Swooping evil
A few days passed, during which Lucille continuously pleaded with Petar to take her to her father or at least tell him she was alive. Each time, he refused. One day, he returned with food. She ate slowly, taking the pain relief potion again. The bite no longer hurt, nor did the other wounds, but the Dark Mark still stung.
“Tell me, how are we related?” she asked, her voice a fragile whisper.
Petar reached into his cloak and pulled out a worn photograph. In it, Lucille saw a young woman who looked strikingly like herself. She had long, dark hair and piercing dark eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.
"That's Nina, the woman who birthed you," Petar said softly. "She’d be ’round your age in this picture."
He pointed to the other figures in the photograph. "These are Nina’s parents, our grandparents. Here’s Nina’s uncles, and this is her older brother, my father. That’s my mother, and this tiny boy would be me.”
Lucille's eyes lingered on the faces in the photograph, the remnants of a family she had no memory of. Petar's voice broke through her thoughts.
“The only survivors were me and our grandmother,” he explained, his tone heavy with sorrow.
“What happened?” Lucille asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
Petar looked away, his expression darkening. “That’s another story for later,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The weight of his words hung in the air, adding to the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber. Lucille clung to the photograph, her heart aching with the knowledge of a past she could not remember and a family she never knew. Petar watched her in silence, the flicker of determination in his eyes mirroring her own.
Petar asked her what she knew about her mother. Lucille struggled to recall. “Can’t remember much of my own life as it is,” she admitted. “But I do know that mother died when I was little. She never attended Hogwarts; she was Bulgarian and went to Durmstrang. Dad said she died a hero during the war.”
Petar laughed sarcastically, a bitter edge to his voice. “No wonder Lupin told you nothing.”
Lucille frowned. “Are you a werewolf?” she asked, her curiosity tinged with fear.
“Our whole family is,” Petar replied simply.
“Even my mother? I never knew,” Lucille said, her voice barely a whisper.
Petar's expression darkened. “You don’t know much about your mother at all.”
“What else is there to know?” Lucille asked, desperation creeping into her tone.
“You’ll have to wait,” Petar said firmly. “Need to trust you first. First you need to remember your own memories.”
Frustration boiled over in Lucille. “Yeah, you keep saying that.”
“The time hasn’t come yet,” Petar said, his tone resolute. “Too dangerous now with Greyback around.”
Shock spread across Lucille’s face. “Do you work with Greyback?”
Petar nodded. “Let’s say we have history together. Our family does, I just do what I’m told.”
Seeing the sour expression on her face, Petar added, “I’m on your side, Lucille. Just be patient.”
For a moment, they were silent, the weight of their shared past hanging heavily between them. Then Petar asked, “Want to see her grave?”
Lucille nodded slowly, curiosity and fear mixing in her chest. Petar opened the door of the chamber, revealing a dimly lit basement. They climbed into a room that smelled strangely, a mix of damp earth and something musky. Unkempt and rustic, the kind of place where werewolves might live.
The house was rough and utilitarian, with bare wooden beams and worn furniture. The scent of wet fur lingered in the air. As they stepped outside, Lucille took in her surroundings. The village was nestled in the mountains, hidden by the thick forest and the curve of a rushing river. It was a small, secretive community, isolated from the world. Petar explained that this was where Greyback’s pack lived, a sanctuary for Werewolf families.
He led her to a small graveyard at the edge of the village. The headstones were old and weathered, some of them cracked and covered in moss. Petar guided her to one particular grave. The headstone read: Nina Raduslavov, daughter of Iliana and Vasil Raduslavov. The stone was broken and covered in spider webs, clearly neglected over the years.
Lucille stared at the grave, her heart heavy. Why had her father never mentioned this place? Why had he kept her mother’s grave a secret?
Petar watched her in silence for a moment before speaking. “There’s much you don’t know.”
As they made their way back to the house, Lucille’s thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and pain. Once inside, she turned to Petar. “Better go back to my cage,” she said, her voice trembling. “You said Greyback is around. Not looking forward to seeing him.”
Petar nodded, his expression unreadable. He led her back down to the basement and into her cage. The small, confined space felt strangely comforting now, a temporary refuge from the chaos outside. Petar locked the door and looked at her through the bars.
“Remember, Lucille,” he said softly. “Just be patient.”
Lucille lay down, the cold stone floor pressing against her cheek. She closed her eyes, clutching the fragments of her memories tightly. For now, the cage was her only solace, a place where she could try to piece together the shattered remnants of her past, hoping that one day she would find the answers she so desperately sought.
Lucille woke to the sound of Petar unlocking her cage. He looked at her seriously. "Grandma wishes to see you," he said. "You’ll have to stay silent, agree with her, and do nothing to escape. There is no way to escape. Promise to behave yourself, and tonight you will have your dear memories back."
Lucille, curious about this mysterious grandmother, nodded. "Fine. Promise. dad knows me dead, so there’s nowhere to escape, really. Not with this dark mark, anyway."
"Good," Petar replied, his tone softening slightly. "Waen you, she’s a bit unusual. You’ll grow into it. Follow me, now."
He led her upstairs, into the dimly lit house. Before he left, he turned back to her. "Oh, almost forgot, she calls you Nina."
"The blooddy hell, why?"
"We all do. Just be nice," he instructed, then disappeared through the door.
Lucille made her way to the kitchen, her heart pounding. Inside, a short, plump woman with bushy hair was stirring a spoon in a large cauldron. "There you are, my Nina," she said, turning towards Lucille. The sight made Lucille gasp in terror. The woman had few teeth, a disfigured nose, and gray, blind eyes.
Lucille swallowed hard, struggling to remain silent. The woman ladled the ill-looking soup into a plate and set it before her, waiting as if she could see. "Eat, Nina. Need to be strong to birth healthy children."
Lucille obeyed, forcing the soup down. It tasted as awful as it looked, but she ate in silence.
"Good girl," her grandmother said. "Now, we must make you look pretty."
She led Lucille upstairs to a bedroom that looked untouched for years. Dust covered the furniture, and Lucille wondered if it had once been her mother’s room. She sat in front of an old mirror, her reflection staring back at her, grotesque and haunting. Half her face was burned and disfigured, large clumps of her hair missing, her remaining hair thin and lifeless.
Her grandmother began to comb her hair, and Lucille watched in amazement as her hair seemed to grow back healthy and long, longer than it had ever been. The old woman then applied powder to her face, and Lucille saw her skin slowly return to its original state, though still marked with scars and slight burns.
The transformation was miraculous, yet unnerving. Her grandmother handed her a dress, slightly eaten by moss, old-fashioned but still beautiful. Lucille felt a fleeting sense of compassion for the woman who had worked so hard to make her presentable.
"Must look handsome for Fenrir," her grandmother said, her voice filled with a twisted sort of pride, ”Or else he might have second thoughts about you.”
Lucille's stomach dropped, a wave of nausea washing over her. Every ounce of compassion vanished. She kept her promise to remain silent, but inside, she was screaming, desperate for Petar to return and take her away from this nightmare.
As she sat there, dressed and made up, Lucille wondered about her fate. The house, rustic and unkempt, exuded an air of dark history. It smelled of damp earth and musky fur, a place that spoke of secrets and hidden lives. Outside, the village nestled in the mountains, by a rushing river, seemed to be a haven for Greyback’s pack.
Her grandmother’s blind eyes seemed to see into her soul, and Lucille shivered. She had to endure this until Petar returned. Until then, she was trapped in this macabre fairy tale, waiting for the next twist of fate.