Summer

10th August 1981

Dorcas Meadowes is completely and utterly fucked.

Her forehead is pressed to the smudged glass of her bedroom window, her house overlooking the quiet road. The amber street lamps flicker slightly, and the air is filled with a tension so thick she could slit its throat.

There was always a small part of her that knew she was marked for death. It wasn't a secret that Order members were more likely to die, but she'd never actually thought it would happen to her. Even if she didn't have her friends anymore, she had her mind and her wand, and surely that would be enough.

She knew she would lose Regulus from the day she met him. He was irredeemable. She knew she wouldn't be able to save him. She knew he didn't want her help, or anyone else's.

She knew she would lose one of the twins. She didn't know which, because their love for each other was something fierce and untouchable, like one soul split into two bodies. She knew they would have made the sacrifice for each other at a moment's notice. It just happened to be Evan.

She didn't expect to lose Barty, but she did, and she hated him for it, because he didn't have to. He was under no real obligation to join the Death Eaters. There was no pressure from Regulus or Evan. They discouraged him, even. And yet he followed them over the edge. She was forced to watch his morality rot away, as he marked himself for death the same way every dark wizard did. She was forced to watch the decay of their friendship while unable to do anything about it.

Pandora had somehow gotten lost along the way, her mind wandering, wavering, wilting, until she left home with Xenophilius. Pandora had never joined the Order, because she didn't want to have to fight her own brother. Despite her rage at his choice, killing him was the last thing she ever wanted to do. So she'd left, and Dorcas couldn't blame her for wanting an out. Wanting freedom.

The one person Dorcas never wanted or expected to lose was Marlene. Marlene, who was bold and obnoxious and utterly unafraid, with her bleach-blonde hair and too many ear piercings and wild smiles that somehow managed to make Dorcas feel electric. Marlene, who fought like a wild thing for anyone she loved and wasn't afraid to stand up for what was right. Marlene, who pushed her to be intelligent and witty and challenged her in ways that no one else ever could. Marlene who kept coming back, kept climbing through her window, kept being there.

Marlene.

Marlene

Marlene .

Marlene, who was so full of life that no one expected her to be one of the first to die.

When Marlene died, Dorcas stopped caring. She stopped with morality and etiquette and expectations. She stopped with being good. She saw someone with the Dark Mark and they were dead. It was as simple as that. She knew it wasn't right, but she honestly didn't care. They should have expected this, she thought; they should have thought about it before they took her people away. Regulus. Evan. Barty. Pandora.

Marlene.

Marlene.

Marlene .

The street lamps are still flickering. Someone should fix that, she thinks. When everything else is broken, the bloody street lamps should work. It's the least the universe could do for her at this point.

The road is still quiet. Some might say deathly quiet, but Dorcas knows death. She knows deathly quiet better than anyone. She knows rattling breaths and drowned screams and pure, undiluted rage. She knows it all, and it consumes her.

Dorcas is still watching. She feels as though that's all she does, now. Watches. Waits. Listens. Like a snake, waiting to strike. How fitting, that she was put into Slytherin.

Then, the road is no longer quiet, a hooded figure Apparating from nothing and walking down the pavement. Dorcas watches intently, because this is the rattlesnake's tail. The warning before the kill.

She knows who this is, before they reach the door.

She heads downstairs, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders set, and she exits out of the back door. Walks around the side. Wand raised. Eyes dead. Heart hard.

The man is standing on her doorstep, but before he can flick his wand to open the door, she speaks.

"Voldemort."

The man stops, the silence stretching between them before he turns around. His face is ghastly pale, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. Dorcas can tell he used to be handsome once, and somehow that makes his appearance all the more unsettling. Haunted eyes and high cheekbones, raven-black hair and an expression of plain distaste.

"Dorcas Meadowes. I assume you know why I am paying you a visit." He tilts his head.

"I know perfectly well." Her tone is flat and her eyes are empty. The rest of her feels empty too.

"Ah. That makes my job much easier." He smiles, and it's an eerie thing, all too-white teeth and cracked lips. "We can't let you go wandering around, killing all my Death Eaters, can we?"

"Every dirty little coward you've coerced and manipulated into working with you deserved what they got." She shrugs, unblinking, gaze never travelling away from his face.

"That is where you and I disagree, Dorcas." Using her first name and everything, like he knows her. "I am cleansing this world, creating a fresh slate for like-minded Purebloods to thrive in-"

"Why?" She cuts in, and he stops. Stares at her.

"Whatever do you mean, why? For purity. To protect the true wizards from scum like-"

"Like me? Like the thousands of Muggles, Muggleborns and Squibs you've brutally murdered?" She steps forward.

Voldemort's eyes glint with malice. "You talk of murderers, when you have taken the lives of just as many of my followers. So really, what is the difference between you and I, Dorcas Meadowes?"

The air is cold, but her anger is scorching, and she's burning up, withering and growing at the same time. "I'm not afraid of you, Voldemort. I have never been afraid of you, because you aren't worth being afraid of. You want to know the difference between you and I?" She's close now, too close, and her eyes are burning into him. She hopes it hurts. "The difference is that I know love, and you never will. And it will rot you from the inside out."

When Dorcas Meadowes died, she did not fight back. She did not fight back because she had nothing to fight back for. She'd done what she wanted to do, said what she'd wanted to say. 

She'd embedded a seed of doubt in Voldemort's mind, and that was enough for her.

She'd weakened his army, and that was enough.

She'd had friends, and that was enough.

She'd loved and been loved in return, and that. That was more than enough.

So when Dorcas Meadowes died, she did not fight back. Her wand fell to the floor like her body did. She may not have fought back, but she did frighten Voldemort that day.

She frightened him, for all of the Muggles and Squibs and Muggleborns who had been wrongfully killed, for all of the children who had been bent and twisted into unfeeling soldiers, to all of the people she had loved and lost and grieved for.

She frightened him because what he'd done had frightened her. She frightened him for Regulus, for Evan, for Barty, for Pandora, and for Marlene.

Marlene.

Marlene

Marlene.

She did not fight back when he killed her. She smiled. A devilish, wicked thing, crawling up from spite and hatred and the knowledge that she had done more than enough in her lifetime, while Voldemort had not, and that he never would.

It would rot him from the inside out.