The Saint and the Sinner
She was a fair maiden, once, prized with holy virginity, subject of admiration and esteem, in possession of a hand much fought over.
He was a virtuous saint, a founder of principles, prized with piety and a following, in possession of a head as respected as it was condemned.
Her namesakes in the muggle world did not make her proud. Their bony fingers reached up through centuries of mouldy earth to hold her in place, to ensure she did not stray from her path. She felt their constrictions around her neck, as prominent as her emerald necklaces, squeezing life right out of her before she'd had a chance to enjoy it.
His namesakes in the muggle world made him proud. Men of principle; men of love; men of God. Their voices were heard in his nights, sermons and speeches to drive him forward with his own beliefs, as loud as the voices he heard that condemned his love for all things, spurring him forward to life when all life seemed damned.
When they met, the sky shattered as two stars collided, hitting each other with such force the night seemed to explode in flame, bright as a night should never be. Or it might have been a satellite. She stood on a white cliff, looking down at the light reflecting off waves crashing against jagged rocks. The power rushed up to meet her in the air, loud, energetic, splashing and crashing and breaking against her eardrums. The wind caught her hair, tangling the waves, destroying the elegant do she'd sported that day in the light of reception rooms and dining halls. He'd been walking, unable to sleep, a sense of doom niggling at his mind like some secret premonition he'd never known he'd possessed. He'd been compelled to walk along the edge of that same cliff, away from his farmhouse home for over a mile. He watched her as he approached, dress billowing around her legs as if the wind itself was trying to force her back. She didn't hear him approach, mesmerised as she was by the colliding waves. He reached her as she stepped forward, narrowing the distance between herself and nothingness. A gentle hand stayed her shoulder and she turned her head towards him.
"Death is the final result of life. It's not an alternative," he told her, eyes sorrowful as they looked on her beautiful face, blotchy from spent tears, ghostly pale in the cold.
She laughed. A bitter, twisted, pessimistic laugh, like she knew more than he could ever hope to. Like she'd sipped from the Devil's cup, seen that hell existed right here, and understood heaven was the only thing left for her. "Death is always an alternative. It's an alternative turned to when all other paths seem worse."
"Please, step back. Salvation comes to us own in our mortal lifetimes. There is a path for you that will lead you to yours. Please, let me help you find it."
"There is no such path for me." She turned away from him like she was confessing not to him but to the moon. "There is no path that erases what has been done, no path in which every waking moment is spent scared of shadows, in which my dreams have turned to nightmares made up of a memory. There is no path for me that brings me back my honour, my worth. There is no path in which I can make my family's legacy proud. My future has been stolen from me as surely as my body was. Perhaps the salvation of which you speak was, for me, a happy childhood, and the rest is only pain."
"Life is a gift. Would you throw away a gift? Give it back? Refuse to take it?"
"He gifted me his seed. I would have refused that gift, if he'd let me. There are gifts that should not be welcomed."
Understanding passed over his stricken brow, and he found himself, for a moment, without words.
"It is… a travesty that you've suffered such an uncommon horror." She looked back to him, and her smile was kinder, though her storm grey eyes remained hollow.
"I assure you that such a horror is not uncommon."
"I admit I am not aware of such things. But, if you'll allow me to ask, do all who suffer such horrors, who are forced to accept such an unholy gift, give back a holy gift in answer?"
"They do not. But others have less to lose. This… gift… cost me an awful lot."
She turned away from him once more, looking back out as if she hoped to see a world beyond the horizon.
"Don't give him, whoever he may be, the gift of your death. No one should ever claim such high a prize."
She said nothing, and he took this as acceptance of his words. He chanced a look at the sky that so captured her, and that was when the sky collapsed in on itself, or perhaps outwards, as bright whites and yellows filled the pervasive blackness.
"Had I not interrupted you, you would have missed that."
"Pray, what would you have me do instead?"
"I would have you take a warm bed for the night, and good food. I would have you take a dose of human kindness, for I assure you it still exists. My home, humble as it is, is just a mile or so along the cliff."
She looked into his green eyes and saw only humble humanity. She wondered if this man had ever known vindictiveness, or cruelty, as she had done. All the same, she was afraid.
"It was the actions of a man that lead me here, and you would have me travel alone to the home of another man? What do I have to promise you are not like him?"
"I promise," he told her, like he thought promises still meant anything to a girl like her.
"I've heard that one before."
"I can offer you nought but my word." He sighed and shook his head. "But that will not be enough. Perhaps I could direct you to an honest inn?"
"If I can make it through tonight, I can make it through all the nights to come, no?" She asked, sarcasm laced in every word.
"Perhaps. Perhaps we could wait and find out?"
The sun rose with little heat to it that December day. The farmhouse was crumbing in around them, plaster on the walls falling off, ivy causing cracks. The garden was overgrown, nettles and foxgloves taking over what was once a lawn. The sun illuminated the rotten shed in the back garden first, hitting the outbuildings in the old fields, no longer buildings but walls encompassing more of the same decay. But the sun didn't illuminate the interior of the house. It didn't need to. Enough warmth resided inside to make up for its absence.
Lucretia, Queen of Beauty as she had been, reclined in a simple cotton dress, reading the newspaper, the fire already lit. Her husband taxed over the recently broken table in the kitchen. He had it upside down as he worked at reattaching the fourth leg. Things like tables were much easier to fix than people.
Lucretia was engrossed in the society pages of the Daily Prophet, as if some hint of news of the family could either reinforce her decision, or make her regret it. It was if she was stuck in some sort of limbo, where love had come at a price, and she was still trying to decide if she should have paid it or not.
Ignatius didn't voice his concerns. He didn't want her to think he was worried. He didn't want her apologies, her reasons. He kept his head down and worked with more focus than he thought himself capable of. He knew her past. He'd hoped he was her future. He wasn't sure if he'd be enough.
Lucretia read and was carted away from her home and her husband by the words laid out in front of her. There had been a death, suspected murder, of a prominent Pureblood. A cousin of hers had vanished without a trace. Her own brother was fighting off allegations of fraudulence in business. The Black family coffers had donated a significant sum to the ministry. It all added up in Lucretia's mind. She knew how these things worked. And there, at the bottom of the page, almost in fine print, was the advertisement. A benefit ball designed to raise money for witches and wizards affected by the troubles in north eastern Europe. Entry was free but a donation was expected.
"Darling, there's a benefit ball for the troubles across Scandinavia. I feel so sorry for those unfortunate souls. It's our duty to attend, is it not?"
Ignatius looked up, pushing his red hair out of his eyes, noticing the distance between himself and Lucretia across the room as if for the first time.
"Of course."
She hoped the darkness of the early hour would shroud her from sight. Her husband had been asleep when she'd left him, but her absence from their bed had been enough to rouse him in the past.
She removed the glamour she'd cast on the hedge, revealing the hole that had always been there, that her husband had long since forgotten about. She'd claimed it was some quick-growing potion that fixed it, and he'd believed her. She walked out into the nearest field, towards a small, young coppice that had sprung up due to the neglect. Her husband barely walked on his own lands any more. They were naught but a reminder to him of what the Prewetts used to be, of what they no longer were.
Lucretia didn't particularly care for the Prewett's history. All she knew was her own. Memories danced in her dreams like the ballerina on the musical jewellery box she'd owned as a child. She'd grown up when the men had asked her to, when they'd held her under her gaze. And grown up she had. She learned how to dance to make the men watch. She'd learned what a woman could say that always prompted the men to more questions, questions she left unanswered. She learned the power she could command when it was just her and a man in a quiet, empty hallway. She knew what a woman could claim for her own when the men thought they were the ones with the power. It was a delicate game she'd enjoyed, the quest for secret power, and she had paid dearly for the pleasure. She believed it was time that others paid the same price.
The shadows cast by the night grew stronger beneath the trees, but Lucretia had spent many a night like this. She'd grown accustomed to the black; she had been born within it.
There, in the centre, where a small clearing lay, was her hidden crop. The fruit of her endeavours reached for the light, tiny white flowers in pre-prepared bunches, leaves fanning out like a harmless fern. She took out her wand and cut a few trimmings lose, placing them in a pouch, careful not to touch them with her bare skin.
Returning to the house in the dead of night, no one bore witness to her smile.
Lucretia was in the kitchen, singing along to the radio as she fried the eggs and bacon for a Sunday breakfast. She looked like any other carefree, loving wife as she prepared the breakfast. Her husband sat at the table, nursing his table, reading the front page of the headline. The benefit they'd attended had, apparently, turned into a horror show after they'd left. Three people had not made it home. Inquests were going on into the cause of death. Foul play was suspected, but there was no trace of anything in their systems. They had nothing to like the murdered to the murderer.
"It's just horrible to think that something like that could happen at an event like that," Ignatius commented, watching his wife carefully.
"It's such a shame, I agree. But they weren't precisely upstanding members of society." Lucretia didn't even skip a beat in her reply. "Mrs Nott invited us to a dance at their winter manor in the Cotswolds next weekend. What do you say we show them how to have fun?"
Ignatius thought back to the first time he'd met her on the white cliff. He'd invited her to his home, and she'd refused. She didn't do anything that she didn't think of, Ignatius had come to learn. He'd read the news, and a part of his thoughts he was afraid of had connected the story to her. He felt as if he was beginning to lose her, while simultaneously wondering if he'd ever really had her to begin with.
Lucretia had never felt more powerful. The very society that had raped her, the people who had moulded her into a victim, cowered at her feet, even if they didn't know it. The silent phantom ran amok, intruding on their lives. The deaths were attributed to the newly titled Lord Voldemort, but he could never claim such subtlety. If lives were held together in string, as the Greeks believed, the Lucretia had them all in her hands. The man who'd broken her had long since been broken, but it wasn't enough for her. His life gave her nothing. So she took more. The mother who'd taught her that being a lady meant being a silent, adoring victim to the whims of men; the father who'd raised her to believe that goodness was ignored and evil was punished with bruises and pain. Anyone who had ever made Lucretia feel small were made smaller, their flames extinguished.
Lucretia smiled more, these days.
Ignatius was a broken man. He was torn, straight across the middle, somewhere between his heart and his head. His heart, he had promised to God long ago. His head had chosen her. With an average woman, those two things could sit comfortably side by side, but she was no average woman.
The storms he'd seen in her eyes refused to pass; instead they rained war on the land, ravaging homes and families. The night in her black hair had yet to see a sunrise. He'd feigned ignorance for too long. He knew what she was, even if he refused to speak his knowledge.
He watched her smile as she busied herself making a fire in the hearth. He heard her sing as she cleaned herself in the bathroom. The happiness was sickening when he considered its source.
The pair walked together, along a white cliff, and the silence between them said more than words ever could. They were two stars drifting in the night's sky, and they'd been parallel for so many years, but gravity had set them on a collision course.
"I know it's you," he told her, his voice barely carrying over the wind. She could have pretended not to hear him, but his words provoked an animal inside of her.
"What's me?" she asked, like she wanted to hear him say it.
"The phantom. The silent one. The murderer. It's you."
They stopped, and if their memories had provoked them, they'd have recognised the very spot.
"I only take from those who took from me."
Ignatius laughed, an incredulous, bitter laugh.
"I told you once that life was a gift from God himself. What gives you the right to take something so devoutly given?" he asked, anger seeping into his tone.
Lucretia laughed at his words, a twisted, broken laugh.
"Your gracious God was the same one that granted me the tools of such destruction. Are those, too, not gifts to do with as we please?"
"No." His resolve was firm. "All those who are free must be tested. The power to take life is a test. You have failed. Some things are better left undone."
"I have not failed. I have succeeded. Every time. Those who died have failed. Failed to uphold the morals you hold so dear. Failed to hold on to that precious gift of life. It is their own failings that brought about their ends." Lucretia spoke as if she believed every word.
"How can you say that when you know you bade them drink unawares? I fear I did not know you when we wed."
"You knew the frightened dimwit girl I once was. You did not know the strength our union would give me. You did not know what I would become, but you promised to stand by me whatever the future may hold."
Ignatius looked away, over the fields of blue and white foam, over the horizon that once held such promise.
"There are limits to what a man can endure."
Lucretia stepped forward, towards the edge of the cliff, and peered down onto the same rocks she once considered falling onto. Ignatius moved to stand behind her. She turned to face him at his words, holding her head high as if she could match him in height.
"And where are your limits, pious fool? Twenty leagues behind us? The past cannot be changed."
"I know. I fear we were always meant to fall apart. But the future can."
She did not see his hand, raising up to her chest, speed and force on itself. The wind caught her as his strength did, seemingly working together to knock the wind right out of her as she felt herself falling. Her hand reached up as if asking her to catch him, but he did not move. His head bowed in silent prayer as he refused to watch.
Her eyes widened in shock and horror, unable to process what had just happened. She felt her back break as it hit the rocks, felt the waves wash over her and pull her into their depths. Her hand was still outstretched in front of her, reaching out above the water as the rest of her disappeared. The last thing she saw was his head, poking out from the rocks, so far above her. She couldn't see his eyes. She didn't know if he saw the consequence of his actions.
She'd never know if he'd seen her drown.
Written for:
Writing Game: Bingo at Diagon Alley II: Lucretia and Ignatius familial. I tried to show their dynamic as a couple in my headcanon here rather than their romance, and I hope that came across.
Fairytale Challenge: The Emperor's New Clothes—Write about a Black. Extra prompts: "Some things are better left undone." / "I promise." / "I've heard that one before."
If You Dare… Challenge: 784. Bloodlust
Ultimate Chocolate Frog Cards Club: Circe—Write about someone getting their revenge.
Valentine-Making Station: Gold Ribbon—Write about a character finally getting what he/she has been reaching for.
Challenge Your Versatility: Era—Pre-Marauders, Post-Riddle
200 Characters in 200 Days: Lucretia Black
Months of the Year Challenge: Write about a strong female character, whether good or evil.
Potions Club: Ingredient: Perfect Rose—Write about passion and reason working side by side.
Words: 3051