Phoenix and Dragon

Estella’s map was not enchanted. In fact, it was Muggle, purchased from a bookstore and cross-referenced with her meeting notes, other maps, and books. Annotations, colored pins, and yarn mark it, giving her information in a pattern only she seems to fully understand. Her system was organized (to an extent); color coded, and entirely her own. Black yarn, black pins, and green ink for Death Eaters; white yarn, white pins, and blue ink for the Order; red yarn, red pins, and red ink for leads, conspiracy, and everything else. All of it was makeshift; stickers were markers, the yarn moved and was different shades depending on what she got or stole, and her map was ever-changing. It was an imperfect, chaotic system, but it did make prying eyes less capable of deciphering her work. Estella may have been a Healer officially, but she organized their blackmarket as Phoenix. She was the key strategist the Golden Trio didn’t know existed, all her information gleaned by listening and observing, or giving to her by Moody, Shackbolt, Snape or Dragon. Some days, their lack of trust made her want to scream, to rage, to strangle them until their faces turn blue. She wanted to scream all she had done, all she had lost, the costs she paid daily for them. But she kept silent, kept her head down, and took the distrust and acknowledgment. Some day, she’d demand her work to be recognized. She would demand her place in the history books, fight for her footnotes. But now was not the time to fight that battle. There were too many others. 

Estella was snapped out of her thinking by something vibrating against her leg, in her pocket. Her phone.

Estella pulled it out and the caller ID flashed; a familiar, old photo, one where she’s smiling and happy, leaning against a woman with her same hair and eyes, taken by the man that everyone says she walked like.

‘Mom’.

Estella stared at it for a moment, and let it go to voicemail. She hadn’t talked to her mom in a month, sending a few texts and fake selfies of her at various places, pretending to be doing her internship, or college classes, or whatever lie she’d told them 4 years ago.

It was safer that way.

God, she missed her.

Silently, she unlocked her phone and hit the redial.

It rang only twice before her mom picked up.

“Stella? Oh, sweetie, I finally caught you!” Her moms voice came through the speaker.

Estella smiled weakly, even though it wasn’t FaceTime. “Hey. Yeah, I’ve been so busy. Sorry, I keep missing your calls! How are you? How’s dad?”

“I’m doing ok, and so is he. He’s in some call for the city. He’ll be pissed he missed you again.”

Estella let herself chuckle as her mom continued. “How’s the job? You’re what,

“Um, yeah. It’s going well. Busy, you know. Long hours, that kind of thing. I’ve got an apartment, or ‘flat’ as they say here.”

“Hm. We’ll have to come out at some point.”

That shot some panic through Estella. She didn’t want her parents anywhere near Britain. Or most of Western Europe for that matter. They were better off across the world, blissfully ignorant and safe from the horrors of the war.

“Oh, mom, come on. Plane tickets are so expensive, and Heathrow is the worst. And you hate flying.”

Her mom scoffed. “Estella Eliza Zelda Coleman, I would take the Mayflower if it meant I get to see you. You haven’t come to Christmas, or home during the summers, or a trip in, what, 3 years, at least. I want to hug my baby again.”

Guilt simmered in her gut. She knew. She wanted to go home. She wanted to hug her mom and cry for hours. She hated lying to her. She was pretty sure her mom knew she was lying, which made it worse.

“I know. I… I’ll try to come out sometime soon. It’s hard.”

“I know.” Her mom’s voice was soft, sympathetic. “If it helps, they paused the documentary for the time being. Something about lack of files. If that had anything to do with you not wanting to come home.”

Estella stiffened at the mention of the documentary. She knew her story, Amelie’s, was the kind the media ate up. She knew that maybe it would help bring justice to them. But she had refused the calls, the interviews, hidden herself across the world with a minimal, if at all, media presence, all but a ghost. They’d done everything to escape that nightmare, the same one she relived almost every night. She knew her mom probably thought she was avoiding a trip because of the documentary, the journalists, the memories. And a part of her was avoiding it all. But the war was the truth. Justice for Amelie had waited 12 years, and could wait however many more it took. She couldn’t fight the system or the police or anyone if she was being hunted as a muggleborn, or dead. Like it or not, this was her world, her real one, at least now. Childhood days of hot concrete and melting popsicles and bike scrapes and TV cartoons and blaring radio stations driving to swim practice and that crunchy ice from plastic bags at gas stations and sneakers hanging from powerlines till the soles fell off or the laces wore away were gone. A faded photograph. Fake wood desks with metal cubbies and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, screaming children at recess and the creak of swing sets was over. Flickering fluorescent lights and shitty fake Mexican food; Uncrustable sandwich’s with a lukewarm juice box; band-aids on her knees; those days were far away. That girl, who’d enjoyed all that, who’d been some random American girl before she understood anything about the world was dead. Maybe she’d died when she opened her Hogwarts letter, but she thought she’d died earlier. When she went looking for Amelie. When-

“Stella? Hello? Are you still there?”

She snapped out of her spiral. “Yeah, sorry. Hey mom, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you soon. I promise.” Every time she promised, and every time she never followed through with that.

Her mom sighed. “Ok. I love you, Estella. Please take care of yourself.”

“I am. I love you too. Bye” she hung up.

Estella dropped down to the floor of her corner, leaning against the desk, phone in hand. It was warm from the call and her cheek. Something inside her felt cold. Empty. She hated who she’d become. Out of necessity, she told herself over and over, like it would make it better. She was this because she had to. A small voice echoed a different tune; she was this because it was who she truly was. Who stitched and healed only to cut again. To torture. Who was darker than black, twisted and messed up and everything they thought she was, almost as bad as the worst.

Estella was losing her light. She felt it. But there was work to be done. There was something in Thurlestone.

And she intended to find it.

And so she stood over her map, staring at the pinned town of Thurstone. It was farther Southeast than any of the operations she was aware of. Granted, the Trio and the majority of the Order didn’t trust her enough to inform her of all operations, but patients talked. Members plotted in corners. Whispers passed through her ears, and Estella had her ways of getting intel. She arguably knew more than she was ‘allowed’ to, strictly through her role as Phoenix.

Marked with a black pin straining from the yarn attached was the Tower of London. Voldemort was no fool. Estella knew that. The choice of his headquarters was powerful, meaningful. The Tower of London was central; it always had been. All of London, and therefore all of England, flowed towards the tower set on the banks of the Thames. Its symbolism was rich, for wizards and Muggles alike. Historically, tratoir’s heads were staked on the walls, rotting and wasting, skin turning leathery in the sun, remaining until the skull fell or was removed. Birds of prey would pick the flesh off the bone, flocking when a new death was condemned. Estella suspected that Voldemort desired that horrific show of power; the human fascination with death. Serial killers, for example. Jack the Ripper, a killer who terrorized Victorian London with the bodies of his brutalized victims, and the public’s hunger for the tragedy. 

People were rather like the crows, she thought; they reviled in the darkness in death. 

But Thurstone… there was nothing in Thurstone she could think of any true significance. It was miles from any Order safehouses, missions, or plans, miles from any Wizarding villages and any known Death Eater operations. It was simply a Muggle village near the ocean She couldn’t see the advantage of attacking it, raiding it, unless there was something she didn’t know. Or, more likely, didn’t see. Unless…

“Fuck.” she cursed under her breath.

There wasn’t any tactical advantage. There was nothing in it for Voldemort in attacking a Muggle village apart from a show of power, to spread fear and distrust. It was a power play. He would order his Death Eaters to raid. To search for something. Maybe whatever he was looking for did exist, but Estella highly doubted it would be in Muggle town. This was simple violence, to show he could. It was a ridiculous waste of resources, of effort. Voldemort knew that the Order would come running to defend the Muggles, to swoop in like saviors. Harry’s ego would keep him from sticking underground, to defense. ‘Stupid Gryffindors’ Estella thought. ‘Stupid hero complex. No sense of preservation, or of the bigger picture.’ 

She knew that she had to bring this realization to someone with more power over The Golden Trio’s actions, but she dreaded the battle it took to get anyone to listen to her. Flopping back onto her chair, she sighed heavily, and rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. Since her nightmare - she checked her watch- 18 hours ago, she hadn’t slept. Drank two more cups of coffee, did an eight hour hospital shift, met with Moody to discuss Dragon’s information, then came here, to the makeshift potions room/lab. Her corner was dedicated to research, her maps, notes, books, and papers scattered all over the desk and floor in her frustrated search for answers. Hermione mostly left her alone, provided she didn’t have questions about where things were, or if she was ok during her all-too-often breakdowns on the floor, where the Golden Girl would walk in to find Estella on the floor, surrounded by paper, pens, and books, muttering incoherently and utterly exhausted. She’d coax her up, get her tea and toast, and tell her to rest. She’d call one of her friends, Jer or Oscar or someone, to come get her. One of them would pick her up and carry her, weakly fighting, to their shared dorm space, swaddle her in a blanket, and force her to sleep. It was a pattern at this point, unhealthy and damaging, that she existed in. Estella didn’t know which was worse; the nightmares or sleep deprivation. All she knew was that living in the hell of her own making was better than any other kind of hell. At least her demons were familiar.

Estella got to her feet, swaying slightly, and started packing up the tools of her trade, attempting to tidy her space. She wrapped her yarn up, dropped loose pins in their jar, stacked the papers and books in messy piles, and tracked down her wand. Tucking it into her sleeve, she stretched her arms above her head, and cracked her back with a satisfying pop. She was delaying the inevitable. Taking a deep breath, she went to the bathroom down the hall, locking the door behind her. 

Staring at the mirror, she felt numb again. Her hair was in the messy braids she’d done hours ago, having dried the flyaways into little waves and curls that stuck up at odd angles, making her look like she was shocked with electricity. The dark circles under her eyes were persistent, making her eyes look hollow. She felt hollow. She felt empty. 

Estella splashed some water on her face, unbraided and rebraided her two braids into one, and flexed her fingers. Her fingertips were cold. Breathing deep, she channeled the rage inside her. ‘It’s better to be angry than to be numb’ she thought, ‘Set face, think murder, and walk. Fuck them. Burn them all.’. Opening her eyes, she saw her fire return in the depths of her eyes. She was ready. 

Striding down the hall, she passed Order members, who steered clear. ‘Point to the bitch face’ she thought smugly, forever grateful that she’d mastered it in her years of wading through halls at Hogwarts. She marched towards the war room, where Dean Thomas was standing guard again. He snapped to attention at the sound of her footsteps, then flinched when he saw it was her. She smirked. 

“Where’s Moody?” She demanded. The Gryffindor’s nose was healing from her punch; the bruising around his eyes slightly swollen still. 

Dean swallowed. “He’s inside.” 

Estella arched an eyebrow at him and he skirted out of the way, eyeing her with suspicion. She ignored the look. If Dean feared her, all the better. At least he’d take a hint and get out of her way this time. She slipped through the door into the war room, the long table spread with enchanted maps, a much nicer version of her own. Moody stood over it, Shackbolt sitting properly in a chair as a few other members sat around, discussing information, dissecting it. Based on the name-dropping of Thurstone, she knew it was about the information Dragon had given her. 

“It’s a power play, and a trap.” Estella said, not bothering to announce her presence. Moody looked up for his study of the map and gave her a grunt of acknowledgement, which was a kind greeting from the rough Auror. A few of the members in the room scowled at her, a few mutterings of ‘Snake’ in her direction, to which she pointedly ignored. 

“Do explain, Miss Coleman.” Shackbolt said, gesturing for her to sit. She didn’t. 

“Thurstone. The Dark Lord wants us to swoop in to ‘save’ the Muggles in the village. He wants us to be heroic, to draw us out, to waste our resources.” Estella explained. 

Someone scoffed. Seamus Finnigan, she believed. Another Gryffindor. “What, we’re supposed to let them die? Of course you’d think that.” 

There were some murmurs of agreement, a quiet, “Snake bitch,” thrown out.

Estella clenched her jaw. Of all the things she’d put up with, the ‘heartless, selfish bitch’ stereotype was one she hated the most, and the one most attributed to her. She could admit; she was a bitch. ‘Bitch’ was a term men threw in the face of women when they were being too ‘difficult’ or ‘too much’; used to undermine them when they weren’t able to control them. But she was not heartless; she was pragmatic and viewing all the data, thinking with logic rather than reckless courage. “I’m saying that we shouldn’t jump straight into hero mode. We’re stretched thin enough as it is, and the Death Eaters are far more powerful than we are, in sheer numbers alone. We take heavy losses every time we engage head-on. We cannot afford to play at the same level as they can.” 

“Oh, and you would know? You don’t fight. You’re not on the field. You’re here, all nice and safe while the rest of us real members fight actual Death Eaters.” Ron said, standing up. Apparently, his ego had healed since her last encounter with him. Estella was exhausted. It felt like the same old song and dance; distrust, arguments, debates. She had to claw and fight for a shred of respect or trust, every single time she had anything to say or anything useful to bring to the table, she was treated like she was easily discardable. Like she had no value, like her ambition and cunning was something forbidden and evil. 

“I do more than just sit here.” Estella said, teeth clenched. “I am working around the clock, Ronald, and while I might not take pleasure in some senseless violence, which is hardly violence from your idiotic dedication to ‘the Light’ and refusal to kill, I do work that is critical. You are only seeing one part of the puzzle, and ignoring all other logic and data. Look at the numbers. Look at the maps. Look at the hospital wing. It’s filled with the soldiers who follow you into battle, and pay the price with their lives. What do you have to say to that?” 

Ron scoffed. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to play, but those ‘soldiers’ are people,” Estella wanted to scream, ‘That’s my point!’, but he continued. “Just because you don’t care about who dies for the end goal doesn’t mean you get to speak about them. Do you even know the name of the last person who died in your so called care-”

“Lillian Goldbloom.” 

Ron paused. “Excuse me?” 

“Lillian Goldbloom. And Susan Bones, and Jack Whitworth, and Hestia Jones, and so many more. I remember them all.” She said quietly. “What about you? Do you see their faces at night? Do they haunt you? Do you wonder what you should have done differently?” 

“Remembering a few names doesn’t mean you care, Coleman. You don’t like our tactics cause they aren’t harsh enough? At least we have a conscience. At least we are actually the good guys.” 

Estella felt white-hot rage jar through her. She was exhausted. She was angry. She was done.

“This war is not black and white!” Estella yelled, slamming her hands on the table and letting herself have a second of triumph when they flinched. “It’s not clean cut, it’s not black and white.” 

“It’s not purebloods versus muggleborn, it’s not rich versus poor, it’s not ideology versus ideology. It’s deeper, it’s complex, and it will not be won by being honorable. War is not honorable. It’s not clean, it’s not light versus dark, good versus evil. There is no such thing. We’re taught to think like that, aren’t we? At Hogwarts, at whatever other magical school you go to, you’re taught early on that there is good and there is evil.” Estella swallows, looking over the now- silent room of Order members. They’d all called her that. “Evil. Snake. Untrustworthy.” She repeated their words back to them. “You all call me that, behind my back and to my face. All because I was sorted into Slytherin, but did you consider that that evil you scorn, that darkness, is of your own making? Grifyndoors booed newly sorted kids. Kids. You scorn us before we can show you anything else, you outcast us. You force us into darkness by telling us over and over and over again that we are evil. That we’re bound to go bad.” She laughed, shaking her head at them. The fools. “And then you wonder why we do.”

Estella looked at Shacklebolt, who had always sat silently as Order members threw insults at her and other Slytherins.

“You’re a Slytherin. What do you have to say? Why aren’t you being questioned, hated?” No one responded.

“You look at me, and think that I’m bad. That's all I am, cause I don’t want to jump head first into danger. Maybe I’m not brave, or courageous, or strong. But I’m fighting with what I have. I’ve seen darkness, true darkness, more than you’d ever know. And I’m still here. So hate me. Scorn me, spit on me, despise me for who I am. But know this: I know them better than you ever will. I lived with them for 7 years.”

Estella walked across the room to the chess board. It was often used for demonstrations. She stood over Ron’s last game, fingers hovering over the pieces. “You don’t see it.” She said softly. “You see pieces, I see the board.”

Estella stepped back from the table, looking at the faces of those she’d begged to hear her. Her rage had faded into a sort of cold anger, hardening inside her gut. 

“Take my advice or don’t. It’s your funeral. Literally.”

She walked past them, out the doors, out of Grimmauld Place. She didn’t know where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to get out of that house. That she was suffocating. Shoving her hands in her pockets, Estella marched down the street, fully planning to let herself get lost in London. It was the afternoon, long before dark when Death Eaters frequented bars and clubs to blow off steam. How did she know? She spent her time watching them. Plotting. Estella possessed the talent of hiding in plain sight. She could keep people from noticing her, or make them perceive her in a certain way. She could walk past the same people she saw in Muggle clubs in Diagon Alley and they would be none the wiser. Maybe she’d go to one tonight, just to watch. She could go for some cheese fries anyways.

A few hours later, she sat at the bar of a tavern near the Tower, hair down in soft waves, changed out of her oversized ribcage sweater to something much prettier. Her jacket hung in the back of her chair, her charmed bag inside a pocket, a knife in the other. Her wand was in her boot, another knife in the other. She preferred the knives or nonverbal magic to her wand. She’d learned that many Death Eaters relied mostly on magic. Even though she was small, even when they were considerably stronger, it threw them off to have a small girl with a knife come at them. It was better to be safe than sorry. Better to kill than be killed. She wasn’t even all that worried about Death Eaters. Everyone could be an enemy.

She sipped a drink - nonalcoholic, she didn’t want to be impaired- and snacked on cheese fries. Her watch read the time; 5:59. Death Eaters would be coming in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-

The doors opened right as the time hit 6pm, and a flood of men in slacks, dark clothes, all looking overly polished in the seedier establishment, came in. To the muggles, they seemed like cold businessmen trying to slum it after a long day. To Estella, who knew better, she saw the merciless power, the darkness, that followed them. In many, their stances spoke of arrogance and power, their dark gazes hungry and promising violence. She kept her focus on her fries, cataloging them as they found their respective places. They were in the corner of her vision, the back of her mind, as she let the thrill of danger spike through her. If the Order knew she was here, in the same room as likely powerful Death Eaters, they’d throw a fit, probably claim she was being traitorous, and cry for her head. Estella didn’t really care. As far as any of them knew, she was a muggle, possibly familiar from other places like this, a little similar to a different girl they saw once. Only younger members might recognize her, though she doubted it. She hardly recognized herself anymore.

Sitting at her sport at the bar, eating her fries and drinking her drink, she scanned the room carefully, taking note of those around her.

“One old fashion, please.” A voice said beside her. Familiar. Cold.

‘Ah shit.’

Estella didn’t have to look over to register who was standing right next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of white blonde hair and pale skin. He’d gotten taller in the years, filled out but still lanky. A dangerous sort of aura was around him, and she could feel the taint of dark magic rippling off him. She knew that if she turned to look at him, she’d see cold grey eyes, the pair that had sneered at her all throughout her Hogwarts.

When Draco Malfoy wasn’t ignoring her, he was challenging her.

He’d seemed like a good-old-fashion bully, but Estella knew more. To anyone outside of Slytherin, he was the Malfoy Heir, arrogant and cruel, dripping rich elegance and pureblood power, smirking and sneering. Inside Slytherin, he was one of them. Slytherin protects their own. Even Mudbloods. He’d hated her, sure. She was everything he was conditioned to. Muggleborn. American. Had the audacity to be in the pure house, to speak her mind, to challenge. But The first time he called her a Mudblood, she cried. The next day, she wore fishnets with her uniform. And she built her armor. But again, Slytherin protects their own. 

Now, he stood next to her, not seeing her, as he waited for his drink. She hadn’t looked at him yet, only watching him from the corner of her eyes. Slowly, she let her eyes drift over, and they met silver.

Draco Malfoy was watching her.

“Can I help you?” Estella said stiffly, praying to gods she didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t recognize her.

He smirked, sinful and dangerous. “Hello, Coleman.”

‘Fuck.’