bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader
Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?
Content warnings: 18+ themes, angst, mentions of violence, torture, hopelessness, underage coercion, swearing, canon HP themes of blood purity, house prejudices, oppression
Word count: 3.3k
[playlist: (dreams)—salvia palth, bite the hand—boy genius, lights are on—tom rosenthal, how did it end—taylor swift]
<< previous part >>
The heavy silence of night clung to Nott Manor, broken only by the faint creaks of ancient wood and the distant groan of the wind against leaded windows. The house felt vacant—a grand shell devoid of genuine warmth. Even when Nott Sr. was present, an oppressive desolation hung in every corridor. Once, your mother had tried to bring life here for a short time—her laughter echoing in the drawing rooms, soft hum carrying down the halls, feebly attempting to make the best of a loveless marriage. But now that she was gone, and the hollow chill remained, seceding the loss of Theo’s mother. She had been the heart of the estate, and not even your mother had filled that void. You doubted this place had seen real joy since the Nott matriarch wandered here.
Sleep was elusive; you’d spent most of the night tossing and turning in bed, haunted by the events of the prior in relentless detail—the fight, the confessions and the unspoken fears.
It was a somber goodbye, uncharacteristically unlike your group of friends. Like you all had accepted your fates when you bidded farewell inside the Zabini grand foyer hours earlier—marching right to your own funerals. A slow, painful march, the Dark Lord and his most devoted puppeteering you to their will.
You worried for Daphne, Blaise, and Pansy. They hadn’t recoiled once when you spoke candidly about what they missed out on since school ended. Unwavering and aggrievedly persistent on the fact they would help stand by your friends no matter the case.
Would they though?
They weren’t bound to the cause, not like you, Mattheo, Theo, Draco, and Enzo. They could still flee before it was too late. Before the watery empathetic look they held at you now—eventually iced over once you did something truly heinous.
What if the aftermath of everything that spiraled to the surface tonight was just merely a bandage over a broken bone?
It all lingered like ghosts in the room, taunting you, forcing you to clutch your blanket to your chest at the intrusive thoughts. You shouldn’t have doubted your friends' loyalty. But wasn’t that a part of the grand scheme of war? Paranoia creeping in, defiling the safest most cherished parts of your life? You turned over with a frustrated huff, screwing your eyes shut as though that could banish your thoughts and shame for resolving to such a fickle ugly idea.
A muffled thud from the hallway made the noise in your brain quiet, snapping you from your restless haze. Sitting up, your heart quickened, and strained to listen at the interruption of your introspection. Footsteps—unsteady but deliberate—echoed faintly beyond your door.
Throwing the covers off, you slipped out of bed, your bare feet cold against the polished floor. Opening the door quietly, holding your breath, you stepped into the dimly lit corridor.
Mattheo was halfway down the hall, his silhouette slouched, one hand braced against the wall as though he’d collapse. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, and faint smudges of blood marked the fabric—both his and Enzo’s—was noticeable under the dimly lit sconces on the wall.
“Mattheo,” you called softly, careful not to startle him.
He stopped but didn’t turn, his shoulders stiffening. “Go back to bed, Y/n,” his voice low and gruff.
Ignoring him, you padded closer, catching sight of the bruises forming along his jaw and the cut above his brow. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, turning enough for you to see the dark circles under his eyes, a defiance in his posture.
Steeling yourself, you crossed your arms.
“You look like shit. Come on.” Without waiting, you took his arm—gentle but firm—and steered him toward your room.
He grumbled under his breath, feet dragging. “I don’t need your help,” he insisted, even as you flicked on the soft light in the adjoining bathroom.
“Too bad,” you retorted, already rummaging in the cabinet for bandages, salve, and antiseptic elixir. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, he lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat, his elbows resting on his knees as you dampened a cloth with warm water, pouring some antiseptic on it, the acrid smell stinging your nose.
The only noise between you was the small hisses of pain from Mattheo as you carefully dabbed at the dried blood on his brow. His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, then away, then back again, every muscle wound tight as though ready to bolt at first chance.
“Where were you?” you asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He exhaled, frustration coloring his breath. “Needed space.”
You gave a small nod, pressing the cloth to the shallow cut. “You could’ve at least taken care of yourself first.”
“Didn’t think it mattered,” he muttered, wincing at your touch.
“It does matter,” you said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You matter.”
The was something unreadable in the depths of his dark brown irises. For a heartbeat, he looked younger, more vulnerable, behind the bruises and the sullen facade.
“You’ve been shutting me out,” you continued, your voice shaking a bit. “Ever since the ceremony—ever since everything happened. You don’t trust me anymore?”
He dragged a hand through his curly hair, letting out a tremulous breath. “It’s not about trust,” voice low, each word shaped by fatigue. “I just… I don’t know how to handle any of this. Seeing what Bellatrix makes you do, what my father demands from me, everyone I care about involved—I can’t stop it. I’m… powerless.” He clenched his fists.
You couldn’t imagine the weight he bore on his shoulders. Couldn’t imagine the scrutiny he faced, every corner he turned there was an opinion about him. His father and his loyal followers expected him to be just as cruel—too soft for their liking. The sneers from the public called him cursed to come from such an anomaly, a demon spawn, expecting to fill the Dark Lord’s legacy with ease. He was an outcast from the moment he was brought into the world seemingly, exiled, and labeled evil.
He was evil, but not because of his name or who his father was, but because the world made him that way.
Your hand paused mid-motion, cloth hovering near his cheek. “I hate it too, Mattheo. But we can’t get through this alone, and shutting each other out only hurts us more.”
He swallowed, eyes drifting to the floor. “I’m scared, Y/n.” he admitted hoarsely. “For you. For all of us.”
A pang of empathy clenched your chest. Instinctively, you touched his hand, resting on his knee. “You don’t have to carry that on your own,” you murmured, voice steady despite the knot tightening in your throat. “I’m scared too, but I’m here… if you’ll let me be.”
He raised his head, raw honesty flickering across his features. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry too,” you echoed, pressing a gentle thumb over his knuckles. “We’ve both been on edge. It boiled over tonight, and my own emotions got the best of me.”
A faint, rueful laugh escaped him as he shook his head. “I did too… poor Enzo.” He reached up to gingerly probe the bruise near his jaw, wincing.
“I’d say he got a few good swings in,” you teased softly.
A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Taught him well, I guess.”
A sad smile tugged at your lips. “Really does seem so.” You then grabbed his hand, starting to assess the damage of his battered knuckles. “But you do need to talk to him.” You added thoughtfully, light but scoldingly. Cleaning the cuts and bruises with the cloth and elixir. “He didn’t deserve that.”
He grimaced in discomfort. “I will…eventually.”
You shot him a pointed look, pressing the cloth a little harder than necessary on a nasty looking cut. “Sooner than later.”
“Gods,” he hissed, trying to recoil away, ignoring you. “Easy there.” You tightened your grip on his rough hand, eyes narrowing more assertively, still putting pressure on the cut.
“Sooner than later.” You persisted.
He scoffed, wiggling his fingers to ease the pain. “Yes, yes, sooner. Now please ease up.” You relaxed your hold, satisfied, resuming your gentler touch. “Precious Lorenzo won’t be torn up if I don’t speak to him tomorrow.” He mumbled.
You hummed in half-agreement. “But not speaking to him or waiting a week—like you lot tend to do—won’t fix this.”
“Do you think I don’t realize that?” His voice hardened before deflating. “I fucked up okay. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
You could feel his frustration roll off him, but a smirk found your lips. You tried to hide it by keeping your head down, focusing on his injured hand, but Mattheo already clocked your shift in demeanor.
“You’re evil, y’know that?” He grumbled.
You don’t bother hiding your bemused expression now, grabbing the gauze off the counter. “I’m just surprised you’re taking responsibility for once.”
“More like you coerced me.” He huffed, a lazy grin creeping across his features. He crossed one arm around his torso, resting his head on the edge of the vanity mirror. “Guess you’re better at your job than you realized.”
You faltered in your movements, sucking in a sharp breath at his comment. It was meant to be a lighthearted jab, but it stirred an unwelcome thrum in your chest.
You let a humorless snort out, “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess?”
If he noticed your hesitation, he didn’t let it show, the mischievous grin intact. “I am the son of the most evil person everyone knows, I would.”
“You’re insufferable…amazingly insufferable.” You muttered, half in admonishment, half in fondness.
“And I’ll take that as a compliment.” He shot back with a cheeky wink.
Like it was nothing, he pulled you back up from the drowning tides of unease that you always managed to sink in. Seemingly to always have a knack for saving you from yourself, whether he realized it or not. An indescribable ache filled your chest at the thought.
You rolled your eyes—no true malice in it—and finished bandaging him in a comfortable silence. He watched intently as you wiped down the bathroom sink, wrung out the pink-stained cloth, and tidied your supplies. You sighed wearily once done.
“Thank you,” he murmured roughly but sincere.
“Always,” you replied, heart warming at the softness in his gaze.
He glanced at your hands—once battered, now mostly healed. “They look good as new,” he noted quietly.
You dropped your gaze, recalling the welts from Bellatrix’s punishments. “Took me a while, but yeah. That’s why I was late to the party.”
He reached out, gently taking your hands to examine them. His tongue pressed the inside of his cheek, tension edging his stare. “And it’s really worth being beaten for?” he echoed the earlier conversation. You merely nodded. His fingers curled against yours, a small but comforting gesture.
“What exactly did Rosier say?” he asked.
You hesitated, drawing your hands away, leaning against the sink with arms crossed. “Enough to keep Bellatrix off my back for now. Rosiers are sniffing out alternative alliances—trade routes, finances—anything to avoid fully swearing to the Dark Lord.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched. “And you think that’ll satisfy her?”
“For a while… I hope.” You said timidly, meeting his honeyed ochre eyes that were hardened.
“And when she demands more?” His voice bit sharper, frustration breaking through. “When she sends you after worse than Rosier, or wants you to do… worse?”
You sighed, fingers combing through your hair in a nervous manner. “I don’t know,” you answered truthfully. “But I’ll deal with it. I don’t have a choice, do I?”
His hand clenched on his knee, knuckles white. “I hate this,” he muttered. “Hate that she’s using you.”
“I know, Matty,” you said, voice steady despite the knot in your chest. “But I won’t break, not yet.”
His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he exhaled and leaned back against the wall. “You’re stronger than you should have to be,” he murmured.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of your lips, a warmth flooding your cheeks. “We’re all stronger than we have to be.”
He let out a low, sardonic chuckle. “Yeah, guess so.”
You pushed away from the sink, crossing to where he still sat. The late hour weighed on both of you. “We should try to get some sleep—big day tomorrow, or so I hear.”
He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, pushing to his feet. “You’re probably right, highly doubt I’ll be able to rest though.” he gave a small grunt.
“Don’t come whining to me if you’re exhausted,” you teased, looking at the bruise on his chest that peeked through the top of his unbuttoned shirt. You gave a very gentle flick against it, and he winced dramatically.
“Okay, I deserved that,” he said, exhaling. But there was warmth in his dark eyes now—something closer to relief.
You nudged him toward the door, forcing a lightness you only half felt. “Goodnight, Mattheo,” you murmured.
“Night, Y/n,” he returned, voice softer than before. His dark gaze lingered on you a moment, a hint of a grateful smile visible before he turned to head into the corridor.
You hovered in the doorway, watching his silhouette fade down the dim hall to the guest wing, before closing your door. Crawling back into bed, sleep had finally found you—restless, but more than you managed earlier.
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
The morning sunlight streamed weakly through the tall windows of the dining room, its pale rays stretching across the long, polished table. You sat at one end, nursing a cup of tea that had gone tepid from your half-hearted sips. Mattheo occupied the chair beside you, poking listlessly at half-eaten toast and eggs on his plate.
“You don’t look half-dead anymore,” you teased, aiming for lightness as you took another sip, hoping to dispel the lingering tensions from the night before.
He smirked, arching a brow. “Thanks for the glowing compliment.”
Before you could reply, the door creaked open. Theo strolled in, hair mussed from too little sleep just like the both of you. He paused near the threshold, scanning the scene with a skeptical tilt of his head.
“Did I miss something?” he asked, tone even but curious.
“Morning to you, too, Theo,” you answered, gesturing toward a seat. “Mattheo showed up last night.”
Theo set down a cup, pouring himself strong coffee before sinking into the chair opposite you. “Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he murmured to Mattheo, though his voice held neither accusation nor warmth—just something in between.
Mattheo shrugged, glancing your way for a moment. “Y/N insisted I shouldn’t leave until I’d had a decent meal,” he said simply.
Theo’s eyes softened a degree, a relieved nod acknowledging both the statement and the fragile peace in the air. “Good.”
A pause descended—an awkwardness blanketing the room. The manor felt empty despite its grandeur, as though it recognized that none of you truly wished to be here. Quiet sips from you drinking your tea mixing with Mattheo fork clinking against his plate, pushing a piece of egg around on as Theo still fussed with his coffee.
Finally, Theo broke the silence, drumming his fingers on the table after a while. “You both look like hell,” he noted, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You shot him a wry glare even as your lips curved. “Says the man who looks like he crawled out of a crypt.”
Mattheo let out a low chuckle and tossed in, “Must be the most handsome corpse I’ve ever seen.”
It was so unexpected you nearly choked on your tea, a burst of laughter bubbling up from your chest as the hot liquid splattered across your pajamas. Mattheo’s fork clattered against his plate as he dissolved into laughter of his own, muffling it behind a napkin. His laugh was warm and velvety, and the corners of your mouth ached from smiling so wide from the sound. Across the table, Theo fought to keep his composure, but soon he was laughing too, grabbing a cloth to help you, though he shook with his own amusement. His own throaty laugh warming your chest, not remembering the last time you’ve heard either of them make such noises.
“I’m glad you find it so hilarious!” you managed, trying to sound aggravated but ending up laughing just as hard. Tea dripped down your sleeve, and you waved a hand in a mock scolding gesture, splashing it at them in vengeance.
“Sorry, sorry,” Mattheo gasped, pressing the napkin to his face. “That was—hands down—the classiest I’ve seen from you.”
Theo half-rose from his seat, demonstrating in an exaggerated pantomime how you’d spluttered your tea everywhere, which only made Mattheo roar louder with mirth. The noise echoed off the high walls of the otherwise-quiet dining room. The house-elves peeked in, alarmed at the ruckus, but you couldn’t muster the embarrassment to apologize—too caught in the infectious glee.
“I hate you both,” you managed between giggles, though not a speck of malice tinged your voice.
Eventually the chaotic laughter ebbed, leaving you all breathless and pink-cheeked. Mattheo wiped his eyes, and Theo slumped back into his chair, chest heaving from exertion.
For a fleeting moment, the weight of war and worry lifted, replaced by the simple joy of banter. Their laughs remind you of the distant memories of your childhood spent with them, carefree, and unabashed to the world you had been thrown into. Where it was far more frequent to find you three unserious like this.
Sunlight trickled softly, the light no less wan than before, but somehow gentler. You sopped up the worst of the tea from your shirt, exchanging grins with the boys. Even the house-elves, discreetly moving to clear away the splattered plates and cups, seemed heartened by your merriment.
In that stolen minute, the three of you might have been what you wanted to be: friends, unworried and unburdened. The memory of last night’s arguments and the looming obligations shimmered at the edges of your awareness, but for now, it did not intrude.
Mattheo caught your eye, the corners of his mouth still curved. “That was good,” he cleared his throat.
“It was your fault.” you were able to compose yourself enough.
He shrugged, brushing a damp lock of hair from your forehead. “We all kind of needed it, yeah?”
You only nodded, feeling a tender squeeze in your chest. Theo made a faint noise of agreement, swirling the last of his coffee in its cup. If a fragile sense of normalcy could exist anywhere for you three, it would be in these fleeting instances of silly laughter. The heavy hush in Nott Manor seemed a shade warmer as if the gloom beyond its walls had receded—for you to remember that there was still lightness to be found, even in a world braced by shadows.
A/n: ahhhh this part was so cute to write!! I love the trio simply, and thought I’d break up the heavy with something light for now. Lmk what you all think about it, your predictions and thoughts what you think is coming next. And ofc likes, reblogs, and feedback is always appreciated
tysm for all the love so far on bloodsport!! i sincerely hope you’re loving it as much as i have been writing it and exploring the world
the updates have been fast and consistent for the first 3 parts bc I’ve had the time to focus (laying on my death bed with the flu and period). i am back to work now ugh, so the next part might not come for a few days as im still drafting and outlining. i have a few ideas ive started in the direction it could go, but still playing around with.
anyways just wanted to drop by and say ty again and if any of you wanna chat about it or unhinged things in general my asks and messages are open! 🩵✨
bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader
Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?
Content warnings: 18+ themes, angst, dark, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, blood, swearing, fighting, taboo themes, underage coercion, predatory behavior, suggestive content, underage recreational drug and alcohol use, typical canon HP themes of blood purity, house prejudices, oppression, lmk if I miss anything this chapter is considerably lengthy with detail
Word count: 8k oops
A/n: is it really a slytherin fic if it doesn’t have a party scene? sorta hehe sorry. but we have the whole gang together in this, and that’s why i love this part sm, easily so far my pride and joy of what i have written for this fic. also collectively the longest chapter ive ever written for any fic ive wrote…ever. banter and comedic relief is really my bread and butter
[playlist: televised—hunny, bite my tongue—you me at six, softcore—the neighbourhood, do i wanna know—arctic monkeys, kyoto—phone bridgers, people—the 1975, fourth of july—sufjan stevens, when the party’s over-from the room below—sleep token, seventeen going under—sam fender]
<< previous part >> || << next part >>
The Zabini Villa roared with laughter, loud chatter, and throbbing music that seemed to make the very walls vibrate. Judging by the unfamiliar faces crowding every room, this party had spiraled well past its original circle of Hogwarts pure-bloods like Blaise had originally intended for. You and Theo wove through the throng, his large, warm hand secured at the small of your back, guiding you gently while you led the way.
“There’s no way all these people are from Hogwarts,” Theo quipped, batting away a gaudy streamer that dangled in front of his face.
“Merlin, no,” you muttered, forcing a polite smile at Millicent Bulstrode as she brushed by, then reverting to a frown once she was gone. “Everyone must sense this might be the last Zabini bash they’ll ever see.”
And perhaps they were right. The Daily Prophet had plastered the story across its front page at the end of term: the Department of Mysteries debacle was conclusive proof that Voldemort was back. The second wizarding war had begun to weave its dark tendrils into daily life, pulling you—and your friends—deeper into roles none of you wanted. Now, your presence at this party felt less like revelry and more like obligation. But among the upper-inner circles you roamed, appearances were everything still. You and your friends had a carefully maintained status quo, and no looming war would undo that overnight.
Not that you were simply a carefree teen. You were also Bellatrix’s pawn: the one she nudged around the board, using you to lure secrets from the gullible, offering your company to the wavering. You tried not to dwell on that as you made a beeline for the kitchens, your chest feeling tight beneath the weight of her instructions.
“The less your peers know, the better,” she’d sneered earlier that week, pacing in the Malfoy Manor drawing room.
“We may never know who might have vital information—on their family, their loyalties, their resources…” Her cold eyes had narrowed on you, a grimace of satisfaction twisting her features.
“Do you understand, girl?”
“Yes… Mistress,” you’d been forced to concede, swallowing your hatred.
Now the memory fluttered through your head as you stepped into Blaise’s expansive kitchen. You exhaled, relieved at the relative calm. Maybe you could breathe easier here, at least for a moment.
“C’mon, let’s get a drink,” Theo said, noticing the faraway look in your eyes. He maneuvered around you, snagging two cups from an array of colorful bottles lined across the counters.
To your mild surprise, the kitchen wasn’t packed—only a handful of people rummaged for snacks or chattered over glasses of spiked punch. The music, mercifully, was less ear-splitting.
You leaned against the moss agate countertop, the cool surface grounding you. Theo’s presence was a balm, as it always had been. You’d known him since infancy, your mothers having been close friends long before war divided loyalties. And his father—your now stepfather—had become a mentor to your own father before his untimely death.
Theo had been there for every moment that mattered: the good, the bad, the life-altering. Neither of you wore icy apathy like a shield towards one another; instead, your shared experiences had created an unspoken understanding. A bond as unshakable as it was fraught.
A hand slid around your shoulder, making you jump.
“Oi,” Daphne Greengrass said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “So jumpy. Relax—it’s a party.”
You forced a semblance of a grin, tension dissolving a fraction when you saw it was just her. “Daph…”
She pressed a friendly kiss to your cheek, eyes darting between you and Theo. “Where in Salazar’s name have you two been? Blaise is losing his mind—he’s about ready to hex the pair of you for being late.”
She didn’t know half of it since this was the first time you’d seen her since summer began; how Bellatrix had forced you into an unbreakable vow; how Theo had been dragged into the Dark Lord’s fold with no way out. War loomed in every corner, and Daphne, blissfully unaware, was closer to its claws than she realized. And you hadn’t been sure you wanted her to know, terribly naive, too pure for the mud you and the other rolled around in now.
You shrugged lightly, deflecting. “Busy summer.”
She jabbed a finger at you, pouting. “More importantly, where have my letters gone?! I wrote you heaps!”
You flinched. She pulled away, stepping around the island to give Theo a quick squeeze and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You do realize our father’s in Azkaban currently?” Theo replied for you, tone sharper than usual, though that never deterred Daphne.
“And?” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips. “A simple note to tell me you’re fine would’ve been comforting, you git.”
Theo set his jaw, a flicker of apology in his eyes. “Right. Sorry.”
You parted your lips to intervene, but Daphne continued chastising Theo, her exasperation morphing into mild relief that both of you were safe. Then launching into her usual Daphne updates, like a beat wasn’t missed: an outfit she saw that reminded her of you, the gossip she heard—that you too should have known—since school ended, or where her family was choosing to stay for holiday.
Somewhere in her mini-lecture, she casually mentioned:
“Oh, and watch out—someone said Lord Rosier’s nephew, Evander, is here tonight, skulking around somewhere. You know the Rosiers, always up to something… shady.” Then she held her arm as she twirled a piece of her honey blond hair, thoughtfully. Then adding in, “though I remember him being so handsome back in first year—shame.”
An internal pang reminded you of the other very real reason you were here—to attempt to gain information from any possible prominent names in attendance. Her offhand comment sent your thoughts spiraling because this was, if not, the biggest prominent name on the list of contacts Bellatrix had talked about. The Rosiers were an influential pure-blood family, their allegiances as ambiguous as they were dangerous. If Evander was here, he might have information Bellatrix would find valuable.
You masked your interest, offering a polite nod. Inside, determination sparked more than it ever had since you were pushed into task. If you could pry even a shred of intel from Evander, it might buy you some breathing room—enough to finish your summer coursework without Bellatrix breathing down your neck. Even for a week? Then you could surely spend the rest of summer doing her bidding, or gods knows what, and maybe hold together your sanity?
“Need to… use the bathroom,” you excused yourself, ignoring Daphne’s frown of confusion. Theo’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and knowing. But he let it go, turning back to placate Daphne.
Your mind thrummed: Find Evander. Ask the right questions. Remember Bellatrix’s instructions. Your stomach twisted in equal parts excitement and dread. This had been it—a moment to prove yourself.
You scourged the main corridors of the party, narrowly dodging your friends and peers, with no sign of the infamous wizard yet.
Did you even remember what he looked like?
Finally giving up on the obvious, you slipped into a hallway that led away from the main commotion. Passing ornate paintings and the occasional couple giggling in corners towards the back wing of the villa, you found a partially open door—likely Blaise’s mother’s study or personal lounge. Light spilled through the crack of the sturdy mahogany door with noise of man humming lightly.
You took a breath, moving slowly to peak through the ajar door.
A tall, slender wizard with sharp cheekbones and slicked-back hair leaned against a sideboard, swirling a glass of brandy. It was him—Evander Rosier, you had remembered him from when he attended Hogwarts faintly now. He was in 6th year when you had only first been sorted, but you remembered his distinctive features anywhere. He was the head boy for Slytherin by his 7th, with a gleaming smile, and dimpled cheeks that made all the girls swoon.
Not you though, you weren’t easily charmed with looks, even when people thought of you to think different. Veelas or those with Veela lineage held ideologies that vastly contrasted the stereotype, but that may have been something your mother had just told you. You never met her side of the family or knew much besides they disowned her when she married your father.
Taking a deep breath, you took a baited one right after, faking a casual stroll into the room, glancing behind your shoulder for anyone that may have seen. The space was richly decorated with dark wood shelves, a looming portrait of some Zabini ancestor, and a deep emerald rug that muffled your footsteps.
Evander glanced up when you entered, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “Can I help you?” he asked, not unkindly, but distant.
You summoned your best coy grin. “Oh, sorry—I was looking for a quieter spot.” You let your gaze trail meaningfully over the spines of expensive books, then back to him. “Didn’t realize someone was here.”
He shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t care for crowds. You can stay if you’d like.”
Perfect. You let out a soft sigh, stepping closer. “Crowds can be suffocating, can’t they?” you said, letting just the right note of empathy creep into your voice. “Especially these days, with the rumors swirling… people are so on edge.”
He gave a short laugh, swirling the brandy again. “Rumors. Right.” His eyes darted to the door. “Though some rumors are more than that, if you catch my drift.”
Your heart gave a little leap. This was going somewhere. “I do,” you murmured, feigning a shadow of concern. “Everyone’s talking about… you know, Him. People say families might be forced to pick a side again.”
He stiffened slightly. “And do you have a side, Miss…?”
You offered a small, self-deprecating laugh, hand pressed lightly to your collarbone in a subtle attempt to seem compelling. “Selle.” You opt for your mother’s maiden name. “I’m just a young witch, worried about my future, about where my family stands. It’s all so uncertain. Forgive me if I overstep.”
His expression softened slightly. “Curiosity isn’t a sin, Miss Selle. But it’s a dangerous habit to cultivate these days.”
You forced a bashful smile, letting your lashes flutter—just as Bellatrix had drilled into you. “I only ask because… I want to be prepared. For whatever’s coming.”
His gaze flicked over you, lingering for a moment too long, and a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Preparedness is admirable. But it can also attract… unwanted attention.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem… familiar.”
He thinks I’m flirting, you realized with a jolt of disgust. But you pressed on. If you wanted these secrets, you had to endure the creeping slime of his interest, you reminded yourself of your training with Bellatrix.
Your throat tightened, and your pulse quickened. “I don’t think so,” you replied, aiming for nonchalance. “But perhaps you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
“Perhaps,” he mused, though his eyes betrayed lingering doubt. He reached out, brushing a knuckle against your shoulder—a gesture that made your skin crawl, though you resisted the urge to recoil and continued to flutter your lashes up at him.
“How are you preparing for the inevitable…forgive me,” you touched his arm, thoughtfully. “I hadn’t caught your name yet?”
He studied you, the softened sharpness of doubt in his eye dissipating as he stared at you. “Evander Rosier,” he said, dazed. “My uncle’s always forging alliances, scouting alternative avenues. Now that the Ministry’s rattled…” A dopey like smirk curved his lips?
That was interesting—unexpectedly your charm had begun to work. You forced your expression to remain neutral, your mind racing to process what he’d just revealed. “Alternative avenues,” you echoed, letting the words hang in the air. “Like… trade alliances? Resource management?”
His fingers trailed down your arm slowly. “We’re… considering our options. With the Ministry in disarray, alliances are fragile. It’s a precarious time for everyone.” The closer he stayed, the more his cologne hit you like a wall of acrid fumes, sharp and cloying, filling the air between you with an almost suffocating intensity.
“But you have the resources,” you pressed, letting a trace of awe color your voice, though you upturned your nose avoiding his heady overpowering musk. “The foresight. Surely the Rosiers aren’t relying on chance.”
He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Chance is a fool’s game. Let’s just say we’re exploring alternative avenues. Not everyone sees eye-to-eye with the Dark Lord’s methods, you know.”
You nodded in understanding. “Your family must be analytical. I envy that, mine can be so naive and misled, never seeing the bigger picture.” A scoff to feign disdain.
“You’re quite inquisitive, Miss Selle. Should I be worried you’ll pass on every word I say to some rival faction?” A charming smile donned his features as he teased you.
You bit your lip, acting as if you were being bashful. “Oh, hush,” you said lightly, playing coy. “I just want to know where the wind blows. For my own safety.”
The air weighed heavy, and you felt a flush of shame. But you forced a sweet smile until he relaxed again, rambling about his relatives’ hush-hush business deals and doubts about the Dark Lord. You caught snatches of who they might recruit, how they planned to hide assets, all the while your heartbeat thundered at your success.
Eventually, he glanced at the time and frowned. “I’ve got to mingle. But perhaps we’ll talk again?” He grabbed your hand, brushing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.
You swallowed your revulsion. “I would hope, Mr. Rosier.”
“You’re surprisingly… charming,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, as he brought your hand to his lips, kissing your hand.
You forced a tight smile, leaning into his touch just enough to keep the illusion intact. “Likewise,” you murmured, stepping back to break the contact. “I should probably get back as well. My friends will start wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”
Evander’s smile widened, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Of course. Do take care, Miss Selle. The world is a dangerous place for the… unprepared.”
With that, he tipped his glass in a mock salute and slipped out of the study without another word. You waited a moment before you made your way out of the room, your chest tight and your mind racing. The information he’d shared was valuable, no doubt—but the cost of acquiring it had left a bitter taste in your mouth. A mixture of triumph and nausea churned in your stomach. You’d gleaned valuable info—Bellatrix would be pleased. But the cost felt steep.
Emerging from the study, you felt shaky, so you snatched a drink from a passing tray and downed it in one go. You nearly bumped into Pansy, who’d apparently been looking for you.
“There you are!” she scolded, linking your arm with hers. “We’re headed to the veranda for fresh air—Blaise wants to smoke.”
Her eyes lit on your face, puzzling over your unsettled expression. “Are you… okay?”
You forced a bright grin. “Sure, yeah. Just… too many people in there.”
But your hands trembled slightly, and Pansy noticed. She frowned. “You’re sure?”
Before you could answer, Daphne’s voice floated over, calling, “Y/n, there you are! Was the toilet enchanted and sucked you in?” She stopped short, noticing your stiff posture. “What’s going on?”
They both stared at you with that worry in their eyes. They didn’t know the half of it—how deep you and the others were entangled in the Dark Lord’s web.
“I’m fine,” you repeated, plastering on a wry smile. “This place is packed. I had to go all the way to the other side of the house to use Blaise’s personal bathroom, the line was so long. Got cornered by some ex-Slytherin alumni, talking my ear off on the way back.”
Daphne’s brows rose. “You? Getting cornered by random men? Never.” She tried to sound playful, but her eyes flickered with concern. “Ugh, well, you’re safe now, with us.”
You almost winced, remembering how you’d endured the man’s touch and questions just minutes ago. But you just shrugged it off. Keep the mask on, you reminded yourself, following your friends closely through the throng of wizards and witches.
Inwardly, you clung to the swirl of relief. The idea of being surrounded by your close friends, you could put on your old persona again—just a teenage witch out for a good time—never mind the dark secrets burning a hole in your mind.
After edging away from the house’s main hall, you emerged onto a white stone veranda that stretched grandly across the villa’s rear façade. Tall, dark mahogany beams framed the space like silent guardians, while beyond them, the night sky hung heavy with stars. Music reverberated from within, muffled here by the draped entrances.
In one corner of the veranda, your circle of friends had gathered like a small court. The aura they exuded—Mattheo, Draco, Theo, Enzo, and your host, Blaise—repelled most other party-goers, who lingered meters away. Perhaps the others sensed that an entourage of Death Eater heirs—and the Dark Lord’s heir himself—was too intimidating a scene to breach. Even in the chaos of this unexpectedly crowded party, power commanded distance.
Daphne let out an excited squeal as she dropped into one of the cushioned iron chairs by Blaise. “Everyone’s together again!” she cheered, blissfully unaware of the that undercut what lingered around her within her own friends.
Pansy strolled over to Enzo, who stood near Blaise, indulgently smoking a joint that was being passed around. A swirl of smoke left his lips just as Pansy pinched his arm, snatching the cylinder from his hand.
“Oi, Pans—what the fuck?!” he snapped, rubbing his arm.
“Looked like you were hogging it,” she retorted with a nonchalant shrug, raising the joint to her lips.
A slight grin tugged at your mouth, and you ruffled Enzo’s hair as you walked past, heading to drape your arms around Blaise’s shoulders from behind in a gesture of greeting. “Sorry for being late,” you murmured. He patted your arm briefly, acceptance in his silence.
You then moved to the wide couch where Theo and Draco were seated. They each gave you a subdued nod. Theo casually rested his arm across the back of the couch, behind you, as though you’d never been apart. Draco gave a subtle tilt of his lips—a sort of half-smile, half-cool acknowledgment.
“More like you ladies were taking forever,” Enzo grumbled, adjusting his fluffy brown hair, glaring at Pansy who was now inhaling deeply on the stolen joint.
“It took us ages to find Y/N,” Pansy interjected, her tone pointed as she exhaled a plume of smoke that curled overhead.
You raised a brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this party was less than sacred among our peers and needed some solitude at the other end of the house.” The smoothness in your voice was practiced, every bit of forced normalcy. You’d slip a mask over the chaos that churned in your racing thoughts, bidding to grant yourself grace for the rest of the night. You’d done what you needed, there was no need to dig for more.
Across from you, Daphne let her legs drape over the arm of her chair, and Mattheo silently passed the joint her way. She took a swift drag, then handed it off to Draco.
Blaise let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t realize either, okay?” he said, gesturing at the throng of unfamiliar wizards mingling through the open archways. “Apparently, the world’s craving a distraction with… well, everything going on.”
You flicked a look at Theo. He met your gaze, then glanced at Mattheo, who had fixed his dark eyes on you—a hard stare that spoke of annoyance or concern briefly flitting to your now healed hands, then back to your eyes. Your stomach knotted as he scowled deeper, snapping his gaze away the second you raised a questioning brow.
It stung. He was—is—your best friend, along with Theo. Inseparable, you three. Hell, he basically lived with you and Theo at this point. Had his own room in the guest wing and everything. So why did he choose to be distant when you needed him most? When he needed you the most?
“Probably never a good sign if Evander Rosier’s milling about,” Pansy said, taking another slow drag before handing the joint to Draco. She wrinkled her nose. “That man’s a menace.”
Daphne propped her head up, eyes alight with curiosity. “Is he still as handsome as he was in school?” She twirled her hair, kicking her feet idly off the chair’s arm.
“Daph, the guy’s a weasel—” you started, rolling your eyes.
“That prat is here?” Mattheo muttered, stepping forward and running a tense hand through his curls. He spat the words low enough that only your group would hear. There was something almost feral in his tone, like he itched for a confrontation.
Draco leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Bold of him, considering his family's got major targets on their backs for switching allegiances when it suited them. Heard the Dark Lord isn’t fond of turncoats. You’d think they’d keep their heads down.”
“Exactly,” Mattheo agreed, starting to pace in the limited space of the veranda. Each step exuded pent-up energy, a sign of the storm roiling beneath his brooding façade. “I don’t trust him,” Mattheo muttered.
“You don’t trust anyone,” Pansy quipped, leaning into Enzo’s side as she blew a huff of air to fix her bangs.
Mattheo didn’t bother replying, his jaw clenching tighter. Draco, seated at his side of the couch, shifted slightly, one leg crossing over the other as his cool gray gaze flicked between Mattheo and Theo. A hum of knowledge unspoken as the dark curly haired boy continued pacing, his equally dark eyes sharp and restless. His shoulders were tight beneath his tailored jacket, each step deliberate but restrained, as though holding back something more volatile.
War was creeping into every aspect of your lives. It was easy to mask it under booze, weed, and forced smiles, but it only took a mention of someone like Rosier to remind you that trouble lurked everywhere.
“Well, Mattheo’s not wrong,” Draco said, breaking the silence. His tone was measured, but his words carried weight. “If Evander Rosier’s here, it’s for a reason. And it’s not to mingle.”
Daphne, ignorant to the depth of that trouble, scoffed. “You lot are so dramatic. Maybe he’s just here to enjoy the party. Could be a rumor, anyway—who said he’s committing treason?”
Pansy grimaced. “Not treason, survival,” she corrected, flicking her gaze your way. “Rosier’s family is desperate to cling to whatever power they have left. Bet they’ll sell out friends or enemies alike to keep afloat.”
“And what does it matter to us?” Daphne countered, her tone breezy but her eyes narrowing. “We’re not the ones making alliances, are we?”
Her words struck a chord—you forced yourself not to flinch, remembering how you and Theo, Mattheo, and even Draco plus Enzo had been entangled in the Dark Lord’s webs. You busied your hands by taking the joint from Theo and inhaling a bitter drag. A tingle of numbness slid through your veins, but the conversation kept your mind from fully escaping.
Theo, finally spoke up. His arm still rested casually along the back of the couch, his fingers tapped a steady rhythm against the fabric, growing antsy. “If Rosier’s family is trying to play both sides, that makes him a liability to everyone. Including us.”
The group fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a shroud, uncomfortably close to the truth.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Y/n,” Pansy noted, arching a brow as she glanced your way. “Something on your mind?”
You exhaled smoke, crafting your face into something neutral. “Just listening,” you deflected, passing the joint to Enzo. “Watching the crowd, seeing who’s worth noticing.”
“You just smoked!” Enzo complained, though he took the cylinder greedily.
Mattheo’s pacing halted, his gaze snapping to you with hawk-like sharpness. “Did you talk to him?” he asked abruptly.
The question sent a ripple through your friends, each set of eyes anchoring on you.
You wanted to scoff, nothing got past him, did it? Feeling so entitled to know everything you did, despite keeping you at arms length right now.
You hesitated—barely a fraction of a second—long enough for Mattheo’s eyes to narrow. “Briefly,” you confessed, keeping your tone cool. “He wasn’t direct, but he hinted his family might not be as loyal to the Dark Lord as they pretend. Could be worth telling—”
“You shouldn’t have,” Mattheo cut you off, voice throbbing with repressed anger. “You can’t toy with Rosier, he’s dangerous.” Mattheo’s scowl deepened, and he ran a hand through his dark curls in frustration. “You believed him?”
Something about his hostility riled you. You straightened, the high of the smoke fueling a rush of bravado, everyone became muffled background noise. “I’m not toying with him, I’m gaining information. If any of it’s true, we can use it. If not—”
“Y/n,” Theo leaned forward, trying to interrupt.
“Use it for what? Bellatrix’s schemes?” Mattheo interrupted him, bitterness dripping from every word. “For what? For him to use you for his schemes as well now?”
The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You straightened your spine, the mask of confidence you’d worn all evening hardening.
“I’m not toying with anyone,” you said quietly, doubling down on your stance. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Mattheo snapped. “Because it seems like you’re getting in over your head stupidly.” His words laced with venom.
“Mattheo.” Theo’s voice became sharper, his arm tensed along the back of the couch, but his body coming forward. You put a hand on his chest, pushing lightly him back into the couch.
“No, let him finish,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. You had been bemused almost. These were the most words you had garnered from him—in the form of an argument nonetheless—something that shouldn’t have shocked you.
Mattheo’s eyes burned into yours, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable. “You think Bellatrix cares if you come back in one piece? You think she’s sending you out there because she trusts you?” Mattheo’s voice rose, drawing the attention of several onlookers. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’re disposable to her, Y/n. We all are.”
A hush descended, the weight of his outburst making the veranda feel smaller. The truth of his words cut deep, but you refused to flinch. Instead, you held his gaze, your jaw tightening.
Somewhere in the corner, Blaise stood, shock and anger etched across his features. “Wait, wait, wait–a gods forsaken second!” Blaise demanded, half to the group, half to you, looking from Theo to Draco to Mattheo for clarity. “Bellatrix’s schemes? Gaining information? What the hell have you lot been doing this summer?”
You didn’t need legilimency to see how Daphne, now realized how serious this was, sat upright, eyes wide. “You guys are… involved with the Dark Lord? And you never told—”
Pansy paled, anxiety twisting her face. “Merlin, did you take the Mark?” She peered at Enzo, then Theo, then you, voice trembling. “Please tell me you didn’t. Tell me you still have a choice.”
Enzo shifted, inhaling sharply, “Well, only Theo and Matt—uh…”
He trailed off, a fateful hush smothering the veranda. The color drained from Blaise’s cheeks; Pansy’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Daphne opened and closed her mouth, at a total loss, the illusions of carefree youth shattered before all your eyes.
The stress in your chest mounted, your mind swirling with guilt for all you’d hidden. Theo leaned forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Enzo…” he grumbled.
Mattheo’s nostrils flared, fists clenching at his sides. “You… you twat!” he snarled, rounding on Enzo. Anger and frustration overloaded him, the tension snapping like a frayed wire of weeks of him barely holding it together
In one swift motion, he lunged for Enzo. The other wizard watchers on the other side of the veranda corner recoiled, startled, as Daphne yelped, tumbling off her seat. The metal chair scraped violently across the stone. Pansy rushed to her aide while the rest of you scrambled to break up the fight.
Draco and Theo tried to pry Mattheo off Enzo, who’d ended up pinned on the floor. Blaise tried to help, but Mattheo and Enzo were locked in a tangle of furious limbs, fists swinging, sounds of fists connecting to bone. Shouts rose from the party-goers that remained, some jeering, others stepping back to watch the spectacle like a twisted show.
Your stomach churned. You’d known everyone was on edge, but seeing them physically brawl—to the point of bruises, cut lips, and swollen eyes—felt like a bitter confirmation that the war had long sunk its claws into your friend group, fracturing the dynamic you all once held.
Your hands shook as you sprang forward alongside Blaise, trying to wedge yourself between the two hotheaded boys. Theo had latched onto Mattheo’s arm, Draco pulling Enzo, but the pair still flailed with adrenaline and rage.
“Stop—stop it!” you yelled, voice cracking with tears you refused to shed. You could glimpse Enzo’s dazed expression beneath Mattheo’s clenched fist. The savage twist in Mattheo’s features struck you with guilt—had you caused this?
Finally, with combined effort, Draco, Blaise, and Theo yanked the two fighters apart. Mattheo staggered backward, panting and furious, his lip split, while Enzo lay on the floor, coughing, a bruise already forming on his jaw, eye swelling. The veranda fell into a stunned silence as party-goers parted to watch.
Blaise, face grim, holding onto the younger man. “You got him?” He asked, and you nodded quickly as he let Enzo slouch into your grasp. He then stepped forward and brandished his wand with authority. “That’s it. Party’s done—get out!” he roared at the onlookers, who quickly backed away, murmuring in hushed tones. Some half-scurried to the exit, others lingered but kept their distance.
You knelt by Enzo, gently brushing back his chocolate brown hair. Despite your anger at him, you couldn’t stop the wave of compassion. His nose was swollen, maybe broken, and blood trickled down his chin. He looked up at you, eyes full of remorse.
“S-sorry,” Enzo whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… hold still, we’ll get you patched up soon.”
Near you, Mattheo stood rigid, fists still trembling, you shot him a bitter glare. Theo hovered, breaths ragged, one arm loosely supporting Mattheo, the other still clamped on your shoulder for stability. The hush pulsed with leftover anger, confusion, guilt.
Pansy and Daphne stared at the group in shock from where they sat, uncertain whether to help Enzo or scold Mattheo. Draco grimly surveyed the damage—a few scattered chairs, a torn tablecloth, broken glasses. The fleeting warmth of the night had turned sour, a mirror of the secrets you and your friends tried to hide from the others now laid bare.
Blaise rubbed his temples, clearing the last stragglers away. “I’ll handle them,” he muttered, shooting the group a glare that balanced frustration and worry. “For now, just—sort yourselves out. This is all going to absolute shit.”
Around you, the once-lively party had dissolved into broken fragments. The veranda, now eerily quiet, bore the evidence of the night’s chaos: dark smears of blood against the pale stone, shattered glass glittering under the soft glow of the fairy lights. In the distance, the music continued its pulsing, upbeat hum—mocking the grim reality before you.
Mattheo stood apart, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain control, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Enzo sat slumped against the railing, wincing under your careful touch, his face contorted with pain. Theo, his usual composure frayed, closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the night had finally broken him. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears that threatened to spill, the stress of the evening hanging over you like a leaden cloak.
Without warning, Mattheo turned sharply, causing both you and Theo to instinctively shield Enzo from whatever fury might follow. But Mattheo didn’t lash out at any of you; instead, he kicked a broken votive lying on the ground, sending shards scattering across the stone.
“Fuck!” he spat, his voice low and hoarse, as he stalked toward the edge of the veranda, Draco following. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with shaking hands, then offering the pack and lighter to Draco, who took it with trembling fingers.
The flame trembled briefly before catching, the glow illuminating the raw anger and frustration etched across his face. Draco’s face is heavy with exhaustion evident on his pale features.
Theo exhaled deeply, releasing his hold on you as he turned to check on Daphne. She sat huddled nearby, her knees drawn to her chest, tears streaking her pale cheeks. Bright, angry red scrapes marred her arms and legs where she’d fallen, her quiet sobs cutting through the silence like a knife. With Theo nearby, Pansy excused herself to go find Blaise inside the house.
Daphne shouldn’t have been part of this. She wasn’t supposed to be caught in the crossfire of your mess—or theirs. You doubted Mattheo or Enzo had wanted this, either. For all her family’s ties to conservative politics, Daphne had always remained blissfully uninvolved in the darker intricacies of the war. She should have been unscathed.
Enzo groaned softly, clutching his side, his breaths shallow and labored.
You let out a quiet sigh, reaching for your wand.
“Keep still, please,” you murmured, your voice gentler than you felt. “This is going to hurt.”
His only response was a faint grimace as you grasped his broken nose carefully between your fingers. He winced sharply, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth, but he didn’t pull away.
You muttered the incantation for a mending spell, your wand’s tip glowing faintly as you guided the bones back into place. The magic hummed beneath your skin, familiar but no less draining.
“There,” you whispered, leaning back slightly to inspect your work.
Enzo exhaled shakily, his face pale but less strained.
You, Pansy, and Daphne had long since learned the basics of healing spells, an unfortunate necessity when dealing with the boys. Scuffles with others—and often each other—had left their marks over the years. But tonight was different. This wasn’t some petty fistfight or roughhousing gone wrong. This was something darker, more violent.
“Thanks,” Enzo rasped, his voice barely audible.
You nodded, brushing another stray strand of hair from your face as you sat back on your heels.
Nearby, Theo helped Daphne to her feet, his touch gentle but firm. She winced as she stood, her scraped knees trembling slightly. He muttered something low, his voice too soft for you to catch, but whatever he said made her nod, her sobs quieting to sniffles, helping her sit on the couch.
Mattheo, meanwhile, remained by the railing, his back to the group. Smoke curled around him in lazy spirals, the sharp scent of burning tobacco cutting through the night air.
“You should talk to him,” Theo said suddenly, his voice tight and quiet as he returned to your side.
Your head snapped up, meeting his gaze.
“Me?” you shot back, your voice hushed but edged with disbelief. “Why me?”
Theo’s jaw clenched, “someone has to keep him in check, Y/n. He’s going to get himself—or all of us—killed.”
Your lips parted, a retort forming, but the weight of his words silenced you. He wasn’t wrong.
“He won’t listen,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible. “Look at what happened just now.”
Theo’s expression softened, the anger giving way to weariness. “He listens to you more than anyone else. He always has.”
You glanced toward Mattheo, your heart heavy. He stood rigid, staring out into the dark expanse beyond the veranda, the glow of his cigarette flickering faintly in the shadows.
“It’s true,” Enzo sat up more properly. “Even when you two are at each other’s throats.”
You shook your head, “not now.” You muttered, looking back down at Enzo. “Lets get you in a seat.”
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of music and the faint crackle of Mattheo’s cigarette with the scraping of a chair that Theo picked up for Enzo to sit in before pulling up his own chair. Their legs bounced up and down anxiously in tandem as no one dared to speak. You sat with your back against the railing, picking at the sides of your nails anxiously.
Pansy finally emerged from the house, her arms laden with first aid supplies. Her usual sharp, composed demeanor was dulled, her expression unusually grim as Blaise trailed behind her, carrying a bottle of firewhisky and a collection of mismatched glasses—enough for all of you.
“Well, that was fun. Anyone else want to air any more grievances?” Blaise announced, his voice laced with sardonic humor as he set the bottle and glasses on the small table beside his chair. He poured himself a drink with practiced ease, his movements deliberately casual, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his true feelings.
No one responded.
Blaise glanced around, his deadpan expression hardening. “Good. Let’s start the family meeting, then.”
Mattheo let out a sharp, humorless laugh from his place at the railing, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly as he inhaled. “Family meeting? You’re acting like this is some petty school spat, Zabini.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, unruffled. “And you’re acting like sulking is going to fix anything, Riddle.” He poured himself a generous measure of firewhisky, the clink of glass on glass unnervingly loud in the silence.
Draco sank into a chair across from Blaise, his elbows resting on his knees, a sharp contrast to Mattheo’s restless stance.
Mattheo rolled his eyes but said nothing, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily around him, dissipating into the cool night air.
“This mess is only going to get worse if we don’t get our shit together,” Theo said, his voice steady but laced with a frustration that mirrored everyone’s simmering exhaustion.
“Enlighten us, Theo,” Pansy cut in, her arms crossed as she perched on the edge of a chaise. “What exactly is the plan here? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve all—” she paused, her sharp gaze flicking to each of you, her finger subtly tracing a circle that excluded only Blaise and Daphne. “—been keeping things from us.”
“And if we told you?” Theo shot back, his tone sharper now. “What then? You think any of us asked for this? Dragging you into this mess is the last thing we want.”
“Enough,” you said firmly, your voice slicing through the escalating tension. You stood, brushing the dust from your hands, feeling the weight of their stares settle heavily on you. For a moment, you regretted speaking, but you pressed on.
“Whether we told them or not, they’re associated with us,” you said, sitting beside Daphne. “They’ve been collateral since we made our vows. And now? It’s about survival. We’re in too deep, and we all know it.”
Mattheo snorted, the sound bitter and sharp. “Oh, we know it. But pretending to be one big, happy family isn’t going to change anything.”
“And brooding in a corner is?” Blaise shot back, topping off his glass with an air of exasperated nonchalance.
“They deserve to know,” you said softly, picking up a bottle of antiseptic elixir and a clean cloth. You turned to Daphne. “May I?”
She nodded silently, her tear-streaked face a mixture of gratitude and quiet pain. You dabbed the cloth with the elixir and began cleaning the scrapes on her knee. “Face it, Mattheo,” you continued, your tone firmer now. “We’re stuck with each other, whether you like it or not.”
“Stuck,” Mattheo repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the darkness, the ember snuffed out on impact. “You say that like it’s some minor inconvenience, Y/n. But in case you’ve forgotten, there are people out there who’d kill us all without a second thought. And some of us…” His voice dropped, and his eyes flicked briefly to Theo. “Some of us are already marked.”
His words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken weight of the Dark Marks on Mattheo’s and Theo’s arms casting an even darker shadow over the group.
Daphne broke the silence, her voice soft but steady as she placed a hand on yours, stilling your movements. “I think you’re forgetting something,” she said, her blue-gray eyes filled with quiet resolve. “We’re your friends. Not your enemies, not spies waiting to turn on you. Friends. If any of us thought in first year that befriending Riddle, Sallow, Malfoy, and Nott was a mistake, we’d have steered clear. But we didn’t. We chose you, just like we’re choosing to stand with you now.”
Mattheo’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
A watery chuckle bubbled out of you despite the heaviness of the moment, and you quickly wiped your face with the back of your hand.
Pansy hummed in agreement, picking up the glasses Blaise had poured and passing them around. “She’s right,” she said, her tone light but firm. “So stop brooding, Mattheo, and get over here.”
Mattheo’s scowl deepened, but he pushed off the railing, crossing the veranda begrudgingly.
Blaise exhaled heavily, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Now we want to know everything,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And don’t bother sparing the details. I can get my hands on Veritaserum if I have to.”
Theo rolled his eyes but accepted a glass, muttering something under his breath. Draco rubbed a hand down his face, masking a smirk, while Enzo let out a soft laugh before wincing and clutching his side.
You handed a glass to Daphne, then grabbed one for yourself, the firewhisky burning as you took a slow sip.
“Fine,” you said, leaning back against the cold stone wall, the firewhisky warming your chest but doing little to ease the heaviness of the moment. “But you’d better brace yourselves. You might wish you hadn’t asked.”
With Theo, Draco, Enzo, and even begrudging input from Mattheo, you told them everything. The words came haltingly at first, but as the night wore on, they began to flow more easily. You described the aftermath of Lucius Malfoy’s and Theodore Nott Sr.’s imprisonment in Azkaban, the brutal ceremony that branded Mattheo and Theo with the Dark Mark, and your own unbreakable vow with Bellatrix—a chain wrapped tightly around your throat.
Every detail out in the open, even Bellatrix’s obsession with your role as her informant. When you recounted your confrontation with Evander Rosier, Mattheo’s fingers turned white against the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as you explained why Rosier’s allegiance—or lack thereof—was such a critical piece in Bellatrix’s game.
“Merlin,” Daphne whispered, her face pale as she sank deeper into her chair. “If I’d known, I never would have—Y/n, I’m so sorry—”
You waved her off with a lazy flick of your wrist, muttering another ‘Reparo’ as you all worked to restore some semblance of order to the veranda. Shattered glass reassembled, splatters of blood faded from the white stone, but the aftermath of it all lingered
“You didn’t know,” you said softly, brushing stray hair from your face. “And honestly? It might still be useful. If it buys me even a day of her not breathing down my neck, I’ll take it.”
Mattheo scoffed from across the veranda, his sharp eyes flicking toward you, but he said nothing. You shot him a glare, daring him to push further, he only turned his focus back to cleaning, muttering incantations as he scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the tiles.
By the time the night drew to a close, the tension had softened, though it never fully dissipated. There were still unspoken fears and lingering doubts, but for now, what mattered was that the group remained intact.
Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne had listened in silence, their expressions a mixture of shock and resolve. Despite everything, they remained steadfast in their decision to stand by you.
“We’re in this together,” Pansy said firmly, her hand resting on your shoulder as she caught your eye. “No matter what.”
The burden you’d carried for weeks felt just a little lighter, their support a fragile but welcome relief even with the apprehension you felt for their involvement. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope.
As the floo network flared to life, casting an emerald glow across the room, you turned to your friends. Each of them stood nearby, ready to depart but unwilling to leave without a proper goodbye.
You hugged Daphne and Pansy tightly, promising to write as often as you could. Enzo pulled you into a warm embrace, murmuring a quiet apology that you brushed off with a forgiving smile. Draco offered a rare but sincere pat on your shoulder before stepping aside for Blaise, who enveloped both you and Theo in a firm, protective group hug.
“Don’t hesitate to call on us,” Blaise said quietly, his voice steady. “If you need anything—anything—you know where to find me.”
For all the darkness that surrounded you, they were your anchor in their own ways.
“We’ll talk soon,” you said, your voice quiet but resolute.
Theo nodded, his arm brushing against yours in silent support as he stepped toward the hearth.
Just as you moved to follow, Mattheo’s voice stopped you. “Y/n.”
You turned to find him standing apart from the others, his usual mask of indifference fractured, if only slightly. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face, his dark eyes glinting with something unspoken. For a moment, the weight he carried: fear, frustration, and a simmering anger, lay bare between you.
He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though wrestling with the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw, barely audible over the crackling floo. “Get some rest.” He finally murmured, gaze dropped, and his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the composure he tried so hard to maintain.
Your breath caught, the knot of frustration and exhaustion loosening just enough to let the gravity of his words settle. Despite the distance he’d put between you, the quiet simmering for weeks, this moment felt like a quiet truce—for now—a bridge across the gulf that had formed between you.
You stepped closer, your voice soft but steady, your fingers twitching, wanting to reach out but hesitating. “You know where to find me, Mattheo.”
He lifted his gaze, and for an instant, his expression was unguarded, raw. His nod was slight, almost imperceptible, but enough to say what words couldn’t. His lips pressed into a thin line before he turned away, retreating to the shadows of the villa.
The green flames licked higher, casting flickering shadows against the walls. You hesitated for a moment longer, your eyes lingering on Mattheo’s retreating figure. Then, with a steadying breath, you stepped into the hearth beside Theo.
As the world blurred into streaks of green, Mattheo’s quiet words echoed in your mind.
The war wasn’t just coming—it was already here. And now, more than ever, you’d have to trust that the fragile bond between you all would hold.
Taglist: @moonlightttfae
A/n: and there we have it the madness begins, I hope you enjoyed. Lmk what you think as always!!
bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, fem!sallow!reader stepbrother! t. nott
Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?
Content warnings: 18+ themes, mentions of death, mental, emotional, physical abuse, torture, trauma, dysfunctional family dynamics, taboo themes, grief, underage coercion misogyny, classic canon HP themes of blood purity, house prejudices, oppression
Word count: 2.3k
A/n: and here lays the start of y/n’s trauma, with a lovely flashback. This is merely a filler before I get to the good stuff, bc next part is 8k worth of words and I will not elaborate any further. DISCLAIMER: girl in picture is not descriptive of Y/n, I am writing her with as little description as I can besides last name ofc. I just wanted a fitting pic for the chapter until I get to an official banner.
[playlist: the lakes–taylor swift, july–noah cyrus, forever winter–taylor swift, where’d it go wrong–d4vd]
<< previous part>> << next part >>
It was a bright summer day in June, one of those days where the remnants of spring lingered in the air—a soft, cool breeze running through the wildflowers in the fields surrounding the Parkinson Mansion. Despite the sun’s gentle warmth and the comforting drone of dragonflies and honeybees, something felt off in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t place it, but the sense of dread fluttered there, stubborn and persistent.
You, Pansy, and Daphne had strayed from the bustle inside—your two closest friends pulling you out to the meadow behind the estate. The Parkinson Mansion itself was a grand, pristine building, though seldom occupied by actual parents these days; they were always away at this meeting or that trip. Under normal circumstances, you’d relish a carefree summer’s day with your friends, but the knot in your stomach refused to untie. Perhaps because your mother had acted so strangely the night before, insisting you spend the night at Pansy’s, hugging you tight enough to leave you breathless and—if you weren’t mistaken—a little dampness in your hair from her tears. You’d woken this morning with an irrational worry gnawing at you, ready to flee back to the perpetually hollow cold of Nott Manor to ask the meaning. But now, it merely circled your thoughts like a blackbird overhead.
Nevertheless, it ought to have been peaceful here. Sunbeams chased off the last dewdrops from the night. Mourning doves cooed in the distance, half-hidden in the branches. The breeze ruffled Pansy’s dark hair as she crouched, meticulously polishing her new Nimbus broom, the latest model on the market. She paused every so often, lifting it into the sunshine to watch the metal fittings glint.
“Lorenzo,” she huffed, “is going to swallow his words when he sees this baby. And he’s coming with Draco later this week—they promised to run a few drills with me. I’ll be unstoppable against them.” Her tone was smug, but you only nodded, half-listening.
Meanwhile, Daphne lay on her stomach in the tall grass, your head pillowed on her back. She’d spent the last hour braiding bright wildflowers into flimsy crowns—two perched precariously on your heads, the third already wilted beside Pansy, who cursed every time it slipped off. Daphne flicked a new chain of daisies between her fingers, giggling under her breath at some rumor she’d heard.
“I heard Cho was found snogging Terry Boot on the train ride home,” she announced, her voice lilting with the thrill of gossip. “Not even a week after poor Cedric died, can you believe it?”
A shudder prickled at your arms. Cedric’s death had rattled the whole school, and you still felt uneasy about how the year had ended. You shifted your weight off Daphne, dislodging a few petals. “That’s got to be rubbish,” you muttered, frowning. “Cho wouldn’t move on that fast, surely. She was devastated.”
Daphne shrugged, weaving another blossom through her makeshift crown. “That’s what Astoria heard. From a friend of a friend, she claims.” She sniffed in that way she did when she wanted to sound superior.
Pansy snorted, hugging the broom handle against her chest. “Astoria’s sources are always questionable,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I call bollocks.”
In another world, on another day, you might have teased them both about digging into outlandish rumors. But the knot in your stomach tugged tighter, a creeping sense that haunted you with the talk of death. You cast your gaze toward the sky—blue, bright, with just a hint of humidity that promised a sweltering afternoon. The day felt too perfect, as if something unspoken lurked at the edges.
Trying to ignore the weight in your stomach, you steered the conversation elsewhere: “Have you heard Lyra Nox is releasing a new novel soon? It’s about a woman who falls in love with a charmed portrait.”
Pansy snorted a laugh. “A portrait as the love interest? That’s… creative.”
Daphne giggled, half listening, half braiding. “I’ll skip the reading and wait for your review,” she joked, nose wrinkling in playful distaste.
“I’ll opt out of both.” Pansy deadpanned. You huffed in faux annoyance, reaching over, grabbing a handful of stray wilting daisies, launching them at her.
She grinned at you, “kidding, kidding. Easy Sallow.”
You made a show of tossing a few wilted daisies at Pansy in mock offense. She smirked, swatting them away. The three of you resumed your chatter—about next year’s classes, potential new teachers, Blaise Zabini’s upcoming party, and what you wanted for lunch. The conversation and the bright field nearly lulled you into forgetting the morning’s dread.
Until, you noticed a lone figure emerging from across the field. The shape drew closer, weaving through the tall grass in rushed strides. As it neared, your pulse quickened: Theo. It was definitely Theo, but something about his posture was wrong for such a sunny day. A heaviness radiated off him, like a storm cloud in human form.
He approached, slightly out of breath, hair windblown, and your friends halted their chatter. Pansy stood up a fraction, shielding her eyes against the sun. Daphne paused in her braiding, turning her head so your weight slid off her back. Silence fell.
Theo’s eyes were red at the edges, his mouth pressed into a thin line that barely contained whatever grief lay behind it. Your stomach lurched. Theo rarely displayed emotions so openly in front of others—especially not in front of Pansy and Daphne. The dread inside you knotted further, as if your body already knew what he was about to say.
“Y/n, you need to come home.” he urged softly, glancing at Pansy and Daphne with quick, polite acknowledgement before focusing on you. “Now. Your—it’s urgent.”
Fear spiked hot in your throat. “Is everything… is my mother…?” The question choked off, half-formed.
“We need to go home,” Theo repeated, voice taut. His eyes flicked from you to your friends and back again. He looked… distraught in a way you’d never seen, as if the ground had dropped beneath him. The phrase go home struck a chord of panic. You realized you never wanted to leave the safety of this sunlit field.
“Wh–what’s wrong?” you asked, trying to laugh it off, but fear caught your breath. When he remained silent, you slowly stood, petals tumbling off your lap. Daphne’s crown of wildflowers dropped from her fingers, petals scattering in the grass as she sat up, alarmed, while Pansy clutched her broom handle.
“Just… trust me,” Theo insisted, more hoarse this time. “I—I’ll explain later, okay? We have to go home, now.”
You glanced at Daphne and Pansy, confusion rolling off them in waves. But the dread in Theo’s eyes sealed your decision. “Alright,” you whispered, “Let me just—”
“No,” he cut in, shaking his head. “We need to leave immediately.”
Pansy hugged her broom closer, confusion written across her face. “Hold on—what’s going on?” She demanded, stepping forward. “Theo, you’re scaring us.”
Theo parted his lips, but only managed, “I—I just can’t explain right now.” He caught your arm gently. “We’ve got to go home. Right away.”
Without another word, you allowed him to gently grip your arm, pulling you away from your friends. Shock rooted them in place. Pansy called after you—What’s going on?—but you just shook your head, tears unexpectedly pricking the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know why you felt this sudden wave of sorrow, but the air felt heavier, the sun less bright.
Daphne scrambled to her feet, her half-finished flower crown forgotten. “Wait, Y/N—?”
But Theo gave a final apologetic glance over his shoulder, and the two of you were gone, weaving back through the fields, up the winding path through the overgrown grasses toward the Parkinson Estate. The day felt too bright for tragedy, but dread clawed at your ribcage. You blinked back tears, your breath hitching as you nodded, trusting the urgent plea in Theo’s eyes.
The moment you reached the Floo station inside, your heart hammered out of control. Theo grabbed a handful of powder and swept you into the emerald flames. You clung to his sleeve, a kaleidoscope of color and spinning magic swallowing you until you tumbled out into the drawing room of the Nott estate—your stepfather’s home, which you reluctantly shared.
The abrupt shift from the sun-drenched meadow to this lifeless interior felt like stepping from day into a permanent night when You staggered out, disoriented, gripping Theo for stability.
The drawing room’s silence was a stark contrast to the lively field. At its center stood Narcissa Malfoy, her elegant features drawn tight with concern, and Theodore Nott Sr., whose expression held all the warmth of a gravestone.
A swell of panic rose in your chest, breath hitching. Theo hovered at your side, shoulders trembling in silent grief he tried to bury.
Your stepfather—no, your mother’s husband in name only—met your gaze with chilling indifference. “Your mother,” he said flatly, “died last night.”
A ringing filled your ears. The day’s brightness seemed to vanish from your memory, replaced by icy shock. “No…” you whispered, hardly aware that tears streamed down your cheeks. “That can’t be—there’s no reason—she was fine—”
Narcissa stepped forward, ignoring Nott Sr.’s disapproving scowl. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” she murmured, voice trembling with empathy. She guided you gently from the Floo, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, beckoning Theo in too.
Theodore Nott Sr. cleared his throat. “She arranged for you to spend the night with Miss Parkinson, presumably to spare you the drama of witnessing… the end.”
He spoke without even a glimmer of sympathy, as if narrating the front page of the Daily Prophet. Your mind reeled, refusing to accept the finality of his words. She can’t be gone…
“H-how?” You breathed out. You already had feeling as to how and why, but you wanted to hear it from him.
He sniffed, “complications on the job,” impatiently glancing between the three of you.
It was because of her.
The mad woman that decided to marry your mother off to Nott Sr that stood emotionless in front of you, that had free reign in your house, pulling your mother into the drawing room for hours on end, sending her away at elusive hours of the night, doing gods knows what. Bellatrix Lestrange.
Theo gave a strangled sob, hearing the one that wracked through you loudly, turning his face away, wiping his eyes. You gripped his sleeve needing his presence as much as he needed yours, letting him tug you in his side.
“Emotional displays won’t—” He cleared his throat.
Narcissa, her voice firm, snapped at Nott Sr. “Leave them. Now. They’ve just lost their mother.”
“This is my house, Narcissa,” The older wizard made a dismissive sound. “They’re old enough to keep emotions in check. The times we live in—”
“Get out,” Narcissa repeated, sharp enough that even he winced, her authoritative maternal side shining through. With a roll of his eyes, he strode out, slamming the door behind him, leaving the room colder than before.
In the hush that followed, your tears came in earnest. Narcissa guided you and Theo to a nearby sofa, letting you cling to each other. She summoned tissues, stroking your hair lightly in a gesture that felt heartbreakingly maternal—something your mother could never do again.
You tried to reconcile the morning’s bright sunshine, the warm breeze, the friendly chatter with your friends, with this. The last vestiges of spring now seemed mockingly beautiful, overshadowed by your mother’s sudden absence. She must have known something terrible would happen—why else insist on your sleeping over at the Parkinsons’? The question gnawed at you.
Theo trembled at your side, every muscle tight. You slid an arm around him, drawing him close. Step-siblings, yes, but more than that—friends, companions. Now you were bound by even more shared loss, being there for him when his own mother passed a few years prior. And if Nott Sr. was your only guardian left, you shuddered at the hollowness that awaited you both under his roof.
Narcissa, kneeling by your feet, pressed her hand to yours. “You’re not alone. I’ll help however I can, you two are some of Draco's closest friends.” Her voice wavered, tears bright in her eyes. But she held steady for you, for Theo, gently bridging the gap left by that the cold, malicious man who cared little for either of you.
Outside, the June sun still shone, oblivious to your world’s collapse. You let your head rest against Theo’s shoulder, tears staining his sleeve. The memory of how lovely the day had seemed only hours ago panged in your chest, a cruel reminder that fate offered no warnings.
You still felt the knot of unease you’d woken with, that sense of dread now realized. The breeze you’d thought was gently stirring your hair had, in reality, been a herald of loss.
No matter the brightness of summer, the world looked bleak and gray now, hollowed by grief.
The sunlit day felt like a cruel mockery, each warm ray a glaring reminder of how a bright sky could so easily clash with a dark heart. You sat on the steps leading to Malfoy Manor’s lavish gardens, reading, but your body felt heavy, your mind drifting back to the day your mother died. The recollection threatened to swallow you whole, and you had no energy to resist.
Bellatrix had held you in her claws for most of the day—torturing you in every way possible except actually casting the Cruciatus Curse. You suspected she was saving that particular brand of agony for a later date. You stared at your tender hands, welts from her punishments forming red and raw across your knuckles. They pulsed with each heartbeat, a physical echo of the emotional storm churning within.
It hadn’t been physical violence alone; she forced you to “charm” a mirror, an exercise that turned your stomach. The mirror displayed a rotating gallery of men—some young, some old and unsavory—teaching you how to coax and manipulate them with your Veela magic. That memory made you feel unclean, as if your soul were smeared by something far more insidious than a simple bruise.
You’d rather have endured a hundred more blows than endure that humiliating “lesson” again. Yet here you were, in broad daylight, the beautiful summer mocking your pain.
At last, the manor’s door opened behind you, footsteps on stone drawing your attention. You glanced up, shielding your eyes from the sun, spotting Theo stepping outside with Mattheo in tow. Both wore suits—dark, meticulously tailored, each cuff hiding the marks that chained them to the Dark Lord’s bidding. They looked weary, but they managed half-smiles, as they talked animatedly about something.
“Columba,” Theo called gently, that old nickname he’d used for you since you were kids. He approached with caution, Mattheo lagging behind like a silent sentinel.
“Ready to go home?” Theo asked, offering a hand to help you stand.
The word home jarred you. Home might as well have been a crypt these days, the Nott Manor empty except for house-elves who scurried about on edge, rarely speaking. You forced a nod, sliding your bruised hand into Theo’s. Pain shot through your fingers, but you let him lift you.
He froze when he saw the injuries marring your skin. “Gods, Y/N… she did this?” he whispered hoarsely, a flare of anger in his eyes. Over his shoulder, you saw Mattheo tense as he peered over his friend’s shoulder, running a hand through his curls before letting it drop to his side, frustration emanating off him in waves suddenly.
You shrugged, trying to sound calm. “I wasn’t doing well enough, apparently.”
Mattheo let out a hollow laugh. “How hard is it to twirl your hair and bat your lashes at someone, exactly?”
Your temper flickered, turning your gaze on him. “It’s more than that, you twat.”
He shot you a look, jaw clenching. “More than enough to get beaten for?” His dark eyes glinted with incredulity, but beneath the sarcasm you caught the faintest glimmer of concern. “Please, enlighten me.”
They’d never understand, not fully, not when you hadn’t even understood barely—the art of charming guarded men, of coaxing out secrets with a coy turn of phrase, all while Bellatrix delighted in your squeamishness. The memory of that mirror and those endless faces made your stomach churn.
“Lay off it, Matty,” you muttered, brushing his shoulder lightly as you passed him to reach the door with Theo.
Mattheo stayed put. You glanced back to see him rooted to the spot, arms rigid, eyes locked on the horizon as if waging an internal war. Theo stopped by the threshold, keeping a gentle hold on you. “You coming back, Mate?” he asked, trying for a casual tone.
“Nah,” Mattheo exhaled, glancing over at the hand Theo rested on your back. “Go ahead. I have a couple things to tend to.” His voice sounded distant, any previous good mood lost.
You rolled your eyes with a touch of exasperation. Lately, this was the version of Mattheo you always got: cold, distant, and bitterly brooding. “Fine,” you said sharply, words cutting more than you meant. “We’ll see you at Zabini’s party later, yeah?”
He raised his hand in a noncommittal wave, turning away to pace near the garden steps. You half-wanted to call him back, to tell him you needed him at the manor just as much as Theo, that you despised him for being so frigid but also respected his reasons for it. But your body ached, and your heart was too drained for another confrontation or his dejected attitude.
Theo gently guided you inside, toward the Floo station. You cradled your bruised hand, stepping into the emerald flames with your stepbrother by your side. Home. The concept twisted in your mind like a knife, the echo of your mother’s demise still haunting your chest.
taglist: @moonlightttfae
A/N: I love a good broody Matthew and a protective Theo, anyone else? I quite literally thrive off of it, and platonic scenes between the Slytherin gang. Anyways, feedback, likes, weblogs are always appreciated. And lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!
bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader
Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?
content warnings: 18+ dark themes, aged up characters (by a year), mention of y/n, mentions of anxiety and isolation, death, crossover references with HP legacy, canon HP themes involving death eaters, blood status, purity, house prejudice, and underage coercion. let me know what if there’s anything missing!
Word count: 1.5k
A/n: I’ve been keeping this fic held near and dear to my chest for a while, but have been too nervous to post it and wanting it to be perfect aligning the canon, noncanon, potential AUs, etc. Also I’m just a girl with a full time job and life. 🥲 But as I keep adding on to this story, I think, at least, hope others will enjoy it as much as I’ve been while writing. Feedback, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated 🫶🏻
[playlist: no time to die—Billie eillish ]
<< next part >>
The click of your heels against the cold, tiled floor echoed hauntingly through the desolate halls of Malfoy Manor, a sound that mingled with the steady pressure of Fenrir Greyback’s wand digging into the small of your back. Each step felt like an eternity, your pulse hammering in your ears as Narcissa Malfoy led you down the dimly lit corridor. Her movements were calm and composed, her shoulders drawn back with an elegance you envied in that moment. She, at least, did not have a predator breathing down her neck.
“Keep moving, girl,” Fenrir growled from behind you, his voice low and guttural, sending shivers down your spine. “Mistress doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“That’s enough, Fenrir,” Narcissa snapped, her tone cutting through the air like a blade.
Her icy demeanor, usually so measured, betrayed her frustration. You could sense it in the stiff set of her shoulders and the clipped tone of her voice. Narcissa Malfoy hated what her home had become—a fortress for Death Eaters, a cold and dark parody of the life she once knew. But most of all, she hated that the lives of children, her son and his friends included, were being consumed by the dark tide that had overtaken their world.
When Narcissa came to a halt before the double doors of the dining room, her fingers meticulously adjusted the buttons of her blouse, her sharp gaze fixed on the brass knobs. “Leave us, Greyback,” she commanded, her voice devoid of emotion but brooking no argument.
“Mistress said—”
“Do I need to remind you,” she interrupted, turning on her heel with a venomous glare, “that your mistress is *my* sister? This is still my home, and I will not tolerate being undermined in it. Now. Leave.”
Her warning crackled like electricity in the air, but Fenrir relented with a sneer, retreating down the hall. Narcissa exhaled slowly before turning her attention to you. Her cold, pale fingers reached out to smooth your hair and adjust the sleeves of your dress, though you’d ironed them to perfection just that morning. Her dull gray eyes darted behind you, ensuring the hall was empty, before she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Listen to me, child,” she said, her hand cupping your cheek with an unexpected gentleness that contradicted the steel in her tone. “You go in there with your head held high. Shoulders back. Do not let her see your fear. She will exploit it.”
The lump in your throat grew unbearable, but you managed a trembling nod. Narcissa’s hand tightened on your chin, forcing your watery gaze to meet her own lifeless one.
“Do you understand?”
“I understand,” you murmured, the words scraping against the knot in your throat.
Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and then, with a curt nod of approval, she turned to knock on the doors.
The dining room was frigid, both in temperature and atmosphere. Bellatrix Lestrange lounged at the head of the table like a queen upon her throne, her wild, matted hair framing her pale, deranged face. Alecto Carrow stood beside her, her towering, stocky figure and lifeless gaze only adding to the oppressive weight that filled the room.
Bellatrix’s lips curled into a sinister grin as her dark eyes landed on you.
“This is the girl?” she drawled, rising with an unsettling excitement.
“She will be in her sixth year, like Draco,” Narcissa said coolly, her tone devoid of the pride she’d once reserved for introductions.
Bellatrix let out a high-pitched laugh, tilting her head back as though the very idea of you amused her. “Sixth year! A mere child!”
“She turned 17 in the spring,” the younger sister noted, clearing her throat. She was aware of what Bellatrix wanted, and the idea of a child doing her sister’s bidding stirred the already restless unease in her body.
Your stomach churned as she circled around you, her wand tracing invisible lines along your jaw and down the column of your neck. Her closeness made your skin crawl, but you stood your ground, your face a mask of carefully constructed neutrality. You couldn’t afford to falter now—not in front of her.
“You look so much like your mother,” Bellatrix said, her voice dripping with mockery. “The Veela blood is strong in your family. A pity it didn’t make her smart.”
Your nails dug into your palms as you resisted the urge to react, hearing Narcissa’s earlier warning echo in your mind. Bellatrix’s gaze bored into yours, relishing in delight at your discomfort.
“She’s one of the top in her class, and heavily involved in the school’s extracurriculars.” Narcissa interjected, her voice brittle, though she stood rigid behind you. “I believe she will do well with the tasks you assign her.”
Bellatrix’s twisted smile widened, and she gestured for Alecto to step forward. The red-haired woman stalked closer, her soulless eyes narrowing as she assessed you like one might a piece of meat.
“Do you know why you’re here, Y/n Sallow?” Alecto asked.
“I’m here to finish the business my mother couldn’t,” you recited in monotone, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you.
“Good,” Alecto purred, her lips curling into a cruel smirk. “And do you know what happens if you fail?”
“I will be executed,” you replied, the words chilling you even as they left your lips.
Alecto chuckled darkly, seemingly satisfied with your response. Bellatrix clapped her hands together, her giddy laugh echoing off the cold stone walls.
“You will not bear the Dark Mark,” Bellatrix said suddenly, her voice gleeful. “No, the Dark Lord has other plans for you. You will be bound to me instead—by an Unbreakable Vow.”
The words struck you like a physical blow. Your mask faltered as you turned to Narcissa, whose own composure cracked for just a moment. This was not discussed–Dark Mark or Unbreakable Vow–you were supposed to be unscathed by any affiliations Theodore Nott Sr, your step father, told you.
“Bella, this wasn’t—”
“Dark Lord’s orders,” Bellatrix snapped, her wand digging into your chin as she forced your gaze back to her. “Take my arm, child.”
I hate you.
With trembling fingers, you obeyed, grasping her sickly pale forearm as she held it out. Alecto began the incantation, her voice cold and mechanical, each word sealing your fate.
I hate you.
The vow burned as it took hold, a searing pain lancing through your arm and up into your chest.
I hate you.
The three words chanted through your brain as the woman laughed maniacally listening to Alecto talk.
In the moment, resentment tugged through you at your mother for leaving you alone in this world to take the weight of her debts. Alecto’s words becoming muffled to a deafening screech of the thoughts that thrummed in your head. The brand of the vow making itself known, threading through the fibers of your being.
And when it was over, you staggered back, Narcissa catching you before you could fall. Bellatrix’s laughter rang in your ears as she clapped her hands again.
“I will call on you soon to prepare for your new role,” she said, dismissing you with a wave of her hand. “There are other matters to take care of.”
Narcissa dragged you from the room, her grip ironclad. The tears you had been holding back slipped down your cheeks as the weight of what had just transpired settled over you. The woman beside you offering icy coles trying to coax the tears to stop.
“Y/N?”
The sound of your name stopped you in your tracks. You turned to see Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Mattheo walking toward the dining room. Theo and Draco acknowledged you with stoic nods, while Enzo’s concerned gaze lingered. Mattheo, however, didn’t even spare you a glance.
Mattheo had always been the one to meet your gaze when things got bad. A silent promise shared between the two of you—‘I’ve got you.’ But now, there was nothing. No glance. No acknowledgment. As if the weight of your fate was too much for even him to bear.
The sight of him ignoring you sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing over you. You tore your gaze away, as Narcissa pull you further down the hall, sparing one more glance back at them. Enzo was still turned towards you as Theo tugged his arm to pull him away. You could feel your chest be torn apart as you were carried further down the halls past death eaters gathering.
There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.
A/n: eeeeee it’s out to the world, chapter one will be out soon to not keep you waiting. If you want to be added to the taglist let me know or have suggestions of making it efficient pls pls pls
