THE BLACK MANOR.
lestrange fundraiser event
OPEN starter
Andromeda stood in the middle of the ballroom of her family home, a look of great satisfaction on her face. The event was in full swing, and so far everything had gone off without a hitch. The room was full of supporters and potential donors, and the thought that she had made all of this happen filled Andromeda with more pride than she had experienced in a long time (or, at least, since her idea to kill James Potter had been accomplished, but somehow that pride had been short lived). This was what she had been raised for, and to know that the next stage of their plans was so far going so successfully made the rest of her worries fade, at least for the night.
Taking a sip from the glass flute of champagne in her hand, she looked down at her gown, knowing that she looked fabulous. She had put great care into her appearance, knowing that eyes would be on her and Bella as the hostesses of this gala. Andromeda was comfortable in the public eye – she had been raised to be poised no matter what the circumstances. But she knew that it required her to look the part.
Looking around the room, a smile came to her face as she caught a glimpse of Ted, who looked quite handsome in the suit she had picked out for him. He was doing just as great as the rest of them, looking comfortable and at ease in this world of hers. Passing over him, she continued to scan the crowd, looking for someone who was unoccupied and might need some attention from the hostess. As she looked, she sensed someone approach her, and she turned around with a smile on her face, ready to greet them.
As much as Persephone wanted to distance herself from the political arena, she had resigned herself to the understanding that this was simply her life now. She’d wanted to distance herself for years - she’d wanted to after her father paraded her in front of donors, she’d wanted to when she was forced to come along to Edward’s parties for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures when he was vying for department head, she wanted to when she met Harrison - yet here she was. Her father always said it was a fool’s errand to attempt to run from who you are; she was every bit her father’s daughter as she was her mother’s, and if Alistair Zabini was anything at all, he was a brilliant political mind.
Perhaps that’s why she hasn’t declared herself for either side, why she intends to cozy up to the Black sisters on the “right side of the war,” why she plays so nicely with Lily and the others - it’s the right decision, the safest decision, the most politically minded decision to stay above it all. That was, after all, her initial reason for killing Harrison, but that was proving to be a decision that she should have considered more carefully.
Playing nice with Andromeda Black, however, wasn’t up for debate. She would never, ever say she was afraid of Andromeda - or Bellatrix, for that matter - but Persephone wasn’t foolish enough to claim that Andromeda wasn’t powerful enough to harm her. She never understood people who claimed to be fearless. Fear is your body telling you to be careful, Sephy, her aunt whispered as she braided her hair. People who claim to be unafraid of anyone or anything are either liars or dead and Persephone had done quite a lot to avoid her own death thus far, she wasn’t about to let her life slip through her hands because of something as silly as vain pride.
Andromeda was easy to spot - as if anyone could miss her standing in the center of the room - but Persephone didn’t want to interrupt another conversation, or worse, play second fiddle if another person had her attention, so she made polite conversation until Andromeda was free from distractions. Persephone couldn’t pinpoint why she wanted the other woman’s undivided attention, especially considering how dangerous it would be if Andromeda were to look into Persephone’s ties to the pro-creature movement or her late husband’s death. Nevertheless, she approached, smile pulling at her pained lips. “Good evening,” she smiled, not offering the other woman a hug, as she didn’t believe physical contact would be welcome. “Everything looks absolutely lovely, Andromeda. As I said last night, I’m truly honored to have been a part of this event, as minor as my part was.”
when: the early afternoon of may 5th, 2019
where: behind dogweed and deathcap
who: persephone & OPEN
Long hours and evenings at the shop meant that Persephone was surviving without half of her soul; the other half resided with her dearest Cerberus. It was difficult to call Cerberus a pet, but she wouldn’t call him her child either. That denoted some sort of responsibility for him, that she cared for him as a mother would, that she saw him as something less than her equal; she didn’t.
He was her heart, given to her in moment where she thought she would never be her own person again, given to her by the man that nearly destroyed her. He protected her then and she protected him in return. Cerberus used to bite Edward’s hands when they inched to strike Persephone’s face; Persephone charmed dragon hunters to their demise when they looked at Cerberus for too long. Being without him for too long felt like someone had reached into her chest and plucked out her fluttering heart.
After about two weeks, Cerberus had demanded to come to Dogweed and Deathcap with her. Meaning, of course, that he flew there before she’d woken in the flat above the shop and settled beside the humming greenhouse. One of her assistants - a muggleborn that had never seen a dragon up close, was quite surprised at the sight. Persephone was still offering her paid time off after the shock of Cerberus happily eating a stray rabbit nearly sent her to St. Mungos.
It was because of that paid time off that Persephone was manning the store alone today. She spent her time behind the shop, the newly constructed enclosure half greenhouse, half garden - well, it was currently half greenhouse, a quarter garden, and a quarter Cerberus. He looked regal, her Cerberus. All Antipodean Opaleyes were beautiful, but Cerberus was the most stunning she’d ever seen; though she might be the tiniest bit biased. The sheen on his pearly scales allowed him this slight glimmer, the glittering edges almost made him appear out of focus in sunlight, like he wasn’t quite real, that he was just a lovely lethal illusion that might slip past your grip at a moment’s notice.
Perhaps that was why people assumed he was just a statue; several potential customers had wandered to the back of the shop and found him resting in the sun. She’d tried to warn them that he was real and that any attempt to poke him wouldn’t end well for anyone involved. But, of course, she wasn’t listened to. She managed to skirt the young man out of the way before Cerberus burned him alive, but when he dug his nails into Persephone’s arm and screamed in her face, she was less inclined to save him from Cerberus wrath. The man was alive - only just - with a chunk of flesh missing, singed off eyebrows, and a wiped memory.
She made her signs leading up to the back of the store more prominent and clearer after that little incident. She attempted to stay in the back more often than not to avoid any more problems while she had someone else man the front. She wouldn’t have Cerberus taken away because some idiot refused to read. Today, however, she was alone, so she was back and forth. Cerberus was lovely, as always, just slumbering soundly in the sunlight; but Persephone was, as always, weary of anyone bothering or harming him so she stayed close.
The bell over the door chimed at the front of the store. Cerberus lifted his head at the sound but returned to his rest after a beat passed. Persephone called out to them to come to the back if they needed assistance. She was unconcerned about thieves - most of the plants were security themselves and after word started to travel that Dogweed and Deathcap had an “attack dog with leathery wings and fire breath” people seemed less inclined to nick anything from her store.
As she heard footsteps approach, she offered the newcomer a smile as she tended to the more mundane plants near the back of the garden. “How can I help you?” She asked, not moving to stand or expecting an answer as their gaze caught on Cerberus. “I’d be careful,” she warned, attention returning to her flowers. “He’s gentle, but rather protective and prone to fire starting when he feels threatened.” She nearly giggled at the similarities between herself and Cerberus but covered her smile.
Sitting outside Florence’s Ice Cream shop, Lily had her latest case load in front of her. She was particularly grateful that she was finally allowed back at work, field work included. Lily needed a semblance of normal, and this gave her that. Still, she couldn’t help but want to stop for a bite of ice cream while she debated which witness to speak to first. Taking a bite of her chocolate peanut butter ice cream, she looked up when someone took the seat across from her. Looking up from her notes she asked, “Are you going to be joining me?”
Spotting the redhead, Persephone had to smile - Lily was always a breath of fresh air when she was playing at being the perfect Minister’s wife and visited each of the departments. However, as soon as she saw the files before the younger woman, the smile pulling at her lips contorted into a frown for a fraction of a second. As much as she enjoyed Lily, the auror worried her. She was bright and cunning and could be a threat if she were to find out about Seph’s relationship to Harrison’s - and Edward’s - death. Even if the department wasn’t even considering looking into Harrison’s death, she still had to check in.
Walking over to the redhead, Persephone slipped into the seat opposite her. She giggled, the sound tinkling and delicate, as Lily’s dry words left her lips. “It certainly seems that way,” she shrugged, sliding her bag off the crook of her elbow and onto the ground. “You looked like you could use a break,” she paused, laughing under her breath. “Sorry. That’s what one of my attendants says to me all the time and I know how aggravating that is. I meant, how are you?”
When she could, Helena took her lunch breaks out of the office. Helena found that if she stayed in the office during her break, it was never properly respected. People barged in and demanded her time when she was meant to be eating, and frankly, Helena gave them enough of her time. So she went to the cafe in Diagon Alley, a place that was close enough for her to not waste time with traveling, but also lowkey enough to not get a ton of foot traffic. Still, as she went to take her seat, lunch ordered and drink in hand, she heard her name. Putting her drink down on the table, Helena turned with a warm smile and greet, “Yes? What can I do you for?”
Ever since Harrison’s untimely death, Persephone had taken to spending all her time at Dogweed and Deathcap, working through her meals and breaks, spending her evenings there, tending to her work plants far more than her house plants. It started out as an attempt to perform grief for the rest of the world but turned into an obsession. Dogweed and Deathcap was hers; completely and totally. Edward might have bought it for her but she had raised it up from ruin and it was hers. There wasn’t a marker of Edward, or her father, or Harrison, or anyone other than herself. It felt safer than any other four walls she’d spent her time in. Dupont Manor was still her home, but this was her escape.
Escape from what? That was an excellent question. Maybe it was grief, or guilt, or fear, or something else entirely. All she knew is that it was working for now.
Her favorite attendant didn’t see it that way. She thought Persephone should get out of the store, at least for an hour or so, eat something that wasn’t carefully constructed replicas of photos she saw on Instagram, or, at least, not make them herself at least once a week. That was their deal; at least once a week, she would go out for lunch. This was that lunch, unfortunately, which was why she’d stepped out onto the cobblestone, with a book settled in the bend of her arm. Walking carefully along the street - practiced as she was, one never becomes completely familiar with walking in needle point heels on cobblestone - she spotting one of the cafes she adored, along with a lovely surprise.
“Helena!” She called, lifting her hand to get her attention, as if she could do such a thing when the younger woman’s back was turned. She beamed when she met Helena’s gaze, forgetting, for a moment, that she had murdered the woman’s boss. But then, as she allowed the words to flow freely from her lips, she remembered. “Bowing out for lunch, then? I can’t say I blame you; everyone always expected Harry to work through meals as well. Drove him bloody bonkers,” she trailed off, pursing her lips as she tried to move on. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you; I do hope you’re taking care of yourself, darling. I’m sorry I haven’t been there to help you with that.”
Though D.K. is infamous among pro-creature activists as the most generous benefactor of any non-wixen oriented non-profit in recent memory, very little is actually known about D.K. themself. It doesn’t seem like many people want to know more, content enough to theorize without real facts of who this mysterious creature or wixen could be; and even those that are interested in uncovering the truth, looking back at records of every creature supporting non-profit would only reveal a name that offered no explanations.
Delilah Kenneth.
Delilah Kenneth was a fake name, that much was clear. There was no record of anyone named Delilah Kenneth ever existing anywhere in the wizarding world. Someone had suggested that she could be living as a muggle, but that theory never got off the ground. Some tried to look further into D.K. but after the first three years of donations and the amounts steadily increasing as anti-creature sentiments got stronger, D.K.’s identity remaining in the shadows became paramount to the survival of the organizations they donated to. Other, more public donors, started to drop off, as pressure was put on them by blood purist organizations and individuals. But no one could intimidate someone they couldn’t find. It wasn’t as though anyone would suspect the true D.K., after all she’d spent her life being underestimated, and few could actually put the meaning of the name together to begin with unless they really knew who was hiding beneath that curling signature.
DELILAH - When Persephone was young, her aunts put together a book of stories, from muggle literature to world religions to their own lives, that embodied the feminine power they needed to instill in Persephone. She didn’t much care for anything from the Christians and didn’t try to contextualize anything past a woman using her beauty - something that had always been weaponized against her, something that she could weaponize against someone else - to save her people was the most beautiful story she could ever dream of and the pretty
KENNETH - Kenneth Fawley was Edward Fawley’s uncle. Though he was only a second born son, Kenneth achieved worlds more than Edward’s father ever did, in his mind; where Edward’s father wrote books that would educate the students of Hogwarts for centuries, Kenneth was the one to teach Edward how to medicalize cruelty. He gave him the magnifying glass to burn up the ants and played that role until the day he died. The first time Edward fucked her, he told her that his heir would be named after the man that taught him how to be a monster.
when: late may 2014
where: the wake of edward fawley at the fawley manor
who: persephone fawley zabini
Trigger Warnings: murder, torture, body horror, gore, sexualization of a minor, sexual assault / harassment, racism ( based on HP species ), fire
Persephone had released the house elves three days ago, but one - Edie, the one who disposed of the potion, the one who had offered her cake - remained. Edie dedicated every waking moment to helping Persephone find what she was looking for - though, honestly, neither of them really knew what that was. Closure, evidence, absolution? Whatever it was, Persephone would weather anything to get to it.
She knew - bloody knew - that he was doing something to creatures. That’s what he called them, beings that weren’t full wixen; that’s what everyone she grew up around anyone who crossed paths with her throughout her life called them too. It wasn’t necessarily an untrue statement but it was the way they used the word. Some spit out the word like it was poison, their face contorting into disgust and their lips curling into a scowl that said more than enough. Others said it with barely concealed burning curiosity, cloaked only by the half hearted attempt at apathy. Sometimes those that were curious would remain so only from a distance; but then there were the others - people like Edward - whose curiosity sparked into lust. Typically, it was blood lust - a creeping desire to see how unhuman these creatures were, what could be done to them that couldn’t be done to humans. Other times, the times that her mother told her about in rushed whispers as to not alert her father, the lust was more… base. Edward happened to possess both types of lust.
When she met him, she knew that he was going to be difficult. Shortly after they married and retired to his manor, he kissed her with furious abandon and whispered into his ear that he always wondered what it would be like to fuck a veela, to see if they were as pleasing in bed as their were out of it, if the beauty that they show to the world held a candle to the beauty that they didn’t. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that to her - she’d developed a thick skin throughout primary school given the amount of lewd comments she would get from boys - but it was the first time that she felt frightened by it. In his eyes - and the eyes of her father, the ones that influenced the social sphere they existed in - a wife couldn’t refuse her husband, not if she wanted to pay the consequences. She couldn’t do anything but try to survive.
So she made herself small, stayed quiet and demure, closed her eyes when he abused the house elves, ignored the fact that he spent far too much time in his ‘office’ downstairs. He forbade her from even coming close to the second office downstairs. She was glad for it, if she was being honest with herself. She should have known that something was amiss, as Edward would repeatedly, and loudly, share all his belongings and merits in an attempt to worm his way into her heart, as if she could be persuaded by his possessions. She might seem materialistic but she’d learned long ago that pretty words don’t equate to a pretty heart. She didn’t realize just how ugly his heart - his soul - was.
She knew he was experimenting in his so called office, but she was looking everywhere but inside. She wasn’t sure what she would find there, but up until a week after his body turned cold, she wasn’t ready to face the contents of the room. She hoped that he kept information in any other part of the manor. She always got a feeling in the pit of her stomach when he would disappear down into the office; she should have recognized it, but she was all too used to walking around on eggshells around him that the pain in her stomach seemed normal.
Today, though, today she would go down there. Armed with her wand and Edie’s advice, she approached the office, squeezing into the narrow hallway. The smell of blood and death suddenly became prominent as she lifted her hand to open the door. Steeling herself once more, she murmured ‘alohomora’ under her breath and entered into the only room she was forbidden from entering. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she raged at the fact that Edward assumed her to be so inept at magic that never even offered any other warding magic. No, it was just a muggle lock, Persephone’s blind obedience, and Edward’s threats that kept her out of this office. Not that Edward’s threats meant much now that he was cold and rotting.
His office mirrored his body in that way. The stink of rotting and burnt flesh came as a stark contrast to chill that seemed to cling to the walls and her trousers. She was never allowed to wear pants - her mother thought it unladylike and her father agreed, as for Edward… he liked her pretty and feminine - and considered this defiance her own form of a quiet rebellion. And strolling into Edward’s office - which looked far, far more like a lab out of one of the muggle books she’d read when visiting with her aunt - hell bent on finding answers beyond the half truths he spilled as if he was confiding in her.
The door closed behind her with a thump, causing her to jump, half expecting Edward to come through the door and slap her again. Inhaling deeply, she started to look around, starting with the sterile tools on a makeshift counter top. Syringes, several scalpels, tweezers - she laughed, the sound hysterical, at the thought of a blood purist using muggle products to experiment on ‘impure’ wixen. The tools were in front of rows and rows of herbs and potions, ranging from hallucination inducing to lethal. She counted them carefully, narrowing her gaze as she came across several potions that were well known to be torturous.
Scoffing as if that was enough of a reaction to the presence of horrific potions and herbs, Seph directed her attention to the dresser that made up the makeshift counter. Opening the first drawer, she was greeted with what seemed to be thousands of pieces of parchment. Picking up a single sheet, Seph quickly skimmed the words for some semblance of understanding who her husband was, how cruel he truly was, how many others he had ruined.
Reading what she now realized was a draft of a letter, her eyes widened and her jaw went slack. After describing in detail what he was doing to this woman’s child - a half goblin boy who now had a strip of skin missing from his skull so Edward could ‘gain understanding of the subhuman brain’ - he immediately wrote how this would help not only the study of creatures, but her child as well. He had convinced everyone that he thought he was helping his victims. According to the date and number of the correspondence, this mother believed him. That, of course, might have had something to do with the fact that the woman was accepting a man calling her son ‘subhuman.’ Scanning to the bottom of the parchment, she was nearly drew back from the words he’d penned.
Edward V. Fawley
Creature Historian and Healer
He was masquerading himself as a bloody healer. He claimed that he was close to ‘curing’ the boy’s looks, promising that after a few, slightly painful but necessary procedures, her son would look just as normal as the next wizard. Staring at the name of the boy - Zachariah Li - she committed it to memory. It was her penance - never forgetting those Edward hurt, those that she didn’t save. Grabbing an armful of parchment, she dumped all of them onto his desk, just in front of the only light that was peaking through the boarded up walls.
It had taken several cups of Edie’s signature tea and even more hours to get through all of his letters and notes. All of them seemed strange to her. They were all achingly formal. Edward was always formal, especially about his work, but Seph knew a lie when she saw one. He was hiding something from the recipient of the letters. His notes were a bit more candid, but based on the names that covered the corners of the pages, he was turning them into someone important - someone he wanted to impress. She’d only glanced at the names, not really wanting to know who knew about what was going on in the large mansion that she was meant to call home.
Masking a yawn, Persephone was stretched across Edward’s desk, having moved to new positions every few hours. ( Her most productive hour was when she was dancing, though her heels were hardly her pointe shoes, making the entire length of time absolute hell on her feet. ) Flipping herself over, she collapsed face first onto the mass of papers, eyes closed and arms limp. Letting out a very unladylike groan - she could hear her mother chastising her from here - she opened her eyes, her head lulled to the side. Pushed back behind extra tools and herbs, she spotted a trunk. The lid was slightly raised, as if the contents far exceeded the amount allowed by the trunk itself. Rolling off the desk, she made her way over to the trunk, slowly, as if expecting something - perhaps the ghost of every single creature to scream in pain in this room and not be heard - to jump out at her. Rolling up her sleeves as if she was about to see and touch a dead body, she opened the trunk.
Some pieces of the frayed leather had made their way into the trunk itself, covering the thick files with coats of black. Grabbing the first one she saw, who she learned was a young vampire named Nimah Kashif, she slide down onto the floor and started reading. By the time she closed the first file, her eyes were wet and red rimmed and her throat felt course from all the sobbing she’d done. Descriptions of ripping out Nimah’s fangs, and exposing her to spells that simulated sunlight, and feeding her blood infused with flecks of garlic, and draining her of her blood to seek out any difference she might have had to humans. She’d wanted a cure, to grow old with her lover, and eat fucking garlicky food again. It was what was used against her, in the end. Edward had made a list of what he called incentives - the rest of the world would call them blackmail that bordered on threats - and the first on the list was threatening to expose her and her lover - Annette Wyatt, a Hufflepuff alum who aspired to write for Witch Weekly - to her family. The second threat wasted no time to escalate; he threatened to kill Annette. According Edward’s notes, Annette and Nimah had fled the country to the best of his knowledge. He also mentioned sending someone after them, writing ‘I can’t leave my young bride by herself. She needs to be broken in.’ It was dated two weeks after their wedding.
A dozen files and twenty pictures in and she’d still not found Zachariah’s file. Her eyes dried and her heart sank as she flipped through pictures of house elves that had come and gone in the manor since before she’d been here up until the previous month. Edward told her that they slipped through the door. It struck her as odd that a man like Edward would simply allow his house elves to run away, or at the very least, he would look for more obedient elves that wouldn’t escape. But he kept losing house elves, each time she would wake up with a new house elf to greet her, more and more of the other elves flinched in fear at Edward’s booming voice. The truth was, of course, that he’d been using them as subjects. She saw images of house elves with their skin stripped away, with bleeding gashes where their noses should be, with burns and cuts and scraps on their arms, with missing limbs. He seemed to stop experimenting on them before they got married. He had switched to something possibly more sinister, offering them up as sacrificial lambs to his other victims. He forced a vampire named Valencia Velazquez to drain one of the elves and tried to force her to eat the bones that remained, curious if the teeth and fangs of vampires to break through bones. He blackmailed a werewolf, a Gryffindor a few years younger than her, to scratch a house elf. It’s unclear if the house elf lived or died, but by the flecks of blood blended with the ink, Persephone had enough to go on.
She flipped through a few more - merfolk he’s peeled the scales off of; centaurs he’d attempted to cut in half; goblins that he’d stretched until their spine split; werewolves he put in tiny, electrified kennels; vampires whose teeth were yanked out while they were subdued by feigned sunlight; giants whose spines he tried to shrink. Notably, there were no veelas that he’d experimented on, but there was a file on her - or, rather, a file on veelas he wanted to fuck. It was essentially a dissertation on how much he wanted to take a veela, but how they would always charm him out of his plans before he could have his way with them. He wrote pages upon pages of how he thought that, while they were sub-human, they were above the rest, for their beauty and grace. He detailed his plan to find a half veela, with a wizard father who could be bought, and marry her. He planed to lull her into a sense of security before snatching her from their bed and taking her apart, piece by piece. He wondered if her hair was less magical since the girl would only be half veela. He wondered if he could provoke her enough to see if half veelas had the power of the harpy. He wondered what it would take for her to charm him out of experimenting further, if food was required for her magic to work.
Then, it was her turn to be picked apart in his notes. He wrote page after page about how controlled she was, how she refused to show anger ( or any strong emotion, as it seemed ), what he could do to make her angry enough for anything harpy-like to happen, how he had to pry her legs apart every time he tried to fuck her, how he wanted to rip her hair out until her head was bloody. The pictures of her, most of which were taken while she was sleeping, were just as unnerving. It wasn’t that anything up to this point was somehow less horrible than taking photos of your young wife; it was that many of the photos couldn’t have been taken by Edward. Which meant that someone was doing this for him. That someone had been stalking her in their own right. Ever since she was a child, she’d felt eyes on her. Her mother tried to shield her from it, but she knew. She’d grown accustomed to it, no longer fearful of every pair of wandering eyes. She’d felt eyes on her - even more so than usual - but she had assumed that it was because she had a rock the size of most fists on her finger and the man that gave it to her was older than her father. But no, it was someone sent by Edward, to spy on her, to make sure she was being a good, little wife. And she was. She was exactly what he wanted her to be, exactly what her father wanted her to be. Rage started to build up, replacing the sorrow heavy in her bones.
“Stupid, so bloody stupid,” she hissed under her breath, getting up suddenly to toss all the files into the fire. She was only half a step away when Zachariah’s file fell from the file in her hands. Persephone stared at the packet of parchment and pictures, weighing her options before turning and scattering the remaining files one the stone floor behind her. Kneeling on the floor beside the file of interest instantly after making her decision to discover the ending of Zachariah’s story. She had hoped she could meet him and his mother - the letters made it seem like they needed money and what better way to spend Edward’s inheritance? Maybe they didn’t want to meet her - not that she could blame them - and she could send the money anonymously. Maybe she could–
With a lurch in her heart and a catch in her breath, Persephone’s gaze fell on the single word ‘deceased.’ She quickly scanned the report. Zachariah didn’t survive the spine stretching operation Edward recommended. He detailed how difficult it was to fake the death of a fourteen year old boy, how he had to reset his spine and wipe off the blood that had leaked out of his eyes, how he had someone take the boy’s body to a river with a pack of Butterbeer, how he got his friend to fake the documents of his death so it read an accidental drowning, how his mother was admitted to Saint Mungos. The file dropped from her hands as she started to scream, allowing every ounce of pain and rage and misery to come out in her wail.
It wasn’t until she felt her blouse rip did she realize that something was wrong. She felt her shoulder hit the table behind her, despite it being nearly three feet away from her. Glancing behind her, she saw the scaly wings she’d only ever seen on her mother’s family in France. Her scream was gradually turning into more of a cawing sound, the pitch nearly hurting her ears. The tears falling from her eyes turned to vapor when she wiped them away with her hands. Upon looking down at her hands, her scream broke as she saw the blue flames dance across her fingers. In her anger, she couldn’t even think of having the harpy gene, she directed her hands at Edward’s desk. Her scream never waned, just as her rage didn’t. She thought vaguely, hysterically, that this is what dancing used to feel like - this intangible catharsis that she always tried to express through spinning her body around and around and around, but that this time, this power, this freedom, couldn’t be mistaken as anything other than for herself.
It felt like a dance, destroying everything Edward ever held dear with flames as blue as the potion she poisoned him with - in part because she truly was dancing. She spun around and around, directing her flames to what was left of her husband, allowing her rage to exit her body for the first time in her life. She’d always allow her emotions to burn bright within her but temper them into nothing but cooling embers and swallowed the pain that transference caused. Finally, she slowed, and swayed, and stopped; the lack of movement, the expense of energy, brought her to her knees amidst the chaos around her. Perhaps it because she caused the destruction, but she’d never felt so utterly at peace. The only movement that gave any hint that she was still alive as she lay there, spent, on the floor, was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She vaguely, hysterically, thought about grabbing her wand and putting out the flames. She hadn’t even pushed herself upright before the flames subsided. Edie walked over to Persephone, teacup in hand. “Are you alright, Madam Zabini?” She asked, putting the tea down beside her now flameless hand.
Taking three deep breaths, Persephone forced herself to sit up. She glanced around at the destroyed lab, her gaze catching on the files that remained in tact. Even at her most reckless, she was never one to be completely out of control, never one to allow any information slip between her fingers. It brought a smile to her lips - to see Edward’s pride and joy destroyed, to have a power that connected her so truly to her mother, to be called a Zabini again. Her gaze caught on the singe-free files, two thoughts entered her mind that caused her smile to melt into a smirk.
1) She should have made that bastard suffer more than she did.
2) She would find every survivor of Edward and make sure they never wanted anything ever again.
Bringing the tea to her lips, she winked at Edie, causing the house elf to grin. “Never better, Edie.”
when: mid afternoon; may 17th, 2014
where: fawley manor; the wake of edward fawley
who: persephone fawley zabini
word count: 2,014 words
Trigger Warnings: death; mental, sexual, and physical abuse; murder; allusions to torture
The veil she wore to the wake was the same one she wore to their wedding - an equally bleak day, if not more so, in her mind. She had hand dyed it herself, not using magic; dipping the mesh fabric into the dark dye over and over again, the liquid too dark to be blood staining her fingers more so every time she brought the veil back up to the surface. Perhaps this was her penance; the fabric dye clinging to her skin as if was the blood of her husband staining her hands, as if she held her hands to his throat so tightly that her nails broke skin, as if she was the villain in this story. Perhaps she was the villain. After all, she’d killed Edward but his death left no trace on her.
Well, not physically anyway. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see it. She could see him struggle to catch his breath as he spoke over the newspaper to her. She could see him cough and splutter as the house elf brought him another cup of coffee. She could see the house elf’s look of confusion ( and joy, if she squinted. ) She could see him gasp for breath and clutch at his neck as he tried to scream her name. She could see her fluttering hands, moving above his quaking body - never, ever touching him - as she thought about calling for a healer. She could see the house elf pick up the vial that slide out of her robe’s pocket and offer her a tight smile.
“You don’t need beautifying potions, ma’am. Let me dispose of this for you.”
She could still hear the house elf’s voice, still hear the vial hit the waste bin, still hear it being crushed to be sure the evidence was gone. She could still hear her own hysterical break down, the sound emanating from her throat equal parts laughter and sobbing. It had turned to quiet tears and nearly silent sniffling by the time the healers had arrived.
She didn’t think about that now. She didn’t want to think about that last reaction ever again if she could help it - of course, that didn’t mean the rush of power and ecstasy as she watched her dear husband draw his final breath didn’t visit her at night. Shoving those thoughts aside, she stared at herself in the mirror, the veil still drawn across her face. Her hands skimmed over the uneven edges of the fabric. She had done that by hand, too; she’d cut the Cathedral length veil to barely skim at her shoulders. She’d started out cutting, anyway; but, by the time she’d finished the impromptu crafting project, she’d been ripping the mesh apart, her own breath coming out in pants and huffs.
Persephone tugged fruitlessly at the unfinished edges, as if her fingertips could smooth the harsh lines. Finally, she peeled the veil away from her face, exposing her bare face to the mirror. It was jarring, seeing herself without any make up. She’d always been told that she didn’t need any make up - which, given her genetics, was true - but it was a habit that she never broke. It was one of the few things her mother was recognizably good at. In her eyes, of course, Adela Zabini could do no wrong and everything she had ever done was perfection. However, to others, the late socialite was of very little value, except when it came to her abilities with a brush - be it paint or make up. She had the ability to create something beautiful with merely a brush and a few pigments. Even though many would argue that both Adela and Persephone were already beautiful, putting on a new face was something that they bother prided themselves on doing every morning. It was time for them to relax and cultivate exactly what the outside world would see.
The fact that Persephone wore no make up to her husband’s funeral would have caused quite the stir - though, to be fair, just about anything a 20 year old did at her wake of her late husband, nearly thrice her age, would have caused quite the stir. She could never mourn properly, could she? If she cried, she was weak. If she didn’t, she was heartless. It was the same thing at her mother’s funeral. Just as they lowered her mother into the ground, her husband to be grabbed her hand. It was somehow clammy and calloused at the same time. Persephone was too shocked to allow that information to sink in - to question why someone who only sat in an office all day would have deep callouses. She didn’t scream. She didn’t rip herself away from him. She didn’t even cry. She froze, silent and still, like her mother told her to be.
“Don’t fight unless you have to. And if you have to - win.”
She couldn’t win in that instant. But she would, she’s promised herself. She just didn’t expect this to be her victory.
It certainly didn’t feel like winning. She was in a house that never felt like a home, not even when she was with Cerberus. There were several dozen people in the manor, all of which had some manner of blood staining their hands. There was still a slight cut on her lip where Edward’s ring cut through the skin there. She was certain that’s why he apologized - he always said he liked her pretty. She wasn’t nearly as beautiful when she was crying and her lip was split - or maybe she was, in his mind. Edward liked little games, little toys that he could pick apart and never put back together. He said he would like to do that to her, like he did the others.
Not other women - of that Persephone was sure. Other creatures.
There were others.
Persephone wasn’t sure which was worse, the wake or the aftermath. During the wake - after Edward had been put in the ground and Persephone held her breath as they covered the coffin with dirt, effectively sealing her secret and her personal monster - the manor was populated with important wixen - though there were mostly men in attendance which made Persephone’s skin crawl - dressed in velvet suits and smug grins, their crisp shirts fastened with cuff links older than Persephone. She knew them all, could pinpoint which ones had done business with her father and which ones had done business with her husband based on the subtle changes of their eyes when their eyes caught on one of her curves.
Late husband, she had to remind herself, the thought coming to her with glee. But then, the giddiness of Edward’s death was crushed under the weight of the guilt when she thought of how he drew his last breath.
That was the worst of the wake, wasn’t it? Having to pretend like she didn’t know what happened to Edward, having to watch everyone look at her with emotions ranging from pity to curiosity to disgust, having to listen to the condescending voices of men that she could bring to their knees with a single flutter of her eye lashes. Having to pretend like she was as powerless as she believed herself to be for so, so long. Because of what she had been told by men like them, like Edward, like her father.
Rage was a feeling that Persephone was rather unfamiliar with, but she had always been good at tempering her emotions; it was something her mother taught her early in life and that her father embodied since her birth. It was a fact of life in the Zabini family - never allow your emotions to overpower your intelligence. But, the thing was, Persephone was so bloody tired to allowing her emotions to simmer until the evaporated. She was tired of living her life for other people. She was tired of people looking at her like she was nothing more than Alistair Zabini’s doll of a daughter. She was tired of men looking at her as if she was nothing more than a game, something to pass the time as they tried to pick her apart and leave the pieces scattered on the floor.
And she was goddamn tired of letting them do it with a docile smile.
She beat Edward at this game and she could do it again. Not that she would kill again, she reminded herself. She did it out of necessity, of course, to keep herself from being abused further. She pushed the feeling she got - the feeling of pure ecstasy - when Edward was dead, when her actions resulted in something so severe, when she took her power back. She pushed down the desire to do it again, as it was the only thing she’d ever done that gave her such a rush of power. She squashed those thoughts and locked them away. The point, the only thing she would take away from his death, was that she was no longer powerless.
She would also take his fortune and all of his estates, but that was neither here nor there.
Being at the wake, being surrounded by people who were capable of what Edward did, who were capable of so much more, she felt that panic - the panic she had been stifling her entire life - that came when she felt her power, her autonomy, be yanked from her grasp. That was difficult, there’s no doubt about that. But what came after, when all the guests left, and she was standing in the middle of their drawing room, veil in her hands, that might have been worse.
The house elves were fluttering about, all with joyful grins on their faces. She planned to free them, despite her own upbringing and expectation for other beings to take care of her. She watched what Edward did to them, what he tried to do to her, and she couldn’t bear to let them stay in this house. Edward had taken her apart mentally over the course of their courtship to his death - not to mention the time she was at school away from him - without every touching her. She’d seen him step on the leg of a house elf and push until she heard the bone crack. She seen him toss one of them across the room. She seen burns on their feet and backs that were unexplainable. She’d seen his house elves disappear overnight, leaving the others with tears in their eyes and Edward with slick non-answers.
She saw this and she did nothing. She felt powerless, of course; but she had more power as his wife than they did as his servants. It wasn’t nearly enough to make up for half of what they went through, but she was at a loss of what else she could do. Growing up with money and the mentality that emotions were silly on the best of days and dangerous on the worst, the only apologies she had given or received included tossing money at the problem. She could and would give them gold but that didn’t soothe the pain of what was done to them.
Edward’s death, however, did seem to make them happy, in some small meager way. They started celebrating in east wing’s kitchen just after the last guest had made his exit. They’d already offered her two pieces of cake and offered their thanks as indirectly as possible. Her guilt had only grown; however, it wasn’t quite done just yet. Because despite the buzz and hums coming from the party, to her everything was silent. And she was alone.
Alone with her thoughts, and with her guilt, and with her excitement, and with her grief, and with her joy, and with her overwhelming guilt. Thinking about the scars of the house elves, the scars of her own, brought back the revelation she had earlier, the one she felt incredibly stupid for not realizing until he was dead.
I. survivor by 2wei ( thought that i would fail without you but i’m on top; thought it would be over by now but it won’t stop )
II. mother’s daughter by miley cyrus ( my mama always told me that i’d make it, make it, so i made it // don’t fuck with my freedom, i’m came back to get me some )
III. all you wanna do by six ( all you wanna do is squeeze me, don’t care if you don’t please me; bite my lip and pull my hair as you tell me i’m the fairest of the fair )
IV. yes girl by bea miller ( i’ve got you figured out, you need to have control; you think that i don’t know you, i know you, i know )
V. own me by bulow ( you can pay what you want but you’re never gonna own me // checkmate, get you outta that crown )
VI. gold by imagine dragons ( first comes the blessing of all that you’ve dreamed, then comes the curses of diamonds and rings )
VII. castle by halsey ( and there’s an old man sitting on the throne that’s saying i should probably keep my pretty mouth shut )
VIII. rise by david guetta & skylar ( like the phoenix we will rise up from the ashes // even if your stare makes me nervous, you ain’t gonna take us down )
IIX. all the good girls go to hell by billie ellish ( once the water starts to rise and heavens out of sight, she’ll want the devil on her team )
IX. money make her smile by bruno mars ( she goes by the name where your stacks at // she don't go where preachers preach, she only go to the church where dollars fall )
X. yellow flicker beat by lorde ( the scars that mark my body, they're silver and gold, my blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones, it keeps my veins hot, the fires find a home in me )
HONORABLE MENTIONS; cell block tango by the cast of chicago ( he had it coming, he took a flower in its prime, and then he used it and he abused it; it was a murder, but not a crime ) & jacket by carsie blaton ( you say you’ve got a girl but i don’t see her with ya // you say you want a drink but i want something stiffer )
Sleep had never come easy to Sirius Black, but recently he didn’t sleep until he was bone tired, and even then it was only for a few hours. He kept having dreams and nightmares of the Black Manor, of what Bellatrix had told him, of James’s death—or Regs, or Remus, or Marlene, or Lily, or—
It went on and on.
Which lead Sirius to where he stood, looking up at Dogweed and Deathcap, ready to buy the ingredients needed for at least a couple dozen dreamless sleep potions—they’d all probably be needing it in his flat. Might as well. And, Sirius still remembered what he’d found when he’d seen the Minister, cold and dead.
Persephone, with large brown eyes, and an innocent disposition was anything but. Clearly. But, Sirius wasn’t one to question her, he’d known her well enough that he thought the death of the Minister was a good riddance. In his opinion, some men died by their own fault, he didn’t doubt the Minister was among those men.
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, looking around to the many vials of herbs. He’d been lost reading the labels when Persephone walked in—his would be wife in another timeline.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t have ended up dead.
Still, it felt strange seeing her, knowing that if his parents had their way he’d be—Merlin. He didn’t even want to think of it.
“For one, catch your breath,” Sirius teased, walking up to the counter. “And here I thought you might greet me like an old friend rather than a stranger, huh, Seph? There goes the hope for the discount.”
Seeing Sirius Black was... complicated, at best, and downright dangerous, at worst.
Complicated in that they would have been married in another lifetime. Honestly, Persephone can’t help but long for that lifetime. Not that she was ever in love with Sirius, or that she’d ever known him well enough to even conceptualize caring for him that way, but because she could tell that he wouldn’t hurt her. It seemed too far fetched at this point - to have husband that didn’t deserve her wrath, that didn’t create her wrath. And it was impossible to imagine because they weren’t in that lifetime; Sirius had gotten out of the toxic minefield that was pureblood high society and her father all but sold her into marriage once she was legal.
Downright dangerous in that he absolutely noticed something when Hit Wizards and Aurors responded to her well time sobs. She was almost positive that he found the stupid vial she’d lost when someone yanked her away from the body, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t about to ask him, that was for damn certain. She had her story straight if anyone were to bring it up. If her Veela charms didn’t work - and they haven’t failed her yet - the awkwardness of hearing about the Minister’s.... ahem, difficulties in the bedroom and required assistance in that department would likely be enough to steer the conversation elsewhere.
But, if someone knew her, or knew the details she might have let slip about the necklace she wore around her neck - an icy blue “crystal” gifted to her by her mother all those years ago, that had magical properties - while they played at their parents feet when they were children, that might turn into more of a problem. Which is why this current sighting of Sirius was a bit more on the downright dangerous side.
Despite this, Persephone never faltered. She blinked once, twice, yet again, as if clearing her own vision. “Sirius, darling! I’m so sorry to offend,” she walked forward to the cashier’s desk. “Some of the plants emit these fumes, they make my vision all fuzzy. Of course you’re not a stranger, but I must say the old friend’s discount will depend on what you need from me.”
there was no sugarcoating it. adrian’s room had turned into something akin to a depression hole in the past few years. it took a few days, but he cleaned it out. he got rid of things he didn’t need, things he kept because they made him feel brief pangs of joy. but having the room clear and uncluttered had brought him some sense of ease. now to continue making it somewhat livable, he wanted it to be nicer.
flowers would do certainly well.
he startled at the presence of the woman, but he managed to offer her a quick smile. “ there was no wait at all, ” he mumbled, glancing around the shop. “ i was just — looking for something bright. ” his gaze turned to look at all of the plants the store offered. nothing caught his eye immediately. “ something for my room. not poisonous. or deadly. something … simple. please ? ”
Plants had always been a source of joy for Persephone. Her extended family really leaned into the “goddess of spring” namesake - they didn’t acknowledge the queen of the underworld bit until she brought her won personal devil to heel - and gifted her with her own little greenhouse at the age of eight. It was tiny and they wouldn’t let her play with anything but flowers, but it was her little sanctuary throughout her childhood. Flowers become her gift of choice; she would spend ages researching the perfect flower for the recipient and section of a portion of her garden - or greenhouse depending on climate - to grow the gift herself. Though Persephone took pride in never visibly initiating conflict, it became quite clear that if she offered someone a simple rose or, worse, didn’t even bother to grow the present herself, she was all but spitting in someone’s face.
Even though she’s graduated to plants that couldn’t be woven into crowns, flowers remain to be her first love. Which makes this new customer - who looks oddly familiar, though she couldn’t quite place where she knew him from and if she’d thought harder about it, she probably would have escorted him out - a delightful and welcome surprise. She beamed at the boy before her, pushing his possible familiarity from her mind to embrace a far more comfortable familiarity - finding someone the perfect flower.
“I think I can manage something gentler than a Cobra Lily,” she laughed, gesturing for him to come further into the store. “Do you have a preference for magical or mundane plants? I carry both, of course, but I wouldn’t want to assume.” She had more questions for him - what relative climate he would be keeping them in, what options he had for potting the flowers, what sort of scents he was opposed to - but based on his start when she greeted him, she doubted he would respond well to a lot of questions at once.
where: ministry for magic hq, level one
who: persephone & @helenarosier
For years, stepping into the Ministry had felt like stepping onto a battlefield. When she was a child, young enough to still be tugging at her father’s pant leg, Alistair would bring her to negotiations with him. She thought it was a privilege at the time; it took her a few years to realize that her father was using her as a distraction. He’d done the same with her mother when they were first married; he flashed his pretty little wife before clients and enemies alike to draw their attention away from exactly what he was doing. He ended careers - and started them - that way. When it became too obvious, he stopped.
Then Persephone was born; she wasn’t a rightful heir, but she could be useful in other ways. She was a different distraction - she humanized him. Of course, her inability to control the influence her presence had on others proved to be useful in lulling people in a false sense of security for her father to exploit. She realized she was being used by the time she was nine, but her father didn’t stop bringing her until she left for Hogwarts. She never wanted to return to the Ministry after that, tossing her dreams of following in her father’s footsteps aside. She wouldn’t be used like that again, she’d sworn to herself.
Of course, when she married Harrison all that freedom disintegrated. It felt like she was playing dress up, playing at being her mother. Her relationship with Harrison was far, far too similar to her parents’ for her to ever truly be comfortable with him; the pretty little wife on the arm of the politician, dazzling rivals and allies alike while her husband attempted to rule. She made the rounds of every office at least once a month; talking with the staff, having tea with the heads of the departments, bringing every employee a cupcake on their birthday ( which proved to be quite the ordeal but she wasn’t about to alienate anyone so an investment in a time-turner was one she could finally justify ), offering her attempt at baked goods to the “department of the month” on the second Monday of the month. If she was going to be the Minister’s wife, she was going to do it damn well; but it was beyond tiring and triggering. It wasn’t an exact mirror image - Persephone had given up on trying to be her mother and Harrison wasn’t nearly as competent a manipulator as her father - but it was close enough that Persephone had to do something about it
Something like poisoning him. Oh, yes, that was another good reason she did it. She found herself coming up with a lot of those - rationalizations as to why she killed her second husband. She couldn’t quite explain it herself, other than the simple fact that it needed to be done. If someone poured veritaserum down her throat, she might admit that there was a slight possibility that she simply wanted to kill him. It might have been somewhat motivated to keep herself out of the war, or to stay safe, or to keep herself from turning into her mother, or to appease either side of this war that was out for her blood, or any other reason she could think of. But that wasn’t the truth.
Not that the truth matters in politics. Or in war. Both of those games are about survival. And Persephone could hardly survive either if it were to come out that she had a hand in the Minister’s death. Despite the fact that it had been ruled a heart attack, she knew better than to rest easy after killing someone so important. There would be questions, there would always be questions - questions she could handle, but questions nonetheless. So she kept a close eye on the Magical Law Enforcement Office; she’d dropped off coffee and cookies for the detectives originally on Harrison’s case and continued the practice every so often as a thanks. She’d just dropped off a few more baked goods at the Auror office, claiming that they were working themselves silly with all the cases they had and tearfully adding that she missed coming by the offices now that Harrison was gone.
Knowing that it would come off as strange for her to visit the Ministry and not see her husband’s old office, Persephone directed her attention back to the the first floor. Stepping into the familiar office, she headed towards Harrison’s office. “Sorry to interrupt,” she offered to the wixen she knew quite well that turned her way when she entered. “I missed all of you. It’s been strange... not seeing you every week. Or seeing Harrison...” She trailed off, looking down for the briefest of moments. She looked up to meet Helena’s gaze. “Helena, darling,” she approached the younger woman, opening her arms to offer a hug but keeping her distance, never one to presume to touch someone first. “I hope you’re taking care of yourself,” she said quietly enough as to not undermine the woman’s power in the eyes of her staff.
friend: don’t you ever worry about men thinking you’re high maintenance?
me: *in a silk bathrobe, on my 5th step of my PM skincare routine, trying to choose between 8 colors to paint my nails according to what best suits my mood and skintone, a cup of dandelion tea cools on the counter top, mixed with lemon, chia seeds, and raw honey* nah
where: dogweed and deathcap ( it’s technically in hogesmeade but we can pretend it’s in diagon alley, right? )
who: persephone & OPEN
It should unnerve her, the lack of reaction she has to pain, to death. Another man dead - fortunately not by her hand, but dead nonetheless. James Potter was a good man, a just man. And he was gone. She could hear her father’s voice when the news broke - the moral high ground isn’t a shield, it’s a target on your back, he once told her over breakfast. She doesn’t remember what she said to prompt this, but she remembers those words. Perhaps that’s why she swallows her own beliefs to stay alive, why she hasn’t joined the Order, why she hasn’t publicly condemned her husbands for what they did.
It should disturb her, the feeling of relief she feels when she hears the news. Another death, something to obscure - even ever so slightly - the fact that another one of her husbands had been lowered into a grave less than a month ago. His death had been declared a heart attack, just natural causes. Persephone swelled with pride, knowing that she’d brewed the Dupont poison perfectly, only having a few notes from her aunts and half remembered instructions from her mother.
James Potter’s death was frighteningly convenient for her.
It wasn’t the first coherent thought she had that day, but it was the one that stuck with her, the one that shook her. She spent the next few days with her beloved Cerberus, but eventually, she knew that she would have to return to reality - where she a widow once again, where good men were killed on the streets, where the war she’d killed a man to avoid was at her doorstep once again.
She’s dismissed her employees for the day, an apology for having them cover for her while she cuddled with her pet and blocked out the world. She expected that there would be very few customers, given the entire country seemed to either be mourning or celebrating. After placing a sign that said “ring for assistance” next to the cashier’s bell, Persephone headed out the backdoor to tend to the more dangerous plants in the greenhouse behind the store. In hindsight, wearing needle point heels wasn’t the best idea as she slid into the protective overalls she wore to avoid getting burned. But, she wore a minimum of four inches if she left the house - she wasn’t a monster.
It took nearly two hours for another person to entire the store, something she’d been listening for as she tended to the slightly altered Venomous Tentacula she’d been cultivating for several months. She all but sprinted to the door, not entirely realizing how desperate she was for contact with a creature that didn’t breathe fire. She stopped at the back entrance, peeling off the overalls in the doorway to reveal a completely impractical dress - she could hear the voices of her late husbands tut at the silliness of the girl who wore stilettos and designer dresses to play with poison. The thought of their laughter and their last splutters of breath was enough to bring a smile to her face.
“Afternoon, darling,” Persephone called to the patron. “Sorry for the wait,” she offered, despite the fact that it took her less than half a minute to greet them. “What can I help you with today?”
