Valkyrie

September 1979

The letter arrives from Regulus Black on the first of the month, the owl flying straight to Pandora’s bedroom in Malfoy Manor. At this time, Pandora is lounging upside down on her bed, sifting through the new tarot deck Sybill Trelawney had given her as a graduation gift a few months prior. They were dormmates, but Pandora was mostly just waiting for the moment Sybill needed her, somebody to lean on. That’s what she does, she lies in wait until she is wanted.

Pandora hates Malfoy Manor, hates the smell of it and the people. She’s been living here by default for maybe two, three years at this point, ever since Dad cozied up to the Malfoys and Evan joined the Death Eaters. She doesn’t see Evan much these days, they’re all sequestered in another wing.

Pandora is here as a guest, imprisoned without promise of parole. People don’t like to talk about it out loud, but it’s common knowledge that Oberon Rosier is having a lot of financial issues at the moment. Whatever wealth the Rosiers had fifty years ago to get them on the Sacred Twenty-Eight has dried up, and her father is a leech for power. If he cannot get it himself, he will suck up to anyone who has it.

She knows she’ll get out of here, though, soon enough. It is simply stifling in the moment, when you forget the entire unfolding of time. Xeno lives here too with his branch of the Malfoys. Even though nobody wants him or Pandora or Xanthe here, it is more dangerous for them to leave. She knows there is the active concern of either of the three of them to be kidnapped, ransomed, or murdered to prove a point. She won’t be murdered, neither will Xeno or Xanthe, but to say anything on the matter would be showing her hand. Best to let people believe she is crazy than lose her advantage in the game.

People mostly come and go, for business, but the place is so big that it never feels cramped. Pandora has a habit of lurking though, hiding around corners or projecting voices so she can overhear. She knows how to go undetected.

The Blacks are here often. Narcissa, of course, lives here, and Bellatrix comes every week or so. Sometimes Pandora will see Auntie Druella and Uncle Cygnus, but they never acknowledge her. Just like Felix, Pandora has basically been disowned, allowed to keep her name only for appearances’ sake. In her head, she already goes by a different name, one that will be hers in just a few years: Lovegood. Two things that the Rosiers and Malfoys are incapable of: love and goodness. It is a reminder of everything that she and Xeno comes from, and everything that she must actively protest.

She sees Regulus here and there, usually trailing Walburga and Orion, or Bellatrix. Is it possible for a barely nineteen-year-old to already be going white in the hair? At his temples, tufts of white mixed into the messy mop of dark curls, which become increasingly dull and limp. His eyes, sunken in like a dead man, makes Pandora see his fate even more clearly, like she can see him drowning right in front of her. How can a person be alive and dead simultaneously? Regulus is a walking corpse, and so is Pandora herself. Everybody is dying a little bit every moment, but to see the second of your death while you’re eating breakfast recalls a certain level of determination, to keep eating cereal in the face of the eternal void.

Pandora has seen the letter before, of course, and she is not surprised. Really, she admires Regulus’ commitment to punctuality, that he is not writing her before he has made any strides in his research. He knows when to call her, and she knows when to arrive.

~*~

The lair – for that’s what Pandora’s taken to calling it, half-mockingly and half-seriously – is in an abandoned restaurant in London, not far from 13 Grimmauld Place. The Blacks likely wouldn’t take kindly to the affairs of their only remaining son, she guesses. She remembers Sirius as a boy and she remembers him as a man, the newspaper articles denouncing the “mad Black heir” after the war. He was always loud, brass in a way that Walburga Black clearly had been once and deeply resented seeing in her son. Bellatrix adored and hated him, hated him for taking the heir position, which was rightfully hers, and adored him for being her own, the same fire and ash running through their veins.

Here is the one limitation of Pandora’s ability: time only exists alongside her life. When Pandora is born, screaming and bloody, minutes before her twin brother, time begins. When Pandora dies, freshly twenty-nine years old, time ends. All she can see is the span of her life, only so far as she can grasp it. maybe for a more conceited person, this would mean that time exists only for her, according to her whim, that she is the only one that time cares about within its existence.

Pandora isn’t that person. She mourns not being able to know Sirius’ fate, or her three cousins. For them, she can do very little. To see a person’s life in its entirety gives her an advantage, an ability to recognize what they have not received and provide it. what has Regulus not received? Companionship, a meeting of minds on an equal level. Pandora can do that, but she cannot know what Sirius needs, what Narcissa needs. It is perhaps the greatest tragedy of her existence: if it weren’t for her knowledge, Pandora Rosier would be utterly useless.

The door of the restaurant is locked, beyond even Alohamora. Thankfully, Pandora knows how to open it because she created the spell. Actually, it was one of the first things she shared with Regulus, almost two years ago now. She feels some of that inherited pride bubbling in her, the Rosier desire for recognition.

The place is a mess, books and parchment and scrolls strewn everywhere. Empty takeout containers litter the tables, jumpers and shirts hanging on the backs of chairs. On the floor, sitting on a ratty blanket, is the king of the castle, clad in a grey t-shirt and muggle jogging pants. Pandora considers him, the strangeness of regal Regulus amid this mess. Of course, he is also a mess, a jumble of tangled wires and mismatched neurons, but to see it externalized makes Pandora’s chest feel funny, like an inner sneeze.

“I have some calculations I need you to look over.” No pleasantries, no acknowledgement of her effort in leaving Malfoy Manor and getting to London for this. Regulus Black is a king, and he has no use for politeness.
Pandora does not obey, to obey would mean to follow him blindly. No, she knows his game, and she respects it. Sitting herself very carefully on the blanket, a deliberate space between their bodies, legs tucked under her flowery dress, Pandora looks over Regulus’ shoulder at his leather-bound notebook, taking it from his hands when he offers it, careful not to touch skin to skin.

If you had no idea who Regulus is, where he will end up, this notebook would come as a shock; inkblot stains, slanted and sloppy cursive going in and out of the lines, addendums added here and there in the margins. It is messy and flawed and brilliant. It is not fit for the remaining Black heir, the hope of the pureblood legacy. It is the scrawl of a teenage budding dictator, single minded in his pursuit and leaving no time left unfulfilled, no thought left unwritten. It is the entire antithesis of what he should be, the representation of the complex anatomy of Regulus Black.

Pandora looks up at Regulus, at the straightness of his profile in the dim lighting. “You need to tell me what it is you need me for. It cannot simply be for basic calculations.” She will not tell him she already knows, even if she has a feeling he’s aware of that already.

Taking the book back, running a long thin finger down the page, he speaks in a flat, monotone voice: “Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

If Pandora were a kinder person, someone who actually cared about people’s lives beyond the points of their death, she would say ‘no’, let herself be walked out by a man who needs someone who knows. Whatever kind of person she is, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Pandora says what she needs to in order for time to progress as it should.

“The greatest form of Dark Magic there is. I remember your notes on the matter, but I couldn’t find anything else.”

Regulus nods, like a professor. “Right. There’s only one book that speaks in depth on the process. Otherwise, it is considered too horrific to mention.” His grey eyes land on hers. “Lord Voldemort took my house elf, to kill him to test his protection charms. He is protecting something, a secret powerful enough to kill him.” Reaching for another notebook, flipping through it to a dogeared page, showing it to her. “There are three means of reaching immortality: the Philosopher’s Stone, the consumption of unicorn blood, and horcruxes.”

“There’s no such thing as lasting immortality.” Pandora, Lady of Death, responds.

The flicker of a smile ghosts Regulus’ lips, a strange, stilted thing that Pandora is awfully endeared by. “Good. A body cannot survive without its components, long enough for proper existence, anyway. He is keeping a locket in a basin, reaching it is a trial in of itself. Why would that be?”

“He surrounds himself with men, like pawns.” Pandora likes this game of chess, likes how it makes her brain turn. Now, finally, someone is realizing her knowledge. “That’s the way you don’t get killed, you make it impossible to reach you.”

“A part of him is in that locket.” Regulus watches the steady flame in front of him, and he looks haunted, unwashed and dirty, and yet he is still royal, there is still a lofty tilt to his chin, a smugness in his shoulders. “To get to him, we need to get to it first.”

Pandora feels it, the weight landing suddenly on her entire body, the understanding that this is her moment, when time takes her in its talons and forces her to play. No longer a bystander, an observer, now she must step into the light, even if no one will ever know.

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

~*~

Sitting across the dusty table, watching Regulus Black spoon chow mein into his mouth with wooden chopsticks, Pandora stares at his face, how the flesh and sinew tears away to reveal a little boy, hiding in his body. This is how old he will get, he will not meet twenty with a handshake. This face, this body, this… thing will drown, lungs bursting with blood, coming back to life for a brief moment before his death with a final grasp at greatness, at being remembered. He will die with nobody knowing what he did, or what he wanted to be.

She can keep him alive, she knows that. In November, he will place his life in her hands and she will make the deciding call, but it doesn’t have to be this way. He can grow old, living in a house not far from hers and Xeno’s, Luna will call him Uncle, he will make a friend again, maybe one who doesn’t know his history. He will take up painting, and come over for supper every Sunday, where they’ll play chess until it gets too late. Time will not be an urgency, because they will have already lived past the point of no return.

What does it mean to kill? Pandora’s hands are stained with blood, but it is because she carries the bodies with her. It may not be her fault that they are dead, but she knew and did nothing. Is that not akin to killing them?
She has the chance to save him. Look at him now, pushing his carton to her without making eye contact, so she can pick at the half remaining. Is there some form of kindness, of goodness to him? Children are all good, deep down. It is only as they reach adulthood that the goodness is stifled to death, chained in the basement of a body. Can he be kind again? He has killed people, and he will again. There is no remorse, she knows. Is it ethical to let him live, knowing what he will do?

Pandora knows too much. Is it possible he can change? Change implies an unexpectedness, a turn back when no one is looking for it. Pandora knows the course of his life, knows every twist and turn of his winding path. Change cannot exist for her, because that is just who he is. And Regulus Black won’t change; he has been set in his conviction for a long time. Only circumstances have changed, not his ultimate goal.

The moment has not yet arrived for her to decide, thankfully. She already knows what will happen, but the illusion of choice nevertheless is a comforting one.

Pushing aside the food, she leans across the table, palms flat on the wood. “Where is this book?”

Regulus finishes swallowing, flips to a new page in his book, looks up at her. His eyes are catlike, intense and uncanny in this light. She’s realizing he only looks her in the eye when he has carefully measured out his words, figured out how to mask any micro-expressions, all to convey a particular image. Too bad Pandora can see right through him. “Its whereabouts are a bit of a mystery. I believe there was one at Hogwarts once, I recall seeing it in Pince’s notes.” When she stares at him a little too long, he adds in a tone that suggests he isn’t surprised she’s curious, “For a time I helped with the shelving. Good for a restless mind. Regardless, if anyone has it, it is Albus Dumbledore, which is a lost cause. Luckily, there are two routes remaining for us. The Averys and Potters were well-known blood mages in the Middle Ages, there are documents remaining that prove it. They are likely to have a copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art.”

Pandora weighs this. “The Potters wouldn’t give it to us, if they still have it.”

“They do.” Pandora arches an eyebrow. Regulus’ lips thin very slightly. “No matter how much they like to protest, they come from the same place as you and I do. An artefact like that will prove useful one day, and they know it.”

“Euphemia and Fleamont Potter are dead. Either we go through James Potter, or Charlus and Cepheus Potter. Would either of them acquiesce?”

“Not James.” The strange smile Regulus gives is bloodless and strained. “I have no goodwill remaining with him or my brother. I doubt that Charlus would have it; everyone in my family knows him to be weak-hearted and soft. Cepheus is, for lack of a better term, an utter imbecile. Our best bet are the Averys.”

“I’m not certain either of the Neil Averys will be particularly generous with their inheritance.” Pandora twists a lock of hair around her finger and lets the coil spring away. “My experience of them has been… less than positive.”

“I am doubtful anyone has positive opinions on the Averys. Regardless, I am familiar with the junior. He is easy to manipulate, though he would never know.” He drums his fingers lazily on the table. She can imagine the crown nestled into his two-toned curls, the weight of his blood dragging his body down into the depths. How can nobody see it, the tragedy of his existence? He was never meant to live, to be happy. Regulus was cursed long before he was even born, handed a destiny he could never escape.

Suddenly, he meets her eyes once again. “If we are successful – and we will be – you will be rewarded handsomely.”

A not-entirely-unpleasant flip in her stomach. “I don’t agree with you, Regulus, about any of this. Our motives may be aligned here, but our end goals are not.”

A quirk of his eyebrow, so calculated, nothing genuine or earnest about him in this moment. “I don’t need you to. The world will be ours, whatever we wish to do with it. I would not be unhappy to rule alongside you.”

You could be good, she thinks hopelessly. Pandora loves a lot of people, and a lot of them do awful things. Just once, she wishes she could change them, that her love could turn them into something actually worth loving.

“Some things have to be done, Pandora. He wronged the House of Black. Now he has to step aside and let another take up the mission.” Regulus hesitates suddenly, watching Pandora like a hawk. “You have heard me say this before.” Not a question, a statement. A fact: Pandora has been here before and has not been here yet and will always be here.

Slowly, she nods. Regulus’ eyes narrow. “How much can you see?”

“Everything in my lifetime.”

A spark lights in his flinty gaze. “You know how this will end.”

“Yes.” There is no sense in lying to him, not if she wishes to stay. King Regulus requires trust in all matters, she understands this. “You’ll get the book from the Averys, I’ll work on the ritual. We’ll meet in November with our findings.” Hesitating on the words, trying to decide what he needs to know. Some things, he cannot. “You’ll die in December.” This is not a happy ending, she tries to say.

Regulus is staring at her with life in his eyes, and he is not drowning now, and for a moment Pandora believes they can take control, wrangle time out of the world’s hands and lead it themselves. She knows what he is thinking before he says it, because in a hundred different voices, this moment occurring all at once across time, Regulus says, “Can time be changed?”

Hopeful, terrible, plotting. He is at once a little boy facing down his own death and a dark lord ready to destroy death entirely. If he lives, Pandora will be saving both of them, but the little boy is too weak to win. To let him live would be unleashing another Voldemort on the world, one who knows still how to hide as the boy.

Does she love him enough to let the whole world burn?

In every timeline, Pandora responds: “I don’t know,” even though she already knows the answer. Free will does not exist, but it is easier to pretend.

~*~

Dorcas wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming.

When she comes to her senses, sheets soaked and crumpled around her, watching the ceiling fan over her head whirl as her heartbeat slows down, the fog over her eyes starts to clear. The image sits on the tip of her tongue, seared into her brain but not visible enough anymore to return to a panic.

The art book is on the floor, and she picks it up hastily and cradles it to her chest. The dimensions of it are so familiar to her, just holding it in her arms is enough to ease her breathing a little, return her to earth. After several minutes of this, rocking back and forth very slightly, Dorcas puts it back on the nightstand and goes out to the kitchen.

Alastor isn’t home, even though it’s nearly four in the morning. Pouring herself a glass of water from the tap, Dorcas leans against the counter and sips at it mildly, staring at the parchment strewn across the small table. Alastor has to set up rotations for almost constant guard, usually when there’s a number of important Order members in attendance. Dorcas had specifically requested not to be present for the funeral two months back. To be around such grief… may be beyond her capacity.

Dorcas is no prophet. No, she just pays attention. Of course, Emma Vanity couldn’t stick around. Of course, Dumbledore disposed of her. Alice had mentioned in a low voice (as though Dorcas would tell anybody) that she wasn’t supposed to go, just Emma, and Dorcas had to stifle an incredulous laugh. How do you not realize what’s happening here, she wanted to ask. Anyone who cannot fall neatly into line is a flight risk. Dorcas is a flight risk, Emma is a flight risk, though perhaps for different reasons: pureblood politics are always finicky, and the Vanitys have a reputation for being fence-sitters. Add onto that Emma’s relationship with a now-known Death Eater (hiding away in secluded locations does have one perk: eavesdropping), and of course she would be disposed of sooner rather than later.

Dorcas is useful, she knows that. Regardless of the prophecy, she is a killer. Regardless of if Dumbledore approves of it, he needs it to win his war. Emma is not needed.

There is a common linking thread here: Slytherin. The thread of emerald and silver tying together everyone in a neat bow: purebloods, blood-supremacists, untrustworthy. Dorcas is there too, because why not?

Anyone who is surprised is a fool. Dorcas doesn’t much care for fools, nor does she care for grief. She keeps her distance.

~*~

Alastor is in the kitchen several days later, cooking pancakes. Dorcas, having finally completed her ritual of waking up screaming and sweating, forcing her body into machine mode, and making herself appear functional, comes to sit at the table, sweeping the scrolls to the side.

“I need to speak to you,” Alastor says gruffly over his shoulder. Dorcas doesn’t answer, instead reaching for the Daily Prophet laying at Alastor’s seat and opening it.

“ATTACK ON HOGSMEADE” is the top headline, smaller text explaining that this was only the outskirts of Hogsmeade and resulted in two deaths and five injured. Dorcas snorts a little. “Weren’t Langford and Ollivander supposed to be on Hogsmeade duty?”

“Langford was found staggeringly drunk at Three Broomsticks, while Ollivander had fallen asleep on a bench.”

“Ah, the dignity of our post.” Dorcas says, though she doesn’t entirely blame either of them. Were she there, on a boring post, the temptation to get incredibly drunk and pass out would be extreme.

Alastor places a plate of pancakes before Dorcas, taking his seat opposite her. There’s a large rectangular bandage on his forehead from the day before, lopsided on his face in a way that makes him look ridiculous. She lifts her fork in thanks and digs in.

“Dorcas.” The seriousness of his tone draws her eyes up to his again. There is a grim set to his mouth, and Dorcas has a horrible sinking feeling she associates with the bedroom door in her old house, standing before it and knowing something awful is behind the door. Tilting her chin upwards, feeling that cold exterior bleed across her body into a hard shell, she raises an eyebrow to make Alastor keep talking.

“Faisal and Maysoon Shafiq were murdered last night in their home. They think it was their son.”

Shafiq. Inside, the pain radiates through her limbs, pulsating like a burning star inside her core. Perhaps no other name can reach inside her body like that and yank out every nerve in her body.

Stupidly, all Dorcas can think to say is, “It isn’t in the Prophet.”

“I reached out to a contact, asked them not to run the story until tomorrow.” Alastor leans forward onto the table, but he’s blurry and unreal. “One of our Aurors was stationed nearby, is tailing Edmund Shafiq as we speak. He’s just crossed into France. They’re waiting for our command to take further action.”

Something in his words cauterizes the wounds, sterilizing her bones. Blinking rapidly, drawing herself up to perfect posture, Dorcas recognizes Alastor’s face before her again. “Is this Order business?”

Alastor shakes his head, eyes narrowed slightly in watching her. “As far as I know, Dumbledore isn’t aware yet.” His gaze penetrates her skull, but it isn’t invasive; it’s a look of agreement, of decision-making.

Dorcas doesn’t ask why he is giving her this chance, this opportunity for revenge. She doesn’t have to. Alastor would want the same thing. They don’t need to speak words to understand what has to be done, and how to justify it: a Death Eater has killed now three people, three purebloods. That is grounds for a pursuit, and if he happens to be killed in the ensuing fight… well, the Aurors have probable cause, don’t they?

“When do we leave?”

~*~

“My brother is a rebellious piece of shit.” Florence says, sighing, plucking a pack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans from the shelf and handing it to Dorcas. “If my parents look up, he’ll look down. Ever the contrarian, him.” Her gaze drifts to the sugar quills, and she moves over swiftly.

Dorcas follows her lazily, holding the candy in her arms as Florence makes her picks. She’s the one buying, anyway, cause Dorcas has no wizard money, and so the least Dorcas can do is hold the candy, since they’ll be sharing it tonight. A hickey peeks out from Florence’s collar, and Dorcas feels a strange sense of pride, hoping people notice. That way, she can think to herself in watching people’s faces that she’s the one who did it.

People don’t pay them much mind, as they weave their way through Honeydukes. They used to, confused as to why Florence Shafiq was seemingly so interested in the strange and probably muggleborn Slytherin girl. Admittedly, Dorcas had had those same thoughts, but now it seems most of their peers are either used to them or have moved on to more interesting topics.

“The worst thing is, he’s getting more and more extremist in his views. Like, over the summer, he wouldn’t shut up about muggleborns. He and Dad got into a shouting match over dinner. Do you like Fizzing Whizzbees?”

“Not particularly.” Dorcas trails her fingers along the shelf.

“Hm. I’ll get some for myself, then. No, but it’s gotten really bad. I hope you haven’t met him, Cassie. You’d probably hex his balls off.”

“Sounds like I would be glad to.”

Florence grins back at her, a wide and earnest expression that makes Dorcas smile back in return. “You don’t have siblings, do you?”

“No.”

“It’s the weirdest thing. It’s like, he’s a shitty person, but I still remember him when he was a kid and we used to play gobstones, you know? And now, he’s saying awful shit and he keeps talking about that Voldemort guy and… it’s like I don’t even know him anymore.” Her eyes land on Dorcas. “Cas, he would absolutely hate you.” The way she says it is sort of awed, and Dorcas knows she means it so sincerely that she smiles a bit in response.

Something about Florence these days softens her, places a warmth in her chest that is welcoming, not fearful. At the ripe age of eighteen, Dorcas finds herself ready to be loved and loved in return, finally.

Florence sighs dramatically to signal the end of her rant, reaches over to Dorcas’ arms to filter through the candy. “Do you think we have enough? Anything else you want?”

Dorcas, quietly tracing the line of Florence’s nose, shakes her head. “I think that’s enough.”

~*~

Everything in her body thrums on a chase. The magic, tantalizingly close, spreading through her fingertips with a warmth that makes her feel alive. Like this, Dorcas feels powerful, unstoppable, dangerous.

Edmund Shafiq has settled for the night on the outskirts of Lyon, in an empty home. She and Alastor apparate a bit further, travelling on foot so as not to arouse his suspicion. Dorcas goes first, wand in hand and outstretched, body curled in a moving defensive position. Alastor follows behind, limping with his prosthetic, but still keeping his steps as light as possible. He’s the only one Dorcas will ever allow to watch her back, knows his movements as well as her own. She trusts him, and he trusts her. They move together.

Even present like this in her body, power in her bones, her mind drifts to Florence. It’s been a while since she was here, in Dorcas’ head, like this, all of the softest and sweetest moments brought back to the forefront. Sometimes, Dorcas thinks of her as her conscience, murmuring when Dorcas becomes too vicious, too violent. Except, it doesn’t take long to realize that can’t be right: Florence would never stand up to Dorcas like that. She would have followed Dorcas to the ends of the earth without protest. Maybe that was why Dorcas grew to love her, in that weird way that she does.

Tonight, Dorcas is sober, and Florence lingers closer in her memory, but there is something indecipherable in her gaze that makes Dorcas’ spine prickle. Does she know, laying on the bed years ago, staring up at Dorcas with a yearning that she could never quite hide, that Dorcas is about to kill her brother?

Revenge is one of the few facts of life that Dorcas does not question. Oh, an eye for an eye and the world goes blind? Dorcas would dig out the tongue and eardrum and lungs if she could, just to watch the world suffer. Actions must have consequences, and Dorcas is more than happy to play executioner.

Alastor clicks his tongue to signal the house up ahead. Dorcas moves quickly, scoping it out: two levels, regular suburban home, a number of windows. The front light is off, but a light inside can be seen from the side of the house.

Without words, they weave their way around the back of the house, Dorcas murmuring Lumos to light their path through the weeds and overgrown grass. Clearly, this place hasn’t been inhabited in a while. A flash: the front lawn outside her old home, the sneaking vines winding their way around every possible target. Her step falters, and she stumbles a little on a rock, Alastor’s hand snapping out to catch her waist. He gives her a strange look, but not one of incomprehension; he saw her home too, didn’t he? Shaking him off, Dorcas keeps moving, more power in her legs now.

Something is burning inside her, that rush of rage that completes her body, fills the gaping void in her chest. It sharpens her vision, clears her mind of distraction, makes her heart pulse with blood. Part of her misses this, the constant anger, the body within a body that takes over completely, allowing whatever the rest of her is to breathe a moment. The danger is, Dorcas likes it so much that sometimes she never wants to let go of it.

Alastor knows this – fuck, he knows it – and he steps ahead of her as they reach the back door, holding out his arm to prevent her from barging ahead. That familiar rush of unrestrained fury bubbles up in her throat at the gesture, even though later she will be somewhat grateful that he went first; Dorcas, in this state, is a destroyer. Testing the door, it opens under his grip without resistance. This is a very bad sign. Rule number one: in war, a door that opens without pressure means trouble.

Slowly and silently, Alastor budges the door open and slips in, Dorcas following quickly behind and flicking off Lumos, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Their steps become deliberate, no sudden movements. Dorcas digs her thumbnail into the ridge at the base of her wand, a repetitive motion to quell the fire in her blood if only for a moment.

A scream, somewhere above them. Without a second thought, Dorcas breaks into a sprint, tackling the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in her ears, following the sound like a glowing arrow on the ceiling.

Something solid connects with her body, knocking her to the ground on a soft surface. Below her, a squeak. Regaining her wits, Dorcas rolls off, lights Lumos and thrusts her wand in the thing’s face.

A boy, no older than eight or nine, stares up at her, wide eyed and petrified. Down one side of his face, three long scars stand stark and white on his dark brown face.

Breathing heavily, suddenly aware of what she is doing, staring at the kid, Dorcas lowers her wand.

Two arms grab her from behind, wrestling her down onto the floorboards, smashing her cheek into the ground and sending shockwaves of pain through her jaw. Clawlike grip on her head, tugging at her braids, holding her down. Her wand is scattered on the floor, and Dorcas moves to grab it, fingers grazing the hilt.

A crack, as a boot steps down on her wrist. Dorcas howls, yanking her limp hand into her chest and kicking out with all her might, kneecapping the assailant and knocking him to the floor. Scrambling for her wand again, keeping her weeping arm close, but the guy grabs her face, pushing her back with such force that it almost surprises her. Two punches to her jaw before she can stop him, kneeing him in the groin but missing. A body on top of her, straddling her, hitting her head back and forth—

“Stupefy!”

A beat. Then, the crushing weight of a burly full-grown man topples onto Dorcas, the pressure on her arm sending flashes of white into her vision, the pain almost unbearable for a moment.

Two scrabbling hands pulling the guy off of her, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to refocus. Except, instead of Alastor over her, it’s Marlene fucking McKinnon.

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Impolite to take the Lord’s name in vain.” Marlene responds, as though an automatic response, and then wincing when she realizes.

Dorcas is mad. Oh, this makes her madder than before, every synapse firing in her brain at lightning speeds. What is Marlene McKinnon doing here? Fuck, does Dumbledore know?

“Dorcas, he’s running!” Alastor’s voice from downstairs. Without thinking, shoving past Marlene, Dorcas takes off, not missing a step down the stairs and blasting out the front door, spotting the shadowy figure up ahead down the road.

Legs pumping, breath escaping in short bursts, Dorcas channels every single Quidditch training she ever undertook, running like her life depends on it—because it does. Because Florence’s life depends on it. because this man killed Florence, her Florence, and Dorcas will never rest until his face is crushed under her boot, smashed to a bloody pulp on her accord.

He takes a sharp corner, and she pursues him, gaining a little, all thoughts of her damaged hand and Marlene McKinnon flying from her brain. Anger and adrenaline meet in the core of her body, feed every single limb to full power. This is Dorcas Meadowes, desperate to kill, and nothing will stand in her way.

Close enough to grab his hood, yanking him down and throwing herself on top of him, pressing into his chest with all her weight, grabbing his collar in her hand to see his face. Yes, it is him, unmistakably of Florence’s blood, with those deep set eyes and sloped nose and thick dark eyebrows.

Pulling him in close, hissing in his face, spitting on him as she articulates every word: “You’re going to fucking die in my arms, dipshit.”

Edmund laughs, spittle flying into her eye now. It is cold, devoid of any feeling. That same empty, hollow look haunts his eyes when he looks up at her. “It is already done.”

Slamming him back into the pavement, watching the breath be snatched from his lungs, the satisfying crack of his shoulders. Dorcas lifts her wand, jamming it into his eye socket, watching him scream as blood and fluid gushes out, like a volcano. The point goes deeper in, his voice shatters, and she laughs at him, the weakness of him. “Don’t like that, now, do you?”

“Dorcas!” Somebody wrestling at her shoulders, trying to tear her away. Dorcas elbows them in the stomach, turns her attention to the other eye.

“Get off her!” Familiar, like Dorcas’ heartbeat; Alastor, somewhere behind her, and she hears a stifled yell and rustling. She refuses to take her eyes off of Edmund, blood weeping down his cheek, mouth open with no more screams to give, pain ripping his voice from him.

“Don’t like getting a taste of your own medicine, hey Edmund?” She leans down low into his face, breath ghosting his cheek. “This is what happens when you mess with what is mine.”

“I—I don’t ev—even know who you are.” The response, panting, but malicious.

“You will.” Dorcas responds, snatching his tongue with a quick hand and ripping it out of his mouth.

In his screams, she loses herself, like bliss. The anger is warm and soothing on her body, like fire wrapping her up, skin burning and heart pounding. She holds the image of Florence in her mind, reclining on Dorcas’ bed, staring up at her with those doe-like eyes, waiting for Dorcas to make a move. She is making a move now, the only move she can ever make.

He is dead under her hands, bleeding out on her clothes and skin, when a rough hand reaches for her shoulder. She shrugs it off, wanting to keep carving up his body, sizing up where the best place to go is.

“Dorcas.” Alastor. Something cools in Dorcas’ chest at the sound of his voice, the other parts of her fighting back. Her anger hates Alastor, hates how he can subdue it. Dorcas is occupied by both bodies simultaneously, ripping and clawing at one another for control over her. She can see it, both sides, the fire and the coolness, the carnal need and the hesitation.

Pulling her off, sitting her down on the ground like a rag doll, a puppet with the strings cut. Alastor, kneeling down by her side to examine her arm, and she hates him for it, tries to push him away as cruelly as possible, regretting it as she does so. In this state, any kindness he shows her is a threat. She bares her teeth at him, and he backs off, lips set grimly. Maybe later she will feel bad for hurting him, but she would never apologize, and he would never hold it against her. It goes against the code of their agreement.

She is aware as he stands and marches towards Marlene, wand outstretched. “What is your father’s middle name?” He barks at her, and Dorcas can register the hint of panic in his voice, the knowledge that he and Dorcas definitely should not be here.

“Arthur. What are you doing here?”

Alastor lowers his arm. “I could ask the same of you.”

Marlene tilts her chin up, defiant. “Dumbledore sent me.” Her eyes flick to Dorcas and the body, that shocked expression settling over her face again. “What have you done?”

“This is Auror business, not Order business.” Alastor snaps. Dorcas tries to wiggle her fingers, the pain like a shockwave down the rest of her arm. It does the trick of bringing herself back to the present, the blaze in her wrist a grounding sensation.

“He has information, Mr. Moody. Dumbledore told us to bring him back alive!”

“Too late.” Dorcas mumbles and then laughs to herself.

She can feel Marlene’s eyes on her, can feel the confusion and disgust radiating off her body. Alastor steps between them, shielding Dorcas from view. “This isn’t Dumbledore’s jurisdiction, it’s mine. As Head Auror, I make the calls on criminals. You have no right to be here.”

“With all due respect—”

“No. You broke protocol by not immediately testing our identities or revealing your own. You should not be here at all, especially not alone. That is reckless and dangerous and is grounds for immediate expulsion from the Order. I will be speaking with Albus.”

“I’m not alone!” Marlene protests. “Sirius is upstairs with the boy! You can ask him; we were sent here specifically to bring him back alive for questioning. I was just following orders! She just killed a man!”

“Stay.” Alastor whispers close to Dorcas’ body, and then she can hear the clunk of his prosthetic as he storms off, ignoring Marlene completely. Sitting on the concrete, body limp like a noodle as every nerve in her body sparks back to life, Dorcas stares at her boots, covered in Edmund Shafiq’s blood.

“You butchered him.” Marlene’s voice is far away, distant. Looking up at her, the kid’s just staring at what was once a person, a devil, mouth agape and eyes wide, as though she's seeing something else before her.

“He deserved it,” is Dorcas’ response, the words cold and sharp against her tongue.

Marlene’s breathing quickens, as though she’s about to have a panic attack. “He’s a wreck. He doesn’t even look human anymore.”

Dorcas stares at her, and then laughs incredulously, drawing Marlene’s gaze back to her. “Whatever you think of me, McKinnon, I’m worse. Don’t put any of your assumptions on me.”

Marlene’s eyes are as wide as saucers, trailing up and down Dorcas’ body, at the blood soaked into her clothes, at the broken wrist pulled in close, at the bruises presumably forming on her face. Her gaze lingers a little on Dorcas’ lips, and then the spell breaks.

Dorcas, pulling herself up to her full height, looks down on her. “If you speak one word of this, I will cut out your tongue myself. You hear me?”

Marlene swallows, pupils blown wide. They’re close now, just staring at each other, and Dorcas can see the wanting warring with the disgust on her face. It is revolting, especially as she carries on her the blood of the man who killed her only friend, one of the few people she truly liked.

That rage again, brimming at the surface, holding Florence’s face in the palm of her hand. Now, this girl, believing she sees something worthwhile in Dorcas, something that doesn’t exist, and she loathes her so entirely that it takes everything in her body not to express it. Florence looked at her once like this, but this girl is not Florence. Nobody is Florence.

“Don’t let me see you again.” Dorcas says in a low, deep voice, and allows herself to shove into Marlene’s shoulder as she passes, if only to let the anger rejoice.

~*~

When Alastor apparates back, Dorcas is sitting at the table, arm in a makeshift sling as the Skele-Grow takes effect. Her face still aches dully; she didn’t want to heal those quite yet. The hurt is a part of the recovery, and she likes the way it keeps her body active.

“Did he chew you out?”

Alastor rubs at his jaw, where stubble is collecting. “He certainly wasn’t pleased.”

“It wasn’t his call.”

“He doesn’t agree with us.”

Dorcas sucks her teeth. “The Order can’t just get involved whenever it damn well pleases. He isn’t the law, we are.”

Alastor considers her for a moment, both regular and blue eye trained on her face. “Do you feel better?”

Dorcas gives a one-armed shrug, the slippery blood under her fingertips a vivid memory floating to the surface.

“Then I don’t regret a thing.”

“What about the kid?”

“A local boy, probably from the family who owned the house. Looks like Shafiq used him as a distraction pretty effectively.” Dorcas thinks of the kid’s wide eyes and shudders. “He’s being looked after now. The other guy managed to get away before Black got up to the kid.”

“Lovely.”

Alastor goes to the fridge, glares at its contents, and closes it again, sighs. “That McKinnon girl was asking after you. She’s a liability.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it, sure.”

“Don’t get involved with her.” Alastor is looking back at her again, and there is something so serious and angry in the firmness of his expression that she sits up just a little. “I don’t know what’s going on between you—”

“Nothing is going on. She’s cracked in the head.”

“Dorcas.”

“Do not protect me.” Dorcas bores a hole into Alastor’s skull. “You hear me? Don’t do that. I can protect myself.”

A complicated emotion flits across his face, smoothing out a beat later. “Heard.”

Dorcas leans back in her chair, lets the beat of awkward silence pass until the air settles between them again. “I didn’t realize you knew her father.”

“He was a few years below me at Hogwarts. Same house.”

She tilts her head a little. “And what might that be?” Part of her asking is irritation, trying to get under Alastor’s skin the way he did with hers. When he scrutinizes her face, she adds a sly smile, so he knows this is revenge.

“Ravenclaw.”

“Huh, wouldn’t have guessed it.”

Alastor flicks his eyes away, shakes his head with exasperation. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Not hungry.”

He can see right through her, of course he can. All he says is, “Fine. Keep an eye on that arm,” and lets her go off to her room without protest.

Laying on the bed, Dorcas dreams of Florence on top of her, smiling so sweetly and fucking her until she passes out. What she won’t ever admit, is that right before she falls asleep, Florence’s eyes turn into Marlene’s.