““You and me?” she whispered.
“You and me,” he promised, pressing a kiss into her soaked hair. “Until the end. And after.”
They stood there for another moment in the storm, clinging to each other like the world might try to pry them apart again, but would fail.
Then, fingers still laced tightly, they ran through the rain toward Grimmauld Place, hearts set on surviving the war…
and shaping the world waiting beyond it.”
Black Manor, October 1st, 1981
Black Manor still smelled like his childhood, old wood polish, aged parchment. But for the last two years, the air had soured. Darkness clung to the walls now. The manor had become headquarters for the Death Eaters, and every meeting sank the house deeper into corruption.
The most recent one had just ended.
Regulus stood near the back of the drawing room, silent and observant, trying to regulate his breathing. His grandparents’ ancestral hall, once a place of Black pride and tradition, now echoed with the whispers of cloaked servants to a monster.
But today… something seemed different.
The Dark Lord was agitated.
Not outwardly. Never outwardly. Voldemort was far too controlled for that. But Regulus had spent enough time around him, to see beneath the veneer.
The slight tension in his shoulders.
The too-rapid flicks of his wand as he concluded orders.
Two emotions the Dark Lord considered weaknesses.
And yet, they were there.
Regulus swallowed hard. The danger of being in Voldemort’s inner circle, a position he had risen to terrifyingly fast, had never felt worse. He and Severus had entered that circle only months ago. A place where a single wrong breath could mean death.
As the meeting concluded, the Death Eaters filed out one by one. Each approached bowing, murmuring meaningless praise, and then scurrying away. Voldemort barely acknowledged them.
But when Regulus stepped forward, Voldemort lifted a pale hand.
Regulus gave no reaction but rather moved off to the side of the room to wait for the remaining cloaked figures to depart.
As the last Death Eater disappeared through the doors, which shut with a booming finality. Silence followed, heavy and oppressive. Only Regulus and the Dark Lord remained.
Voldemort turned toward him and removed his glamor.
He did not look like the monstrous creature the rumors whispered about. Order propaganda that he himself had come up with that the Dark Lord found so humorous that he leaned into it.
However the actual man before him terrified him more than the monster he portrayed. He was no longer the Tom Riddle preserved in old photographs.
His features were still unnervingly handsome: sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and the same dark, almost aristocratic structure that had once allowed him to pass unnoticed among pure-blood society. But the longer one looked, the more the darkness registered.
His skin was pale and held a faint, unnatural smoothness, almost like polished marble rather than living flesh.
The shape of his nose had changed subtly. Not flattened, not slitted, but narrowed, its bridge thinning in a way that made his whole face seem slightly more predatory.
And then there were his eyes.
They were no longer brown.
A deep crimson ringed each iris, glowing faintly in low light, like embers banked beneath ash. They did not flicker or blink often enough. They watched.
“Regulus,” Voldemort said softly, voice like velvet stretched thin over steel. “You have proven yourself invaluable. Loyal. Intelligent. Worthy.”
A tremor tried to break free in Regulus’s hands; he clasped them behind his back to hide it.
Voldemort paced, the hem of his robes whispering over marble floors.
“I find myself,” he began, tone deceptively casual, “ready to bestow upon you a secret no other living soul carries.”
“This,” Voldemort continued, “is the key to my inevitable success."
Regulus’s heartbeat quickened painfully.
“Tell me, Regulus,” Voldemort murmured, now standing dangerously close. “Have you ever considered immortality as a possibility?”
Every instinct screamed at Regulus.
But he forced himself to stand still. “I… cannot say I have, my Lord.”
“I had not either,” Voldemort said, smug delight curling at the edges of his mouth, “until very recently I discovered a path. A ritual of unparalleled brilliance. Vile to lesser minds, perhaps. But powerful.”
Something dangled from his fingers.
Etched with the serpentine ‘S’ of Salazar Slytherin.
At once, the room’s temperature dropped several degrees. Shadows lengthened unnaturally. Regulus’s magic recoiled as the darkness stole his breath.
“This,” Voldemort whispered, “is a Horcrux.”
“My soul,” Voldemort said, lifting the locket higher, “is split. A fragment resides within this heirloom. Within this legacy of Slytherin, my bloodline.”
Regulus stared at it as if it were a cursed serpent.
When Voldemort held it out, Regulus hesitated, barely, but enough. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.
With no choice, Regulus extended his hand.
The moment his skin touched the metal-
Voices, hundreds, shrieked directly into his mind.
A woman begging for mercy.
A child crying for its mother.
“You feel it, don’t you? The power. The permanence.”
Regulus forced the locket back into Voldemort’s hand before he collapsed in a shaking heap.
But Voldemort merely clasped it calmly under his robes.
“To create this power and the ability to fracture one’s soul, one must be willing to desecrate magic with the purpose in mind of removing life from one soul allowing the split to occur within oneself. Once you have taken a life in the name of splitting your soul the broken piece can then be forced into any object of your choosing taking the place of the person you killed as a sentient object.
“This is the secret I entrust to you alone,” he continued. “You are the only one I deem worthy. The only one intelligent enough not to squander the knowledge.”
Regulus’s mouth tasted of iron.
“You will accompany me today,” Voldemort said, extending his arm. “I am ready to hide it where no one will ever find it. And should I fall, should anyone strike me down, you will know how to restore me.”
Voldemort leaned forward slightly, the motion subtle and serpentine like.
“You,” he said softly, “will be the one to safeguard my secret.”
Regulus’s pulse thudded painfully in his throat.
He had expected praise, rare, brittle, usually a sign of danger.
He had not expected this.
“I trust you,” Voldemort continued, the words slow and deliberate, “more than any other in my ranks.”
Regulus held perfectly still.
He had learned long ago that reacting too quickly to praise from the Dark Lord was often as dangerous as reacting too slowly.
“You have shown loyalty,” Voldemort said. “Judgment and capability far above your peers. And so, I will give you knowledge that no other Death Eater possesses.”
The room felt too small, too quiet.
“You now know,” Voldemort went on, “that I have transcended the limitations of lesser wizards. That my soul is anchored beyond the reach of death.”
Not the sharp, magical cold the locket had inflicted, but something deeper.
A sinking, creeping dread.
“This,” Voldemort said, gesturing to the locket once again, “is what ensures my immortality. It is the greatest creation I have ever forged.”
“And should I fall,” Voldemort continued smoothly“ should I be struck down before my rightful dominion is secured…”
He paused just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
“…you,” he said, “will be the one to bring me back. I want you to understand the honor I am bestowing to you.”
“It would be an honor, my Lord.”
Voldemort’s lips curved into something that almost resembled a smile.
But satisfaction, dark and gleaming.
“You honor the House of Black,” he murmured. “More than your Mother, Father, cousins and brother ever could.”
Regulus kept his expression carefully empty.
The Dark Lord extended an arm, the gesture elegant and absolute.
His fingers curled slightly in silent command.
Regulus inhaled once, and obeyed.
His hand closed around Voldemort’s forearm.
And the world twisted into darkness.
They apparated to the edge of the sea, a jagged cliff overlooking a churning gray ocean. The sky hung low, heavy with storm.
Voldemort lifted his hand.
It parted like curtains, revealing a passage cut deep into the rock.
Regulus followed him down the exposed path, heart hammering. The cavern was immense, filled with the smell of salt and cold stone.
“This,” Voldemort said, “is where I shall store my most precious treasure.”
They approached a black lake, vast, still, and wrong. Even without touching it, Regulus felt the magic pulsing beneath the surface, a slow heartbeat of death.
“You asked me once,” Voldemort murmured, “why I never leave my victims’ bodies behind.”
“For twenty years,” Voldemort continued, “I have used an enchantment of my own design. Every person I killed was transported here. Their bodies rest beneath the surface of this lake, awaiting my command.”
Regulus’s skin crawled. The lake suddenly felt alive.
“But they will not remain dormant for long,” Voldemort said. “They have been transformed into Inferi.”
He summoned a small, rickety boat from the shadows. Regulus stepped in, hands shaking as he rowed them across the water.
Every stroke felt like dragging the dead with him.
When they reached the small island in the center, Voldemort conjured a stone basin. He set the locket inside, then conjured water, dark, shimmering unnaturally, as he poured it over the locket. His incantations were of a different tongue intertwined with a magic Regulus had never encountered.
When the final word left Voldemort’s lips, the locket vanished. Invisible beneath the enchanted water.
“The trap is set,” Voldemort said.
The instinct to climb into the lake.
The Inferi waiting beneath the surface to drag the drinker under.
“One must drink the basin dry to retrieve the locket,” Voldemort finished softly. “And if you finish the water you always die.”
Regulus’s heart splintered.
And I am the one meant to revive him.
He is expecting me to sacrifice someone into this hell. To kill someone who trusts me.
He touched Regulus’s arm, and they apparated back to the drawing room at Black Manor.
No more words were exchanged and Regulus understood a dismissal when he saw one, and he was glad as he could not get away from the monster fast enough.
Regulus walked briskly but numbly toward the corridor.
As soon as he reached the nearest bathroom, he collapsed over the sink and vomited violently, gripping the porcelain until his knuckles turned white.
He knew what he had to do.
He had to tell the Order.
October 31st, 1995, Hogwarts
Hermione had been excited for days.
Even if she didn’t normally fuss about birthdays, this year had been different. Sixteen. A proper milestone. And Daphne, Luna, Draco, and Theo had insisted they were going to celebrate it properly, belatedly, yes, but with enthusiasm that made her chest warm every time she thought about it.
The house-elves had even made her a little cake the night of the 19th, complete with shimmering green icing and silver sugar stars. Daphne had smuggled it into their dorm after curfew, whispering “Make a wish, Hermione” as though she were speaking to someone far younger, far gentler. But the real celebration, her real gift, was supposed to be today.
The first Hogsmeade trip of the year.
A whole afternoon of being away from the castle, away from homework, and classes just her and her friends. Daphne had planned sweets from Honeydukes, Luna had insisted on visiting the bookshop for “birthday serendipity,” and the boys had promised to buy her something from Zonko’s that she was “not allowed to ask questions about yet.”
Hermione found herself… excited.
She stood in the entrance hall with the others as students clustered around, tugging on cloaks and chatter-filling the corridor. Daphne squeezed her hand, smiling.
“You’re going to love it,” she said. “We even charmed a box for your Honeydukes haul.”
Theo added, “You deserve a proper celebration. Even if it’s late.”
Luna, serene as always, reached out to adjust the collar of Hermione’s cloak. “Sixteen is… a year. It will be good to start it out cheerfully.”
Hermione had smiled back, heart swelling. She stepped forward with the crowd toward Professor McGonagall, who was checking names and permission slips.
“Next,” McGonagall said crisply, though with her usual warmth beneath it.
Hermione handed her slip forward automatically.
McGonagall’s eyes softened instantly. “Miss Granger.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “Good morning, Professor. I’m with—”
Her friends hovered a respectful distance back, clearly expecting Hermione to be waved through.
McGonagall’s expression shifted.
“Miss Granger… your permission slip isn’t signed.”
Hermione blinked. “Professor… I—”
“I don’t have a parent or guardian to sign it.”
There was a soft, uncomfortable stir in her stomach. Hermione ignored it, focusing only on the professor before her.
McGonagall inhaled slowly, regret shading her features. “I am truly sorry, my dear. But without a signed form from a parent or guardian, no student is permitted to leave Hogwarts grounds.”
“I know,” Hermione whispered. “But—
“Hermione, I know you mean well but I can’t make an exception. What would that mean for the others that do have parents that don’t get a slip signed?” McGonagall said gently, her tone kinder but no less firm. “Rules are the rules my dear.”
Hermione felt something fragile and hopeful inside her begin to crack.
“But… Professor, please. You know that rule means I will never be able to go. That is not fair. Maybe you or another professor could sign for me?”
Her voice broke, humiliatingly. She forced herself to steady it.
“I just wanted to spend time with my friends.”
McGonagall’s eyes softened so deeply they almost glistened.
“Oh, Miss Granger,” she murmured, “you deserve far more kindness in life than it has given you. But rules are rules, and they exist to keep you safe. I cannot bend them, even if my heart wishes otherwise.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. She nodded stiffly.
McGonagall reached out, hesitated, then placed a warm hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “This does not diminish your value, my dear. Or the affection your friends or professors have for you.”
Hermione nodded again, unable to trust her voice.
“I’m sorry,” McGonagall finished quietly.
Hermione stepped aside, letting the next student pass. The hall felt suddenly too large, too bright, buzzing with excitement she could no longer share.
Her friends hurried to her immediately.
“What happened?” Daphne demanded. “Why aren’t you coming?”
Hermione tried to smile, but it came out thin and brittle.
“McGonagall won’t let me go. No signature, no trip.”
Luna frowned, angrily. “That’s unfair.”
Theo muttered something under his breath
Draco, uncharacteristically gentle, asked, “Do you want us to stay with you?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. You all planned this. You should go.”
“Please,” Hermione said softly. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
But she wouldn’t ruin their day too.
One by one, they hugged her, Daphne tight and protective, Luna soft and warm, Theo with an awkward pat to her shoulder, Draco with a brief, tense squeeze of her hand.
“We’ll bring back something amazing,” Daphne promised.
Hermione nodded, watching them join the line, their smiles dimmer now, glancing back at her until the doors closed behind them.
She stood alone in the entrance hall as the last of the students disappeared through the gates.
Her birthday celebration vanished with them.
And for a long, quiet moment, Hermione let herself feel it:
The bitter, familiar ache of being left behind, not by cruelty, but by circumstance.
And walked slowly back into the castle, her footsteps echoing through corridors suddenly too empty for comfort.
The castle felt unusually hollow when most of its students were gone.
The silence wasn’t peaceful, no, it throbbed inside the corridors, settling into the stones like a reminder that she was alone again… just as she had been for most of her life.
Hermione wandered without aim, her footsteps echoing faintly against the ancient walls. A draft wound through the corridor, brushing against her arms like cold fingers. She hugged herself and took another turn, trying not to think about her friends laughing in Hogsmeade right now, eating sweets at Honeydukes, browsing Zonko’s shelves, picking out gifts for her belated birthday celebration.
They were supposed to spoil her today.
She blinked hard and kept walking.
But another uneasy feeling kept tugging at her, something brushing against her awareness, the prickling sensation of eyes following her from somewhere just beyond sight. She turned sharply once, catching only the flicker of movement down the stairwell, like a shadow pulling itself out of sight.
Every so often, she paused, glancing over her shoulder, but each time she found nothing except empty stone and the whisper of wind. Had the castle always felt this… watchful?
By the time she reached the wooden bridge that overlooked the ravine, she was grateful to find someone else there.
Professor Lupin stood near the railing, hands folded against the rail as he looked out across the mist-layered grounds. His shabby robes fluttered softly in the breeze.
He turned when he heard her approach, offering a gentle smile.
“Hermione,” he greeted, warm, steady. “You’re not in Hogsmeade?”
She shook her head and tried to keep her voice neutral. “No. Professor McGonagall wouldn’t let me go.” She didn’t add because I don’t have anyone to sign my form, but the words tasted bitter on her tongue.
Lupin’s smile dimmed with sympathy. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to it.”
She swallowed. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
But she did. And she suspected he knew.
For a moment, they simply stood together, the wind lifting strands of her hair, the boards creaking beneath their feet.
Finally, she found her voice.
“Professor… Why did you step in front of the boggart? When it became a dementor?”
Lupin hummed softly, gaze turning back toward the distant forest.
“A boggart,” he said, “can only mimic what we fear. But a dementor, even a false one, can still do harm if its target is already vulnerable. And you…” He looked down at her, not unkindly. “You had no way of defending yourself from it once you saw it. I could tell that you were so afraid that you forgot Riddikulus. Which is normal when faced with a boggart for the first time let alone it manifesting as a dementor. I couldn’t let that run its course.”
Hermione lowered her eyes. Embarrassment prickled at her skin.
He continued, voice quieter now. “And, if I’m honest, I worried what memory it might force you to relive. Your parents… even though I did not know them or what happened their loss was obviously a terrible memory. There was no reason to expose that in front of your classmates.”
Hermione’s throat closed. She hadn’t expected him to be so straightforward about it.
“I was thinking of that night,” she admitted. “But also… also what happened on the train.”
The dementor’s presence. The choking cold. The absolute despair.
Lupin nodded thoughtfully. “Then perhaps your fear isn’t of the dementor itself,” he said softly. “But of fear, of helplessness. That is far more difficult to face.”
Hermione’s hands curled around the railing. She didn’t want to say this. She didn’t want to admit it. But the question had been eating at her since the train.
“Before I passed out,” she whispered, “I heard a woman screaming.”
Not outwardly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But Hermione had always been perceptive. His shoulders tightened. His breath paused.
But his voice remained careful. Calm.
“Dementors force us to relive our worst memories,” he said. “Not always clearly. Sometimes only fragments. Feelings. Echoes. A scream could belong to anyone, a fear from childhood, a nightmare your mind held onto, or something you witnessed long ago but don’t consciously remember.”
Hermione frowned. “But I don’t know who it was. I can’t think of any woman who would have screamed like that.”
Lupin looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
“Memories are strange things,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Especially traumatic ones. They don’t always surface when we expect them to. But in time, you may understand it better.”
Hermione nodded slowly, though unease still twisted in her stomach.
They stood together in silence as the sun slipped lower in the sky, dipping behind the forbidden forest and casting long shadows across the grounds. As Hermione zoned out Lupin, watched her with quiet worry, but said nothing.
The dungeons were warm compared to the chill outside, firelight flickering against the green-tinted windows and bathing the Slytherin common room in gold and emerald. Hermione sat curled into one of the deep leather sofas, Daphne pressed warmly against her right side, Theo lounging on the armchair beside them with a book, and Draco leaning back against the opposite sofa, recounting, with dramatic exaggeration, the glory of Honeydukes.
“…and then there’s the Fizzing Whizbees,” Draco said with a flourish, “which actually lift you off the ground if you eat too many.”
Daphne rolled her eyes fondly. “Hermione, the point is, you unfairly missed the best sweets shop in Britain.”
Hermione tried to smile, but it came out a little thin. Their entire afternoon of describing pastries, charmed chocolates, and butterbeer warm enough to melt bones, it was all meant to cheer her up. To soften the sting of her failed attempt to join them that day.
It helped. Just… not all the way.
She opened her mouth to answer when the common room door opened, not with a bang, but with a soft, controlled push.
His black robes swirled behind him like the end of a stormcloud, and every conversation in the room died instantly. The atmosphere stilled. Even the seventh-years straightened in their seats.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
“There has been an attack,” he said tone clipped and clinical, with only the faintest shadow of concern beneath it. “After the feast as the houses returned to their houses. The Fat Lady portrait which guards the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was missing, and the portrait itself was clawed. Inside the common room had been ransacked. The intruder is believed to be Marlene McKinnon.”
Gasps rose around the room. Draco stiffened. Daphne’s hand slid instinctively toward Hermione’s.
Snape raised a hand to silence the murmurs.
“The castle wards have been sealed. No one is permitted to enter or exit until further notice. Professors and Aurors are currently sweeping the interior. As a precaution, all students will spend the night in the Great Hall under supervision.”
This time, the reaction was silence, uneasy and fearful.
Hermione’s heart hammered in her ribs.
Snape went on, “Return to your dormitories briefly to change into comfortable clothing. You will then proceed to the Great Hall as a group. Prefects, ensure compliance.”
His eyes fell briefly onto her. As if checking she was unharmed. Then he swept out of the room.
The moment he vanished, whispered panic erupted.
“McKinnon? Inside Hogwarts?”
“How did she even get in?”
“Bet she’s after Potter.”
“She could still be here!”
Hermione tried to breathe through the rush in her ears.
Daphne squeezed her wrist. “Come on. Let’s go get changed. There’s no chance she’ll get anywhere near us tonight, not with half the Auror office crawling around.”
Hermione nodded, though unease ate at her.
Hundreds of sleeping bags dotted the floor like patches of mismatched color. Torches glowed low, and professors patrolled along the aisles like restless shadows. The enchanted ceiling showed only blackness, no stars, no moon.
Hermione lay between Daphne and a second-year girl who kept fidgeting in her sleep. Crookshanks was curled at her feet.
Hours passed. The hall slowly softened into a dim hush, breathing, rustling, occasional whispers.
Her eyes were closed when she heard footsteps, a slow pair, measured, passing just behind her head.
“No sign of her anywhere in the castle,” came Snape’s voice, kept low.
Hermione’s eyes opened a sliver.
He was speaking to Dumbledore, who walked beside him in his midnight-blue robes, beard silver in the dim torchlight.
“I must admit,” Dumbledore murmured, “I had not expected her to linger.”
Snape’s reply was sharper than usual, the edge barely restrained.
“A remarkable feat nevertheless. Entering school grounds alone, undetected, most seasoned Dark wizards could not manage it.”
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully. “Quite remarkable indeed.”
Snape glanced toward him. “Do you have a theory, Headmaster?”
“Several,” Dumbledore said lightly. “Though each as unlikely as the next.”
A pause. Torchlight flickered over both men’s faces.
Then Snape said, with forced casualness.
“Before term began, I voiced my concerns to you about hiring Lupin. He was… acquainted with Marlene at one time.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Dumbledore did not miss a step. “I remember your concerns. And I remain confident in Professor Lupin’s loyalty. As you of all people can remember Severus, we were all acquaintances of Miss McKinnon at one time.”
“You do not believe he is involved?” Snape pressed.
A faint smile tugged at Dumbledore’s mouth.
“No. Marlene McKinnon did not return to Hogwarts through the aid of an old friend. Nor through a professor. She is, quite evidently, operating alone.”
Snape was silent for a moment. Hermione saw his hands fold behind his back, as if storing the information away.
“Then you judge the castle secure?” he asked finally.
“Secure enough,” Dumbledore said softly. “The students may return to their dormitories come morning.”
Their footsteps drifted away down the aisle, fading into the darkness.
Hermione stared up at the ceiling, at the endless, starless black.
Marlene McKinnon had been inside Hogwarts.
And Hermione had the horrible feeling it wasn’t for the last time.
She curled onto her side, Crookshanks pressing warmly against her ankles, but sleep didn’t come. Only worry.
Earlier That Evening - Gryffindor Tower
The castle was loud with celebration, music, laughter, and the low hum of the Halloween feast drifting through stone corridors.
It made slipping through the shadows beautifully easy.
Marlene padded silently along the upper staircases, wrapped beneath a Disillusionment Charm that shimmered faintly when torchlight struck her skin just right. She had waited all day, for the one moment she needed.
A Gryffindor third year had said the password.
Marlene had been passing and heard it as clearly as if it were whispered in her ear.
Now she hid behind a statue across from the Fat Lady’s portrait, watching the guardian waddle off into another frame to gossip with Violet. As soon as the portrait was left unattended, Marlene stepped forward, still invisible to any wandering student.
She spoke the password softly.
The portrait swung open without hesitation.
The warmth hit her first, firelight, thick carpets, wood polish, and stubborn Gryffindor cheerfulness baked into the walls.
She hated how familiar it felt.
For a moment, she simply stood and looked around.
The vaulted ceilings, the soft glow of lanterns, the banners of gold and red.
She had spent seven years here.
Seven years laughing, dueling, studying, dreaming.
Seven years believing this place was safe.
She reminded herself why she was here.
Her wolf instincts buzzed beneath her skin. The smell of teenage boys lingered faintly in the air, sweat, parchment, pumpkin pasties. Her lips curled. She moved through the common room silently, not bothering to mask her footsteps anymore. Everyone was at the feast. Everyone was loud. And she had work to do.
She climbed the staircase to the boys’ dormitories, turning sharply into the third-year room.
She shut the door behind her with a flick of her hand.
The room was annoyingly tidy, beds made, trunks closed, photographs pinned neatly to the walls. A rooster-feather quill sat on the Weasley boys desk, bright red and stupidly cheerful. The entire place reeked of innocence and youth and lives untouched by true danger.
She scanned the room. The rat was not immediately visible. Her magic prickled with irritation.
“Where are you, you filthy little coward…” she muttered, her voice low, vibrating with barely restrained fury.
She stepped toward Ron’s bedside, eyes narrowing at a framed photograph.
A boy, ginger and freckled, laughing, holding a pudgy gray rat up in the air like a prize.
In one explosive motion she hurled the frame across the room. It shattered against the stone wall, shards scattering like glittering shrapnel.
Then she saw the second photograph on the opposing desk.
Arms wrapped around Lily.
James standing behind him.
Sirius laughing beside them, carefree and open and stupidly happy.
Marlene’s breath stopped.
Then something inside her went silent, and then.
The desk nearest her flipped, crashing into the wall with a thunderous bang. She sliced through the bed hangings with a hex, splintered a dresser with another. She ripped blankets apart, shredded school robes, blasted apart a trunk.
The rage was cleansing, wild, volcanic and glorious.
“Where is he?” she hissed, tearing open another drawer so violently the handle came off in her hand. “Where is that rat? He better pray I never find him. I’ll make it slow. I’ll make it so slow he’ll beg me to end it.”
She blasted another wardrobe into splinters, the explosion shaking the room.
Pictures fell from the walls one by one.
She stalked across the room, boots crunching over broken glass and wood. She reached down and snatched up the Potter family photograph, the one with Sirius. Her fingers trembled with something that wasn’t rage anymore.
“Liars,” she whispered. “Every last one of you.”
Then she shattered that frame too.
And slowly, deliberately, with a vicious smirk curling her lips, she carved into the wooden backing with her knife she kept on her:
Let them whisper her name like a curse.
It amused her now, leaning into the monster they made her.
If they wanted a villain, she would give them one.
By the time she stepped back from her handiwork, the room was unrecognizable, a war zone of torn fabric, scorched wood, and shredded memories.
She descended the stairs toward the common room, her mood almost buoyant. Chaos suited her.
On impulse, she swept her hand in a wide arc as she crossed the common room floor.
Books launched into the air.
It was artwork, in its own way.
Finally, as she exited the common room she paused before the Fat Lady’s portrait. The guardian had returned and gasped upon seeing Marlene.
Paint ripped like flesh. The Fat Lady screamed, the canvas tearing violently before Marlene stepped back, admiring her work.
Then she slipped into the shadows and vanished.
Defense against the Dark Arts Classroom, November 5th, 1995
The classroom was already dim when Hermione entered. The usual pale autumn light that poured through the high windows.
Hermione took her usual seat between Daphne and an empty desk.
The door slammed shut with a billow of black robes.
Snape swept to the front with all the disdain of a king forced to lower himself before peasants.
“Turn,” he said coldly, “to page three hundred and ninety-four.”
Beside Hermione, Daphne jolted slightly. Because she had just noticed Hermione was now in the seat she hadn’t occupied a heartbeat ago. Daphne shot her a startled look and whispered.
“You really need to stop doing whatever it is you are doing. You are going to kill me by fright.”
Hermione pretended not to notice.
A few students rustled pages. Others whispered.
Snape’s gaze cut across the room, freezing them instantly.
“Today,” he continued, “we will be discussing werewolves.”
Hermione’s quill slipped slightly in her fingers.
Snape flicked his wand, and a projector slid into place with a metallic clatter. A grainy still image of a wolf-like creature appeared on the wall.
“Can anyone,” Snape drawled, pacing slowly before the class, “tell me the difference between an Animagus and a werewolf?”
Hermione knew this. Of course she knew this. She had read about it ages ago, theories of forced versus voluntary transformation, magical signatures, moon influence, the biological differences.
Her hand went up before she could stop it.
Daphne stiffened beside her. Draco, who had not noticed her yet actually flinched, whispering under his breath, “Where did she even come from?”
“An Animagus,” she said clearly, “retains full control of their mind while transformed and can change form at will. A werewolf has no control during the full moon and is forced into transformation, losing all sense of self.”
Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but he gave a single slow blink, the closest he ever came to acknowledging correctness in front of the class.
“Correct.” He let the word drip with reluctant approval. “Five points to Slytherin.”
Snape turned back to the rest of the class.
“And perhaps,” he added pointedly, “others may consider reading the assigned text before attending a lesson.”
His voice lingered, bitter, cutting, almost sadistic.
Hermione’s heart thudded painfully. Because now that he had said the word, werewolf. Her brain connected the dots she hadn’t allowed herself to see before.
His panic when the boggart turned into the moon.
She swallowed hard and forced her face into neutrality. She said nothing, absolutely nothing. She did not let it show.
Snape continued the lecture, his tone sharp as a knife’s edge.
“The werewolf,” he said, tapping the diagram, “is among the most dangerous of Dark creatures. Unlike animagi, who can shift form voluntarily, the werewolf is enslaved by its own transformation.”
Ron, sitting two rows back, muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear in her direction:
“Of course the know-it-all was right.”
Hermione didn’t react. She didn’t even turn her head.
Snape, however, pivoted on his heel.
“Ten points,” he said silkily, “from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn.”
Ron spluttered. “What? But she—she’s always!”
“And another five,” Snape added, “for whining.”
The Slytherin side of the room snickered.
Snape snapped the projector off.
“Your assignment,” he announced, “is a two-and-a-half-foot essay on the recognition and differentiation of werewolves from common wolves or Animagi. Due—” he paused just long enough to let the dread settle, “Next lesson.”
Several students groaned. Snape ignored every one of them.
He swept toward the door, robes billowing behind him.
Hermione gathered her things wordlessly, her mind spinning, not about Ron, not about the essay, not even about Snape’s glee at assigning it.
About what he’d done for her.
About why he’d stepped in front of the boggart.
She pressed a hand over her chest as she followed Daphne out the door.
Fear of fear itself, the fear of helplessness was what Lupin had said.
As she walked Hermione realized that she might not be the only one that was afraid of more than met the eye. Not the only one concerned with a loss of control.
