Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

chapter one: good looking

you're not who you are to anyone, to anyone, these days

The Fawley estate sat at the edge of Ayrshire’s forgotten hills, tucked behind a thicket of silver beeches and thick, whispering hedgerows. It was a house that had learned to stay peacefully private over the centuries. Its sleepy windows watched the world like half-lidded eyes, content to be overlooked. But inside, something was always bubbling—always brewing. The air in the Fawley household was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the faint bitter tang of freshly crushed ingredients, a comforting and familiar aroma to Arden. The earthy aroma clung to her skin, even after a long day’s work, lingering like the warmth of her father’s quiet presence in his potions lab.

Arden Fawley moved amongst the cauldrons with practiced ease, her fingers deftly adding drops of moonstone tincture to the simmering cauldron in front of her. Her father, Aros, stood at his own table nearby, meticulously grinding up a handful of ingredients, a practiced, steady rhythm to his motions. Despite his calm demeanor, there was always a sense of quiet anticipation when they worked together. It was as if the air itself held its breath, waiting for the magic to unfold.

Arden stood at the worktable in her father’s potions lab, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a glass stirring rod in hand and green dragon bile dripping into a steaming pewter cauldron. The mixture hissed as it hit the surface, spiraling into streaks of luminous chartreuse.

“Counterclockwise,” Aros Fawley reminded her gently, not looking up from the notes he was annotating in the margin of a weathered book. “If you stir clockwise now, the entire thing will congeal.”

“I know, Father,” Arden said, suppressing a smile. “I’m not twelve.”

“You were twelve when you forgot last time,” he replied without malice.

“I was experimenting,” she muttered, cheeks flushing from the memory.

Aros chuckled quietly, tapping his quill against the page. He wore his usual lab robes—charcoal gray with silver trim, faintly singed at the cuffs—and his wild, graying hair looked even more unkempt than usual, like he’d walked through static. The lab, tucked beneath the east wing of the house, was paneled in dark wood and lit by golden orbs floating above the workstations. Shelves wrapped the walls from floor to ceiling, laden with crystal phials, preserved specimens, leather-bound texts, and strange artifacts brought back from Cairo, Patagonia, and Tirana.

The late August light streamed in through the small round window above Arden’s head, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams like tiny golden flecks.

The potion thickened. She adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron with a flick of her wand, and Aros murmured something approving without looking.

“What exactly is this one for?” she asked, glancing down at the thickening liquid. “It looks like a healing draught, but it doesn’t smell like one.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His weathered quill stilled on the page.

“It’s... a stabilizer,” he said eventually, still staring at the book. “Theoretically.”

“For?”

Another pause. “Nothing urgent.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You said that about the silencing serum. And then we had to clean echinus slime off the ceiling for two hours.”

“That was a valuable lesson.”

“In what? Viscosity mismanagement?”

“In humility.” He finally looked up, one brow raised.

Arden snorted and turned back to the cauldron. Despite herself, she liked these afternoons. The lab smelled of oak and iron and dried peppermint; it was cool even in summer, and there was a rhythm to brewing that soothed her nerves in a way nothing else quite managed. It wasn’t just the work—it was doing it beside him.

Even at his most absentminded, her father had always treated her like an equal in the lab. She could remember standing on a stool as a child, barely tall enough to peer into the top of a cauldron, watching the colors change with breathless awe while Aros guided her hand on the stirring rod.

That was before the world started changing.

Lately, the lab had taken on a slightly different energy. Not frantic—Aros was never frantic—but purposeful. Urgent. Some of the ingredients he used weren’t ones she’d ever seen before. Some she knew were restricted. And when she asked what he was working on, he always gave her vague answers.

She didn’t press too hard. Not yet.

“Do you think people were meant to live forever?” he asked suddenly.

The question hung in the warm air like a drop of black ink in clear water.

Arden blinked. “That’s a bit morbid for a Wednesday afternoon.”

Aros turned another page. “I didn’t ask if they could . I asked if they should .”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose it depends on who’s asking. There is a big difference between someone who lives for good, and someone who lives for power.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “And if you’re a father?”

That gave her pause.

“If you’re a father,” she said at last, “I imagine you’d want to live long enough to keep your daughter safe.”

Aros smiled faintly but said nothing.

Arden added a final drop of salamander blood to the potion and let the stirring rod still. The surface shimmered with a faint, ghostly sheen. It had turned a strange iridescent color—like oil on water, but brighter. She frowned.

“That’s not what it’s supposed to look like, is it?”

Aros stood and walked around to her side of the table. He peered into the cauldron, then let out a thoughtful hum. “It’s close. But it’s... reactive. More than I expected.”

“Reactive how?”

Before he could answer, a sharp knock echoed down the hall outside the lab. Three quick raps. Then silence.

Aros’s face changed—not fear exactly, but a flicker of tension around the eyes.

“I’ll get it,” Arden offered, already pulling off her gloves.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I’ll go. Clean up, will you?”

She watched him go, the heels of his boots tapping lightly on the stone. The moment he was out of sight, the lab felt colder. Arden turned back to the cauldron. The potion had calmed, but a slow swirl had started near the center, as if stirred by something unseen.

She stepped back.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

She glanced at her father’s notes on the desk nearby, pages scattered and ink still drying. She shouldn’t. But she did.

The diagrams were unlike any she’d seen in a Hogwarts textbook—circular runes overlaid with potion cycles, alchemical symbols alongside ancient Sumerian glyphs. Her Latin was good, but this was older than Latin.

One phrase repeated itself in English, however, written in Aros’s unmistakable looping hand:

The plant lies beneath the sea.

A chill crept up her spine.

Before she could read further, Aros returned. His face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

He didn’t answer at first. “Just someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Routine questioning.”

“About what?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

She hated when he used that tone. But she said nothing.

That evening, the air outside the manor was thick and warm, the sky streaked in violet and rose as twilight descended. Arden and Aros took dinner in the greenhouse, as they often did in summer. Magical bulbs cast soft glows among the herb pots and blooming nocturnas, their pale petals curling open as the sun dipped below the hills. 

The meal was quiet. Aros picked at his lamb and barely touched his wine. He had lit only half the lanterns. The other half stayed dim. Shadows gathered at the edges of the greenhouse, settling between the rows of potion herbs and creeping like dusk.

The clink of cutlery was the only sound for a while.

“They asked about Eleadora Wilkes,” Aros said finally, as if he’d been deciding whether or not to speak for the last half hour.

Arden paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “From the Ministry?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on his plate. “Department of Experimental Magic. Brilliant mind. Too brilliant, if you asked some of the older purebloods in the Improper Use of Magic Department. She used to send me rare extracts—Acromentula venom, phoenix tears. Just last spring she was trying to develop an inhalable pain reliever that wouldn’t interact with memory charms.”

“What about her?”

“She’s gone. Her and her whole family. Muggleborns.”

Arden’s stomach dropped.

“They came for a routine check-in,” Aros went on, his tone clipped. “Just a few questions. Had I seen her recently? Did she leave anything with me? Did we share notes? Harmless, on the surface. But the kind of questions you ask when you already know the answers.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means they’re not just looking for her.” Aros pushed his food away. “They’re looking for anyone who might be building things they don’t understand. Or worse, things they can’t control.”

A silence settled between them.

“Did she disappear?” Arden asked.

Aros’s jaw worked. He didn’t answer right away. “Gone. Her and her family. Entire house sealed off by the Department of Mysteries. The Prophet ran some half-page article about ‘domestic relocation following internal instability.’ And not a single name.”

“That’s not just gone,” Arden whispered. “That’s—erased.”

He nodded slowly. “They don’t want a spectacle. Just... silence. A removal. Not a purge. Not yet. Not something people will rise against. Just enough to unsettle. Just enough to frighten.”

The windows of the greenhouse reflected nothing but shadow now. Arden stared into them, her own face faint and ghostlike in the glass.

“You’re afraid,” she said.

Aros looked at her for a long time. “Of course I am. Only fools aren’t.”

“But you never used to—”

“I’ve never seen it done so quietly before.”

He stood and walked to the far end of the greenhouse, trailing a hand along a row of withering scarlet thistle. “You know what Eleadora said to me once? That potions were time magic. Not time travel—time memory. You’re preserving moments, reactions, possibilities. A draught is a captured truth. Even a healing elixir is a way of refusing death—for a moment longer.”

Arden watched him in the half-light. There was something about his silhouette she couldn’t name—something weary, or maybe something... watchful.

“She used to joke that if the wrong sort of people ever came into power, they wouldn’t need to burn books. They’d just poison the cauldrons.”

Aros turned back to her. “That’s what this is. It’s not about silencing dissent. It’s about severing collaboration. If we don’t trust each other, we stop building things together. We start working in isolation. And then... we become easier to remove. One at a time.”

Arden swallowed hard. She suddenly felt young in a way she hadn’t in years.

“I didn’t know you were close,” she said softly.

“I wasn’t,” he admitted. “But she reminded me of you..”

His voice cracked slightly, and he covered it with a sip of wine.

Arden didn’t reply. There wasn’t much to say.

“She was brilliant,” he added after a moment. “Not just talented—curious, insatiable. She never saw boundaries, only possibilities.”

He looked down at his plate, expression unreadable.

“And now she’s disappeared, and the Ministry would rather I burn her name out of my notes than ask questions.”

Another silence stretched between them, but this one was heavier—thicker. It felt like a border they’d crossed.

Aros leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly older than he had mere moments ago.

“You know,” he said, almost musing, “there’s this idea in ancient magical philosophy—especially in Babylonian schools—that knowledge isn’t just power. It’s memory. A way of cheating oblivion. You pass it down, and down, and down, and it outlives you. That's what makes it threatening. Not the knowing, but the remembering.”

Arden stared at her plate.

“Do you think that’s what they’re afraid of?” she asked. “People remembering what came before?”

He smiled, but it was a grim smile. “I think they want to decide what gets remembered. And by whom.”

Chapter Text

chapter two:  supersad

all of the tears i wish i never cried

The potion resisted her now.

Potioneering was a temperamental science. Earlier in the summer, it had responded eagerly to her touch—frothing and bubbling beneath her careful wandwork, shifting colors like it was learning how to breathe. It used to gleam when she walked into the lab, almost as if it recognized her. Now, it turned sluggish in her presence. No matter how precisely she stirred or how clean the pewter cauldron was, it curdled around the edges, as if it resented her for not being him.

Arden set the ladle down and stepped back, wiping her hands on a towel that had once been white.

The laboratory smelled of wormwood and burnt cinnamon. Sunlight from the high windows slanted across dozens of labeled jars— dried lacewing flies, powdered bicorn, coiled tubers steeping in green liquid. All silent witnesses to a summer that had begun in rhythm and was now unraveling thread by thread.

She moved toward the cluttered countertop and picked up the worn leather notebook her father had left open beside an empty mug. His handwriting had always been difficult to decipher—her father’s thoughts ran faster than his quill—but now it looked more like a desperate mans ramblings rather than documentation. Some words were crossed out entirely, others written in languages she didn’t recognize. A few lines had been circled three times in blood-red ink:

The plant lies beneath the sea.

Soul is matter. Memory is matter. All matter can be altered.

She turned the page. A coffee ring had smeared a paragraph beyond repair. Another section had been burned at the edge, the page blackened like a tongue that had been silenced mid-sentence.

Her father hadn’t spoken to her much in the past two days. He worked late into the night now, and Arden had started hearing him muttering to himself. Not words, exactly, more like sounds, or syllables of something not meant to be heard.

She closed the notebook carefully.

Across the lab, the potion continued to simmer in its cauldron, the surface glowing with a faint, acidic sheen. It had taken on a new color she didn’t recognize—deep blue-black, like the bottom of the sea just before a storm.

She approached the cauldron again, cautiously.

Her wand trembled slightly in her hand.

“Don’t hiss at me,” she murmured, and dipped the ladle in once more.

The mixture rippled like muscle. For just a second, Arden thought it moved toward her. Not as a liquid—but something inside the liquid. Something stirring. Watching.

She pulled her hand back. Fast.

“Right,” she said aloud, voice too loud in the quiet room. “That’s enough for today.”

She scrubbed her hands at the wash basin and left the lab. The hallway felt darker than usual, though the sconces burned with the same enchanted flame as always. She walked the length of the manor toward the eastern wing, past portraits that no longer seemed to meet her eyes.

When she reached the kitchen, the Daily Prophet was already laid out at the table, its front page brimming with boring stories: a Gringotts security breach, a new cauldron thickness regulation, a Ministry-approved recipe for heat-resistant Ice Mice.

But halfway through the paper, on page five, her breath caught.

“Magical Retailer Transferred to Custody Pending Investigation”

Arden leaned in.

Iona Ollerton. Diagon Alley. A familiar name. She owned a tiny shop that specializes in magical inks and quills. Arden had stopped by twice—once to buy basilisk ink for a fourth-year History of Magic project and again to ask if she had any ravenbone-tipped quills. Iona had been brisk, but kind. Half-blood, if Arden remembered right. Didn’t flaunt it.

Now she was gone.

“Transferred to custody,” Arden whispered, and looked up just as Aros entered the room.

He poured himself tea without a word.

“She’s gone,” Arden said quietly. “Iona. From the alley.”

“I saw,” he said.

Arden’s fingers tightened around the paper. “She wasn’t political. She wasn’t even powerful.”

“No. But she wasn’t pure,” Aros replied, almost absently. He didn’t sit. He sipped his tea while standing near the fireplace, his eyes distant.

“They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

He didn’t answer.

After a long moment, he stepped forward, took the paper gently from her hands, and tossed it into the fireplace.

Flames swallowed it with a whoosh of blue. The edges curled, ink bleeding like veins in snow.

“They want us to stop remembering them,” Aros said finally, his voice low. “So they bury the names in silence. Burn them like old pages. If no one remembers, then it’s as if they were never here.”

Arden stared at the fire until it faded to coals.

A crack opened in her chest then. Small, but real. Not grief exactly— grief came later . This was something colder. Something like understanding.

Arden wandered the estate that afternoon with no real direction. Her feet found old paths in the overgrown garden behind the greenhouses—places where ivy had overtaken statues of forgotten relatives, and moonshade lilies bloomed even in daylight.

It was too quiet. Always too quiet lately.

She passed beneath a crumbling arch of flowering creepers and paused beside a dry fountain whose basin had cracked in the winter freeze years ago. She remembered being five years old, dipping her fingers into that fountain’s silver-clean water while her mother told stories of witches who could charm the rain. Now it held only leaves, dust, and silence.

Aros had barely spoken since breakfast. She could hear him sometimes, his footsteps overhead, but even those had a strange rhythm now—as if he were walking in circles.

Something was happening to him. Slowly, like paper yellowing from age.

She sat on the edge of the fountain and picked at the hem of her sleeve.

It hadn’t always been like this.

The first time she walked into the Slytherin common room as a first-year, Arden had expected to feel powerful. Instead, she’d felt watched . Judged. Not by the other students—they were mostly polite in that distant, sharp way pureblood children learned from their parents—but by the room itself. The stones. The lake water pressing against the green-glass windows.

She remembered the Sorting Hat pressing into her thoughts:

  “ You crave mastery. You crave truth. But do you have the stomach for it? ”

She hadn’t answered. She’d just waited.

Slytherin , it said finally. Not with warmth, but with certainty.

Her parents hadn’t been surprised. Her father had only smiled softly and said, “Now you’ll see what they won’t teach you in books.”

And he’d been right. At Hogwarts, Arden learned that ambition was a sword and a shield both. She also learned how to wield hers without drawing blood. Most of the time.

But it had never felt simple.

The pureblood children who paraded around with signet rings and surnames like Mulciber and Rosier—she wasn't like them. Not really. Her father had taught her to question things, to prize knowledge for its own sake. But that made her suspicious too. Someone who didn’t quite belong to the light or the dark.

A child raised to play the game without ever agreeing to the rules.

But now it seemed the game was changing.

“Blood has become the only credential that matters,” her father had said that morning.

Arden had seen the way he’d held the Prophet too long before burning it. The hesitation in his fingers. The line in his brow that hadn’t been there a month ago. He was scared.

Not just of losing colleagues or friends.

Of being next.

She leaned back on her hands and stared up at the clouds moving across the summer sky like gauze pulled slow across glass.

How much longer could they stay here, pretending they were safe?

She didn’t know.

That evening, she returned to the lab.

The potion was still there, still simmering. Its sheen had dulled, but it was no less strange. When she passed her wand over it in a standard diagnostic loop, the spell rippled off the surface like water over oil.

Aros’s notes remained scattered across the desk, some charmed to blur the words when she looked directly at them. A line she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye in a page margin:

If memory lives in the soul, and the soul can be suspended, then perhaps we do not need to move forward to preserve life. Perhaps we need only hold still.

She didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.

On the shelf above the cauldron sat a glass jar filled with thick, green-blue liquid. Floating inside was something bulbous and slightly curled—like a root, or maybe a gland. She wasn’t sure when her father had put it there.

Or what it was.

The air smelled different now. Less like ingredients, more like waiting.

She turned toward the door—and paused.

Aros stood in the hall, watching her. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he said softly.

“You used to let me work with you all the time.”

He nodded once, but didn’t move. His eyes were strange—tired, yes, but not just from lack of sleep. Something behind them looked fractured . As if he were keeping too many thoughts inside and they were starting to press against his skull.

“Some potions,” he said, “grow more sensitive as they age. They learn the room. They begin to respond to intent.”

“You mean they become sentient?”

“No.” Aros stepped closer. “But they remember. Especially those that deal with soul or time. Magic leaves an imprint. So does grief. So does fear.”

Arden’s mouth was dry. “So what does this one remember?”

Her father looked at the cauldron. His jaw tensed.

“Things I may not be able to forget,” he said.

Then he turned and left the room, and Arden stood there alone, the potion simmering behind her like it was breathing through someone else’s lungs.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was not without its disturbances.

The dream began with the familiar scent of her father’s lab—a mixture of dry herbs and nearly melted candlesticks. But the space was different now, vast and dark, the shelves lined with unfamiliar, ancient-looking texts. Her father was there, though he seemed younger, his face less worn by the years. He beckoned to her, his smile warm but somehow distant.

“Arden,” he called softly, his voice echoing through the labyrinthine room. “Come, let me tell you a story.”

And so she followed him, though she felt a sense of growing unease, as though the ground beneath her was magnetic, pulling her in two directions. They arrived at a large, old book—a tome whose pages seemed to glow faintly with some unspoken dark magic. He opened it, revealing illustrations of a mighty king, a man with dark eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Her father’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This is the story of Gilgamesh, a king who sought the secret to eternal life.”

Arden leaned in, captivated. The illustrations on the page shifted, and now she saw Gilgamesh—tall, proud, and determined—standing on the edge of a vast, endless, angry sea. In the distance, there was an island, and on it, a figure stood alone: Utnapishtim, the one who had once survived the flood and been granted immortality by the gods.

“Gilgamesh was brave,” her father’s voice continued, “and he set out to find Utnapishtim. He journeyed for days, across mountains and deserts, to reach the one man who held the secret of life’s true continuation.”

The dream twisted then, and Arden was no longer in her father’s lab, but standing beside Gilgamesh on the shores of a silent, dark ocean. The waves lapped at her feet, cold and unfeeling. They gazed out toward the island where Utnapishtim awaited.

“Tell me, father,” Arden asked, her voice softer than she intended. “What did Gilgamesh find? What was the secret?”

Her father smiled at her, but it was a smile laced with sadness. “He found the plant that grants eternal life, yes. But like all things precious, it was fleeting.”

Suddenly, the dream shifted again. Arden was standing alone, watching as Gilgamesh dove into the waters, his strong arms cutting through the waves as he reached for the plant at the bottom of the sea. The water was dark, the depths impossibly deep, but Gilgamesh was undeterred. He found the plant—its glowing green roots curling around the stones on the ocean floor—and he held it triumphantly in his hands.

But before he could return to the shore, something moved in the water. A serpent, long and sleek, with eyes like burning coals, rose from the depths. It lunged forward and, with a single swipe, stole the plant from Gilgamesh’s grasp.

“The snake came up silently and stole it away back to his hole, where he ate it. After he had eaten this magical plant, the snake felt rather strange. His old wrinkly skin began to feel loose and crumbly. Soon he slivered out of it and wriggled away wearing his new, shiny, youthful skin.”

“Gilgamesh had lost it,” her father’s voice whispered, echoing in the vast, dark sea. “The plant that could have given him immortality. Taken by a serpent, lost to the depths.”

Arden reached out as if to stop the serpent, but her hand passed through the vision like smoke, leaving her helpless. She turned to her father for answers, but he was gone. The dreamscape began to dissolve into mist, the distant sound of the serpent’s hiss still echoing in her ears.

“Father!” she called, but no answer came.

“To what end did I make this long and weary journey? For what purpose have I suffered? I have not gained anything. No advantage at all. I have won and lost the secret of youth and now I am no better off at all than I was before. Old age and death still await me. One day I shall turn to clay just like all other men. What is the point of it all?”

Chapter Text

chapter three: house on a hill

but the children are doing fine, i think about them all the time

The dress had once belonged to her mother.

It hung in the wardrobe like a ghost, pale yellow and delicate, catching the dimming afternoon light with the softness of candle wax. Arden had never worn it before. She hadn’t dared. But tonight was different. Tonight, she would walk into the snake’s den wearing the warm rays of sunshine and silk.

Tonight was the Summer Solstice Gala.

She pulled the dress over her head slowly, careful not to tug at the seams. The fabric was nearly weightless, and yet it carried the insurmountable gravity of memory. There had been a time when her mother had danced in this dress—she had seen the photographs, black-and-white things enchanted with magic, making her mother’s laugh replay on loop. Her mother’s eyes had sparkled in them. Arden wasn’t sure if her own would do the same.

She sat before her mirror, brushing her auburn hair with mechanical precision, her movements muted by the heavy silence of the house. Fawley Manor always felt quiet, but tonight it was the kind of silence that pressed in, as though waiting for something to break.

A gentle knock on the door. Her father entered without waiting.

Aros Fawley looked tired. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened over the last week, and his hair—once immaculately combed—stood slightly mussed at the sides, looking like the mad potioneer Arden lovingly joked that he was. But his gaze softened when it landed on her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but certain. “You look exactly like your mother.”

Arden gave a small, appreciative smile and turned slightly in the mirror, looking over her profile. “It feels strange,” she admitted. “Wearing something of hers.”

“Strange is not always unwelcome,” he said, stepping closer. “Sometimes it means you are stepping into something larger than yourself.”

She stood and faced him. “You’re sure you won’t come?”

Aros hesitated. Just for a breath. But in that pause was everything: fatigue, fear, knowledge left unspoken.

“I’m sure,” he said finally. “They expect to see strength from our family. You’ll show them that. Appearances matter, especially now.”

“But it’s the Rosiers,” Arden pressed. “What will I say to them?”

He held up a hand, gently. “You’re clever, my girl. Cleverer than they know. And besides—” He reached into his robes and pulled out a slender golden chain, dangling a tiny glass vial.

Arden took it in her hands. Inside the vial was a shimmer of gold, suspended in something the color of amber. It glowed faintly when she touched it, as though responding to her skin.

“For luck?” she asked.

“For protection,” he said. “It’s a binding charm. Experimental, but stable. It will resonate in the presence of intense magic—intentional or otherwise.”

“Like a warning?”

“Exactly.”

She fastened it around her neck. The vial settled just above her sternum, warm against her skin.

Aros looked at her for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, a sadness tucked behind his usual restraint.

“If anyone asks after me,” he said, “tell them I’ve taken ill. Let them believe what they will. But remember this—”

He reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Power is just a mirror, Arden. It reflects what’s already there. Never let them use it to show you someone you are not.”

Arden nodded, unsure whether to feel comforted or frightened by his words. She left the room a few minutes later, cloak over her shoulders, the yellow silk trailing like candlelight behind her.

The vial at her throat pulsed once, almost imperceptibly.

She did not see her father watching from the window as the thestral carriage disappeared into the dusk.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The Rosier estate rose like a mausoleum from the Wiltshire hills, veiled in ancient wards and shadows. Carriages lined the long gravel drive like dark beetles, their magical enchantments glimmering in the twilight. At the top of the winding stone steps, flickering green-blue torches cast strange shadows on the marble façade—torches that never went out, even in storm or siege. It was all choreographed elegance.

Arden stepped out of the Fawley carriage alone.

Her yellow dress floated just above the ground, catching the torchlight like morning sun through a stained-glass window. It made her feel both visible and vulnerable—like a singular flame in an inky ichor of night. Her footsteps echoed up the stairs, each one a measured drumbeat against her ribs.

Inside, the Rosier manor was even colder than she remembered.

The ballroom ceiling disappeared into darkness, impossibly high, as if the stars had been invited to dance too. Floating vines coiled from the chandeliers, shedding petals of liquid gold. A quartet played midair, their instruments levitating alongside them, strings singing a waltz older than any country.

And everywhere: elegance weaponized. Robes embroidered with diamonds and pearls, eyes lined with kohl and cruelty, conversation dripping with austere legacy. 

At the top of the entryway stairs stood Abraxas Malfoy, poised like an avaricious king and smirking like a man who knew the game was already won.

“Miss Fawley,” he greeted, offering a shallow bow. “The Fawley line sends its heiress. How... modern of you. I do hope your father’s absence isn’t a statement.”

Arden smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “He’s been unwell. But we Fawleys make a point of honoring tradition—even when others falter.”

Abraxas’s eyes glinted. “How very dutiful of you.”

He offered no arm, no invitation, just a dismissive flick of his gaze as he turned back toward the ballroom. Arden stepped past him and into the throng.

She recognized nearly everyone. The Lestrange brothers, Rabastan and Rodolphus stood by the hearth, speaking in low tones.  Lucius Malfoy stalked through the crowd with surgical precision, drifting between conversations like a hot knife slicing butter. Walburga Black, regal and rigid in deep obsidian robes, watched the room like a hawk in a glass cage. Her son, Regulus, quiet and perfectly still, stood obediently beside his mother, every inch the portrait of a son born into expectation.

And—

Across the room, near the drinks table, Sirius Black.

He wore his robes like armor, black on black with just a thread of House silver. His hair was unbound, falling past his shoulders, his posture all tension beneath the pretense of ease. A glass of firewhisky in hand. A scowl that didn’t fade even when he laughed at something his Uncle Alphard murmured.

He met Arden’s gaze across the ballroom.

Then he looked away. Almost bored.

Arden drifted through the crowd, catching conversation fragments as sharp as broken glass.

“Boot family vanished. Nothing in the Prophet, of course.”

“I hear the Lestranges are preparing a... contribution. To the cause.”

“Did you see who the Minister’s assistant brought? Another half-blood, can you believe—”

She excused herself from Narcissa and the other Slytherin girls as soon as she could. The backhanded compliments and wine-sweet gossip tasted like poison in her mouth. While she could usually strike up a genuine conversation with these girls, tonight Arden lacked the energy to smile and simper. 

Arden wove her way through the crowd, collecting compliments and comments like burrs. She offered nods, brief replies. Yes, it’s my mother’s. Thank you, he’s doing better. Oh, you know, potions—always something brewing.

She found the drinks table and exhaled, more for distance than thirst.

“Thought you’d never get here, Fawley.”

The voice came from her left, lazy and sharp. She turned.

Sirius Black leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. His dress robes were rumpled at the collar, shirt half-unbuttoned like he’d made an attempt at decency and given up halfway through, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing ink-stained wrists and a contempt for the occasion. His hair was damp at the neck, like he’d run wet hands through it in some last-minute attempt to look presentable. It hadn’t worked. He looked rakish and out of place. Like a wild animal let loose in a glass menagerie. 

Their eyes locked again—longer this time.

He pushed off the edge of the table and walked over, a predator without purpose, all restless energy and quiet mockery. 

She arched a brow. “Black.”

He raised his glass in salute. “You look thrilled to be here,” he said.

“I am,” she deadpanned. “Nothing I love more than being surrounded by pureblood supremacists with god complexes and family vaults.”

He gave a low laugh, quick and sharp. “Careful, Fawley. They might accuse you of critical thinking.”

“Or worse,” she said, casting a glance at the dance floor. “Try to marry me off to Evan Rosier.”

He winced theatrically. “Merlin. Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I’d set myself on fire first.”

“You’d make a very elegant pyre.”

“You’d roast a marshmallow over it.”

“Only the finest, hand-enchanted ones from Fortescue’s,” he said easily.

She shook her head, dry amusement tugging at her mouth.

“You clean up well,” she said, tone glacial. “By which I mean you look like you dressed in the dark and argued with your mirror.”

“Don’t let the dishevelment fool you,” he said, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m here under duress.”

“Parents drag you in on a leash?”

“Only on Wednesdays. This is my free night.”

“How liberating.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“A warning.”

He grinned again. “Even better.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the music from the ballroom distant and tinny through the thick doors. Arden swirled the amber in her glass. Sirius’s gaze dipped, briefly, to the strange little vial glowing faintly at her neck.

“Charming necklace,” he said.

“Family heirloom,” she replied coolly. “It glows in the presence of bullshit.”

He barked a laugh.

“I’d say it’s broken,” he said, taking a sip. “It should be blinding right now.”

Arden smirked. “Oh, it is. I’m just used to it.”

His smile lingered, a little lopsided now.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head, “I always thought Fawleys were the polite sort. Polished. Predictable. A bit too boring for my taste if you ask me.”

Arden took a long, unhurried sip of her drink, eyes never leaving his. “We prefer precision to spectacle. But if I were the family embarrassment, I suppose I’d favor theatrics too.”

That hit home. His smile faltered for the briefest moment—then rebounded, thinner and sharper.

“Touché.”

“Well, Black. I’d say it’s been a pleasure,” Arden said, breaking the moment as she drained her glass, “but I haven’t lied yet today.”

She turned to go, heels clicking against polished stone, then hesitated.

“You might want to button up,” she added over her shoulder. “There are impressionable minds about.”

She turned before he could reply, letting the brush of her silk skirts serve as punctuation.

He watched her go.

She didn’t look back—but she felt the heat of his gaze like a second drink in her bloodstream, warm and slightly disorienting. 

Instead, Arden slipped further away from the ballroom without a word.

The deeper she wandered into Rosier Manor, the quieter everything became.

Gone were the gilded chandeliers and enchanted vines of the gala. The corridors she entered now were older—less polished, less welcoming. The walls were clad in green-black paneling that glimmered faintly under dim torches, the sconces shaped like serpents winding around bones. Painted portraits lined the halls, most of them Rosier ancestors with narrowed eyes and contemptuous mouths. Their subjects did not pretend to sleep. One muttered something in French under its breath as she passed, another hummed a slow, discordant lullaby that made the skin at the back of her neck prickle.

She moved silently on the hardwood floors.

Arden paused at a window recess and looked out into the garden. Moonlight spilled across neatly trimmed hedges shaped like mythological beasts. A albino peacock stared up at her with glowing eyes. Even the gardens felt like they were watching.

She turned and kept walking.

The further she went, the more distant the sound of music became. Her shoes whispered over the rugless floor. A breeze curled through the hallway, though there were no open windows.

At one point, she passed an open door leading to what looked like a trophy room: dozens of mounted heads—some magical beasts, some disturbingly humanoid. A banshee’s shriek had been preserved in a crystal vial on a velvet pedestal. Arden’s stomach turned.

This was the true heart of the Rosier estate. Not the ballroom. Not the garden. This—these walls of secrets and ancient bloodlust—was the essence of the family.

She didn’t know why she kept walking. Maybe it was the way Sirius had looked at her—challenging, appraising. Maybe it was something in her father’s voice before she left, the shadow beneath his compliment. Maybe it was the way the vial at her throat pulsed faintly, warm against her collarbone, as if warning:

Pay attention.

She rounded a final corner and froze.

A tapestry to her left depicted a serpent wrapped around a dying tree, its roots bleeding into the earth. Beneath it, a door sat slightly ajar, golden light spilling out across the cold stone floor.

Voices murmured beyond it—low, tense, unmistakably male.

She hesitated.

Her heart ticked faster.

Then, she heard one voice she knew.

Abraxas Malfoy.

Sharp-edged. Angry.

Another voice answered, calmer.

And then a third—older, smooth as silk and twice as cold.

Her hand rose, hovering above the stone wall beside her for balance. She edged closer, careful not to let her shadow cross the light.

Inside the study, the real party had begun.

Chapter Text

chapter four: turning gold

life is an ending, starting in the womb

The door was cracked just enough to let light spill across the corridor—a warm amber glow that made the surrounding stone look colder by contrast. Arden pressed herself close to the wall, her breath shallow. The candle sconces along the hall flickered low, as if they too were listening.

Inside, the room was dim, its fire-fed glow casting flickering shadows against the heavy bookshelves and gleaming decanters. Smoke curled lazily beneath the chandelier, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and aged scotch. Abraxas Malfoy, unmistakable, leaned against the fireplace mantel. Beside him was Cygnus Black, his voice the one Arden had recognized first—clipped and smooth, like a blade being honed. Gareth Rosier sat with his hands folded over a table of ivory and iron, not speaking much, but nodding often.

Arden narrowed her eyes and leaned closer.

“—I’m only saying,” Abraxas was saying, “that the Ministry is more malleable than most believe. Resources shift hands easily when the paperwork is sponsored by the right name.”

“Of course they are,” Cygnus replied. “Gold speaks louder than blood these days—but not for long.”

Walburga Black stepped into view then, cutting a sharp figure in her mourning-colored gown. She poured herself a drink from the sideboard as if this were a parlor game, not a gathering of conspirators.

“We are close,” she said, swirling the liquid in her glass. “The Dark Lord’s efforts are... focused. The message is spreading. And those who resist it will soon find themselves without protection.”

“Even inside the Ministry?” Rosier senior questioned.

Walburga’s smile was like frost on a grave. “Especially inside.”

Arden’s blood chilled.

“The Department is already tilting,” Abraxas was saying, his tone casual and dangerous. “A few more key positions, and we’ll have sway over the enforcement guidelines. Blood status will be part of every magical registry.”

Rabastan Lestrange grunted. “It’s about time.”

“Quiet work requires loyal people,” Cygnus added, looking to Walburga.

“Loyalty,” she repeated, her tone rich with irony. “A quality lacking in far too many sons.”

Arden felt the words strike like a lash across the threshold. 

“The Dark Lord wants them young. Molded early. Conditioned before sentiment takes root.”

“How very... thorough,” murmured Gareth Rosier, lifting a glass to his lips. His tone held amusement, but not derision.

“About time,” said Rabastan Lestrange from his seat by the fire. He looked the youngest of them, his posture half-reclined, his smile wolfish. “We waste too much time correcting soft minds. Better to catch them clean.”

“They’re still children,” Cygnus Black said, though without conviction. “Seventeen-year-olds, barely out of school.”

“Seventeen-year-old with familial paths to uphold,” Walburga snapped. “And mine are already forged. My Regulus is disciplined. He knows what’s expected.”

“And your elder son?” asked Rodolphus lazily.

Walburga’s lips curled. “Sirius is... willful. Too long under that old fool Dumbledore’s influence. But even granite breaks under enough pressure.”

Gareth chuckled. “You always were the optimist, Walburga.”

“He’ll learn loyalty,” she said coldly. “Or he’ll be discarded.”

Silence followed, heavy and deliberate.

“Speaking of loyalty,” Abraxas said, setting his drink on the table, “we need to begin naming names. Those we can count on, those who may need… persuasion.”

“My son is ready,” said Gareth. “He understands the necessity of sacrifice.”

“As does mine,” added Abraxas. “Lucius knows where the future lies.”

“And what of Mulciber, Travers, Nott?” Cygnus asked. “That Snape boy?”

“They’ll fall in line,” said Rodolphus. “They always do.”

A pause. A sip of something dark. And then—

“What about the Fawley girl?”

Arden’s heart turned to ice.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“She’s clever,” Rabastan said. “Too clever, maybe. The quiet ones always are. And potions—real potions, not classroom nonsense—that requires vision.”

“Talent runs in that family,” said Walburga. “Aros Fawley could brew gold from sand, if the stories are true.”

“He doesn’t waste time on politics,” Gareth added. “Too focused on his work.”

“All the better,” Abraxas said coolly. ““The Dark Lord doesn’t ask for full allegiance—not yet. He asks for a show of intent. Willingness to see beyond outdated sentimentalities. Willingness to preserve strength where it still exists. The Dark Lord respects minds with purpose. He knows how to bend them.”

“And if he doesn’t bend?” asked Cygnus.

Abraxas’s reply was quiet and chilling. “Then he’ll break. One way or another, I’m sure he can be persuaded.”

Arden’s fingers closed around the charm at her neck—her father’s parting gift. The vial beneath its crystal casing pulsed faintly against her chest, warm and alert.

“She has a natural instinct,” Rabastan continued. “Like she was born to it. That kind of intuition can’t be taught.”

“Intuition,” Walburga repeated with a little sniff. “Or treachery. One often disguises the other.”

“I wouldn’t mind finding out,” Rodolphus said with a slow, unsettling grin.

Arden forced herself not to move, not to breathe.

“What does she know?” asked Cygnus. “About her father’s research?”

“Nothing useful, I’m sure.” Gareth said.

“Mm,” Abraxas hummed. “Still. If the girl is even half what he is, she’ll be valuable. Loyal, if groomed correctly. Dangerous, if not.”

There was a shift in the room’s energy then—like the slow turning of a blade.

“We give our oaths, our loyalty,” he continued, “and in return, we become the architects of a new world. One free of the rot Dumbledore spreads. One with order.”

“We are the bloodline,” Walburga said. “The foundation.”

“The future,” Gareth added.

Rudolphus’s lip curled. “It’s evolution. We’re restoring order to chaos.”

“Upholding the legacy,” whispered Rabastan, almost reverently.

Arden hadn’t realized her hands were shaking.

She backed away from the door slowly, one footstep at a time. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears—so loud she didn’t hear the click of a heel until she collided with someone behind her.

A hand caught her wrist.

She froze.

Bellatrix.

Dark eyes locked with hers, wide with amusement.

“What have we here?” Bellatrix whispered, mockingly. “A little moth wandering too close to the flame?”

Arden yanked her arm back. “I got lost.”

“Did you?” Bellatrix leaned closer, her breath tinged heavy with the odor of wine. “I don't think that's true. You’re always slinking around, little Fawley. Always listening to things that don't concern you.”

“I suggest you find your way back to the ballroom,” Arden said coolly, stepping past her.

“Oh,” Bellatrix called after her, voice lilting and sharp. “I’ll see you there, little moth.”

Arden slipped through the dark corridors like a shadow unspooling, her heart still hammering from what she’d overheard. The halls of Rosier Manor suddenly felt less like a gathering place and more like a trap. Her father had been right not to come. Whatever was happening behind closed doors wasn’t just politics—it was preparation. Recruitment. Maybe even war.

Arden’s heels echoed too loudly on the ancient stone.

The music from the ballroom was muffled now, fading with every step she took down the narrow, twisting corridor. Shadows gathered here in long-limbed stretches, clinging to the archways and wood-paneling like vines. The air grew cooler, damper, smelling of lavender long since wilted and something older—dust, ink, wax.

She didn’t know this part of the manor.

The tapestries had faded. The sconces flickered low. These halls hadn’t been meant for guests, or if they were, only the dead ones. She turned left, then right, gripping the charm at her neck, trying to find a way back toward light, toward noise, toward anything familiar.

Her mind raced.

She stopped at a fork in the corridor, chest heaving, and leaned against the cold wall. Somewhere behind her, laughter drifted faintly—a man’s voice, high and sharp. It twisted her stomach.

And then, as if conjured by smoke and arrogance—

A voice behind her broke the quiet.

“Either you’re lost, or this party just got a lot more interesting.”

She spun around.

Sirius Black leaned against the wall across from her, half in shadow, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His jacket was unbuttoned, collar loose, the tie long abandoned. His smile was crooked and irritatingly handsome.

She blinked. “How—how long have you been there?”

“Long enough to see you flee like a bloody ghost.” He arched a brow. 

Her fingers tightened around the vial at her neck. “Get out of my way, Black.”

“Touchy.” He straightened, but didn’t move. “Thought Slytherins liked to slink around in dark corridors.”

Arden stepped past him, but the sharp clack of footsteps on stone turned both their heads.

Closer. Nearing.

Panic surged.

Without thinking, she grabbed Sirius by the wrist and yanked him toward a door set into the stone. She twisted the handle—it gave—and shoved them both inside just as a shadow flickered past the corridor outside.

The room was a library, or perhaps a study. It smelled of cedar and forgotten ink. Stained glass filtered moonlight across ancient books and high-backed chairs.

They listened. Outside, the voices passed: Abraxas. Gareth Rosier. Rabastan. The laughter was brittle, unkind.

Arden didn’t move until the echoes faded.

Sirius exhaled a soft laugh. “Well, this is cozy.”

Arden’s hand was still on his arm.

She let go.

He turned to her, voice low and amused. “Are we hiding from your betrothed? Did you accidentally promise yourself to a Mulciber?”

She gave him a look that would’ve sliced through silver.

Still, he leaned against a shelf, unabashed. “Or was it just the irresistible urge to drag me into dark rooms?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered.

He turned toward her, speaking softly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were running from something.”

She didn’t answer.

Sirius raised the cigarette to his mouth.

Arden stepped forward and took it from his lips without hesitation.

She inhaled once, sharply, like she needed the nicotine to keep her upright. She didn’t cough. Smoke curled from her mouth as she gracefully exhaled and lazily handed the cigarette back to him.

He took it without a word, sharp gaze fixed on her like she’d suddenly become a puzzle worth solving.

She stepped around him, already reaching for the door.

“Don’t follow me,” she said.

“I’d like to see you try stopping me.”

But she was gone before he could decide whether he meant it.

Sirius stood in the library alone, smoke threading between his fingers and the ghost of her touch still buzzing in the quiet.

No one had questioned her. Arden didn’t give them the chance. She had slipped away the moment she descended the staircase, hidden amongst shadows, her yellow skirts whispering over the stone like a ghost. 

She only knew that something irreversible had happened.

She rode home in the Fawley carriage alone, the silence pressing down on her like an insurmountable weight. Her father had sent a note with the driver: Hope the evening was illuminating. No more than that. No questions. No mention of the Blacks.

When Arden climbed up the spiral staircase to her bedroom and finally crawled into her bed, she didn’t sleep.

Not truly.

Not until the dream came.

The sea was not a sea anymore. It was like  ink—black, endless, and still. Arden stood barefoot on the edge of a crumbling stone platform, high above the shifting waters. The sky was flat, starless, pressing down on her until she couldn’t breathe. Wind howled through broken pillars behind her—ruins of something old, something sacred now left defiled.

She was not alone.

To her right stood Gilgamesh, not as he’d been in the storybook her father once held open—but twisted. Ghoul-like. His once-proud face was hollowed, eyes sunken like burnt-out stars. His hands were cracked, bleeding, cradling something wrapped in cloth.

“Did you find it?” Arden whispered.

Gilgamesh nodded. The cloth unspooled in his hands.

Inside: not a plant, but a crystal vial, almost identical to the one she wore around her neck. It pulsed faintly—green, alive.

Arden reached toward it—

A serpent rose from the depths below.

But not just a mythical beast. Its body was made of shifting faces—men in masks, women with dead eyes, boys barely grown. Their mouths opened and closed in silent screams. One of them looked like Regulus. Another wore her father’s face.

The serpent coiled through the air, its body endless.

Gilgamesh turned to Arden. “They crave it. They’ll always want it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because they believe they are gods.”

He thrust the vial toward her.

“Take it,” he said. “Before they come.”

Arden hesitated.

Behind her, she heard voices—Abraxas’s cruelty, Walburga’s fury, Sirius’s defiance.

“But they’re watching,” she whispered. “They’re already here.”

Gilgamesh began to decay before her eyes—skin flaking, hair graying, bones turning to ash in the wind.

“Take it,” he repeated, “but do not drink. Not yet. The price has not been named.”

The serpent struck.

Arden screamed—but this time, no sound came at all.

Just silence.

And the distant hiss of a voice not her own whispering:

You were meant to carry this.

Chapter Text

chapter five: standing at the wall

we were young, with no memories to weigh us down, and life was fun

Arden woke with her sheets tangled around her legs, her skin damp, her breath short. 

Her dream wasn’t just a myth. Not anymore.

She rose from bed and pulled on her silk robe, feet silent on the wooden floorboards of the Fawley estate. Her window overlooked the southern greenhouse. Moonlight still glinted off the glass panes. Down below, she could just make out the faint blue glow of potionwork, still flickering in the night.

Her breath caught as she reached out for the wooden door handle, hesitating as her hand gripped the knob.

But her courage faded and she turned back towards her bedroom, the dim underneath the door drifting away like a lost beacon.

The laboratory smelled of crushed herbs and copper.

Arden held the stirrer steady, watching as the elixir shimmered violet in the cauldron's belly. The heat in the room was stifling despite the open windows, sunlight pouring in over racks of dried ingredients and worn journals. Her father moved like a shadow behind her, silent save for the occasional rustle of parchment or the creak of old floorboards beneath his slippers.

He had asked her about the soiree, offhandedly as he rummaged around the cupboards for some hidden ingredient. Arden moved towards the counter, absently brushing dust off a clean cauldron. “You didn’t miss much. Garden full of thorns.”

He chuckled. “Very poetic.”

They lapsed into silence.

Arden wanted to speak—to tell him what she’d heard, what she’d seen. But the words clung to her throat, stubborn as dried blood.

It had been nearly two weeks since the Rosier solstice party, and Arden had not told her father what she’d overheard.

Not about the Dark Lord’s recruitment. Not about the whispers of the pureblood men who had spoken of loyalty and obedience like currency. About the threat that hung in the air like smoke.

He will be persuaded. One way or another.

Arden had no intention of giving that threat weight by confirming it aloud. She told herself it was to protect him, but part of her knew the truth: it wouldn’t have made a difference. Instead, she watched her father work with increasing intensity, each day folding him deeper into silence, into parchment scrawled with alchemical theory, into the slow and sacred work of brewing something too complex for her to name.With every passing day, Aros Fawley seemed to retreat further into the depths of his work, as if the walls of his mind were pulling inward, shutting out the world.

Aros moved through the space like a ghost, parchment rustling, ink blotting, muttering half-formed thoughts to himself. His hair had grown unruly. His robes hung looser on his frame. There were circles beneath his eyes that even Arden’s strongest balm couldn’t hide.

He barely looked at her anymore.

She told herself she didn’t want to worry him.

The truth was, she didn’t know if he’d listen.

"Seventy-two rotations clockwise," he murmured. "Then let it rest. No more than seven seconds."

“I know,” she said tightly, stirring anyway. Counting under her breath.

Aros Fawley didn’t respond. He was leaning over the workbench now, scribbling notes into the margin of a leather-bound volume so worn the spine was nearly dust. Arden recognized the pattern. He wasn’t really writing—just thinking, using ink to quiet the noise in his mind.

“Six...seven.”

The potion stilled. For a moment it looked perfect—clear and glassy—but then it rippled, and the silver sheen vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Arden exhaled sharply.

“Again,” he said. “It’s not right.”

Her shoulders tensed. “It changed.”

“Too early. It’s not stable yet.” He didn’t look up from the page. “Again.”

She fought the urge to argue. Instead, she reached for the clean cauldron beside it and started over, her fingers moving automatically: fluxweed, asphodel, powdered onyx, two drops of nightshade extract.

Again, they measured.

Again, they stirred.

Again, the potion refused to settle.

Above them, the windows were open, but no breeze touched the room. Sunlight pooled on the floor, but the lab felt cold. Stale. Like it existed outside of time.

She added the final petal to the simmering brew. Waited for the reaction.

This time, it bubbled pink, then gold, then went flat.

She slammed the ladle down on the counter.

“I don’t understand,” she said, breath sharp. “We follow the same process every time. You say nothing changes, but it always fails. What am I missing?”

Aros didn’t look up from his notes.

“Again,” he said.

“No,” she snapped.

Aros didn’t answer. He was still bent over the same book, quill dragging a line through a diagram like he meant to carve through the parchment.

She watched him a moment longer, jaw tightening.

“I mean it,” she said. “You won’t tell me what this is for. You won’t tell me what we’re trying to make. You barely sleep. You barely eat. And you’re acting like—”

His hand twitched over the parchment. He stared at the inkblot spreading like a wound.

“This is bigger than either of us,” he said quietly. “It’s not about now. It’s about what comes after.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not asking questions,” he replied.

Arden stared at him.

“You brought me into this. You asked me to help. And I’ve done everything you’ve asked—without knowing what we’re making or why .”

“Because knowing would make you a liability,” Aros said, voice sharper now. “Because knowledge draws attention. And attention is dangerous.”

She took a step toward him. “Do you even trust me?”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Silence.

She could feel her pulse thudding in her throat. The weight of all the unspoken things between them—Grief. Fear. Whatever this potion was supposed to be.

“You don’t sleep,” she said. “You talk to yourself. You’ve started burning your own notes. You flinch at owls, at the door, at every noise—”

“I said enough ,” he snapped.

The echo rang out too loud in the quiet room.

Arden flinched. Her father closed his eyes.

When he spoke next, it was quiet, resolved. But still, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “There are some truths you don’t come back from.” His hand strayed to the pendant he always wore beneath his shirt—a carved piece of obsidian, ancient magic etched into its surface.

“People have always chased permanence,” he murmured. “They make monsters of themselves to avoid endings. But if something were made to preserve—not the soul, not the body, but the moment —wouldn’t that be worth something?”

She felt chilled.

“What are you saying?”

But before he could reply, the door knocker rang through the house—sharp, deliberate.

They both turned.

Aros moved first—quick, precise, like he’d rehearsed it. Papers were swept into drawers, flasks vanished into hidden compartments behind the bookcases, and one particularly worn scroll was tossed directly into the fire.

“Go upstairs,” he said.

“I can—”

“Now, Arden.”

Aros crossed the room like he was moving through water, slow but precise. In one breath, he swept the nearest journal shut and shoved it into a cabinet beneath the bookshelf. Another followed. Then a satchel of dried bellroot. A sealed vial.

The last thing he did was erase the runes scrawled across the slate with a flick of his wand.

“Go upstairs,” he repeated.

Arden didn’t argue this time.

She swallowed whatever protest she had and slipped out of the laboratory, retreating toward the second-floor landing. She moved soundlessly to the landing, her back pressed to the wall as she peered through the banister.Through the arch below, she watched him pause at the mirror by the front door, adjust his collar, and school his expression into something neutral.

She moved soundlessly to the landing, her back pressed to the wall as she peered through the banister.

When her father opened the door, pale light filled the foyer—and with it, the figure of Abraxas Malfoy.

“Fawley,” the man said smoothly. “I thought I’d drop in. Been far too long.”

Arden’s stomach turned to lead.

“Abraxas,” Aros said carefully. “Yes. It’s been...a while.”

“You’ve missed a few functions. Ministerial gatherings, academic councils. I told the others, surely he must be working on something very important.”

“I’ve been preoccupied.”

“I do hope I’m not intruding,” came the reply, slick as oil. “I was in the area. Thought I might call on an old friend. You've been missed at the last few Ministry affairs.”

“My work keeps me busy.”

“Surely it does.” A faint pause. “Rumors always follow brilliance, don’t they?”

Arden’s hand tightened on the banister.

“I only mean,” Abraxas continued, “that some wonder if you’ve grown...distracted. We’re entering difficult times, Aros. Isolation makes people nervous. And nervous men ask questions.”

“I’m not difficult to find,” her father said evenly. “I’m exactly where I’ve always been.”

“So I see.” His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were sharp. “You’ve always been the quiet sort, Aros. Brilliant. Private. Admirable qualities... until they start to look like secrets.”

“I don’t have time for politics.”

“But politics makes time for you.” A pause. “And your daughter? She’s home, yes?”

“She’s upstairs.”

“Good,” Abraxas said, glancing around the entrance like he expected something to reveal itself. “Tell her hello for me. You know how invested we are in the next generation.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just reached forward and clasped Aros’s shoulder with too much familiarity, too much weight.

“Take care, old friend. These are days to choose wisely.”

And then he was gone.

The door shut with a click.

Arden didn’t breathe until her father leaned against it, forehead resting against the wood like it was the only thing holding him up.

Later, they ate dinner in near-silence.

The dining room was dim—Aros hadn’t bothered to light all the sconces, and shadows gathered thick in the corners. A single candelabra flickered between them, casting warped reflections in the silverware. The roast had gone cold, steam long since vanished. The gravy had congealed in its dish. Aros had prepared the meal absentmindedly, over-seasoned and undercooked; he’d always been precise in the kitchen before.

Arden pushed a limp spear of asparagus across her plate. The knife in her hand scraped the porcelain with a long, whining sound.

Across from her, her father sat stiffly, one hand clenched around his fork but barely eating. His other hand tapped against the table once, twice, again—thumb to knuckle, thumb to knuckle—until he realized he was doing it and stopped.

The silence wasn’t just heavy—it was charged. Like the air before a storm.

“You missed the Ministry gala again,” Arden said lightly, stabbing at her food. “People are probably preparing your obituary.”

Aros didn’t smile. “Let them.”

She glanced at him. His face looked older than it had three weeks ago—lined with the kind of tension that didn't sleep. His shirt collar was askew, and he hadn’t shaved. There were ink stains on his cuffs, and a smudge of ash just below one eye, like a bruise.

He sipped from a glass of wine he hadn't touched in years.

"Abraxas looked well," Arden said, watching him. "Smooth as ever."

His knife clinked against the edge of his plate.

“Snake in a velvet robe,” Aros muttered, more to himself than her. “He doesn’t come to call without a reason.”

“But you knew that.”

He didn’t answer.

They continued eating in silence. Or pretending to.

Aros glanced toward the window more than once, toward the hedgerows now cloaked in indigo and fog. Once, his hand darted to the inside pocket of his robe, as if checking something—papers, wand, a sigil. Arden couldn't tell.

She poured herself more water just to break the quiet. The pitcher thudded on the table.

“What did he want?” she asked finally.

Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it carefully, and said with forced calm, “Just to check on an old friend.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

“I think you mean: to remind you he’s still watching,” she said.

Aros set down his wine. His hand trembled slightly, betraying him.

“The world is changing, Arden. You’d do well to remember who survives those changes.”

She stared at him, her appetite gone. “I see,” she said. “And are we meant to survive or resist?”

A flicker of pain passed through his expression—but then, just as quickly, he closed it off. “Eat,” he said, quietly. “You need your strength.”

She stayed up late, waiting for him to say something. Ask something. But he retired early, muttering about new calculations and sore hands. His bedroom door closed with a quiet finality.

For the first time in days, Aros Fawley had gone to bed.

Hours later, Arden crept back down the stairs.

The manor slept like something ancient and uneasy—floorboards groaning beneath her feet, the long hallway sighing with drafts. Moonlight slipped through the tall windows in narrow, silver beams. Dust hung in the air, suspended like glittering threads in a spider’s web. Her father’s study door was closed, the crack beneath it dark.

She paused there, listening.

The lab smelled like petrichor and bloodroot.

She entered slowly, the air thick with magic. The potion still glowed faintly in its cauldron, despite no fire beneath it. The potion inside pulsed with a dim, living glow—violet at the center, bleeding outward to a greenish-gold. Its surface pulsed—soft, slow—like a heartbeat. The scent had shifted. Less ash, more clove and elderflower. 

She moved to the table. Much had been cleared away, but a few pages remained: scribbled margins, alchemical sigils, annotations in her father’s sharp, spidery script. She brushed her fingers across them.

One page stood out—its ink darker, fresher. Unlabeled. Just a sketch of a human heart, fractured down the middle, surrounded by arcane runes.

Arden stepped closer, arms wrapped tight around herself, eyes scanning the cluttered worktable.

Loose parchment curled at the edges. A quill long since dried. A cracked mortar, dusted with the remnants of something bone-colored. She sifted through the pile, her fingers careful, reverent. Alchemical charts. Potion matrices. Notations she half-recognized from his old texts.

And then—tucked beneath a glass stirring rod—she found it.

A note. Folded once, aged from handling. Not in her father’s usual neat script, but something looser. Desperate.

She opened it slowly.

If anything happens to me, it read, Arden knows what to do.

She read it twice, then a third time.

Her stomach turned cold.

Slowly, she looked up at the cauldron.

The potion’s surface stilled as if sensing her attention. Then, with no warning at all, it rippled toward her—just once. A tendril of movement that disturbed nothing around it. The glass bottles on the shelf didn’t shake. The air didn’t shift. But something in the potion responded to her gaze.

“Just a potion,” she murmured to herself, voice shaky. “Just a reaction.”

But it wasn’t.

Arden reached out instinctively—then stopped herself, hand hovering just above the liquid’s surface. But the potion reacted—it leaned toward her, like a flower toward the sun. As if it recognized her.

She yanked her hand back. Her breath caught.

She took a step back, heart thudding in her chest. The note slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the stone floor like a leaf.

It was aware of her.

And she wasn’t sure her father still was.

Chapter Text

chapter six: gateway drug

take off those nightmares and put your heart back on your sleeve

The tap tap tap of owl claws against glass was the first sound Sirius heard that morning.

He rolled over in bed, groggy and sweat-stuck to the sheets. Lazily brushing his hair from his eyes, he stared listlessly at the bikini-clad muggle model magically stuck to his ceiling, trying to come to terms with the state of his dreary life. 

Another sleepless night. Another dream of emerald velvet-draped halls and hushed voices speaking in cryptic half-sentences.

A loud screech cut the air. It seemed the owl was impatient.

He dragged himself to the window and unlatched it. Two envelopes dropped to the floor with a flutter of cream parchment—one addressed in green ink to Mr. Sirius O. Black , the other to Mr. Regulus A. Black .

Hogwarts letters.

The owl nipped at Sirius’s fingers as he tried to give it a polite pat. Hissing in pain, he shooed the owl back out the window, feeling a pang of envy as he watched it fly away.

If only it were so easy.

Sighing, Sirius picked the set of envelopes up and stared at his own for a long time. Seventh year. His final year. One more stretch of feigned normalcy before whatever arranged marriage or ancient pureblood ritual his parents were scheming about swallowed him whole.

He didn’t knock when he entered the dining room. No one immediately acknowledged him, as usual. Regulus was already seated, toast untouched, pale fingers folded neatly in his lap. Walburga stood behind her chair, arms crossed, lips pinched.

“You’re late,” she snapped.

“Post is here.” Sirius said coolly, dropping into the seat across from his brother.

“Don’t slouch.”

He slouched harder.

Orion Black peered over the edge of the Daily Prophet , silent as always. A puff of pipe smoke drifted lazily upward. The front page was half-obscured, but Sirius glimpsed the headline: Disappearance at the Department of Mysteries . His heart clenched painfully in his chest. Another shadow. Another secret.

Regulus slid the second envelope across the table to his mother. She opened both without asking, long talon-like nails slicing the parchment like blades.

“A N.E.W.T. schedule,” she murmured, eyes flicking down. “Defense. Charms. Ancient Runes. Acceptable. And you —” She looked to Sirius, a look of disgust on her face. “You’ve dropped Astronomy. How predictably short-sighted.”

Sirius chose to ignore her, chewing slowly, staring down into his eggs as though the runny yolks might somehow save him.

“I see you’ve been placed in Advanced Potions this year,” she said coolly, tossing the letters aside with a snap.

Sirius didn’t look up. “I suppose even disappointments have their uses.”

Her smile was thin, mirthless. “ At least you’re good for something.”

She let the words sink in, watching him over the rim of her teacup like a serpent considering its next strike.

“I suppose that’ll mean you’ll be paired up with the Slytherins. Working closely with the Fawley girl, aren’t you?”

That made Sirius pause. “What?” He asked, confused at the unnatural turn in conversation.

“Arden,” she said slowly, annoyed, as if spelling out something simple to her perplexed son. “You know. Aros’s daughter.”

He met her eyes then—guarded, cautious.

“She’s a clever girl. I’ve heard.” Walburga’s voice was dipped in honey but her meaning curled like venom underneath. “Working on some big secret project with her father. He’s always been an odd one.”

Sirius’s stomach turned. “What project?”

But Walburga only took another sip of tea, eyes glittering.

“She’ll be important,” she said. “One way or another. You’d do well to keep an eye on her. See what she’s brewing, if you catch my meaning.”

Sirius stared at her. “And if I think that’s a load of bollocks?”

She set the cup down.

“Then you’ll be no use to anyone.”

Something shifted then. Something old and ugly between them. Regulus flinched without knowing why. Sirius pushed back from the table.

“What a bloody inconvenience to the Dark Lord.” he said blandly.

Orion lowered the paper by an inch.

Walburga’s voice turned to ice. “Do not mock what you don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty .”

“I doubt that.” She snapped the letter closed. “You’ve spent the summer sulking and skulking like a Mudblood’s pet. You do nothing. Say nothing. And yet I hear your boots in the corridor at midnight. You disgraceful eavesdropper.”

Sirius clenched his jaw. He hadn’t meant to be so loud the nights he followed the whispers. He’d crept out to take a piss, only to hear his parents in the study with Abraxas Malfoy and Gareth Rosier, voices hushed and urgent. Something about legacies . Something about persuasion .

He hadn’t told anyone. Not even James.

Regulus shifted slightly in his seat, shoulders tense.

“You’ve received an invitation,” Walburga continued, moving on as if from a rehearsed script. “A gathering. Mid-August. Several heirs will be there. Abraxas has offered his son to speak.”

Sirius gave a bitter laugh. “To speak about what? The virtues of blood purity? How best to pleasure the Dark Lord?”

The silence cracked like thunder.

Walburga moved so fast he barely saw her.

Her hand struck his cheek with a vicious snap .

Regulus flinched. Orion didn’t move.

“ You ungrateful, contaminated boy. ”

Sirius didn’t look away. His face burned, but he met her gaze with something deeper than defiance. Contempt.

“You will go,” she said. “You will dress like a Black, speak like a Black, and carry this family’s name like the honor it is. Or you’ll be nothing.”

“I already am nothing,” Sirius said. “At least in this house.”

“You will go,” Walburga said again. “You will stand beside your brother and make this family proud. Or you will cease to be part of it.”

Sirius stood.

Not in protest—just to move. But something in him snapped . Maybe it was the bruise blooming on his cheek. Maybe it was the sight of Regulus, shrinking in on himself like he wanted to disappear into the marble. Maybe it was the way Orion turned a page of the paper, utterly unmoved.

“Proud?” Sirius said, quiet now. Dangerous. “You want me to play perfect pureblood heir for a party of Death Eaters-in-training?”

Her face twisted. “And what are you then? A rebel? A disgrace?” She was circling the table now, voice rising with every step. “You shame this house with your every word. Every breath. Traipsing around with blood traitors, defending filth, acting like you're better than us—”

“I am better than you.” His voice cracked through the room. “I’ve always been better than you. And that’s why you hate me.”

Walburga raised her hand. The second slap rang out sharp and awful, but Sirius still didn’t flinch, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

He met her eyes with something colder than fury. “Go on,” he said, low. “Do it again. See what happens.”

“You ungrateful little bastard —”

“ Sirius— ” Orion said, sternly, but Walburga’s shrill voice drowned him out.

And then she was shouting, really shouting, the mask cracking. Plates rattled in their settings. Regulus was frozen in his chair, wide-eyed, useless.

“You think you know sacrifice? You think you’re above this family? Your brother would die for us. He would be honored to bleed for the Black name. And you? You’d rather roll in the dirt with Mudbloods and blood traitors, too proud to kneel to the Dark Lord like a good son —”

“Then don’t call me one.” Sirius’s voice was flat now. Final. “I’d rather die nameless than carry your name a second longer.”

“You vile little parasite,” she hissed. “We should’ve drowned you in the bath the day you were born. You shame every ancestor who ever bore the Black name—”

“Good,” Sirius snarled. “I hope they’re rotting in their graves down in hell.”

She lunged at him.

Nails clawed at his collar as if she meant to tear the insolence out of him by force. Regulus stood so fast his chair scraped the floor, but he didn’t move to stop her.

Orion still didn’t rise.

Sirius shoved her away.

Walburga staggered back, breath ragged, her eyes wide with hatred—and something else. Something like fear.

“ Get out ,” she said. “GET OUT. You’re no son of mine.”

Sirius’s chest rose and fell with ragged fury.

He turned to Regulus. Their eyes met—just for a heartbeat.

Regulus looked away.

Then Sirius left.

He didn’t take his trunk. He didn’t take his broom. Just his wand and the cracked leather jacket slung over his four postered bed

When the door slammed, it echoed like thunder through Number Twelve.

It was just past midnight when the wards hummed with residual magic at the Potters’ front gate, crackling once before falling silent.

James sat up in bed, blinking blearily. Then—like instinct—he was on his feet, wand in hand, slippers forgotten.

He met his mother in the upstairs hallway. She looked worried but unsurprised.

“Front steps,” Euphemia Potter murmured. “Let him in, Jamie.”

James flew down the stairs wildly. The outer wards shivered as he approached, sensing his intent. He opened the door—and there he was.

Sirius stood on the stone path, shoulders hunched, still wearing his dress robes from dinner, now torn and stained with something that might have been ink or blood. The collar was stretched like someone had grabbed it. His hair was wild, windblown. He had nothing with him. No trunk. No owl. Just a boy and his silence.

“Padfoot—”

Sirius looked up. The porchlight hit his face. There was a bruise forming along his jaw, a cut above his brow. But it wasn’t the injuries that made James stop.

It was the look in his eyes. Wild, almost crazed, like a rabbit caught in a trap awaiting the heavy boots of a hunter. 

“Hi Prongs,” Sirius rasped. “Took me a while, but I'm finally taking you up on your invitation to visit.” He gave a crooked smile, blood dried at the corner of his mouth.

James didn’t ask anything. He grabbed his best friend by the shoulders and hauled him into a hug so tight it forced the air from both their lungs.

Sirius didn’t hug back at first. Then his fingers clenched in the back of James’s shirt, shaking. 

“I’m done,” Sirius said into his shoulder. “I’m not going back. Ever.”

“You won’t have to. You’re home now.”

They stayed like that on the threshold. Behind them, the porch light flickered once before Euphemia opened the door wider. She didn’t ask questions. Just touched Sirius gently on the back before reaching for Sirius’s hand and guiding him inside like he was made of glass. 

“Come in, darling. Let’s fix you up.”

The sitting room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a low fire.

Sirius sat on the edge of the sofa while Euphemia knelt beside him, murmuring soft healing charms as she dabbed a cloth along the cut on his brow. He flinched at the touch—not from pain, James realized, but from habit.

“Sorry,” Sirius muttered.

Euphemia gave a quiet hum. “You don’t need to apologize for being hurt, sweetheart.”

She didn’t press him. Just worked in silence, wiping dried blood from his cheek, casting cooling spells on the bruise beneath his eye. Her hands were firm but gentle, as though she had once been a mother to boys who bruised themselves often.

Fleamont entered a few minutes later without a word. He crossed the room, opened the cabinet, and poured a small glass of firewhisky. He held it out to Sirius without ceremony.

Sirius looked up at him, startled.

Fleamont’s face didn’t shift. But there was something in his eyes—an understanding, quiet and fierce.

Sirius took the glass. His hands were still trembling.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Fleamont only nodded, settling into the worn leather armchair nearby, his own drink untouched.

James sat on the floor near the hearth, watching Sirius in the firelight. The swelling on his jaw had already begun to fade under Euphemia’s careful touch. But the expression on his face hadn’t changed. It was the look of someone who had cut a cord—who had fearlessly leapt without knowing what the fall would cost.

The clock ticked softly on the mantle.

“I didn’t bring anything,” Sirius said eventually. “Only my wand.”

“Don't worry about it, mate,” James said. “What's mine is yours. Whatever you need. You’re not alone.”

Sirius didn’t respond. Just stared into the fire as the glass of firewhisky warmed his still trembling hands.

Euphemia reached for the heavy maroon plaid blanket folded on the back of the couch and draped it over his shoulders like a warm shield.

“Get some sleep,” she said gently. “You’re safe now, love.”

And for the first time in years, Sirius Black believed it.

Chapter Text

chapter seven: only love can save me now

gone so down, lost is all i found

It was August, the summer air hot and sticky. The manor had begun to feel more like a pressure chamber sealed too tight, air thinning by the hour. Arden had begun to feel much like an Azkaban prisoner, locked away on an endless sea with nothing but her worried mind to keep her company. With each day, her father disappeared deeper into his research, into ink-stained margins and sleepless nights. Arden, in turn, had become a ghost haunting her own home — quiet, watchful, waiting.

Arden waited until late morning, when the light was still soft and her father was about two cups of strong tea in. She found her father in the lab, hunched over a page of tangled runes, ink-stained fingers twitching at the quill. Even then, she hesitated to break the comfortable silence strumming in the air.

“I need to go to Diagon Alley,” she said.

Aros didn’t flinch, but the quill in his hand stopped moving.

“No.” he said quietly.

She crossed her arms. “It’s not optional, Father.”

“Then you’ll miss whatever nonsense they’re peddling. Owl-order your books.”

“It’s not just books.” She fished the parchment from her pocket and laid it on the counter. “Read it.”

He scanned the Ministry seal, the formal script beneath. His jaw tightened.

“‘All sixth and seventh-year students must report to licensed shops in Diagon Alley between August 10th and September 25th for wand-core calibration, uniform remeasurements, and curriculum compliance verification, to ensure mandated regulations are met.” he read aloud.

“It’s regulation now. The letter’s signed by Dippet and the Minister of Magic. They’re parading it like bipartisan cooperation.” Arden pressed, pointing desperately at the inked signature.

His eyes didn’t leave the page. “You think I don’t know what that means?”

She hesitated. “It means if I don’t show up, someone will come looking.”

Aros pressed two fingers to his temple, the stress clear in his facial features. “They’re inspecting wands now? What’s next? Blood samples to prove magical lineage?”

“That’s not what this is, Father.” Her voice sharpened, pleading with him. “It’s ‘core stability screening.’ And ‘anti-subversive assessments.’”

“Gods help us.”

There was a long silence.

She almost walked away—let it go, ordered her supplies secondhand, skipped the trip to Diagon Alley ltogether—but something in her twisted. No, she needed this. To leave the house. To breathe air that wasn’t thick with ash and claustrophobic secrecy.

“I’ve gone alone every year,” she said, quieter. “People will notice if I don’t go. And if they think you’re hiding something—”

“They already do.” His voice was bitter, but tired.

Her throat tightened. “Then let me not look like a prisoner.”

At last, he lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy at the edges.

“You think I’m overreacting.”

She didn’t answer.

Aros set the quill down. His hand trembled once—barely—but she saw it.

“There are things shifting beneath the surface of this world, Arden,” he continued, his voice rough with something older than fear. “Dark things. We’re standing in the middle of a hurricane pretending it’s just a mere thunderstorm.”

“I’ve buried friends for reacting too slowly,” he said, a touch of finality in his voice. “And I’m not burying my daughter.”

Something in her broke a little at that. The words weren’t soft, but they meant something. Fear, dressed in protectiveness.

“I don’t want to be buried either,” she said. “But I can’t be cloistered like a secret. That’s how people start asking questions. And they already are, Father. Malfoy wasn’t just stopping by for a chat between old friends.”

He studied her. For so long, she thought he might refuse outright.

Instead, Arden asked, “Is it real?”

He looked up, one brow raised.

“The potion,” she said softly. “The one we’ve been brewing. The locked door to the laboratory. The one you haven’t named.”

His eyes didn’t blink.

“Where is this coming from?”

She hesitated. “I’ve…been having dreams. About the stories you told me when I was a child, about the fable of Gilgamesh. About what immortality actually means. Whether it’s a cure or a curse.”

Aros wiped his hands slowly with a cloth. “And what conclusion have you come to?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the correct answer.” He set the cloth down. “There is no concrete conclusion. Only pursuit and protection of the knowledge.”

That wasn’t a denial.

Her hands curled into fists beneath the counter.

He turned to his notes again, voice quieter. “Some truths are best revealed slowly, Arden. Like a potion. Add too much too fast, and you burn the whole thing.”

“I just want to understand.”

“And you will. When you’re ready.”

Then, slowly, Aros crossed the room and opened a cabinet she hadn’t seen him touch in weeks. From within, he pulled a small black box. When he opened it, the faint scent of sandalwood and dried heather wafted into the air.

Inside, nestled in midnight velvet, was the vial necklace he’d given her earlier that summer. She hadn’t worn it in weeks—he hadn’t asked her to.

Now, his hands trembled as he held it out.

“I’ve strengthened the enchantments,” he said. “It carries locator runes. Passive warding. A decoy sigil, if it’s tampered with.”

She stared at it.

“It’s a beacon, then,” she said softly.

“A shield,” he corrected. “But if need be, yes.”

She nodded. For once, there was nothing left to argue.

He stepped forward, gently brushing her hair aside as he clasped the chain at the nape of her neck. The honeyed vial dropped against her skin—cold at first, then warming fast. A slow pulse began to echo through her chest.

Not the unique thrum of magic exactly.

Something older.

Like a second heartbeat.

Arden Apparated just outside the Leaky Cauldron, the necklace pulsing faintly against her collarbone.

The London air was cloying—thick with heat, thicker still with the tang of metal and soot. The cobbled street buzzed with noise, but there was something wrong in the rhythm of it. Less laughter. More footsteps clipped in haste. The crowd flowed faster than usual, eyes glancing behind shoulders more often than at shopfronts.

People walked briskly, heads down. Conversations were hushed or nonexistent. Arden passed groups of witches and wizards with their backs pressed to shop walls, their expressions tight, their eyes flickering. The air smelled of dust and ozone. Somewhere, someone was crying — a child, maybe. No one stopped to look.

Diagon Alley had never been this quiet. Not truly. Even in winter or rain, there had always been a kind of current — a humming energy that ran beneath the surface like ley lines under cobblestones.

But now, there was only tension.

She stood just outside the Leaky Cauldron, the necklace her father clasped around her neck pulsing faintly against her skin. A heartbeat that wasn’t hers. A reminder.

The bricks shifted under her hand, revealing the alley beyond.

Arden stepped through the tavern archway—and stopped.

The brick wall that marked the entrance to Diagon Alley was plastered over with posters.

Not advertisements. Not sales.

Missing person flyers. 

Merlin.

Layered thick, curling at the corners. Faces moved in monochrome frames—some smiling, some frozen mid-expression, others fading with static.

“MISSING: TORRANCE BLIXEY” 

“HAVE YOU SEEN MIRA GOLDSTEIN?” 

“REWARD OFFERED FOR ANY INFORMATION ON MICHAEL CORWIN.”

One flyer had been hastily torn down, revealing another beneath it. The ink bled together in places, names half-erased by age or rain.

She stepped closer, reading names she knew from Hogwarts—upper years, Ravenclaws, half-bloods.

One name stopped her cold.

Daniel Vaisey. Hufflepuff. He’d sat two seats behind her in Charms.

Gone.

No date of disappearance listed. Just last seen exiting Gringotts, July 4th.

Someone had scrawled traitor over his face in red ink.

The bricks began to shift beside her, revealing the alley proper. Arden stepped through without thinking. The posters watched her as she passed.

Diagon Alley had always been full of color, but now the vibrancy felt artificial—like paint slapped over a crack in glass.

Shop windows displayed more notices than merchandise. Ministry Sanctioned. Wand Inspection Station Inside. Closed for Magical Audit. Flourish and Blotts had stationed a uniformed clerk at the door checking names off a long scroll. Even the owls in Eeylops seemed more restless than usual, wings fluttering in synchronized agitation.

Outside of Madam Malkin’s, a young woman in Ministry robes stood beside a collapsible stand and called out names like a roll call.

“Fawley, Arden?” she asked when Arden approached.

Arden nodded.

The woman scanned a glowing clipboard and tapped it with her wand. “Wand inspection is mandatory. Standard screening—non-invasive. Then you’ll proceed to remeasurements and supply confirmation. We’ll record your current enchantment registry and confirm it hasn’t been tampered with.”

Arden handed over her wand, suppressing the instinct to flinch.

The woman held it up, rotated it, murmured something. A tiny scroll popped out the end with a dull snap . She didn’t even read it—just attached it to a growing stack and waved Arden along.

“Next.”

Inside the shop, Arden stood still as enchanted tape measures whipped around her limbs. Madam Malkin’s smile was tight-lipped and brittle.

“Growth spurt?” she asked absently, tugging the hem of a robe.

“I doubt it,” Arden muttered. “I’ve been still as a statue all summer.”

Madam Malkin didn’t laugh.

The fitting ended quickly. Arden accepted her parcel and slipped out into the street again, now slick with the scent of warm parchment, sweat, and something more acidic beneath it—fear, maybe. Burnt sugar left too long on the fire.

By the time she stepped into the apothecary, her nerves had begun to fray.

The heavy scent of dried herbs and powdered shell rushed to meet her, comforting and claustrophobic all at once. Shelves towered overhead, packed tight with jars and vials: crushed valerian root, pickled murtlap, powdered moonstone.

Arden had just reached for a bundle of asphodel when a voice said sharply:

“Well, thank Merlin, someone I don’t absolutely despise.”

She turned and exhaled — Eleanor Greengrass stood in the aisle, her dark green robes pressed and spotless as always, a small cotton parcel under one arm.

Arden smiled, grateful for the momentary lapse in her existential crisis. “Eleanor.”

The other girl gave a theatrical glance around the shop, then stepped closer. “Is it just me, or is Diagon Alley one overworked ward away from total collapse?”

“It’s not just you,” Arden murmured, suddenly grateful to share her concerns with someone else.

Eleanor’s gaze flicked to Arden’s necklace. “Pretty necklace. An Aros Fawley original I presume?”

“My father nearly escorted me to Diagon Alley himself. I’ve felt like I’ve been trapped in Azakaban this summer.”

Eleanor nodded, something grim flashing in her eyes. “You’re not alone. My parents nearly pulled me out of Hogwarts. Wanted me to transfer to Beauxbatons for the rest of the term. Rumor is the Muggleborn Registration Act nearly passed committee last month.”

Arden’s stomach dropped. “That’s not public knowledge.”

“Nothing is,” Eleanor muttered, her voice lowered. “But it’s everywhere if you’re paying attention to the right people. The Prophet’s printing exactly what the Ministry wants, and people are calling it transparency.”

They moved to the corner of the shop, partially hidden by a rack of dried flying seahorses. Arden leaned in.

“Have you heard anything...else?” she asked quietly. “Whispers?”

Eleanor tilted her head. “About what?”

“Lucius. Bellatrix. The older crowd.”

Eleanor sighed. “Lucius has been bragging all week about some ‘position’ he’s secured after graduation. Says he’s been promised a post under ‘proper leadership.’ He didn’t say who. But he’s smug enough to make me want to permanently Vanish his eyebrows.”

“That’s hardly new,” Arden said.

“No, but this is... different. He’s not just playing politics anymore. It’s like he knows something. Or someone.”

Arden swallowed. “Eleanor, at the Rosier party—”

The words stopped in her throat. She hadn’t told Eleanor. Hadn’t told anyone.

And she couldn’t now.

Not here.

Not where anyone might overhear. There were eyes everywhere now. 

Eleanor was watching her carefully, a dark eyebrow raised in quiet concern. “Arden. What happened at the party?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “Just...Avery trying to feel me up. He gets handsy when he’s drunk. You know how it is.”

Eleanor gave her a look to show she didn’t believe her, but she let it drop.

“Anyway,” she said instead, adjusting her parcel, “my father’s been calling in favors left and right. Some sort of emergency fund. He won’t say what it’s for, but I’ve heard him mutter about safehouses.”

Arden blinked. “You’re planning to leave Europe?”

Eleanor gave her a long, assessing look. “Wouldn’t you?”

Arden didn’t answer. 

After a moment, Eleanor softened. “I’ve missed you, you know. The owls were nice, but...”

“Everything feels different now.”

“It is different,” Eleanor said. “And we both know it’s only going to get worse.”

They stood there for a long moment, the noise of the apothecary fading under the weight of it.

Finally, Eleanor nudged her shoulder. “Go home. Your father’s probably already watching the clock.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but we’re not grown yet either. And pretending we are won’t save us.”

Arden nodded, grateful and unsettled all at once.

Outside, the clouds had darkened, the sky hanging low like a breath waiting to exhale. The vial at her throat pulsed once—hard.

She left without looking back.

Chapter Text

chapter eight: just tonight

do you understand who i am, do you want to know?

The little gold bell above the heavy oak door jingled as Arden stepped into Flourish and Blotts, the comforting scent of old parchment, ink, and warm lemony tea instantly filling her nostrils, curling into her lungs like a lullaby.

The shop was cooler than the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, offering a brief respite from the unrelenting summer heat. She made her way through the aisles, fingers grazing over the delicate worn spines of miscellaneous alchemy and potion brewing books—some familiar, some new.

Arden had always loved the quiet of the bookstore, the promise of discovering something new in the pages of an old book. Today, however, the allure of the shop couldn’t mask the unease in her chest. Every step she took, every book she picked up, felt like an obvious attempt to distract herself from the weight of everything she had overheard that day. Every page she turned was a distraction. Every step, an avoidance. 

The missing students. The rumors about the Malfoys. The secret meetings between families. The creeping, inevitable rise of the Dark Lord. She made her way toward the apothecary aisle in the back, fingers trailing across cracked spines. The latest edition of Magical Maladies and their Cures was tucked under one arm, Eleanor’s voice still echoing in her ears from their earlier conversation.

“They’re planning something,” Eleanor had said, voice low, eyes darting. “Lucius keeps bragging about a position. Something big. No one’s saying what.”

Who even was this Dark Lord character anyways?

Arden made a note to herself to do some research at the library once she got back to Hogwarts. She had always gotten on well with Madame Pince and knew she would let her peruse the restricted section freely. 

She was trying to focus on a newly-released edition of Advanced Potion-Making , when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind her—heavy, purposeful.

A voice, low and almost mocking, broke her concentration.

" Fawley ."

Arden stiffened, her grip on the book tightened. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize the voice. 

Sirius Black . 

She could feel the cold distance in the way he spoke her surname, not even bothering with the pleasantries of first names. It wasn’t like she had ever expected a warm greeting, but given the totality of the day, the flat tone sent a prickling discomfort down her spine.

“I’m sorry,” she said, flipping another page without looking up. “Is there a section labeled Irrelevance I can direct you to?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Still charming, I see.”

“Still breathing, I see,” she murmured. “Pity.”

She finally looked up. Raising an eyebrow in well-practiced disinterest, she gave Sirius a cool once over.

Sirius had changed over the summer since their last meeting. She had heard the rumors—of course, she had. When Eleanor and Narcissa Black came over last month, Narcissa had told them everything, her scandalized whispers over cups of tea and a few pilfered drops of firewhisky. He had cut ties with his family. He was staying with the Potters now, living in their home as a self-proclaimed orphan, no longer the polished, well-dressed heir to the Black family fortune. But seeing him in person made it all the more real.

And as much as she hated to admit it to herself, he looked good .

He was taller than she remembered, his posture more confident, more defiant—he was no longer the small, annoyingly loud boy who had always hovered around the edges of Christmas galas or unpleasant dinners with the Black family. 

The boy who had once been part of their circle at school, albeit lingering amongst the fringes, was gone. In his place stood someone almost unrecognizable.

He was leaning against a solitary bookshelf, all casual arrogance and sullen defiance. His usual casual indifference was still there, but his entire demeanor had sharpened. Sirius’s features, still boyish, were more angular, more mature, like the lines of his face were cutting through something softer, something he had left behind.

But what really stood out were the tattoos. The ones that peeked out from under his shirt sleeves—runes. Strange, intricate symbols running across the back of his hands, tracing up his fingers. There was a glimpse of one just above the collar of his shirt, just under his neck. They were a stark contrast to the neat, refined appearance of the Black family, and they intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

Runes, particularly ancient ones, were not for the faint of heart. They were used for protection, for binding, for things far darker than anyone would dare speak of. The tattoos weren’t just tattoos; they were signs of something far deeper, something that marked Sirius as having chosen a path that veered dangerously away from the one his family had laid out for him.

Arden realized with a start that she had been staring and her eyes narrowed as she took in his appearance. He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket—black, naturally—and he seemed unaffected by the boiling summer heat which irked her to no end.

"I was wondering when I'd run into a snake," Sirius said, his grey eyes glinting with that same faintly sarcastic edge. His gaze swept over her briefly, almost appraising, before turning back to a shelf of books on the far side of the room. He didn’t seem interested in engaging further.

Arden, feeling the old sting of his words, bit back a sharp retort. She had never been fond of his mocking, and even less so of his particular brand of disdain for purebloods—especially the Slytherins.

“You’re looking very... grungy,” she said instead, her voice smooth, though there was a subtle edge in it. “Is this the new uniform for Potter’s charity case?”

He smirked, slow and sharp, like a knife sliding free of its sheath.

“I could say the same about you. Must be hard keeping all that self-importance ironed into a pleated skirt.”

“You’ve been busy,” she added, voice softening just enough to sound intrigued. “Those runes aren’t for show. Practising for your future stint in Azkaban, then?”

That got a flicker—a twitch of the mouth, something almost like a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I would , actually. I’ve always wondered how someone manages to make Daddy issues look like a fashion statement.”

That made him laugh—low and dark and sudden. It wasn’t a nice sound.

“Careful, Fawley. You’re starting to sound like you care.”

“I don’t.” She lied too easily.

He didn’t call her on it.

Arden gave a small, mirthless laugh. “You’ve gotten nastier, Black. And I didn’t think that was possible.”

Sirius scoffed, glancing back at her, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You don’t know the half of it." His tone was flat, dismissive, but there was something about the way he said it—almost as if he was daring her to ask more.

But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the smirk faded, and he turned back to the shelves.  “Advanced Potions,” he said, voice drawling. “Didn’t think they let your lot near cauldrons anymore. Taking a break from hexing Muggleborns and polishing your family crest?”

Arden snapped the book closed. “Didn’t think they let you out without a leash.”

He smiled, sharp and humorless. “They don’t. I chewed through it.”

Arden didn’t issue a retort right away. Her mind was racing, considering how to handle this encounter. She was aware of how odd it was for someone like Sirius Black to be lingering in a bookshop like this. He had never struck her as the type to pour over dusty pages. 

Snogging over dusty pages, maybe. 

She shook that thought out of her head. 

"I’m just browsing," Arden finally said, her gaze narrowing slightly. "Surprised you even recognize the inside of a bookstore, Black. Surprised you even know how to read ."

Sirius’ eyes flicked back to hers for just a moment, and for the briefest second, she thought she saw something there—something darker, deeper. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the cool detachment that had always been there.

“Must be exhausting,” he murmured, voice low and silk-edged, “being so defensive all the time.”

Arden could feel her pulse quicken, a flicker of anger bubbling up from within. Who did he think he was, making assumptions about her? But she held her ground, lifting her chin slightly in defiance, refusing to let him see how much his words affected her.

Arden let out a laugh “Defensive? Oh that’s awfully rich coming from you. Do you flirt like this with everyone, Black, or just us Slytherins?”

Sirius didn’t respond at first, just gave a lazy shrug as if it didn’t matter to him. Instead, his eyes dragged over the books in her arms. “Please,” he said. “If I wanted your attention, Fawley, I’d speak Parseltongue.”

The sting of his words hit harder than expected. It was one thing to hear about his disdain for people like her in passing, but hearing it directly from him—it felt more personal, like a wound he was deliberately trying to open. 

She knew about his distaste for the entirety of the Slytherin house and had chalked it up to ridiculous inter-house rivalries. Sure, she knew Malfoy and his friends could be cruel, but it wasn’t fair for her to be lumped into that category merely because of her blood.

Before she could think of anything to say in response, he turned away, his black jacket swishing as he walked past her, disappearing down another aisle of books without another word. His presence lingered like a shadow, though, the remnants of his energy still hanging in the air.

Arden stood still for a moment, staring at the space he had occupied. The encounter had left her annoyed and unsettled, her mind racing with everything that had just happened—the runes, his indifference, the coldness between them that felt like it had always been there, only now it was somehow electric, more dangerous.

Just as she was about to turn back to the shelves, trying to refocus on her shopping, she heard another, more cheerful voice call out from behind her.

"Arden! There you are!"

She turned, startled, and found herself face-to-face with none other than James Potter, who appeared to have just entered the shop. His usual grin was plastered across his face, and he looked as carefree as ever. His hair, always messy, was even more disheveled than usual, and his eyes were bright with that energy she had come to recognize as distinctly James .

"Hey," James continued, oblivious to the tension still hanging in the air between her and Sirius. "Just came in for a few things—Potter family tradition, you know? Mum's list of ‘things I’ll need for my seventh year’ is as long as my arm." He shook his head, grinning as if it was all part of some long-running joke. "And, of course, Dad’s orders to actually read some books for a change."

Arden blinked slowly, trying to figure out exactly why he was talking to her. They weren’t exactly friends, although their fathers were and oftentimes collaborated on potion projects. She hadn’t expected him to show up. His cheery demeanor was a welcome distraction, though, and she managed a smile, grateful for the interruption.

"I didn’t know you had required reading now, Potter." she teased, her tone light, trying to regain some composure, though her interaction with Sirius had left her dreadfully off kilter.

James gave her a mock serious look. "Oh, it’s the most intense thing ever. Who knew my parents would actually care about me studying outside of Quidditch practice?"

Arden chuckled despite herself. Typical James.

"How’s your summer been?" he asked, stepping closer to her and glancing down at the books in her arms. "Get up to anything fun?"

Arden hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. She wasn’t about to spill the details of what had happened over the summer, especially not in front of someone like Sirius, who seemed to have reappeared from the shadows just to stir up trouble.

"It was fine," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Mostly just helping my father with his latest potion."

James smiled, not noticing her discomfort. "Sounds boring. You should’ve come by the Potters’ for a bit! We had an entire Quidditch practice with Sirius, Peter, and Remus—"

"Don't mention that name," Sirius' voice suddenly interrupted, echoing from the far side of the shop.

James raised an eyebrow. "You still holding a grudge, Black?" he called, his tone light but teasing.

Sirius didn’t respond, but the heavy silence said enough.

Arden exchanged a brief look with James before letting out a quiet breath, her fingers tightening around the books in her hands. She had no idea what was going on with Sirius and Remus, she had always thought they were a little too good of friends, but that wasn’t her business. 

Arden was still trying to think of a polite but firm way to get the hell out of this bookstore , when James’ voice cut through the air again.

"Fawley," he said casually, but this time there was something different in his tone. Intrigue maybe. His eyes flicked to the stack of books she was holding, then to the titles written across their spines. "I see you’re picking up some pretty serious texts for your final year. Planning on acing Advanced Potion-Making and Transfiguration and Alchemy in one go, then?"

Arden followed his gaze down to the books in her hands and gave a small, almost dismissive shrug. She wasn’t about to tell him that part of the reason she was buying them was to keep her mind occupied after everything that had happened over the summer. But then again, James always had a way of pulling out whatever was on someone’s mind, without even trying.

"I suppose," she replied, her voice flat. "I always find it better to have the most up-to-date editions."

Sirius had been silent until now, but as he stood nearby, his eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flicking from the books to her face with a sharp, calculating look. The faintest trace of curiosity crossed his features, though he quickly masked it with annoyance.

"You’re not buying these for leisure reading, I assume," he remarked, his voice distant and guarded. "Your father’s work probably requires more than just a light skim."

Arden glanced at him, caught off guard by his words. She hadn’t expected Sirius to take any interest in her personal reading material. The way he said it, however, made her wonder if he was just being his usual sarcastic self. She decided it didn’t matter either way and merely raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," she said coolly. "But my father doesn’t always follow the standard methods when it comes to brewing. You know he’s always been the eccentric type."

Sirius’ piercing eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to gauge if there was more she was letting on. He didn’t say anything else, but Arden could feel the weight of his gaze as he turned away, clearly deciding the conversation had run its course.

Before the silence could settle too heavily, James clapped his hands together, the sound loud in the cozy shop.

"Anyway, I didn’t realize how many things you’re picking up today," James said, his easy grin returning as he turned back to her. "How’s your dad, by the way? My dad mentioned he’d been working on some pretty exciting stuff last time we talked."

The mention of her father caught Arden off guard. 

"Oh you know," she replied non committedly, trying to keep the tone light. "He’s doing well. In fact, he's looking for aconite if your father happens to know anyone who might have some to sell."

It wasn’t a big deal to Arden. Aconite was one of the most common ingredients in potions, especially for those that dealt with curses or poisons. But for some reason, when she mentioned it, a strange tension seemed to pass between James and Sirius. She glanced curiously from one to the other, but before she could think too much about it, the two of them exchanged a look—a brief, loaded glance that was gone as quickly as it had come.

Her brow furrowed slightly. The glance didn’t seem to match the casualness of the conversation. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as James was already moving on to a different topic.

"Aconite, huh?" James mused aloud. "Aros always got some sort of project going. But I’ll ask around." He grinned. "You know, if anyone’s got aconite, it’s probably the Greengrasses . Eleanor always seems to have a steady supply of weird ingredients for one thing or another."

"Right," Arden said distractedly, the mention of Eleanor dragging her back to her thoughts from the earlier conversation with Sirius. She smiled faintly, but the odd exchange between James and Sirius lingered in the back of her mind.

Sirius, for his part, seemed to have lost interest entirely. He had already turned to face the shelves again, picking up a book with an air of complete indifference. His eyes scanned the pages, but it was clear his mind wasn’t on the books in front of him.

"I’ll keep an ear out for you, Fawley," he said nonchalantly, though the tone in his voice was harder, colder. "Wouldn’t want you running short on ingredients. Wouldn’t be good for your... reputation . Princess of the snakes and all."

Arden’s brow furrowed slightly at his words, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she turned back to James, grateful for the distraction.

"Thanks, James," she said, her voice steady. "I’m sure Dad will appreciate it."

James flashed her a wide grin, unbothered by the undercurrent of tension in the air. "No problem! Always happy to help." He glanced over at Sirius, who was now flipping through a book with the same detached expression. "Though I think Sirius is more concerned about his own reputation these days, huh?" James’ tone was light, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he gave Sirius a pointed look.

Sirius barely even acknowledged James’ words, shrugging nonchalantly. "Whatever," he muttered under his breath, though it was clear he had no intention of elaborating further.

"Well, I’d better go," she said, breaking the silence. "It’s getting late, and I still need to pick up a few more things."

James grinned and waved her off. "You’re welcome to join us later at the Potters' house for dinner, you know! I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind another guest."

Sirius didn’t look up from his book, but he murmured something that sounded like a quiet scoff under his breath.

Arden hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. "Maybe some other time, Potter. But thanks for the offer."

With that, she turned to leave, though her mind was still racing. As she stepped out into the streets of Diagon Alley, the lingering unease stayed with her, like a shadow she couldn’t shake off.

Chapter Text

chapter nine: the black dog

old habits die screaming

Sirius didn’t particularly like bookshops.

Too many shelves, too many rules. Too quiet. The air smelled like parchment and expectations, and something about that combination made his skin itch. But James had insisted on stopping by Flourish and Blotts for some “school prep,” which Sirius suspected had less to do with N.E.W.T.s and more to do with performing the role of dutiful son for Euphemia’s benefit.

Still, he tagged along.

Because these days, wherever James went, Sirius went too.

The Potters had taken him in over the summer, no questions asked. Just open arms and a warm bed that didn’t creak with curses in the walls. Euphemia had fed him like she suspected he’d never been properly nourished, which, in truth, he hadn’t. And Fleamont...Fleamont had treated him like a second son from the moment he stepped over the threshold. He had clapped him on the shoulder the first night and said, “Call me Monty, or I’ll start feeling old.”

They made it look effortless, the way they folded him into their lives.

More than once, Sirius had caught Monty ribbing James on his behalf.

More than once, Sirius had caught Fleamont joking at James’s expense.

“You see this one?” he’d said one morning, nodding to Sirius over breakfast while buttering a crumpet. “Reads. Listens. Actually knows the difference between mistletoe and mandrake.”

To which James would respond by groaning theatrically, clutching his chest with mock derision and declaring, “Et tu, Father?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Fleamont would reply, winking. “You’ve had seventeen years of my attention. It’s only fair that I favor the new one.”

It was all in jest—lighthearted, harmless—but Sirius felt the truth of it in his chest like a bruise that didn’t hurt anymore. For the first time in his life, he felt wanted. Not tolerated. Not inherited like a family curse. He belonged in the Potter house. More than he ever had at Grimmauld Place.

Which is why he found himself tolerating the dusty, rule-ridden chaos of Flourish and Blotts while James disappeared to browse Quidditch strategy guides. Sirius had drifted toward the Potions aisle with vague intent—maybe looking for something to feign interest in if Fleamont asked what he’d picked up.

And that’s when he saw her.

Fawley .

Of course.

Arden Fawley was thumbing through a thick alchemical text, oblivious to her surroundings. Her hair was twisted into a long, dark braid down her back, and she looked like she hadn’t slept properly in days. Tired. Focused. Still somehow stunning.

The errant thought dreadfully annoyed him, so he pushed it aside without a second thought. 

Sirius leaned against the nearest shelf, arms crossed. Watched her for a beat. Or two.

He’d never liked her, not really.

Too proper. Too good at ignoring him. She’d rolled her eyes at his pranks, scoffed at the Marauders’ nonsense. Always had her quill inked and her essay ready when class started.

He’d called her “stuck-up.” She’d once told him he had the emotional range of a teaspoon.

And yet... there was something about her now. Something different. Cracks in the porcelain. The sight of her stirred something in him—a memory, a flicker of the night at the Rosiers’. Unsettling and strange.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned and walked back toward James with some snide remark about dusty girls and dustier books.

“Fawley,” he said lazily, drawing out the syllables like smoke curling from his lips.

She tensed—only slightly—but he caught it.

She turned to him slowly, her face perfectly blank. “Black,” she said, like she was naming a particularly persistent rash.

Sirius couldn’t help the smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you shopping for books. Figured your sort inherited them with the estate and had house-elves read them aloud.”

She raised one brow. “And I didn’t expect to find you anywhere near a book not charmed to bite someone.”

Touché.

“I’m a man of many surprises,” he said, stepping closer, eyes drifting to the titles in her arms.
Advanced Potion-Making. Transfiguration and Potion Binding. And something dense and obscure: Alchemical Principles in Unstable Conditions.

Heavy reading.

“You’re not buying these for leisure, I assume,” he said, tone lighter now but edged with something sharper.

She didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s for research.”

“Mm.” His voice turned smooth, playful. “Let me guess. Still trying to impress dear old Dad?”

Her grip on the books tightened—just a little. That flicker in her jaw wasn’t much, but Sirius caught it. Satisfaction sparked low in his chest.

“I don’t need to impress him,” she said coolly. “He expects excellence.”

“Ah, expectations. Those always go down well with potions and paternal affection.” He gave her a lazy smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still doing everything he says, then?”

This time, her silence was answer enough. And Sirius, annoyingly intrigued, tilted his head and added, voice low and just a touch amused, “Must be exhausting—being so well-behaved all the time.”

Arden lifted an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to him with the kind of poise that made it very clear she was choosing not to rise to his provocation. She shifted the books in her arms and stepped closer—just enough to invade his space, to force him to register the scent of ink and lavender clinging to her robes.

“Someone has to balance out all your bad behavior,” she murmured. “Besides…” Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, deliberate. “Wouldn’t want you to be the only one enjoying yourself.”

For the briefest second, Sirius forgot what he was about to say. His smirk faltered—only slightly, but enough for her to notice.

He should have been annoyed. He should have thrown a cutting remark after her, or smirked like he always did when feeling cornered. But instead, his mouth went dry, and his mind scrambled to catch up with the unexpected ease of her words — like a challenge wrapped in silk.

Balance out all my bad behavior, she’d said. Not let me be the only one enjoying myself.

Sirius’s smirk returned slowly, more thoughtful this time. Maybe Arden Fawley was more trouble than he’d ever given her credit for.

He opened his mouth again, about to continue this delicious segue in conversation—but that’s when James appeared.

Then, the moment shattered.

“Arden! There you are!”

James’s booming voice echoed down the aisle as he appeared, grinning like he’d just solved the world’s biggest prank. His eyes sparkled with oblivious cheer, completely unaware of the charged atmosphere.

Sirius rolled his eyes, leaning back against the shelf and muttering, “Perfect timing as always, Potter.”

James laughed, ruffling his own messy hair. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”

Arden glanced between them, a ghost of amusement flickering across her face. Sirius, for all his carefully constructed cool, found himself momentarily disarmed — caught between the sharp edge of Arden’s words and the bright, chaotic energy of James Potter.

James grinned, oblivious to the standoff. “How’s your summer been? Fleamont mentioned your dad the other day—something about a compound project?”

Sirius kept his eyes on Arden. Her expression tightened.

“He’s been busy,” she said vaguely. “Still working. Still private.”

Then, as if trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, she added, “Actually—he’s looking for aconite. If Fleamont knows anyone with some to sell.”

Sirius froze.

There it was.

Aconite was nothing on its own, but combined with the right ingredients... It had uses beyond Wolfsbane and poisons. Old uses. Rare ones.

He looked at James. One glance. That was all.

James, sharp when he wanted to be, caught the moment instantly. His grin faltered, just for a second. Then he recovered, slipping into effortless charm.

“I’ll ask Dad,” he said easily. “He might know someone.”

“Thanks, Potter.” Arden replied, her voice cool, her stare never wavering.

Sirius held her gaze a moment longer, a slow, calculating smile curling the edge of his lips. Was she fishing for favors, or simply too naïve to realize the weight behind her words?

Sirius leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping.

“Pretending you’re untouchable suits you… but it doesn’t fool me.”

Arden’s eyes flashed with defiance and something darker.

“I’m not the one pretending.”

That one hit harder than he expected. He said nothing else. Instead, he brushed past her, deliberately grazing his fingers against hers — a touch light as a whisper, but unmistakably charged.

And then he was gone.

Back at the Potter house, the smell of roasted lamb drifted through the air. Euphemia had insisted on making a proper Sunday roast dinner, which meant far more food than necessary, and Fleamont had poured himself a glass of elderflower wine before even sitting down to tuck in.

“Do you always cook like this?” Sirius asked as he passed a bowl of potatoes.

“Only when I want you boys too full to hex each other,” Euphemia said, ruffling his hair as she passed.

Fleamont clinked his glass with Sirius’s. “To our favorite houseguest.”

James dropped his fork in mock betrayal. “You’ve turned against your own flesh and blood.”

“I go where the good manners are,” Fleamont replied without missing a beat. “And Sirius here actually compliments my wine.”

“It’s elderflower, Dad,” James grumbled. “It tastes like liquid perfume.”

Sirius smirked into his glass. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth in his chest was impossible to ignore.

The dinner had ended in laughter, second helpings, and Fleamont trying to argue Sirius into a game of wizard chess. Euphemia, still humming, cleared the table with a flick of her wand, plates stacking themselves neatly in the sink.

Sirius stood in the warm glow of the sitting room window, glass of elderflower wine forgotten in his hand, gaze drifting out into the garden. It was quiet, moonlight pooling on the trimmed grass, stars flickering overhead like they actually mattered.

He heard James flop onto the sofa behind him with a satisfied groan.

“I may never eat again,” James said. “Tell Mum to stop trying to feed me into an early grave.”

Sirius didn’t respond. His fingers toyed with the edge of his glass.

“You all right?” James asked after a beat, and Sirius could hear the change in tone—soft, careful, familiar.

Sirius stayed quiet for a moment longer before he said, “Your dad joked again tonight. About me being the favorite.”

James let out a small laugh. “Yeah. You’d think I’d be more offended, but you are kind of charming.”

But Sirius didn’t laugh.

He set the glass down on the windowsill. “You know that’s never happened before, right? An adult actually liking me. Not for the sacred name. Not because I followed some stupid set of archaic rules.”

James sat up a little straighter.

“They care about you, mate. Like, properly.”

“Yeah.” Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “I know. That’s the problem.”

James didn’t speak, just waited, like he always did when Sirius was circling something dark.

“I left home this summer,” Sirius said finally, quietly. “And I haven’t looked back. Not once.”

James frowned. “Because you had to. We both know what it was like there.”

“Yeah, but Reg didn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave. And I didn’t stay. I didn’t force him to come with me.”

That silence again.

James’s voice was gentler this time. “He’s still your brother, Sirius. But you couldn’t have forced him to come with you.”

“I should’ve tried.”

“You were sixteen.”

Sirius stared out at the stars. “Sixteen’s old enough to recognize abuse.”

That word hung in the air like smoke. Sirius didn’t use it often. It felt clinical. Small. Not enough to describe the cold fury of Walburga Black, her shrieking voice, the sting of a hex when he spoke out of turn. Her words had been sharper than any spell—“ blood traitor, ” “ filthy disappointment, ” “ you were always the wrong son .”

He thought of Regulus. Smaller. Quieter. Easier to mold. The “right” son.

“I left him there,” Sirius muttered. “Alone. With her. With them . I just... packed my trunk and left. Didn’t say a word.”

James hesitated. “He’s not alone. Alphard still checks on him, doesn’t he?”

Sirius nodded once. His Uncle Alphard had been disowned for sending him gold. The only Black who’d ever meant freedom.

“And Reg’s still at Hogwarts. You’ll see him again.”

“I know.” Sirius exhaled slowly. “I just don’t think I’ll recognize him when I do.”

James didn’t push further. He just leaned back again, tossing an arm over the couch and trying to lighten the air.

“You’re still better than me at chess, if that helps.”

Sirius huffed a laugh, barely there.

They sat like that for a while—quiet, the fire crackling low, the walls warm with the smell of supper and polish and something that could almost be called home.

Eventually, Sirius spoke again, his voice low.

“Fawley,” he said, “what do you think she meant? About the aconite.”

James perked up. “Oh, now you’re ready to talk about her?”

“I think she’s hiding something.” he said firmly.

“Fawley? She’s awful at hiding things. Like her disdain for us.”

“I’m serious.”

James raised a brow. “I know. I can tell because you’re brooding. You only brood when you’re worried or in love.”

Sirius shot him a glare, but James just grinned.

“I’m not in love.”

“Right. You’re just incredibly interested in what books she was holding and why she looked so tired and why she asked about a rare magical ingredient that may or may not be used to cure lycanthropy.”

“It’s not like that.”

James gave him a pointed look.

Sirius shot him a dry look, but the edge of his guilt had dulled slightly.

“She asked about aconite,” he said. “And she had books that weren’t just for school. Something’s going on.”

“You still think it’s her dad?”

Sirius nodded. “I think...something’s changing, James. Whether she knows it or not.”

James leaned back. “You think it’s related to what we heard last month? About the experimental formula?”

“Maybe. Or worse—maybe she doesn’t know what she’s sitting on.”

“And you care because...?”

Sirius didn’t answer.

He stared out the window again, jaw tightening.

Maybe it was because she looked like she was carrying something too heavy for one person. Maybe it was because she was sharp and difficult and had called him out without fear. Or maybe it was because she wasn’t the person everyone expected her to be—and Sirius knew what that felt like better than anyone.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I want to find out.”

Chapter Text

chapter ten: follow me down

love comes with such a cost

In the expanse of an inky twilight, Arden found herself searching the burgeoning starlight for some semblance of comfort. 

At the closing days of August, the nighttime brought forth a heavy air that left a thin sheen of sweat on her body, and the innate realization that summer was slipping between her fingertips. Her worn leather trunks were packed to the brim and neatly lined amongst the perimeter of her bedroom, her Slytherin robes steamed and her magically shortened skirts perfectly pleated. 

The last handful of nights tucked away in her childhood home should have evoked a warm nostalgic comfort, or perhaps a wistful melancholy at the thought of her final term at Hogwarts. Soon, Arden would embark on her own path, her life just truly beginning and burgeoning with decisions known only to the Fates and the stars in the sky. Yet these feelings were shadowed by an inexplicable feeling of dread that felt hyper emphasized by her father and his godsdamned potioneering. 

Tonight had begun like any other night; the comforting breeze lilting from willow trees planted with care by Arden's great-grandmother years ago providing a small respite from the stubborn embers of the August heat had begun to lull Arden into a dreamless sleep. 

The silence of Fawley Manor was never still; it had a pulse. Creaking beams, whispering tapestries, the occasional hiss of potion residue from the cellar — all part of the rhythm of a place that had seen centuries. Yet this evening, Arden felt an aching current beneath the walls of her home. A kind of sour humming that made the hairs rise at the nape of her neck.

Her father had been like that all week, too. Distracted, restless. She’d found him strengthening the wards at dawn, muttering charms she half-recognized, chalk in hand as he scrawled runes across stone lintels and cellar doors. Once, she had lingered in the hall, hidden behind a column, and heard him murmur words that chilled her:

“The end comes when the stars tilt. I must be ready.”

When she confronted him later, he had brushed it off as “old man’s superstition.” But the lines around his eyes had deepened, and the pallor in his face had not faded since the words had been uttered.

Yawning, Arden rose from the comfort of the garden, pulling the strap of her thin ivory cotton sheath up from where it had slipped down the expanse of her shoulder. 

As she passed the rosemary sprigs and carefully maintained dittany plants, she stilled instinctively. The wards had shifted, announcing the presence of an unwanted visitor, or several. The air shivered. A sound like shattering glass thundered through the house, shaking dust from the rafters. Somewhere deep in the bones of the manor, stone cracked.

Arden began running towards the house, her desperate call for her father dying on her lips as the immobilizing blast of a Bombarda Maxima shattered the front wall of the Fawley parlour. The glass windows of the veranda dissipated from the violent impact, errant shards of glass cutting at Arden’s cheeks, a few ruby red drops beading upon her skin as she blindly crawled to a nearby brick wall, her body still involuntarily shaking from adrenaline and cold fear. 

The wards flared green and finally shattered. The carved doors burst inward with a crack of splintering oak, sending shards skidding across the marble floor. Smoke rolled in, thick and acrid, curling around black shapes that stepped into the hall. Silver masks shrouded their faces, but the intricate carvings made Arden's breath hitch with trembling recognition 

Death Eaters.

Arden’s heart lurched. She stumbled back instinctively, pressing herself against the wall, then ducking behind the rubble of a collapsed arch where an earlier ward had exploded. The stone was jagged and cool against her bleeding cheek. Through a gap between shattered bricks, she could see everything.

Her father stood alone at the far end of the hall. They came at him in a synchronized wave of heavy black cloaks and silver masks, their wands raised in vicious unison. There was no time for Aros to cast anything more than a rudimentary shield as curses lit the air in wild bursts of color — green, red, blue — flashing against the walls like lightning strikes. Aros quickly righted himself, moving with shocking precision as he gripped his want like it was an extension of himself, answering each curse with a counter-spell, weaving defensive wards as quickly as he struck. Bottles erupted from his sleeves, small glass phials that shattered into gas and fire, forcing the masked figures back.

Arden clutched the stone tighter. Her father looked like something out of myth — a figure wrapped in firelight, his eyes blazing with defiance, his wand cutting arcs through the air like a sword.

And yet he was only one man. In the midst of the dueling chaos, one of the masked men stood alone amongst the others, waving his wand as if to pause the firefight.

“Fawley!” the man called, his voice smooth and commanding. “You know why we are here. You have what our Lord requires. Give us your research, and you and your bloodline will be spared.”

Arden pressed herself against the wall, clutching the hem of her nightgown. She recognized that voice. It was one that had haunted her nightmares since the Solstice Party.

Abraxas Malfoy himself was spearheading her father's recruitment.

Her father raised his wand, shoulders straight. “Spared?” he echoed, and there was a sense of exasperation in his voice. “Is that what you call it?”

“Hand it over,” Malfoy repeated, voice calm like steel drawn in the dark. “You have no idea the danger you’ve brought upon yourself.”

Aros gave a short, humorless laugh, the kind that echoed off the broken rafters. “Danger? You come preaching danger into my own home, Malfoy? I built this house knowing I would die in it. Every brick remembers a spell I cast. Every wall has drunk my blood.”

Malfoy stepped forward, wand raised, his mask gleaming green from the reflected curses. “You think yourself clever, but the Dark Lord does not forgive arrogance. We offer you mercy. Give us the work you’ve hidden — the notes, the formula — and you will live.”

“Live?” Aros barked out, his teeth red with dust. “A half-life in servitude to a madman who toys with blood like a child with beetles? No, Abraxas. You call it mercy, but it is only another leash. And I was not born to wear chains.”

“You are a man of intellect, Aros,” Malfoy said. “You understand better than most what is at stake. The Dark Lord is not a butcher, he is a savior. Immortality, order, the end of decay and weakness. Your brilliance could bring it to us all. Do not throw away your life for pride.”

Her father laughed again — softer this time, but edged like glass. “You children. You cloak your terror in words like order. You think eternity belongs to you? You think you can rob death of its teeth?”

His voice lifted, steady, quoting words Arden had heard before at his desk when he thought she wasn’t listening, deep and unyielding. 

“Life, which you look for, you will never find. For when the gods created man, they let death be his share, and life withheld in their own hands.”

His words echoed, drawn from the ancient lines of Gilgamesh. The Death Eaters shifted uneasily. A spell snapped out — a streak of green light — and Aros flicked his wand, erecting a shimmering wall of force. The curse split against it, scattering into sparks.

And then the duel began.

Arden had never seen her father fight. He moved with a grace that startled her, every flick of his wand precise, economical. He conjured barriers that bent light, hexes that ricocheted off stone. He whispered spells too old for Arden to recognize, and a serpent of fire uncoiled from his wand, forcing two masked figures to scatter.

For a heartbeat, Arden thought he might win.

But there were too many. Spells converged in a torrent — red, green, violet — hammering at the wards until they shattered with a sound like breaking glass. Her father dropped to one knee, breath ragged.

Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward again, lowering his mask at last. His pale face gleamed in the half-light, his expression sharp as a blade.

“Think of your daughter, Fawley,” he said softly. “This is your last chance. Give us the work. The Dark Lord rewards loyalty.”

Arden’s heart thudded, sick and furious.

Her father lifted his chin. Even kneeling, he looked unbowed. His lips curved faintly, almost in pity.

“Life,” he whispered again, “was never yours to hold.”

Abraxas never hesitated.

The Killing Curse struck like a hammer blow. For one impossible instant the world lit green, painting broken marble and shattered beams in sickly luminescence. The light seemed to stretch, to linger, wrapping itself around her father’s silhouette as if reluctant to let him go. Then — silence. Aros crumpled, his body folding as though the house itself had pulled the breath from him.

Arden’s breath caught, her scream smothered by her hand. She bit down so hard on her knuckles she tasted iron. Her chest ached, her body trembling with the animal instinct to flee, but she stayed frozen, trapped between the need to survive and the desperate urge to throw herself across the floor to him.

Malfoy adjusted his cloak, drawing it back with deliberate ceremony. He lifted his mask, just enough for the moonlight to strike pale, aristocratic features.

A robed man stepped forward. Arden didn't recognize his gait nor his voice as he spoke "And the girl? Should we bring her to the Dark Lord?"

Abraxas Malfoy sneered, his eyes carelessly raking over the demolished manor. "No. Let this be a cautionary tale to her. Unlike her blood-traitor father, she'll have good sense to keep in line."

Abraxas Malfoy wanted her to see just how trapped Arden was; a true lamb to the slaughter. He wanted his actions to be a warning of what was to come.

Fall in line or fall like your father. 

He raised his wand skyward, the gesture slow, reverent, almost priest-like, his lips curling faintly as he whispered the incantation.

Green light tore into the sky. The serpent and skull of the Dark Mark spread above the ruins of her home, burning in the heavens like a brand, its emerald skull leering, its smoke staining the stars.

Arden’s breath caught. She didn’t wait to see more. She ran.

Through side halls, past collapsed wards and broken portraits, through the kitchen with its overturned pots and still-smoking hearth. She stumbled into the gardens, bare feet torn by gravel, and crashed through the half-collapsed greenhouse doors.

The air inside was damp, heavy with the smell of earth and rot. Ivy crawled over broken panes, moonlight dripping in fractured shafts. She collapsed among the tangled roots and shards of glass, curling into herself, clutching her knees to her chest.

She did not cry. Not yet.

She only listened to the roar of her heartbeat and the fading voices outside, the all-too familiar CRACK of apparation echoing in the once silent night.

When she crept back at dawn, the house was in ruins. The front hall still smoldered. Family portraits had been slashed open, their painted inhabitants vanished into empty canvas.

The air reeked of smoke and blood, charred ink and shattered glass. Papers were strewn everywhere, some burned beyond recognition, others trampled with bootprints that smeared ash into their fibers. Her father’s chair was overturned, its carved legs snapped, like a body left to rot. The smell of him lingered — pipe tobacco, rosemary oil, old parchment — but he was gone. No body. No cooling hand to clutch, no face to close the eyes of. Only absence.

She collapsed to her knees, the floor biting into her skin through her thin nightdress. Her tears left dark marks in the dust.

For hours she moved through the wreckage in a daze, touching objects as if they might steady her: the cracked glass of his spectacles, a ruined cauldron, the singed feather of a quill. Each one a relic. Each one proof he had been here. The emptiness carved itself deeper with every discovery.

Her father’s study was a wreck, shelves had collapsed. Bottles had burst into glittering constellations of glass. The long oak work table that her father had meticulously carved from a strong tree in the backyard was scorched black in places. The cauldron in the center had gone still—its blue light extinguished, contents hardened to a dull, tar-like crust.

And yet, amid the wreckage, a few objects remained oddly untouched.

The ink pot on his desk. A framed sketch of her as a child, scribbled in haste, pinned with a dragon-claw paperweight. The lowest drawer, seamless and still aligned, though the others had been torn open.

She knelt in front of it, curiously.

Ran her fingers along the base.

There. A groove. A thin metal spiral—not just decoration.

Her fingers tingled when she touched it.

Not a ward, she realized. A recognition charm.

She drew her wand, hesitant. “Arden Cressida Fawley,” she whispered, pressing the tip to the spiraled symbol.

A gentle click .

The drawer slid open easily, as if welcoming an old friend.

Inside was a sealed leather scroll tube, bound in red wax, marked with the same flower-spiral she’d seen on the parchment and beneath it—a letter. Folded precisely. Yellowed at the edges. The writing on the front simply read: For Arden, when there is no one else.

Her throat tightened. She sat on the floor, legs curled beneath her, and unfolded it with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Daughter,

If you're reading this, then the house is no longer a home, and I am no longer in it.

There are things I never told you. Not because I did not trust you, but because I feared the weight they might bring. But now—if you are reading this—I must trust you more than I feared.

The work I pursued was never meant for hands like theirs. Not for those who carve the soul to cheat death. Mine was a different path. A quieter one.

You’ve seen the spiral. It is the oldest symbol I know—not of eternity, but of return. Not immortality, but memory.

Within the scroll you will find the necessary fragments. Not a recipe. Not a map. Just a pattern of thought. It will make sense to the one who stood beside me long enough to understand what I never spoke aloud.

Do not rush to make sense of it. Let it change shape. Let it speak to you in silence.

Be wary of those who speak of war but never weep for its costs. The wolves wear many skins now.

And Arden—if they ask what you found, tell them only what you must. Some truths live longer in the quiet.

Yours always,
A.F.

And Arden Fawley, sat in the remnants of her past life, finally began to cry.