November 11, 1976 – Hogwarts

Their relationship progressed tentatively, each afraid — silently, for it remained unspoken between them ever since the first day — that they would unknowingly make some mistake that would rend them apart irreconcilably.

The partnership also remained secret to the world outside Slytherin, excepting Minerva, who had quickly picked up on the newfound openness of their affection. She had bestowed them with a smile, though when Cassiopeia entered her mind unexpectedly some time later — framing it as a test of her Occlumency, as they had agreed to previously — she had caught a sliver of concern, before the woman slammed her shields down.

Which was fair enough, Cassiopeia supposed, especially since Severus' latest letter from Lucius-but-actually-the-Dark-Lord had contained a message of approval, an enquiry as to her health, and an invitation to the Malfoys for the Winter Holidays.

The entire thing was properly formal and detached, but a better indicator of the Dark Lord's mood was Lucius' post scriptum, which requested several additional doses of pain-reliever 'of as high quality as it usually is.' Of course, the plea was unmistakable: Lucius wanted the potions from Severus' personal collection, not the mediocre brews that both the Infirmary and the Death Eaters usually received.

Also indicative of the deranged man's mood, if a little less concerning due to the lack of personal connection, was Professor Sayre's unexplained absence for the days after her poisoning.

Unexplained, as in the reason Dumbledore gave — her mother suddenly taking ill — was absolutely unconvincing to those who had done even a modicum of research, and found out the woman's entire immediate family had perished to the Dragon-Pox epidemic that had ravaged America fifteen years back.

Cassiopeia privately speculated that she was at Malfoy Manor, perhaps facing an enquiry as to how she had allowed the events to develop as they did. She wondered if the Dark Lord knew about the private meetings she'd had with Pettigrew — suspicious meetings, now that they looked back on it — but knowing the wizard's penchant for Legilimency, and the obscurity of the mind arts, it seemed likely.

She hadn't considered Sayre an ally before – the woman was devoted to the cause through and through – but it was an unfortunate possibility to consider that yet another person was actively attempting to kill her.

Her lip curled in anger. Pettigrew, to her knowledge, was still situated in the Janus-Thickney ward. To have failed an obliviation so badly… it couldn't have been Sayre. Not a chance.

And the taunts about her near-death that she'd been expecting had, if not failed to appear, that appeared in a much milder form than expected. Black's fiercest insult to date had been a muttered: 'How unfortunate that you're alive. I'd hoped you'd have shrivelled up and died like you deserve.'

He hadn't even bothered to try and hex her as he left, only giving her a singular glare. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his normally-pale skin looked exceptionally pallid.

Were it any other person, she might have dismissed it as worry for a friend, maybe even felt concern. Things being as they were –

"Tenebras ostende," she hissed at his retreating form. It wasn't a dark spell – she'd didn't dare risk those outside the confines of the dungeons. But if there was one thing Black valued above all it was his bloody popularity, and – if the curse took hold properly – she would revel in watching his following drift away, their magical cores repulsed by the ugliness of his own.

She didn't add to the taint of his magic, only amplified it, so that not only those attuned to the feel would sense it.

November 12, 1976 – Hogwarts

Pettigrew stood above her, a slow smirk slowly curling around those usually-trembling lips.

'I had to do it,' he confessed, his tone the epitome of sincerity were it not for the glee in his eyes, the confidence in his posture that she had never seen before. 'Believe me, I did. She would have killed me otherwise, you see. I'm so very sorry. Forgive me?'

He advanced upon her, those pudgy fingers coming to rest at her collarbone. Her skin prickled with revulsion, but she was frozen still. 'I'm afraid nobody can know. It'd be nice if they did: if they could see what shy, cowardly Peter is capable of. But it would ruin so many plans, my sweet girl. So many plans…'

He tilted her chin towards him, grazing her lips. 'I was always so jealous of you. He would never give me the time of day if you were still in the picture, and Sirius – oh, Sirius he can be so very persuasive. But Snivellus had to ruin all of that, didn't he? Don't you worry yet, I'll think of something before long…'

She awoke with her heart pounding, her head a disoriented mess as she tried to place her surroundings, her breath coming in short, quick gasps.

"Cassiopeia?"

She was violently startled by a warm hand on her shoulder, but it was only Aurora – sweet, gentle Rory – kneeling at the side of her bed, warm brown eyes filled with worry.

"You screamed."

"I'm sorry," she muttered. She didn't remember – already the details of the nightmare were fading, but that overwhelming sense of terror remained. She wasn't surprised that she had.

"Don't be," came the quiet response, a hand rising to smooth back her hair.

She blinked away the sudden wetness of her eyes, realising how much she had neglected one of her most long-lasting friendships, too caught up in dealing with the Dark Lord, with Severus, with her life. And Aurora was still there, even though she had no obligation to be.

"Thank you," she replied a little tightly, and knew that the girl would understand what she meant.

"Of course," she said with a nod, then offered: "I've been having nightmares too."

"Augustus?"

She had spoken with him as promised, enquiring as to the Dark Lord's interest in him. It was her father guiding the decision – her suspicion had been confirmed – having offered up his son like a lamb to the slaughter. Augustus was not dealing with it particularly well, but then again, who would be?

"He's going to be killed," the elder of them said, in lieu of a response. "He'll refuse a task, or perform badly, or be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he's going to die."

She didn't know what to say, so she reached out to enclose Rory's hand with hers.

"Of course, you're facing a similar situation."

And was she not? Her heart clenched at the reminder of what she so often attempted to bury at the back of her mind – that even the smallest misstep in the Dark Lord' court could prove fatal. Or he could simply grow bored with them for no reason at all, and decide there was little use in keeping them alive.

"...We're – more valuable to him, I think," she said hesitantly, something of an idea growing in her mind. "He's been focused, recently, on expanding his ranks, not by recruitment but by – "

"Childbirth."

"Yes… He has suggested – insinuated that I might be suitable – "

"I see what you're implying," Aurora said, laying her head against the mattress. Her eyes closed for a moment, her chest rising slowly to fill her lungs with air. "Tell him we're trying for a child."

"It won't save Augustus from the initiation, but it's an additional protection… I'm sorry there's nothing more I can offer you."

"Anything is more than I've come to expect," she responded, breathing out. She stood. "I will think on it carefully, Cassiopeia. Thank you."

She inclined her head, and Aurora drew the curtains back around her bed. "Try to get some rest. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she murmured in return, slowly allowing her eyes to drift closed once more.

November 13, 1976 - Hogwarts

Remus cornered her in the library before she had a chance to escape. Looking exceedingly weary – last night had been the full moon – he sat heavily in the chair opposite her, his eyes beseeching.

"You're alright?" he asked quietly, reaching out to her.

Her mouth tightened, and she ignored the outstretched hand. "I almost wasn't."

His gaze slid downwards. "...Professor Dumbledore spoke to us two days ago. He said Peter is being investigated for signs of compulsion charms."

Of course. She almost laughed, were it not the confirmation of what she dreaded – that already the Headmaster was attempting to minimise the event, to free his precious Gryffindors from responsibility. "You believe he wasn't in his right mind?"

"Peter – he'd never do that," the werewolf muttered, tugging at a loose thread from his robe. "He'd be too scared."

"Of getting caught," she added bitterly. An afterimage of her dream flitted across her mind, and for a second she felt his hand there, at the base of her throat. "Black wouldn't be, for certain."

Remus frowned. "I just don't understand – he's been so good to me, and – "

"And you made your choice," she reminded him, beginning to stand.

He made a movement as if to hold her back, before aborting it. "At least – Cassie – you and Severus – " he spoke urgently. "I know I can't convince you to stop being together – "

She raised her brow and he flushed. "...I'm a werewolf, and you smell like him now – more than ever before."

Her lip curled at the intrusion on her privacy, even if she knew this wasn't his fault. "Tell no-one."

"I wasn't planning to," he agreed, before he continued his tirade, his tone gentler: "He's being courted by Death Eaters, Cassie. You see the type he hangs around with: Avery, Mulciber, and it's dangerous, and wrong – "

"And your Order is that much nobler?" she snapped, filled with contempt. How dare he talk speak to her as if she were a child, as if she didn't know what she was getting into?

"You know about the Order?" he asked, eyes widening with surprise.

She waved her hand abruptly. "Forget it. Don't think you'll be some righteous hero, saving me from Severus' darkness. I'd sooner die than stand with Dumbledore."

"Then at least stay neutral," he pleaded, his brown eyes flashing.

"That is no longer an option," she said harshly. "Leave, Remus."

November 15, 1976 – Hogwarts

The enormous chamber she stepped into looked little different than what she'd imagined when Severus regaled her with tales of the mythical Duelling Club. Furnished barely, and lit only by a series of scones on the wall, filled by violet fire, it gave off an imposing aura, unhelped by the line of tall, silent figures before her.

Severus had informed her of the likely cold welcome she would receive: it wasn't often that non-Members were allowed access to the room, after all. Yet the club's current leader, Lysandra Yaxley, had nonetheless agreed to have her, which did stand for something – even if her payment had been high.

She took a breath, relaxing her grip on the wand that hung at her side. It had been at her insistence that Severus had bargained with Yaxley for her admittance, more concerned now – whether because they were dating, or because she had almost died – about the possibility of her getting hurt.

"Cassiopeia Nazyalensky," the elder girl greeted, and it was only the slight narrowing of her grey eyes that had the younger of them throwing up a shield, deflecting the blood-red curse that shattered against the wall, leaving a metre-long gash in the stone. "Good."

"Do you make a habit of cursing potential recruits?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. Severus, next to her, clenched his hand into a fist.

Yaxley shrugged. "Some," she replied, then turned to the group at large. "Pair off – Scabior, you're with her. Snape, Crouch."

Severus, giving her one last worried glance, headed off, while she waited for her partner to appear.

"Nazyalensky," a figure coming up to her said, the voice a little nasally. The boy took off his hood, revealing unkempt dirty-blonde hair and a slightly-pudgy face twisted into a contemptuous sneer.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe as rage coursed through her – her mind momentarily mistaking him for Pettigrew.

"Scabior," she said after a long moment.

It seemed her partner had as little regard for common decency as his Gryffindor look-alike did, for as soon as the words were out of her mouth, he began to send a flurry of hexes at her, each darker than the last as not one of them managed to make their mark.

She understood in that moment, as she parried his attack, why Severus enjoyed this so much. Scabior was an unknown entity to her, and yet everything about him made her blood boil – and she was free to curse him as she wished, so long as she left him alive.

What she would give to have her three enemies on the other side of her wand, cowering before her in fright. For Scabior was cowering, even if not physically. He had clearly not anticipated her skill, and was unprepared to be on the defensive as she pressed forward, backing him into the wall.

The dark spells flowing through her wand made her blood sing. Here was real power, breathtaking in its ferocity, and a victim – Severus had been right, so right – that she hated, that she wanted to see hurt.

It brought out the worst of her, but at the moment she didn't – couldn't care.

"Finestra," he snarled, and she let the spell graze her skin, shards of glass cutting the flesh into ribbons. His momentary distraction was his downfall; her silent spell slashed against his chest, and he fell to the floor, his grip on his wand going limp as he haemorrhaged. She kicked the flimsy stick away, pressing her own against his skull.

"Do you concede?"

The sound Scabior made was little more than a gurgle of blood, but she accepted it as answer enough. Already, as the adrenaline began to fade, she questioned this outpouring of anger onto a man who – though contemptuous and arrogant – had done no real harm to her.

Except for the hand, which was bleeding profusely. She summoned two vials of Blood-Replenisher, spelling one into Scabior's stomach with a handy charm, while downing the second herself. Several 'episkeys' later, the laceration was almost fully healed, but the skin would scar, and the duelling robes were beyond repair.

She couldn't quite bring herself to care – their fine quality suggested he obviously had the money to pay for another set, and by joining the Club he had agreed to face possible severe injury.

She stepped away from him when she was certain he would live, and was startled to find Yaxley at her back, eyeing her handiwork with approval.

"Prove yourself like this again, and I'll welcome you with open arms. You aren't much to look at, but at least you can use it to your advantage. Scabior is a fool," she sneered, touching the still-unconscious body with the tip of her dragonhide boot. "Bested by a child with no training... He won't be received by us again."

"Run along now," she added, turning away. "I think Crouch could use some help."

Cassiopeia smirked at the implied compliment to Severus, before doing as she was bid.