mind felt disconnected from her body, and the stars in the night sky became the heavenly hosts, which shifted into dísir and back again. She was back at her house, the smell of gingerbread wafting in the air and the fireplace crackling, Sarah telling her something from the kitchen that she couldn’t understand. Sitting on the couch on the fireplace was the girl from the painting–Valeria–and the presence of another figure, though she couldn’t see it no matter where she looked.

And then she stirred from slumber, blinking groggily. She felt Draco’s shoulders trembling, and tilted her head upward. His face was turned away so she couldn’t see his expression, and it was only when he raised a finger to his eyes to wipe them that she realized he was crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“...why?” he sniffled.

“Because I ruined your family,” she said, moving her head off his shoulder. “I know things were better before I came.”

“They were.” There was a long, heavy moment of silence. “Well, I don’t know if it was ‘better.’ It was easier. And I think…it’s better that I know. And it’s better that you’re here. Even if you’re annoying.”

The tears in Draco’s eyes now mirrored her own. She didn’t dwell on it too much before, but it took a tremendous amount of courage and loyalty for Draco to leave the Manor for her sake. Courage, loyalty, and—ultimately—compassion. For all his mocking a few days prior, the Malfoy scion was willing to sacrifice his own comfort and happiness in order to protect someone weaker and vulnerable. A half-blood. A ‘lesser being.’

Thinking of how far they came since their animosity over the summer filled her with warmth and affection. She felt the sudden impulse to tell her she loved him like she would have her mother or grandmother, but was too embarrassed. Instead, she squeezed his hand gently and said, “Thank you, Draco. For everything.”

He slumped further down, edge softening. “I just…I don’t understand what happened. He’s not…he’s not evil. I know you think he is, but he’s not. I've known him longer than you have. I’d know. He lo—he likes me. And Mother. That’s not a lie. So it’s hard to imagine he could do some of these things…”

“It doesn’t have to be a lie,” she began carefully. “Sometimes people we love can have different sides to them. My mum did some things to me that weren’t great. But she also had a good side to her, which made things confusing. I guess adults are just kind of…strange, sometimes.”

“I suppose…” he murmured.

They stayed in the bus for a long time as people entered and exited sporadically. She didn’t know the time, but her eyelids were growing heavy again.

“We do need to decide where we’re going,” she repeated tentatively. Her gut instinct was to tell the driver to drop them at 6 Ironwood Lane, but seeing the empty house would be devastating in a way she wasn't sure she could handle. Going to one of her friends’ houses and seeing them wonder who she was would be almost as bad. “Maybe Grandfather’s house? The Westwell Estate?”

“That’ll be one of the first places they look,” Draco grumbled.

“What about the castle?” she suggested. “Some students are staying there, like Harry.”

Draco flagged the conductor over and asked, but the conductor shook his head. “Can’t go on Hogwarts property, and no goin’ over water, I’m afraid. But the Knight Bus can travel anywhere else on land, yes siree.”

“'Can't go over water?' What good is this bus, then?” scoffed Draco. The conductor frowned, and Diana hurriedly apologized for her brother before he left.

“What about Hermione?” he asked.

“You’re okay going to a Muggle home?”

“It’s not like we have many options,” snapped Draco. “Give the driver her address.”

She stood up, but hesitated. “Um, what’s her address?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No…” Diana waited expectantly, then groaned. “Aaand, she didn’t tell you either. Maybe if I had a phone book…”

“What the bloody hell is a phone book?”

“It’s a really thick book with phone numbers and addresses.”

“Where do you get one?”

Her heart sank. Where would she get one at this hour? “I dunno…”

Draco groaned. But mentioning Hermione caused another possibility to spark in her mind, one she completely forgot. “Wait, I know! Instead of Hermione, why don’t we—”

“No.”

“Come on, I have the address. His dad gave it to me for emergencies.”

“No.”

She gave him a pointed look, and he sighed. “Ugh, fiiiine. We’ll go to Weasley’s. But if I get fleas there, it’s your fault.”

Chapter Text

Narcissa stepped out of the fireplace, pleased. Her stay at the Tonks residence wasn’t nearly as vexing as it could have been, Nymphadora’s venomous glares notwithstanding. Conversation came easier between Narcissa and her sister this time around, and Ted Tonks surprised her with an unexpectedly nuanced view of Muggle-Wizard relations and associated laws. Narcissa wondered if this was what first captured Andromeda’s interest all those years ago, and felt a brief twinge of guilt that she never asked Andromeda why.

“It doesn’t matter why she chose him!” her mother snarled, wand shattering the framed photos adorning the mantlepiece. “He could have the largest prick in all of Britain, and it still wouldn’t justify the shame brought upon this family!” Druella Black’s eyes fixed on Narcissa’s quivering form and stepped toward her, her rage receding like the tide. “But you’ll choose right, won’t you, Cissy dear?”

“Y-Yes, Mother…”

And she did. Lucius was by no means perfect, but he loved her genuinely, a rarity in their social circles. She reminded herself of this as her heels clicked down the hall, trying to quell her irritation that he hadn’t stayed in the drawing room to greet her and ask how the visit went. She repeated it again after reaching their bedroom and finding him in a deep slumber. Agitation played across his features despite his respite, yet he didn’t rouse, and Narcissa made no effort to wake him. Nor did she make any effort to remain quiet, however, as she removed her dress and stockings and slipped into her nightgown.

When she awoke the next morning without the usual kiss, and an empty spot in bed where her husband should be, her temper flared once more. It’s the wine, she thought bitterly, scanning through her closet to find the perfect dress to make him pay for this indignity. What else could lead him to such poor judgment?

She chose a slinky emerald piece—low-cut, but not to the point of tastelessness—and a Thunderbird-feather boa. When she entered the dining room, the sight of Lucius hunched over his tea and plate of barely-eaten breakfast foods, eyes bloodshot with bags underneath them, gave her pause.

“Lucius,” she said coldly. “You look…unwell.”

Those red eyes finally met hers. “I am unwell,” he said, voice cracking.

He was clearly nursing a bad hangover, and the part that loved him felt stirrings of compassion. But that didn’t excuse his lack of decorum. “Nonetheless, you can’t be up and about looking like this. It’s setting a horrible example for Draco.” Which reminds me… “Where are the children?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, looking away and taking another sip of tea.

“Did they eat breakfast?”

He shrugged.

She fought the urge to yank the cup from his hands and spill it over his head. “Dobby!” she called. The creature appeared instantly, looking paler than normal. “Are the children awake?”

“Dobby knows not, Mistress…”

“Then check on them now,” she snapped.

But for the first time, Dobby didn’t move. Before she could wreak hell, the house-elf sputtered, “T-They are not in the Manor, M-Mistress…”

She slowly turned to Lucius, who sank deeper into his chair.

“What does that mean?” she asked, voice a deadly calm.

He shrugged miserably.

Narcissa closed her eyes and counted to five before turning her harsh gaze to Dobby. “Leave us,” she commanded.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Narcissa walked over to Lucius and traced her fingers across the top rail of the chair. “Do you remember the one thing I said I care about more than you and I?” Narcissa asked quietly.

“Yes. Draco…”

“Correct. So tell me: Where is he?”

Lucius winced. “I said I don’t know.”

“Clearly you know something,” she hissed, “and if you’re not going to be forthright with your own wife, I’ll go out and find him myself. I can hear the story first from him, or you. What will it be?”

Lucius’ white knuckles clenched inward. “I did something…unwise.”

Evidently. “Which is…?”

He hesitated again, and something in Narcissa snapped. “Lucius, just tell me.”

He bit his lip, but reluctantly began his tale about the missing dark artifact, and calling Diana into his study after Narcissa left. The rest of the story was like pulling teeth from a Nundu, but eventually she learned why Lucius looked so unkempt, and why the children were missing.

He didn’t make eye contact except at the very end, upon which he immediately looked away after seeing the venom in her eyes.

She sat down in the chair next to him, slowly. “I trust,” she began, after a long pause, “there’s no point in belaboring how abysmally foolish, ethically unsound, and inherently unnatural your decision to use the Cruciatus on your own offspring was.”

“I know,” he said quickly, guilt unmistakable. “It—It was wrong. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“A student drunkenly tipping bicorns isn’t thinking clearly. Saying ill-chosen words in haste isn’t thinking clearly. Attempting an Unforgivable on someone whom the Ministry monitors is the height of stupidity. The only, only saving grace is that you maintained a sliver of decency for it not to work.” She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “But at this point, the damage might be done. If Diana didn’t know what you attempted, Draco most certainly did.”

Narcissa couldn’t help but feel an irrational surge of bitterness towards her stepdaughter, though she knew, objectively, the fault belonged to Lucius and Lucius alone.

“You’re right. There are no excuses,” Lucius admitted, digging a fist into the bottom of his long blonde locks. “I should have secured the artifact better. I never should have had so many glasses, or lost control like that. I should have waited to confront her until I was calmer. My behavior was…unbecoming. Unbecoming and foolish. I—I’m so sorry, love.”

She wasn’t about to forgive him; not now, not when there was so much at stake. “Why was that filth in our home?”

Uncertainty flickered across his features. “You mean…Diana?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “How can you say that about your own child?”

“I didn’t say it!” he defended feebly. “I thought you sai—”

“I’m talking about that blasted diary!”

“Well, erm, the Dark Lord entrusted it to me,” mumbled Lucius.

“You never asked me if it was alright to keep it in our home,” she said, voice rising. “And you kept it for years. Years.”

“That was an oversight, not an intentional deception. There was so much going on near the end of the war, it slipped my mind.”

“It ‘slipped your mind,’” she echoed, incredulous. “It ‘slipped your mind’ to tell your wife about the dangerous, dark artifact given to you by the most wanted man in Wizarding Britain.”

“Yes,” he replied. Narcissa did not like the defensive edge entering his tone. “You’re well aware of the numerous dark artifacts contained within the hidden chamber. I didn’t think it an immediate necessity to inform you, especially since the Manor and all that resides within it are my property, first and foremost. If the Dark Lord found it suitable to—”

“Fuck the Dark Lord!” she snarled. Lucius’s eyes bulged.

Druella always told her that foul language was for men and lowborn women, and for the most part she agreed. But sometimes nothing else gets the point across, as evidenced by Lucius’ shaken expression. “I can assure you I’m far more of a threat than he is right now.”

“I realize you’re upset, but—”

“Don’t patronize me.” She sprang out of her seat and thrusted a finger into his chest. “This is what we should have done. We should have given the book to the Ministry years ago and solidified our standing while maintaining good relations with the loyalists since, as you say, none of them knew of its existence. The Ministry never would have made the information public to begin with anyway, since it would stoke fears of there being more potentially-dangerous possessions of the Dark Lord unaccounted for. There’s no disadvantage to giving it up beyond the fantasy that he will one day return. If we gave it to the ministry as proof of our ‘loyalty,’ we wouldn’t have the usual suspects breathing down our necks constantly, and your infidelity wouldn’t have become a spectacle. I wouldn’t have become a spectacle.”

Not for the first time, she wondered what it would have been like to have been born a man, to have a destiny beyond that of a trophy wife whose primary purpose was to funnel the Black fortune to her son. To be the head of the household and guide the family to greatness or ruin, to have multiple chances to fuck things up and a spouse who was obligated to support them every step of the way.

Must be nice.

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” Lucius said, voice breaking. “My actions hurt you and this family. I’m not denying that. But Narcissa, I must remain loyal. I must. I cannot disobey his trust.”

“Are you a Slytherin or a Hufflepuff?” she challenged. “You need to do what’s best for this family, Lucius. For us. Why must you cling to the past like this?”

Lucius hesitated and looked away. Narcissa stifled a sigh, already knowing the answer to the question she posed. Her husband wouldn’t be able to verbalize it, and she suspected he didn’t even realize it himself. But being brought into the Dark Lord’s confidence gave Lucius a feeling of purpose, a feeling of importance, a feeling of power, a feeling of value he never experienced in childhood. It was sad, in a way, but she was in no mood to host a pity party, especially when he caused so much collateral damage.

“I suppose I have more faith than most that he’ll return,” Lucius finally said, “and believe it’ll be for the betterment of society when he does. We need someone with his ideology in a leadership position instead of impotent people-pleasers.”

“I never wanted to marry a man of faith. I married you because you conveyed to me that you were a man of certainty. Of strength. Of stability.” She looked him dead in the eye. “You have a choice, Lucius. The Dark Lord, or me. But I will not stand by while everything we built unravels.”

Her heart sank at his lack of immediate response. “What are you expecting me to do?” he whispered. “The diary’s gone. What I said to Diana can’t be undone.”

“I don’t expect anything from you. Not anymore.” She refused to feel guilty at crestfallen expression. “I will handle this, as always. Continue to wallow here in misery.”

She spun on her heels and stalked down the hall and up the steps, vision blurring. After locking the bedroom door, she grabbed a pillow and screamed into it like she used to do in childhood.

Stop these histrionics, she could practically hear Druella hissing in her ear, You’re a witch, not some hapless Muggle woman. Act like it.

The pillow dropped from her hands, and she lifted her gaze towards the mirror. Her mascara was smudged, and she looked weak, despairing, and broken, like how she imagined Sarah White to be.

She took an unsteady breath and sat on the bed, numb. Witches took their marriage vows seriously, unlike Muggles. She couldn’t legally break a marriage (divorce? Is that what it’s called?) but she could, theoretically, leave and start over in a different country, giving up access to the Malfoy fortune and gaining massive social shame in the process.

Tears started trickling down her cheeks. How did things go so wrong? How did it get to the point where it seemed as though the average Muggle woman had more opportunities than her? And the worst part, the part she loathed to admit, was that even if she could divorce him, she wouldn’t. She still loved the bastard, still loved the man who cheated on her, kept secrets from her, and attempted using an Unforgivable on his own child.

She felt pathetic. The court transcripts—provided they reflected an accurate recollection of accounts—indicated Sarah felt similarly, despite her mistreatment. Narcissa distinctly remembered scoffing after reading it, viewing it as a shining example of Muggles’ mental inadequacy. Sarah White was a stupid, naive girl with no sense of dignity, dumb as a cow who returned to the owner who beat it.

So what did that say about Narcissa Black, born into one of the purest wizarding bloodlines in the world?

She wiped the tears away, but they didn’t stop. The childish part of her that screamed into the pillow felt a deep yearning for her mother. Druella Black was often cold, but not always. It was only with the benefit of hindsight and becoming a mother herself that Narcissa realized a significant chunk of her mother’s ‘cruelty’ was intended as kindness.

Druella was trapped in a loveless marriage, where the evidence of her husband’s infidelity literally laid under her feet. Yet Narcissa never heard her complain, not once. And whenever Narcissa cried over a punishment, a fight with her sisters, a death, or a frivolity, Druella’s response was always the same.

“You’re allowed three minutes to cry, and that’s it. After that, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

And so she did. Narcissa sniffled and sobbed and screamed into the pillow some more, and when those three minutes were up, she wiped her face and reapplied her mascara.

Then, she got to work.

****

“Are you sure?” Diana squeaked, glancing nervously at the hovering saucepan. “I thought students weren’t allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts.”

Molly Weasley waved her hand dismissively. “Ehh, it’ll be fine. The Trace can’t tell who performs the spell, just its location. And besides, Ron says you need the practice. So go on—give it a go.”

“Okay, just, um, just let me get my wand.”

Diana weaved through the cozy clutter of the Burrow and into the room she’d been sharing with the only Weasley daughter. Ginny wasn’t there, but Freya was, curled up on Diana’s cot. She lifted her head as Diana rummaged into her bag for her wand.

“Professor Dumbledore said the reason my magic sucks is because of my mindset,” Diana explained to the cat, finally pulling out the dark Hawthorn. “Well, he didn’t use those words exactly, but that’s what he meant. And since I feel happier now than I have the past couple months, I’m thinking it might work. My necklace feels a lot lighter, so that’s a good sign, I think.”

Freya continued to look skeptically in her direction.

“I am going to do a spell right,” Diana said, more confident. Freya meowed in response and rested her head back on the mattress.

As she bounded out of the room, she almost collided into Percy. “Diana, just the person I wanted to see,” he exclaimed, pleased. She immediately went on the alert. “I was wondering if you could tell me about any recent events in the Muggle world?”

“Why?”

“Well,” he began, a twinge of pink appearing on his neck. “I wanted to impr-um, demonstrate my knowledge of Muggle culture to someone of a similar background. Dad knows about their technology, but I think she’d really like a chance to talk about topics she might not get to with anyone else.”

Penelope. Got it.

Justin showed her how to get The Times delivered periodically via owl, and she racked her brain trying to remember what she read recently. She told Percy about the dissolution of the Soviet Union (“The what?”), Justin Finch-Fletchley’s dad getting into the Top Ten, and the deaths of some famous celebrities. Percy repeated the information to make sure he understood, then shook her hand happily before imploring her not to tell the twins (“Or Ron, or Ginny, or my parents….”). Percy had a spring in his step as he retreated in the direction of his bedroom, and she felt the same way; it wasn’t often people asked her about the Muggle world, and she missed talking about it.

When she returned to the kitchen, Molly smiled and gestured to the saucepan. “I just put the butter in. Now, you’re going to take your wand and levitate that spoon over there, and imagine it mixing the butter in with the sugar and cream. As long as you keep that image in your head, it should continue until you’re ready to stop.”

Diana gulped; this was more complicated than she expected. “Why do I need to use magic to move the spoon? Can’t I use my hands?”

“But then your hands will get tired!” explained Molly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Now, come along, dear. This figgy pudding can’t make itself.”

“Okay,” she mumbled, mustering her courage. She concentrated with all of her might and whispered, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

At first, the spoon simply trembled back and forth. Then, it rose and clumsily entered the bowl. Diana suppressed a squeal of joy as it wobbled back and forth, mixing the cream, sugar, and butter.

But of course, it didn’t last. Instead of maintaining a steady rhythm, the spinning grew more and more rapid, and within seconds the contents of the saucepan splattered everywhere, and the wooden spoon fell limp and clattered on the counter.

“Sorry,” mumbled Diana, face flushing scarlet.

Molly chuckled and wiped some batter off her face. “Not to worry, we’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy.”

With a flourish of her wand, she did just that, humming a merry tune as pots, pans, and washcloths levitated with ease. “It’s just as well we have to start over. When you were getting your wand, I remembered a better recipe my mum used to make years ago. Could you open that brown book on the table and see if there’s anything inside?”

“I think there’s a list of chores,” she said, leafing through the pages. “But that’s it.”

“Perfect! Bring it here, dear.”

After giving Molly the book, the Weasley matriarch double-checked the contents before taking her wand and tapping it against the cover. The notebook shriveled and transformed into the flowered cover of a cookbook.

Diana stared. “How’d you do that?”

“A simple transfiguration spell. You learn that in your first-year, yeah?”

“Yes, but usually more basic objects, like a match to a needle. A cookbook’s filled with pages and pages of recipes. How can it just appear filled out like that? Where do the words come from?” She began to blabber, finally asking the questions that always bothered her in Transfiguration class, but never asked because she was too bitter to bring it up to Professor McGonagall. “I suppose I just don’t understand transfiguration in general. I mean, when you use a spell to transform something into something else, what makes it that thing in particular. Like, if you try to turn a mouse into a snuffbox, why is Ron’s brown but Draco’s silver? Stuff like that I don’t understand.”

Molly threw back her head and laughed. “My, aren’t you inquisitive! Well, I’m no Professor, but I’ll do my best to explain. You learned about how what you transfigure needs to be roughly the same size, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“And when you perform the spell, you must envision what you want to turn it into. There are sometimes limitations, but more often than not, the finished product reflects what’s in the wizard’s mind. If someone tries to turn a rat into a teacup, and the image of a teacup in that person’s mind is white, then that’s what will appear. You’re absolutely right that transfiguring something into a book is difficult, if not impossible. But luckily, there was only one page in Mum’s cookbook I needed, and one I happen to remember very well.”

She handed the cookbook to Diana, who flipped through it. Aside from the figgy pudding recipe and a few half-faded pages of other recipes, the rest of the book was blank. “This makes a lot more sense…”

“It helps in a pinch. Simples transfigurations could stay that way for a while since—”

A loud thud against the window caused Diana to shriek. Molly opened the window and hollered, “BOYS! I said keep your brooms away from the house! I don’t need another bludger through the window again!”

“Sorry, Mum!” the twins apologized in chorus. From the window, Diana spotted Draco and Ron on brooms and could make out snippets of their argument with the twins over a foul play.

Molly shut the window and sighed. “You don’t want to go out there with the boys, do you? Ginny always wants to, but I keep telling her it’s too dangerous. But I suppose if it’s something you want, then…”

“No way, I prefer staying on the ground,” said Diana, shivering at the thought of being that high in the air. “And besides, I like cooking. It’s something I used to do with my mum and grandma.”

For some reason, the admission didn’t make her as sad as it normally would. But Molly’s expression sobered anyway. “And it’s probably not something you do much of in your new home,” she sniffed.

“No,” agreed Diana. But she didn’t say any more than that.

Molly hesitated, and Diana knew what was coming before Molly said it outright. “Diana,” she began carefully, “dear, I know things have been tremendously difficult for you within the past few months. But don’t you think it would be nice to talk a little about…whatever happened? We can’t help you unless you tell us what’s wrong.”

Diana sighed. When she and Draco first arrived at the Burrow, they remained tight-lipped about what happened, only asking if it was possible for them to stay with the Weasleys until the winter holidays concluded. Arthur and Molly agreed without question, a testament to the family’s compassion. But as the Malfoys grew more comfortable, Arthur and Weasley started gently prodding for more information, possibly unaware that Ron and the twins already asked the same thing in blunter terms. Diana lied that she was beaten and ran away because she got scared. She knew there would be no legal repercussions for Lucius; in a world where bones could be healed easily, there were few laws against physical harm from a parent unless it resulted in death or permanent injury. There were, however, laws against certain types of magical punishments, and Diana suspected Arthur knew there was more to the story than what her and Draco let on.

But she wasn’t keen on revealing more, for various reasons. And the biggest reason happened to be flying on a broomstick outside right now.

“I don’t want to say more than I already said.”

Molly’s lips pursed, but nodded. “If you show me some of these bruises, I could—”

Molly’s lip snapped shut as the door opened and Ginny huffed in, carrying a basket of herbs. “Ginny!” Molly greeted. “Diana and I are about to make your favorite pudding. Why don’t you give us a hand?”

“I spent the last hour doing chores!” she pouted, placing the basket on the kitchen table with an excessively loud thump.

“We all need to do our part,” chided Molly, adding dried figs and water to a saucepan, “and everyone needs to eat.”

“But it’s the holidays!” whined Ginny. “I wouldn’t be doing any chores or cooking any food if we were in Romania like we were supposed to be!”

“I know it’s disappointing, but your father’s very busy with work these days. Now, why don’t you hand me the baking soda?”

Ginny folded her arms. “The boys never have to help you cook. It’s always me.”

“It’s a life skill. Diana knows this—she volunteered to help! I didn’t even ask.”

Ginny’s big brown eyes rested on her, and Diana glanced away, uncomfortable. “It’s a life skill for the boys, too!”

“Not in the same way.”

Ginny’s face almost matched her hair as her temper rose. Molly sighed. “Let’s not have this chat with Diana present. You know where I stand on the matter.”

“Clearly,” muttered Ginny. Then, her eyes drifted back towards Diana. “When you’re done, come back to our room. I need to ask you something.”

“You could ask her whatever you want now if you help us,” Molly said pointedly.

“No thanks,” Ginny grumbled. Then, she turned and stomped off in the direction of the bedroom. After they heard the slam of a door, Molly tsked.

“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She’s so focused on fairness that she ignores the reality of what’s going to be expected of her as she gets older.”

Diana bit her lip, not sure what to say (or what she wanted to say) to that. “I’ll, um, get the baking soda…”

“No, that’s alright,” sighed Molly. She gestured in Ginny’s direction. “Go to her.”

“Are you sure?” Diana asked, startled.

“Yes,” she smiled sadly. “It isn’t often Ginny gets the chance to talk to another girl.”

“Okay,” Diana said. She unfastened her apron and put it on the hook, then hesitated. Before she could talk herself out of it, she said, “I know Ginny’s really mad right now, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

“After seven children, I know that already,” she chuckled dryly. “But thank you, dear. Your mother would be proud.”

Afraid her voice would sound wobbly, Diana just smiled.

I hope so.

****

Ginny was laying on her bed, sketching herself in a Quidditch uniform when Diana walked in. She instinctively slammed it shut, but relaxed upon seeing the visitor. “What are you doing here? I thought you ‘volunteered’ to help Mum.”

“I did, but she said I could talk to you instead.”

“So you finally got your freedom back?” She perked up and pumped a fist in the air. “Yes!”

In spite of the unintentional insensitivity of the phrasing, Diana couldn’t stop the smile from emerging on her lips. When she first arrived at the Burrow, Ginny was very quiet and did little more than stare at her like those creepy girls from The Shining. But within a couple days, it was like a dam broke and the once-silent bedroom now flooded with conversation on a daily basis. Ginny was very plucky and reminded her of a more socially-awkward version of Claire. It was nice to have another female friends again, besides Hermione.

“She’s just trying to help,” said Diana, plopping herself next to Freya on the cot. “She loves you. And I think she also wants to spend time with you, since you’ll be going away to Hogwarts next year.”

“I love her too, but that doesn’t mean I have to pretend she’s right all the time,” Ginny huffed, sprawling on her back and glaring at the ceiling. “There’s nothing stopping men from cooking! We’re in the nineties now—I should be able to play Quidditch with the boys and put my elbows on the table if I want to.” She turned her head toward Diana, a spark of mischief in her eye. “Say, is it true Muggle women had this big revolution against men and burned their brassieres and everything?”

“Kind of, I guess…”

“Blimey,” Ginny breathed, eyes shining with awe.

“It’s not what you think though,” she said quickly. “The world there, well, it’s definitely not some paradise. There’s still a lot of…expectations.”

“Oh,” Ginny said, shoulders slumping. “So it’s like here then? Damn.”

Diana wasn’t sure. When looking at wizarding history books, there definitely seemed to be more prominent women than what she remembered from her social studies class in Amberton, but the social dynamics and attitudes weren’t much different. There were even some occasions where she found the wizarding world to be more regressive in certain aspects.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, wanting to change the topic.

Ginny pushed herself up on the bed, looking alert and slightly nervous. “Is Ron telling the truth when says he’s mates with Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Blimey,” she repeated again, eyes wide. “And he’s a Slytherin, so you know him too, right?”

Diana wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. “Yes.”

“What’s he like?” Ginny asked shyly, fiddling with the edges of her pillow.

Diana took a moment to gather her thoughts; Harry was a difficult person to describe. “He’s kind of an….intense person, but also laid back. Sometimes he can be scary, but he’s also very kind, unless you’re mean to him first. He’s got a strong sense of right and wrong, but also a lot of ambition.”

Ginny sighed dreamily. “That sounds like a hero from one of mum’s romance novels.” Diana prayed it wasn’t the wizarding equivalent of Millicent’s collection. “So aside from that, he’s a regular kid, yeah? Doesn’t act unusual or anything?”

“Yep, it’s just like the papers said. The normal ones, I mean. Not rubbish like The Quibbler.”

A few weeks ago, Harry was baffled to receive a letter from an anonymous source accusing him of being an actor hired by the Ministry. That led them down the rabbit hole of Harry Potter-related conspiracy theories, like how Harry was a tulpa born from the collective consciousness of British wizards living in fear of Voldemort, or how ‘Harry Potter’ didn’t actually exist, but was instead a story concocted by the Ministry, meant to cover up a forbidden technique used to defeat Voldemort.

“Good,” Ginny replied happily. Freya leapt from Diana’s cot to the floor, and Ginny reached down to stroke behind the cat’s ears. “I saw him once, just before he boarded the Hogwarts Express. We didn’t speak, but I’m ninety percent sure he saw me. Does he ever, um”—her face flushed—“mention me?”

No.

But she didn’t want to completely break Ginny’s heart. “Um, I think he might’ve told me Ron had a sister, but I was only half-paying attention and couldn’t hear if he said anything else.”

“He remembers!” exclaimed Ginny, beaming. Then, her grin faded. “But since he’s famous, he’s probably got a girlfriend already.”

Diana let out an unladylike snort. “No.”

“But there’s got to be a bunch of girls who like him! He saved everyone.”

She thought of Tracy batting her eyelids at him and the flirtatious giggles of other girls, along with Harry’s total obliviousness. “Yeah, but he’s a typical boy. In fact, the only girls he really talks to are me and Hermione. Ron told you about Hermione, right?”

“He did. Do you think she likes Harry?”

Diana wasn’t sure if Hermione would find any boy more appealing than her books. “As more than a friend? I doubt it.”

Ginny suddenly seemed shy again. “Do you like him? As more than a friend?”

Diana shook her head quickly; thinking of Harry in a romantic context felt weird. He was cute, she admitted, in a scrawny kind of way, with his bright green eyes and crooked grin. But Harry didn’t make her stomach flutter the way Tom did. Harry was a typical boy, talking about sports and sniggering whenever Ron pointed out inappropriate carvings on the desks. Tom wouldn’t do that. No way. He was a sophisticated gentleman who probably never laughed at a dick drawing in his life.

“But you are friends, right?” prodded Ginny.

“Yes.”

Harry was no Tom Riddle, but then again, who was?

“Okay.” Ginny was quiet for a moment, then added hesitantly, “I was just wondering because you sounded a little strange before, when I asked what he was like.”

Diana bit her lip, knowing what Ginny meant. While she considered Harry a good friend and assumed he felt the same, she couldn’t deny there was a bit of a wall between them, perhaps one that she subconsciously erected. She grew close to Draco because of their shared proximity and family, and felt comfortable with Hermione because she was a girl from a Muggle background. Ron was blunt and straightforward and reminded her a lot of Arthur, which made her feel more at ease. But Diana didn’t fully understand Harry. In the few times he talked about his blood family, he mocked their weight and appearance, but he was also the first person to rush and defend Neville if someone made a similar jibe against him. He was, fundamentally, a good person, just one battered down by the world.

Like me…

“There’s a lot I don’t understand about him,” she finally said. “But I want to.”

“Me too,” Ginny sighed dreamily. “I’ve got a whole year to prepare to be his, er, friend. I hope Mum will let me buy a new pair of shoes for next year.” She gestured to the brown pair on the ground and its torn edges. “You’re so lucky you’re rich.”

“Not lucky…” murmured Diana.

Ginny flushed, realizing the misstep. “Right, right…sorry.”

Making her feel guilty was never the goal. “My funds are kind of limited right now, but if I ever get them back, I can buy you some as a thank-you for letting me stay here.”

“We’ll make do on our own. Thanks, though.” Ron was the same way; even though the Weasleys were the first to extend a charitable hand, they never accepted charity themselves. Freya wandered back to Diana as Ginny sat crossed-legged, tilting her head to the side slightly. “You know, Diana, you’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be. In the beginning you were so…sophisticated, like a princess. But you’re kind, too.”

Diana blinked—this was the first time she ever heard someone describe her as sophisticated. Was her quietness mistaken for aloofness, the same way she originally perceived Ginny as creepy? “Thank you.”

“Your brother’s still a jerk though,” Ginny continued. “Not evil, but a jerk.”

“Yup,” she agreed, smiling fondly.

****

“I’m in hell.”

“No you’re not, Draco,” Diana scolded, looking at the colorful (garish, Narcissa’s voice tittered) Chudley Cannons posters plastered on every wall of the cramped bedroom. “I think the posters look nice. They’re very…bright.”

“At least one of you has taste,” remarked Ron, rolling his eyes as he flipped through the pages of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, The Mad Muggle.

“You call this ‘taste’?” Draco echoed. He shook his head and plopped himself on the makeshift second bed, pointing at his sister. “Anyway, Diana thinks house-elfs are cute. Her opinion should be discarded for that alone.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to be so rude about it, that’s all,” said Diana. “Especially since Ron’s being kind enough to let you stay in his room.”

“Actually, Mum made me,” corrected Ron. “I didn’t want to because I knew he’d whine about it for days, and I was right.”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” Draco protested. “I’m just saying my opinion, and my opinion is that this is what hell looks like. In a year or two, I’ll see Grandfather here, sitting in that bed.”

He pointed to Ron’s orange Chudley Cannons comforter. Ron emitted a noise that was a mixture of a laugh and a groan. “A year? God, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through a week.”

Diana brought her knees closer to her chest. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, shooting Draco. Warning glare, “because we’re not going to be here a year from now.”

“You could, you know, if you absolutely needed to,” Ron muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “Mum would insist.”

Draco smirked mischievously. “Depends. Would you take me up on my offer to redecorate and inject some class into this room?”

“Not a chance,” laughed Ron.

“I mean it. One poster of the Chudley Cannons is already more than enough, let alone twenty or however many—”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut as faint footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, getting closer and closer. Within seconds, they heard a knock on the door. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Hello, Mr. Weasley,” Diana greeted as Arthur walked in, carrying two lumpy packages. He didn’t look antsy or upset, but there was something strained about his smile that put her on guard. “Is something the matter?”

He didn’t answer her question at first, instead looking at Ron. “I was hoping I could speak to Diana and Draco alone. It shouldn’t take long, just a few minutes. Could you wait downstairs for me?”

“…Okay,” Ron reluctantly agreed. He shot the siblings a worried glance before leaving the room and closing the door once more.

Arthur waited until he couldn’t hear Ron’s footsteps before placing the packages on Ron’s bed and sitting next to them, knuckles clenched white above his knee. “Well, I suppose it’s not unexpected. But Narcissa has been asking around as to your whereabouts, and was shrewd enough to contact Dumbledore.”

“…Is that a problem?” asked Diana.

“Not really a ‘problem,’ per say, but it does mean that you’re going to be seeing her sooner rather than later. He’s stalling as much as he can, but he’s obligated to report your location.”

“How does he know where we are?” Draco demanded.

“I told him,” admitted Arthur. Draco shot Diana an “I-knew-he-couldn’t-be-trusted” glare. She wasn’t naive and figured he contacted someone—likely the night of their arrival—but it still stung all the same. Upon seeing her expression, he babbled, “You have to understand. When you came here a few days ago, none of us knew what was happening, or the potential danger you two—and our family—were in. The Malfoy’s could be very…litigious, and Professor Dumbledore’s on the Wizengamot. We needed to make sure there weren’t any legal ramifications for allowing you to stay here. Though”—he puffed out his chest—“if need be, Molly and I were willing to cross that road. We were just concerned there’d be a physical threat to our family.”

“Are you going to get in trouble for hiding us?” Diana asked hesitantly.

Arthur rubbed the back of neck. “Well, it all comes down to the legalese. We’re not hiding you. You came here. We didn’t know Lucius and Narcissa didn’t want you to, legally speaking.”

“So they didn’t put it in the newspaper or contact the Ministry or wizard-police to send out search parties?”

“No,” Arthur chuckled dryly. “I doubt they’d want that kind of attention, which brings me to the next point.”

He crossed his legs and folded his hands atop his knee. “Now, I understand the reason you gave for why you came here. Even with some of the recent legislative changes, it’s within his right as a parent, unfortunately. Magical punishments, on the other hand, are more regulated than they have been in the past.” He inspected her carefully, and she tried not to flinch. “I know I asked you this before, but I need to do it again: Did he use a spell on you?”

She felt Draco’s eyes drill into her. “No.”

It can out weaker than she wanted, and she was once again grateful for the Brisingamen. “Are you sure?” pressed Arthur.

“If he did use a spell,” Draco cut in, “what would happen?”

“It all depends on the type of spell, the duration, and overall purpose. But,” he leaned forward, looking grave, “if he used one of the Unforgivables, it would be an instant trip to Azkaban.”

“Where would Diana and I go then?”

Arthur blinked slowly. “Did he?”

“No,” Diana said forcefully, glaring at her brother. “Draco was just asking hypothetically.”

“Diana…”

“If I was hypothetically under the pain curse or something, wouldn’t I be acting differently? I read that it messes up grown men for weeks, and I’m just a kid.”

“...Yes, I suppose normally happens,” Arthur admitted, doubt creeping into his eyes. “To answer your question, Draco, I assume you’d stay with your mother. For Diana, it might be a bit complicated. The court might want you placed with an adult relative by blood first, which in this case, leaves only your paternal grandparents. Abraxas may not be qualified due to his health, and the other option would be your grandmother. If you’re placed with her, you’d relocate to France and attend Beauxbatons.”

“But I don’t speak French.”

“There are spells that can assist in translation.”

Diana swallowed. She didn’t want to start over in a foreign country after finally starting to get comfortable in Hogwarts. And, more importantly, she didn’t want to get separated from Draco. She couldn’t, not now.

“Diana,” Arthur said gently. “Perhaps I’m overstepping a bit, but I believe there’s more to this beyond what you’re saying. And I can’t help you fully unless you’re honest with me.”

“You already are helping, and I’m grateful for that,” she replied. “But there’s nothing else to say, and if that’s a problem, we can leave.”

“No, of course not,” Arthur said quickly. “If there’s nothing else you want to say, then that’ll be the end of it, and I’ll go. Goodnight, and if anything changes, let me know.”

“Goodnight,” she mumbled, as he stood up and headed towards the door. “Wait, you left your packages on the bed.”

“Oh, those aren’t for me,” he said, a genuine smile flitting across his face for the first time during their conversation. “Think of them as belated Christmas presents for each of you.”

On that cryptic note, Draco reached for the one with his name scrawled in ink and shredded through it before holding up the mound of green wool. “I don’t understand. Is this supposed to be kindling?”

“I think it’s a jumper, like the ones the Weasleys wore on Christmas,” she said, unwrapping her own. She felt a stab of guilt, recalling that her own present for Draco was left in the Manor during their hasty exit.

Draco looked down at the woolen mass, horrified. “But it’s not cashmere!”

“Hold up your hands.” He did as instructed, and she pulled the jumper over his head.

Narcissa would faint if she saw. “It looks good!”

“I’m never wearing this in public,” Draco said glumly. “I might not even wear it downstairs. Hell, I’m probably not going to wear it outside this room.”

“Show some gratitude,” chided Diana, pulling her jumper over her head. It wasn’t the most aesthetically-pleasing, but it was very comfortable. “Mrs. Weasley didn’t have to make those for us, but did because she’s a kind person.”

“I’m aware of the sentimentality, which is why I haven’t torn it off already. It’s a symbol of alliance, like the bread-breaking of old.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Well, I’m not embarrassed to go downstairs in this jumper, so I’ll go and get Ron now.”

“Wait,” he commanded, growing serious. “So you’re definitely set on not telling them about Father?”

“Yes.”

“What if it happens again?”

“It won’t. He knows he fucked up. I could tell right after he did it.” Draco still didn’t look convinced, so Diana added, “Besides I have a plan to use this to my advantage.”

“What plan?”

“I’m not going to say because you’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“At least I have one beyond wandering the streets of Dragon Alley in a ‘poor person’ disguise.”

“And yet, no one spotted us,” he said arrogantly.

“True,” she smiled. “Thank you. If nothing else, we’ll have quite the story to tell Hermione and Harry.”

Mention of the latter caused her grin to fade, something Draco picked up on. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you or Ron sent him any letters?” she asked, gesturing to Ron’s desk.

“No. Why?”

“I was just wondering how Harry’s doing. He must be lonely at the castle by himself.”

“He’s not ‘by himself.’ Nott’s”—Draco’s lips curled in disgust—“staying there too.”

Diana blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“How should I know?” he snapped. “In case you haven’t realized, we don’t get along.”

“You don’t get along with him. Theodore’s nice to you.”

Draco folded his arms and looked away, pouting. Despite her words, she was nervous about Theodore and Harry spending time together. “I think I’m going to write to him, see how things are going.”

“You can’t! We’re supposed to be laying low, not advertising our location.”

“You heard Mr. Weasley,” she sighed. “Your mum’s going to be coming soon, like it or not. I don’t see the harm in writing.”

“....Fine,” he muttered, kicking his legs out. “Do what you want.”

Later that night, after many drafts, she composed a letter:

Dear Harry,

Merry Christmas! I hope the castle had lots of good food over the holidays. I also hope you got the present I sent in time. I know you said you don’t like to read, but since you like Quidditch and sports a lot, I thought you might enjoy it. Maybe you can learn some tips in time for tryouts next year!

Draco and I have been traveling a bit over the holidays, and we’ll tell you more when classes are back in session. Just know that this Christmas I definitely had to reflect on things that mattered a lot to me, and you’re on that shortlist. So, congrats!

Looking forward to seeing you and the rest of the castle soon.

From,

Diana

It sounded corny and artificial, even though there was nothing in the letter that was inaccurate. After much flip-flopping over whether or not to send it, she decided his comfort was more important than her pride.

Worst case scenario, he’d think she’s a weirdo. And she was already plenty used to that.

*****

Two days later after breakfast, Diana received a response via Hedwig:

Hi Diana,

Merry Christmas to you too! I really liked the Quidditch book you sent me. I didn’t expect anyone to get me anything honestly, Christmas morning was a nice surprise. I hope the Choco-Locos I sent you taste alright. I never see expiration dates on any of the packages for wizarding food so I figured it was okay, but one of the Hufflepuffs started throwing up a couple days ago and Madame Pomfrey said it was because he ate bad food, so now I don’t know.

Even though you, Draco, Ron, and Hermione went home, things at the castle aren’t so bad. It’s quiet, but peaceful. Theo’s staying here, too. I know Draco’s got a grudge against him, but he’s not that bad if you get to know him. But Snape’s also here though, which blows.

I really like you and the rest of my friends too, and look forward to seeing you soon. Tell Draco I said hi.

-Harry

Diana’s heart warmed, the anxiety of the past two days dissipating with the knowledge that he didn’t think her letter was random and creepy. She never got the Choco-Locos though, but assumed it must have been delivered to the Manor the same way she addressed the Quidditch book to the castle. The thought of presents sitting unopened made her feel despondent, but that was quickly broken by a sharp, swift knock at the door. Molly peeked out the window and spun around. “Boys. Ginny. Upstairs, now. And don’t come down until I tell you!”

Ron began to protest. “But—”

“Now!”

Ron reluctantly stood, ending his chess game with Draco. The rest of the Weasleys trudged upstairs, and Diana and Draco glanced at each other, knowing what this meant.

Ah, well. All good things must come to an end…

Shooting Diana and Draco a worried look, Molly opened the door. Narcissa stood with a cold expression, as expected, in a traveling cloak and white gloves, holding the bottom of her dress as if afraid of getting dirt on it. Seeing her sleek figure juxtaposed against the homeliness of the Burrow felt jarring and out of place, like a Porsche parked on Ironwood Lane.

“Molly,” she said, nodding coolly.

“Narcissa,” Molly replied, folding her arms.

Diana stuffed the letter in her pocket, eyes locked onto the two women. Despite their vast differences in appearance, wealth, and social standing, Molly looked every bit Narcissa’s equal, poised to protect and defend the hatchlings taken in. The vague memory of watching a documentary on cuckoo birds flitted into her mind just then, and she felt a slight stab of guilt at the favor she asked Molly for the previous day.

“I was made aware my son and stepdaughter are residing in this…dwelling. You have my gratitude for ensuring their safety, but you needn’t concern yourself any longer. I've come to take them home.”

Despite the use of ‘them,’ Narcissa’s eyes were fixed on Draco, who folded his arms and glared at a spot on the wall, refusing eye contact.

“There’s no need for that,” replied Molly. “They’re doin’ plenty fine here and never told me otherwise. It’s no trouble keeping them for the rest of the holidays.”

“Their legal residence is Malfoy Manor. To keep them after their legal guardian expresses a desire to take them home could be interpreted unfavorably.”

Molly picked up on the veiled threat. “I’m well aware of the law. But I’m not about to throw children to the wolves.”

“As one mother to another, I can assure you they’ll remain safe. If nothing else, you must believe that.”

“It’s not the mother I’m worried about,” grumbled Molly.

“He will not be a problem either,” Narcissa said, loudly and sharply. Then, softer: “Draco. Diana. We’ll be taking our leave.”

There was a long, tense pause.

“No.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned.

Diana gently kicked Draco from under the table, but he wouldn’t budge, sullen. The tension filling the air grew thick and palpable.

“Draco, I am your mother, and I will not leave without a conversation.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Draco practically spat.

In spite of her nervousness, Diana felt another rush of affection. Though he never verbalized it to her, Diana suspected Draco was afraid of becoming his father. But that was impossible; Lucius had ice in his veins, but Draco had fire, much like his namesake. And he’d be willing to burn things down for the people he loved, and Diana loved him for it.

“Draco, please. I have no desire to escalate matters, but I will if you force my hand.”

Diana had to admit, it was impressive how Narcissa maintained cool and composed, as though she was the one pulling the strings and in a position to make demands. Molly might take Narcissa at face value, but Diana knew better.

‘Escalating matters’ implied getting the law involved, but that would only make things worse for her and direct the spotlight onto Lucius. It was, ultimately, a toothless threat. For the first time since getting her acceptance letter, Diana was now the one with the power, the one with the ability to send Lucius away with a simple admission. And while she knew it was overly prideful to assume Narcissa didn’t have any tricks up her sleeve, the thrill of liberation caused her nerves to drop.

“Let’s go outside, Draco,” she said, standing up. He nodded reluctantly but followed her lead, and Diana knew Draco’s adherence to her would not go unnoticed by Narcissa. Good.

She felt Molly’s worried eyes on her as they crossed the threshold, closed the door, and stepped further into the field.

“I will not hold pretense,” Narcissa said after a long pause. “What your father did was unacceptable, and will never happen again.”

“How do you know?” Draco demanded.

“I know,” she said quietly, but with such intensity Diana didn’t doubt the words. “And trust me, he’s well aware of the severity of his misconduct, and regrets it immensely.”

“Oh,” scoffed Draco. “Well, if he regrets it, then that makes everything okay.”

“Do you take me for a woman of sentiment?” she hissed.

“No…” mumbled Draco.

“Naturally, there are more pragmatic reasons. I will not have him ruin what we built, and will take matters into my own hands if need be. He’s well aware of this. And Diana, I assume, has already pieced together why it’s more advantageous to return to the Manor, which is why you wisely kept quiet as to the specifics behind your sudden exodus.”

Diana feigned ignorance, curious to see Narcissa’s response. “I only didn’t say anything because of Draco. Is there something else I should know about?”

“If anything were to happen to Lucius, it would cut off opportunities available to you and draw undue attention.”

Diana tried not to smile; Narcissa really was desperate. She had plenty of ‘undue attention’ already. “I guess that’s true.”

Her noncommittal answer didn’t go unnoticed. “And of course, to ensure you feel comfortable, we’d be willing to accommodate your wishes within reason.”

That was what she was waiting for. “I already have something in mind, if that’s okay.”

Narcissa nodded, mask impenetrable. Diana wondered if she expected that, or if she expected Diana to rebuff her the same way she rebuffed Lucius and his attempts to bribe her over the summer. “What do you desire?”

“I want to go to France and meet my father’s mother. Over the summer maybe, or the next one.”

Narcissa blinked. “Why?”

“I just want to know more about my family,” she said lightly.

Aurelia’s defense of Lucius didn’t fill her with confidence, but meeting the woman first was a strategic move if she decided to put Lucius under fire and be removed from his ‘care.’ Narcissa nodded, accepting the answer even if not fully believing it.

“I also want to spend the rest of the Christmas holiday here, with Draco and the Weasleys.”

Narcissa’s lips pursed. “You will have to return to the Manor sometime. You’re aware of that, yes?”

“We will, for Easter,” agreed Diana. “But I can’t go now. The trauma’s too fresh, and I wake up almost every night with nightmares. By Easter, I think I’d have enough time to calm down.”

It was complete bullshit, but Narcissa nodded slowly, knowing that Diana held all the cards. “What else?”

“Chocolate makes me feel better, so a bunch of sweets to stockpile for the next few months. Nothing that moves, though.”

“And...?”

“That’s it.” For now.

One of the benefits of keeping quiet was that she could milk her non-existent trauma for a while—possibly years, if needed. But she also wasn’t foolish enough to overplay her hand. This was going to be a slow trickle instead of a flood, but in the end, water would get everywhere all the same.

“I see those terms are adhered to.” She turned towards her son. “Draco, I know that pensive expression. State your thoughts.”

“All my life, I’ve been told how awful the Weasleys are,” he said, looking down at his shoes. “But they’ve been nothing but kind to us, even though they hate Father. And they’d never use…that spell on their children, even when they’re being extremely annoying.”

“I believe you’re correct.”

Narcissa’s noncommittal answer didn’t create the back-and-forth he wanted, and Draco’s eyebrows scrunched. He folded his arms and looked off to the side, scowling. “Since we’re not going home with you, I don’t see the point of staying out here any longer. It’s freezing.”

“Draco,” murmured Narcissa, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He slipped out of her grasp, ignoring the hurt shining in her eyes.

“Goodbye, Mother,” he muttered. Then, he looked at Diana. “Come on, let's go.”

The hurt in her eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared. “There’s a matter I must speak to Diana about privately.”

“What?” Draco asked, on the defensive.

Luckily, Diana came prepared. “It’s alright. I’ll meet you inside.”

Draco looked torn, but with another nod from Diana, he scowled again and trudged towards the Burrow.

“You certainly have my son wrapped around your finger,” Narcissa sniffed. “Admirable.”

“What did you want to speak to me about?” Diana asked, feigning ignorance once more.

“The item Lucius wanted from you,” began Narcissa, her cool and impenetrable mask returning. “It would be in everyone’s best interests for you to return it to me.”

Diana abandoned the pretense of not taking it. “Why?”

“It’s an old family heirloom,” Narcissa said easily. “One that belonged to your great-grandfather. It has extraordinary sentimental value, you see, which is why Lucius was so perturbed upon its disappearance. It also has the potential to be quite dangerous in the wrong hands.

What an impressive string of bullshit.

Diana tried to look as though she was contemplating something. Then, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a black diary. “Here it is,” she murmured. “I didn’t know it was so valuable, and when he confronted me about it, I—um—I got scared. I only took it because I wanted it for school. I didn’t even end up using it…”

Narcissa swiftly plucked the book from Diana’s hands and deposited it into her own purse, shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

“Will that be all?” Diana questioned. From the corner of her eye, she could make out the swaying curtain of the Burrow, Draco and the Weasleys no doubt peeking outside.

“Yes.” For a moment, it looked as though Narcissa wanted to say something more. But instead, all she said was, “I’ll see you at Easter. Make sure to focus on your studies.”

The older woman apparatus away in a pop, taking the tension away with her. Diana let out an unsteady breath, the smiled.

Victory.

****

“Two diaries, eh? Not a problem, dear, ” chuckled Molly. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to write in ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Diana said, hoping Molly didn’t sense her nervousness. “How long do you think the copy will last for?”

“Well,” Molly sighed, flipping through the pages. Diana’s heart started beating faster. “There’s an awful lot of pages, but since there’s nothing written inside, it might be able to last five or six years. Eight, tops. Of course, that’s not counting if you decide to transfigure it back, or use a spell like Revelio. And you’re sure you don’t mind me using this?”

Molly gestured to the sketchpad, and Diana felt a tug of remorse. The sketchpad was a gift from Sarah, a way to connect to her memory. Sacrificing it to further a magical plot felt like betraying her mother somehow. But she needed an item roughly the same shape as the diary, and all her other books got far more use. “Yes.”

“Alrighty then.” Molly swished her wand above the sketchpad, and within seconds, the sketchpad shriveled and transformed into a replica of Tom’s diary. Diana picked it up and flipped through it. Upon close inspection, there were minor changes; the pages were a fraction less thick, the corners softer instead of hard. But to an average person, it didn’t look perceptibly different from the original.

“Thank you so much Mrs. Weasley,” she gushed. “It’s wonderful!”

“Happy to help,” Molly chuckled, then grew more serious. “Now, just be careful. It’s easy to manually reverse the transfiguration accidentally. Happened to myself a couple times, when I was using a spell on something else nearby.”

“I’ll be thankful. Thanks again!”

She scooted into Ginny’s room with the diaries and laid them both on the bed. Grabbing a quill, she flipped open to the middle of the replica and dabbed a tiny, barely-perceptible speck into the top corner of the page.

As expected, it didn’t soak in. Whatever spell kept Tom imprisoned wasn’t part of the diary itself, but rather a spell placed upon it. That could be problematic if Lucius wrote in the diary to check for Tom’s presence, but according to Tom, she was the only person he spoke to in years. Despite its apparent importance, Lucius kept his distance from the diary—a fact which would work in her favor.

She placed the fake diary in her satchel and the real one under her pillow, smiling.

Tom would never return to the Manor again—not if she had anything to say about it.

Chapter Text

All good things must come to an end, and before she knew it, Diana was back on the Hogwarts Express. Her return brought forth a slew of changes: big ones, small ones, and ones whose sizes remained to be seen.

Though she still performed leagues behind her peers, the gulf between their spellcasting wasn’t quite as vast as in September. Her wand responded to her—mostly—and while the spells themselves remained weak and ineffective, they were at least recognizable as magic, compared to the sad sparks that wheezed from her wand before Dumbledore’s lessons. Furthermore, the siblings’ stay at the Burrow bolstered their relationship with Ron. Though Diana considered him a friend before, she always felt a degree of awkwardness, likely due to their shared connection with Arthur. Now, conversation flowed freely and easily between them, and the banter between him and Draco was much less sharp.

Freya had also grown, looking more like a cat than a kitten. The change not only marked the passage of time, but also evoked feelings of nostalgia. Whenever Sarah, Marie, or one of her old teachers remarked on how big she was getting and lamenting where the time went, Diana would internally roll her eyes. But now, she understood that feeling. It served as a valuable reminder to not be so fixated on the future and learn to appreciate the present.

Such a lesson proved somewhat difficult, especially when so much of her future was up in the air. Diana received a note from Lucius via owl, which omitted the specifics of the incident yet burned itself immediately upon reading it. She could tell he actually wrote the letter instead of having Narcissa dictate because it was rambling and uneven and manic and ultimately more about Lucius than Diana. He felt positively awful about it, he wasn’t thinking straight, he would never do it again. Etc., etc. Despite Lucius’ icy exterior, it didn’t take much for him to unravel under pressure. Diana didn’t know if this would work to her advantage or disadvantage in the long run.

Harry was another question mark. His budding friendship with Theodore appeared small on the surface, but had the potential to balloon into something large over time. Though they largely remained in their own social circles, it wasn’t uncommon to see the pair talking or laughing, stirring feelings of guilt. After all, why should it bother her if Harry found another friend? He didn’t treat her or Hermione any differently, and his laughs were sparse enough to begin with. It was nice seeing him happy. And Theodore too, for that matter. The first-year Slytherins coalesced around their ‘Slytherin Prince,’ but he never laughed or jabbered with them in the way he did with Harry. He seemed apathetic towards his followers at best, which paradoxically increased his appeal. Yet at the same time, Theodore made no attempt to broach Harry’s group. She doubted Draco’s scowls deterred him, but for whatever reason, Theodore chose to keep his distance.

Regardless, Diana couldn’t deny a stab of envy when hearing about Harry and Theodore’s adventure over the winter holiday. An anonymous benefactor provided Harry with a genuine invisibility cloak, which he and Theodore immediately put to use. They discovered a secret room with a mirror which had a mysterious ‘something special’ which Harry promised he’d show Diana and Draco later in the month. Less cryptically, he also mentioned exploring the edges of the Forbidden Forest, where Harry made another find: a small, smooth snake which Harry named—at Theodore’s suggestion—Glycon. Glycon became attached to Harry, and the Boy-Who-Lived exhibited dubious judgment by keeping the snake as a pet.

Yet despite the newfound friendship, Harry had enough awareness to refrain from mentioning his Parseltongue abilities. He still preferred the companionship of the Malfoys, and it was comforting to know that—at least—remained the same.

****