Ivy
My feet hit the tile with a sharper thud than usual, but I don’t falter. I do a mental check on my occlumency shields—all in tact, nice and strong. Then I school my face with a blank expression. No feelings. No slip ups. No second chances.
I follow Lucius and the other Death Eaters deeper into the manor until we reach the dining room. The table isn’t set this time—its empty. Cold.
Most of the seats are already filled, and those that aren’t are quickly taken by the death eaters in front of me. I don’t get a chance to take my spot next to Lucius; Voldemort is already at the head of the table, standing, and he beckons me over with nothing more than an outstretched hand.
Without hesitation, I stride towards him. My steps are smooth, graceful, as I’ve been taught all my life. My face is blank. He doesn’t care.
“So?” Voldemort hisses, running his fingers over his wand.
After I take a quiet breath, I lift my nose in the air—an act of quiet arrogance that would make Lucius proud. “It’s done, my lord.”
He eyes me suspiciously, studying me, before turning towards the other death eaters. “Is this true? Is Albus Dumbledore dead?”
“Yes, my lord,” Lucius supplies quickly, bowing his head. “Checked him myself.”
“As did I,” another man says with his hands folded on the table. “She’s speaking the truth. He is dead.”
Voldemort lets out a laugh—a truly terrifying, bone chilling sound that makes me shiver. “And his wand?”
Suddenly the room goes quiet, and his wicked grin disappears. “Carrow. His wand.”
Carrow coughs, avoiding his eyes. “We… we couldn’t find it, my lord.”
“What?” Voldemort responds, his voice deadly. “You had one job, Carrow. And yet you deem yourself useless.”
“It was already gone when we got there, my lord,” Carrow stutters out, his voice shaking. “Nowhere to be found. Someone else must have taken it.”
Suddenly, Voldemort turns to face me.
I freeze.
His dark eyes pierce through me, burning my skin. “Where is his wand, child?”
In my robes, I think, my heart pounding.
I shake my head, looking down. “I don’t know, my lord.”
Voldemort presses the tip of his wand to my throat, tilting my chin up to make me look at him. “Did you take it?”
“No,” I reply quickly, eyes wide. “I don’t have it. I swear.”
“She’s lying,” Bellatrix interjects, nearly singing it.
I shake my head, the tip of his wand pressing harder against my throat. “I—I don’t have it.”
He drops his wand quickly, his mouth a sneer. “Search her.”
Rough hands grab at me before I can react. Bellatrix is the first, of course, her nails digging into my arms as she shoves me toward the center of the room. Others follow—Macnair, Dolohov—clawing at my robes, patting me down with none of the decorum purebloods are supposed to uphold. My heart pounds, but I don’t fight. I don’t wince. I don’t even breathe too deeply. This has to be convincing. I can’t have the wand on me.
To their surprise—and my own—I don’t.
Bellatrix growls in frustration, yanking at my sleeves, running her fingers along the seams of my cloak as if expecting to find something hidden within. “She has to have it,” she snaps, turning back to Voldemort.
“She doesn’t,” Lucius murmurs, his voice eerily calm. His eyes flicker to mine for only a fraction of a second before he lowers his gaze. “It’s not on her.”
Voldemort hums, tilting his head. “Interesting.”
My nails dig into my palms as I steady myself. Think. The wand was in my robes—I had it, I know I had it when I left the tower. Which means someone took it between then and now.
And the only time I wasn’t paying attention was—
The Astronomy Tower.
My stomach clenches. One of them—one of the Slytherins who had comforted me, who had whispered reassurances, who had their hands all over me—had taken it.
Draco.
Or Theo.
Maybe even Blaise or Pansy.
I school my expression quickly, lowering my eyes as if in submission. My mind, however, is anything but. One of them has it. But why?
If they had meant to keep it for themselves… I shudder to think of the consequences if Voldemort found it in their possession.
But for some reason, deep down in my gut, I don’t think it was selfish. I don’t think it was stolen from me because they wanted it.
Now I just need to figure out why they did.
Voldemort steps toward me again, his wand still in hand. “If you do not have it,” he murmurs, his voice as soft as silk, “then where is it?”
I keep my voice even. Controlled. “I don’t know, my lord.”
His eyes narrow.
I brace myself as I open my mouth once more. “I apologize. If I had realized you wanted the wand, I would have brought it to you myself. I was under the impression that my only job was to kill him.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and deliberate. A calculated risk. I keep my posture poised, my breathing steady, but my pulse hammers beneath my skin.
For a moment, there is nothing but silence. A long, suffocating pause where Voldemort simply stares at me. His red eyes flicker with something unreadable—contemplation, suspicion, or perhaps amusement.
Then, he chuckles.
Low and quiet at first, before it builds into something deeper. The sound coils through the room like a serpent, chilling and wrong.
“Well,” he muses, dragging the tip of his wand down my cheek, “at least one of you understands orders.”
I force myself not to flinch. I don’t dare to move, don’t dare to breathe as he steps back, rolling his wand between his fingers.
“Still,” he continues, his voice taking on a more dangerous edge, “Dumbledore’s wand is no ordinary wand. It is a weapon beyond measure. And now it is missing.” His gaze flicks toward Lucius, then to Bellatrix, then to me once more. “That does not bode well for you, does it?”
My stomach twists, but I don’t waver. “No, my lord,” I say softly. “It does not.”
Another long, slow beat of silence. I can feel Bellatrix’s smug smirk without even looking at her. She wants me to fail. Wants me to suffer.
But Voldemort, it seems, is not done playing.
“You,” he says, turning to the rest of the room, “find it. If the wand is in someone else’s hands, I want to know whose.” His voice turns cold. “And I want it brought to me.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the Death Eaters. Some nod, others bow their heads.
I remain frozen, my mind racing.
Whoever took it—Draco, Theo, Blaise, Pansy—they had to have had a reason. But whether it was to protect me, to protect themselves, or something else entirely, I have no way of knowing.
Yet.
Voldemort looks at me one last time. “You have served your purpose well,” he murmurs, almost mockingly. “Let us hope your… misstep does not become a habit.”
I bow my head. “Of course not, my lord.”
Another wicked grin spreads across his face as he begins to circle me slowly. I stand tall, my posture perfect, but I keep my gaze down.
“Let’s see how well you listen,” he says lowly, dragging a cold finger across my shoulder blades. “How well you obey.”
My breath stays even, though every instinct screams at me to run. To fight. To do something. But I don’t. I stand still. I obey.
“Go upstairs,” he says, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. “There is a dress waiting for you. Change into it. Fix your hair. Make yourself… presentable.”
A sick feeling coils in my stomach, but I don’t let it show.
“Yes, my lord.”
Voldemort hums in approval, then turns away from me, already dismissing my presence. “The rest of you,” he says, addressing the Death Eaters, “we have much to discuss.”
I don’t wait to hear more. With measured steps, I leave the dining room, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
As soon as I step into the corridor, my composure wavers. I can feel it in my bones—something terrible is about to happen. The air is thick with it, suffocating and wrong.
I force myself to move, to climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last. When I reach the room that has been set aside for me, I hesitate only briefly before pushing the door open.
The dress is laid out on the bed, draped across the silk sheets like some kind of offering.
Blood-red. Satin. Elegant in a way that feels all wrong.
I swallow hard, stepping closer. The moment my fingers brush the fabric, I know—this isn’t just about looking presentable. This is a message. A warning. A display.
Something is coming.
And I have no idea what it is.
Nonetheless, I do as I’m told. I pin my hair up carefully, leaving half of it down, curls cascading down my back. The dress fits me perfectly, and it makes my stomach turn.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Just do.
I take my time with my makeup, covering any blemishes and elongating my lashes, making my base all one color—flat, cold, distant. Devoid of emotion. No show of joy.
Screaming echoes downstairs, and I try my best to tune it out. I convince myself Voldemort is punishing the death eaters for not finding the wand.
But deep down, something feels incredibly, completely wrong.
I don’t know how to explain it. Its like a tether to something is being stretched taut, leaving me on edge. I feel almost sick. And I swear, I feel a phantom pain in my bones.
When I get up to go back downstairs, I realize I can’t. The door is locked. From the outside—from magic, probably.
Whatever is happening down there, I’m clearly not allowed to be involved yet.
So I wait.
I pace the length of the room, my bare feet silent against the rug. Every few minutes, another scream rips through the manor—muffled, but not enough to dull the sheer agony behind it. A man. A woman. Both of them suffering.
I press a hand to my stomach, breathing deeply through the nausea curling in my gut.
This isn’t new. I’ve heard torture before. Seen it. Inflicted it when commanded. But this—this feels different.
The tether inside me pulls tighter, like an invisible thread connecting me to whatever is happening downstairs. My ribs ache with it, my hands trembling at my sides.
I try to shake it off.
It’s just your nerves. You’re anticipating something terrible, so you’re imagining it.
But the moment I think that, another scream rips through the air, and my knees nearly buckle.
I feel it. The raw pain, the helplessness, the desperate, pleading anguish. Not my own, but theirs.
And then, as if something inside me clicks, I understand.
This isn’t just fear. It isn’t nerves or paranoia.
It’s the bond.
My breath catches. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to steady myself. At the very least, I’m certain its not Draco. I know what he feels like, that presence in my gut and the back of my mind. But that means…
It shouldn’t be possible—I don’t even know who it is that I’m feeling, don’t remember forming any kind of magical connection strong enough for this.
But it’s happening.
And it means whoever is screaming downstairs isn’t just another Death Eater meeting their punishment.
It means they matter to me.
My parents are down there. Draco’s parents are down there. And whether they know it or not, we’re magically bound to each other. One question rings through my mind, making me sick: Who’s parents are getting tortured?
And even worse yet—why?
I don’t know how long I stand there, breathing through the pain, waiting. Eventually, the screams fade into silence, and I swear the world stills with them.
The door unlocks with a soft click.
I don’t move, not at first. But I know what’s expected of me.
So I smooth my dress. Straighten my spine. And I step out into the corridor—into whatever fresh hell is waiting for me.
My heels click against the tile as I walk back to the dining room. I hear the murmur of voices, distant laughter, filling the dining room. Laughter.
My stomach churns.
I know that laughter. Cold. Cruel. Mocking.
It seeps under my skin like poison as I step into the dining room. The Death Eaters are relaxed now, sipping from goblets, speaking in hushed tones, a stark contrast to the horrors that had played out only moments ago. The smell of wine and candle smoke hangs in the air, masking the underlying scent of something burned.
Voldemort stands at the head of the table, watching my every move. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the dress, the carefully placed curls, the effort I put into following his orders. He smiles—if it can even be called that.
“You follow directions well,” he muses, tapping a bony finger against his goblet. “And you look… good.”
The room hums with quiet approval, though I don’t miss the way some of them sneer, the way Bellatrix’s lips curl in barely contained disdain.
I don’t react. I can’t afford to.
Instead, I lower my head slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”
He hums, satisfied. Then, he turns to the room, his voice taking on a sharp, commanding edge.
“Now, to more pressing matters.” He steps forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “With Dumbledore dead, Hogwarts is vulnerable. The time has come to take what is rightfully mine.”
I freeze.
My nails dig into my palms as I fight to keep my breathing even.
No. I did what he asked. I did the impossible. I killed Dumbledore, stained my hands, sold my soul, all for one reason—
“My lord,” I say quickly, my voice sharper than intended. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
The room stills.
Voldemort slowly turns to me, his expression unreadable. “Oh?”
I swallow hard. I know better than to question him. But I can’t stop myself.
“You said if I killed Dumbledore, my peers would be safe.” My voice wavers despite my best efforts. “That—that was the deal.”
The silence is deafening. My pulse thunders in my ears.
And then—he laughs.
Low. Amused. Dangerous.
“Killing Dumbledore wasn’t enough, child,” he says, his voice slithering through the air like smoke. “Did you really think one life would be the price for so many?”
The blood drains from my face.
“I held up my end—”
“Did you?” he cuts me off, his amusement evaporating. “You let the wand slip through your fingers. You lost something that belongs to me.”
I open my mouth, but before I can argue, he raises a hand—and the doors swing open with a deafening bang.
A gasp lodges in my throat.
Two figures are dragged into the room, both barely able to stand. Their robes are torn, their faces bruised, their usually pristine appearances ruined by whatever hell they’ve just endured.
Lucius. Narcissa.
I stagger back, my chest tightening, the bond between us flaring with something raw and wrong.
“They were quite… uncooperative,” Voldemort muses, his eyes glinting with something cruel. “We thought they might have answers. Where did she hide the wand? Did she plan this?”
He sighs, shaking his head. “But alas, they knew nothing.”
My throat closes.
I look at them—really look at them.
Lucius is barely holding himself upright, his usually sleek hair tangled, blood seeping from a cut on his temple. Narcissa’s eyes are swollen, her cheek marred by an ugly bruise, her fingers trembling where she grips her tattered sleeve.
And despite it all, despite everything—their eyes meet mine.
No anger. No betrayal.
Just understanding.
And it breaks me.
Voldemort turns to me, his head tilting.
“I wonder,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “how much more they can take before they finally break?”
Before I can react, he lifts his wand, pointing it lazily at the pair. “Crucio.”
They immediately start writhing around, sobs and screams filling the room. The spell seemingly burns their skin—it smells like fire.
A deep discomfort lurches through my own veins—not exactly pain, but the connection is making itself known.
“Stop!” I shout helplessly, frozen in place. “Please! Stop! Don’t hurt them!”
He doesn’t stop. The scene in front of me continues, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Please, my lord. I’ll do anything you want. Anything! I swear! Just please—don’t hurt them!”
Voldemort lets the curse drag on for another agonizing moment before finally lowering his wand. The room is deathly silent, save for the ragged, pained breaths of Lucius and Narcissa. Their bodies twitch where they lie, broken and trembling on the floor.
I can still feel it—through the bond, through the magic laced between us. It’s like a phantom ache in my own bones, but I know it’s nothing compared to what they’ve just endured.
My breath comes fast and shallow as I force myself to meet Voldemort’s gaze. He’s watching me with something unreadable, something almost curious.
Finally, he speaks.
“Anything?” he echoes, amusement curling at the edges of his voice.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes, my lord. Anything.”
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his lips. “Good.”
He steps closer, reaching out. His fingers are deathly cold as they trail along my jaw, tilting my face up. I don’t flinch—I can’t.
“Then listen carefully,” he whispers. “I want an heir.”
I go still.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. My mind goes blank, and the world seems to tilt beneath my feet.
And then, before I can stop them, tears well in my eyes.
I stare at him, my lips parting, my entire body shaking with something I don’t even have a name for. And then, I say it.
“No one told you?”
His expression darkens. “Told me what?”
I let out a quiet, shaky breath. My hands fist in the fabric of my dress, my nails digging into my palms. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to give him another weapon against me. But there’s no choice.
I lift my chin, forcing the words out. My deepest, darkest secret.
“I can’t have children.”
The room is utterly silent.
Voldemort doesn’t react—not at first. But I can feel it. The slow, creeping shift in the air, the way the atmosphere tightens like a rope being drawn taut.
His voice is dangerously soft. “Explain.”
I close my eyes, just for a moment, forcing the memories down. Forcing myself not to break.
“When I was thirteen,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, “I ran away from home.”
A few murmurs ripple through the Death Eaters, but I ignore them. I keep going.
“I hated my training. I hated the expectations. I hated them.” My eyes flicker briefly to Lucius and Narcissa, but it’s not them I mean. They know that. “So I left. I lived as a Muggle. I cut my hair, changed my name, took odd jobs just to survive. For six months, I was free.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Then they found me. My mother dragged me back. And she—”
I stop. Swallow. My throat burns.
Voldemort doesn’t rush me. He just waits.
“She punished me,” I finally say. “She wanted to make sure I never tried to run again.”
I can still feel it. The searing, unbearable agony of the curse that tore through my abdomen. The way my mother stood over me, expressionless, as if I deserved it.
I lift my chin higher, my voice steady now. “I went to St. Mungo’s after. They told me the damage was permanent. The chances of me ever bearing children are less than two percent.”
Another silence.
Then, Voldemort exhales sharply through his nose—a sound of pure, unfiltered displeasure.
I brace myself.
Voldemort leans down, staring daggers at me. “No matter. That can be fixed.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “It can’t. They’ve tried everything. Spells, potions, rituals. Tried and true methods. Experimental ones. Nothing took.”
His expression darkens. The tension in the room tightens like a vice, thick and suffocating.
“Castor. Grace,” he calls, his voice sharp as a blade.
I stiffen. My breath catches in my throat as I hear movement from the far end of the room.
My parents step forward, emerging from the shadows. They move with the same practiced grace I was raised to mimic, but I can see the tension in their shoulders, the way their fingers twitch at their sides.
Lucius and Narcissa are released immediately, their battered forms collapsing onto the cold floor as the Death Eaters let them go. My heart clenches at the sight, but I don’t dare move. Not yet.
Voldemort turns his full attention to my parents now, his lip curling. “You failed to mention something rather important to me.”
Castor’s expression remains carefully neutral. “My lord—”
“Silence.” Voldemort’s voice cracks through the room like a whip. “Did you think I would not find out? That you could lie to me?”
Grace steps forward slightly, her chin lifted in defiance. “We did not lie, my lord. We—”
“Crucio.”
A sharp scream rips through the air as my mother collapses. My father doesn’t react—he doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as she writhes on the ground beside him.
I do.
I feel it. My own body tenses involuntarily, my nails digging into my palms. I taste bile in my throat, but I bite it back. I can’t react. Not now.
Voldemort lifts his wand, releasing the curse just as suddenly as he cast it. My mother gasps, her limbs shaking violently as she struggles to push herself up.
“You knew,” Voldemort hisses. “You knew and you hid it from me.”
“We—” Castor starts, but Voldemort is already shaking his head.
“No. I have no use for your excuses.” His voice is cold, final. “You will be dealt with accordingly.”
He turns toward the nearest group of Death Eaters, barely sparing my parents another glance. “Take them to the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. I will decide their fate later.”
A pair of masked figures step forward, grabbing my parents by the arms.
Grace struggles, fighting back. “My lord, please—”
Her eyes meet mine, just for a moment.
And then she’s gone, dragged away alongside my father.
The heavy doors slam shut behind them.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Voldemort is the first to break it. “Well, well, well. It seems we’re in quite the predicament, aren’t we, my dear?”
I fight the urge to vomit at the pet name, opting to stay silent as Voldemort walks around the table slowly. “What to do, what to do?”
“My lord,” I say quietly, keeping my gaze downcast. “I’ll give you anything else. I’ll do anything else. Just please—all I want is immunity. For my peers. Ill do whatever you ask.”
Voldemort hums, feigning contemplation as he taps a long, pale finger against his wand. “Anything?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yes, my lord.”
He stops directly in front of me, tilting his head. “Then listen carefully, child.”
The air in the room shifts. Every Death Eater sits in rigid silence, waiting, watching.
“Tonight, we will take over the British Ministry of Magic,” Voldemort says, voice steady, deliberate. “Completely. No more shadows. No more half-measures. We will control it—own it.”
A frown tugs at my brow before I can stop it. “I thought we had already infiltrated it?”
Voldemort’s lips curl in something almost amused. “Yes,” he concedes, “I have men in place—whispering in ears, shifting policies, finding workarounds.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “But not nearly enough. The Ministry is still a machine of bureaucracy, full of old fools who think they have power. We need more than whispers. We need control.”
My heart pounds. I know where this is going.
His red eyes gleam as he steps back. “You wish to prove yourself? To earn the immunity you so desperately beg for?” His grin widens, cruel and full of promise. “Then lead the charge.”
My blood runs cold.
“I—” I catch myself before I can stumble. “My lord, surely someone more experienced—”
He lifts a hand, and I fall silent immediately.
“You will have help, of course,” he says smoothly, turning back toward his assembled followers. “But this is your task.” He flicks his wand lazily, and the very air seems to crackle with power. “We will take the Ministry, side by side. Rip it from the inside out. And you will not fail me.”
I nod stiffly, my mind already racing. This is it. My only chance. My only way to keep the people I care about from suffering any further.
No matter what it takes—I have to succeed.
Of course, I have an ace up my sleeve. The Conseil des Sorciers is on standby, waiting for the moment I call them. There’s only one problem.
How am I supposed to call them when my every move is being watched?
Voldemort sneers, breezing out of the room. “Go change, child. I thought we would be having a different type of fun tonight. But alas, you must dress in something functional.”
“Yes, my lord,” I say meekly, ignoring the sick feeling in my stomach at what his plans were supposed to be. At least I’ll have a second to call—
“Bellatrix,” Voldemort hisses, cutting off my thought. “Accompany her. Make sure she doesn’t try to leave.”
Bellatrix grins, her dark eyes gleaming with manic delight. “Of course, my lord.”
My stomach twists, but I force myself to lower my head in obedience. “As you wish.”
Voldemort sweeps out of the room without another word, his presence lingering like a stain on the air. As soon as he’s gone, Bellatrix turns to me, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips.
“Well, well,” she drawls, twirling her wand between her fingers. “A little mission for the Ministry, is it? How exciting. But first—off you go.”
I hold my hands up in surrender, slowly backing up towards up the Malfoys. “Yes, yes, of course Mrs. Lestrange. But first, can I please…”
I don’t finish my sentence, opting to drop down to my knees. I grab Narcissa’s hand, touching the side of her face. “Narcissa… are you okay? Lucius?”
Neither one of them has much energy to stir as I grab Lucius’ hand with my free one. They look up weakly, making eye contact with me.
“How sweet,” Bellatrix coos, walking towards us. “Don’t tell me you’ve started to care for the in-laws.”
My gaze locks with the deranged witch’s, but I don’t respond. She continues on, an evil glint in her eye. “Cissy and Lucius will be fine. But you won’t be if you keep the dark lord waiting.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lestrange,” I say quietly, standing up. As I walk over to her I cast a wordless healing charm behind my back, directing it at the Malfoys. Bellatrix is none the wiser.
I can hear them start to pick themselves up as I go.
My pulse hammers as I step out of the room, Bellatrix’s presence a suffocating shadow at my back. Every step down the dimly lit corridor sharpens my awareness of just how closely she’s watching me. Her gaze bores into the back of my skull, searching, waiting for the slightest misstep.
My mind races. I have to find a way to send word to the Conseil des Sorciers—but how? Every obvious route is cut off. No owls. No Patronus messages. No enchanted objects hidden in my robes. Bellatrix will be watching for anything, and I don’t doubt she’d revel in the chance to punish me if I slip.
I push open the heavy wooden door to my assigned chamber, stepping inside. The flickering candlelight casts long shadows along the stone walls, stretching like grasping fingers. Bellatrix follows, stopping just inside the doorway.
“Go on, then,” she says lightly. “Wouldn’t want to keep our lord waiting.”
I don’t look at her as I move toward the wardrobe, forcing my expression to remain neutral. My fingers close around the handle, but my mind is far away—sifting through every possible opportunity, every bit of magic I might be able to use under her watchful eye.
Nothing. I come up with nothing.
Time for plan B.
As I slip my dress off over my head, I let my fingers brush the tap bracelet on my other wrist. No obvious code. Just whatever I can do discreetly. Tap tap tap tap.
I was really trying to avoid involving Draco or anyone else in this.
It’s not that I don’t think they could help—it’s that I know they’ll want to. They’ll try to come with the Conseil. That was a risk I was trying not to take—but as with everything else in my life, I have no choice.
When I was explaining everything to the Slytherins, we came up with a plan I thought I’d never use. If I tapped to Draco while I was here, he was to floo over to Le Bijou Cache and find Aurélien—then the two of them had to get Catherine, so she could summon the Conseil.
As I change into dueling robes, all black, only one thought repeats in my head on a loop. I didn’t want them involved. I didn’t want them involved. I didn’t want them—
“Are you quite ready yet?” Bellatrix asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes,” I reply simply, keeping my face neutral.
Bellatrix watches me for a moment, head tilting as if she can sense something is off. My heart pounds, but I keep my breathing even, my hands still as I tighten the clasps on my robes.
Then, she smirks. “Good. I do so love a girl who knows how to follow orders.” She steps aside, gesturing to the door. “After you.”
I move forward, every step a careful calculation. Draco, please understand the message. Please.
If he doesn’t, or if something goes wrong, I’m walking into this alone.
Bellatrix leads me through the winding corridors of Malfoy Manor, our footsteps echoing off the cold stone. The place is as silent as a tomb. I don’t know where Voldemort has taken my parents or where Lucius and Narcissa are now, but I hope my healing charm gave them enough strength to endure.
As we reach the main hall, I glance toward the massive fireplace, its flames crackling ominously. The Floo Network. A tempting escape, but I’d never make it—not with Bellatrix at my back.
She must see the flicker of thought cross my face because she laughs, sharp and knowing. “Don’t even think about it, little dove,” she croons. “You wouldn’t get two steps before I had you writhing at my feet.”
I don’t doubt it.
Instead of responding, I focus on steadying my nerves. The mission is clear: play along, sabotage from the inside, and wait for the Conseil des Sorciers to strike.
The entrance doors creak open, and a wave of cold night air rushes in. Outside, shadowy figures stand in formation—Death Eaters awaiting orders. The oppressive magic in the air is suffocating. I suppress a shiver and step forward.
Bellatrix follows, her excitement nearly tangible. “A glorious night, isn’t it?” she sighs. “The beginning of the end for those Ministry fools.”
A cloaked figure approaches. I recognize him instantly—Yaxley. His beady eyes flick over me with mild interest before he turns to Bellatrix. “Everything is in place.”
Bellatrix claps her hands together, delighted. “Perfect! Then let’s be off.”
I swallow hard as Yaxley hands me a Portkey—a simple, rusted key. My escape routes are dwindling fast. Bellatrix watches me expectantly, and I have no choice but to grasp it.
The moment my fingers curl around the metal, a violent tug yanks me forward. The world spins away in a blur of darkness and wind, my stomach lurching as the magic pulls me through space.
And then—impact. My feet hit solid ground.
The Ministry of Magic.
The other Death Eaters look at me expectantly, before they turn their heads back behind them—Voldemort is already here, ready to make his move. Ready to strike.
I barely have time to gather my bearings before Bellatrix is at my side, her grip like iron on my arm. “Now then,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear, “let’s see if you’re truly loyal to our cause, shall we?”
She releases me with a shove, and I stumble forward into the shadows of the deserted atrium.
This is it. The battle is beginning.
And I have to pray that Draco got my message in time.