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Chapter Text

1995

She had heard the footsteps long before they reached the gravel path leading up to her house. Slow. Cautious. Each crunch of stone sharper and louder than the last. Whoever was out there didn’t seem entirely sure of themselves.

She knew he wouldn’t come in person. Of course he wouldn’t. Given the circumstances, she was hardly important enough. Still, she had hoped for more than a frightened servant skulking around her property at night. Slowly, she got out of bed, the floorboards cold under her bare feet, and pulled on her coat. She might as well meet her nocturnal visitor halfway, she thought.

How long had she waited for this day? Prepared for it? And yet it felt bizarrely unreal. Who else could be out there? No one came to this house after dark unless it was urgent. Her place lay well off the beaten track and was too well protected to be stumbled upon by accident. Whoever walked up that path must have had a reason.

She’d heard the rumours, of course she had and the moment she heard them she’d known. That strange boy claimed to have seen him. He’d barely escaped with his life. Although that part baffled her. If the Dark Lord had truly intended to kill the boy, why would he have failed? Perhaps he’d merely toyed with him, letting him go for some future purpose. Or perhaps he had plans no one could yet fathom.

Hardly anyone believed the boy, of course. How could they? To believe him meant accepting that the most powerful and dangerous wizard of all time was not dead or even finished. That he had returned and would carry on exactly where he had left off all those years ago. Most people couldn’t bear that thought. They tore the boy apart in the papers, questioned his sanity — and that of his greatest protector.

If anyone could have faced the Dark Lord, it would have been Albus Dumbledore. Once, at least. But the Ministry had decided to play pretend, questioning Dumbledore’s sanity and that of the boy. Cowardice dressed up as prudence. People who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit they were wrong.

The Dark Lord was not dead. He never had been. Now he would come to claim what he believed was his.

A scratching sound at the door made her look up; a shadow flickered past the windows. Her visitor clearly hadn’t decided whether to knock or to force his way in. She sighed and made the decision for him. Carefully, she opened the door.

There stood a tall, blond man, startled though composed. She recognised him at once.

“Come in,” she sighed, opening the door a bit wider to let him pass. He nodded and stepped silently over the threshold, his long cloak brushing against the floorboards.

“What were you doing sneaking around out there, anyway? You could’ve just knocked,” she said, a little annoyed, skipping all pleasantries, as she led him into the sitting room and lit the lamp. In the light, she could see him more clearly. Lucius Malfoy had hardly changed. The same pale, pointed face; the same sleek, platinum hair combed back with precision; the same air of cold superiority. But underneath that, there was something else. His gaze flicked to the room’s corners as if checking for unseen listeners. He looked tired — faint shadows under his eyes. Strained.

He had really sent him to fetch her.

He said nothing for a moment, watching her with veiled contempt, but the tension in his grey eyes gave him away. He wanted to get it over with. No drawn-out cup of tea, no nostalgia.

“He is expecting you,” he said at last, his voice too calm.

She nodded, though she almost laughed with frustration. “Of course he is. And I suppose he also expects me to come quietly, without resistance?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he does,” Malfoy returned flatly.

“And what if I refuse?” Heat rose to her face. Anger pricked at her throat.

“We’ll find out,” he said coolly, meeting her gaze for the first time.

She understood then. How had she not seen it? He was afraid — not of her, of the Dark Lord. He knew what would happen if he failed to bring her: the Dark Lord would come himself, and Malfoy would pay dearly. He had sent Malfoy because he could; because using others spared him the trouble.

But the Dark Lord also knew she would never allow another to suffer for her sake. Her stubbornness, her pride. She would not let Malfoy be punished for her. She’d obey. Of course she would. He knew her all too well; he knew how to play her. Despite the years, he could still move her like a pawn.

She saw the manipulation for what it was, and still there was nothing she could do. It was a game of power, and he was already winning.

For a moment she closed her eyes and drew a breath, though everything inside her seethed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this angry. He was exquisite at this — at making her play the part he wanted.

“All right,” she said curtly, reaching for the bag she’d packed days before when the first whispers of his return began.

“What a way to start,” she muttered as she followed Malfoy out into the cool night. The air soothed the sting in her eyes.

——————

Yes, I know it’s a bit short but the next is going to be longer. Comments and critique greatly appreciated.

Chapter Text

1995

She had guessed where he was taking her. When the tall hedges and wrought-iron gates came into view, she knew she’d been right. She had walked this path before. The gates swung open without a sound. They were expected.

Even after he had disappeared, she had tried to stay in touch with the Malfoys. For a while, at least as they were among the very few who had ever known she existed. But she had grown disgusted with their behaviour after the Dark Lord’s fall. Lucius Malfoy had sworn he had been under the Imperius Curse, claimed he had never willingly served as a Death Eater, let alone as part of the inner circle. In truth, he had looked almost relieved when his master was gone — and he certainly hadn‘t tried to find him. After that, she saw no reason to stay in touch. Solitude had been easier. And yet, she had never felt so utterly alone as she did in the company of these people.

A snow-white peacock wandered slowly across the lawn, ghostlike. She glanced at the man beside her, raising an eyebrow. His face stayed cold, impassive. He didn’t look at her. His orders, she thought, did not extend to conversation.

The front door opened as soon as they approached. She drew one last breath of fresh morning air, bracing herself. Inside, the house was dim, the air heavy and stale. It reminded her more of a crypt than a home, sealed against the living. Thick curtains smothered what little light tried to get through.

From behind a stone column stepped a perfectly dressed woman. Her hair was as blonde as her husband’s, and she moved with the calm grace of someone born into high society.

“Helia,” Narcissa said, her smile measured, her voice warm in that well-rehearsed way. “It is so good to see you again. We are honoured to welcome you back.” Politeness laced with strain. Before Helia could answer, Narcissa drew her into a swift embrace. An intimacy that felt staged rather than genuine.

“If you’ll follow me, we’ve prepared rooms for you upstairs.” Narcissa led her up the stone staircase and along a dark hallway. The walls were hung with portraits, each covered by heavy black cloth that reached to the floor. The Malfoys clearly weren’t willing to risk a talkative painting telling anyone about their guests.

Helia followed in silence, quickly losing track of where they were going. At last they stopped in front of a door.

“He is expecting you,” Narcissa said, gesturing toward it. Helia noticed her hand tremble ever so slightly, the faint twitch of her brow. She, too, was afraid.

“Thank you, Narcissa,” Helia said quietly, and knocked.

Her heart hammered so hard it felt as if it might burst through her ribs. Anger, tension and fear warred within her. How long had she waited for this exact moment? She rested her hand on the latch and waited to be called in. He kept her waiting. Only a few seconds, but long enough to unnerve her. He always knew how even time could be used as a weapon.

When his voice finally came, it was cold and sharp — like ice splitting on a winter night. She closed her eyes for a moment, steeled herself, and entered.

The room lay in a muted twilight as the first pale blue of dawn showed beyond the window. A lamp on his desk cast a small pool of light. He was waiting for her, his gaze fixed on her, unreadable. He knew the effect he had.

The man she had once known, was long gone. He had been replaced by something else entirely. His skin pale, his features oddly snake-like. Every last trace of the handsome man he had once been had vanished decades ago. And yet, she felt as tho he had lost even more of himself. She could not really tell what it was but somehow he felt different, like even more had been stripped away.

Carefully she stepped closer. And closer still. Until she stood directly in front of him. She was certain he could hear her heart hammering against her ribs, so loud it seemed impossible he would not notice. Fear tangled with anger, a rush of heat in her veins that made her fingers tremble.

He stood motionless. His profile was cut clean against the faint light beyond the window, as if carved from something older than stone. No twitch of muscle, no flicker of impatience — only stillness. The silence pressed on her. Unbearable. Slowly, she raised her hand, searching his face for permission. She had to touch him, to be sure he was real. He did not stop her. The air between them seemed to resist, thick as water, but she pressed forward until her fingertips met him. She braced for recoil, for rejection. None came.

And there it was — a heartbeat. Slow. Calm. Steady. And, above all, alive.

“Fascinating,” she murmured, looking into eyes that were at once familiar yet strange.

She pulled her hand away and stepped back, studying him. Almost the same as before. Almost. Still, he said nothing. She waited for him to speak, answer the questions that had burned inside of her for thirteen years. What had happened? Where had he been all these years? How did he return? But he gave her nothing, not a single word.

At last he moved. A step forward, then past her, toward the door.

By the time she realised what he was doing, the door had already closed. She stood frozen, still feeling the echo of his heartbeat in her fingertips. He was gone.

She sighed, frustration heavy in her chest, and looked around. The room was a study, it seemed, full of books, parchment, and tall shelves. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and there was a carved fireplace with a sofa she knew no one would dare sit on in his presence.

There was no reason to stay. He would not return. She stepped into the corridor. It was empty. No one waited for her, came to speak to her. It was all quiet.

She opened the door across the hall, expecting it to be hers. He would want to keep her close. She was right. Someone had already placed her bag there. The bedroom was large and elegant — a four-poster bed, bookshelves, a sitting area, a desk. A beautiful room that still somehow felt wrong. The ceilings too high, the space too wide. It made her feel small, insignificant.

The bathroom was connected; another door likely led to a wardrobe.

Her earlier rage ebbed into heavy emptiness. He had left her once more with nothing but her own thoughts. She opened one of the tall windows and lit a cigarette.

Where had he been all these years? Why had he never come to her? Why had he never asked for her help? She had asked herself those questions over and over again for thirteen years — and still had no answers.

She flicked the cigarette out the window and lay down on the bed. Perhaps here, finally, she would be able to sleep.

Chapter Text

1995

Helia did not wake until well past midday. The house around her lay in silence. No faint whisper of pipes, no soft creaking of floorboards, not even a ticking clock. In her own home there had always been some small sound of life. Here, there was nothing.

She rose slowly, fixed her hair, straightening her dress. Her appearance mattered to her as much as it did to her hostess. Maybe she could answer at least some of the questions she had asked herself over and over again these past thirteen years.

The hallway outside her room was quiet as well. She could see the outlines of portraits hidden behind dark curtains, yet none of them spoke. The floor seemed to swallow her steps and the dark wood-panelled walls absorbed what little sound remained. As she wandered through the house, peering into one large, empty room after another, she could not shake the feeling of being watched. It must feel very strange to live in a place like that, to grow up here, she thought. A child would feel very small in here. Insignificant even. Lost.

At last she found Narcissa in the drawing room, reading. A cup of tea cooling beside her.

“Oh, Helia.” Narcissa lowered her book with polite grace “Have you managed to settle in? I hope the room is to your liking.”

“It’s perfect, Narcissa, thank you.” Helia sank into the armchair opposite her, crossing her legs elegantly. “And really, there’s no need for all this formality with me. It really doesn’t matter to me.” She smiled, softening her voice. “I trust you’ve been well these past years?”

“We have little reason to complain.” Narcissa’s tone was measured, her expression carefully smooth. A flicker crossed her pale face before she mastered it. “And now we have the great honour of hosting the Dark Lord himself.”

Helia inclined her head. “Indeed, a great honour,” she said knowingly. “Though surely a burden as well. Don’t worry, I understand.” She leaned forward, her words gentle, but pointed.

Narcissa flinched, almost startled. “No! Please don’t think of it as a burden to us.” Her eyes widened, and at last Helia understood. She noticed the faint shadows under her eyes, carefully hidden but not completely gone. Narcissa was under so much pressure it seemed to crush her.

Helia gave a light laugh, warm and disarming. “Narcissa.” She reached across, taking the blonde woman’s hand in her own and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Please, relax. I am not him. You don’t need to be this tense around me. This is your home, after all.”

For a moment they sat in silence, Helia’s hand lingering just long enough to steady her, to comfort her. She felt the unspoken fear hanging between them, though Narcissa managed a weak smile.

“You’ve kept the house much the same,” Helia said at last, her gaze drifting across the ornate room. Perhaps a compliment would ease her further. “It always felt so… sublime to me.”

Narcissa gave a short nod. “We’ve always valued stability.”

“And your son? Draco? The last time I saw him, he was just a baby.”

Pride softened Narcissa’s face. Family had always been her anchor, and Helia knew it would steady her now. “Yes. Draco has just finished his fourth year at Hogwarts, and I dare say his marks are quite satisfactory. He left this morning to spend the rest of the summer with a friend. You may remember his father, Theodore Nott?”

Helia raised her brows knowingly, though the name meant little to her.

“So,” she said after a pause, “he’s in the same year as … that boy?” Her tone was casual, but curious.

Narcissa drew a sharp breath, bracing herself. “Yes. But Draco is in Slytherin, of course, and I assure you, they are no friends at all.”

“I would not expect them to be.” Helia’s smile was light, her laugh honest. “You’ve raised him well. He surely knows who matters, and who to be friends with.” The words were casual, but carried weight. Helia knew it was the highest praise she could give.

The effect was immediate. The tension in Narcissa’s shoulders eased. Her voice steadied as she began to speak of her husband’s influence at the Ministry, his ties with the Minister himself. They had even had box seats at the Quidditch World Cup. Of course she did not really care about Quidditch but one should at least be seen at such events.

They talked for a while until it was time for dinner.

“I will inform the Dark Lord,” Helia said, rising from her chair “although I highly doubt he will join us.” Relief washed over Narcissas face. She obviously wanted to stay as far away from him as possible.

The conversation had drained Helia, though she hoped she had steadied her hostess at least a little bit, given her some illusion of control in a situation where she had none.

Carefully she knocked on the study door. Again, he made her wait until a cold Enter cut through the silence.

The curtains were still drawn. The air stale, oppressive. It was obvious to her, that she was not welcome. No one really was for that matter, she thought. He sat at the desk, reading not even lifting his head to acknowledge her standing there.

“Dinner will be served in a few minutes. If you would honour us with your presence?” Helia asked, her tone somewhere between courtesy and exaggeration. After all these years she no longer knew how to speak to him,   nor how he felt about her or what his mood was like and didn't want to upset him straight away. Politeness was therefore the safest choice in her eyes.

“No.”, came his curt reply.

“Shall I save you something? Maybe for later? You must be hungry.”, she asked cautiously. Did he even need to eat anymore? She did not know for sure but thought so.

For a second he looked up at her. “I do not require food.”, he said then continued to read.

“Well, maybe you want to try?,” she pressed gently. “I’ll bring you something later.” She turned and left.

Dinner downstairs was suffocating. Every attempt at conversation soon dissolved into silence. At last Helia gave up and turned her attention to the food. If they did not ease up soon, she thought, she was in for long evenings of silence and boredom. She left as soon as politeness allowed and quietly slipped to the kitchen where she prepared a second plate. She knew Narcissa would probably disapprove of her being in there. Of course they had staff for things like that but she wanted to do it herself.

Another knock. Another pause. Another curt invitation. And again he did not even look up. He knew ignoring her would drive her mad and he was right. It did. Her heart started pounding again as anger rose in her chest. He just nodded his head, gesturing where to put down the tray. She obeyed and promptly sat down in the armchair opposite his desk. Quietly she watched him. Her heart beating furiously. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. The more he ignored her, the angrier she became. She just could not help it. Surely he could hear her heart hammering in her chest by now but she tried to remain calm at least on the outside.

"Your presence is no longer required," he said curtly, but she didn't move. She would stay in this chair and if it was the last thing she did. It might just be, she thought, if she was not careful.

“You should really eat something.”, she said gently, ignoring his words, “it’s pretty good.”  He did not so much as glance at the food. Perhaps, she thought, he really did not need to eat anymore? But it was just meant as a gesture anyway so it did not really matter.

Time stretched, silence filling the space between them. She knew he could keep this act up indefinitely but the chair was comfortable enough, she too could wait.

After what felt like hours, he finally looked up and met her gaze.

“You are still here?” he asked, as though her presence had entirely slipped his mind.

“Of course.”, she answered calmly, smiling pleasantly at him. It cost her all her remaining strength to not just shout at him. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“I suppose you have questions,” his voice dangerously sharp. Helia knew she had to be careful now.

“Oh yes,” she answered, still forcing a smile.

“Ask.” It was an order although his eyes told her very clearly, that he did not wish to talk to her, least of all explain himself. She took a deep breath, steading herself. Now that he was listening she did not know what to say. She felt the lump in her throat, keeping her from speaking. Where should she begin? Her mind was suddenly so empty.

“What happened?”, was all she could muster, trying to gather her thoughts “Thirteen years and not a single word, not one message.” Her voice was quiet, slightly more than a whisper but she could not hide the anger beneath it.

He studied her, searching for the words he wished to share. Finally he spoke, briefly told her of that night, of underestimating the power of a Mudblood’s sacrifice; of his flight to Albania, his return. She let him speak, listened intently, trying to comprehend everything. Helia knew there was more, far more than what he told her, but this was all he was willing to share. He never told her more than he wanted her to know, never more than he needed her to know. No doubt he had told his followers much the same. She would not fool herself into believing that she knew more than anyone else.

“And in thirteen long years it never occurred to you, to call for me? To come to me?” Her voice held disbelief and pain “You could have summoned me. I would have come to you at once, not that I would have had a choice. I just don’t get it.”

“If you had truly wished to find me, you surely could have.” A menacing smile crossed his thin lips. Of course it was her fault. It had always been her fault.

“Albania, Tom?”, she shouted, slamming her hand down on the desk so hard she thought for a second she’d broken her wrist. “Seriously! Albania? How was I supposed to know you were in Albania of all places?” She could not keep it together any longer. Angry red blotches appeared on her face, burning her cheeks. She got to her feed pacing the room. “And don’t you dare think I did not go looking for you! In the first few years, I went everywhere in search of you! Places we’ve been together, places you’d only ever mentioned once but you were just gone! If you don’t believe me, ask Malfoy or better yet, ask Severus, he will tell you. He’s probably glad you are finally back just so he doesn’t have to listen to my weird theories about your whereabouts anymore. I know you just did not want me to find you but believe me, I was worried sick!” She knew she was shouting at him, knew that she had gone too far but thirteen years of worry and pain made her reckless, maybe even indifferent to the consequences.

Suddenly he was on her, his hand gripping her chin, his face inches from hers. Her heart hammered in panic. She had pushed him too far, she knew it. He would not allow anyone to speak to him like that.

“Enough,” he said, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper, his hand digging painfully into her skin.

“Of course,” she whispered back, lowering her eyes. “Forgive me.”

Suddenly she felt something brush against her ankle. Startled, she looked down and realised what had touched her. A giant snake, larger than any she had ever seen before.

“This is Nagini,” he said softly, releasing her at last. “She has already proven most useful, as you can imagine.”

Helia stared at him, and at the snake. He had always had a strange bond with them, one she had never understood.

“Well, fine then. Tell her I said hello, ” she muttered, utterly confused. The snake had thrown her completely off balance.

“She understands you,” he replied, his hand sliding over the snake’s head. The gesture made Helia’s skin crawl. It was almost tender, almost affectionate.

She drew a sharp breath, forcing herself to collect her thoughts. Her last words. She could not even remember them clearly, but she knew they had been edged with the anger she had kept buried for years.

“So. You say you have spoken to Severus? Why?” His tone was almost idle as he continued stroking the snake’s head.

“Yes. I have. He was the only one I stayed in contact with. He is a good man, loyal. At least as far as I know.”

“Good, good. I had my suspicions about him. He did not answer the call as he should have. But those doubts are unfounded, you say?” he asked, more firmly this time.

Helia frowned at him, confusion tightening her voice. “Don’t you also doubt my loyalty? My faithfulness?” she asked, her tone sharper again, almost daring him. She just couldn’t hold it back. After everything, this truly was all that mattered to him?

“Oh no, not at all. I see you are not lying.” His thin lips curved into a smile.

She froze. She knew exactly what that meant. He had looked into her thoughts, her memories, seen for himself that nothing in there gave him reason to doubt her. She had been too angry to even realise what he was doing.

“Stop it, Tom! I hate it when you do that,” she snapped.

His smile widened, triumphant.

She would have to be more careful. It was dangerous to let him slip inside her mind without her even realising. Once, she had been better at resisting him. She would have to learn again, and quickly.

“He is still loyal to you,” she sighed, once she had calmed down a little and let herself sink back into the armchair. “If you really want my opinion, well, I’d rather doubt the loyalty of our host than that of Severus.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, as if weighing her words. It surprised her that he had even asked for her opinion at all. That was new.

“He is useful,” he replied at last, his voice almost bored. “He will be forgiven, if he proves himself.”

“Well, seems like you are more forgiving than I am,” she laughed bitterly, shaking her head.

“Who would have thought,” he said, his tone mockingly, finally taking his hand off the snake. She slid away in a slow ripple, coiling herself neatly at his side.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence told her the conversation was over, at least for him. He had shared all he intended to share. But the pain still burned inside her. He still had not answered her question. Why he had never come to her?Why, in his weakest hour, when he had no body at all, had he not called for her?

“So that’s it then?” she asked quietly. “I simply don’t understand you. I would have come to you, you know I would have. All you had to do was say a word.”

Something in her voice cracked. The anger was gone now, the fury spent. What remained was grief, and pain, and a confusion that cut deeper than either.

“It matters not!” he hissed, and she heard the sharp impatience in his tone. He had given her all he was willing to give, and she was meant to be satisfied with that. “Lord Voldemort has returned, even more powerful than before.”

She had to force herself not to roll her eyes. It had always unsettled her, hearing him speak of himself as Lord Voldemort. She had always just found it very odd. 

“It matters to me,” she sighed, rising to her feet. Without another glance back, she left.

She had had more than enough for one night, and still no answer to the question that ate at her soul. Why had he never called for her? Why had he never allowed her to care for him if he had been this weak?

She went back to her room, opened the tall windows, letting the warm night air rush in and dropped onto the wooden floor just beneath them, still warm from the day’s sun. The soft summer breeze soothing her burning eyes.

She needed to be alone. She needed to think.

Of course deep down she already knew the answers to all her questions. He didn’t need to give them. But still, she wanted to hear them, spoken in his own voice. She knew him too well. He would never have asked for her help. He would never have come to her if he could help it. Not for this. Not yet. To accept her help would have meant admitting weakness. And he never admitted weakness. No, he would never have called for her, even though it might have made everything so much easier. Until the night he vanished, he had never permitted himself to need anyone’s help. Not even hers. She knew he would only ever turn to her when there was no other option left.

He had entered the room without a sound. Helia hadn’t heard him, but suddenly he was there, behind her, watching with that cold look of disapproval. She rose carefully to her feet, and reached for his hand. It was so cold in her own.

“I was worried,” she whispered, her voice soft but trembling and lightly she kissed his equally cold cheek. “That is all.”

She slipped into the bathroom before he could answer. When she returned, he was gone.

It was late when at last he allowed himself to rest. Rest, nothing more. Sleep was unnecessary, a relic of a former life. He had shed such human frailties long ago. And yet, here, in the silence before dawn, he wished for stillness, for a moment to gather his thoughts in the dark.

Helia was already asleep when he entered the room. Had she been expecting him? Deliberately or not, she had left the right side of the bed empty, as though she remembered his preference. He stood there for a moment, watching her. Her calm face, her hair fanned across the pillow like molten gold. He despised that his eyes lingered at all.

Why had he never sought her? He had always known where she was, known she would take him in, tend to him, if necessary. She had always been soft, welcoming, weak. And yet he had never allowed it. To appear before her maimed, broken, bodiless, it would have been an admission of weakness, a degradation. Lord Voldemort did not crawl to anyone for help.

Still … there had been moments. Twice he had come close. Once, in the first days after losing his body, when pain had almost consumed him. And again, after the boy had thwarted him, after the Stone had slipped beyond his grasp. Both times, he had almost given in. Almost. He had crushed the impulse. He always had. He did not need her, not now and hopefully not ever. He had chosen his path. A path he could travel alone. What she offered had always been a different road, one he would not take unless it was inevitable.

He lowered himself onto the bed. Her breathing remained steady, untroubled. The warmth radiating from her skin drew him against his will. He despised the human stirrings that lingered in him, resented that they had survived when he had sacrificed so much already.

Slowly, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, and to his great surprise she smiled at him. A smile of such ease, such warmth, that suspicion rose hot and sharp in his chest.

“Can’t you sleep?” she whispered drowsy, her voice soft.

“No,” he replied, his own voice rough, more from restraint than fatigue.

Her hand found his cheek, warm, infuriatingly gentle. “Shall I help you?” she breathed. He did not answer, just stared at her for a moment.

She smiled again. “Sleep,” she murmured,  brushing her lips ever so lightly to his cold skin. His mind slowly stilled. Thoughts dissolved, and, for the first time in years, he surrendered, falling into a deep, mercifully dreamless dark.

Chapter Text

1980

It was an unusually cold November evening when she heard a knock at her door. She had just stepped out of the shower, opened a bottle of wine, and lit a cigarette. She had been expecting a quiet, uneventful night. The calm of the last few days had made her careless. She wasn’t expecting anyone and just assumed the Dark Lord - contrary to his word - had just returned earlier than planned, and invited him in without much thought.

Only when she looked up did she notice the dark figure standing in the doorway. She started at the unfamiliar sight, but quickly regained her composure. A young stranger was not who she had expected. She studied him closely, trying to make out his face beneath the long, dark hair behind which he seemed to hide.

“You are Severus Snape, if I’m not mistaken?” she asked, uncertain. The Dark Lord had spoken of him, of his rather useful services. He had assumed the boy would continue to prove himself very valuable. “The Dark Lord is not to be disturbed tonight.”

The young man remained silent. She sought his gaze, but he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes. Something about him unsettled her, a strange tension radiating from him that she could not quite grasp. Rigidly he stood there, barely daring to breathe.

“Forgive me, madam but - ” He faltered, staring at the floor. Helia began to feel a little uncomfortable, sensing that he should not be standing there watching her drink wine and smoke in nothing but a bathrobe.

“But…?” she asked, growing impatient.

“But I wished to speak with you.” His voice was low, controlled and for the first time, he met her gaze. Whatever had brought him here, seemed urgent. Her evening had just become considerably more interesting.

“Very well. Please, sit.” She gestured toward an armchair opposite her and got up. “I’ll change into something a little more appropriate.”

For a moment, surprise flickered across his face, as though he hadn’t expected her to even listen to him. She quickly slipped into the bathroom to get dressed. When she returned, he was seated stiffly upright in the armchair she had indicated, his tension almost tangible. Helia poured a second glass of wine and handed it to him.

“Drink. It’ll help,” she said, when he hesitated, trying to refuse. “So? What brings you to me?”

He took a sip, but remained silent, eyes fixed on the glass as though the dark wine was far more interesting than she was. Helia leaned back on the sofa, studying him with mild curiosity. It unsettled her that she could not quite read him. What did he want from her? How had he even heard about her?

The Dark Lord had mentioned him only recently. A fortunate young man, in the right place at the right time. He had overheard a prophecy. A prophecy concerning the Dark Lord himself and his possible downfall. Though Helia had little patience for Divination, she could see that the prophecy had unsettled him. He would not allow it to have any power over him. He would deal with the matter before it became a threat.

Still the young man remained silent. Helia refilled his glass. Likely, he had never expected her to listen, certainly not to speak with him so freely.

“You are his wife, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly, now staring at her with blunt curiosity, as though trying to understand who exactly sat there before him.

The Dark Lord never spoke of her. To anyone. As far as he could tell, almost no one knew she even existed. The risk he had taken in seeking her out was considerable, as her mere existence should not even be known to him.

“If you have to ask, you are hardly in a position to expect an answer,” she laughed lightly. “Drink.” She hoped the wine would calm him a little.

“I overheard Lucius Malfoy mention it. I didn’t know… that he had a wife,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“Well, you seem to have a talent for hearing things not meant for your ears.” She smiled warmly. “I would greatly appreciate it if you kept this particular discovery to yourself.”

“Of course. I’ll keep quiet,” he answered quickly, lowering his gaze, hair falling like a curtain across his face. Again he fell back into silence. The air between them was charged, almost electric. Helia thought she might lose patience if he did not speak soon. Even she had her limits but she could see that he was summoning the courage to confide in her.

“So?” she pressed, still smiling, leaning a little closer. “What brings you here? Or did you just wish to look at me and share a bottle of wine?” She tried to sound as calm, as inviting as possible. Perhaps it would ease him, lighten the tension, she thought.

“It is about the prophecy,” he said at last, then drained almost half his glass as though to wash down the words. The drink seemed to have its effect. His rigid posture softened.

“Yes, I am aware of the prophecy. You did very well. The Dark Lord is most satisfied with your service.”

For several seconds he stared at her, incredulous, almost horrified. Then it burst out of him.

“IT IS HER SON!”

Helia startled at the sudden outcry, recoiled slightly. She had not expected this. He had seemed so cold, so composed. But all his composure was gone now, replaced by fear.

“Whose son?” she asked calmly, refilling his glass before taking a sip herself.

“Him. The boy! The boy in the prophecy—it is her son. And HE WILL KILL THEM ALL!”

Helia briefly wondered if she had overdone the wine. Perhaps he had had too much, and was now raving nonsense. She didn’t understand.

“He - the Dark Lord, I assume - will kill whom? As far as I know, the prophecy could apply to at least two boys, maybe even more.” She tried to make sense of his outburst.

“But he will choose him! He will choose him, and he will kill her as well!” His voice was still too loud, but he fought for composure, breathing heavily as though each word cost him. Helia understood. He could hardly control his emotions, yet he pressed on. Gradually he steadied, explaining his fear that the prophecy might apply to someone he knew, had known all his life. They had once been friends, as children. He could not risk the Dark Lord choosing her son. For then, surely, the mother would die as well. Why should he spare her? One life more or less meant nothing to him. But for the desperate young man before her, that single life meant the whole world.

“Please, you must persuade him! He must choose the other boy. Not him. Not her!” His voice was raw, despairing. Helia saw his eyes glisten with tears. He had thrown away all restraint and placed his hopes in a woman he did not know, praying she would understand. Praying she felt more compassion than the Dark Lord. He had taken a tremendous risk in speaking to her at all, even in seeking her out.

“I do not know if I can,” Helia admitted. “I don’t believe he has decided yet. But I must confess, the half-blood is a far more logical choice than the pure-blood child.”

“Please, speak to him. He must listen to you. You are his wife!” he pleaded, voice breaking, eyes locked on hers.

“Oh, you vastly overestimate my influence.” She laughed softly. “Once he has decided, no one can sway him. Have you spoken to him yourself, yet?”

“No. Should I?” he asked, desperation plain on his face. Helia knew he was willing to do anything.

“I’m not sure. You are in his favour, for now. Perhaps he would grant you to spare the mother, if he chose the boy.” She paused thoughtfully. Perhaps he would? As a reward for his loyalty? She had to admit it was unlikely. To him, the mother’s life was utterly meaningless.

“I will speak to him,” she said at last. “I’ll tell him about our conversation, not all of it, of course, all this sentimental talk would just bore him anyway but I will try.”

At this, the young man exhaled sharply, as though a crushing weight had been lifted off his chest and he collapsed back into his chair.

“I’ll let you know once he has made his decision. Should he choose the boy - and I fear he most likely will - you should speak to him yourself and I will do the same.”

“Thank you,” he whispered relieved, seizing her hand. Again his black eyes shone with hope. “How can I ever repay you?”

“Oh, something will present itself … eventually.” She laughed lightly. She felt a surge of pity for this young man. He didn’t strike her as someone who begged lightly, nor as someone who would offer gratitude cheaply. Being indebted to someone was always dangerous. Especially to strangers.

But she could feel his desperation, his reckless resolve. He would risk anything, everything, for the mother.

Chapter Text

1995

The Dark Lord spent far less time at Malfoy Manor than Helia had expected. It seemed to her that he had only brought her there to keep her under watch - her, as well as the Malfoys. There were more important matters demanding his attention. Renewing old alliances, punishing those who had not returned to his side. When he did stay at the manor, he sometimes allowed her into his study, given she stayed silent and out of his way.

He had not explained his plans to her outright of course, but she had pieced together enough to understand. He was obsessed with that night fourteen years ago. How had the child survived? How had he - the most powerful wizard of all time - been nearly destroyed in place of the boy? Was it the prophecy? He had never heard the prophecy in full. Perhaps something in its wording would explain what had happened, what power the boy possessed, and what mistake he himself had made.

His temper grew darker by the day. Helia suspected it would remain so until he could hear the prophecy for himself, until he could understand what had gone so terribly wrong all those years ago. There seemed to be a record of the prophecy, safely locked away in the Ministry. It shouldn’t be that big of a problem to retrieve it, she thought. Malfoy was in and out of the ministry almost daily. Was he not basically friends with the Minister? Couldn’t he just get it? Yet he made little progress. Even McNair, with his position inside the Ministry, proved useless; the Dark Lord had sent him elsewhere, to rekindle old loyalties.

Time seemed to have stopped since the day she left her own home. Was it still summer? Autumn already? She no longer knew. She did not leave the house; he had ordered her to remain close, and she had not objected. Resistance would have been pointless. She spent her days mostly alone, reading in silence. It was not so different from her life before, and yet she missed the sun, the air, the pulse of the world outside.

One evening, she had just opened the windows to let in at least a trace of fresh air, she heard the screams. Agonised screams. So sharp, so raw, once they were heard they would never be forgotten. She knew them too well. It had been quiet far too long, she thought. Given how restless and short-tempered he had been, it almost came as a surprise nobody had suffered his wrath sooner. It was only a matter of time before someone was made to pay for the lack of progress.

Cautiously, she opened her door. Her curiosity overrode her hesitation; she needed to know whose voice it was, though she already had a fair idea. She crept down the hallway, each scream louder as she drew near. Lucius Malfoy, she guessed. She faintly recalled hearing him cry out like this once before, though not by the Dark Lord’s hand. 

At the top of the staircase she found Narcissa, frozen in place, staring down into the entrance hall, the look of terror on her face. Helia did not need to see what lay below to know. She seized the pale, slender woman roughly by the arm and pulled her back, away from the stairs into the hallway. 

“Don’t look,” she said sternly. Narcissa’s wide, tear-bright eyes remained fixed. Another scream rose, so raw that Helia felt her own skin crawl. “And better not listen either,” she added more quietly. Narcissa slid down the wall, crumpling to the floor.

Helia knelt down beside her and caught her trembling hand. Each time a cry rang out, Narcissa gripped her as if the sound alone caused her pain. Silent tears ran over her white cheeks.

“It’ll be over soon,” Helia murmured. “Soon.” She told herself the same. How much longer would he go on? Would he risk killing Malfoy? That would be … unwise, she thought.

Another scream. Narcissa whimpered and clutched her hand so tightly Helia feared her bones might snap.

“Soon it will be over,” she repeated, unsure whether she was trying to calm Narcissa or herself. She despised these screams. Always the same. Always so loud. Yet he relished them. They were proof of his power. Proof that he could do whatever he wanted to. They were all his to break.

“Do not fail Lord Voldemort ever again.” His cold voice carried upward. Helia inhaled sharply, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Oh how she loathed the way he spoke of himself as Lord Voldemort. Then silence. She risked a glance into the hall below. He was gone. Only Lucius remained, collapsed in a pitiful heap at the foot of the stairs.

“He’s gone,” she said turning back to Narcissa, who was already trying to regain her composure. Her husband should not see her like this. One of them had to be strong, Helia thought. Narcissa rose, graceful even in her distress, and descended the staircase to kneel beside her husband.

Helia lit a cigarette and just stayed where she was, leaning against the cool wall. She had no intention of asking him what had angered him this time. She had even less intention of being caught in his wrath as well.

When she returned to her room, it was empty. Relief loosened the tightness in her chest. Best to avoid him tonight, if she could. 

He came late. She had already gone to bed, though she could not fall asleep. A part of her feared he might seek her out, still furious and might choose to unleash his disappointment upon her instead.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Silence filled the room. She listened closely to his breathing, controlling her own so it remained steady, unafraid. His breath was calm.

“Tom?” she whispered. “Are you … alright?”

“Yes.” The word was cold, clipped. Hard to read his mood in a single syllable, but he still sounded unsettled — though calmer than before. Her heart pounded in her chest, though she tried to hide it. If he sensed her fear it would only make him more dangerous. She turned carefully toward him. He was lying behind her, his eyes fixed on hers. And from that unblinking stare she knew, despite his answer, that he was not well at all.

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked calmly, trying to sound inviting. She had learned that it was safer that way.

“He failed,” he said, eyes closing briefly. “He was seen. That worthless excuse for a wizard I sent for the prophecy. They fail me! They all fail me!”

“Well, that is very foolish of them,” Helia replied evenly, carefully reaching for his cold hand under the covers. He did not pull away. “Another will try. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

1995

With every passing week his mood grew darker, his rage more consuming. It was not enough that their first attempt to seize the prophecy had been noticed; the second had failed as well. Worse still, the Ministry worker chosen to steal it had survived and been taken to St. Mungo’s. It was only a matter of time before his memory returned. So far his condition had prevented testimony, but that luck would not last.

The Dark Lord was furious. Now he had to assume that Dumbledore, unfortunately neither as cowardly nor as witless as the Minister, knew what he truly desired. Dumbledore had wasted no time in re-establishing the Order of the Phoenix. A grave disappointment. Of course the Dark Lord had not wished to be discovered so soon. Still, there was some use in the Minister’s frantic attempts to deny his return. For now, no one believed Dumbledore or his followers. But that, too, would not last forever.

The flicker of light woke her. She must have drifted off without meaning to. Although she had no idea what time it was, she felt that her nap had lasted longer than just a few minutes.

She had been sitting with him, reading, a glass of wine at her side. Sometimes she stayed simply to feel less alone, though he was rarely good company. Her burned-out cigarette lay in the ashtray, her wine unfinished.

She had been watching him for some time, as she often did. He sat at his desk, half in shadow. And sometimes, when the light hit him just so, she thought she glimpsed the faintest trace of the man he had once been.

Now he was completely still, eyes closed. Was he sleeping? Impossible. He never slept, or at least not like this, upright at his desk. Something was clearly wrong. She rose from her chair, cautiously stepping closer.

“Tom?” she asked softly. “Is everything all right?”

No reply.

Carefully she reached out, a tentative hand on his shoulder. Still nothing. A chill spread through her. She leaned closer, studying his face.

Suddenly his eyes flew open. He gasped for air like a diver breaking the surface. She stumbled back, colliding painfully with the desk before catching herself.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, breath ragged.

“He knows,” Voldemort said sharply. Then louder, shrieking in his high, cold voice that made her skin crawl: “HE KNOWS!”

Terror burned in her throat. She had to get out! Out of the room, out of his reach. Now, before his fury turned on her. He rose, pacing like a caged animal, then halted with his back to her. She seized her chance and edged toward the door, hardly daring to breathe. Just a few more steps. But he turned, his eyes burning.

Too late.

His hand cracked across her face. She hadn’t seen it coming. She hit the floor hard, tasting blood.

How careless. She should have just run.

Her lip throbbed, her head swam. Through the haze she saw him draw his wand, aim at her. Instinct cut through the dizziness. She knew this too well. It wasn’t the first time he lashed out in his fury.

He lifted his wand with chilling ease, his lips curving in something too close to amusement. The word came soft, idle. “Crucio,” he hissed, almost lazily. The curse slid from his lips as though causing agony meant nothing more to him than breathing.

She threw herself aside. The curse missed, but she fell again.

“Don’t you dare, Tom!” she shouted, clawing at the sofa to pull herself up. “Don’t you DARE!”

Her palm brushed the table. She felt the smooth wood, the thin roll of parchment as she pushed the ashtray aside. Finally she found her wand. She snatched it up like a lifeline, raising it with a hand that trembled but did not falter.

He watched her, face still twisted in rage, but did not strike again.

She didn’t turn her back once, not even as she staggered from the room. In the library she made herself a makeshift bed, praying he would not follow.

On the small couch she lay panting, her lip split, her heart hammering against her ribs as though it meant to escape.

“Shall I prepare another room for you?”

The quiet voice startled her. Narcissa, pale in her nightdress, lingered in the doorway like a ghost. The Malfoys must have heard them. The thought filled her with dread. How embarrassing.

“Thank you. I’ll just stay here,” Helia answered quietly.

“Do you need anything? Something to drink, perhaps?” Narcissa’s pallor, her white skin and long hair, gave her an otherworldly glow.

“No. Thank you. I would just like to sleep.” Her voice was sharper than intended, though Narcissa had only meant kindness.

The woman inclined her head and slipped away.

Helia tried to rest, but sleep would not come. She opened a window, a cigarette trembling between her fingers. The cool night air soothed her more than the smoke. Outside, all was dark and peaceful. She heard the distant cry of a peacock, the soft murmur of a fountain somewhere in the garden. It all seemed so calm, so normal, but she knew it was just an illusion. How she missed her own home, the quiet there had been natural, not heavy with fear as it was here.

She woke with a start. He was sitting there, silent, watching. Too still, too composed. For a moment she wondered if she was still dreaming. Her hand instinctively went to her wand. If he noticed, he gave no sign.

He studied her, calm now.

“I see you are awake,” he said at last, his voice composed. She knew this was as close to an apology as he would ever come.

“Good morning.” She sat up carefully. “Are you … better?”

“Somewhat.”

Her hand tightened on her wand. Just in case.

“Do you want to tell me what happened last night?” she asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed, fury flickering anew. He rose, pacing. He had gone to the Ministry, he said. Sent the snake to scout, to see through her eyes.

“Wait. What? You can control her like this? See what she sees?” She had never understood the bond he shared with serpents, nor dared to ask. But this, of course, explained a lot. No wonder he liked them so much. She knew that he could talk to them, but control them like this? She stared in amazement.

“If I wish,” he said coolly.

She gave a low whistle. “That’s … very useful.”

But then, he said, the boy had been there. He had felt him. He had seen through him.

Helia sat bolt upright. “You mean… the boy saw you too? Is that what you’re saying?”

Impossible! He was a master of Occlumency! Everyone knew that. The boy was not even of age. How could a child be able to pierce his mind? She looked at him sceptically.

“But how?” she finally asked, almost laughing at this idea.

“I do not know,” he said, dangerously slow. Not knowing the answer and having to admit his lack of knowledge fueled his fury anew. She shouldn’t have asked.

“Tom, that can’t be.” Her voice forced calm, though whether for him or herself she wasn’t sure. Rumors had long whispered that the child who survived him might one day wield some strange dark power. How else could he have escaped death itself? Survived the Killing Curse?

“Are you quite sure he is just a boy?” she ventured. “Maybe he has abilities you don’t know of yet.”

“He is nothing but a boy! Ordinary!” Voldemort spat.

“Of course.” She raised her hands slightly, placating. “But how old is he now? Fourteen? Fifteen? Not yet a grown man but no longer a child either. You of all people know what one can do at that age.”

His lip curled.

“You dare compare him to Lord Voldemort?” His voice dripped with scorn.

She rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. “Don’t be absurd. Of course not! You are far greater. Extraordinary, we all know that. But don’t underestimate him. He’s had Dumbledore all these years, training him. Just… don’t underestimate him. That’s all I’m saying.”

A dangerous light flickered in his eyes.

“Do not counsel me,” he hissed.

“I don’t. I’m only stating my concerns. Please don’t misunderstand me.” Her voice softened. “I’m worried. That’s all.”

In a breath he was before her, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Do you dare doubt the power of Lord Voldemort?” His whisper coiled like a curse. He obviously took her concerns as an insult.

“How could I?” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “But… look where all your power got you fourteen years ago. It almost destroyed you. Be careful. Especially if you decide to exploit this connection.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed to slits. She wasn’t sure if it was her worry that had set him off, or the fact that she had guessed he meant to exploit the bond.

“I know your strength,” she said quickly. “In Legilimency, in Occlumency. You can read me whenever you decide to. The boy cannot withstand you, no one would doubt that.”

Her words soothed him. His pride was a blade; stroked carefully, it could be turned aside.

“I shall strengthen our ranks first,” he said at last, settling back into the chair opposite her. “Dumbledore is already summoning his allies. Friends as he calls them.”

“You mean you’ll break Dolohov and Bellatrix and the others out of Azkaban,” she said bluntly.

His mouth twisted into a smile. “One might put it that way.”

“Good. Very good. That is wise,” Helia said.

Suspicion flickered across his face. He knew she had little use for his followers, least of all those in Azkaban. Her easy approval did not sit well with him.

“You know,” she said after a pause, “I might have gone a little overboard back then. Urging them to go looking for you.”

Chapter Text

1981

Helia had spent the whole evening pacing, nerves fraying until she could no longer bear it. She had scrubbed the house from top to bottom, brewed herself tea, and was now washing the same dishes for the second time. It was supposed to be tonight. He had chosen the day without explanation - the night before All Hallows’ Eve.

Of course, he had chosen the boy she had feared he would. The logical choice. Why would a pure-blood ever fight him? He had nothing to fear. He might even thrive in the Dark Lord’s service. No, it had to be the other boy, and she had found no reason that could have swayed him otherwise. She herself would have made the same decision.

At least she had tried to persuade him to spare the mother. As promised, she had told him about the desperate young man who had come to her in secret, begging for her life. She had argued that leaving the woman alive would be a fitting reward for his loyalty. By sparing her life, he would gain a servant so devoted he would not only kill for him but die for him if commanded. She was certain of it. Helia had not been sure, however, that he truly understood, but thought he might do it anyway. As a reward. To him, the woman’s life had no meaning. One death more or less, what did it matter?

She had returned home to wait for news. His closest circle knew he meant to go tonight, to kill the child fated to bring about his downfall. He had insisted on going alone. She had tried to dissuade him, even suggested taking Severus Snape with him, so that Severus himself could ensure the mother’s safety. But no. He would go alone.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly morning. Why was there still no word? Why had no one come to tell her the child was dead? A life ended before it had even begun. Snuffed out. Just like that. Simply because someone, somewhere, had decided the child might one day pose a threat to him. Maybe. Someday.

She still thought he gave the matter far too much weight. Why not wait? If it eased his mind, the boy could be killed later. Surely some loyal follower would be willing. Bellatrix, for example, would take it as the highest honour. But no, he had to do it himself. Alone. Always alone.

She threw open the windows. Cool night air drifted in, smelling of salt and sea, calming her for a moment.

Then she heard it. Sparks flared in the fireplace. She nearly ran from the kitchen, stumbling over the carpet, as figures emerged from the flames. First a dark-haired woman with heavy-lidded eyes, her face stricken. Her husband followed, then more figures: a young man cloaked in black, a tall blond, and two heavyset brutes.

Helia stared. Why were they here? What had happened?

“Bellatrix?” she asked, turning to the only woman. “What’s going on?”

But Bellatrix only dropped her gaze, tears spilling. No. No, it couldn’t be. Surely not?

“The Dark Lord…” she whispered at last, voice breaking as tears of fury ran down her face. “He has … fallen.”

The words struck like a blade. Heat rushed to Helia’s face, her breath caught. It felt as if the ground had opened beneath her and she was falling. Falling and never hitting the bottom. No. Impossible. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening closely to her heartbeat, searching for the familiar pull, the ache. But there was nothing. Surely she would feel it if he had really died, wouldn’t she? If he were truly gone, she would know.

Bellatrix’s face was twisted with grief, tears streaking her cheeks. Helia had never seen her like this. She looked utterly mad.

“What do you mean, fallen?” Helia pressed, forcing steadiness into her voice.

“He is gone. We know no more,” Lucius Malfoy answered in Bellatrix’s place, his voice cool, measured.

“And the boy?”

“He is alive.”

Impossible. A baby? How could a baby have survived?

“The parents?”

“Dead. Both of them.” The young man in black spoke, his tone almost indifferent. His voice was deep, controlled. He seemed calm, unmoved. Helia’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. But there was nothing, not even a trace of distress. Unlike Bellatrix, who could barely contain herself, and somehow his calm unsettled Helia even more.

“I see,” she said sharply, drawing a deep breath. What was she supposed to do? Why had they come? To tell her? To see how she reacted?

“He is not dead!” she burst out at last, her voice stronger than she had anticipated. “Do not believe it for a second! I want to know what happened tonight and where he is! He must be somewhere. I expect you to go looking for him. Now!”

Every head turned. Stares of disbelief, confusion. Had she just given them an order? Lucius Malfoy gave a derisive sound, lips twisting into a sneer. Bellatrix even laughed through her tears.

“And what amuses you, Lucius?” Helia asked coolly, locking eyes with him. “I cannot find anything entertaining about this situation.”

He smiled down at her, smug and superior. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say: you cannot order us to do anything.” He was right, she knew that. They would never do her bidding, but she had to do something.

Her expression softened suddenly, almost tender. She held out her hand.

“Come, Lucius.”

Suspicious but intrigued, he stepped closer, finally taking her hand. Surely she knew she had no power over them, he thought. Maybe she wanted his approval? His help? They would rather follow his orders than hers. She probably just wanted his support, that was all.

She pulled him closer, so close he could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin. It made him uneasy. Too close. This was not his place to stand. Being this close to her felt very wrong. He wanted to pull away but it was too late. Her eyes, dark as the storm-tossed sea, stared into him.

And then he saw it. Her face. Something shifted. Her eyes dulled, her skin whitening, almost translucent. For a heartbeat he swore he saw the bones beneath her flesh. He froze, terror clawing at him.

“Do you want to feel me, Lucius?” she whispered against his cheek, so quietly no one else could hear. Her hand slid up his back, to his neck. Slowly, gentle, almost teasing. It made him shiver. Then, with sudden force, she dug her nails into his skull.

His scream tore the air before he even knew it was his own as her lips ever do slightly brushed his cheek. He crumpled, convulsing, clawing at nothing. His veins bulged, his face flushed red, then purple. He writhed, choking. Something within him - something he had not even known existed - was clawing its way out in sheer panic, leaving only darkness. It was not really pain he felt but an absence, a loss so profound it hollowed him out. The world around him drifted away. Farther and farther, until he was suspended in nothing. Just him and the endless void. Alone. Forever.

Helia watched, fascinated, almost amused at how quickly the stain spread across her carpet. Everyone lost control eventually. In the end. None of the others moved. Shock held them.

Finally, she decided it was enough. His thrashing weakened into pitiful whimpers until at last he lay panting.

“Stand up, Lucius,” she sighed, offering her hand. He looked up at her wearily but took it nonetheless. Pale and drenched in sweat, he staggered upright, eyes darting away from hers.

“So, where was I?” she asked coolly. None of them spoke. They just stared at her, shock binding them. What had she done? No one dared to ask. Yet it seemed to dawn on them that the Dark Lord had not chosen her simply for her beautiful face. They were clearly curious what she would do next.

“I want to know what happened tonight. And I want to know where the Dark Lord is. He is not dead!”

Still no objection. Not agreement either. Just silence.

She turned to Bellatrix and her husband. “Take as many as you need. The Order must have some idea what happened tonight. Perhaps the Potters’ house was otherwise protected. Find out. I don’t care how, just be sure you do.”

Bellatrix nodded sharply, tears still glistening. Not out of obedience, she would never take orders from anyone but her master. But Helia saw her desperation. She was desperate to do something, anything, in the wake of the unthinkable. He husband followed her into the fire. He always did.

“Crabbe, Goyle - same for you. I want to know what happened, and why.”

They, too, departed with a grunt. She knew they would turn their backs on him as soon as they could. They would probably do some half-hearted search and be done with it.

That left only Lucius, trembling, gripping a chair for balance, sweat dripping. Looking at him, Helia feared he might be sick on her carpet, which had already suffered enough that evening.

“The bathroom is upstairs, first door on the right,” she said icily. He bowed his head and left.

For a second she wondered if it had been enough. Had she shown them enough to scare them into action? The answer was easy. There was nothing they were more afraid of than their master, and nothing she could do would ever change that. They all followed him and most not out of loyalty, not out of conviction, but out of fear. With him gone, there was nothing to fear anymore. They would not go looking for him. They were probably glad he was gone. She knew that. And maybe it broke her heart a little.

Only one remained: the young man in black. He opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a gesture. Not while Malfoy might still hear.

When Lucius returned, pale but steadier, she dismissed him as well. He vanished in the flames without a backward glance.

At last, when the fire dimmed, she spoke. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “So very sorry.”

The young man clutched the windowsill as if his legs could no longer support him. His grief shook him, broke him. He sank to the floor at last, and Helia sat down beside him. Cautiously, she tried to hug him, although she was sure he would push her away. But he did not. He clung to her with such force she feared her ribs might break, but still she held him.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered hoarsely, not looking at her. “All my fault.”

“Who could have known this would happen?” she murmured.

She felt the fabric of her dress getting wet but said nothing. She pretended not to notice, not to feel his tension as he tried to keep steady, tried to hold the grief in. Finally he pulled away, hiding behind his long hair, trying not to meet her gaze. She knew he must feel horribly ashamed. So she rose and fetched the whiskey. They drank in silence.

She lit a cigarette, offered him one. He shook his head, drinking instead. They passed the bottle back and forth, wordless. There were no words for this.

But she knew that look in his eyes. Despair, guilt, the wish for it all to end. She had seen it before. Too many times.

“You should stay the night,” she said at last, her tone leaving no room for refusal.

“As you can clearly see, it is already morning,” he muttered.

She glanced at the dawn light spilling through the window. He was right.

“All the more reason. Stay.”

He did not argue. Too drained. She guided him to the stairs, her hand steady on his back.

At the landing he looked back at her, and for a moment, it was as if he saw her for the first time.

Chapter Text

1995

The Dark Lord seemed, at least for the moment, satisfied with her explanation. Apparently she had really tried to find him and to make sense of what had happened that night.

Narcissa had told Helia that her son would be home for the Christmas holidays. Helia was curious about the boy. By all accounts he resembled his father not just in looks, though whether that was truly to his advantage, she doubted. The Malfoys had proposed hosting a small Christmas dinner. A renewal of old alliances, attended only by the Dark Lord’s innermost circle. The idea had not appealed to Helia at first. She preferred to remain in the background and rarely had much to say to his most devoted followers anyway. And yet, since her arrival at Malfoy Manor, she had spoken to no one but the Malfoys and the Dark Lord himself, who was rarely good company. An evening with a little more entertainment no longer seemed entirely unwelcome.

Narcissa had a magnificent Christmas tree set up in the dining room where the dinner would be held. Helia had even helped her decorate it. It was clear how much effort Narcissa poured into every detail. The ornaments, the menu, the careful arrangement of the room. She was an impeccable hostess. And yet, in the rare moments when she thought herself unobserved, a shadow crossed her face. Graceful as ever, though she could not conceal the weight pressing down on her. She had never really recovered from the day she found her husband collapsed at the foot of the stairs.

“You won’t honour us with your presence, I assume?” Helia asked lightly, more out of courtesy than curiosity, as she dressed for the dinner and turned her back so he might fasten her gown. It would surprise her greatly if he appeared in person, even for a gathering of his most loyal followers. They all knew he had returned, but surely he had more pressing matters than polite conversation.

He looked up from his book, his expression unreadable.

“I do not attend parties. I will not waste my time with them celebrating their mediocrity.”

“Alright … I thought as much. Still, you’ll be the only thing they talk about anyway.” She laughed softly. “Anyone I ought to avoid, or anyone you want me to speak with?”

He did not answer. She took that as a no.

She doubted the Malfoys had truly expected his presence, but Narcissa’s relief was plain when Helia came down the hallway alone. The blonde witch kissed her on the cheek with pointed warmth and immediately pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. She wanted everyone present to see how close they were. The dinner was not merely about renewing alliances; it was also about them, about showing who enjoyed his favour.

Helia recognised most of the faces. Only a handful of his inner circle were present, which gave the evening the air of one of their usual meetings - only without masks and dressed in formal attire.

A tray of peculiar-looking hors d’oeuvres floated past. Helia had no idea what they were meant to be, but she tried one anyway and instantly regretted it. Narcissa was watching her expectantly.

“Excellent.” Helia nodded politely, masking her distaste with grace. Narcissa looked relieved, and Helia made a mental note not to touch another.

“May I introduce my son?” came a familiar voice. She turned to find herself facing Lucius Malfoy, twice over, it seemed, for the boy behind him was his mirror image, down to the haughty tilt of his chin.

“Of course. You must be Draco, I take it?” she said warmly.

“It is an honour to meet you,” the pale boy replied, bowing.

“It certainly is.” She laughed. “You’ll be home for Christmas, I hear?”

“I return on Christmas Day. Exams are approaching,” he said. His voice carried the same note of arrogance as his father’s.

“A very wise decision. And you are in Slytherin, of course?”

“Obviously. The best house, if you ask me,” he said with confidence. Helia wondered if he always carried himself with such hauteur. He seemed older than his years.

“I’ve no doubt about that.” Her gaze drifted across the room until she spotted a familiar figure, dark-clad and apparently trapped in a dire conversation with Crabbe.

“So Severus is your Head of House then?” she asked, nodding towards the man at the far end. Draco turned, smiling.

“Yes, Professor Snape is the only worthwhile teacher this school has seen in years. My father says so himself. Even when he was there …”

“I’m sure he does. Please excuse me.” She patted Draco’s shoulder and walked off. She crossed the room, heading straight for the dark figure.

“If I might steal you for a moment?” she asked, touching his arm lightly. He excused himself at once and followed her out onto the balcony. Tiny flakes of snow were drifting down. The air was sharper than Helia had expected, and her light silk gown did little to keep out the cold. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing. He did the same.

“What is it?” he asked, watching the party through the glass doors. The soft light from the dining room gave his face in a pale, unreadable glow.

“Nothing,” she said, drawing on her cigarette. “You just looked as though you needed rescuing. That conversation seemed to be tormenting you.” She smiled faintly. “Oh, and speaking of tormenting, whatever you do, don’t touch the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Too late. But … thank you,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile.

Helia laughed. “Honestly, what was she thinking? They were probably hideously expensive, and still inedible. Who eats that?”

“I’ve no idea,” he murmured, almost smiling.

Inside, voices rang with laughter, glasses clinked, conversation flowed. Helia wondered if any of them truly understood what was happening, what was coming. By being here tonight they had declared their loyalty once again. Some had even brought their wives. Did they really believe that would keep them safe?

“How are you?” he asked quietly after a pause.

“Me?” She looked at him, surprised. “I’m absolutely fine, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” She could tell by his sceptical glance that he did not believe a word she said. He could usually tell when she was lying.

“Is he here?” he pressed.

“Right now? Yes,” she said, turning her attention back to the glittering party. So many of them were like the Malfoys. The stance, the laughter, the hauteur. “Do you need to speak with him? He’s upstairs, I think. At least he was when I went down. You’d better go now, before he disappears again. I don’t know how long he plans on staying.”

“No. That isn’t it.” He fell silent, studying her. She could see him weighing a question, wrestling with it. She gave him an encouraging smile.

“What is he like?” he asked at last, meeting her eyes.

“What do you mean?” She raised her brows suspiciously.

“What is he like… I mean, when you…” He trailed off, but she understood, taking a deep breath.

“You mean, when we’re alone? When the curtain falls and the lights come back on?” She laughed, almost bored.

“Exactly.” He had hoped to catch a glimpse of them together tonight, though he knew he would not. He had never once seen them together or even being in the same room. He often wondered what she was like in his presence.

Helia laughed again, smoke curling into the frozen air. “It honestly amazes me that you still seem to think there’s a curtain. You know what he’s like.” There was a faint note of bitterness in her voice. “There’s no difference. Do you imagine he might turn into someone else, simply because I’m there? As always, you expect too much of me, Severus.”

Her words hung in the cold air.

“Why haven’t you ever asked me that before?” she went on. “In all these years, you’ve barely asked me anything about him at all. Why?”

“To tell the truth … I had almost forgotten. At times.”

“Forgotten?” Her laugh was hollow. She flicked the cigarette over the railing into the dark garden. “Lucky you. Let’s go back inside before you catch a cold,” she said, patting his hand lightly.

1991

He had come to see her on a particularly warm August evening. The sun sank slowly toward the horizon, washing the sky in shades of orange and red. The air was heavy with summer heat, filled with the steady chirping of crickets. Helia had opened a bottle of white wine, filling their glasses. Everything here radiated peace, a quiet place where one could forget the world outside. Whenever he was here, he felt as if he had slipped out of time. Hours stretched and softened, almost standing still. He understood why she had chosen this place. It was quiet, far from everything.

He had visited her often during the holidays, and from everything he told her, this house was a far more pleasant refuge than his own. His parents’ house, where he stayed when not at Hogwarts, was a place she had never seen. He always refused. It’s better here, he insisted, and Helia assumed he was right. Still, she sometimes wondered what his life looked like when he wasn‘t at school.

She liked having him here. He was quiet, composed. The thought of seeing him less often once term began saddened her. The journey was long, even with Apparition, and his time outside of classes was limited. She feared the coming year would be especially hard on him. Helia knew how little patience he had for students he deemed incompetent, and she doubted he took any real joy in teaching. But when she glanced at the calendar, another thought struck her.

“He’ll be starting at Hogwarts this year, won’t he?” she asked casually, handing him his glass before leaning back in her chair.

“How do you know that?” His eyes flicked up sharply, watching her over the rim of his glass. A moment ago, he had been at ease, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed.

“I can count, Severus,” she said lightly. “Born in July… hardly difficult. And I assume he’s no Squib.” She sipped her wine, curious.

“Yes, he does. The school year begins September first.” His tone was clipped, too cool. She noticed immediately. He did not want to talk about it.

It wasn’t a subject he cared to be reminded of. But how could he avoid it once the boy arrived? He would have to see him, teach him. He would be forced to face the story, forced to face the boy who had lived while his mother had not. Helia worried how he would react. It would not be easy to carry that grief back into the classroom.

She rose, closing the white parasol they had been sitting under, and tried to ease the tension.

“Perhaps he’ll be sorted into Slytherin,” she teased. “Then you’d be his Head of House.”

“Highly unlikely,” he replied coldly, tension tightening his shoulders. “Dumbledore says great things are expected of him. Naturally, whoever defeated the Dark Lord must be extraordinary.”

“Defeated the Dark Lord?” Helia arched a brow, lips curling into that familiar, knowing smile. It was draining, always the same whenever they came to this point, as if she held some truth no one else understood.

“Yes. He is gone, Helia,” Severus snapped, irritation sharp in his voice. He hated this dance, hated that she prolonged it. “Gone. And not coming back.”

“He is not gone. He is not dead.” She lit a cigarette, the glow flaring briefly between them.

“You sound like Dumbledore,” he sneered. “Forever expecting shadows.”

“For once, he is right then. I would know if he were dead.” Her voice dropped as she leaned forward. “I would feel it.”

His expression hardened, but his fingers tightened on the glass. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped, a flicker of something raw, before he buried it again.

“People always think they’ll feel it,” he said flatly. “I assure you, they don’t.”

Helia drew in a sharp breath. She hadn’t meant to cut so deep. “That’s not what I mean, Severus. It’s… different. I promise you, he isn’t dead.”

He closed his eyes, weary. “Then as good as. And he is not coming back. Don’t you think he would have, if he could? Why hasn’t he? Why hasn’t he come to you?”

Her hand drifted through her hair, a nervous habit he had come to recognise. He suspected she had asked herself those same questions, over and over. He hadn’t meant to wound her, but surely he had.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it myself. You know I searched everywhere for him. Every place I could think of. Every place we ever went together. Even the insignificant ones he only mentioned in passing. I searched so long… I think I must give it up.” Bitterness edged her voice as she raked her fingers through her hair.

He watched her in silence. He never offered comfort, not aloud, but he didn’t argue either.

“Dumbledore has theories,” he said finally, swirling the wine without meeting her eyes.

“And what are they?” she asked quickly. Of course Dumbledore had looked into it. He, too, must know the Dark Lord wasn’t dead, though how, she couldn’t guess.

“He believes he grows stronger.” His voice was flat, but his eyes held hers. To him, the Dark Lord had always been too broken to return. Perhaps that was simply what he told himself, what he wished to believe, she thought.

“Does he now?” she asked, tone smooth, too smooth. “Does he know where he is, then?” She kept her gaze fixed on her glass, unwilling to show how much she burned for the answer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Her brow arched, skeptical. “He hasn’t told me. For good reason, I imagine.“

She understood. Even if he knew more, he could never trust her with it.

“Well, even if he has grown stronger, I doubt it matters to me now. I am not the one who just disappeared. He knows where to find me,” she said with weary irony.

He looked at her, puzzled. She had disappeared, for most of the world, at least. She had withdrawn here, hidden away. To his knowledge, she kept contact with no one but him. Did anyone else even know where she was?

“I only mean, if he wanted to, he could have come to me. He could have asked for my help.” Her voice softened to sadness as she lifted her glass. “He chose not to. And I will never understand why.”

He studied her in silence. The grief in her eyes was plain, and he knew why he hated these conversations. They always led here, to unanswered questions, to sorrow neither of them could soothe.

“I’ll just wait for him here,” she said finally, exhaling. “And when he does return, he’d better be ready to answer to me.” She laughed softly, shaking her head.

They sat in silence, drinking, as the fields around them swayed in the evening wind, darkening into a rolling sea. The sky deepened to blue, stars glimmering faintly above.

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I nearly forgot! I have something for you.” She darted inside, rummaged for a moment, and returned with a large glass jar. Inside floated a grotesque dead frog suspended in some kind of purple liquid. She set it proudly on the table before him.

“And this is supposed to be… what, exactly?” he asked coolly. He had no use for a dead frog, however grotesque.

“A ‘thank you’ would suffice,” she said, feigning offence. “I thought you might appreciate such a fine specimen. Won’t it look splendid in your office?”

“Hideous,” he muttered, though his eyes lingered longer than necessary.

“It’s perfectly useless,” Helia said with a laugh. “Which is precisely the point. No one will touch it accidentally, and it’ll hardly be noticed on your shelves.”

“Your riddles are exhausting.” He sighed, peering again at the frog, whose cloudy eyes seemed to mock him.

“A Portkey, of sorts.” She rolled her eyes. “You know I dislike being connected to the Floo. I activated my end already. Just tap it when you’re back at school, and it’ll take you here. Only for emergencies, of course.”

He studied it again, his scowl faintly lessened. “…and what sort of emergencies do you imagine?”

“Oh, I don’t know. When that boy sets foot in your class and drives you to the brink of madness?” she teased. “Though I’d appreciate a note if it’s only that.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough. He pulled the jar a little nearer, as if to examine it properly, but didn’t push it away. She had chosen a truly hideous specimen, and she was right. In his office, it would go absolutely unnoticed.

Chapter Text

1996

Christmas came and went. For a moment, she had considered spending the holidays with the Malfoys, but it felt wrong. Christmas was a holiday for families, and she had none. On New Year’s Eve she raised a glass of champagne alone. He had never cared for birthdays anyway.

The tension in the Manor was palpable. Narcissa remained unfailingly polite, and Helia suspected her presence was not wholly unwelcome, yet she knew she was a burden too. It must be dreadful, she thought, to feel watched in one’s own home. However often she reassured them she meant no harm, they knew too well where her loyalties lay. They knew whom she ultimately obeyed.

His moods were unpredictable, dangerously so. He spent little time at the Manor, busy recruiting and punishing those who had failed to return. When he did stay, she kept calm, careful not to provoke his temper. She did not know precisely what he was plotting, but she guessed he was preparing to free his most loyal servants from Azkaban. The prophecy, too, still occupied his mind, though it seemed less urgent for now.

There was little progress to report, and Helia feared his patience was wearing thin. It was only a matter of time before she felt the brunt of it. She knew it but she could not show fear. Fear only sharpened his cruelty. So she acted calm in his presence, though the effort drained her.

“It is futile,” he said one evening, his voice edged with contempt as he looked up from his papers. Whatever he had been reading had displeased him. Helia, seated with a book of her own, wished she had gone to bed earlier.

Helia lowered her book carefully. “And yet you read it anyway,” she said, more observation than question “Care to elaborate?” He would not have spoken if he hadn’t wanted her answer. Whether that was good for her, she doubted.

“Lucius,” he spat. “He continues to disappoint me. Again and again he fails at the simplest instructions. He is … inept.” His tone was measured, but the anger coiled beneath it.

“You are likely right,” she said cautiously, bracing herself. He had a purpose in drawing her into this.

“Perhaps I should entrust the task to someone worthier. Malfoy has squandered his chances.” His eyes found hers. Her pulse quickened.

“I quite agree,” she said evenly. “Severus, perhaps?”

“No. Severus remains at Hogwarts.” His gaze sharpened. Why hadn’t she just gone to bed? She had a dreadful suspicion of what he intended. She had known it was only a matter of time until he turned on her. She had not found him, she too had failed him. And though some part of her knew nothing she could have done would ever be enough, she also knew he would not forgive so easily.

“You might … remind Malfoy of what failure costs.” His voice curved soft, silken, but edged with threat. “A little persuasion. You have a talent for it as Lucius well knows.” Not a suggestion. A command.

“And how exactly do you imagine that?” she asked, fighting for calm.

A cruel smile curved his mouth.
“If memory serves, you can be quite persuasive when you choose.”

She knew what he meant. The thought made her stomach turn. To cause pain had never come easily to her, and she doubted Lucius would be driven to competence by it. The Dark Lord never questioned the power of fear. To him, pain was the surest spur. She was not so certain and she had no wish to test it.

“Oh no,” she burst out. “Not that. Please! Don’t make me do that.” She stood, defiant.

“You will do as I command,” he said coldly, rising as well. In a few strides he was before her, dangerously close. Her heart hammered. She raised a hand to his chest, desperate to hold him back.

“No, Tom,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t make me.”

How dare she defy him? He was not used to disobedience. His eyes flashed with fury.

With one swift motion, he struck her hand aside and shoved her against the wall. His long, spidery fingers closed around her throat. Just one hand was enough. He pressed the wand into her cheek. She gasped, clawed at his grip, but he only tightened it. Breathless, panicked, she struggled, but it was hopeless.

“You will do as I command,” he hissed, his cold cheek brushing hers. “Do you understand?”

She tried to nod, but his grip left her no room. He knew she understood. Abruptly, he released her. She crumpled to the floor, sucking in ragged breaths, tears stinging her eyes. Through the blur she saw his triumphant stare. She tried to rise, but collapsed again, which seemed to amuse him. Calmly, he returned to his chair, as though nothing had happened.

Coughing, trembling, she dragged herself back to the sofa. He left her no choice. Defiance would only make things worse. Somehow, she would have to find another way through.

“I’ll do it,” she rasped once her voice returned. “But I fear I too will disappoint you in the end.”

“You will not,” he said coolly, eyes on his notes. She touched her throat, aching where his hand had been.

“Your presence alone will suffice. And besides…” He paused, almost thoughtful. “You have the unusual gift of seeing the whole where others see only fragments.”

Her eyes widened. Was that a compliment? Or mockery? His voice almost sounded genuine. She knew how charming he could be when it suited him.

“McNair has obtained a map of the prison,” he went on. “Malfoy wishes to discuss it tomorrow evening. You will attend. Let your presence remind him that the Dark Lord observes his efforts closely.”

“As you wish,” she said, and rose at last to prepare for bed. She should have gone hours ago.

Lucius Malfoy looked startled when she appeared. He had not expected her. That unsettled him as it could only mean the Dark Lord had grown impatient, no longer trusted him to succeed alone. To be dismissed so was dangerous. It meant his failures were under watch, his usefulness in doubt.

Helia caught the flicker of confusion in his eyes but offered no explanation. She only hoped she might manage to help him, though she doubted she would be of much use. Still, supporting him was far more enjoyable than causing him pain.

Together they entered a dark room where several men were already gathered, murmuring in low voices. Helia recognised most but had never spoken with them for long. Did they know why she was here? If not, they would soon. Malfoy indicated the empty seat beside him, and she accepted it without hesitation. Eyes followed her. None seemed to understand her business here,  truthfully, neither did she, but she did not let it show.

“Wine,” she said evenly, lifting her glass. Lucius filled it at once, careful not to meet her gaze. He knew his part.

She drank in silence, letting the men speak. A large map of the prison lay across the table, towers and cells marked in detail. The highest cells - reserved for the most dangerous inmates - were the hardest to reach, heavily guarded. To free them and escape before the Ministry responded seemed impossible.

The Dementors, though likely to return to the Dark Lord once his power was secure, still served the Ministry for now. They would raise the alarm instantly. Voldemort would not risk being seen at Azkaban.

Helia bent over the map. Several routes had been drawn, each too slow. Once the Ministry caught wind, Fudge would send every Auror. Only two had ever escaped Azkaban before; this time they meant to free ten.

She stared until the ink blurred. Routes drawn, erased, drawn again. Each suggestion another dead end. Too obvious, too exposed, too easily stopped. She rubbed her temples, frustrated.

His words came back to her -  that she was meant to see the whole, not fragments. She stepped back, looked at the entire map. And then she saw it. It was so simple. There was no other way.

Her gaze flicked to Lucius. His tired eyes were fixed on the map. Calmly, she lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. He frowned at her disapprovingly. She rolled her eyes, drew again, exhaled another lazy plume.

The smoke rose, drifted, free. She glanced at him, trying to convey her thought. At last he leaned over.
“Flying, you mean?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “There’s no other way.”

He sighed, glancing at the men still deep in debate.
“Not many of them are skilled fliers. And the wind, the weather, the inmates’ condition … ”

“There is no other way. Look at it.” She shook her head. “You’d best practise flying in storms, then.”

He looked at her pleadingly but ultimately knew she was right.

“Don’t disappoint him again, Lucius. Please. Just don’t.” She searched his eyes. “You know what he is going to make me do.”

He sighed again, closed his eyes briefly, then said at last, “Attacking from the sea would be unnecessarily complicated.” His haughty smile returned.

Suspicion and protest broke around the table. He pressed on, explaining the simplest path was not by land or water but from above. They resisted, but it was still the best option.

Helia waited long enough to be sure a plan would be forged, then rose without a word and left. The men’s eyes followed her, but she did not look back.

She opened the door to her room cautiously. She already suspected he would be waiting. She was right. He looked up from the desk, leaning back in his chair with interest. He had not expected her so soon.

“Well?” he prompted.

“That went better than expected,” she said dryly, slipping out of her heels, her feet aching.

She smiled faintly and sat opposite him. She knew what would come next. Pressure struck her mind like a hammer-blow. She braced herself and showed him what he wanted to see, her memories flashing before him. It was unpleasant, invasive, like a serpent twisting through her thoughts. At last he seemed satisfied.

“You, at least, prove yourself useful,” he said quietly.

“I do try,” she answered with a low laugh.

The danger passed. She exhaled, stood, stretched. Slowly she walked over to him, swept her hair over her shoulder, revealing the bruises scattered along her neck. Without comment, he tugged the zipper down. She knew his eyes lingered where his hand had been the night before, but he said nothing. Her dress slid to the floor with a whisper.

“I’ll take a bath,” she said, and left him with his papers.

Chapter Text

1996

The plan had seemed simple enough. Once the Dementors realised the Dark Lord had returned, they would surely come back to his side anyway. She had little doubt that they would succeed. And yet, that gnawing unease remained. A feeling she knew too well. Hadn’t she been so sure once before that everything was simple, certain, safe? And had it not gone so horribly wrong? She tried to silence the thought. Today was different. Nothing would go wrong.

She had been deeply relieved when he did not expect her to take part in freeing his followers. Why should he? She was no accomplished flyer, nor had she shown much enthusiasm for the scheme. Still, she had half-feared it, as punishment for her inaction, either in this affair or in general.

Narcissa had spent the evening in the drawing room, which, by pure coincidence of course, gave a clear view of the gates. She would see as soon as they returned. Helia had joined her, though it was Narcissa’s nervousness, her restless energy, that had drawn her in. She tried not to let it show, but Helia saw how dreadful her worry must be. This was another chance for her husband to prove himself. If he failed tonight, his standing would be hard to recover. He had to win the Dark Lord’s favour back. He could not afford to fail.

Helia looked out of the rain-streaked window, where little could be seen beyond the storm. Again, she felt relieved to be waiting at home. Home? It wasn’t her home, she thought. She was still only a guest, and felt it keenly. She longed to return to her own house. Perhaps, if all went according to plan, he would allow it. A few days, or even just a few hours? Unlikely. Wishful thinking. Whenever he was away, she was to remain here. He reminded her often enough. She felt caged. Why was it so important to him that she stayed? It made not difference. He knew where she would be, where to find her. But of course she knew the answer. It was simpel, really. She didn’t want to be here and he knew that. He wanted her to keep a close eye on the Malfoys and they in turn on her. As always, it was about power. His power over her.

The two women sat in silence. Narcissa kept stealing glances at the window when she thought herself unwatched. She tried to hide her tension, but in failed miserably.

“Don’t worry,” Helia said softly. “They’ll be back soon.” Both of them knew it was an empty phrase. Who could say with certainty there was no cause for worry? But what use would it be if Helia admitted her own fear aloud? She had lost track of the time. How long had they been gone? Shouldn’t they have returned by now? What if she was wrong, and they had met resistance after all? She reached for her cigarettes, then froze.

Narcissa had leapt up, pressing close to the window. A moment later she swept from the room, and Helia followed.

“Bella!” she heard Narcissa cry, her voice breaking with relief. At once Helia’s own tension eased, and she closed her eyes briefly. It seemed all had gone as planned. She lingered at the top of the stairs.

Dark figures filled the entrance hall, drenched and windblown. The sisters embraced tightly, clinging to each other after so long apart. Azkaban had marked Bellatrix. She still wore the grey prison robes, wet and clinging to her thin frame. Her once lustrous hair hung in matted black waves over her shoulders. She looked gaunt, older than Helia remembered. But her eyes - her eyes were unchanged. She had not lost her fire, her pride. Her gaze found Helia’s, steady and direct. She gave her a single, quiet nod before turning back to her sister.

Helia left them to it. She walked the hallway towards her room, slowly. It seemed all had gone to plan, at least for now. Cautiously, she opened the door. She had guessed he would be waiting but the room lay empty. Of course he would want to speak to his followers first, she thought.

But she knew he would come that night. She hadn’t even questioned it. One victory would not suffice. Still, she had tried to sleep a little, in case he changed his mind, but of course she couldn’t. She lay awake, waiting, listening.

She heard his steps in the hallway, recognised them immediately. He did not knock. Why would he? He knew she was waiting.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he lay down beside her. She listened to his breath, the rustle of the covers as he moved closer. His cold body pressed against hers. Since his return, he had always been slightly too cold, and no matter how much she tried to warm him, he only left her shivering.

His hand slid over her thigh, moved beneath her nightdress. Her heart began to pound but this time not out of fear, nor anger, nor worry. After all, she too had waited fourteen years for him to return.

She turned to face him, met his gaze as if asking for permission, and slowly leaned in to kiss him. But he pulled away. There was no warmth, no affection. There never had been. His movements were deliberate, almost unnaturally so, as though he had rehearsed them time and time again. 

She knew the way he touched her, the rare moments he allowed her to touch him. The way he shoved up her nightdress, all of it still so familiar, etched into her memory.

Trying not to be too obvious, she watched him as he shifted over her. He looked almost the same as before, though again she could not have said what exactly was different.

She had never much cared for the way he looked. The changes had come gradually, and she had grown used to them. She had never flinched at his touch, never recoiled; she had just accepted it. And still she wanted him, wanted to feel him, and in turn make him feel her, or at least something. Anything. To give him whatever it was he seemed to crave.

She shifted slightly, opening herself to him. He entered her without hesitation, without a word. A sharp breath escaped her as his rhythm began. He did not look for closeness. He sought conquest. With each thrust he claimed her, reminded her of the power he held. His rhythm was merciless, claiming her as he always did. And she let him. She always had. For him it was just another victory. For her it was surrender - not to love, not to tenderness, but to him.

He was still there when she awoke the next morning. For a long while, she watched him. Was he asleep? Normally he rose before she did, if he slept at all and she wasn’t even sure about that. She could not remember the last time she had been this close to him without his face being twisted by rage. Carefully she studied his face. What on earth had he done to himself? It almost hurt her. She tried to slip from the bed quietly, but his eyes opened at once.

“What are you doing?” Suspicion sharpened his voice, as if even her movement might indicate defiance.

“Going down,” she said simply, reaching for a dress. “Breakfast. You could join me.”

He said nothing. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before closing again. Of course he wouldn’t come. As far as she knew, he had never sat at the Malfoys’ table. Not once. He would not begin today, with the house crawling with his followers.

The dining room was empty, save for Bellatrix, who sat before an untouched plate. Helia guessed she had not seen food like this in years. The Malfoys had outdone themselves. The table was laden with toast, coffee, fruit and pastries. A feast fit for a celebration. 

Helia sat opposite her and studied her for a second. She already looked better than she had the night before. A bath and a comb could do wonders. Bellatrix glared back at her.

“How are you feeling?” Helia asked warmly, pouring herself some coffee.

The dark woman said nothing.

“You look better this morning,” Helia added gently.

“I am well. Thank you,” Bellatrix replied curtly. They had nothing to say to one another and the silence stretched.

Helia noticed her eyes flick toward the door, more than once, as if expecting someone. She barely touched her food, lingered over her coffee, watching. At last Helia understood. It was a very different kind of hunger keeping her seated.

“He won’t come,” Helia said calmly, opening the Daily Prophet and scanning the front page. As expected, the Azkaban escape dominated the headlines. She didn’t need to look up to feel the scornful glare from across the table.

“I am sure, you can just go talk to him later,” Helia continued mildly, turning a page. “He’ll be in his study by now.”

Bellatrix stared at her, stunned. Helia ignored her, sipping her coffee, eyes on the paper.

But Bellatrix could not stop watching her. That pale, composed woman across the table sat there with unbearable ease. She had spoken to him already. So early in the morning. Why? How? Trivial things, probably, things unworthy of the Dark Lord’s attention. But she knew him, knew what he was doing and deep down Bellatrix would have given anything, anything, for these trivial scraps. Although Bellatrix did not know what this woman was to him, she knew that she would never be that. She would never be more than what she already was. His most faithful servant, his fiercest follower, his blade in the dark always ready to strike. It was enough. It had to be. And yet, sitting across from this woman, it gnawed at her like a wound that would not heal.

Helia pitied her, truly. What hadn’t she sacrificed for him? What kind of life she might have led had she never met him? A life not unlike her sister’s, Helia thought. A life of ease, of comfort, of family. Children, perhaps. Instead, she had wasted away fourteen years in Azkaban for his sake. And what reward did she have? A hunger that would never be sated.

Helia turned another page. “Mass breakout from Azkaban,” she read aloud with a small smile. “They think your cousin helped. Fortunate, really. It spares the Minister the humiliation of admitting to darker forces at play.”

The following pages were filled with photographs of the escaped prisoners. Bellatrix’s was first, of course. Everyone knew her face. On the page, she looked very different from the woman across the table, now peeling an orange.

Helia flipped past the article, strangely comforted. Outside these walls, the world still turned. In the months she had been confined with the Malfoys, she had nearly forgotten.

They finished breakfast in silence.

Chapter Text

1996

Even if Bellatrix’s presence brought her little joy, Helia was still relieved to have her back. Bellatrix was so desperate to prove her unshakable loyalty that she seized every task the Dark Lord gave her and carried it out with manic precision. She hovered around him, tireless in showing just how much she had burned to return to his side. Helia almost found it amusing.

What troubled her far more was his relentless obsession. He remained convinced that the prophecy was the only way to learn how to kill the boy once and for all. Helia had tried in vain to dissuade him, even flat-out advised him to forget the prophecy entirely. But she knew him too well. Once he desired something, nothing could turn him aside. Nothing.

She noticed Narcissa seeking her company whenever possible. Helia had expected her to prefer the long-lost company of her sister. Why, then, did she come to her instead? Helia could only guess her true motive, and she was certain it was not entirely selfless. She tried to keep her at arm’s length, retreating into the library as often as possible, yet Narcissa followed her there as well, sitting with her, drawing her into conversation, flattering her when the chance arose. What was she after? Helia mistrusted it deeply.

That morning, after breakfast, Helia had withdrawn once more to the library. Enough of constant company. Could she not be left in peace for a single hour in this house? It was large enough, yet she felt it closing in.

She had barely settled with a book when the door opened. Resigned she took a deep breath.

“Do you have a moment?” came a voice behind her. Closing her eyes in frustration for a second, Helia turned to face her. Narcissa did not look well, despite her attempt to conceal it.

“Of course,” Helia answered calmly. Perhaps at last she would be given an explanation for her strange behaviour.

“Not here,” Narcissa said quickly. “Will you walk with me?”

Helia glanced at the window. To call the weather poor would have been an understatement: heavy drops drummed against the panes. She raised a questioning brow.

“In the rain?” she asked, just to be sure.

“If you don’t mind.”

Helia sighed. She had no wish to ruin her shoes and, more importantly, her hair but her curiosity was stronger. “As you wish.”

They armed themselves with umbrellas and stepped outside. Cold mist clung to them, the rain drumming loudly overhead. They walked into the garden, hemmed in by tall hedges. Narcissa seemed to breathe easier out here, less exposed, though the tension in her shoulders remained. She had been putting this conversation off for a while, Helia thought.

“Well?” Helia asked, lighting a cigarette. If she had to stand in the rain, she might as well enjoy it. She eyed the pale woman, who clutched her umbrella so tightly it seemed she needed it for support. Impatience stirred in Helia’s chest.

“I am worried,” Narcissa said at last. “For my family.”

Helia exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Is that so? I can’t imagine why. You’ve only just regained your sister.”

“I don’t mean that.” She lowered her gaze. “I worry for Lucius.”

Of course. At last Helia understood. With Bellatrix restored, his already fragile standing had slipped further. Even before his fall, Helia remembered, the Dark Lord had rarely spoken well of him, useful though he was. Well-connected, respected, wealthy. All of it had its uses.

“I see what you mean,” Helia said. “He hadn’t secured his position yet, and now with your sister back, you worry he might be cast aside?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Narcissa sighed, as if relieved to hear it voiced aloud.

They walked on in silence for a while. The manor lay half-hidden in rain and fog behind them. She flicked her cigarette onto the path ahead and the rain extinguished it instantly. Turning back toward the house seemed to prompt Narcissa to speak again.

“Is there nothing he might do to win his favour, to secure his position?”, she asked finally.

“He did well helping the others escape, I think. He should be fine for now. At least I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. I don’t know what else he might do. I’m sorry.” Helia disliked this talk, and her discomfort sharpened when she wondered whether Lucius himself had urged his wife to approach her. A clumsy ploy, if so.

“Could you not speak for him? Put in a word?” Narcissa asked and Helia knew at once this had been the purpose of their walk all along.

She clearly was desperate, although Helia had not expected her to ask outright. The conversation grew ever more distasteful. Why did everyone seem to imagine she had any influence? Why did they think he listened?

“Narcissa, I honestly don’t think it would be of any use,” Helia said slowly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

“But you’re his wife. Surely he must listen to you.” The desperation in her voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Even if he did, what would I say? He will give your husband another chance. I am sure that if he does well, he will be greatly rewarded.”

Narcissa nodded faintly, and they walked back in silence.

He had not explained the plan to her in detail, but she knew he meant to use the bond he shared with the boy. He would lure him to the Ministry to seize the prophecy. Lucius, Bellatrix, and the others would be waiting. Once the prophecy was secured, the boy could be delivered to him. Whether he wanted to kill him at once, Helia did not know, only that he insisted on doing it himself.

Again she sat with Narcissa, offering her some company. The woman’s worry was written all over her face. This was Lucius’s final chance to restore his standing, and the hours crawled by with no word. Helia studied her. What would the Dark Lord do if Lucius failed? What would become of her family?

Helia too watched the window now and again. The gates stood clear in the darkness but nothing stirred. At last she rose, opened the window, and offered Narcissa a cigarette.

“They say it calms the nerves,” she said with a laugh.

Narcissa hesitated, uncertain, then to Helia’s great surprise accepted. Perhaps she had smoked once, long ago. A little rebellion, quickly abandoned. She hardly seemed the type. No, Narcissa had always done what was expected of her. The right husband, the right life, the right choices.

They sat in silence, the smoke curling toward the high, dark ceiling.

And then there was movement in the night. They were coming back. Yet again it seemed to be true that as soon as she lit a cigarette, whatever she had been waiting for happened. She smiled faintly and got up to follow Narcissa.

But as she reached the door, the Dark Lord himself swept past the drawing room. Helia stepped back in shock. Had he been at the Ministry himself? Was that part of the plan? She waited until his footsteps died away.

Bellatrix returned alone. Narcissa’s face went white, tears spilling down as her sister entered, eyes burning with fury.

“It broke!” Bellatrix spat.

“Where are the others?” Helia asked, trying to stay calm.

“Where do you think?” Bellatrix snapped, pouring herself a drink. “Captured. Likely on their way to Azkaban already.”

Narcissa sobbed, and Helia pulled her into a tight embrace to calm her. Bellatrix watched with open disgust, even backing away as if Narcissa’s tears were something filthy.

“It will be all right,” Helia said softly, holding her. Empty words. How often had she already said them? Although Bellatrix was her sister, she showed her little compassion, still looking as if she had to restrain herself from striking her, disgusted by her weakness.

“And the Dark Lord? I didn’t know he meant to go himself,” Helia continued, ignoring Bellatrix’s glare.

“He didn’t,” Bellatrix growled. “The boy wasn’t alone. Aurors. The Order. Dumbledore himself! The Minister saw him. Everyone knows he has returned.”

She sank into a chair and drained her glass in one go.

At once Helia understood. Dread filled her like a burning stone sinking into her stomach. Everything had gone wrong. The prophecy shattered, his return exposed. And Lucius - no longer suspected but known to be a Death Eater. They would come for him, for all of them. The house would not be safe.

She turned on her heel and fled the room without looking back, leaving the sisters behind. She hurried to her room, praying he would not be there. But of course he was. Rage burned in his crimson eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked carefully. “You’re soaking wet.”

“You will leave. Now,” he said, not answering her question. His fury trembled in his voice, though he mastered it.

“Of course,” she said quietly. This was not the time to argue. He too knew the Aurors would come, scouring the house for proof of him. They had better not find her here, or they would ask questions. Questions she could not answer.

With a flick of her wand, her clothes and books flew into her bag, leaving no trace behind.

“You are not coming?” she asked finally, closing the bag.

For the briefest moment his eyes flickered, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I will send for you when you are to return.”

“You’re sure?” she asked again, tempted to just grab his hand.

“I have matters of greater importance to attend to.” His tone was flat, final. He opened the door without looking at her. “Leave.”

It was a command. She lingered for a second, searching his eyes, then turned away and hurried down the hallway. She heard glass clatter in the drawing room. The sisters were probably frantically concealing whatever dark artefacts they could, Helia thought. For a moment she considered taking Bellatrix with her but the thought of that woman in her home filled her with disgust. No, she would surely find a place to stay.

Helia ran down the stairs and out into the night, her steps crunching on the gravel path. Beyond the gates she could apparate. She passed through, and with a soft crack, she was gone.

Chapter Text

1996

Her heart leapt when her house came into view. It looked exactly as it had the day she had left. Calm, peaceful. How good it felt to be back again. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There it was - the sound of the sea. How she had longed for it.

The moment she turned onto the gravel path leading up to the home, her whole body began to relax. Carefully, she pushed the door open and listened to the silence. She dropped her bag carelessly to the floor and went straight to the kitchen. A thin layer of dust had settled on everything. Easy enough to clean. The Daily Prophet she had skimmed through a few days before her departure still lay, untouched, on the table.

She made herself a cup of tea and sat down. Stretching out, she lit a cigarette. She felt free. For the first time in a very long time, she felt truly free.

When the cup was empty, she began checking the protective charms around the house. All intact. She had always been cautious. No one could simply apparate into her living room. She had ensured that long ago. Nor could anyone come through the fireplace. Every visitor had to walk. Or, she thought with a glance at the ugly dead frog on her bookshelf, be at Hogwarts.

1992

The warmth of the night left no doubt that summer was fast approaching. She had settled on the terrace with a book and opened a bottle of wine. She loved this time of year. At night it was still pleasantly cool, though in a few weeks even that relief would be rare, despite the occasional sea breeze. Tonight, the garden and surrounding fields lay utterly still. She had expected no company when a sudden noise came from the living room.

Startled, she turned. A tall figure in black, his dark hair unkempt, had appeared without warning, without message. It had to be an emergency, otherwise he would never have come unannounced. Until now he had always been careful to notify her well in advance, careful not to alarm her. He had been thoughtful, never abusing the gift she had given him nearly a year ago. What could have happened?

Her heartbeat quickened. He was pale, his hair falling into his face as he caught sight of her on the terrace. It had been weeks since his last visit. She had assumed he was busy. Term was nearly over, exams were looming. He never tired of complaining about the boy and his friends, always plotting, always insolent and disrespectful. Dumbledore, of course, had constantly defended the boy, which only infuriated him more.

“Do you have something to drink?” he asked, cutting straight to the point.

Helia eyed him warily, but nodded.

“A bottle of wine? Out here?” she asked, gesturing for him to join her.

“Stronger,” was all he said.

“Stronger?” she repeated, getting up, worry stirring in her chest. “There’s a bottle of Blishen on the sideboard behind you.” She pointed inside, about to fetch it herself when he raised his hand sharply.

“Stay,” he said curtly, almost a command and went to get the bottle himself. She shrugged, sinking slowly back into her chair, watching him. He joined her on the terrace, poured whiskey into her empty wine glass, and downed his own immediately.

She studied him. He did not look well. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he seemed less calm, less collected than usual.

“What’s wrong with you?” Helia asked softly, searching his face.

“Drink,” was all he said, refilling his glass.

She hesitated.

“Drink.” The command was sharp and she obeyed, grimacing at the taste.

“Perhaps you want to smoke as well,” he muttered.

“Severus, you’re frightening me. What happened?” she asked, her cheeks hot, her heart racing.

“He was in Hogwarts,” he said at last, draining another glass.

Helia’s heart skipped a beat. What had he just said? He was in Hogwarts? That was impossible. Why would he be there?

“What do you mean?” she whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, praying he would explain. He did, carefully, omitting no detail. He knew she needed the whole story.

He had long distrusted the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, suspecting him of trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone brought to Hogwarts for safekeeping. Naturally, Severus had assumed he acted from selfish motives and tried to stop him. If only he had known the teacher was acting on the Dark Lord’s orders, he would, of course, have helped him. The Dark Lord himself had sought the Stone to regain his former strength. Of course, Severus would have aided him, had he only revealed himself.

But in the end, the boy had thwarted him again. The boy. There was something about him. He could not possibly be just an ordinary child, Helia thought.

She stared at him blankly. He had tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone? Really? She could hardly believe it. Anger surged in her chest, frustration, disbelief, boiling over like milk left on the stove for too long.

“I’ll kill him,” she said, her fury so clear that the dark man opposite her looked at her in surprise. “If I ever see him again, I’ll strangle him with my own two hands.”

She got up and began to pace restlessly. His eyes followed her.

“That damn old fool!” she burst out at last. He almost laughed, though he restrained himself. Never before had anyone called the Dark Lord an old fool, at least not in his presence.

“I’m right here!” she shouted angrily, though beneath her rage he could hear her pain. Very little ever truly upset her. “I’m right here! Why in the world would he rather steal that Stone than simply come to me?” she demanded, though she expected no answer. She knew he couldn’t give one.

She already knew it herself. He would never seek her out, no matter how weak he was, no matter how broken or desperate. As long as there were other paths to take, no matter how dangerous. They were preferable. She was the last resort. He would only call on her when he had no choice left, because he knew to accept her help meant to accept death.

1996

Helia savored the days at home. The summer air was warm, the sea murmured in the distance. It felt like a long-overdue holiday. She hadn’t even realized how tense she was until the tension finally lifted. Each day she felt lighter, freer. How was it possible that this place remained exactly as it had been? Untouched, unsullied by the world beyond. She relished the peace, the solitude. She even slept better without sharing her bed with him,  without the constant dread of his anger turning on her.

How much longer would she have, she wondered, sipping wine one evening on her terrace. It would be hard to leave all this behind again. She stretched and listened to the silence. A silence that felt healthy, natural. Unlike the silence at the Malfoys’, which could so swiftly shatter into something terrible.

He was so unpredictable now, so quick to anger. She tried to remember if he had always been like this. Never patient, certainly, but he seemed more volatile, losing control more easily than before. Sometimes she wondered where he was, what he was doing. Surely he was no longer at the Malfoys’. Had the house been searched yet? Would they search it again? She could only hope Narcissa had cleared everything away before the Ministry came. What was she doing now, with her husband in Azkaban? Narcissa had dreaded his failure so deeply. She must be desperate. And Bellatrix? She would be of little comfort, if she even still was with her sister.

The faint crack behind her broke the silence. So unexpected, so loud in the quiet, it startled her. She closed her eyes for a moment. So it was over. She had known it could not last. A few days’ peace was all she had been granted.

“He expects you back tomorrow,” came the deep, quiet voice behind her. She did not turn. He was the only one who could come here without warning. She sighed as he stepped onto the terrace.

“Actually,” he continued, smooth and measured, “he wanted you to return with me now. I took the liberty of suggesting you might require time to … pack.” He sat down opposite her and poured himself some wine before falling silent.

“Back to the Malfoys’?” Helia asked, her voice heavy, which he took for resignation.

“Indeed,” he replied. “The house has already been searched several times. Fortunately, a few Ministry officials have remembered where their loyalties lie. If there is another search, we will know.”

Helia only nodded, her eyes fixed on her wine.

“It’s … remarkably peaceful here,” he observed after a pause, just listening to the silence. Helia took a deep breath. She had to let go. It was better that way.

“I think I should leave tonight,” she said at last, steadying herself. It was better to go now, before the thought of leaving grew unbearable.

“Tonight?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you might appreciate one final night to yourself.” His tone was almost reproachful, though she recognised it for what it was - concern, carefully disguised. He had meant to do her a favour. A dangerous thing, to openly question the Dark Lord’s will.

“No. Better to go now.” She lit one last cigarette. “If I don’t go now, I never will.”

He inclined his head, a curt nod of understanding. Slowly she got up and started packing, checked the protective charms around the house once more, then prepared herself. Just a few days. Far too short.

“Will you come with me?” she asked Severus as he checked the terrace door.

“Of course,” he said.

Together they walked the gravel path until they were clear of the protective barrier and could apparate. He offered his hand, and together they disapparated with a soft pop.

The Manor loomed dark against the grey evening sky. To her, it felt like a cage. Bleak, joyless, in stark contrast to the place she had just left. They passed through the gates and up the path. Once more, a white peacock strutted by, and the door swung open soundlessly to admit them. Familiar, and yet it felt like years had passed.

Inside, the air was cool, stale. Again Helia thought of an old tomb, heavy with memories of another life. He handed her the bag, and she pulled him into a quick embrace.

“Take care,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, stripped of its usual sharpness.

“I’ll manage,” she whispered. “And you — please, do the same.” She pressed his hand before turning away. Slowly she climbed the stairs and again walked along the hallway to her room. She knew the way.

Carefully, she opened the door. The room was empty. She was alone. Relief washed over her.

The Dark Lord did not return until late that night. She had almost hoped he would stay away. But the slam of the door roused her. He had not expected her. A faint look of mild surprise crossed his face but vanished immediately.

“You’ve come back already, I see,” he said, his tone flat, almost bored.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she whispered, smiling faintly.

“You might have told me,” he replied, studying her as though the notion of surprise itself were foreign to him.

“Well, then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” she laughed, reaching for him.

He regarded her for a long moment. “Obedience is a virtue,” he said at last, a faint, cold satisfaction in his voice, as though her choice to return early had been nothing but submission.