A/N: First in a series of semi-linked drabbles.
"If you are a monster, stand up.
If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend,
If you've built a steam-powered wishing machine,
If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme,
If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams,
Come stand by me."
-A Monstrous Manifesto by Catherynne M Valente
She's a half-blood. Too magical for Muggle standards, too destitute for wizarding society. She tore up her Hogwarts letter when she got it late, at the tender age of thirteen. A castle like that is no place for a girl like her. Her name is Threnody, bestowed upon her by the gaunt-faced witch who birthed her. It means lament, and isn't that a bloody corker of a name?
She lives in the dark, twisting alleyways and dead ends behind Knockturn, where none but the most desperate, the most crooked, lurk. She may be young, but no one messes with her, not after she cursed a thief's fingers off without a wand or word. She can't light a candle with magic to save her life, but by Merlin, she can hex people. No stranger to the Dark Arts is Threnody.
The Dark Lord rises to prominence, and the people beyond Knockturn spit on his picture in the paper. Ha. Skull-faced, snake-nosed upstart, Threnody hears bandied about between the hags and the vampires, whispered by a half-troll and sneered from a pureblood who never shows his face. Like he'd ever come down here. Like he'd ever see true Darkness.
He sends an emissary once. The emissary returns in pieces, and the denizens of the Lost Ways assume Lord Voldemort has taken the bloody hint. He certainly never comes down himself, a fact that sixteen-year-old Threnody can't help but laugh over. When the Ministry falls, it affects no one she knows or cares about.
She slips out one day, past Knockturn and venturing into Diagon itself, its streets virtually pristine, though the cobbles are cracked and razed with Dark curses, and the gloom is so thick, she could cut it with the knife strapped to her wrist if she chose. She's looking for bottled dreams, a futile quest to be sure.
"Hello there," a voice assails her and she whirls, seeing a man in a thick black cloak, wearing a silver mask over his face. Death Eater,she thinks and inwardly sneers.
"Hello, sir," she says politely enough, the fingers on her left hand itching with magic.
"Aren't you a pretty one," he says, and she can hear the leer in his oily voice, in the way he inclines his head. Dirty brown hair swings off his shoulders. "I'm Antonin, pretty one. What's your name?"
"Bugger off," she smiles as sweetly as she can.
"Now, pretty one," he slips the mask off, palming it and looking at her with rather hooded dark eyes. "That's not very nice, don't you think?"
"Nothing says I've got to be nice," Threnody replies, the corner of her lip rising. "Especially not to the likes of you."
His wand flicks up, and "Crucio" trembles on his tongue, but Threnody side-steps, bringing her fingers up and blowing a kiss of magic, tainted by nightmares and brushed with curses, at him. He slams against the nearest wall, bits of brick crumbling away and pattering down on the pavement.
"That wasn't very nice of you," Threnody informs the dazed man. "You're really sloppy, you know that? Voldy-whatsit is really slipping if he's got people like you on staff."
She sighs, turning and retracing her steps back into the Lost Ways. There's never any point to venturing Out, she reflects as the shadows welcome her, and her body shimmers with their wards for a moment. Not even the so-called Dark Ones understand.
Then again...a grin curves Threnody's mouth. That's probably for the best.