Clutching the article Conner had written for the Daily Prophet, Poppy sat staring out the window. She was bundled up in her apple afghan, curled up in her wicker chair, watching the setting sun from her vantage point. She'd been sitting there for nearly an hour or more, alternately shaking and staying perfectly still.

She couldn't fault Conner. No, she couldn't. He was just being kind, concerned. It was only natural that he'd personally deliver the copy of the newspaper to her. He knew she and Rory had been close friends. He'd also wanted to ask why she and Alastor were no longer speaking. She of course had thanked him for coming to bring her the newspaper. She was of course grateful for his concern, his friendship. However, she had told him firmly it was a matter between herself and Alastor, and that if he wanted to ask Alastor, he could do so, but she'd not say a word.

It had taken effort to make him leave, to not be terse with him. She had wanted to scream, to tell him and everyone else the truth. She wanted to run headlong into Alastor's arms and apologize for her lie, for misleading him. That she could never love another but him. She wanted to stay safe in his embrace forever, to look back on this and laugh with him.

She knew however, she would never laugh. She wouldn't involve him and she would protect him from this. He had no idea that Rory had been killed because of her. He had no idea that his brother had been the one to orchestrate the whole thing. It was best that he didn't know. The less he knew the better. The information alone would kill him. He'd see the blood on her hands and he would die because of it. What did it matter if Alastor was his own brother? Aurelius had no qualms with murder. Family or no, Alastor would die. His blood would be on her hands also...

Crying silent tears, she tore the article to shreds, the paper cutting the tip of her finger as she did so. A few droplets of blood slipped onto the newspaper prices. Blood... so much blood. She stared at the cut on her hand, shaking still, the tears slipping from her eyes. Deep red, like a rose. Like the roses that Aurelius had arranged on the table when they'd had dinner. Blood red, they were. Like the red of the dress he'd had her wear. It sickened her.

Vanishing the scraps of paper, she made to clean the wound. Within moments it was gone, but she knew it had been there. Just like the splotches that had been on her hand a day before. Holding up her hand, she saw nothing. Just smooth pale porcelain skin, but the splotches were still there. She could see them. They were there still. Tracing the areas where they had been, she managed to stop her tears. She even managed to stop shaking.

There was no prolonging it. She rose from her wicker chair and donned her wear for the evening. This time he'd sent her a gown of the deepest emerald green, with black lining and a cloak to match. He'd even sent shoes. Everything was his. He was shaping her. She was no longer herself. This was what he wanted. She stared vacantly into her mirror as she pinned her hair in place. The ensemble was a far cry from her trademark greys and teals. That of course was the intention.

Turning away from her mirror, she disapparated and appeared before Aurelius home. She knocked on the door and waited, quite used to it by now. She knew perfectly well he was watching her all the time and knew whenever she arrived, but he seemed to like to make her wait. To demonstrate his dominance. It was a game of chess, and he would always be several paces ahead.

The door opened and he wasn't wearing that slick smile of his for once. He was smiling, but it was a cold and hard smile. Granted, ever since she'd spotted him and his cohort in that alleyway nearly a week or more ago, nothing that followed had been right, but somehow, she knew things had just hit a low.

He leaned against the door, letting his eyes slide up and down her frame. She waited. His expression didn't change, but he gestured her inside. She stepped inside, but didn't move further into the house. She was waiting for him to speak. He closed the door, turning to face her slowly. He offered his arm to her, but he still didn't speak a word. Her heart hammered within her. Granted, she truly loathed him when he spoke, everything he said a veiled threat or hint of his power. However, she feared his silence more. It left much to her imagination and only served to heighten her wary anxiety, which was indeed his intent. She knew that now.

Aurelius led her not into the dining room as he had the other times, but led her down a corridor and into a dimly lit room. Letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, she saw it was more of a library, a study. There were two chairs, upholstered in deep green and black fabric, a small and efficient writing desk, bookshelf, fireplace, and several daggers and a sword in display cases interspersed through the room.

Turning to her then, he put his hands on her shoulder and forced her down into one of the seats, his hands sliding down her bodice. She sat as straight and still as she could, forcing herself to look up back into his eyes. He stared coldly down at her, his arms behind his back. "It's regretful really, but my dear friend, Anatole, was unable to grace us with his presence this evening," he began without preamble, lifting a hand to run his hand through his hair, not out of a need to fix his hair, for it had been quite fine before, but more to feign nonchalance.

Poppy waited, wondering what he was getting at. She had an idea what it might be. She had, after all, read Conner's article. However, she waited still. He looked at her again, tapping one foot just barely. "It seems he's on his way to Azkaban and therefore, could not be here tonight or any other night for the matter," he went on, his eyes boring into hers.

It was becoming clear where this was headed. She had heard him and this Anatole plotting, and now Anatole had been caught and sent to Azkaban. As the only one who knew anything, who knew they'd been plotting something and knew who had killed Rory, naturally the blame fell on her. Who else could have tipped them off but she? She was the only one who knew who the guilty parties were, after all. So logical and so very wrong. She had told no one.

"Now," he paused, "how do you think this came about?" He asked, his voice cold. She was sick and tired of his games. She knew he was watching and listening for her every move. She knew this. Yet, he was still making it out as if she had been the one to give his cohort away. "You're the one watching my every move. You tell me." She responded, knowing full well she'd pay for her insolence. For a full minute or two, they both merely stared at each other. He didn't move and neither did she.

Then, in half a second she was out of her chair and on the floor, crumpled in a heap. She hadn't physically seen it coming. He'd moved his wand like a sword across her chest, the force of the hex sending her from the chair. He'd used a wand, but it felt like someone had taken what muggles knew as a branding iron across her torso. She wrapped her arms around herself, her breath coming in gasps, causing her eyes to water and her throat to feel as though she'd swallowed glass. Her throat was on fire.

In the next moment, quicker than quick, he'd pulled her upright. She was blinded by the pain. She was consumed by fire, tears streaming from her eyes. "That really was," he said, his voice full of hatred and malice, "the wrong answer." Gripping her by the neck, making it next to impossible to breathe, he literally lifted her from the floor to stand before him. Backing her up against the wall, right beside the display of a particularly sharp Egyptian dagger, he leaned in close to her.

"Just so you know," he released his pressure on her neck, "I was holding back." Aurelius moved his hand from her neck to her torso, kissing the corner of her mouth. "That was child's play," he whispered, his hand pressing down hard on her. She gasped, coughing, the pain in her chest and throat reaching a fever pitch.

Blackness was upon her, and she almost slumped when she felt him kiss her hard on the mouth, his lips working hers. It was deja vu. A moment later and the fire was gone. She could breathe, but she did still feel a dull throbbing in her chest and felt a little sting on her skin, where she was sure she would find a remnant wound later. Aurelius pulled away then, finally smiling that cold, slick smile of his.

He took her arm and led her back out through the corridor, to the front door. He opened it, moving with her to the threshold. "Constant vigilance, my dear," he taunted, leaning in to kiss her again. He let his lips slide over hers for a moment before he bit her, just light enough to startle her and not hurt her deeply. He laughed and shut the door in her face as she stood there for a moment, completely disoriented, the dull pain on her torso intensifying, and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

How she made it home without splinching herself, she knew not. All she knew was that she saw darkness, and then she saw light. The light of the moon through her gauzy curtains. The light of the moon spilling into her room, across her bed where she threw herself down, after changing into her comfortable flannel pajamas, heedless of the pain as sleep quickly consumed her.