Fern closed her eyes a moment, fantasizing that she wasn’t this easy to seduce. In her head, Fred’s lips weren’t slowly moving against her shoulder as he pulled her shirt back up. And she’d left as soon as she’d slapped him.
He was evil for being this gentle with her after fucking her against the table. It was cruel to give her any inclination that this wasn’t just about sex. He hated her. And she hated him right back.
“I’ll do whatever I want,” she whispered, pathetically, despite knowing that he could ask her to chop her own hand off at this moment, and she’d consider it before saying no.
He rested his forehead against her shoulder. “I know.”
His arms circled her slowly, pulling her back against his chest. It struck her how lovely it felt to be held. She tried to remember the last time someone hugged her with no motivation. Fred had already got what he wanted, and yet his fingers fanned across her stomach to pull her flush with his body. She gave in. She would eventually look back on this as a moment of weakness but it couldn’t be helped. Leaning against his chest she closed her eyes and felt the fight with Neville, the inevitability of death and violence, and Fred’s words that hurt, no matter how much she told herself they didn’t.
“I just….don’t know what I want,” she said, her voice hitching a bit.
“I know…”
She turned slowly to face him. His face dropped instantly when he saw a rogue tear escape the corner of her eye.
“Fern…” his voice dropped an octave with concern.
“He’s going to die,” she wept. “And there isn’t anything I can do.”
She meant to flee and cry in private but Fred pulled her back into a soft and lazy hug. The kind that is inevitable and warm.
Anyone else would’ve comforted her or apologized but not Fred. He only held her and rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades. He gave no explanation or words of sympathy because there weren’t any. They were on opposite ends of ideation about war and as stupid as he was…as they all were….they were right. She was a coward. But she was willing to be called much worse to save her brother. Even if he didn’t want to be saved.
She wiped her tears on his shirt and tried not to feel embarrassed. Fred stared down at her with a deep frown and sad eyes as she pulled away. She would have preferred his smug, condescending smirk. It was easier to hate him that way.
“There is a way,” he said as she took a step back from him. “You know there is.”
She closed her eyes tight and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not joining Potter’s suicide mission.”
“It’s not just him, Fern. It's Neville and other people too. People that you care about.”
She cringed at his words. At the mere idea that she cared for others, or that they could care for her.
Her face grew hot and she began to resent how much power she’d relinquished to him.
He had all the power. He could pick her up, throw her around, yell over her, and brand her with his DNA. It was the game they were playing. Trading off playing some sort of omnipotent god, lording over the other. She hated how well they fit together. How well they knew the other's weaknesses. So she took a bit of power back, the only way she knew how.
“Like who,” she questioned harshly. “You?”
Fred avoided her eyes then, bobbing his head a few times before staring at his feet. He gave the floor a weak smile and took a few deep breaths before answering.
“Nah, ‘course not.”
She waited for him to continue. Begged him to, in her head. She waited for the next part, where he laughed at her for letting him fuck her, or revealed his brother from behind a desk, laughing his head off. She waited for his joker mask to slip back on but he kept the wounded look on his face and lifted his hand towards her face.
She flinched and he slowed his hand, waiting for her for permission. She watched his fingers reach out and delicately tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Her stomach flip-flopped.
“Walk to dinner with me,” he said.
She could have punched him. She wanted to fucking punch him. Being the cruel one normally filled her with pride and allowed her shields to stay sharp against the world. Fred did the same with his jokes. But all she felt now, was a pit of resentment deepening in her chest and a hatred far too deep and mysterious to analyze without falling in and finding something new. She waded back to the shore where she’d always sat and dug her heels into the sand.
She smiled. “You’re funny.”
There was no chuckle or laugh from him as the words left her lips. She didn’t think there would be. He let his hand drop back to his side and took a step towards the exit.
“Alright,” he said.
She could’ve done worse – made him feel worse. But he disappeared through the door before she could.
Fern closed her eyes and tried not to regret biting the hand that had offered her affection.
_________
For weeks after, she’d turn a corner and see red and gold ties flee from her presence. It didn’t matter if they had red hair or not, they scurried from her like fish afraid of a shark on the hunt.
But she wasn’t hunting. Not even for Neville. She merely floated from class to class, nodding to friends, biting her tongue, and overthinking everything.
Homework and Prefect duties were difficult to focus on when war loomed, imaginary or not. She watched as rules went up, and Umbridge handed out punishments like candy on Halloween.
She looked for Fred everywhere, hoping for a sneer or wink or any indication that they’d returned to normal. But he evaded her more successfully than anyone else.
His words from that day in the abandoned classroom rang in her head, over and over.
I’d hate you if I could.
I love how you feel.
As pathetic as it was, those were some of the nicest things a romantic – a sexual partner had ever said to her. And now she’d screwed it up.
Even as she boarded the train to go home for the Christmas holiday, her head was on a swivel. She looked around every corner, and in every train car but there wasn’t a single redhead anywhere. Defeated, and tired, she eventually found an empty car and slept the entire way back to London.
During the car ride home, Gran talked on and on about the neighbors' disruptive antics and how she had been slaving over their meal. Neville stayed silent in the back seat, wringing his hands and occasionally remembering to nod politely. She shot him an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror but he avoided her gaze.
Even at home, he scurried around and hardly made a peep and it wasn’t until Boxing day that Fern finally cornered him.
“What’s wrong with you,” she demanded.
He made a surprised squeak and looked over her head and past his bedroom door frame, clearly looking for an escape.
“Neville,” she said again, fully blocking the frame. “We’ve been home for four days and you haven’t said a word to me. I already apologized for yelling, can we please just forget about it?”
He bit his lip and stared at his shoes.
“Hello?”
Finally, he looked up. He sniffled heavily and rubbed his red, and watery eyes.
“Nev,” she whispered, kneeling next to where he sat on the bed and taking his hands. “I am sorry…I didn’t mean to….to hurt you.”
“It’s not that,” he cried softly. “Something’s happened.”
Her heart dropped but she nodded and let him continue.
“Mr. Weasley…he was attacked.”
The words plunged into her chest like knives. Before he could elaborate, she spun the image of the Weasleys visiting their vegetable father, just like her and Neville in St. Mungos.
“By Voldemort.”
Her eyes darted to his, shocked and wide. He’d never said that name before. Not once.
The syllables twisted the knife deeper but the solemn, fearless look on his face drained the blood from her body entirely. It was the same look she saw in the pictures of their parents. She saw it in pictures of the Potter’s too. Neville was sure of his place in all of this and she saw now that there was no changing his mind.
Her heart rate picked up.
“Is he alright?”
Neville didn’t miss a beat. “He’s alright. The letter said he was back home before Christmas.”
He said it like it was a moment of triumph for them – a sign of resilience. But it didn’t need to happen. And perhaps it wouldn’t have if the Weasley’s had simply stayed out of it. She bit her tongue and fled from the room in a tizzy of sadness and confusion but made it downstairs before hot tears started falling.
Soft footsteps passed the threshold but she didn’t hear it in time to wipe the tears away. Gran put a hand on her shoulder and stared out at the gardens. They stood together, as they always had, in perpetual gloom. The faces of her parents stared at them from a wall nearby, eternally happy and unaware of their fate. Fern closed her eyes, unable to meet their cheerful gazes.
“How do you not hate them,” she whispered. “For doing what they did?”
They leaned into each other, the old woman hardly coming up to Fern’s shoulder.
Gran smiled at her through the reflection in the window. “Because I know who they did it for.”
The tears flowed freely then. She knew that. She always had. That’s why guilt gnawed at the corners of her mind where she kept memories of the family. Would they have felt so compelled to join the fight, if she and Neville had been born later, or not at all? Perhaps if they’d moved away or even just stopped reading the papers, they would’ve been safe. But fate had different plans.
Gran turned to her and left a delicate kiss on her cheek. “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
The old woman left her in silence and that is where she stayed. The whole train ride back to Hogwarts, and even though the first week of classes. She didn’t feel particularly compelled to speak to anyone. Too many thoughts kept her tongue locked behind her clenched teeth. Daisy stared at her with worried eyes, and professors raised their eyebrows at her lack of contributions in class. Neville bit his lip raw, waiting for her next words. But she saved her voice. She saved it until their first Friday night back, when she knew she’d be stuck with Prefect duty. She wasn’t sure he’d be there but something told her to go to the seventh floor and climb the stairs. So she did, and that’s where she finally found Fred Weasley, smoking her hidden cigarettes in the Astronomy tower.
His back was turned to her but it was unmistakably him. She could tell by the curve of his nose, slightly less crooked than his brothers, and by the excess of wrinkles in his clothes, and almost comically messiness of his hair.
“Come to gloat,” he asked, looking over his shoulder as she ascended the stairs.
Well, that confirmed her suspicion. He was angry with her. Perhaps because of the last conversation they had. Or because she’d interrupted his alone time. Or maybe because it was easiest. He couldn’t be angry with his father, nor could he necessarily get his hands on Voldemort, she understood if she was the easiest target.
“No,” she whispered.
He took a deep drag of the cigarette between his teeth. “You could though, you know. Sacrificing my family, remember?”
The words seemed to make him even angrier. He shook his head and turned towards her.
“Look, I don’t have the energy for whatever it is that you want so…”
“No,” she said quickly, cutting him off. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
He flicked the cigarette over the balcony and stalked towards her. A weary look crossed his face like he couldn’t tell if it was really her or not as he loomed over her. Coming in close, he glanced between her eyes, over and over again.
“You have a fascinating way of treating people you don’t care about,” he said bitterly.
She closed the gap between them and pressed a hand against his chest, stopping whatever hurtful words he’d conjure up next. She deserved them but he could save it for a different day. A day when he wasn’t hurting.
He froze slightly at her touch. The muscles in his chest tensed and twitched at the pressure, almost like a part of him wanted to run, while the other had forfeited to stay in place. His heartbeat was steady and warm beneath his sweater. She stared at the rough fabric between her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, avoiding his eyes. “About what I said that day. And about your dad. Neville told me he’s going to be alright but I’m so so sorry.”
She’d hoped to be more eloquent than that but at least she’d avoided crying in front of him this time. Her hand dropped from his chest and she stole a glance up at his face. His mouth twitched but other than that, he hardly acknowledged her words.
Before she could walk away, or open her mouth again, Fred leaned down and rested his forehead against her shoulder. He had to almost fold completely in half to do it but he seemed too exhausted by his own thoughts to hold his head up any longer.
“Do you want to know something funny?”
She nodded slowly, just moving enough for him to feel the motion, trying not to scare him away.
“It turns out, I’m the coward,” he laughed. “I saw him in the hospital bed once, before he was conscious. It was only through a window and I froze. I ran straight back to the lobby and couldn’t fucking look at him again until he was home and out of the wheelchair.”
She swallowed thickly and brought her shaking fingers to the back of his neck. He sucked in a deep breath as she played with the soft tresses there.
It was odd to feel in the same place as someone she’d spent seven years at odds with. They’d shared the same desires and pleasure, but now they had the same wounds.
Without thinking, she placed a kiss on his temple and wrapped him in a harsh embrace. It was then that his labored breathing turned into sniffles. His knees gave out and they sunk to the ground in a tangled pile. Fred nuzzled into her chest, just as she had done before, and cried. She felt him cry for what happened to his father, and what was yet to happen. The people they’d all have to become to endure a war. And worse, the people they’d lose to win.
As the tears dried up and he lifted his head off of her, to sit without leaning against her with red-rimmed eyes, she decided that she wouldn’t let him go through it alone. Not him. Or Neville.
“Fred,” she whispered, looking up at him from her eyelashes. “I do have one other thing to tell you.”
He wiped the tears from his face and looked up at her. Behind him, the moon created a pale halo around his head, adorned with stars and a few stray clouds.
“I don’t hate you either,” she said.
For a moment, he stared blankly. It almost looked like he was gazing through her, still unable to decipher if she was actually here or not. She slid her hand into his and gave up a weak smile. He snapped into reality and slowly but surely, the wide toothy grin that she’d once hated to see on his face made its joyful return. His freckled cheeks ballooned up towards his eyes. The sorrow floated away and she wished that it would always be this easy to make him smile.
He pulled her by the hand into his lap and finally let out a laugh. “No shit, Fern.”
Description: Her sixth year at Hogwarts was supposed to be relatively peaceful but after an incident on the Hogwarts express, Violet Wilkes finds herself the newest target of the Weasley twins. This, combined with a dark family secret, and the Triwizard tournament, makes her first few months back more exciting and stressful than every year before.
pairing: George Weasley x Original Female Character
She didn’t know why the dungeon made her feel safe, or why Ravenclaws loved their nausea-inducing tower so much.
She could never tell which potion was the most fun to make or which classroom was her favorite, although this year it was a close tie between potions and charms, And she doubted that she’d ever actually know all the positions in Quidditch especially because it reminded her of someone who surely hated her by now.
She didn’t know how many people Sadie could beat up all at once but had a sinking suspicion she’d find out someday, especially in light of recent events and the heightened attention she’d received all weekend.
Presently though, the lapse of knowledge most concerning was which foot she was supposed to step with first in a waltz.
Sadie twittered excitedly in her ear as she dragged their group of four from the safety of a corner table in the blindingly decorated Great Hall to the middle of the dance floor.
Violet walked out with them, anxiously picking her freshly painted nails done by Sadie less than an hour ago when she’d finally convinced her to join the festivities.
It had been a fight Violet knew she was going to lose. Her attempt was valiant but in the end, it was no use. Once Sadie caught a glimpse of the velvet gown that her family had sent, she was an immovable object and Violet didn’t have it in her to be an unstoppable force. Especially after everything that had happened a few days prior.
Entirely against her will, Sadie had done her up and ushered her upstairs to Anastas and Vasily where she’d gotten away with chatting, and drinking copious amounts of odd-tasting punch for a while until Sadie decided they had to dance at least once.
The song faded away and exuberant, chattering voices overtook the room. Her peers turned from their couples to speak to friends across the room, making a sea of bodies from the once organized clusters.
Vasily grabbed her hand as he noticed her lagging. His behemoth height forced those smaller than him, to move out of the way. She nodded apologetically to the split couples, and friends who had to stall conversations as he dragged her along.
By the time they made it to an open spot, she was no closer to remembering any of Snape’s dance lessons. Vasily turned to stare down at her expectantly. He cocked an eyebrow and a rush of panic flooded her. She tipped her head in question just before noticing that his hand hovering over her waist.
“Oh,” she exclaimed nervously. “Yes, that’s uh…fine.”
He nodded before easing his hand against her, one finger at a time, and pulling her other hand into his. There was no panic on his face as she searched it. But there was no excitement either. Not that Violet minded. His complete indifference towards her this evening had made it the easiest date she’d ever been on.
The band gave no warning before music surged through the packed crowd, bouncing off the high glittering windows covered with fake snow, mimicking the real stuff outside. Dread set in as the room moved in unison but lucky for her, Vasily immediately took the lead, forcing her right foot to go first.
Her achy feet followed his around the floor, only slipping a little on the glittery decorations that had been scattered around the room. A weaker partner would’ve noticed her missteps but Vasily’s solid arms didn’t register her weight at all.
As they turned around the room in a dizzying pattern, she added another thing to the list of uncertainties. Whether she hated dancing or if her current partner simply did not inspire the passion necessary to enjoy the pastime.
Other couples twirled in the same way around them as the room came together in one rather impressive coordinated effort at ballroom dancing. Vasily’s large chest kept her protected from prying eyes, although she was certain that even Malfoy had other things on his mind tonight, besides her. It was rather freeing to glance around and people-watch without so much as a look from her peers.
That was, all except one.
Under the twinkling white lights and faux winter decorations, she suddenly knew one thing for certain.
George Weasley was staring at her.
She thought for a moment she was mistaken. That perhaps she’d accidentally looked at someone with red hair, and then hazel eyes in succession, melting the two together in false recognition.
That’s what she’d hoped anyway. But when Vasily spun them again in a quick circle, the eyes and hair were indeed attached to the same man. And George was most certainly looking at her.
She stared back, over Vasily’s shoulder, wide-eyed, confused, and feeling sick. She glanced at him and then to the ceiling a few times, to give him the chance to look away or pretend like it was the decor that caught his eye. But he didn’t.
His unexpectedly dark eyes stayed on her, narrowing the longer she looked. They blazed with anger and bore into hers like he wanted to wring her neck in a way that would make her eyes pop and neck snap in two.
It sent a chill down her spine, and the taste of dinner suddenly returned to her tongue. The entanglement of nerves in her stomach erupted without warning, almost making her trip.
She knew he’d be there. She’d prepared a strategy to avoid him all night and was under the impression that he’d be doing the same. But apparently, that was incorrect.
She tried not to look at him, spinning a girl she didn’t recognize across the floor. But every time Vasily’s massive shoulders dipped or swayed, she caught a glimpse of his scowling face, towering over his date’s head.
The woman in his arms was a footnote on her heartache. She didn’t particularly care who it was because he wasn’t even looking at her. Clearly, his hatred towards her overpowered any affection he held for the woman in his arms. It would’ve been easier though if she was the sole reason. His new infatuation for someone else wasn’t as terrible as his dislike for her.
He locked eyes with her again but she quickly looked away, pretending to admire the decorative chain on her date’s shoulder. When that went on too long to be believable, she moved to stare at the decorations over his head.
Hogwarts never half-assed anything but this level of extravagance hadn’t been seen by any of their other holiday celebrations. The beauty was enjoyable until she realized that amongst the white glow, she stuck out like a sore thumb.
Rich purple clung to her torso, and billowed out at her waist, leaving no skin uncovered except for the deep square neckline that outlined the top of her chest in small jewels. The velvet and stones shifted in the light, giving the structure multiple dimensions, and casting rainbows on her date's face. It was almost comical how the sparkling light illuminated his constantly furrowed brow and scowling lips. If he was angry, his delicate touch on her back and hand were funny ways of showing it. It was a wonder that someone who looked so gruff, knew anything of gentleness at all, and for that she was grateful.
He glanced down at her and for the first time tonight, she attempted a smile. It was tight-lipped and didn’t reach her eyes but it was the best she could do. Vasily nodded politely but did not return the expression.
She tried not to read his mind but she guessed that he regretted telling her all that he did that night of the party. She knew then that it was the alcohol that had made him so loose-lipped, and part of her felt guilty for taking advantage of his drunken friendliness.
"I uh...like your cape," she mumbled, instantly turning beat red from how dumb it sounded.
He nodded. "Too hot."
The fur lining did seem excessive, especially when the roaring fires hardly let a draft into the building. But the rest of his red uniform looked nice. Regal even, next to the black and white suits worn by most of the Hogwarts boys.
A million questions bounced in her head for him but tonight she had no energy or motivation to keep her investigation going. Tonight, she wanted to make it back to her room unscathed, and with her heart still in one piece.
A second song started and Vasily focused on his feet, and she did the same. It got easier with each song and by the time an hour had passed, Violet was leading. It was almost fun until a tingling sensation on the back of her neck signaled that George’s eyes were still glued to her from somewhere in the room. It traveled down her spine, making it impossible to hold a dancing form in her date’s arms.
She glanced up to see if perhaps Vasily was feeling equally finished with dancing.
But as soon as she lifted her head, George was there, eyes blazing with hatred across the dance floor, this time two couples closer.
Her heart rate picked up and the sickly feeling crawled down the back of her throat again, burrowing deep in her stomach. She glanced down to her feet and wondered if barf came out of fur well, or if her dates suit would be ruined.
“Um…do you need a drink?” She heard herself say in a shaky and dry voice.
Vasily stopped his movements and grumbled something that sounded like yes. Relief washed over her as he turned to lead them back through the crowd, weaving through couples so quick she had to jog to keep up.
But the victorious feeling was short-lived. She shouldn’t have done it, and maybe it would’ve saved her a lot of grief, but before she could make it safely into the chattering crowd lining the dance floor, she turned. Maybe she hoped that he’d be gone or looking away. But she had no such luck.
He was closer than she’d thought and stood still, glaring at her retreating figure. As soon as their eyes met, he took a step towards her. She hoped it was just automatic — a lasting reflex from their time together. But then he took another, and another and then he was too close and not stopping. She snapped her neck back to the path ahead where Vasily had found his friends near the punch bowl.
The wall of broad red shoulders parted to let her reach the bowl but she would’ve shoved the towering men aside if they hadn’t. They spoke boisterously to one another in their native language, ignoring her and the other dates who surrounded them in a larger group talking in hushed voices about whether they predicted romance tonight.
She smiled to herself as they reformed their groups behind her. That put at least twenty people in between her and George. He’d be insane to confront her now.
Violet grabbed one of the stacked crystal glasses, with shaking hands, chanting relaxing sentiments in her head. It’s alright. It’s okay. You’ve been through worse. You’ll go through better.
She managed to quell her jittery fingers enough to fill the cup with a punch a quarter of the way before a voice came from behind her.
“Excuse me — can I get to that?”
The Bulgarians mumbled in agreement and a breeze against the back of her neck signaled their movement.
“Thanks,” the voice said.
Violet held her breath and looked from left to right for an escape route. Unfortunately, the only option seemed to be climbing under the table, which would be impossible with the size of her dress. Vasily touched her elbow as he moved out of the way, and she wished she was invisible.
Staring at the wall now, frozen in place, she listened to the footsteps slow and finally stop next to her.
“Violet.”
Her heart fluttered at the three syllables that usually only turned her head. Notably, he did not call her Vi, which made the sinking feeling in her chest deepen.
She’d never thought much of her name until George compared her to colors, or shortened it sweetly because he’d said it so often. It had only ever been him to call her that. She doubted it’d be as satisfying to hear it from someone else. But now, she’d exiled herself to full first name basis.
“George,” she confirmed before closing her eyes and bracing for impact.
This was when she’d have to hear him say all the awful things he’d been thinking about her. All the reasons they could never be together, and all the reasons that they shouldn’t have been in the first place.
He’d get to yell, scream, seethe at her on what was supposed to be a night of merriment and she’d be helpless to stop him.
She wouldn’t stop him because she deserved it.
She’d lied to him and kept him at arm’s length because it was easier to cater to her feelings than consider his pain. It was cowardly and something she’d always be ashamed of, so his anger was warranted.
She hadn’t thought he’d do it here, in front of everyone, but she supposed it was better to get it over with.
“Enjoying your evening?”
He spat the words like he was trying to get something awful tasting off his tongue. It landed in the space between them and manifested in a sickly feeling in her stomach.
“Yeah. You?”
His voice sounded miles away. “Yeah.”
In the pause, they shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the cups they held. Violet tried to focus on the music or even the conversation happening behind them even though she couldn’t understand a word. Vasily laughed along with his friends, too distracted to save her. At least one of them would have a pleasant night.
“So…is he the reason why?” George's voice wavered like he was unsure if he should say it. The hesitation caught her off guard and it almost felt tender, like it hurt him to accuse her of anything.
Finally, she looked up.
Something akin to anger passed over his face, disrupting the hurt expression he’d held previously.
“What?”
He craned his neck to bring his face close to hers. She watched him nod towards Vasily and then let his grimace deepen.
“Him —that Durmstrang git — he’s the reason you broke things off, right?”
Reality snapped into place so fast she nearly got whiplash. There was a brief moment where she’d been under the impression that the ‘he’ they were speaking about, was her uncle, or perhaps Malfoy. But Vasily hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“What are you talking about?”
He scoffed and then she saw the hurt pool in his eyes.
“Was it him you after the whole time? Or were you testing us both out?”
Horrified, Violet’s eyes grew wide. She shook her head and searched his face over and over looking for any hint of a joke but there was none. The pit that had already formed deep in her stomach bottomed out and swallowed her whole. Heat rose from her neck and covered her whole face stamping her shock and discomfort in a bright red hue.
“No, no, of course not.”
He took a step closer and didn’t care to mask his emotion. Anger flared violently behind his eyes, flushing his cheeks. He was so similar to summer that she wondered how she could stand so close to his fire without being burnt. His disheveled, red hair spewed from his head like sunbeams around his freckled face, making him the blazing star that had brought her from the darkness. Barley, wheat, and golden fields shimmered in his eyes, just above his crooked frown jagged and harsh like summer storms.
“Violet, just tell me he’s the reason why.”
It wasn’t an order or command but a plea. He was begging her to release him from some agony that she could not see; an agony she did not understand.
“He’s not the reason for anything he’s just some guy in my class,” she tried to explain but her voice landed as harsh as his. The conversation behind them paused at the noise.
Embarrassed, hurt, and confused, she felt the urge to flee. Without sparing him another glance, she turned and pushed through the crowd, holding back the rush of emotion that threatened to release on George, no matter who was around.
She’d had days to mentally prepare for his hatred and yet when faced with it, the room spun and shrunk, making it too small and unstable for her to stay calm.
A lump lodged itself in her throat and before she could relieve it with sobs, a hand gripped her arm.
George spun her to face him. Further from their peers now, he didn’t hold back.
“If he’s just some guy, then why is he your date?” George’s chest rose and fell sporadically. His eyes were wild and searching.
She lunged forward and met him a breath away, uncaring about the consequences.
“Why is she,” she spat, sending her anger at the man fuming in front of her, before yanking her arm out of his grip and storming towards the doors.
But before she could fully escape the shrinking room, her shoulder hit something hard, nearly sending her toppling over.
“In a hurry, Wilkes?”
Professor Moody steadied her with a hand on the shoulder before tipping his head to study her disheveled state. His one somber eye held steady on her face while the other shot off towards somewhere over her head.
She’d never been this close to him before but out of all his oddities, the thing that struck her the most was the strangest scent wafting off of him. It was sour and musky but too raw to be any kind of cologne. It assaulted her senses but sobered her up just enough to get out a few normal words.
“Sorry professor,” she said while walking around him and continuing on her way. “Just need some fresh air. Have a great night!”
He shot her a look. “It’s the middle of winter.”
Violet let out a nervous giggle and craned her neck to politely nod goodbye. Beyond Moody, George followed, still thundering towards her with murderous intent in his eyes.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Full speed now, she fled into the foyer. In order to avoid the chatting peers huddled near the front doors and the hall that could lead her home, she had no choice but to make her way up the stairs.
Her leg length, dress weight, and heels ensured that George caught up to her easily, as he skipped stairs two at a time to come upon her left.
“Was that a fucking joke, Violet?” He spat the question and matched her stride easily. She shot him a sideways glance and rolled her eyes.
After checking the landing and hall up ahead for people she shot back. “So you can ask me about my date, but I can’t ask about yours?”
Anger flared again as they flew through the hall. He sped up, walking backward to face her.
“She’s Angelina’s best friend and Fred begged me to take her,” he explained in a huff while stretching an arm out to slow her down.
She scoffed at that and tried to push him out of the way.
“Yeah right — ”
He roared over her dismissal. “I could hardly stand the thought of it because I was so worried about you but now I see that you’re fine — perfectly fine in fact now that you’ve traded me in for a northern dickhead.”
She gritted her teeth at his accusation. The image of George holding his date’s waist, even as friends, flooded her mind, making her cheeks heat. He shouldn’t be yelling at her about this. This was the least of their worries. But if he wanted a fight, she would give him one.
“Oh, I’m sure you tossed and turned over it. Poor George had to take a pretty girl to the ball. This must be so difficult for you!”
“It is because she’s not you,” he said in a breathless explanation.
The worlds struck her but didn’t stick. The eerie silence in the empty hall was long gone as their voices bounced around the stone arches, and echoed through the building.
She’d wanted to go with him too. Even if it was just as friends. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes again. This wasn’t the fight they were supposed to be having. He shouldn’t care about who her date was because he shouldn’t care about her. At all.
“You don’t want me, George,” she cried. “Not anymore. So I don’t know why it fucking matters!”
For the first time since they’d stepped outside the great hall, he stopped moving. The abruptness caused her to crash into his chest and almost bring them both to the ground. She pushed off of him and glared up at his face just in time to watch the angry lines etched into his forehead dissolve into a look of confusion.
He brushed a piece of hair from his face. “Don’t want you? What the fuck are you talking about?”
She threw her head back and groaned. “Oh for fucks sake George. You don’t have to pretend like you don’t hate me. It would be easier if you didn’t!”
"Hate you? Hate you?”
“Yes!”
“Because you’re in love with someone else?”
“I’m not in love with him! I’m not even dating him. I doubt we will ever talk again after tonight,” she screamed, resisting the urge to shove him to the ground and hold him there until he understood.
“So then what is it,” he yelled, leaning in close again.
Violet matched his aggression and launched forward, standing on her tippy toes to make them nose to nose as she pushed her finger into his chest. It was excruciating to plead the case against herself but she had to make him understand.
“My family! You hate me because you heard what Malfoy said about my family!”
She glanced down to where her finger jabbed into his chest with an emphasizing pattern. She hadn’t noticed before but the vest beneath his coat, unbuttoned and slightly hidden was made of scratchy purple fabric. It matched her dress and she scrunched her face to keep from crying.
George stumbled back. “What?”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw went slack like he didn’t know what she was talking about. And then Violet couldn’t take it any longer. She grabbed his arm and yanked him into the closest set of unlocked doors.
The room was pitch black but in an instant, George flourished his wand, and candles and fireplaces all around them sprung to life, illuminating the library, of all places.
“I know how you and all the other Gryffindors are George,” she explained in a harsh tone through gritted teeth.
“Enlighten me,” he shot back loudly.
She back away slowly at first and then marched down the main aisle, and away from nosy passerby’s who could easily hear their shouts behind a closed door.
“I don’t blame you for wanting nothing to do with me but at least have the courage to fucking admit it!”
“Violet, I don’t hate you,” he yelled after her.
She scoffed and kept her eyes forward, accidentally landing on the spot where they’d first kiss. The lump in her throat became harder to swallow. She made it as far as the opening of the alcove before gathering enough courage to face him again.
He was right on her heels as she turned. “Stop lying! I saw your face. Yours and Ginny’s and Freds —”
His steps didn’t stop as he lunged forward to grip both of her shoulders.
“I don’t care about your family!”
His eyes watered and searched her face frantically.
“Godric’s ghost, help me,” he cursed to himself before shaking her shoulders. “Violet, I don’t give a shit about your family, or Malfoy or any of it. You could be a bloody Death Eater, and I’d still probably want you because I can’t fucking help it. I can’t move on, or think, or watch you dance with some prick because that’s supposed to be me. It was me until you put words in my mouth!”
She struggled against his grip for a moment and then went wide-eyed. George brushed his fingers through her hair urgently. Once. Twice. Until he stopped and cupped her face like he was trying to physically push his thoughts into her head.
She opened and closed her mouth a few times as he searched her face, being sure there was no had no fight left in her before dropping his hand back to her shoulders. She beheld his passion, less sure of herself now, and tried to form words while releasing a shuddering breath.
“Well…how…how was I supposed to know that?”
In an instant, he dropped his hands from her. His anger returned, swift and heightened, nearly making her wince.
He brought his hands up to his head for a moment, hiding his face before unleashing an almost growl.
“Because you fucking know me!”
It was true, to an extent. But fear was blinding and she’d hid this to protect him. It wasn’t as simple as trusting or knowing him.
“Well, I…I was just scared that you’d know me and see me as one of them. You must understand that.”
Violet tried to shove him away but he caught her wrist with both his hands. He ripped the seam of her sleeve, peeling the material from her wrist, down to her elbow so fast she almost thought he’d done it with magic.
“What do you see?” His yell hit her square in the chest, rattling her heart. “The Dark Mark?”
She shook her head, failing at fighting off his grasp. “You don’t understand, George.”
He grabbed her wrist tighter and shook it in the space between them, his face bright red.
“Look, Violet!”
Her tears fell freely. “I was trying to protect you from me and him and —”
He roared over her. “What do you see?”
She used her other hand to hit him in the chest before staring at her forearm to appease him.
“Nothing! There’s nothing there!”
Fire lit his eyes. “Then that’s the fucking end of it!”
And it was.
There was a moment where Violet misinterpreted his words. She thought that he’d turn on his heel and be gone forever. That he’d be so disappointed in her and the man she’d mistaken him for that he couldn’t bear the sight of her. She thought he’d leave, for good.
But he didn’t.
He yanked her forward, crushing her into his chest, one hand tugging her face to meet his, the other wound tight around her waist.
His lips weren’t nice, or sweet, or careful. They gave her no option to recoil or believe she didn’t deserve him. He pulled her into his chest, devouring her unsaid words and whimpers. His hands moved from her face to her hair, dragging down her sides and back in frantic sweeps. He moved like he was starved for something and it’d taken Violet this long to realize that it was her.
He didn’t regret being with her. He didn’t want to hate her. He didn’t want to shun her because of her last name.
He wanted her. For better or for worse.
And she wanted him too. Desperately. Incoherently. More than she’d ever wanted anything before. She wanted him in a way that scared her. In a way, she couldn’t explain.
Violet gripped his shirt, yanking him closer, just as breathless as he was. He groaned in approval and let her pull him back until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the chair.
George followed her down, landing on his knees between her legs as she settled into her chair.
She let out a content and strangled sigh, overcome with regret. The worry she’d harbored the last few months had kept her from this. She was the only one to blame for all the missed moments with the man who would have her despite it all. The bitter sense of time lost almost made her cry.
His tongue urgently swept over hers, unwilling to let her form another word or apology. She tried to tell him sorry, over and over but he swallowed the attempts and groaned over her.
She’d never thought he’d kiss her again and now he was. She thought that he hated her, but he didn’t. She thought he cared about all of the things she was deeply insecure about but he didn’t.
His fingers found her zipper and fumbled with it for a few seconds in a silent question of permission.
“Yes,” she sighed into his mouth.
George pulled it like he couldn’t bear the feeling of fabric between them any longer and it fell to the floor in one strong tug. As soon as her body was free from the cover, he pressed sloppy, open mouth kisses along her jaw and neck, all the while pushing her back against the cushions until he towered over her. She arched into him, as he kissed, licked, and sucked along her chest.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he grumbled. “Have I ever told you that?”
Violet shook her head and whimpered at the words, begging him for more. He continued his descent down her chest, stopping to suck at her nipples, hard and reaching for him. His tongue swirled the sensitive skin over and over, building into a pleasure akin to a summer’s day. Hot and all-encompassing in the way that only the sun can be. But at the same time, soft and bright and new. She shuddered as it ran through her and he responded by rolling her hardened peak against his teeth, making her jerk and moan.
George looked up at her then with half-lidded eyes, pooling with want. A shaky breath was all she could muster as he made her twitch and writhe beneath him. But he wanted more. One hand palmed her breast while the other dipped down to pull her underwear to the side.
The first touch of his fingers along the length of her plump slit, had her gasping. She heard George groan and watched a pained expression waft over his face before he braced his forehead against her stomach, almost like it was too much to bear.
He’d touched her like this before but back then there had been only been affection between them. This time, frustration, time lost, and a hint of anger swirled in the air, making him move almost aggressively.
He slipped a finger in and all she could muster was his name, over and over again in a breathy plea.
“You’re perfect.” He panted against her.
She moaned low in response as another finger entered her, making a lewd sloppy noise that exposed how much she wanted him.
“Irritating within an inch of your life but, beautiful, and fucking perfect.”
His fingers disappeared and she went to glare at him until the head of his cock rubbed against her slick folds. His forehead found hers as they both shared a shuddering breath laced with anticipation. He rubbed himself against her, torturing them both with the slow friction.
She hadn’t thought much about losing her virginity but now that George was on the precipice of taking it, an overwhelming, otherworldly longing overtook any nerves. There was only her, and George and the inevitable.
“Irritating,” she questioned softly, shifting her hips to match his slow movements.
His eyes closed and movements stalled. A low shaking breath brushed her face as he surrendered and let her do as she pleased.
“Yes,” he groaned. “You are maddening and then have the audacity to be this fucking wet.”
With the light thrust of her hips, she took the first few inches of him.
“Violet,” he managed, in a strangled voice, eyes closing. “You can’t imagine how hard it is to stay angry with you right now.”
Violet smiled and watched his face contort in pleasure as she took the rest of him. A small final thrust was all it took before he bottomed out and filled her completely. George brought his hand to her face and caressed her bottom lip in a fierce pattern that said ‘I missed you.’
With wells for eyes, she met his gaze, relishing in the feel of him deep inside her. She’d missed him too, more than he could imagine. Her unbelievably blissful state hit all at once, making a tear roll down her face before she could stop it.
He swept it away and furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
She meant to say ‘Nothing, I’m fine.’ Or perhaps ‘I missed you too.’ A million things came to mind about how absurd the question was because she was incandescently happy. The happiest she’d ever been. Here in this chair where he’d shown her kindness and included her without question into his world of chaos and fun, there were no words for it. Her own inability to be brave had kept them apart and to get a second chance to show him how much she wanted this; how much she wanted him, felt too good to be true.
She meant to say something to quell his fears or maybe even quickly dismiss the question but her heart answered before her mind could.
“I love you.”
George stalled, still inside her, still holding her close. She felt his breath catch in his throat and her own heart drop in the silence. Snow accumulated outside the windows above them. The soft flakes created a phantom noise that could only be described as the gentle night before Christmas. They weightlessly floated down to earth, content simply with existing.
She watched them a moment more before she felt George rest his face in the crook of her neck, and smile.
The next second, he thrust into her, slow and deep, breaking the silence of the room.
“Say it again,” he commanded, thrusting once more, this time a bit faster.
The velvet scratched her back as he began to slowly fuck her in a delicious, toe-curling pattern. It took every last shred of concentration to understand his words and respond.
“I love you,” she chanted again.
And she did. Wholeheartedly and unabashedly. She knew at that moment that he was hers and she’d love him for as long as he’d let her. The weightless feeling in her chest was overwhelming. It compelled her to repeat the three words over and over in breathless moans even as white-hot pleasure scratched every inch of her body.
George pulled his face from her neck and watched her with dark eyes. Between his grunts and moans, she heard him mutter a contraceptive charm and then repeat her. The words were quiet, and slow at first, almost like he couldn’t believe he was saying it. But then his voice grew louder and louder until he drowned her out as she turned into a mess of whimpers and pleas to fuck her harder.
“I love you,” he said. “Violet, I love you so much.”
She lifted a hand to brush the hair from his face and then craned her neck to kiss him. The searing connection was messy and breathless and perfect. They stayed connected through mouth and hips until the building heat made babbling messes of them both.
His thrusts became more erratic and her thoughts became less clear. The burning sensation in her lower abdomen spread like wildfire across her skin from somewhere deep in her veins. It made her legs shake so much she had to wrap them around George to stay still. She couldn’t help but rip her mouth away from his and cry out as the building waves of pleasure overtook the last shred of control she’d held onto. George followed not a moment later, biting onto her collarbone to keep composure as he jerked and spasmed, chanting her name.
They held each other, gasping for air until the feeling subsided. Violet let her arched back settle into the chair and George rested on top of her, wrapping both his arms around her waist and using her chest as a pillow. His eyes opened and closed, brushing her skin with the faint feel of his eyelashes.
Violet felt her breath return to her in a rush of clarity. The snow kept coming and it’d be impossible to go anywhere outside. That was just fine. Perhaps they would stay here, or shack up in George’s room but one thing she knew for certain was that she’d never avoid him again.
Laying in George’s arms felt like a dream. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep at their table in the Great Hall or someone had spiked the punch with a hallucinogen.
She ran her fingers through George’s hair, monitoring every breath and movement he made. He felt real. He definitely felt real.
Just to be sure, she hooked a finger beneath his chin and lifted his face towards hers. His lips spread into a goofy smile, almost like she’d just told him a joke or had something on her face.
“Hi,” she said.
He kissed the palm of her hand. “Hi.”
They stared at one another for a beat and then exploded into a fit of giggles. Her laughter and gulps of air shook them both until she had to push George off of her to get a deep breath. He pulled her up with him, scooping her into his arms. Ignoring her squeal of surprise, he walked them over to a couch near the fire and laid her gently on a pile of cushions.
“Take that off,” she said softly, motioning to his vest and shirt that hung unbuttoned from his torso.
In one swift movement, he stood before her in just his boxers. Her cheeks burned at the realization that she’d left a large wet stain on the front of them. But George didn’t seem to notice or mind as he climbed in beside her, yanking a blanket over the top of them and pulling her to lay on his chest.
A burning desire spurred from the back of her throat as she watched his Adam’s apple bob a few times, almost in a nervous pattern. The freckled skin rippled with the movement and she couldn’t help place a kiss just under his chin.
He groaned as her lips brushed against him. Curious about what else she could do, she licked a long stripe down to his collar bones and kissed her way back up, stopping to occasionally leave little marks that branded him as hers.
“Are you still angry,” she asked finally, bracing herself up on an elbow and touching his forehead with hers.
He closed his eyes and pondered for a moment, dramatically easing a fist beneath his chin.
“Incredibly,” he said with a giggle, after a few torturous seconds.
Violet smiled and swatted at his hand. He caught it in a flash, instantly pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She only winced a little as he repeated the action over and over, getting softer each time as he noticed the bruise that Malfoy left.
“To match your dress?” He asked brushing his thumb along the deep purple color.
Violet couldn’t help but smile. “You did say that violet was my color.”
They giggled at the memory.
“Does it hurt?”
She shook her head, rolling her forehead against his. “Not so much anymore.”
“I do have to say I was surprised,” George mused with a widening smile. “You sure know how to throw a punch,”
Violet laughed at that because she’d just panicked in the moment. There was nothing technical or impressive about the impact she’d imposed upon Malfoy’s face. All she did was ball her fingers into a fist and swing wildly. Truthfully, she was lucky that she’d hit her mark and not pummeled poor Ginny beside her.
“I was just trying to impress you,” she giggled, finding his eyes again and blushing at the intensity pooling there.
“It definitely worked,” he said, before letting his smile fade. “But I should’ve done it for you.”
Violet brushed her fingers along his face in a delicate, comforting pattern. “George, it’s fine —”
He shook his head, staring off into the distance at some memory she couldn’t see. “It’s not, Vi,” the return of her nickname made her heart flutter. “Malfoy’s a git for talking to you like that.”
“Yeah but that’s just what he’s like. Honestly, I’m fine.”
“I know but no one should treat you like that…I shouldn’t have let him treat you like that.”
His hand moved to cup her cheek in earnest. The way his face contorted really made it seem like the memory hurt.
“If he talks to you, speaks your name or so much as fucking looks at you ever again, you tell me and I’ll fucking kill him. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl,” he said tenderly, squeezing her tight.
Violet's face turned bright red but she didn’t think he noticed. It felt insane to get butterflies from something as simple as his voice. Especially in this moment where only his boxers separated them but she couldn’t help it. It’d been months of her begging her heart and head to go back to her peaceful existence before George but she doubted even a memory charm could banish him from her head.
“I can fight my own battles, George,” she mumbled against his skin.
He nodded. “I know. But that doesn’t mean you should have to. Especially when I’m around.”
Violet propped her chin on her forearm and smiled up at him. “And what if you aren’t around?”
He smiled back and leaned forward to brush his lips against hers.
“Not gonna happen, Vi,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again or else you might come up with another idiotic plan to break us up.”
Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?
Sleep carried you through the streets of Riga as the car pleasantly rolled over soft bumps and glided around curves. Bucky sat next to you, and Sam next to him. You guessed Zemo had climbed in front but your heavy eyelids kept you from checking.
Strong arms carried you again into a home but no fur tickled your face so you guessed that it was Sam.
You awoke soon after, in what you thought was the most comfortable bed you’d ever slept in. Sunlight was still visible through the windows on either side of you but you had no clue what time it was.
After figuring out the shower and shuffling in your suitcase for clothes free of blood, you tentatively opened the door of the scarcely decorated room and peeked out.
A long hallway led out into a living room with colorful windows, tiles, and furniture. It was so unlike anything you’d ever thought Zemo was capable of. You wouldn’t normally categorize the man as colorful. He often teetered the line between sullen and thoughtful so you’d imagined his home to be gothic and dramatized.
As if conjured by the thought of him, a door opened behind you. He appeared out of thin air in silent steps and hovered a foot away.
“Do you like it?”
You didn’t turn before answering, fearful that he might look at you differently now. The conversation from the plane came back in fragments while you slept. A barrier between the two of you had been broken down and now this odd, inconvenient connection felt too raw to be real.
“Not quite big enough,” you said. “After flying on a private jet, my tastes have matured.”
His lips grew closer to you, the feeling of his breath on the back of your neck sent your abdomen fluttering. “I have a house in every country. Surely one will satisfy you.”
It was Homer, whoever he was, who wrote it so eloquently.
There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover's whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.
If you said it to him now, he’d know. He’d pull an ancient copy of The Iliad out of some bookcase to find the page and recite it back to you, admitting you were both going mad.
You could imagine debating his vast library of literature over morning coffee and being tormented by his ability to make everything sound so eloquent. He would match you intellectually and you would let him. He would worship your body, brain, and spirit and you would let him.
That kind of life had never crossed your mind before. For a long time, you thought that perhaps that romantic, domestic part of you was missing or broken. But now, you knew that it was because no one had ever inspired it to come alive.
“It takes more than money to satisfy me.”
“I know.”
Electricity ran through you, raising every hair on your body in a delicious feeling of excitement, and nerves.
“Enlighten me about what you think you know about me,” you quoted to him, before turning around to challenge him face to face.
Your heart leaped at the sight of him in a dark blue bathrobe, hair still wet. You tried not to lose the upper hand but you knew he saw your eyes dart to the bit of exposed chest covered in a tuft of dark hair. It would be so easy to run a finger there and touch him how he touched you. But giving in to that desire would dig the both of you deeper into this mistake.
And it was a mistake.
“You value love.”
He exhaled softly and looked at the floor, eyes taking in the space left between you.
A wonderful mistake.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
A shudder ran down your spine as his eyes met yours once again. Even on the balcony, you hadn’t gotten the opportunity to inspect him this close. The photos in his file had shown him with softer features. But this was a different man standing before you. The years in prison had creased his forehead and darkened the skin around his eyes. Tired but mature.
You preferred this version of him though. Without fancy clothes or guns strapped to his sides. The man in front of you now had a dimple in his chin when he smiled and smelled like warmth and tea tree oil. A drop of water fell from his hair and caressed the bridge of his nose before dropping onto his lip, where he swept it away.
“Most think they do but few recognize it’s worth.”
You tore your gaze away from his smirk and nodded to make it seem like you’d been listening.
“I can see that you do, in the way you connect with those around you, even as others attempt to hold you at arm's length. I think if given the chance, you could mesmerize the most feral monsters.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“No,” he paused. “Because I know the harm you would put yourself through in order to tame that wild beast.”
The look he’d given you on the plane, returned. Some somber memory washed over his features, hardening the frown lines that hadn’t been there before his years in prison. It looked hard for him to admit but you couldn’t imagine why.
“You’re calling me careless.”
“I’m calling you altruistic.”
His voice dipped and faded like he was ashamed to say the word.
A voice in the back of your head answered instantly. It whispered a disagreement, to dismiss his words as false. It called you deeply selfish and uncaring. It wouldn’t let you take a compliment or know the kindness of others.
“Very astute observation,” you said, giving him a half-hearted chuckle in the hopes that he’d drop it.
Every time he looked at you, it felt too real. It felt like the version of yourself that he saw, was the one you always wanted to be but something kept you from her. You were afraid that the longer he looked, the more layers he’d be able to permanently peel back and you’d always be stuck with the version of yourself that he’d made possible. It’d be too much when you eventually lost him.
“Allow me one more then.”
With a hand on your arm, he stopped you from turning. His fingers grazed the skin on your good arm, just below the hem of your sleeve. Goosebumps flared as if you’d never been touched by anyone at all. His head had been between your legs and yet, this touch, the one that kept you close just to speak, sparked something magnetic inside you.
A step closer now, he dipped his head and whispered.
“I know that for how much you value love, you do not receive it. Not in the way you want. Not in the way you deserve.”
You watched his lips finish the statement and solidify into a straight line. He waited for a breath before continuing.
“I’m sure the people in your life see you but you strike me as a woman who would rather be known.”
His eyes skated to your forehead before he moved a loose strand of hair from your face in a delicate caress with only the tip of his pinky.
“You want the kind of love that would require someone to memorize each mark on your body, each curve, every hair so that they may worship you properly, even when you’re apart.”
Your knees swayed, either from the pain medication or the intensity of his words. Noticing your imbalance, the man backed you against the wall to keep you steady. His hand released your arm and brushed your jaw.
“Someone who would not shy away from the language of your soul but whose soul speaks in the same manner. Someone whose presence would be enough to make all the burdens of your world melt away because despite it all, you found them in celestial chaos and that is triumph enough. Someone to prove that love is everything you hope it is.”
You exhaled a shaky breath and whispered. “And what’s that?”
He smiled. Not a smirk or snarl. A delicate, somber expression that made your heart heavy and limbs weightless. Only your affection for him kept you in place. This was beyond where it had been 24-hours ago and despite wiser notions, you worried how far you’d let it continue.
“All-consuming. Life-changing. Everything artists, and poets, have promised us. You want someone who would kill for you and die for you in the same breath and thank God for the opportunity.”
You didn’t realize it but you’d begun to slowly nod your head, mimicking the way he drew in close and then moved away. Your lips closed with his and then parted again when he decided that he wasn’t quite finished.
“I see you care for those who would be deemed unlovable by design, and I know that is how you view yourself. You’re afraid that no one would dare to get close enough to see your passion; to love the wildest parts of you. Because you know that normal men — nice men…would be frightened.”
“And what about a gentleman?”
His eyes smoldered, and darkened, there was only a breath between you now.
“Would you like to see what I think of you?”
Unable to tear your gaze away or even open your mouth, you nodded. He elegantly closed the gap between you, pinning you to the wall with his chest and hips against yours, his hands against the wall behind you. It was then you felt how hard he was. A whimper escaped your lips. He responded with a low groan — almost growl but cut the noise off as he captured your lips.
The tension snapped making you dizzy in its wake. He pressed you hard into the wall, devouring your content sighs in growing waves of passion. You met him with enthusiasm and desperation. He tasted sweet, almost like he’d hid sugar beneath his tongue as you explored his mouth.
His hands combed through your hair, raking down the sides of your head to pull you close. You breathlessly let him devour you.
The man you kissed you now, felt different than the one who kissed you on the balcony, and even more different from the one who put his family’s sigil around your neck after you’d first met. This one was starved for something only you could give him. The thought shot panic through your system. This was real.
This was too real.
Voices drifted from down the hall. Zemo’s company often made you forget that other people existed. Not just in the room, but in the world. Sam's voice grew louder, and Bucky responded.
His lips slowed but stayed pressed against yours. You both stood still, monitoring the noise of your other group members, soaking in the last seconds of the kiss.
You pulled away first and then despair hits.
His eyes scan your face in a somber sweep. Neither of you is smiling. And how could you?
If this was normal, he’d back you into the room to your right, and spend the rest of the evening kissing you senseless. If this was normal, there wouldn’t be a pit in your stomach about Sam or Bucky coming around the corner and see you fraternizing with the enemy.
If this was normal, it’d last.
Perhaps, in delusional madness was the only place you’d be together.
“We…we can’t,” you stuttered. “This is impossible.”
Zemo’s fingers held fast to your chin. You didn’t have the heart to jerk away and out of his grip. He studied you for just a moment with his brows furrowed and lips pursed.
You looked up at his eyes wide and pleading but you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing down to his slightly swollen lips and back up again. He did the same, leaving you both in a suspended moment, watching for some tell of what to do next. There was no instruction manual on how to navigate this and even with your training and his overconfidence and international accolades, you were both at a loss.
His thumb brushed against your bottom lip just light enough to tickle.
Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?
It was difficult to appreciate the city views or even the night before as the shipyard collapsed around you.
One second you were running through fire and smoke, and the next, searing pain ripped through your bicep. The shrapnel and spewed toxic lab material were an afterthought as you hit the ground, clutching the place where a bullet grazed you.
The pain made it impossible to get up, open your eyes, or care about broken glass scraping your exposed skin. The smoke left you breathless, making the scream in your throat die before it could alert your friends of your location. You thought that maybe you heard Sam yell your name from somewhere far away — too far away.
Your lungs stopped fighting to scream and began the fight for air. Short puffs were all you could manage. Counting them held off the thoughts of your body behind left in Madripoor for only a little bit before your vision tunneled.
A familiar voice wafted through the chaos before darkness took you.
“There you are,” it had said as you felt strong arms lift you from the rubble.
That was all you could remember as you awoke from a hazy dream.
There was pressure on your arm and even with your eyes closed, you sensed the presence of people looming over you. They spoke but a harsh white noise filled your head, drowning out their words.
As the grogginess faded away, reality hit. You were on a plane. There was no mistaking the familiar rocking and engines rumble. A sickening thought hit you. Was this a military plane taking you back home, or Zemo’s private jet again. If your injurers were enough to land you in a hospital Sam would've called for backup, even in Madripoor.
You squeezed your eyes tight, unwilling to return to reality. This could be the moment you woke up and went back to your normal life.
The last week of your life had felt like a dream. Galavanting through Europe with super soldiers, uniting forces with a notorious villain, and forming a makeshift Avengers.
You still couldn’t decide if Zemo’s involvement made it more dream or nightmare. Either way, you didn’t feel ready to give it up. Opening your eyes meant coming to terms with what happened. This morning at breakfast, nerves had made it impossible to eat. You’d been sure that Zemo would make some mention of what the two of you had done. He could use the information against you, or worse, Bucky and Sam.
The thought of their eyes turning on you with disappointment almost made you keep your eyes closed for the rest of the ride but a sharp pain chose for you. The overwhelming throbbing of your arm shot you back into full consciousness. A guttural groan was all you could muster to alert the looming figures of your state.
“She’s back!”
Sam bent into view. From behind him, you saw the pristine accents of the private plane. Your heart fluttered.
They’d brought you with them.
Sam knelt next to the couch you’d been laid out on and placed a hand on your leg.
“How you feeling?”
Your mouth was too dry to speak so you nodded and took in more of your surroundings. The bathroom was near your feet, so you were facing backward.
A blanket weighed you down but you tried to sit up anyway. Sam’s arm shot out and knocked you back. He yanked the blanket up towards your neck and eyed the edge to make sure it reached your chin. The cool air on your back told you that someone had taken your shirt off to get to the wound.
“Nothing I have not seen before.”
The voice flooded your body with heat, making your cheeks burn. For the first time, you turned to see who was tending to your arm.
Zemo stared at Sam with a smile and continued. “From her dress last night, of course.”
That was the voice you’d heard. That was the voice that had saved you.
It wasn’t Sam or Bucky, it was the man they’d told you to hate. He’d come back through the flames, gunfire, and danger to pluck you out of the wreckage and bring you to safety. And now he healed you with his own two hands. He didn’t look you in the eye or acknowledge you at all as he bent his neck to focus on your wound.
You returned your gaze to Sam and spoke before Zemo made any more taunts or innuendos about last night. For now, you were partially certain that he hadn’t told anyone what happened. Sam’s demeanor might be quite different with you if he had.
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when we land, you need to rest.”
“I’m fine,” your voice came out as a croak. The room around you spun with the exertion of energy, proving your words false.
Sam chuckled and tapped your shin a few times while exchanging words that you couldn’t hear with Zemo. They leaned close and shared a worried glance before Sam entered the main cabin, closing the sliding door behind him.
You felt Zemo's hands at work but the pain subsided. Something had numbed your arm, or perhaps your brain had done you a favor and cut ties with the nerves there altogether.
Alone again, you stared at him, conscious of your hammering heartbeat and the fact that this was the second time you'd been topless in front of him in 24-hours.
“What are you doing?”
“Listen to your comrade. You need sleep.”
His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. His face was more flushed than normal, almost as if he’d been running but his breathing wasn’t heavy behind his firmly set jaw.
“Thank you,” you muttered. “For saving me.”
A frustrated sigh was all he responded with.
Of all the expressions you’d seen of his, you couldn’t understand this one. No smirk formed as he worked. And where his eyes usually told you everything you needed to know, all they communicated was his desperate need for sleep.
You choked a few words out to quell the tension and distract your mind.
“Were you a medic?”
He shook his head. “Our army did not have enough enlisted for such distinction. I was a commander but we had to learn everything.”
“Commander,” you repeated. “Baron. Quite the collection of titles.”
You smiled and raised your eyebrows in jest, noticing that you felt lighter than before. An odd giddy feeling bloomed in your chest, despite the dull pain. He must have given you some sort of pain medication before you woke up.
The drugs continued for you. “I’m just an anomaly investigator so I don’t know how to do all that.”
“I’m sure you could learn.”
“I’d need a teacher.”
He hung his head and you adverted your eyes. Even without the oncoming haziness from the drugs, you knew that this little game of flirtations should stop. You opened your mouth to change the subject but he beat you to it.
“I’m not sure we have enough time.” His voice had a twinge of sadness as he spoke the truth.
Eventually, you’d part ways and the world would be better for it. The mission would be over and he’d have less to worry about with the super-soldier serum destroyed.
“Well, who knows how long it will take to catch Karli and…”
He flashed you a somber look and your voice caught in your throat. He wasn’t talking about the mission. He was talking about the two of you.
That's right. Reality came back into full force then, knocking sense into your head.
He was a criminal who'd be locked up for the rest of his days and you would go back to your full-time job, fighting people like him.
It shouldn’t have been as big of a blow as it was, because you’d only known each other a few days. If the drugs and exhaustion weren’t keeping you firmly in place under the threat of passing out again, you’d run as far away from this man as you could.
He was a criminal. He was not to be trusted.
But he’d saved your life.
He didn’t have to, in fact, it didn’t make an iota of sense that he did. But the words he’d whispered on the balcony floated back to you.
Had he meant it all?
His strained voice invaded your pestering thoughts.
“Suffering by nature or chance never seems so painful as suffering inflicted on us by the arbitrary will of another,” he said, caressing your bare skin one last time before tucking your arm underneath the blanket. “Do you know who said that?”
You shook your head, ruffling your hair with the pillow.
“Arthur Schopenhauer. The philosopher of pessimism.”
The fresh stitches scratched against the fabric as you turned towards him.
“A terrible choice for a man in prison,” you whispered.
He played with a roll of gauze in his hands, turning it over and over. The muscles of his jaw flexed and clenched as he sorted through his thoughts before speaking.
“Is it surprising though? For a man with a life sentence?”
He met your eyes then. The hard glare almost made you flinch.
Your heart ached for him. You knew firsthand the harm the Avenger had caused, but you also knew it could’ve been worse. The eradication of Sokovia had been to avoid the destruction of the world. But that had been his family, his home, his world. You knew his vision had tunneled because of what he’d gone through. A smart, military man knew the cost of peace but resented who had to pay.
Did he not think that was what everyone who had to pull a trigger in the name of peace thought of? Did he think that made him different from the Avengers?
Again, the drugs moved your mouth before you could think better of your words.
“Maybe we can push for better arrangements? Your assistance to the US must count for something —“
He raised his hand to silence you before you could finish the thought.
“That opportunity passed as soon as you assisted my escape. You know, as well as I how this will end. It is not the United States that is most concerned with my sentence but those who are will insist upon a worse cell, where they do not negotiate for amenities or comfort.”
Your stomach dropped with the realization. “The Raft.”
He was right. You knew he was. In all the chaos, Wakanda hadn’t crossed your mind, but this was a betrayal of mass proportions. His life sentence was their revenge and they wouldn’t take his brief freedom lightly. You couldn’t blame them of course. He’d assassinated their king in cold blood, in front of the world.
Prison had seemed like a joke to him before. When you’d first spoken to him in his cell with Bucky, it almost seemed amusing. Now the weight of his reality seemed to have set in. You wondered what changed.
“Do you not think you deserve it…your sentence?”
He squinted and stared over your head towards the windows. “That is not the question.”
His words felt the same as the bullet that had hit your arm; sharp, and perfectly aimed.
Normally your banter felt like a dance. There was no point to get across, or set path. You simply swayed back and forth, feeling each other out. But this time, it felt like he had something to say but was unwilling to go through the elegant waltz that you usually did.
The realization struck like lightning.
“Whether you’ll serve it,” you asked hesitantly, hoping for the first time in your conversations with him that you were wrong. His eyes gave nothing away but the hint of a smirk ghosted his lips.
Warning bells rang in your head, overwhelming your thoughts and any willpower to be careful with your words.
“Helmut, you’d be insane to escape the raft and even crazier to tell me about it.”
His eyes widened at the sound of his name.
“But I am not in the raft, am I?”
You stared at him in silence, failing to hide your angry expression.
“Perhaps, I never will be,” he finished with a raise of his eyebrows.
There it was.
He flinched as you brought your good arm up to swat his leg.
“Why would you say that,” you hissed.
He caught your hand, lowering it back down to your side. His fingers lingered around yours, caressing the back of your hand in a random pattern. It was then his smirk reappeared. Whether it was because of how your fingers gravitated towards his, or your anger, was unclear.
“I thought you might like to know.”
You shook your head and dropped his hand. “You’re insane.”
The Zemo that everyone else knew returned right before your eyes. He lived to taunt everyone and everything. You’d only ever seen the mask drop for you but now it was back up.
“No heavy lifting for a while, yes?”
The change in his voice was a show for the others as he stood and spoke loud enough to fill the cabin.
To hell with the pain. You ripped off the blankets and sat up. Thankfully, you’d been mistaken before, you weren’t topless, a thin sports bra kept you from being exposed.
“Zemo —”
“I do think it will heal in a few days —”
“— that would get you killed.”
He busied himself with something and paid you no mind as he spoke.
“— so the hospital in Riga won’t be necessary.”
You used the rest of your energy to shove him. Hard. All your strength went into it. All your frustration with his past decisions that separated you and the future ones that might keep him from you still. There was no way for you to be together and so you put all the maddening anguish into his back.
He hardly registered the blow as he spun, bringing his face inches from yours.
“Do you plan to be a criminal for the rest of your life? Is being on the run better than serving time for something you did?”
His eyes kept his concerned doctor mask for a second and then you saw the damn break. His iris’s widened, making an angry abyss of his warm eyes. You had no choice but to sit back down as he marched forward and braced an arm on the back of the couch, hovering over you.
“Something I did?” He asked in a dangerous tone.
You held his gaze and sunk into the cushions. Fear. You should’ve felt fear but a familiar heat rose from between your legs. You willed it away and focused on his quirked mouth, almost quivering with anger.
“Was it I who destroyed a country — thousands of lives? I, who created that hellish serum that makes gods out of man? I, who unleashed them on the world without a leash?”
He paused and leaned closer, waiting for an answer.
“No,” you whispered.
“One man receives life in prison while a band of thugs runs free, wreaking havoc on earth and calling it justice. They are your friends, are they not? That is your side. So why would you, S.W.O.R.D agent, fighter for the United States, Avenger, care about my sentence?”
His nostrils flared as he hissed and anger burned in his eyes. You could’ve retreated from the accusation that you were the same as those you worked with. But it wasn’t true. It might have been foolish to think that you knew him but the delusion made you speak softy, and tame the beast.
“Because I know what you’re doing.”
He flinched at the words, offended by the meaning and delicate tone. Again, you wondered the last person to show him any kindness or regard him with gentle eyes.
“Enlighten me about what you think you know.”
His jaw was tense when you brought your face closer to his and spoke in nothing more than a whisper.
“You obsess over revenge in the hopes that it will fill the holes in your heart left by loss. I know that you think keeping yourself distracted will heal you but it’s not true. The harder you run away from all that pain, the worse it’ll be when it finally catches up.”
There was more anger in his face when you finished than there was when you started. He stood and straightened his jacket before clearing his throat, unwilling to let you finish.
You tried to get up and follow but blood rushed to your head as soon as you stood up. The room spun and your vision tunneled. The roar of white noise washed over you again, threatening to send you back into unconsciousness.
Steady hands were on you in an instant, making sure you didn’t fall. Despite everything, Zemo reached out and folded you into his chest. One arm looped around your waist, and the other tentatively held up your injury.
“Lie down, liebling,” he whispered, not looking you in the eye.
He laid you down and pulled the blanket back up to cover your torso. You tried to focus by counting your breaths and watching the man who made good on his promise to be sweet as he looked for something in his bag.
He came close again and silently helped you pull one of his sweaters over your head. You hissed in pain as he straightened your arm through the sleeve and he made a disapproving look as if it hurt him as well.
He stood to leave but you held onto his wrist.
“Distractions won’t heal you, Helmut. Nothing — no one can,” you said through the haze, searching for him in your clouded vision. “Only you.”
You meant it, deeply. Even though you longed to be someone that could put broken things back together. You meant it, despite knowing that it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Zemo withdrew from your space and sat the chair opposite, watching you from afar as the plane began its descent. The words he’d said when he’d found you played over and over in your head as you watched him too. His expression was thoughtful and less angry than before. He looked to be mulling something over, and you wondered if your words had made a difference but it was impossible to tell. Sleep threatened to take you again, but you fought it off, opting for a staring contest with the man you couldn’t ever seem to figure out.
It wasn’t until the plane was safely on the ground that Zemo moved.
He crossed the plane to you like a rubber band being flung across the room before tucking one arm underneath your shoulder blades and the other under your knees, scooping you into a bridal carry. Eyes level now, he drew in close and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
“You underestimate yourself,” was all he said before walking out into the cabin, towards the exit.
The door opened before you could object and both Sam and Bucky’s faces fell immediately.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Zemo ignored Bucky’s protest and pushed through them to descend the stairs. The sun was too bright so you shut your eyes and leaned into the man holding you. The man who had admitted that you might be enough to heal him. Your heart ached at the impossibility of it but you let yourself live in the fantasy for a little longer.
“James, are you not a gentleman?”
“She hurt her arm, she can walk fine,” Bucky yelled from behind you, stomping down the stairs.
Zemo’s chest rumbled as he spoke. “The question is not can she do it, but whether she should have to.”
Sam piped up, his voice exhausted from the journey. “Put her down, Zemo.”
The man didn’t listen, of course, and crossed the tarmac before setting you down gently a step away from the opened car door. You hobbled in and looked him in the eyes a final time. He no longer looked to be mulling over his thoughts, but rather, like he’d decided something.
“Chivalry may not be dead but it does seem to have many enemies,” he said with a wink, before closing the door.
Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?
The hypnotic bass and Zemo's enthusiastic dance moves almost got you carried away. But over the bouncing crowd, you saw Sharon, Bucky, and Sam on the stairs, looking for you.
“Shit,” you mumbled, breaking the trance. “We gotta go.”
Zemo followed your line of sight and turned to lead you back to the group in silence. You try to hide the disappointment on your face.
“We found him,” Sharon yelled over the music upon your approach.
The five of you went over the plan for tomorrow back in Sharon’s suite. You doubted that even with your experience, you could’ve found Dr. Nagel without Sharon's help. In the states, it was easy to pick a needle out of a haystack, because you always knew what you were looking for. But here, everyone was a criminal. Uncharted territory where you had to find the sharpest needle amongst thousands.
“You good?”
Sam’s voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up and noticed the dissipating group. Sharon showed Bucky to his room, and Zemo sat with his eyes glued to a book on the couch. Only Sam remained standing in front of you, looking like he was about to pass out.
“I’m fine,” you assured him. “Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”
He chuckled and nodded in agreement. “We gotta get the hell out of here. Madripoor has aged me at least ten years.”
“Me too. I miss places where being a criminal makes you the odd one out, not the other way around.”
“Goody two-shoes,” he teased before turning to find his room.
Sharon waved him on from down the hall and they got back into it about her pardon and what she’d missed in the states.
Your attention shifted to the only other person in the room. Zemo’s eyes wasted no time abandoning his book and landing on you as soon as you were alone.
“The Odyssey,” you asked, pointing to his book. “I didn’t take you for someone who enjoys fiction.”
He smiled at the attention and made room for you on the couch.
“I often find that there are elements of truth in every fantasy. The human spirit is sometimes better examined by poets than by professors. This, for instance, is a brilliant study on heroes.”
“Hmm, studying heroes? An attempt to know thy enemy?”
He laughed and turned to you with his elbow up on the back of the couch, bringing him less than a foot away from your face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the lights down the hall go out. There were no interruptions, or easy outs, now. All that was left was you, and the only man who’d ever made you truly nervous.
“Y/N, if you were in Odysseus’s place, content and immortal, would you give it up to go back home?”
“You’re asking me if I’d abandon my legacy and family to shack up on an island with some mistress?”
He chuckled and nodded in approval. “Very wise. But what does he gain by leaving? Struggle? Hardship? Mortality?”
You tilted your head to match his. “Are you telling me that you’d stay on the island?”
His expression shifted for the first time since you’d stepped foot in Madripoor. The overconfident, smirking Baron dissolved into a man.
A man who hid the sense of riotousness that he carried with dramatic flair. A man whose charm and wit seemed fabricated.
This man now, fighting off sleepy eyes and grappling with the moral quandary posed, seemed burdened. You wondered if his quest for justice would ever get to be too much. After all the destruction he’d caused, could he still see himself as the exactor of fairness? Were the Avengers still his enemy? Were you?
“No,” he confessed looking down at the copy in his hands.
Your lips twitched but you didn’t smile. “You’d make the hard choice — the hero’s choice if it came down to it.”
He looked almost somber at your words and nodded.
“In another life…perhaps.”
His voice wavered, almost as if he regretted saying it out loud. The briefing that Sam and Bucky had given you about him flashed in your mind.
A hero's choice was the right thing to do; the hard thing to do. You knew that he was a soldier before everything happened. Just like you.
Was that not a hero’s choice?
He tore the Avengers apart in an attempt to stitch up his own heart. An eye for an eye. Avenging his country because its destruction had been glossed over by the world. His loss fueled his anger but he was more capable than most. A man without armor, or mystical abilities was able to wreak havoc on those who had wronged him.
Was that heroism?
If losing those you love didn’t permit revenge, you weren't sure what did.
He broke the silence by tapping his knuckle on the book.
“It is the perfect testament to the valiance of heroes,” he continued. "But, I must say that the wisest thing Odysseus did was marry his wife.”
You laughed and nodded, remembering how she saved the day. Without her, Odysseus’s homecoming would’ve been much more perilous for him.
“I often find that behind every great man is an even better woman.”
He smirked and didn’t miss a beat. “Like you with…your Avengers.”
“I stand beside them,” you corrected.
He raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Semantics."
You gave him an eye roll in return.
He smiled then, wider than you had ever seen. It almost made him seem shy. Perhaps it was because he was making a genuine point, masked in humor.
You were well aware of your importance to this mission and yet burdened by the fact that it didn’t make you a member of their special club. When this was all over, you wouldn’t be an Avenger, or anywhere close. You’d go back to S.W.O.R.D to wait until called upon again. It hadn’t occurred to you before, but there was a pang of sadness there where the thought rested. It’d be a mistake to let Zemo know but it seemed to be too late.
“You’re making fun of me.”
His hand brushed yours. “No. I am merely expressing my concerns about your allegiances.”
Still aware of the small amount of alcohol left in your system, you looked away from his quirked moving lips.
“Enlighten me, Baron. What wrong decisions do you think I’m making?”
Frozen in place, you let him brush his fingers along your wrist to your arm. He took his time, tracing patterns on your skin and inspecting his work with an unwavering gaze. Only when his thumb caressed your cheek, and his hand landed on your neck did he look you in the eyes again. The air in your lungs was gone and your body betrayed you with a furious eruption of butterflies.
“Living a hero’s life,” he said somber-eyed and serious.
Your heart rate quickened. As if you’d learned nothing in S.W.O.R.D about manipulation, you were back to watching his lips. They parted slightly, as if he had something else to say but thought better of it.
A hero.
You didn't feel like one.
A sidekick, maybe. But even then, no one knew your name. No one sang your praises at home or breathed a sigh of relief knowing you were out there in the world fighting evil. It seemed that the only one who thought of you as more than an assistant was Zemo.
Your heart felt heavy then. The two of you were impossible. An inconceivable pair brought together by chance.
But that didn’t make his dark eyes any less enticing or his words any less intoxicating.
That didn’t make you any further from his lips.
He was a breath away, but so was your own destruction.
In another life, the island might tempt you.
“Look,” you said glancing past him to find something to change the subject. “It’s a full moon.”
Without sparing him another glance, you crossed the floor in four quick steps to the large windows. Never one to give up easily, you heard him follow close behind.
He beat you there and pushed open the glass door before gesturing towards the balcony in silence.
You looked down at your feet until the skyline drew your eyes. The plan to diffuse the tension had not worked in the slightest. The moonlit balcony overlooking the beautiful city had only made it worse.
You heard him stop a few feet from you and then settle on the lone armchair. The reality of the situation hit you like a train. Away from the windows, you had privacy. This high up no one would see you and everyone else was in bed. You'd meant to creep out of the lion's den but instead, you'd locked yourself in.
“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to,” Zemo mused from behind you.
“Carl Sanburg,” you confirmed, so he knew you didn't think he'd made it up.
Both of you were silent then. Swaying in the tension you'd built. Sanity pulling you back inside, inexplicable hope keeping you planted in place.
“Are you lonely, Baron?”
The words fell from your lips more delicate and intimate than you had meant them to. You let slip that you cared about his answer. That you might even care to cure him of the ailment.
“Me? No.”
You turned and scoffed.
“Liar. You were in a cell for years and you hardly talk to anyone now that you’re out.”
He leaned back in the chair, arms on either rest and a leg crossed with the ankle of his right knee. His demeanor was harmless in the same way that a predator poised to pounce was. Elegant, still, and ready for the kill.
“Not true,” he corrected. “I talk to you.”
“One person isn’t enough,” you said, taking a step closer.
Were you walking into disaster? Or being pulled? You couldn't tell the difference between his seduction and your own reckless desires any longer.
“The right person though…can be,” he half-whispered. “And you, Y/N, are more than I deserve.”
He gazed up at you from the chair. Kings throughout history, in war-won golden thrones and elegant capes, paled in comparisons to how regal he looked. Anointed with a crown of moonlight, ruling over whomever he pleased.
Your eyes widened with the admission. “Baron — ”
“Helmut, please.” He stood then and met you near the railing, his hand grazing your hip. “Only if for tonight.”
You shook your head, knowing this was a bad idea. His hand made its way to your waist regardless. He pulled you against his chest before searching your eyes for any signal that you were going to run. You knew he’d find nothing. You knew you mirrored his look of lust with blown pupils and flushed cheeks.
“Have I gone too far,” he whispered, bringing his other hand to brush loose hair behind your ear.
“No,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer and brush his lips to your cheek and jaw.
“Tell me if I do,” he whispered again before finally capturing your lips with his.
You uttered no complaints as his tentative kiss turned bruising and possessive. His arms wound around your waist, crushing you into him. But you needed to feel closer. He grunted as you sprung to action, flinging your arms around his neck, deepening the desperate kiss. He tasted like whiskey and something sweet. A cool breeze brushed against the exposed parts of your body. You let your hands wander beneath his coat, chasing warmth and proximity. He let you do as you please, only insisting that his lips stayed on yours.
You let out a whimper as his hand explored the front of your dress. He stopped to press his warm hand against your breast, before holding your face.
It was then that he pulled away, steadying your searching lips with a grip on your chin.
“Ich esse nicht,” he sighed, kissing a pattern to your ear. “Ich schlafe nicht, ich tue nichts anderes, als an dich zu denken.”
His teeth grazed your pulse point, leaving you gasping for air.
“I don’t speak German,” you managed to stutter out.
A hand slid up the back of your dress, gripping the zipper before undoing it in one swift motion and the fabric fell to the floor. The cool air seized your naked torso for only a moment before Zemo pressed himself against you again. The coat you’d complained about before, now provided warmth and security. You tipped your head back, almost over the edge of the balcony as he continued worshipping your neck and chest.
“I don’t eat, I don’t sleep,” he said between wet open-mouthed kisses on your breasts. His hot mouth left purple spots that cooled instantly in the chilly night air.
“I do nothing but think of you,” he finished before toying with your hardened nipple between his teeth.
You moaned then, louder than you should’ve, and let your eyes flutter open. The world was upside-down but you made no motion to move. You were making Madripoor proud by being pressed up against a balcony by an international criminal.
Utterly pleased with himself, Zemo raised his face back towards yours, leaning you both over the edge.
“Shhh liebling,” he cooed.
He pulled you back over, kissing your shoulder before removing his jacket and draping it over you. Each brush of his lips feeling more improper than the last.
“We would not want your friends to see you like this.”
In the next second, he swept you off of your feet and hoisted you into his strong arms. You watched the world sway around you and then settle when he placed you on the lounge chair, letting you get some warmth back from the coat and cushions.
He draped one of your legs over an armrest, exposing you to him except for a thin pair of underwear.
“Not with you spread open for me,” he growled. He towered over you for only a moment before kneeling between your legs. The man whose stature made him the tallest amongst giants; the most important in any room he chose, knelt before you.
“What would they say,” he mumbled in a trace. His hands gripped both of your thighs, causing an eruption of goosebumps across your whole body. “If they saw you like this, with me?”
He looked up at you then, raising an eyebrow, and tracing the inside of your thigh with his thumb.
You answered him breathlessly. “They’d tell you to stop.”
“And what would you say to that?”
His voice sent shockwaves through your system. Dark and sultry, with a hint of danger. You threw your head back again, barely able to keep a single thought straight. Your body shuddered but you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the need for his touch. When you looked back to him, he was surveying your body with the hunger of a starved wolf.
“Would you want me to stop?” His voice was gentle and sweet then, asking in earnest.
“Meine Liebe," he taunted you for consent as he flashed a smirk and pulled something from his pocket.
Cold metal grazed your thigh. A moan escaped your throat as he unsheathed a serrated knife and caressed your skin with the dull side.
“I wouldn’t want you to stop,” you gasped, almost vibrating with anticipation. “I don’t want you to stop — Helmut — please don’t stop.”
He chucked again, before focusing his attention on the area between your legs. You bucked slightly as the icy knife slid underneath the fabric. He made one strong slash upwards and you felt the fabric fall away from your wet core. One of his hands gripped your ass, but only for a second before he tore the rest of the fabric from your body.
“How could I ever withhold something from you, liebling?” His nose grazed your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to where you needed him most. It was only a moment before you felt his breath between your legs.
“How cruel it would be,” he growled. You moaned and slapped a hand over your mouth as he kissed your sensitive bundle of nerves. “To not give you everything.”
His tongue swirled against you in a tantalizing pattern, stroking you deliciously. He licked you methodically like he was reading the blueprint of your body right then and there. He held each thigh in a punishing grip, pressing you deeper into the cushions as he made a meal of you. The stars above your head blurred and the universe shifted.
If this was your destruction then it was illustrious. You'd do it over and over again until you landed in a cell right next to him.
“Helmut,” you whined with a heaving chest.
“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled between flicks of his tongue. “And it is yours.”
You would’ve begged him to let you cum but he beat you to it, making your back arch and mouth fall open in ecstasy. You trembled beneath him, over and over, but he didn’t let up. Your legs strained from being extended by his unflinching hands. You tried to stutter something out to him but no sound came except for content sighs and haphazard gasps. But his eyes remained closed regardless of the noise.
Without his mouth on you, he would’ve been mistakable for a good Christian, deep in prayer. Brow's furrowed in focus and devotion; lips moving in silent divine appeals. Only he could make you feel worthy of an alter. You couldn't picture anyone ever worshipping you in the same way again. It was his, you thought. I am his.
Lost in pleasure and shock, you reached up to run your nails against his scalp. Only then did he release you, and raise to meet your waiting lips as they trembled.
“You,” was all you could manage to whisper. “Only you.”
He pulled you from the seat, to wrap your legs around him. You brought your forehead to his and let him pepper you with chaste kisses.
“When I have you,” he said, before pulling the coat around you again. “It will be in a proper bed.”
You stared at him, confused and overwhelmed. The space between your legs ached with a longing to be filled but he let your legs fall away, and stood up.
“We can’t…I mean not now — they’ll hear.”
Zemo smiled and nodded while looking for something on the ground. After a moment of searching, he picked up the torn pieces of the red underwear you had been wearing. Before you could retrieve it, he pocketed the shorn fabric and stared you straight in the eyes.
“Worry not, Y/N,” he purred, reaching a hand out to help you up. “We have all the time in the world.”
Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?
The plane completed its descent, jolting you awake and away from the dream of what happened next.
His hands inside your dress and the moment in the evening that stopped feeling like an act.
“We are here,” he confirmed, gripping your hand and leading you from the plane.
The air wasn’t cold anymore and smelled like spring. It was May in the states and DC had felt the same so it was possible that you were still in the northern hemisphere. The United States and Canada weren’t options for the criminal, neither was Germany.
Italy?
He spoke to the driver in German and although you recognized the words, you had no clue what they meant. A short drive later and the car stopped. He untied the blindfold and you took in the sight of a lone chateau at the end of a lavish driveway. He opened the door and motioned for you to follow.
“No gun,” you questioned, eyeing his relaxed demeanor.
He smiled. Although you were angry and the sun was too bright, you were glad to finally be able to see something again.
“Not necessary,” he nodded at the rolling hills around them. “Where would you run?”
You glared at him, letting him know that this was still against your will and that any familiarity you’d had, was gone.
“You’re very confident that I prefer your company over death,” you hissed, eyeing the wilderness.
“You’ve come with me this far.”
Your eyes met his. It was impossible to know what he was thinking beneath the stern exterior.
“You could’ve screamed for your comrades,” he shrugged.
“There was a gun aimed at my temple.”
“Or jumped out of the plane.”
Again, you glared at him. If looks could kill.
“This way,” he said, clearing his throat. “Please.”
You followed him, debating if you could make it to the car or even out of the compound before Zemo shot you or caught up.
The terrain was unfamiliar, and now you were in a foreign country, alone and uncounted for.
Zemo slowed and matched your snail’s pace, signaling that it was time to hurry up. You moved slower despite his hand on your back and he clicked his tongue. You made the journey last as long as possible until there was no choice but to cross the threshold.
“Your room is up the stairs and to the right,” he said, eyes on your face.
You stormed up the wooden stairs, making each groan with your anger.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” he called after you.
You slammed your door in response. The wall shook and you half hoped it’d bring the whole house down, taking you and Zemo with it.
An hour later, you entered the small and intimate dining room. A round table sat in a nook surrounded by windows, looking out onto the cliff-like drop below. You didn’t even glance at the food before you. There was only Zemo, and convincing him to let you go.
“Is your room to your liking?”
You scoffed. “My cell is fine, thank you.”
Unfortunately, your warden was fond of conflict, and difficult people. The words only seemed to intrigue him further. His eyes danced over your face, glancing down towards the exposed skin on your chest and then up to your lips.
“They say a pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity,” he mused.
“I’m a pessimist because of intelligence,” you quoted.
His eyes twinkled again, he knew, as you did, that it came from an Italian philosopher. It was applicable but also, a guess.
He raised his glass towards you before finishing the quote. “But an optimist because of will.”
In true Zemo fashion, he neither confirmed nor denied your suspicion. You lifted your glass of red wine towards him with a scowl.
You ate in silence for a while, you, staring out the window, Zemo, eyeing you. You made it half an hour before the weight of his stare became unbearable.
“So what’s your game plan, with all this,” you asked, waving your fork to yourself and then to him and the house.
“Do not ask questions you already know the answer to,” he chided. “It is beneath you.”
“My life for your freedom.”
He sighed then, almost like he didn’t like that answer either. It was the right one, you both knew that but it looked like it pained him. Seeing that flicker of humanity hurt more than you wanted to admit. It'd be easier if the man beneath the mask wasn't real. It'd be easier if he'd been lying and there weren’t two versions of him. You wished that there wasn’t a charming and passionate man beneath the evil Baron facade, but there he was again.
“Prison is not an option for me,” he admitted, laying down his fork. “But I am sorry that it had to be you.”
You nodded and scoffed, rolling your eyes for good measure.
“I do hope to make you comfortable, in the meantime — ”
“Before you kill me,” you interrupted.
He clicked his tongue again and glared. It was the plan he orchestrated and yet, he didn’t seem to like it.
“I may not have to,” he corrected.
You laughed then, with little care for his strained expression. “Have you met the Dora Milage? They’ll go through whoever they need to, to avenge their king. They don’t know me nor do they care about me. You don’t have the winning hand that you think you do.”
“You are forgetting about your colleagues. They've lost one of their own. If not loyalty, then pride will make them come for you,” he corrected.
Again, you smiled at his miscalculation. “I’m a foot soldier, not an avenger; not a super soldier; not one of them.”
"There is no such thing as small people, only small — ”
“Great,” you bellowed. “More wisdom! Your riddles and literature are useless now. You should’ve spent more time studying negotiations while you were incarcerated. Why didn’t you take Bucky? Or Caps little assistant? The US would’ve been at your feet for them back. You could’ve gotten a pardon and a reward!”
“I have no need for a reward,” he spat.
Your chest was heaving, out of anger, out of nerves, but most of all because the man in front of you was once again, impenetrable.
“Or a pardon from the great United States,” he continued, almost in a whisper.
Your eyes snapped to his but he avoided your gaze. He swirled his wine and stared off into space before inspecting you again. Something was missing, something that didn’t make sense.
The glimmer of humanity returned, despite his best efforts to hide it.
He’d been the main orchestrator of his outbreak from jail. He had private homes, apartments, transportation, weapons, cars, everything. He could run forever but he didn’t need you to do it. How was this life any different than what it would be if he was free? He watched you come to the realization and winced as it clicked into place.
“Why am I here,” you whispered, squinting.
He was silent and looked back to the window.
“Zemo,” you whispered. “Look at me.”
Funny enough, he followed the order.
His lips moved in silence but words didn’t escape.
“Why did you choose me?”
He pursed his lips in exasperation. It was no secret that he liked having the upper hand but he’d shown you all his cards a moment ago. You wondered why he hadn’t bothered to lie.
“I chose you because they wouldn’t — they won’t.”
He stood up and leaned against the sill, sipping wine in small swigs and staring out at the greenery.
“You would die for your country, Y/N,” he explained. “I find that admirable — heroic even but the problem, for me, is that they would let you.”
“Let me?” You repeated the phrase slowly, trying to understand the point.
He let out a huff. “If you caught a grenade in the name of bettering America, what would happen?”
You cocked your head in question. “I die? Maybe get a Purple Heart?”
“And then what? Would they bat an eye before rejoicing you — celebrating you and your sacrifice? Encouraging others to do the same in your name?” He paused and stared at you.
“No….no they wouldn’t because your death would mean that their wars are working. Another name in the long list of people that they were willing to gift to the god of war.”
“That sacrifice is what I signed up for — it’s my choice,” you explained, confused about where he was taking this.
He nodded and yet made no amends or clarification. The angry veins in his forehead receded and his gaze flitted away like he couldn’t bear to continue. You suddenly wondered if he'd even sent a ransom note, or whatever kidnappers do. The look in his eyes, told you no. The tone of his voice told you that he might not ever.
“Then you are doing your duty as a prisoner of war here, with me.”
He smiled and your anger dissipated. You lunged to grab onto any remaining frayed piece of it but there was nothing left. All those years of training and fighting, all to succumb to an evil man in a fitted turtleneck. You hardened your expression in an attempt to remain vexed.
“Your circumstance could be worse,” he concluded.
“And what of your circumstance?”
Silence ate up space between you. His gaze was set on you once again and then it seemed like you were the only two in this room, this home…the world.
“Better than it has been in a long time, schatzi,” he sighed.
“How so,” you asked, pushing for information.
He shrugged. “I am free and I am alone….with you.”
You winced and shook your head. “Don’t,” you whispered.
His brows furrowed. “In previous interactions, you did not seem to resent my…affections, Y/N.”
Butterflies ravaged your sternum, bringing memories of the night at Sharon’s with it. If it was different, if he had turned over a new leaf, then it would be easier to admit your feelings.
“Is this your version of affection? Holding me hostage?”
“Yes,” he breathed, coming to sit next to you, so close you thought he might touch you.
“Let’s not…talk about it,” you whispered, trying to push away the longing in your chest.
“I would like to,” he pushed.
All you could do was stare. The memories should've stayed in Madripoor. It should live in your brief collective drunk past. But you could see that it weighed on him as heavy as it did on you.
“That is fine,” he sighed. “I can talk if you will listen.”
You nodded once. The residual affections plagued you and it was impossible to keep your heartbeat at bay. The thought that he might feel the same was exhilarating and terrifying.
“It was you who assisted me with my escape plan. You who tracked Karli. You who guessed that I’d betray you on countless occasions. You who ensured that we evaded Captain America as long as we did. You who played your part so well that everyone in Madripoor thinks I have taken a wife.”
“Your point,” you hissed, deadpan.
“The super soldier solution does not increase intelligence, as you know. Nothing does. Even all the books in the world cannot alter what is already there. Either you are born with the glorious burden, or you live in ignorant bliss,” he explained.
He reached up and brushed his thumb along your forehead. “I know your burden, Y/N, because I share it.”
A stuttering breath left your chest. Compliments were the easiest forms of manipulation. You’d studied it, known it, resisted it in many years of training but this felt different. Everything he did and said, felt different.
“I do my job Zemo, that’s it.”
“You excel,” he corrected. “You make the rest of your colleagues look like newborns and yet they don’t...value you. Not like I do, Liebling.”
“If this is about the incident at Sharon’s,” you said, recognizing the nickname. “It was a mistake.”
He chuckled. “An optimist would call it a happy accident.”
“I’d call it life-ruining,” you said, trying to decipher the feelings of anger and something warm inside your chest. “If it led you to this.”
“I understand if you hate me,” he explained. “But you should know that living here with your hatred will be akin to breathing, for me, if it means you are safe. Natural and life-bringing.”
Your face gave nothing away but he’d stunned you.
“The evil baron is becoming less and less of a character.”
“They say hate itself is a version of love,” he mused, ignoring your words and staring at your lips.
The word knocked thought and common sense back into your head. This wasn’t love. This was ownership and selfishness. A myriad of terrible things that had tangled you both in this mess. It’d spurred from fascination and proximity but for love to grow, there has to be more. There has to be more good than bad. You looked around the home, owned by the man in front of you. Both beautiful, breathtaking even. But not enough to trade your freedom for.
“How convenient for someone with so many enemies,” you hissed.
His eyes squinted then and the Baron who commanded respect in Madripoor returned. There was this side of him too, you reminded yourself. And it seemed to be winning over the side who loved books and witty conversation.
“Are you my enemy, Y/N?”
For the first time, you didn’t know what to say. Before this, it wasn’t safe to call him anything other than an enemy but now? He ruined any chance of normalcy or redemption. The question lingered between you and it struck you how close he’d gotten. It would take almost nothing to start a repeat of the night at Sharon’s. But this was a different man.
“I didn’t have to be,” you breathed before breaking eye contact. You gave him no time to answer before fleeing back to your room.
Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?
“Don’t scream,” a voice whispered in your ear, low and slow. “I do not wish to harm you.”
His hand wrapped around your mouth and the other snaked around your waist. The cool metal of a gun pressed into your ribs. He pulled you tight and fast against his body with ease.
You knew who it was, of course. It was the only person in the room not fighting in the pit of madness. The duel between a super soldier, the new Captain America, and the Dora Milaje hadn't been tempting. But it’d been him to grab your arm to pull you away from the fighting when Sam had yelled for help and now you knew why.
“Don’t do this,” you hissed against his hand.
Zemo pulled you backward, inch by agonizing inch.
You clicked your heels against the floor hoping to knock something over along the way. Anything to get Sam and Bucky’s attention. No one even glanced your way.
“None of that, Liebling,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. His grip on your waist tightened as you passed through the bathroom threshold. What was worse, you wondered. Seeing your team; your friends disappear behind the closed double doors. Or the goosebumps from Zemo’s breath hot on your neck.
With his gun aimed at you, he knelt near the bathtub and pushed it aside to reveal an escape hatch in the floor. You watched him unlatch it and then smirk, surprised that his plan was going so well. That smirk made your blood boil.
“I’m more hassle than I’m worth,” you warned, casting a hesitant glance down the manhole.
He motioned for you to jump down first. “But you are excellent collateral.”
The noise of battle continued beyond the doors, much to your disappointment. They weren’t going to notice in time. Sam and Bucky had looked out for you but their alliance superseded any with you. Sam had only known you for a few months, and Bucky even less. You shot a prayer into the ether that they'd think of you if only this one time.
“You overestimate my importance to them,” you hissed.
Zemo looked up with dark and serious eyes. Usually, when aimed at you, they were less so. You wouldn't have considered him a friend, by any means. But in the last few weeks, he'd become a quiet, witty companion, who infuriated you less than most. Especially when Sam and Bucky spent most of the mission bickering about the plans you had made.
“Perhaps you underestimate yourself,” he cooed, shaking his head.
Sewage stink hit your senses immediately. This would not be pleasant. The drop was too short to give you the time to make a run for it. A second after your feet hit the ground, Zemo returned his gun to your head, with a smile.
“This way.”
Fighting was pointless, that much you knew. You hadn’t been recruited by Sam for your fighting abilities, as Zemo hadn’t been recruited for his. You were handy with a gun but tracking and strategy were your specialties. They’d taken you far in the military, and then as an anomaly investigator and agent with SWORD. And now, they’d brought you here, kidnapped, with a gun to your head in the back of Zemo’s car.
The driver was off towards the airstrip without any further commotion. You watched the road behind you, hopeful to see Sam or Bucky run up on the car. You could've even settled for a Dora Milaje with murder in their eyes and Zemo’s name on their tongue but it was empty.
Once on the plane, you sat in the furthest seat towards the back. Angry, hurt, and nervous, because despite all the warning bells, you’d trusted him. There was clear hatred between your teammates and Zemo but it was different between the two of you. You had no past or grudges against one another. It was silly now to think that that made you believe that there was an understanding.
“I hope you don’t think me indecent,” he murmured, gesturing to an opaque scarf in his hands. He avoided your gaze before wrapping it around your face. “But it would be unwise for me to trust you with my location. You are too intelligent for your own good.”
“Is it normal for wardens to flatter their prisoners,” you hissed, hoping to land a blow.
You heard him sit in the seat across from you and felt his foot brush yours as he crossed his legs.
“Prisoner,” he chuckled. “You are my guest Y/N and I hope that in time, you will find that I can be an excellent host.”
“In time,” you repeated, weighing the consequences of not putting up a fight when you could. How long did he plan to keep you?
He was quiet then, and so were you. The choice of words lingering between you. It wasn't until after takeoff that he spoke again. A glimpse of his face would've given you the clues you desired but the tone of his words was enough. His exhaustion from relentless thought weighed his voice to a deep baritone. Sluggish and soft.
“I have no intention of living the rest of my days in a cell,” he whispered finally.
You couldn't feel bad for him, especially when his freedom came at the cost of your own. It was clear then that confidence and swagger were a disguise, for survival. You’d seen glimmers of the real pain lurking beneath the smirks and fur coat but you hadn’t thought that he’d let it win. It wasn't a disappointment but somewhat a relief to go toe to toe with the real man.
“You can’t run forever,” you reminded him in a soft tone, trying to coax the shadow of humanity left in him out further.
“Ah,” he sighed. “It feels nice to know that you can be wrong, Y/N. For a moment, I doubted that you were human.”
The words lit an angry fire inside you. You couldn’t see him but almost heard the cavalier shrug he threw in for effect. The fabric over your eyes covered the tops of your cheeks hiding the angry flush. You hated him for making this complicated. You hated yourself even more, for not screaming when you had the chance.
Except for the occasional page turn, the rest of the ride was silent, which was unusual for the two of you. There’d been an instant dialogue since the very first time you’d met a few weeks ago. Since then, quiet moments had been rare.
________
The Baron’s private plane had landed an hour ago, but no one was on the tarmac yet. It’d taken you, Sam, and Bucky that long to come to terms with the uniforms chosen for the night.
“You know you don’t have to Y/N.”
You rolled your eyes and glared at Sam through the small airplane mirror.
“I’m fine,” you reassured him before going back to gawking at the dress. Tight but not too short, seeing as you were posing as a baroness tonight in the mission to Madripoor. Sheer black fabric slung over one shoulder, sewn onto a bustier underneath. Simple. Elegant. You’d never worn anything like it.
Sam shook his head, mumbling something about this being a bad idea.
“It’s better than the Air Force uniform,” you smiled, knowing full well that that’d get at least a chuckle out of him. It did, earning the both of you a glare from Bucky who was the worst off tonight.
“No time like the present,” Zemo called from the front of the plane. The men left you, bickering about whose outfit was worse. You tried to follow but the only piece of jewelry, a silver charm necklace, put up a fight.
“Allow me?”
Zemo’s voice made you jump. He leaned against the door, with a hand outstretched towards you. Now that half the audience to entertain was gone, he looked more forlorn; less self-assured.
You nodded, moving your hair out of the way before handing the necklace to him. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.
He did that a lot you had realized. After the fireworks at the beginning of the ride, he’d turned his attention to you. Smile bright, but the eye’s dead. One would think small talk was his forte but you knew better. It is an easy distraction; a way to put your opposition at ease. Regardless, you couldn't blame him for seeking to charm the only one on the flight that did not hate him.
“I don’t think that we met,” he’d stated, settling into the seat across from you. “Last time.”
“Don’t talk to her,” Bucky hissed. You knew he was trying to help but you waved him off, giving him a look that said ‘someone has to talk to him.’
“No, I’m new,” you’d told him, squinting at the artificial grin that didn’t leave his face. You guessed that conversation was difficult to come by in prison. It was a pity that he was an evil mastermind. His ability to fake friendliness rivaled the most talented US agents.
“How new?”
“A few weeks before you.”
His eyes twinkled at your commonality. They bore into yours, trying to decipher what you know of what he'd done. This look was how you knew the stories of his genius, were true. They scanned and shifted, guessing that you knew it all with one look. He was right, of course, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, he surprised you. He asked about your family, schooling, job, passions, and interests. He spoke about the books he’d had in prison, and you teased him for even reading The Prince.
He smiled wider and wider as you spoke until Sam shot you a glare and you gave the Baron some excuse about sleep. But even when you closed your eyes, and curled up into the seat, you’d felt his eyes remain on your face.
Warm hands against your neck brought you out of the trance and back to the man who you should hate.
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, watching his somber expression in the reflection.
“The sigil is — was, my family’s,” he stated, coming around to face you and fiddle with the charm. “You are playing the part of a baroness, after all. We need to make it believable.”
His lips curled into a soft smile at the royal word. A chill ran down your spine. Even though your conversation had been short, you hadn’t meant to enjoy it so much. Conversation was like pulling teeth with most of the people you knew, especially Sam and Bucky. And even when it came, it didn’t flow like this.
“There are worse roles,” you mused, shooting him a soft smile in return. “I could have to play the part of the mind-controlled assassin, or worse, the evil baron.”
He smirked. “Strenuous, yes. I have found that there is nothing more difficult to be, than yourself.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You find it easy, to be yourself?”
“No, I don’t think that you are what you want us to believe.”
The words seemed to catch him off guard and you wondered the last person to show him any kindness was. Not that your words were kind.
Sam yelled some threat from the cabin about Zemo keeping his hands off of you, and you knew that your time was up. You ignored the pang of disappointment and looked up at the Baron's stone eyes.
“I am afraid that I will prove you wrong Y/N.”
You nodded and followed him out into the cold evening.
Low town was the target and as the four of you walked, the air was tense.
You nudged Bucky. “You ok?”
“Never better,” he sighed through gritted teeth.
A car appeared on the fluorescent bridge you were crossing as Zemo took his position next to you. Bucky stood on the other side of him, silent since you’d all marched out of the plane. You couldn't tell if it was memory that hardened his eyes or tonight’s assignment.
“You’re Bucky Barnes, born 1917,” you reminded the sullen soldier. “No more, no less.”
Zemo’s eyes squinted at your words, no doubt in disagreement but you avoided his gaze.
Bucky nodded and gave you a half-smile. It was as much as he could muster, especially when he had to become something he was trying so hard to forget. People have a way of finding their way back to themselves in time and you wondered how long he had left to go. The man who fought in WW2 was different from the man who fought against the Avengers. Both versions of him were different still from the man who'd turned silent in recent years.
“No matter what happens, we have to stay in character,” Zemo instructed as a car appeared on the bridge. “Our lives depend on it. There is no margin for error.”
You prepared yourself for the night ahead where you would look at the Baron with lust. It would feel strange to see him as something other than interesting and distrustful. Attraction to him was not far-fetched. He had a strong face and a sultry accent, but you stood on opposite sides of the moral spectrum in the end. Unfortunately, your realism in love hadn’t left you very open to romantic connections. From the little experience you had, it was clear that couples didn’t work if they didn't have a common goal. Yours was not the destruction of your friends and his was not to make the world a better place.
An arm snaked around your waist, cutting off the train of thought. You jumped and looked wide-eyed at Zemo.
“We are newlyweds, yes?”
His words sounded more like a question but a smile played on his lips. You nodded, unfamiliar with the feel of a confident man at your side.
“Right,” you confirmed, being the first one to break eye contact.
The car doors opened and you knew the driver was the first person to judge the performance. You let Zemo pull you towards the car and then hesitated as he walked to the passenger side. You glanced to the middle seat between Bucky and Sam in the back. Sensing your hesitation, Zemo pulled you close.
“Your performance has begun, Baroness Zemo.”
You smiled like he’d whispered a sweet nothing in your ear and drew close to return the favor.
“I’d keep my last name,” you breathed, earning a soft chuckle.
Despite the nerves, you let him pull you into his lap and tried your best to look lovesick. It wasn’t as difficult as you thought as his large hands held your waist, and one of your legs. He looked ahead, with a smug smile and ran small circles on your bare leg. The rush of goosebumps and the hitch of your breath gave you away within seconds. His smug smile turned devious in the reflection on the window.
“Das hast wunderschöne Augen.”
He whispered into the side of your head. You didn’t speak German, and even if you did, you doubted you'd want to hear something mundane or rude. Yet you could feel the hammering of your heart in each fingertip as he spoke in his native language.
A performance you reminded yourself. Two could play at whatever he was doing. You turned to glare at him before bringing a hand up to caress his cheek. The light scruff tickled your knuckles and you wondered what he’d look like with a beard. His brand of handsome wasn't rugged, even when he'd escaped the prison, he looked neat and clean. You rested your head against his shoulder and continued stroking his rounded cheeks. Being a few inches away from his face gave you a chance to study his features. It’d be good practice if you ever had to pick him out of a fleeing crowd, or a Madripoor police lineup.
Other powerful engines surrounded the car. Motorcycles with nosy drivers appeared in each window. He gripped your thigh harder, warning that the stakes were high, even here and it had to look real. A heat manifested between your legs, followed by a throbbing that you hoped he wouldn’t notice. It didn’t feel so much like an act anymore and in truth when ran your fingers through his hair, you did it out of desire. He sucked in a breath and gripped your waist like iron. The stern man didn't seem so impenetrable anymore, as your lips brushed his ear, following a sloppy pattern along his jaw. You ran your fingers through his hair roughly again and felt a slight gasp leave him. His eyes left the windows and found yours. Serious and challenging. His hand moved up towards the hem of your dress. The fabric put up less of a fight than you as he gripped your bare ass. He felt the heat then, releasing a noise from the back of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed and your kissing became frantic. Your lips buzzed from the pressure and his five o’clock shadow. His lips parted in anticipation but before you could make it, the car stopped.
Zemo released you immediately, nodding an apology to the driver. Pity, you thought, it felt like you were finally making him a little nervous.
Sam and Bucky averted their eyes as the group walked through the streets, trying to look normal. Again, Zemo slung an arm around your waist. You took this as your cue to drape yourself on his shoulder. He stared ahead like this was a death march and that a guillotine stood on the other side of the door with his name on it. He’d been here before, you remembered. The memories couldn’t have been pleasant judging by the way his mouth pressed into a tense line. Empathy came over you and you reached out to slip a hand under his coat to rest on his chest.
This broke the trance and he stared at you for a moment before a smug smile crept across his stone-cold expression. It would've annoyed you but not a second later, he reached up to hold your fingers against him. He pressed you into his sweater, rubbing each finger in an anxious pattern, the only sign of nerves at all. Even the heartbeat beneath his sweater was still steady and calm.
Zemo led you all through a packed crowd to a dim bar. The agent part of you wanted to stray from your role and look around to assess the situation. But your mind went blank as his hand dropped to your hip and guided you up against the bar. You faced a mirrored wall holding more extravagant bottles than you’d ever seen in your life.
Through the reflection, you watched Zemo claim ownership of his Baroness. Each of his hands gripped the railing on either side of you, pressing his chest into your exposed back. His large stature towered over you, but your eyes couldn't tear away from his hands. Their grip around the rounded corners was mesmerizing. In a flash, your brain conjured the image of him holding your legs apart with the same strength. You let out a shaking breath. The fur from his coat tickled your back, and you couldn't focus on his words to Sam as his breath hit your neck.
Disgruntled with the lack of vantage point, you turned in his arms, bringing your face a few inches from his. Intent on taking in the room, you rested your chin on his shoulder. People had noticed your group right away and hadn't stopped looking. You kept eye contact with some, all while kissing the Baron's neck. Only then, did you feel his heart rate quicken.
Zemo spoke to the bartender behind you, but you didn’t hear them. Again, he tested your boundaries by caressing your thigh underneath your short dress.
Newlyweds, you reminded yourself. Very horny, newlyweds.
Mesmerized by the raunchy crowd behind you, and the soft caress of his hand, you gave in again. You peppered wet kisses of longing against his jaw as he spoke to a man who’d come up on the other side of him. He swallowed hard but somehow, you doubted it was out of fear of the man that Bucky had in a chokehold a few moments later.
That was the last moment you remembered feeling calm that night. The moments after put your mission and lives in jeopardy. When the violence and fleeing had played out you'd realized that his hands had never left you. The safety of his grasp was far more dangerous than Madripoor. The feeling of relief when he’d found your waist again at Sharon’s party, had you kicking yourself.
“A very believable performance, Agent Y/N” he purred. “Well done.”
You smiled and glanced down at the few inches between the two of you. Drinking was not the best option tonight but it was too late. Vodka was already coursing through your veins.
“I’d call it compelling,” you smirked. “Not believable.”
He cocked his head to the side, eyeing you with curiosity and something else. Something ferocious that made you wonder why he didn’t have an army of devotees or a cult following. It was that look that made you question your willpower, for the first time ever.
“Why’s that?”
Exactly the question you’d been hoping for. He’d had the upper hand all night but that was going to change.
“Who would believe that I would actually fall for you,” you teased, tossing back the last of your drink.
That would’ve been the end of it for a lesser man but Zemo smiled, showing all his teeth. He was always intrigued by a challenge.
“Tell me, Y/N, who would you fall for?”
Your mouth went dry and although a smirk was still plastered to your lips, nerves rushed back in.
“As if I have time,” you laughed.
He returned the smile. “Gun to your head, then.”
The alcohol in your system whispered different answers. Irresponsible answers. Bringing them to fruition would give you more than you bargained for but you fought against them.
“I like nice men,” you whispered, watching his reaction. “Who don’t use animals for fashion.”
He chuckled and then a dark look passed over his face before he closed the gap between you. A step backward and you found yourself against a wall with nowhere to go. Zemo brought a hand to your neck, caressing the exposed skin and the chain resting there.
“Who says I am not a nice man?”
Now it was your turn to chuckle. “Your body count, history, profession…reputation.”
He nodded. “Ah, you mistake ambition and purpose for — cruelty.”
“I never said you were cruel. I know you don’t crave suffering. I know there was a reason…for what you did.”
He cocked his head again and pursed his lips, looking at you like a puzzle; something not yet solved.
The techno beat dissolved into a slower, bass-heavy, R&B song. The hand on your neck made its way down to your waist once again, pulling you in. You complied without a fight, letting the Baron lead you through a slow dance.
“Even I can be gentle,” he said after a while. “For you — I would even consider being sweet.”
The words sent shockwaves through your body, igniting every inch. He was a master of manipulation and a conniving son of a bitch who wanted your colleagues — friends, dead. And yet, your mind and body betrayed you. You squeezed him a little tighter and pulled in a little closer.
“And what about the fur coat,” you whispered, playing with the fuzzy material against his neck.
He surprised you with his laughter. He threw his head back in a genuine laugh and leaned into your neck to stifle the giggles.
“I have been in a prison jumpsuit for the last eight years, forgive me for my outdated fashion,” he cooed. You could feel the smirk against your skin.
“Is it real,” you asked, holding up the stupid furry flap.
“Of course. I am a Baron,” he responded, pulling you closer, staring at your lips.
Description: Summary - Her sixth year at Hogwarts was supposed to be relatively peaceful but after an incident on the Hogwarts express, Violet Wilkes finds herself the newest target of the Weasley twins. This, combined with a dark family secret, and the Triwizard tournament, makes her first few months back more exciting and stressful than every year before.
pairing: George Weasley x Original Female Character
Violet fully opened her eyes and pawed at the silk sheets around her, clawing to drag herself back to reality.
The bed. She was just in bed.
Her family was fine.
It was just a nightmare.
She repeated it over and over again but eventually, it was a loud snore from Sadie across the room that fully brought her back to reality.
She rose out of bed and glanced out of the high glowing window between their beds. The terror from the nightmare practically vanished at the sight of an incredibly bright fall day.
Agitation clawed at the nape of her neck during breakfast and she only made it about ten minutes before the desperation for fresh air became too much.
The brittle fall breeze nipped the exposed skin above her knee and at her wrists. The walk to Herbology was cold enough to be noticeable, but not entirely uncomfortable. Although, it made her a bit more thankful for the thick Hogwarts uniform now. Surely the Beauxbaton girls would freeze come winter. Without the barrier of cities or skyscrapers, frigid weather always came so soon. Without fail, frozen air managed to appear early, and linger well into the spring months.
She followed the familiar stone path to a small clearing on the side of the castle, obstructed only by rows of greenhouses, bursting at the seams with interior vines, and flowers. She'd never been particularly enthralled with herbology or plants, didn't call to her but it was better than divination or astronomy, both of which she had elected not to take this year.
Clad in yellow and black, a sea of cheerful Hufflepuffs welcome her inside, uncaring about her own lonesome green and silver tie, or noticing that she gagged a little on the musty stench of wet dirt and trapped photosynthesis. It was a relief to finally be around peers that weren't as judgmental as her own house. She didn't mean to generalize but the evidence was clear and overwhelming.
Professor Sprout instructed them on how to clip Sneezewort correctly and she absorbed every detail of the small white flower that held the ability to befuddle even the most sound minds but offered little to the discussion, letting her much more invested peers take over. Sneezewort was a key ingredient in the Befuddlement Draught, the first potion they'd learned last year.
She tuned out the lecture to go over the recipe and instructions in her head, just in case Snape wasn't finished testing them and it came up in potions tomorrow. She wouldn't put it past him to make a further example out of her. He was the sort of sadist who enjoyed making students feel underprepared and stupid, not that it had ever applied to her. It was one of the many characteristics that he did not share with any other professors at Hogwarts, but she didn't mind. It was probably some deep-seated ambition or need to be better than the rest but she had enjoyed earning his tolerance, and praise, especially when it was withheld from so many.
Lunch was a rather somber affair without Sadie so she settled at the end of the Slytherin table, content to read.
With their schedules out of synch with one another, she was staring down the barrel of an entire year of lunches alone, not that she minded. She glanced up at the rest of the hall, admiring the lax nature of the other tables and houses, completely fine with sharing tables during more informal meals. She glanced down the length of her table, unsurprised by only a few green ties littering the dark wooden seats. She wouldn't have minded some more house mingling but the trend makers in Slytherin were quite territorial.
She quickly helped herself to some soup and flipped through the book to find where she'd left off. The train ride had only allowed her to get halfway through The Princess Bride and she'd barely had any time for personal reading over the weekend between brushing up on textbooks and unpacking.
Finally, he rested far below her, silent and without motion. "You can die too for all I care," she said, and then she turned away.
Words followed her. Whispered from far, weak and warm and familiar. "As . . . you . . . wish. .."
It was inevitable, tears pricked her eyes and she broke into a big smile, unable to contain it. This part, no matter how many times she read it, always made her emotional.
The complex mixture of devotion, love, and sadness between the two protagonists was so raw and powerful. It was entirely unrealistic, which was the only reason she found it intriguing at all. Not that she'd know anything about love. The last boy she'd liked seriously was someone long since graduated from when she was a fourth-year. But from what she had seen from the other clumsy, short-lived couples at Hogwarts, this kind of romance didn't exist in real life. There had been a few boys in her hometown who'd taken her out on dates over the years but they'd amounted to nothing, not even a kiss. She couldn't talk about the things she likes from the wizarding world with them, and couldn't talk about muggle things with anyone at Hogwarts so it was, in her view, pointless to even try. She doubted that any sort of satisfactory love would come for her at all though because she was an avid fiction reader, so her standard for men was way too high.
She blinked back her tears and sniffled the rest of her emotions back into her head. Thankfully, the Slytherin table was almost empty except for a few lone diners like herself. Most of her lazy oaf housemates opted for afternoon classes so that they could sleep in. Even the head table was practically empty except for Hagrid, who was chatting away at Madam Maxine, who towered over him. She blamed her sudden tenderness on the chapter she'd just finished but they would make a sweet couple.
One other seat at the table was occupied by an unfamiliar, rather large blonde man whose face was mostly obscured by his goblet and furious fork movements. She could just make out a wonky blue eye but…not the rest of him. His tousled blonde hair and rather red complexion seemed out of place. She squinted to make out his features a little more. Was he a professor from one of the international schools? No, he looked quite familiar, she thought. She'd seen his face before.
She looked back down at her own table. "Parkinson, who is that? The blonde one."
Pansy Parkinson followed her gaze and then half-whispered back down to her.
"Professor Moody, new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
"Thanks," she responded mindlessly. Moody. Why did that name sound so familiar?
She stared unabashedly at the man, struggling to make out any more details.
He stood briefly, to reach the pumpkin juice and she caught a glimpse of metal where a leg once was.
She'd seen him before.
Moody.
Her mind whirred.
She scrambled out of her seat, trying not to look as dizzy and sick as she felt.
Moody. Mad-Eye Moody. The auror. That's where she knew him from.
A cold shiver passed over her as his eyes met hers. He lingered for a moment due to her sudden rise and then returned to his meal.
No. It couldn't be him. He must be someone else.
She didn't hide her urgency as she ran through the halls towards the library.
Panic lodged itself into her lungs, making it hard to breathe.
With every step she took, she prayed, wished, and hoped that she was mistaken and that it wasn't him.
He must be someone else. But she had to be sure.
The library doors opened with more of a bang than she'd usually allow, drawing more than one disgruntled look from other students but she didn't care.
The bookshelves on the way to the history section flew by.
Accio
A book documenting all the issues of the Daily Prophet from 1981, the end of the first wizarding war, flew to her.
There was no time to reach her alcove, she had to know now.
She leaned on an empty wall in an abandoned corner and ripped through the pages, feeling her heartbeat on the tip of every finger.
Please be someone else, she chanted in her head. Please be someone else.
Please don't be him.
Please don't be him.
Please don't be —
The headline looked the same as it did when she'd first found it during her second year at Hogwarts when she'd simply been curious about the war that her peers sometimes chatted about. Her father hadn't told her any of it. Only that someone had died and the world was a better place because of it.
DEATH EATER KILLED EN ROUTE TO AZKABAN
The photo underneath the black words still moved.
The same Moody she'd seen at lunch stood over a body, his face still bleeding from the altercation.
She slammed the book closed and squeezed her eyes tight.
It was him. He had done it.
Moody.
The photo flashed behind her eyelids; his lost leg, rolling eye, matted hair - standing over her uncle's dead body, eyes- lifeless, dark mark- still, face- reminiscent of her fathers, and thusly, her own.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Silencing the hustle and bustle around her.
It was him. And he was here.
She felt her legs give out and sunk to the floor in a flustered heap.
No, no, no. Why did he have to come here?
She'd tried so hard, for so long to forget it and now she was forced to reckon with the truth.
Her eyesight narrowed to tunnels.
What if he knew? What if he could tell just by her hair or face?
Her vision became hazy and the bookshelves and carpet blurred into one reddish-brown clump.
Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. Not only was he here but he was her professor.
Her stomach churned.
He would read her name on the class roster tomorrow. He would know then, if he didn't already.
What if he stood up in class and said, "I killed Death Eater, Rupert Wilkes and his niece is in this very room."
She tried to calm her breathing but her brain was static.
Then everyone would know. It'd take a few class periods to get around and Malfoy would tell them all the rest of the story until she formally became the evil that she feared so much. Death Eaters taunted her dreams because she couldn't help but see one every time she looked in the mirror.
The room was spinning.
No one could know.
No one could see that when they looked at her. She would make sure of it.
Despite her best efforts to calm down, severe panic and a lack of oxygen blacked out the world around her before she lost consciousness.
"Violet."
"Violet."
A soft voice coaxed her back to reality. She slowly came to, feeling lightheaded and confused. She opened her eyes and panicked when all she saw was black, before realizing that her face was pressed to the floor. The carpet scratched her cheek as she turned to acknowledge the voice.
"Violet, are you ok?" A familiar voice cooed anxiously next to her.
She looked up and found Madam Pince's face looming over her. She concluded from the horrified, concerned expression from the librarian that she must have passed out and fallen over.
"C'mon dear, up you come," Madam Pince said, pulling her to her feet. "We need to get you to the hospital wing."
She found her footing but dropped the book to the floor, rushing to pick it up before the librarian could see what she was reading. The movement nearly made her fall over but the bookish witch's grip on her arm was incredibly tight and dependable, not even allowing her to sway.
"Oh no it's alright," she assured the older witch breathlessly. "Really, I'm fine I just was…erm… lightheaded is all and um sat down. I must have just fallen asleep." She tried to hide the wobbling of her legs and flashed a confident smile to deter her nerves.
Madam Pince regarded her with suspicious eyes but slowly released her arm. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes I promise. Thank you, I'll just go straight to my room and lie down, I promise," she rambled, making a break for the front door, her legs still feeling like jello. "Um thank you, sorry."
"Alright," Madam Pince called after her. "Be more careful."
She stuffed the book into her bag and sprinted back to her room. The sunset shining through the windows on her way back to the dungeon signaled that she'd been out for the entire afternoon and some of the evening. She guessed that she'd missed dinner, not that it mattered because her stomach was too tightly wound with nerves to eat anything.
As she moved through the halls, her thoughts raced to remember why she'd passed out in the first place. She rounded a corner and caught sight of the doors to the Great Hall and it all hit her again, in an instant. She fought back panicked tears and considered changing her trajectory to the owlery to message her father about what to do but stopped, remembering that he wasn't aware of just how much she knew and that the revelation might give his sensitive soul a shock.
She focused on steadying her breathing and regaining the feeling in her legs, ignoring the countless peers she passed. She swore that she heard someone calling her name, but her heartbeat filled her ears, blocking out most sound, so she couldn't be sure.
It was a lonely feeling, keeping a secret for years on end. The truth of the situation would be more of a prison than the secret itself and so she kept it buried and let it fester into a deep loathing of those around her who were unburdened by the evils of the world.
She spat the common room password with more fervor than she ever had and raced through the dark furniture and scattered students, anxious for the safety of her room.
Her thoughts were interrupted when an inconsolable Sadie greeted her as soon as she opened the door. She hastily wiped a tear away from her cheek and collected herself, not that Sadie would've noticed between her sobs.
"Sadie," she croaked out.
Her sniffling friend looked up at her in surprise. "Where have you been?" The tone and volume of her voice made Violet jump. After hours of begin unconscious on the floor, her head was pounding. Despite the ache, she scurried over to console her friend, thankful for a distraction from her distress.
Apparently, Graham Montague had been caught sneaking a Bauxbaton girl into the boy's dorm earlier in the evening and Sadie had been the one who saw them.
She whispered countless reassurances, and encouragements but most came out half-hearted, not that she'd meant them to. What did Sadie expect from a pureblood git? Of course, she'd never say so and nodded along to her friend's rant, despite her groggy head and sore limbs from a terrible afternoon spent crumpled on the library floor.
"He seriously thinks that I care," she yelled, tossing a pillow at their closed bedroom door. "Please, he can fancy whomever he likes. It's a relief to be rid of him. His constant worshiping at the temple of my twat was getting old anyway."
Sadies high cheekbones glistened from her tears. She'd finally stopped crying but her deep brown eyes reflected her pooling sadness, ready to rerelease at a moment's notice.
"He's a leech and you're entirely too good for him," she said in an attempt to match her friend's anger while scanning the room anxiously for a place to hide the book.
Thankfully, Sadie didn't sense her distraction and ranted for a few moments longer before opting to sob herself to sleep on her bed. Violet rubbed her friend back, trying to focus on Sadie's much simpler problem but she could feel the book burning a hole through her bag, and her own problem searing itself into her subconscious. When Sadies soft snores filled the room, she peeled herself from the bed opposite of hers and finally laid her head on her pillow.
Despite already being lightly sleep-deprived, she tossed and turned all night fighting off worst-case scenarios and sorting through her emotions.
Terrifying, she decided sometime around 3 AM. It was terrifying.
It was terrifying to be in the house that raised almost all of the dark witches and wizards in history.
To be so close to those whose families still had loyalty to a Dark Lord.
To have Death Eater blood running through her veins. It felt like a sick joke, being terribly afraid of something inside of her. It was a cruel game of cat and mouse except she couldn't figure out which one was which. Scared of herself, and even more afraid of those around her who had the same story.
But those feelings of fear were all expected. She'd sorted through them thousands of times and lost more hours of sleep over them than she could count. These were things she'd already resigned herself to, but Moody was a bomb. He was unexpected and quite frankly, entirely unwelcome and she didn't know how to react.
He'd been here a week and she hadn't even known. She kicked herself for leaving the welcome feast early. She could've recognized him sooner and planned ahead but now she only had a few hours to organize her thoughts and come up with a plan of attack that didn't get her outed, or worse.
She turned over and stared at the wall, begging into the dark for sleep to take her. Tomorrow she'd be a tired, useless mess.
Tomorrow.
Not only would she feel exhausted but she'd have to see him tomorrow and there was no way around it. Defense Against the Dark Arts was a graduation requirement, and further, than that, something she was actually interested in learning, seeing as her fear of the topic occupied her thoughts more and more each passing day.
Her stomach wound itself in a tight knot at the thought of walking into class and facing Moody in front of her peers.
The way she saw it, there were only two options. Ignore him, and hope he didn't recognize her or face it head-on and let him know that she knew. She mulled it over and over hopelessly flipping between worst-case scenarios.
Ignoring him hinged on his inability to recognize her name or face, which she doubted. She knew nothing of the emotional toll that killing someone left a person with but surely it wasn't easily forgotten. On the other hand, if she confronted him after class, maybe they could come to an understanding. Maybe he would be glad to know that not everyone who bore her last name was evil. Maybe he even harbored some guilt, and was just as nervous about her, as she was about him.
It wasn't the worst plan, and exceedingly better than skipping DADA a year, not graduating in time, and having to explain everything to Snape and her parents.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy above her, surprised to feel tears prick the corner of her eyes.
There was a hole in her heart.
She had to see him. She had to learn from him.
There was no way to avoid being in the same room as the man who had caused her father so much grief and pain that he hadn't spoken about his brother in nearly thirteen years.
The pain was what lingered. Behind every smile, every laugh, glint of his eyes, she always saw that pain. Especially when he was looking at her. It was only natural of course. He'd never say it but she could tell he worried about her being so close to where her uncle was corrupted. Two roads certainly diverging and she couldn't blame him for wondering which one she would take.
Despite wanting to, she couldn't blame him. It wasn't Moody who had caused that pain. It was the uncle who'd sought fame and glory by standing next to he-who-must-not-be-named and ended up getting himself killed. He'd chosen instantaneous death over a slow and torturous one in Azkaban and she didn't feel bad for him.
It wasn't just her pain, or her father's pain, or her family; but the entire wizarding world.
There were other articles too, ones right before and right after her uncle's death that she could hardly bring herself to read. She hadn't been able to make it more than a paragraph into the front-page article announcing the boy who lived. Its cadence desperately tried to give respect and solemness to Potter's parents but failed miserably. The one that haunted her the most though cited the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom, Nevilles parents. She'd never spoken to the boy but knew his tragic story well. If the news of her bloodline ever did get out, he, above anyone else would have a right to despise her.
She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to forget the black and white pictures.
None of it was her fault but she felt the burden regardless.
Countless other families had lost so much more, even some at the hand of her uncle. That was worse than his death.
He had helped the Dark Lord rip families apart, and set the world on fire. Because it was his job.
And just like him, Moody too had done his job. He had sacrificed an eye and a leg to make their whole world safer. It probably meant nothing to kill someone to ensure the safety of those you love, and deep down she knew that true safety and peace had required his death. The thought made him less intimidating but the worry remained the same.
She let a silent tear fall for the resurgence of the dark mark, her father, the confrontation tomorrow, and the uncle she never knew, and finally fell asleep.
Violet didn't wait for her alarm clock to lull her awake on Wednesday morning.
The early rise gave her time to shower and dress slowly. Breakfast tempted her but she opted to head straight to the potions classroom where another annoyance awaited.
She found her seat and ignored the peers trickling into the room around her until Lee sat down a few minutes later, with George in tow. The panic of yesterday had pushed him, and his smug demeanor far out of her mind but unfortunately, hadn't made him any less real.
She kept her eyes on the open textbook in front of her and tried to tune them out, as well as her murderous thoughts. She didn't have the energy to deal with George today. Any fire inside of her needed to be conserved tense conversation she was hellbent on having in just a few hours.
George must have sensed her annoyance because he leaned over the table and set a hand in front of her book.
"Morning Violet."
She glared at him but his smug smile didn't budge.
"Merlin, you look terrible," he leaned forward further, faking concern.
Lovely, she thought. What an absolute gentleman and a delight to deal with this morning. She squinted, trying to hide her anger, and fighting off the blush creeping onto her cheeks. What an intolerable person. If Lee wasn't sitting between them, she might've hexed him right then and there.
"Reckon I'm still better looking than you. It's a wonder why God decided to make your ugly face twice."
He squinted back and chuckled. "God? Didn't take a heathen like yourself to be the religious type."
"Only started recently," she said, scolding herself for giving into his back and forth. "I found myself in urgent need of something to pray to."
She hoped he'd take the bait.
"Don't leave me in suspense Violet, whatever do you pray for?"
Like a mouse with cheese. "Your painful demise."
"And you need God for that? Don't have the courage to hex me yourself," he half cooed, egging her on.
Nothing dark look today. If anything, he looked like he was having fun.
"Don't tempt me. A cell in Azkaban would be much more preferable to seeing your ghastly hair every week."
He smiled and tucked a lock behind his ear.
"Violet, no need to be so cruel. I feel as though we've gotten off to a wrong start. Let's start again shall we?"
She shot him a sarcastic smirk. As if.
"Good morning Violet," he said, with an even toothier grin.
She smiled sweetly. "You look terrible."
Maybe a few more back and forth's and he would've dawned on the more sinister look that she'd grown quite fond of, but Snape's entrance interrupted them, and George scampered off to his seat without another word.
Snape tapped on his podium. "Weasley; scarab beetles, ginger roots, armadillo bile, newt spleens."
Everyone in the class turned to watch George dawn a frantic look on his face before resigning to stare daggers into Snape.
"What…" he said.
Their professor him a few more seconds to answer and then smirked.
"Pity. Five points from Gryffindor. Wilkes?"
She jumped a little at the sound of her name and quickly shifted her gaze to Snape.
"Oh um Wit-Sharpening Potion, sir," she responded dully, ignoring the collective class sigh at her once again outing herself as a teacher's pet.
"Sounds like something you might want to invest in," Snape sneered, turning back to George. "Five points to Slytherin. Davies; spring water, alihosty leaves, billywig wings, snarl quills, puff skein hair, horseradish powder."
He was quizzing them. He'd done it last year before finals but he seemed to be taking a rather cruel approach to weeding out those who didn't have their textbooks preemptively memorized.
"Um… erm…. Dreamless sleep?"
Snape rolled his eyes. "Five points from Ravenclaw. Wilkes?"
Oh Godric, again? She really was the most unlucky person alive today.
She kept her eyes on the desk. "Laughing potion, sir."
"Five points to Slytherin. Warrington, name one potion with porcupine quills."
"Erm…Cure for Boils?"
"Five points to Slytherin. Stimpson; daisy roots, shrivelfig, caterpillars, rat spleen, leech juice, cowbane, wormwood."
"I….I don't know sir."
"Five points from Ravenclaw. Wilkes?"
"Shrinking Solution, sir."
There were only so many students that he could pick on before she was stuck reciting the entire textbook. Hopefully, he wouldn't take the entire class time to make his point, but she wouldn't put it past him.
She let the quietest gasp escape her lips and whipped her head to look at him. He knew this. They had made it on Monday and he'd been the one to gather the ingredients. He looked a little panicked so she gave him a soft kick under the desk and watched as the lightbulb went off over his head.
"Draught of Peace!"
She bit the side of her cheek to stop a smile from forming on her face. It was an easy question and it meant nothing but regardless, she couldn't help but feel proud that he had remembered.
"Congratulations on paying attention to Miss Wilkes' work. I will deduct no points from Gryffindor, as a reward."
Dissatisfied at the Gryffindors correct answer, Snape finished his quiz and instructed them all to study the first chapter in the textbook for next week when they would begin brewing.
She skimmed over the words and mindlessly flicked through the pages, ignoring her heart thumping and stomach swirling. It was only about thirty minutes now until she'd be in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She blinked back the moving photo from the book and tried to conjure any happy image.
"Psstt."
She turned her head to Lee a second time.
"What?" She hissed.
He grinned at her. "Thanks for kicking me in the right direction."
Over his shoulder, she could see George staring at them curiously. She wondered if Gryffindors ever did anything without moving in a pack and moved her eyes back to the book.
"Don't mention it."
Much to her surprise, he didn't. He even pushed George back out the door when the giant redhead waltzed back over, looking like he wanted to pick up where they left off.
She watched them leave and lamented to herself as one nightmare ended, another began.
A few minutes later, she stopped at the entrance to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower. A couple of her fellow students pushed past her, glaring back as they ascended the stairs but despite their sour expressions, she couldn't move.
The adrenaline from last night was waning and the plans she'd come up with no longer seemed like the right thing to do.
The stairs took forever, and yet not long enough. She scurried to a corner desk in the last row and took a seat next to an inconspicuous looking Durmstrang boy, who might have said something when she sat down but her ears wouldn't stop ringing.
The bell tolled. This was it. There was a 50/50 chance that her reputation was about to be ruined. News like this would take little to no time to get around the school and everyone would know before dinner. She'd be the girl that Professor Moody threw out of his class for being related to a Death Eater. For the rest of the year, she'd have no choice but to sit with Malfoy and all the other children of suspected Death Eaters, but even they might not take her.
Moody's office door banged open and he trudged down the stairs.
Sadie might not hate her forever, but any hopes at remaining cordial with friends from other houses would be thrown out the window, she thought. Hermione wouldn't be able to look at her. She didn't know if she could take it.
"Alastor Moody," he was scribbling at the chalkboard with his back turned to the class. "Ex Auror, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
He turned to look at them.
She winced. His normal eye floated over their faces, but his other eye, held to his face with leather and metal, moved furiously as he called out names from the roster. Her breathing grew shallow as the eye moved to the back of the class, and towards the end of the alphabet.
"Wilkes," He bellowed.
"Here," she squeaked out, on the verge of passing out.
His eyes grazed over her one second, and then… they were gone.
She blinked, squinting to be sure that he wasn't staring in shock or reaching into his pocket to pull out his wand and hex her but he was continuing with the last few names on the roster as if nothing had happened.
There hadn't been even the slightest bit of recognition. Not a flashback. No acknowledgment. No chill down his spine or look in his eye.
Nothing.
Either he didn't know or simply… didn't care.
She felt her muscles unfurl one by one, and nearly laughed out loud with relief.
"The unforgivable curses," he blurted, starting his lecture.
She stared at him in disbelief for a few moments before tentatively accepting that, at least for now, she was in the clear. It was astonishing and completely unexpected. She suddenly felt silly for panicking so much.
Her relieved mood didn't last long though, as he spoke ominously about the world they would step into upon graduation. Any small doubt in her mind that the Dark Mark in the sky hadn't really meant a second war, vanished.
"The Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That's what you're up against. That's what I've got to teach you to fight."
His face contorted with passion and his eyes urged them to see the horrible things he'd seen. His pleas were honest but terrifying.
"You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance," he concluded, before dismissing the class in a huff after an hour and a half of passionate ranting.
She didn't give her original plan another thought, and was the first one out the door, her mind running through the warning he'd just given them.
Vigilance.
If she would have stayed for the entire feast, and been vigilant, she would have known that he was going to be here. She cursed herself for letting something like this sneak up on her and affect her so harmfully, especially now that none of her worst fears about him had come true.
Vigilance.
She wasn't at the Quidditch World Cup but judging from Moody's ominous lecture, that was just the beginning. There would be more whispers, more threats, maybe even attacks, just how it started last time. Even without the return of he-who-must-not-be-named, his followers were surely tired of waiting in the shadows, biting their tongues, and watching muggle-borns, and half-bloods receive equal treatment. If they were back, her family would be a target.
She had to be vigilant.
The full Slytherin table almost deterred her from sitting down for lunch but she couldn't get Moody's words out of her head. She caught a glance of Malfoy laughing with Crabbe, and Goyle, all with family ties to Death Eaters. She was quite literally in the snake pit.
She boldly took a seat at the middle of the table, a few empty spots away from Malfoy and his crew.
Vigilant.
If there was indeed something brewing, maybe they knew about it, and maybe, just maybe, they'd be dumb enough to let something slip.
Moody's face looming over her uncles flashed in her mind once more but she didn't flinch. If her uncle had survived, surely he would have come for his blood-traitor brother and half-blood nieces. How could she have been so stupid to think that Moody would out her, even if he had recognized her name? He was capable of bad things, yes, but clearly, only for a good cause. He'd done what he had to do, not only for his safety but also for her father's safety, her mother's safety, and ultimately, hers.
She cursed the tear she'd shed for such an evil man last night.
Malfoy's cackle tore her from her thoughts. She watched him sneer at a group of Gryffindors with his friends, his white hair unmoving as he tossed his head backward and wondered if anyone else had seen him at the Quidditch World Cup.
“You don’t pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry’s gold.
“But –”
“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven’t forgotten,” said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.”
