Hullo lovelies!

Quite a lot happens in this chapter, I worked quite hard on it, and hopefully you enjoy reading it x

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.


It is strange how something so small could be so deadly; so powerful. Dorea sits stiffly behind her desk, hands folded delicately in her lap as she stares at the cloth-covered diary.

Dorea's gaze burns into the object as she warily reaches over to her top desk drawer on her right. It creaks and groans in protest and she winces at the sound. Her movements are measured and careful, as if not trying to alert the diary that anything is amiss.

Her eyes flick to the open drawer, her fingers are gripping the vertical metal handle. Holding her breath she releases it with clinical care; it lightly thumps the drawer's wooden thump as it swings down.

The air is thicker, more viscous, like oil. She hisses out a breath, before sucking in air; tar fills her lungs.

Nestled on top of some plain sheets of parchment, amongst some unused quills and sealed ink pots is a silver dagger. A dagger laced with basilisk venom.

The blade is seven inches long, with a gradual curve along one side, and a razor sharp straight edge along the top. One side of the cross guard was short and looped downwards, the other much longer and curved delicately upwards; a rich emerald is nestled in the middle, and it winks at her. The grip was comfortable as she took it in hand, and the square pommel was donned with a black onyx stone.

Dorea is using a reverse hammer grip, so the blade's edge was in the direction of the underside of her forearm. Every breath she takes sounds drawn-out to her ears, so she attempts to take shallower ones. The blade glints as it edges towards the diary.

A cold hand lands on her left shoulder, but icy breaths tickle her right ear. "Hello, Dorea Black."

"It's Dorea Potter now, remember?" She breathes haggardly, her hand squeezing the dagger tighter.

Tom Riddle started attending Hogwarts the Fall after she'd graduated, thusly, she hadn't met the boy until he'd come of age. Abraxas had hosted a gala during the Spring, and Dorea had accidentally bumped into the boy as she was procuring refreshments for Charlus and herself.

"You should have married Abraxas," the voice hisses. Heat is radiating off of the cream covered package, the diary must have sensed that its existence is peril.

The hand leaves her shoulder, but its presence lingers. Tom Riddle's form is cobbled together by translucent bits of smoke of muted hues, and wisps of it trail after him as he moves around her study. He is becoming more solid by the moment, but she can still see straight through him.

The memory of the sixteen year old boy halts by one of her bookcases, his slender fingers gliding over the book's spines as he takes them in. He taps his index finger against one of the spines, but it passes through it. With an amused sound he turns to her, and she finally gets a good look at him.

Pale, jet black hair, dark eyes, tall and handsome. Confidence and arrogance ooze from the apparition, and Dorea narrows her eyes as she takes in his attire. Black trousers, a white button down, royal purple robes with a simple silver clasp by the neck, and black dress shoes.

Tom's hands are tucked into his trouser pockets as he observes her, creeping closer. "I always liked you. You saw through everyone's pretty lies and the stories they'd crafted for themselves. You saw them for who they truly were."

"You were an arrogant little tosser who somehow captured everyone in your fanciful web of lies. I didn't see the harm in it at the time, you were just trying to climb the social ladder," Dorea replies, with every step he takes, she shifts the dagger forward.

"Maybe it's a good thing you didn't marry Brax. You would have made it harder to get close to him," Tom says reticently, his voice echoes like a hissing whisper around the room, like he is talking directly into her ear.

He halts in front of her desk, his hands slide onto its surface, fingers splayed across the wood and he leans forward, towering over her. His aura dominates the room, and she can sense the menacing magic emitting from the diary. A corner of the cream fabric fell when she wasn't looking, exposing a corner of the spine and some of the yellowed pages.

"What are you doing, Dorea?" Tom asks, his attractive features contorting darkly, partially lowering himself, never tearing his eyes from hers. A dark curl falls forward onto his forehead. He is almost opaque now, and her hand trembles. The dagger is almost above the diary.

"Protecting my family," she says, the words whistling through the spaces in her clenched teeth.

"I can help you. Together we can keep them all safe." He is attempting to coax her to stray from her path, to follow him into a harrowing forest full of deception and shadow, only to never emerge; his words are coated in honey.

"Bollocks. You're a pretty liar, but a liar all the same," Dorea responds, and her hand swings down, but millimetres before the blade pierces the cloth, Tom's hand painfully grips her wrist, his slender fingers burrowing into her.

The apparition is behind her, his frigid breathing bathing across her nape. "Let's not be too hasty, Dorea." It is as if he is forcibly draining her energy, and she grits her teeth, straining to shove the dagger through the diary.

Tom shouldn't have this much strength, but he does. Yet, his touch that is as cold as frozen iron is digging into her flesh, reaching through her back into her diaphragm and scratching at her soul. She involuntarily shivers.

"You need me," Tom murmurs against the shell of her ear. "Whoever opposes you and your family. I can help you dispose of them." It is his elder self she seeks to destroy, but he needn't know that.

Dorea doesn't bother to respond, she inhales deeply, and she places her other hand on the dagger's pommel. "Goodbye, Tom," Dorea says, and with all of her strength—leveraging her body weight into the motion—she stabs downward once more.

Tom's screams are shrill, yet throaty and inhumane as they reverberate against her eardrums, and he stumbles back, holding his face as light pours out of it. "Dorea Black!" He shrieks.

"I told you already, my name—" Dorea removes the dagger before swiftly stabbing it again thrice in quick succession, "— is Dorea Potter!" A noise of anguish leaves her lips, her hair is sparking and floating around her as she stabs the diary again and again.

"You'll regret this," the venomous promise is snarled against her ear, and raw fear enters her bloodstream. She flips the diary and stabs it from the other side, driving the blade in and twisting it; ink as thick as sludge is bubbling out of the puncture 'wounds'.

"I don't think I will," Dorea heaves out, tears are streaming down her face and she closes her eyes. He's gone, she can sense it.

Dorea's hands are trembling as she holds onto the dagger for dear life. She is partially lifted off of her seat, and her thighs are groaning in pain. Her entire body is taut and wired.

Shakily she relinquishes her grip, collapsing ungraciously into her chair. Dorea's fingers quiver as she brushes her hair out of her face. She scoots backwards until her back hits the deep chair, and she draws her knees to her chest.

Dorea's arms wind around her shins, trying to make herself as small as she possibly can. She feels like a tiny girl scared of monsters unable to move or do anything. Tom got under her skin, he'd gotten ahold of her soul. Something inside of her is deeply unsettled by the whole ordeal.

Charlus comes looking for her a little over an hour later, and he finds her in the same position; she hasn't budged an inch.

Her husband rushes to her side, hands on her cheeks, giving her a once over and looking for any injuries. He won't find any, all of the ones she's sustained aren't physical, but they are far more gruesome.

"I destroyed it," Dorea gasps, fresh tears pouring out of her. She earnestly looks at her husband, and he is making soothing sounds as he strokes her cheeks.

"You did wonderfully, sweetheart," Charlus says. His voice is slick with sleep, gruff and deeper than normal. He'd aided in the battle against one of the horcruxes before, he understood their power.

Charlus peeks at the dagger covered in nightmare black ink, at the pools of it that had oozed out of the diary, staining the cream cloth before it slid over the edges onto her desk.

The wizard clenches his jaw, and wordlessly stands up. Dorea absently unfolds herself, peering up at her husband. Charlus bends down partially, one arm sliding underneath the backs of her knees, the other securing itself around her back before he straightens out, lifting her up in the process. Dorea curls into him, her hands playing with the soft fabric of his nightclothes.

"I destroyed him," Dorea repeats weakly, sniffling. She detests that she has been rendered into a weeping child.

Charlus kisses the top of her head, and without another word he carries her out of her study, far, far away from the infernal diary.


The following day, Theodus Nott's hand is forced, and pure fear races madly through his system as he sprints from the fireplace, the green flames still licking at his boots.

Fuck, where are they? Theodus thinks in a panic as he sharply takes a bend, not thinking, just moving based off of instinct. He knows this Manor almost as well as his own after all.

"Lucius! Narcissa! Where are you?" Theodus's deep voice bellows, and echoes of it bounce back at him, gliding down the labyrinth of corridors and hallways. He pauses to throw open a door or two in his search. Sweat gathers along his hairline.

His feet almost slip from under him as he harshly rounds a corner, fingers grazing the wall. A narrow, wooden staircase is along the right side of the wall in front of him; the handrail is polished, and artfully crafted. He barely notices it as he takes the steps two at a time.

Theodus hears faint laughter from the end of the hallway, and his heart gallops up into the warm hollow of his throat as he bounds towards the sound. "Lucius! Narcissa!" His surroundings are a blur, everything looks the same, the walls are white and the floors dark-stained wood, some of the boards creak as he crosses them.

A muted, "Theodus?" follows, and one of the doors on his left opens. Theodus's vision is streaky, and the light pouring into the corridor from the room is too bright. Narcissa takes on an ephemeral quality, she is a fae of light and magical woodlands as she stands in the doorway, the sunlight illuminating her from behind.

"We need to go now!" They don't have much time, he will be here soon.

Theodus was roused that morning by Abraxas's snow leopard patronus, the feline's maw was hovering inches away from his face as one of Theodus's house elves shook him awake. Its corporeal, silvery blue form filled his sight, and it had laid across him before its mouth opened and Abraxas's final message poured out. Theodus gripped fistfuls of his bedsheets as he listened to his friend's words. "Theodus. The Dark Lord has summoned me…he knows, he must. You must grab Petra, Lucius and Narcissa and take them to Potter Manor. Immediately. I will stall as long as I can, but move quickly old friend, you don't have much time. And—And tell Lucius I am proud of him."

Theodus had instructed his house elves to gather: some clothes, anything of sentimental value, and their most important valuables. Subsequently, he commanded them to take everything and his wife to Potter Manor (using the floo and to seal it off when they were through). Afterwards, they were all to stay there and protect their Mistress.

Theodus blinks rapidly, pushing past the ethereal creature and into what must be Lucius and Narcissa's bedroom. The pair are dressed simply in nightclothes, informal robes slung over their shoulders. Narcissa's pale hair is freely swinging down her back, and her nightgown brushes over her small bump; over the life growing within her.

"Theodus? What in Merlin's name is wrong with you?" Lucius asks, seated on the edge of his vast bed, the soft mattress cratering inwards under his weight. White silk sheets embroidered with gold thread. Normally he would clinically assess his environs, but it is all a bright blur with flashes of vividly intense colour.

"We have to go. Gather anything truly precious to you as quickly as you can."

"Why? What's going on?"

"He knows."

Lucius's eyes widen, and in the blink of an eye he's standing, already rushing to his wife's side, panic vibrating off of him.

Theodus helps where he can, and sickening terror plagues his every movement. Any moment The Dark Lord and his loyal followers will be upon them, taking the Manor by force and slaying them where they stand.

Hermione had gifted Narcissa with a simple black pouch she'd used an undetectable extension charm on at her birthday party. Narcissa was surprised by the gift as she didn't know the witch that well, and also because Hermione was meant to receive gifts not give them out on her special day. Hermione simply said, "you're risking your lives as well, and I want to help you be as prepared as you can be."

A few days later, Narcissa had taken all their valuables, their ancestral paintings that could be removed, their pictures, her favourite armchair from the library, several of her winter blankets, half of her wardrobe—and a good chunk of Lucius's—and put it inside the bag. Lucius whinged about not being able to find a particular set of robes on more than one occasion since, but Narcissa wryly told him they must be ready for anything.

"Your ancestral wards will only last for so long. They haven't been strengthened in over a century, nor have mine. I can only guess that Abraxas had the foresight to block Tom's access to the Manor via the floo, or we would all be dead by now," Theodus mutters to himself. Lucius is standing on the juliet balcony attached to the bedroom, gesturing at the fucking albino peacocks roaming the grounds. Narcissa is tugging on his arm, trying to convince her husband that it is imperative they leave now.

"Are you listening?" Theodus booms, and the couple freezes. "Fuck the BIRDS. Your Father gave his life to ensure that you both survive and you are squandering the opportunity he's given us." Theodus raggedly rubs a hand through his dark curls, frustration and fear mounting inside of him. They have no time for this.

Lucius turns to his Godfather, legs wobbling, the blood drained from his face, and shakily he asks, "what?"

"We have to go Lucius."

"Father isn't waiting for us? Theodus…he is waiting for us, isn't he?" Lucius asks imploringly, and Theodus's expression must speak for him, because Lucius's face collapses with sorrow, and an anguished sound rips from his lips.

Theodus swears under his breath, and Lucius crumples to the ground like lightning has struck him. The man is gasping for air, fingers clawing at his black satin top, his long hair falling across him like a veil made of fine silk threads.

Lucius is limp like a ragdoll as Narcissa and Theodus tug him to his feet. They throw Lucius's arms over each of their shoulders, taking on the brunt of the wizard's weight as they drag him out of the room. Theodus allows Narcissa to guide them down the corridor, past the staircase, two doors down and into a quaint study. Theodus's gaze locks in on the fireplace on his right that awaits them.

"Dorea should be waiting for us," Theodus states, hoping desperately that she's kept her floo network open to Malfoy Manor until they can get there.

Carefully, Narcissa shifts Lucius fully into Theodus's arms, and he grunts at the effort of holding up his Godson.

"Father," Lucius mumbles like a small child.

Narcissa is fumbling around the side of the fireplace, looking for the floo powder when a booming sound comes from outside. It's jarring, and it beats across his eardrums vociferously. The ground below their feet seems to shift.

"Hurry!" Theodus orders, his voice fills the room formidably. Narcissa finds the pouch. A series of possible explosions are going off outside the wards. They are attempting to penetrate them, and even though he is not attached to them, the fearful look on Narcissa's face leads him to believe that they are succeeding.

Narcissa kicks over the pot of floo powder to the right of the fireplace, she falls to her knees in an instant and with quivering hands and profane language leaving her lips— language her Mother would have told her is unbecoming of a lady—she grasps a handful of the fine grey powder. She twists awkwardly, throwing it at the fireplace as she yells, "Potter Manor!"

The green flames roar and snap as they surge forth. Narcissa rejoins them, floo powder clinging to the white skirt of her nightgown. Theodus shoves Narcissa and Lucius forward first, and they disappear in a green tornado of fire. The flames are about to subside, but Theodus partially ducks down, scoops up some of the spilt floo powder and hurls it into the firebox.

Theodus stares at the white marble fireplace, he glances over his shoulder at the modest room with its mahogany furniture and wall-to-ceiling bookshelves containing generations of knowledge; some of it lost to the rest of their society. Theodus contemplates setting the Manor ablaze behind him, but knows he cannot be the one to destroy all of this history.

Another earth-shattering explosion sounds, and Theodus can sense that they've broken through. "Fuck," Theodus says. Without wasting another moment he dives forward and yells, "Potter Manor!"

Theodus lands roughly, on wooden floors that scrape and dig into his side. The man lets out a sharp whistle of noise, but they aren't safe yet. "CLOSE THE FLOO!" Theodus's eyes squeeze shut as the left side of his body throbs from the harsh impact.

Low chanting reaches him through the undulating pain inflicting his every breath. Theodus pries open his eyes, and rolls onto his right, wincing as he attempts to prop himself up. He is met with a sea of lions. Their wands are all drawn, and there are so many unfamiliar faces gazing down at him. He holds his breath, searching for his wife. Petra is standing behind Charlus Potter, hands on her swollen belly, worry creasing her delicate features. He relaxes, exhaling gruffly.

A scent and visage he recognises appear in his line of sight. Dorea kneels beside him, holding a hand out to him, but in the process he caught sight of a trio of wix at the front of the crowd just past her. A boy with a lightning scar who is calmly assessing him and unlike most of the others his wand is lowered, a ginger lad littered with scars and an iron will present in his eyes, and finally a fierce witch with wild curls that spark at the ends and almost appear to float about her. Their formidable power is raw, partially untamed and Theodus pauses in the face of it.

The wizard manages to pry his gaze away from them, long enough to meet Dorea's worried gaze, her pale grey eyes ensnaring his full attention. Theodus clears his throat as he worms his way into a seated position. He clutches his left bicep, and pain radiates throughout the limb.

The lines had been drawn, and he'd chosen a side. They were his allies now, and there was no going back. During those quiet moments where no one moves and no one speaks, a broken bond makes itself clear. Abraxas Malfoy has left this world, and the loss of it cleaves a treacherous hole in his chest. Goodbye, old friend, Theodus thinks, his body trembling as it tries to acclimate to the sudden bereavement.

Theodus inhales shakily, his eyes fluttering shut again. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. "I hope you know what you're bloody doing. Otherwise, we're all fucked."


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