May the Games Begin

An unbreakable vow seals the souls of two under the wires of an ancient magic that forces them to remain bound together forevermore. He has tied himself to the whims of fate and the recklessness of an uptight witch, brown hair bound and tight, posture strict, even as she throws her life at him.

He thinks he might be the stupidest man alive.

The throes of destiny are always unforgiving, he does not believe this. He does not believe in fate nor the concept of a life set in stone by the stars that he shares the name. He defies them every chance he gets, he has escaped the miserable ties of foreshadowing once before, and he will do it once more.

McGonagall is a sly woman. She always has been, and he doesn’t know why it’s only dawned on him now. Divination is what he’s been assigned as his extracurricular for the term, even though he made quite the show of checking off every option on the list except this.

The classroom smells like smoke, wispy candles and sense of sadness that he might’ve only experienced at 14 when he had looked into that ball and saw the very life he had prayed so dearly to avoid, hands bound around the waist of a pristine witch, her hair, long and unruly cascading alongside their shoulders as he shares a smile with her. He decided it wasn’t genuine that day, and yet that same picture tugs at his hair and tries to pull him under every now and then. When the night is quiet, and there are no pranks and jokes to busy himself with.

He might guiltily wonder after her some days, when he finds that life is particularly hard. When he looks in the mirror and is faced with the deep angular eyes of his father and the sloped jaw of his mother, the unruly hair of his cousin and the dying hope that his younger brother might’ve once possessed. He might wonder what she is up to these days, whether she has been married off, whether she had the qualities to make him truly happy.

It might be one of the stupidest thoughts he's ever had. But it keeps him sane in moments like this, when he is forced to recall what life had the potential to be had he not defied the tides of fate. Had he surrendered to his own personal hell.

Today the crystal ball glints cruelly at him. It shines aggressively in a way that might have posed some irritation if he had it in him to feel as so. 

“What’d she say to do again?” He asks the blonde next to him lazily. He has a signature smile on his face as usual, the kind that might exude both a sense of rebelliousness and boredom. The ladies love it.

She particularly does, he can tell and he makes sure to wipe it slowly from his face when he catches on. Marlene has fancied him for a while now, a year, maybe more , it's the kind of thing he doesn’t like noticing. It hurts his heart and makes him want to leave her alone forever. He is not good at keeping people, he never has been. It’s not what he does.

And she. She wants a life with him.

Sirius Black is certain she would only come to hate him after a while. Most of them do. 

“It’s not hard Sirius.” She chuckles, and there is a warm hand placed on his shoulder. “Just rub it after crushing the salts in your palm.” 

He isn’t excited to see what is waiting for him on the other side of the ball, he knows it will be something stupid, something that he will ignore duly and have fears about anyway. 

No matter, he is not that little boy anymore. He is no longer bound by anything, no petulant relatives, no wounds he has to stitch closed. 

Nothing really concerns him anymore.

The salts are harsh in his fist and prod at sensitive parts of his palm. They try to break through the barrier of his skin but he does not allow them to. He stops once they pinch him particularly hard and picks up the ball and begins to rub.

Nothing happens for a while and he half expects his life to end there. It’s not surprising that the result is inconclusive he thinks, the ball probably has not been able to account for the strange bind he’s put himself in. The odd tightrope between life and death he chooses to walk across.

Once again he finds himself wincing at his own stupidity. 

“Nothing here, must’ve done something wrong.” He says to nobody in particular and stands up. “Come on, Marls, let's get out of here.”

The girl looks a bit skeptical at first but then follows him out. “Are you sure everything is alright Sirius.” She can be heard saying concernedly. His response itself is incoherent considering their distance from the classroom, however one might conclude that it was distinctly casual and suave complimentary of the natural Sirius Black charm.

There’s a man sitting quietly on the other side of the glass, and he appears tired, gaunt, haunted. With shadows of sadness dancing across his skin in a ballet of despair alongside markings of horror and destruction. Fear and solitude. 

There is a single tear running across what might have once been youthfully porcelain skin. He grips onto a single note with what might be the only strength he has remaining in his weakened body. 

Perhaps it was best that the young Mr Black never came across such a picture. He might tumble faster towards the hands of a crueller and hardened fate otherwise.

—-------------------------

It’s not exactly cold enough to decide whether or not it shall be a white Christmas this year, but Alexandra chooses to believe it will be. Her fingers have almost frosted over, and her legs are stiff when she walks. But the air—the beautifully chill air—breathes what might be a new life into her belly.

Winter suits her. The season is cold, steady, and unremarkable—much like her. Alexandra moves through life with the quiet, inevitable march of a snowstorm, unremarkable to some but suffocating to those caught in its path. The season has no hopes to dazzle nor entertain, it merely exists, a dull reminder of the inevitably of life.

She hasn’t thought over her actions much over the past week. Her bones are sore with a form of restlessness that at the worst of times has her curled into a ball in the furthest corner of her bed. She has much to do. She has many consequences to face. It irks her that this is the first winter that she can’t find comfort in.

Today, however, she’s outside, and for once, there’s no place she’d rather be. The cold winds nip at her skin, forcing all other thoughts out of her mind, and she welcomes the way they mute Narcissa’s latest lament. Her friend’s arm is looped tightly through hers, a grip that borders on bruising. Narcissa always holds on too tightly, as though she fears Alexandra might slip away.

“Can you believe he’d say such a thing?” Narcissa mutters, her pale face set in a practiced mask of composure. The skeletal trees behind her cast jagged shadows, making her appear even more statuesque. “Well?”

Alexandra’s gaze shifts to the colourful outerwear of the students milling about. She always finds the Muggle-borns’ fashion choices amusing. “I’d say it was rude of him, and you deserve better, Narcissa,” she replies dryly. “But you’d ignore me and claim he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Narcissa’s lips press into a thin line, her grip tightening. “ That’s because you don’t understand. He can be…charming when he wants to be. He’s thoughtful in his own way.”

Alexandra arches a brow. “Thoughtful? Lucius? I’ve seen him kick a crying first year when she wouldn’t move out of his way.”

Narcissa hesitates, and for a moment, Alexandra thinks she might agree. “At least he understands our world. He knows what’s expected. That has to count for something.”

Typical.

She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes flicking to Narcissa’s face. The sunlight plays tricks on her pale features, lending her an almost ethereal quality. Narcissa is the kind of beautiful that belongs in old portraits and grand ballrooms. Even now, in her thick cloak, nose reddened by the harsh weather, her beauty is sharp, commanding, and perfectly suited to the role she’s been groomed for. 

She might complain. But she fits into this life as seamlessly as a snowflake falling onto an untouched plane of grass. 

It won’t be long before the blizzard arrives.

“You’re lucky,” Alexandra finally says, but not aloud. It’s a thought that drifts, unspoken, like a breath lost in the wind. Instead, she looks away, her voice steady when she speaks again. “I suppose it does count for something. Better than being with someone who doesn’t understand at all.”

Narcissa hums softly, her gaze distant. “Do you ever wonder if this is all there is?”

Alexandra exhales, her breath visible in the frosty air. “No. I don’t wonder. Wondering doesn’t change anything.”

Narcissa glances at her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, I don't either. Allegra does it too often, honestly the things she comes out with sometimes.”

“Isn’t it?” Alexandra replies, and her tone might be a mix of bitterness and sarcasm. 

She doesn’t much feel like staying out doors anymore. It doesn't feel as comfortable.

They walk in silence after that, Narcissa’s arm still looped through hers, though the grip has loosened. Alexandra doesn’t mind. The silence suits her, blanketing her thoughts as the snow might cover the earth—softly, steadily, inevitably.

There’s more than tension in the air these days. There's a clear divide in the world, in the school. Even the younger students don’t move with as much carelessness as they might have when she was their age. They seem to possess some sort of knowing, a lack of naivety, as though the world had already shown its cruelty to them in all its glory.

Then again, she doesn’t think she was much older when she too was forced to come to such a realisation.

The group that Narcissa leads her to is excruciatingly relatable and worlds apart from her at the same time. There are six of them. All male, all smirking at something that is probably not really funny at all. Their dark robes billow behind them. Strong angular faces and masks that rarely slip. Silver and green jumpers peek out from beneath their outerwear, reminding her that they are only students at the end of the day. Even if the glowing signet rings that each of them possess suggest otherwise.

“Darling, you took a while,” the tallest of them comments, his voice rich and proud. He does not appear to mean condescending; it is merely one of Lucius’ better traits. “We’re only going to Hogsmeade. There’s no need to make such an effort.”

There’s a snicker that comes startlingly from her right. Mulciber has never been one for personal space. It makes her shift on her feet regardless. “It wasn’t Narcissa’s fault, Malfoy,” she says dryly, playing up her boredom. “I didn’t exactly want to come out and see any of you.”

It’s taken well, and the comment flies off into the wind. This is how it is. Narcissa is the one they respect and appreciate; she is the one they tolerate. “Now, Garnier, you mustn't start every conversation negatively,” a particularly ghoulish voice says, and she rolls her eyes at the presence of Barty Crouch. He’s in the year below, friends with Regulus, and mildly disturbing. That, and he’s a Ravenclaw.

She doesn’t know what a sixth-year Ravenclaw must’ve done to earn the respect of Mulciber and his cronies, but from the look in his eye, she thinks she knows. He’s frightfully unsettling, more so than the rest of them.

His tongue slips momentarily from his teeth and grazes his bottom lip before diving back into his mouth. It’s a peculiar quirk, one that makes him all the more unappealing. “There ought to be other sixth years to hang around with, Crouch. You can’t always follow us about,” she returns and ignores the sharp squeeze Narcissa gives her arm.

She doesn’t want to provoke him. They’ve all seen what his anger looks like.

Alexandra isn’t particularly fearful. Unsettled? Disgusted? On edge? Yes. But most certainly not fearful. Even if he does happen to take a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes when the mail drops onto the tables every morning, and a headline about murder is published.

He isn’t a killer. None of them are.

That doesn’t mean they won’t be.

It seems as though the rest of the group isn’t particularly prepared to see the extent of this interaction. After sending her a long, knowing glance, Mulciber pats the younger boy on the back. “Don’t ruffle her feathers too much,” he offers darkly. “You know how she gets.”

It’s a comment that’s supposed to reduce the tension, and so she chooses to let it go. Not because Mulciber concerns her more than Crouch. Not because she doesn’t like the way he is currently eyeing her.

It’s not that she hates any of them. Strongly dislike is the better term. She can’t hate the people she is so alike to anyhow; it would be hypocritical. So she rolls her eyes in the famously tortured way she does and swallows down the disgust when Mulciber smirks in response.

He believes he can put her in her place. He is grievously mistaken.

It’s a few moments more like this, with the wind howling in their ears and the frost crawling further into her bones. It twists around parts of her chest, and the natural indifference she falls into returns.

She doesn’t feel much when she’s with them. Even her hatred for their conversations is muted. So she chimes in a few times, whether it’s a gracefully snarky comment about one of their characters or a false nod of agreement when the direction becomes more political.

That is, until simple discussion about the rancidity of the existence of Muggleborns is no longer enough to satisfy Avery. And so he finds an eager Alecto Carrow and her brother sitting suspiciously close on a bench and prods them to attack one.

She’s expecting a swift hex sent at a first year. Something small that would ingrain a level of trauma in the young one’s mind and send him to sleep with tears in his eyes. Nothing more.

Except it’s a time of day when all of the younger years are in their classes, and the only Muggleborns out are those in seventh or sixth year. That means much larger consequences, much stronger resistance would be met.

This doesn’t seem to particularly strike the hearts of these Slytherins in any way. In fact, it seems to excite them. She sends a tentative glance over to Narcissa, who has taken to latching onto her fiancé’s arm instead. Lucius never gets involved in these situations. He prefers watching from a distance as they tear each other to shreds. He reminds her of a predatory bird sometimes. Something cold and murderous, yet controlled and calm. He has never been truly angry, she thinks. She doesn’t doubt they’d be dealing with something horrible and all-consuming if he ever were.

Nonetheless, “You’re seriously going to let them go through with this?” she huffs, not bothering to let any actual concern leak into her voice. She never does.

Narcissa sends her a look, and Alexandra can’t pinpoint what she’s trying to communicate. Lucius doesn’t appear any kind of way about her question. He doesn’t even look like he’s going to reply. He’s busy watching as Mulciber points over at a girl, donned in a pair of ill-fitting Muggle trousers and flaming red hair. Alexandra tries to swallow down the dread that erupts in the back of her throat. Looking over, Malfoy doesn’t appear particularly impressed. He catches her gaze before muttering, “This will be normal very soon. There’s nothing to worry about.” The odd way he speaks to her maximizes the magnitude of the pit in her stomach.

When another headache begins knocking on the back of her skull, she scowls and looks away from the interaction.

Lily Evans, face matching the color of her hair, brandishes a glare so aggressive that Alexandra thinks she may be the real danger, and that the group of three crowding around her are the victims. The others take a similar stance to Malfoy. A good distance away, but never truly uninvolved.

She stands somewhere in the middle. 

Somewhere close enough that she can hear every word uttered as the three boys knock the girl over, and laugh as she desperately tries to keep her balance. She's never been particularly fond of Lily. She’s never claimed to be her friend. Her painful righteousness, her need for validation, her presence at the centre of every conflict, has grated on her nerves since the very day they’d met. And yet, she feels pity. 

No. Not pity.

She sympathises. 

The way the group stares at her, as though she were nothing but a worm meant for nothing but their picking, as though she were an insect they could crush without confidence-makes something coil viciously in her chest. Even Black and Potter are afforded more respect. 

They are at least treated as actual threats.

Lily isn’t helpless. She is brilliant, they all know this. But she is a muggleborn, and that means she is weak. That is the difference.

That has always been the difference.

It’s as though she is a banshee. Alexandra winces when the girls voice cuts through the freezing wind, a high, furious scream that sets her teeth on edge. The wind wants to do its part in her punishment and it lashes at their faces with angry, acusative and icy fingers. It stings her cheeks and yet she can’t find it within herself to take shelter.

She isn’t the one that needs help.

Alecto Carrow, the most excitable of the few laughs out, shrill and triumphant. Her face is ugly. There is nothing else to say about it. It is a physical manifestation of her negative qualities, of her cruelty and inhumanity. Of her mania and her lack of restraint. She stands out like a thorn in this band of corrupt roses. She has no redeeming qualities, she had long ago resigned herself to the worst the world could offer.

There is pause, and the silence is so thick that Alexandra can almost sense the emotions of every individual in the area, as though their own moralities become tainted by the aura of the woman before them. She avoids the eyes of Evans, and busies herself with the snow that has begun to fall at her feet before her.

A rope of beautiful, fiery red hair falls to the floor as a severed lifeline. It is a few inches long, it must’ve taken a while to grow.

Alexandra has the sudden urge to violently throw up. Her hand itches towards her wand, if only to erase her own memory, or reattach the braid, or turn back time. Anything that might save her the view of Lily’s agonised face before her. No sound has left her mouth, but her eyes, they are polluted with the red embers of hatred mingled with the natural hue of fear.

Alecto takes much pride in destroying what is beautiful, and Alexandra selfishly becomes grateful that she is not on the woman's radar.

She supposes she must give off a certain evil spirit herself. Something so tainted and disturbing that the girl has no reason to disrupt it any further.

A quick jerk of her hand and alecto is on the floor. Nothing strong enough to cause anything more than an hour's sentence in the hospital wing, but still. Something.

She wonders what makes a Gryffindor so inclined to torture. Whether their feats of bravery are worth all of the pain they make themselves suffer, whether Lily Evans will make it to her dorm room in one piece tonight. Whether Amycus will live true to his promise of death unto anyone who harmed his family.

Whether her father will be pleased should he hear news of her sentencing to Azkaban.

The second hex is aimed at herself, and she does not notice. It would have bound her legs together and caved her under the snow. It would’ve done nothing to spark her anger, and Evans most likely would have faced no repercussions for the action. It doesn’t matter anyway, it doesn’t land true.

“Expelliarmus,” Lucius mutters, his voice cold and indifferent. Lily’s wand flies from her hand, landing on the floor with a thud. Alexandra’s eyes meet his, and for a moment, time stretches unbearably thin. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but there’s something in his gaze—something burning and sharp that makes her stomach twist. He tells her it won’t happen again.

She doesn’t bother replying, reacting, or saying anything.

She never does. It is always a cold response from her. Something shallow and easily interpretable. Something that keeps her out of trouble.

As long as she is out of trouble.

The wind howls louder, as if it’s protesting her inaction, whipping her hair into her face and seeping through the thin layers of her robes. Narcissa doesn’t even flinch. She clings to Lucius’ arm, her face a serene mask, as if she’s utterly unaware of the cruelty unfolding before her.

Somehow, Alexandra thinks this is worse. Even if she knows that her own face reflects the exact same thing. The head girl has been reduced to her knees, her hair splayed out and jagged across her face, tears of humiliation and frustration and helplessness running down her face-they ought to have a more significant reaction.

There might be blood coating her medulla now, she thinks the drum pounding the upside of her skull has made entry into her brain stem. She can’t breathe naturally anymore, she has to time it with the tapping of her foot.

It doesn’t quite feel like betrayal. More like helplessness, more like a tear in the fabric of composure she holds as a blanket to protect her from the outside.

It isn’t the first time she’s experienced such emotion anyhow. She has learnt to live with it, even if it does mean her blanket is tattered and tired. 

“Pick your battles, Garnier,” Mulciber says casually, as though reading her thoughts. His tone is light, almost amused. “This one’s not worth the effort.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. They all know she won’t challenge them. She never does.

The wind screams again, colder now, as though it has taken Lily’s fury for its own. Alexandra shivers, but it’s not from the cold. It’s from the way Barty Crouch  begins to laugh, a cruel sound that echoes through the empty courtyard. It’s from the way Lucius turns away, already dismissing the entire scene as if it were nothing more than an unremarkable moment in an unremarkable day.

And it’s from the way she knows, deep down, that this moment will mean nothing to her. That she will erase it from her mind and return to it in what might be one of her more self pitying moments.

That will not be anytime soon however, and that is because she has never deemed herself honourable or just. She knows she is bad. That she has been damned since the beginning. There is no point in pretending to be brave now.

She's not brave. She never has been.

She is indifferent and without a care. That is who she has always been.

Nobody lingers when a filch runs over to call on McGonagall. Narcissa pulls her arm with more force than necessary, seeing as she was planning to flee as soon as possible, and she lets herself be led.

There might be a hint of betrayal that lingers in Lily’s gaze when she looks back at her. She doesn’t bother dwelling on it.

—-------------------------------------

The note that was scribbled onto the piece of parchment before her was messy and immature. She might’ve mistaken it for a first year’s’ if she hadn’t had context clues and a nudge in the right direction. That is what leads her down an empty corridor at exactly 9 p.m. on this Tuesday evening.

She clutches the note tightly in one hand, her wand in the other, and walks with quiet determination. It isn’t as if she is expecting an attack of any sort, so she doesn’t know what has put her so on edge. Perhaps it is the quiet of the castle at this hour, or the way her footsteps echo too loudly for comfort.

Or perhaps it is the fact that she is skipping prefect duties to meet Sirius Black.

They don’t have an alliance. It isn’t nearly so noble as that. Their connection is tenuous at best—a necessary arrangement built on desperation and mutual disdain. Sirius is desperate to protect his friend. She was desperate to protect herself.

Even then, it’s unusual for him to contact her directly. She’d have thought he’d create as much distance between them as possible.

The unbreakable vow must sit heavily in his mind too. An invisible chain that links her to him and is probably the root of her many restless nights awake.

They had sworn the vow weeks ago, late one night in a secluded alcove of the castle. He had been desperate to protect Remus’s secret, and she had been desperate to ensure she wasn’t dragged into anything she didn’t want to fight.  

His terms had been simple: she would never reveal what Remus was. In exchange, Sirius would help her whenever she called on him. It was an arrangement born of mutual distrust and grudging necessity, and yet it had bound them in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.  

She can’t anticipate the purpose of this meeting either. And the uncertainty has her rubbing her palms onto her robes, as if trying to transfer some of the anxiety onto the material. By the end of it, she thinks she's static.

When she turns the corner and sees him standing leant over a desk with an odd piece of parchment that he rushes to hide, he looks mildly dishevelled. More so than usual, at least. His hair is messy on his head and he has a certain look in his eye. Something that makes the current of caution start up again in her chest.

She chooses against commenting on the nature of his appearance, and settles for, “Black.” It is said curtly, as she comes to a stop a few feet in front of him. Her wand is still heavy in her pocket and ready to be weaponised. 

Just in case.

He straightens to his full height, and she rolls her eyes at the sheer size of him. He’s tall but not as lanky as Remus. “Garnier.” He almost snarls.

There's a beat of silence that passes between them, and she must say she is mildly taken aback by the nature of the interaction. They’re not friends, or even acquaintances. But she’d expect him to be at least slightly civil.

Seeing that he thinks himself above any form of barely respectful behaviour. She turns her nose up at his words and settles into her own arrogant demeanour. “What do you want?” She asks, and she makes a show of waving the crumpled parchment in the air.

“You know what I'm here for.” He says and there’s genuine anger in his voice. “You can’t help yourself can you?”

Confusion dances across her face and then it is gone in an instant. “Spit it out or shut up Black. I have places to be.” She returns boredly

“Off to terrorise more innocents, then? You couldn’t stop at Remus, could you? I already offered you my life—what else are you after?” he yells, slamming his hands down on the desk. The sound reverberates through the empty room, sharp and sudden.

Alexandra flinches instinctively, her hand brushing the wand in her pocket, though she doesn’t draw it. Instead, she glares at him, her expression hardening as she processes his words.

“What the hell are you talking about, Black?” she snaps, taking a step back. Her brain is yelling at her in four languages to run, and leave this maniac to his own devices in the most secluded part of the castle. 

He scoffs loudly,  “Forgotten already, then? Of course you have. It wasn’t you being humiliated in the middle of the courtyard, was it?”

There's suddenly something very dry and harsh that takes up residence in her windpipe and refuses to leave. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know what to say.

He can see it written all over her face. Sirius’s expression twists into one of disgust, his lip curling as he shakes his head. “That’s what I thought,” he spits. “You were there. Standing on the sidelines, weren’t you? Watching while they humiliated her like it was some bloody spectacle.”

“I didn’t-” Her voice catches in her throat as she tries to search for some form of justification, she comes up blank, and chooses to tighten her grip on her wand instead. She doesn’t like where this is going.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t cast the spell? Didn’t laugh while your friends chopped off her damn hair?” Sirius’s voice rises, his anger boiling over. “As if standing there like a bloody statue makes you any less responsible!”

Alexandra’s eyes narrow, her shock giving way to anger, her fingers bite into her palms, swallowing the fleeting guilt she’d felt seconds ago. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she bites back, stepping closer. “And you don’t get to stand there screaming at me like you’re some kind of moral authority.”

“I don’t need to be a moral authority to know what you are,” He yells and his words fly across the room. They bang on the glass in the window before bouncing back and hitting her square in the chest. “You’re a coward, Garnier. You think you’re better than the others because you keep your hands clean, but you’re just as awful as the rest of them.”

She glares at him, and is almost knocked over by the sheer audacity of his words. “And what about you, Black? You think you’re better than me? You think your little pranks and hexes make you some kind of saint? You’ve been tormenting people since first year, but suddenly you’ve decided you’re above it all? Don’t make me laugh.” She snorts, her eyes burning with hatred.

This is the man she has chosen to tie her life to. An arrogant, conceited, and good for nothing prat. She’d have been better off throwing herself into the games with no help whatsoever.

His expression is colder than it was when she’d first entered the room, his grey eyes like ice. “At least I don’t let my friends torture people who can’t fight back.”

“No, you just do it yourself,” She snarls and her wand is out of her pocket and strained at her wrist. “Don’t pretend you’re better than me, Black. You’re nothing but a pathetic hypocrite playing the hero because it makes you feel better about betraying your family.”

“Shut your mouth about my family.” His voice is low again, and something new radiates off him. She’s suddenly reminded of the scene with the Carrows. The thick discomfort that filled the air with their anger and the way she had felt like running away. She feels like that right now. He is most certainly no different to the rest of them.

“Why?” Alexandra sneers. “You can call yourself a blood traitor all you like, but it doesn’t change who you are. You’re just like the rest of us, Black. No amount of moral posturing is going to change that.”

He steps closer, towering over her now, his fists clenched at his sides. “Say what you want about me,” he growls and it feels like she's drowning . “But I’ve never stood by and let people like Mulciber and Avery get away with what they do. I fight back.”

“And you think that makes you better than me?” She gasps incredulously. “You think hexing someone in the hallways or humiliating Slytherins makes you some kind of saviuor? You’re no better than the next person, Black. You’re just as cruel, just as evil. The only difference is, you’re too arrogant to see it.”

The second beat of silence that follows is electric. He is standing in front of her his breath coming out laboured and heavy. The hatred that boils their blood magnetises and tries to spill out and burn the other. 

She doesn’t have the urge to step away. She wants to kill him, to engulf him in her spite and drown him in the waves of frustration and guilt she feels. 

He could never understand how she feels, he could never understand how it burns her to exist like this. How it makes her want to tear out her skin and rinse it through. How it makes her pace in moments of silence, how it reaches her brain and hospitalises her when it gets really bad. 

He doesn’t know she will never forgive herself for what she lets occur day in and day out. 

“We made a vow,” He says, between clenched teeth and muffled rage. She looks up and sees the red flush behind his porcelain skin. “And I'll keep it. But don’t think for one second I'll forget what you are, Garnier.”

Defiance breaches the distance between them and she looks at him with all of the disrespect she can muster. “I don’t expect you to forget anytime soon, blood traitor. Just stick to your side of the deal, and stay out of my way.”

He lingers in front of her for a moment, looking for something in her face. He should know she isn’t going to let anything slip, she’s better at this than he is. Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to find it and he shakes his head with a scoff.

The look on his face looking annoyingly like pity.