Scream
Grace splinters under the constraints of her plans. Regulus is whisked away for a private meeting. A familiar face makes an appearance.
"Miss Grace is not touching the eggs. Should Pokey fetch apple pie instead?"
Grace, who had been listlessly scratching the tines of her fork against the edge of the plate, stilled and looked to her side, where sweet Pokey was dutifully waiting for an answer.
"Er—sure," Grace said, laying down her fork. "Thanks, Pokey."
The purple house-elf beamed and rushed off to one of the many countertops to prepare the much-loved dessert. Grace turned back to her full plate and buried her sigh deep within her chest. Truthfully, she didn't feel like eating anything, but if she refused the pie, Pokey would fret. At least one of them should be happy, right?
Grace lifted her eyes and saw that Regulus was pushing around his own food limply. They had, at long last, managed to have a moment alone (although it was breakfast instead of dinner), as Regulus's schedule had been greatly relieved ever since Dumbledore and McGonagall decided that Quidditch would be "taking a break" following the disastrous Slytherin versus Gryffindor match. Before the incident in the Hospital Wing, Grace had thought their little date in the Hogwarts kitchens would be light-hearted and carefree. Now, she was wondering why on earth she had ever thought that might be the case. It wasn't just the two of them who were stressed or worried; a general air of tension and anxiety hung over the entire school. Even fun classes, like Charms or Potions, seemed lifeless nowadays, the daily agenda consisting of nothing more than a droll lecture. Quidditch was now canceled for the foreseeable future, depriving many students of a creative outlet. The vibrant chatter that used to fill the Great Hall during meals was now dull and muted, in part because there were fewer students attending Hogwarts this term. Why had Grace ever thought she and Regulus would have even a sliver of cheer in the kitchens? There was no escaping the gloomy, solemn mood that shrouded the castle.
Regulus's eyes flickered up to meet her own. The corners of his lips twitched, on the verge of opening and volleying a question in her direction, before relaxing. He looked down hastily.
"You can ask," Grace said. She already knew what he was going to say. It was the same thing she had been wondering for the past two days.
"I don't want to ruin breakfast."
It's already ruined, she thought glumly, picking her fork back up and mechanically shoving a morsel of scrambled eggs into her mouth.
"It's about Ophelia, right?" she said after a moment.
Regulus nodded jerkily. "Do you think she'll tell someone?"
"I don't know," Grace said honestly. "I don't think so. She already knew Rosier was a Death Eater, ever since the beginning of term, but she never breathed a word. She said no one would've believed her, especially since Rosier's parents have some sway in the Wizengamot."
"Really?" he questioned. "That can't be right."
"It's what she said."
"But someone would believe her," he argued. "If not the entire Wizengamot, then maybe a few. She wouldn't even have to go to the Wizengamot. She'd just have to go to Dumbledore."
"Sure," Grace granted. "Maybe she just didn't think on it enough."
As soon as she said it, she knew that couldn't be the case. Although they'd only been friends for a few months, Grace knew full well that Ophelia Greengrass thought long and hard about the decisions she made. The auburn-haired girl thought deeply on every sentence she wrote for her essays, on every rune she translated from ancient tomes, on every spell cast from the end of her wand. It couldn't be that she had simply brushed over Rosier's identity as a Death Eater. She must have thought about it for a very long time before deciding to keep it a secret.
"She's afraid," Grace realized. "If she were to tell someone that Rosier was a Death Eater and one of ours found out…"
"She likely wouldn't make it to the trial," Regulus finished quietly.
A solemn, stilted silence settled between them. It was only interrupted when Pokey bounded back happily with a plate of steaming apple pie perched delicately in the center. Grace took the dessert gratefully and smiled indulgently at the house-elf as she took the first bite. Pokey beamed in return before heading back to her station. Once she was out of sight, Grace let her the fork fall from her hand and pushed her plate away.
"If Ophelia's worried about some sort of retribution, then I don't think she'd tell anyone about us—or anyone else," Grace said quietly.
Regulus nodded his agreement. "We'll still have to be careful. Keep an eye out."
"Right."
Briefly, she wondered if she might somehow be able to draw Ophelia into the plan. Surely the cunning Prefect had a few tricks up her sleeve. Her intellect and eye for detail were sharp and keen; she'd be an asset in any situation. But as quickly as the thought passed through Grace's head, she buried it away. It was dangerous to tell more people than strictly necessary of their plan, and it would be incredibly difficult to get Ophelia to listen to Grace, let alone agree to help them.
Grace glanced up and caught the twitch of Regulus's lips again. "What is it now?" she sighed.
"If our situation with Greengrass is sorted," Regulus began carefully, "then we really ought to talk about the Seeing."
Grace dropped her eyes and picked her fork back up. She stabbed at the crust of her pie. "What about it?" she asked lightly.
She was stalling, and Regulus knew it. The corners of his lips dipped into a small frown. Grace shifted in her seat. She knew what the issue was. Regulus had voiced it much earlier. He believed that You-Know-Who would use the upcoming Death Eater meeting as a chance to test Grace's ability to See. Grace wasn't sure if she bought into this, mostly because she didn't want to. There were a million and one problems being catapulted her way. She would have liked very much to ignore this one, but she couldn't. It was too important.
"Okay," she breathed. "You're right. We should talk about it. It's just… I'm not sure what can be done. I can't See. I mean—I can. Theoretically. I just don't know how. And I shouldn't, as you've reminded me nearly every day since you finished deciphering Vablatsky's journal."
Regulus had pulled out the journal in question from his knapsack. He fluttered through the pages dejectedly. "Yeah, you've pretty much summed up the situation…"
There wasn't anything more to say. The problem was much greater than Grace simply figuring out the mechanism to See. All of the later entries in Vablatsky's journal explicitly warned against attempting to tap into Grace's Inner Eye, for fear she might be consumed by it. Half of the journal wasn't even about Divination, according to Regulus. It catalogued Grace's burgeoning Occlumency skills and the need to cut off her connection with her Inner Eye. The message was clear: Grace was not supposed to See.
But that was the one thing You-Know-Who wanted her to do.
"Earlier in the journal," Regulus said, flipping back to the beginning, "Vablatsky does mention you have a proclivity for tarot reading."
"It's the easiest medium to predict with. For me, at least." Grace's brows raised. "Oh—and, really, it depends on how well-attuned the other person's Inner Eye is, not the reader's. Because you're really just interpreting what they've picked out. Tarot reading would be safe for me, then, right?"
Regulus looked up to meet her bright gaze. He hesitated slightly. "Yeah, I suppose, but... You can't just do a tarot reading for You-Know-Who. That's not what he's looking for. He—he wants visions or a prophecy or something, not—"
"Well, he'll have to settle for this," Grace said resolutely. "If he'd gotten Vablatsky during the summer, did he expect her to spit out visions and prophecies nonstop? It's not feasible. No Seer can just control something like that."
"That's true." Regulus's eyes returned to the journal. "I dunno, Grace…"
"I could make something up, too," she continued. "If he wants visions, I could say I Saw something a while ago, in my dreams or in a crystal ball or something."
"No, you can't do that," Regulus said, aghast. "If he asks you if and when, say, Aurors are planning to ambush us, you can't just make something up. If you're wrong, he'll have your head."
"Then it'll have to be tarot reading. If he asks me a specific question like that, I can only get a straight answer with tarot cards." She frowned. "I'll have to keep it vague, though. I don't want to give him something he can actually use."
Regulus pushed aside the journal and let it fall to a close. He leaned forward, elbows propped on the table, fingers circling his temples. "This is mental," he breathed.
"Yeah," she agreed. "But what else can we do?"
She expected some form of quiet agreement from Regulus—a slight nod, a dejected exhale—but he didn't do or say anything at all. A crease settled between his brows. His eyes flickered up to meet hers.
"Is there something else we can do?" she pressed.
"Well…"
"What?"
"We could tell your brother—"
Her spine stiffened. "Reg—"
"Just—hear me out," he said. "If we went to your brother, if you went and explained what happened, what You-Know-Who expects from you, of course he'd help. And he could get the Order to help, too. He could get you information—real, verified information from them—that you could pass off a 'vision' you've had, should You-Know-Who ask."
"We can't," Grace said immediately, almost wearily. "I have nothing to give him. I haven't proved my use. If I went to James now, he'd want me to stop—before I went to the meeting, before things became final."
But it went deeper than that. She didn't dare voice it, didn't dare give it credence or weight, but she felt it severely. What if James didn't want to listen? Then go, he had said at the funeral. (That voice of his had always been too loud. It had been weeks, and she could still hear it thundering across the back of her mind.) If you're so tired of us, then go. And she had. She had gone far, far away. What would he do when she came back? What if he didn't want her back? This fear of hers was gigantic, all-consuming. It ate her up at night, kept her tossing and turning in bed. She oscillated between the violent belief that James would take her back—because he was her brother, because he had always taken her back, no matter how petty and unnecessary their previous arguments had been—and the paralyzing fear that he wouldn't. That he would shut the door in her face. That she had hurt him too deeply that day. (She hadn't meant to. The words came out of their own accord, from some deep, dark part of herself.) She wanted to collapse into the comfort of home and him—but she was afraid it simply was not possible. She was afraid she had done something irreversible that day. She was afraid they were too different, James and she, and that they had only just begun to realize the depth of that difference.
Regulus didn't say anything more. He didn't refute her. Perhaps he could see past her words, into that hidden layer she kept tucked in the corners of her mind. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he had felt the same with Sirius. After the older Black had run away, Regulus had waited and wished. He had thought Sirius would come back. It was his brother, after all. Brothers came back. Brothers returned.
They polished off the rest of their breakfast in silence before heading to class. Every step of the way, Grace found herself consumed with thoughts of James—until she passed through the doorway of the DADA classroom and spotted Ophelia. The auburn-haired girl had chosen a new seat, as expected. She was pointedly sitting next to Davey Gudgeon, which felt like a very big fuck you indeed. Grace found herself feeling more dejected than irritated. They hadn't been friends for very long, but Ophelia had been a friend when it counted, when Grace really needed one, when Grace did not have Regulus. Now, she had him, but at the cost of so many others. Again, her thoughts drew back to James.
Grace sat at her usual seat. Regulus took the chair next to hers. Underneath the table, he caught Grace's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"It's only temporary," he reminded her quietly.
"Right," she breathed.
It was only a performance. It was only for a moment—but what a long moment it was.
For about the hundredth time since she returned for spring term, Grace found herself huddled in the library. She was seated in the neat little alcove Regulus had dedicated to studying and completing assignments. He wasn't here now (he had Study of Ancient Runes on Fridays), but a few of his books and spare scrolls of parchments remained. Splattered across Regulus's things were Grace's, although they weren't related to school in the slightest. They were Prophet articles spanning from late December to early January. Grace had managed to get her hands on them after pestering Pince to update the library's collection of old newspaper clippings.
She was studying them voraciously now, trying to piece together every attack that had happened over holiday, trying to understand what could have discouraged Dirk from returning to Hogwarts. So far, she had come up with nothing. As far as she could tell, none of the old articles mentioned Tutshill at all, not even in passing. Sighing, she gathered the clippings in her hands and began her way back to Pince. Perhaps the old librarian was holding out on her. There had to be more than just this. There had to be more that explained what had happened to Dirk.
Just as she rounded the corner, she found herself face-to-face with Audrey Abbott. Her honey-blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her dark eyes flickered over Grace briefly before landing on the pile of articles gathered in her hands. Something in her clicked.
"You, too, huh?" Abbott sighed.
Grace was slowly inching away from Abbott. "What?"
"I was just doing that, too," Abbott said quietly, pointing at the stack in Grace's hands. "Looking at old Prophet articles. I figured if Cresswell didn't come back, it was because something happened at his town, right?"
Grace stared at Abbott. She had never known the blonde to hold a soft spot for Cresswell. "Er—yeah."
"But nothing's happened." Abbott ran a hand through her curls. "I think it's just…he'd had enough. His parents were pressuring him to come home because of all the attacks. They wanted to go into hiding. And...it wasn't like he was having a particularly good time here, y'know. Rosier had it out for him the minute he made Head Boy. A lot of Slytherins did." Her eyes refocused on Grace and seemed to catch sight of the Slytherin insignia embroidered on her robes. Her cheeks flushed. "Er—I mean, not all, just, you know… Quite a few."
"Right," Grace said emptily. "He—he told you all that, did he?"
She shrugged slightly. "Not so much in words. I just noticed."
Grace turned slightly and stuffed the old Prophet editions into an empty spot on a nearby shelf. Her hands fell to her sides before lifting to her forehead, rubbing at her temples. She shut her eyes. Had she really been that deeply invested in herself and Regulus last term? To the point she had never noticed Cresswell was being bullied by Rosier? To the point he'd realized he couldn't even confide in her anymore?
"Merlin," she breathed.
"Yeah," Abbott nodded. "It's a lot."
Grace dropped her hands and straightened herself. "Thanks," she said wearily. "I didn't think to ask his other friends."
Abbott smiled softly. "It's on me, too. I didn't think to tell his other—"
"Grace, is that you?" a bright, eager voice called out.
Grace's head whipped to the side. At the end of the aisle of bookshelves was a beaming, sprightly Sophia Hornby.
"Oh, hello," Grace said weakly, wondering how on earth she was to get out of this situation. The other Death Eaters, save Regulus, weren't aware that Grace was hanging around a third-year Ravenclaw with inferior ancestry, and she was determined to keep it that way. Unfortunately, this had resulted in Grace avoiding Sophia every chance she got. The only time she managed to see the young girl nowadays was during Care of Magical Creatures.
"I'll see you around, Potter," Abbott said kindly, and began to walk away before Grace could even hope of tagging along and escaping the dismal situation she was now trapped in.
Sophia bounded up to Grace with endless energy. If she was at all miffed that Grace had been steadily ignoring here these past few weeks, she certainly didn't show it. She smiled widely and said, "I'm so glad I caught you! I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. We can walk to Care of Magical Creatures together."
Grace would have liked nothing more than to go on a stroll to Kettleburn's slipshod classroom while Sophia prattled on about how her runes studies were coming along. Grace yearned for that normalcy—but she never knew where Yaxley, Rosier, and the others were lounging about. If one of them caught sight of her accompanying Sophia—sweet Sophia, whose father was a half-blood, whose mother was Muggle-born—there would be questions.
"Er—well," Grace began, avoiding Sophia's gaze, "I've actually got to head somewhere first, but maybe next—"
"I'll come with you!" Sophia offered immediately. "We haven't spoken except for in class. I've got so much to tell you, Grace. You won't believe what Green did last week—"
"Right, well, maybe you could tell me later?" Grace said. "I'm a tad busy now."
"Oh, are you doing more research? I could help you finish up, if you want, and then we could head over to class together."
Grace stifled her sigh. A litany of excuses and arguments ran through Grace's mind, but it would be even more suspicious if she continued to reject Sophia so directly. Grace decided to settle on a distraction.
"Er—all right, then, before we go, do you mind helping me find something? I'm looking for a book about—er—Quidditch injuries in the Medieval Ages," Grace made up wildly.
Sophia's brows furrowed. "Oh… Have you checked the sports section? Or—" she began to trace along the stacks of books by her side, "—it could be in the medical section. Let me see…"
Grace waited patiently until the young girl was out of sight. The moment she turned, Grace fled back to her little alcove in the back of the library and gathered her knapsack. She slunk out of the library quietly, careful not to catch Sophia's attention. As soon as she was out, she booked it towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Kettleburn's outdoor classroom lay.
She arrived panting for air and dropped her knapsack against the foot of a gnarled tree. After resting against the trunk and letting the panic clear from her head, she realized that dashing out of the library and leaving Sophia behind might not have been the best idea she ever had. It was certain to raise more questions. But Sophia had been a good sport all this while; she likely wouldn't take this to heart.
In just a short while, Grace realized how wrong she was. Barely five minutes passed before Sophia arrived—and with her came a cloud of devastation and irritation. The poor Ravenclaw stamped her way across the clearing, lips scrunched into a small, powerful grimace, brows furrowed into a tight, irritated scrawl. With each step she took, Grace found her heart sinking lower and lower into her body, until it seemed to have reached the ground and left her entirely. What could she say to Sophia? How could she explain without explaining?
"You left without me!" Sophia said once she was within earshot. Her arms crossed over her chest tightly. "You—you said we'd go together, and—and—" She stopped herself and simply stared at Grace for a moment. Her features morphed from angry to deeply hurt. "I can't believe you did that."
"I'm sorry," Grace said, and she truly was. "I realized I forgot something in my dormitory, and I rushed out to—"
"No," Sophia interrupted, shaking her head. Her dark brown eyes flitted over Grace. "No—you've been avoiding me for the past month, ever since you came back. You don't sit with me at the Ravenclaw table anymore. And you won't stay in the library with me. And you clear off if I approach you in the castle, like—like—you don't want to be seen with me." Her eyes were wide and damp. "Like you're embarrassed of me."
Grace understood why she thought this, because Sophia had been 'Horrible Hornby' for a very long time, because Sophia was difficult to handle—tireless in the way she talked, steamrolling her way through conversations—and so many people chose not to even bother. But for all her rambling and clinginess, she was still bright and lively—a fountain of vibrant spirit and enthusiasm. How could Grace be embarrassed of someone like that?
"Sophia, I—"
"It's because you're getting on with your old friends again, isn't it?" Her voice wavered. Her gaze was unflinching, raw and open, like a wound. "You're always with your Prefect friend now, and his other friends."
Grace's jaw fell slack. After the fallout with Ophelia, she saw little need to keep away from Regulus during meals, so she began to join him at the other end of the Slytherin table, along with the other seventh-years. She didn't particularly enjoy the atmosphere (Myrcella Rosier had a particularly nasally laugh), but it brought Regulus a sense of comfort and companionship, and Grace didn't have anyone else to sit with—so why not?
But Sophia had noticed. Grace didn't know why she had thought the young girl wouldn't. Even for a Ravenclaw, she was exceptionally bright.
"Oi, what's going on?" Preston asked in his loud, brash voice, catching sight of Sophia on the brink of tears. Green and Golightly followed swiftly behind. "Potter—what happened?"
Grace's eyes flickered to a close. She exhaled deeply. There was a terrible thought churning in the back of her mind. What if she just…let it happen? What if she simply stopped fighting this new image of hers? She had tried, in the beginning, to reverse the rumors Rita Skeeter's article had spread during holiday. She had tried to explain. It was James, too. We were angry and grieving. I didn't mean it. She had hoped Ophelia would seek her out after discovering the Dark Mark on her arm. She had hoped she could explain it. She had it planned. It's complicated, but just know it's not real. I promise it's not. Now, here she was, all her friends gone or no longer friends, save for Regulus. What was the point, really, in continuing to string Sophia along? Why not let the bridge burn? Why not accept this new version of herself? The version of Grace that called her sister-in-law a Mudblood on purpose. The version that was happy when her blood traitor parents died. The version that joined You-Know-Who because she wanted to, because she believed in the cause. The version who didn't want Sophia now that she had Rosier and Snyde and who all else.
"Fine," Grace croaked out. She looked at Sophia almost mournfully. "You're right. I have my own friends now. I don't need you anymore."
Sophia gaped at her. This was clearly not the response she was expecting. "You don't… But—but—I thought we were friends."
"We weren't." Grace's heart felt so far away. She remembered that first night back at Hogwarts. She was meant to sit with Regulus and enjoy their last first day at Hogwarts. Instead, it had been Sophia. It had been Sophia who helped her to decipher the runes in Vablatsky's journal, who resolutely sat with Grace in the library as she pored over tomes about Seer's Snag. Who but a friend would have assisted with something so boring? "I was just using you."
Sophia's words caught in her throat. She stared at Grace, horrified. Behind her, Preston's face crumpled before carefully flattening out and rearranging itself.
"Come on, Soph," Preston said immediately, dragging the young girl away from Grace and towards one of the workstations farthest from the front of the class. "Don't pay it any mind."
"All Slytherins are like that," Green tried to pitch in helpfully.
As they disappeared towards the back, Golightly shot Grace a rude hand gesture. Her eyes flickered up to meet his unhappy scowl. She couldn't find it in herself to feel the slightest bit indignant. She deserved this.
The day of the Death Eater meeting came far too quickly for Grace's liking. Snyde had managed to procure six invisibility cloaks from Mercer and handed them out to the others early in the morning. When night fell, the Death Eaters filed out of the castle, concealed in their cloaks, and made their way to the broom shed the Slytherin Quidditch team used to store spare gear and extra broomsticks. The interior was dusty from disuse, with cobwebs stuck to the corners of the ceiling. Grace wrinkled her nose as she caught sight of a row of shoddy broomsticks.
Rosier gingerly took one in his hands and squinted at it. "Whose broomstick is this?"
"I dunno," Gibbon said as he grabbed the first broomstick he saw. "Someone's."
"Someone's?" Rosier repeated shrilly. As his eyes traveled down the length of the broom, his distaste grew. "It's got mud on it."
Gibbon shrugged. "Probably fell into some mud."
"I want a different broomstick," Rosier demanded. "I can't use this!"
"What does it matter which broomstick you use? You'll be rubbish on it no matter what," Snyde snickered. He, like Regulus, had brought his own broomstick along and was lounging by the door, waiting for the others to pick theirs.
Rosier opened and closed his mouth several times before finally managing to say, "I just—I'm not good with heights. Which is why I need a proper broomstick. Not this secondhand trash."
"Well, there's only secondhand trash in here," Snyde said.
Rosier looked back at the grimy broomstick he was holding. He seemed faintly nauseated. "I refuse to ride this."
"Then good luck getting to Malfoy Manor," Gibbon said curtly.
Grace ran her hand along the broomsticks. There wasn't a single good model amongst them. Just as her hand stilled along the handle of an old Comet, Regulus came up to her side with his own broom tight in hand. Sleek and recently polished, it seemed to glow under the sparse light.
"Here," Regulus said, handing his broomstick to her. "It's better than the spares."
A wan smile flickered across her face. Warmth burst from her heart. Her hand curled along the glossy edge of Regulus's broomstick.
"What are you going to use?" she asked.
He grabbed one of the spares at random. "This one looks fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." His free hand fell to meet hers. He ran his thumb across her knuckles. "I'm sure."
Grace might've fallen into him right then and there—were it not for the fact Rosier was still whining loudly about a proper broomstick to ride.
"Rosier—would you just pick something?" Gibbon snapped. "We'll be late if we dally any longer here."
After Yaxley issued a series of threats and Snyde roughly threw a broomstick Rosier's way, they were finally ready to leave for the designated Apparating spot at Hogsmeade. The Death Eaters slipped out of the old broom shed, mounted their broomsticks, invisibility cloaks draped over them, and set off. Grace's hands tightened around the handle of her broomstick. With a lurch, she shot into the air, streaming higher and higher, cloak whipping all around her. She remembered the first time she'd ridden a broom—a real broom. It hadn't been hers, just like the one she was using right now wasn't hers. It had belonged to James, brand new and well-loved. She'd grabbed it in her small fists, swung her leg over the handle, and whizzed into the air before James could tell her not to. She'd delighted in the feeling, the throw of her body at every sharp turn, the toss and tousle of her hair, the rush of the cool air as it washed over her.
This flight was nothing like that.
Quietly, solemnly, she flew past the blank, open space of the Hogwarts courtyard, over the shimmering surface of the Great Lake, and away from the swaying treetops of the Forbidden Forest. With every inch she traveled, her heart dug deeper into her chest, shrinking and shriveling, hiding itself in the gaps of her ribs, trying to untwine itself from her. She was flying, the wind lifting her, the air whipping around her, but she had never felt heavier. She had never felt more weighed down.
She landed amongst a cluster of hedges just beyond the Shrieking Shack. Snyde had decided on the spot just earlier today, adamant that no one would dare go near here. He might have been right. Although it wasn't late enough for the residents of Hogsmeade to be at home and asleep, she couldn't spot anyone near this particular area. She quickly tugged off her invisibility cloak and began to hide it and Regulus's broomstick amongst some shrubs.
Others whipped off their cloaks, too, and soon she caught sight of Regulus, Rosier, and the rest.
"I'm never getting on a broomstick ever again," Rosier said as he hid his broom behind the trunk of a stooped tree. He was a bit green.
"Yeah? How're you planning to get back to the castle, then?" Gibbon asked.
Rosier blanched. "Oh, Merlin…"
"Hey, Potter," Snyde began, sidling up to Grace, "could I Side-Along with you?"
She glanced at him briefly before continuing to stuff Regulus's broomstick into the hedge. "I've only been to Malfoy Manor once, and I don't really remember it, so I'll be Side-Along Apparating with Regulus."
His face fell. "Oh."
Yaxley looked up and caught Snyde surveying the other Death Eaters. He scowled. "If you even think about asking to Side-Along with me, I'll—"
Snyde scoffed. "Well, I wasn't going to ask you. It'll take up all your brainpower just to Apparate yourself. You'll probably splinch me if you take me along."
"Why you—"
"I'll take Snyde," Rosier announced tiredly. "Come on—" he glanced down at the golden watch adorning his wrist, "—we should go now."
The Death Eaters gathered together. Something grim and hefty replaced the casual air the others had carried with them all this way. Snyde, for the first time, seemed nervous. His lips were pinched together into a tight, serious line. He took Rosier's hand and the two disappeared with an ear-splitting crack! Yaxley and Gibbon quickly followed suit, leaving Grace and Regulus alone. Overhead, the moon began to make its ascent over the sky. A scattered white light draped over them.
Regulus reached out a hand. "Ready?"
Grace swallowed down her fear, packed it down deep inside her. She laid her palm gently against his. "Always."
Regulus Apparated them right onto the marble step leading up to the doorway of Malfoy Manor. Grace cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders as she landed on the step unsteadily. Far behind her, she heard a loud crack! and a shrill scream as Snyde tumbled over Rosier, dragging them both into the ground.
"Get off!" Rosier cried out, voice muffled under Snyde's robes.
Snyde rolled off and hefted himself up. He threw Rosier a dirty look. "Wouldn't have happened if you were better at Apparating."
"It wouldn't have happened if you weren't trying to move around so much!"
Regulus's hand reached for the golden handle of the large double doors. He pulled the rightmost one open and allowed Grace to enter first. As she passed through, a shiver climbed up her spine. The last time she had visited Malfoy Manor had not been a good one. The dim light of a few scattered candelabras flickered over her as she went deeper into the house. Regulus stuck close behind her, his shadow swallowing hers. She could hear the footsteps of the others, too—Rosier, Snyde, and the rest—clacking against the stone floor as they moved steadily forward. Fretting by one of the open parlors was Narcissa Malfoy. She was dressed in a set of neat, silver-lined robes. Her pale hair was tied into an intricate chignon. She stilled as she caught sight of the young Death Eaters, sharp eyes darting to Regulus.
"They're in the drawing room," Narcissa said.
Regulus nodded and took the lead, walking further and further into the house, showing the way to the others. Grace clung to his side, trying to battle down the panic rising from the pit of her stomach, trying to tamper down the goosebumps that rose across her arms. Every part of her was screaming run, but she kept moving forward. As they neared the drawing room, Grace saw others coming in and out, men and women of all ages, some old with greying hair, others young with vicious sneers. She recognized a few of them: Nott, the Carrows, the Lestranges. They were filing in, chatting amongst themselves, taking their seats at the long, oblong table in the center of the room.
Grace followed after them, skirting around the edge of the table and taking a seat next to Regulus. She lifted her eyes surreptitiously, just to take a quick sweep of the room. There were far more people here than she expected. This wasn't some small operation You-Know-Who was running. It was humongous. There were dozens of people he had persuaded to join his ranks, and Grace was fairly certain that the majority of them were high-ranking Ministry officials and wealthy pure-bloods. Her stomach twisted at the sight of them, at the grins plastered to their faces, at the rough laughter that tore from their mouths. They seemed perfectly normal, and yet, here they all were, at the beck and call of a man intent on murdering thousands of innocent people. Grace wondered how they could reconcile those harsh edges, those polar ends. How could they sit here and laugh one minute, and then go out and kill the next? How could they go to work and smile and nod their way through the day and then come here and spit and curse at the rot that had overtaken their world?
Her gaze traveled to the far end of the table. Seated somewhere in the shadows was You-Know-Who. Grace only caught a flash of pale white skin before she hastily looked away, eyes boring into the dark stone of the table. That awful memory of the Cruciatus burned its way into her mind. Phantom aches flashed over her. Underneath the table, her hand found its way to Regulus's.
"There are many more amongst our fold," You-Know-Who intoned deeply. At once, the chatter in the room came to a halt. Every face turned towards the pale, still man at the head of the table. "I am pleased. Those of you who have recruited have done well."
Relief broke across a few Death Eaters' faces. One man with a greying goatee exhaled deeply, shoulders dipping down. Others smiled wanly, drinking up the praise.
"But there remain some who have not fulfilled their duties."
Death Eaters who had begun to relax snapped back to attention. The fragile solace that spread through the room shattered in an instant. You-Know-Who did not say anything for a long moment, letting the people in the room sit and steep in this torrid silence. There was a threat lurking in this quiet, one everyone in the room was acutely aware of. Grace found herself growing steadily more nervous as the seconds ticked on.
"Dolohov," You-Know-Who called. The name slid from his mouth coolly and quietly, but in the still and trembling room, it seemed loud and heavy. "Crouch remains an impediment to our endeavors. Why has he not been taken care of yet?"
"My apologies, my Lord." A wizard at the far end of the table bowed his head slightly. His face was thin and long, with a scraggly beard overtaking his chin. "As the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he is constantly surrounded by Aurors. I haven't managed to—"
"Details of your incompetency do not interest me, Dolohov. You were given explicit instructions to rid us of Crouch before he took Mulciber to trial."
"My deepest apologies," Dolohov repeated. "Unfortunately, Crouch's security is ironclad, both at the Ministry and at his private residence."
"If I may interrupt," another wizard interceded smoothly. He was seated opposite Bellatrix Lestrange and the second-closest to You-Know-Who. Grace couldn't see much of him, except for a ruddy hand with many rings splayed across the table. "I believe I have a solution to this problem."
"Speak, Rabastan," You-Know-Who commanded.
"There is talk Crouch does not harbor a good relationship with his son. If we were to turn the boy to our side and persuade him to join our ranks, perhaps he could take care of his father for us."
Murmurs of agreement floated through the table. You-Know-Who nodded. "The boy is in Hogwarts?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"What year?"
Rabastan faltered. He didn't seem to know the answer to this question. Grace frowned, trying to recall if there was a Crouch at Hogwarts. If there was, he certainly wasn't in her year.
"Sixth." It was Snyde who spoke, voice uncharacteristically subdued. "He's in sixth year, my Lord. Ravenclaw."
"I see." You-Know-Who's eyes flashed over Snyde. "You are responsible for recruiting the young boy. Rabastan will oversee this. Is this understood?"
"Yes, my Lord," both Rabastan and Snyde said.
You-Know-Who's eyes passed over the Death Eaters before settling on a pair of wizards. "Macnair and Rowle—you, too, have not fulfilled the tasks given to you. We still do not have Greyback's cooperation."
"My lord," one of the two began calmly, "Greyback cannot be reasoned with. He's a savage. We attempted to convince him to your side, but he refused to listen. We could not stay for very long in his territory to continue to pursue the matter. He threatened to set his—" his tone morphed into one of disgust, "—kind on us."
Grace swallowed thickly. She knew that name. Greyback. It was the name of the werewolf who had bitten Remus when he was just a child. What in Merlin's name did You-Know-Who want with such a ruthless and unfeeling man?
"Are you truly so incapable?" You-Know-Who hissed. "Must I see to Greyback myself?"
"We would be honored if you accompanied us," the same wizard said. "But I am afraid it may be futile. There doesn't seem to be a way to make Greyback listen to us, let alone convince him to join us."
"No?" You-Know-Who said. He sounded greatly displeased. The air of the room was fraught with tension. Only Bellatrix, on You-Know-Who's right, did not seem particularly perturbed. In fact, she seemed to delight in the alarm that swept the room. "You do not know of a way to convince Greyback, Rowle?"
"No, my Lord."
"What about you, Macnair?"
"No, my Lord," the wizard beside Rowle said. His voice was gruff.
"Does anyone know of a way?" You-Know-Who's question was met with silence. His crimson eyes dragged along the room slowly. "No one knows. This is a room of the brightest and purest wizards of the age, and not one of you knows how to trick a filthy, low-born wolf."
"My Lord…"
You-Know-Who's heavy, stifling gaze snapped to his left. "Yes, Rabastan?"
"You mentioned in passing the procurement of a Seer for our cause. Perhaps…"
Horror curled around Grace's body, snared itself across her chest and squeezed tight. You-Know-Who's terrible gaze lifted from Rabastan and settled on Grace. She felt trapped under the harsh red of his eyes. Her hand wound tighter around Regulus's. She had known this would be a possibility. She knew she might be asked to See today. But she had hoped it wouldn't come to pass. She had thought, desperately, wildly, that You-Know-Who wouldn't bother with her when he thought so low of her.
"Yes," You-Know-Who murmured, "we do have a Seer in our midst. What do you say, Potter? Can you divine the method to convince Greyback to join us?"
Though he phrased it as such, Grace knew this was not a question. She could not refuse him. All eyes were on her now. Some studied her with indignation, others confusion. For the most part, the other Death Eaters seemed greatly curious.
"Yes." Grace forced the word out. It sounded cracked, like brittle grass. It was not like her to sound so weak. "I can. I have—" she swallowed thickly, "—my tarot cards."
You-Know-Who blinked.
Bellatrix lurched forward, distaste curling along her lips. "You dare suggest such an inept—"
You-Know-Who raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze didn't lift from Grace's. "Consults your cards."
She released her hold on Regulus's hand. Her fingers felt stiff and inflexible. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her deck of tarot cards. They were the same cards her father had bought her so long ago. (He was the first she tried them out on, too. Back at St. Mungo's, on the linen of her hospital cot, she spread those cards and asked her father to choose three. What would he say now, she wondered dimly, if she told him a murderer was consulting the same cards he once had?) She passed them through her hands in a clumsy, stilted shuffle, before allowing the papery backs to feather and fan out. She glanced up to meet You-Know-Who's eyes. His face remained neutral. Without a word, he lifted his wand. Three cards pulled out of Grace's deck by themselves. One by one, they flipped themselves over and landed onto the table, facing Grace.
The first was the Wizard. In a crisp set of red robes, he stood tall and unrelenting over a table of alchemical tools. This card did not surprise Grace in the slightest. It represented sheer willpower and talent. The Wizard, with his skill and determination, would accomplish anything he set his mind to. This was You-Know-Who. This meant to convince Greyback, You-Know-Who must go himself.
The second was the Nine of Cups. At the center of a gleaming mansion, a man sat on a bench, nine golden cups surrounding, gloating and smiling upon his fortune. This small world, this small fortune, was the man's entire world, his greatest desire. This was Greyback. To sway him to join the Death Eaters, You-Know-Who must give him what he wants.
The last was the Ten of Pentacles. It was this card Grace didn't understand immediately. There was an old man, a young man, and a child, all in a chain, one succeeding the other. Ten stars hung above them, bright and unyielding. Grey hounds swept along the corners of the card. This was a legacy—but Grace didn't know what of.
"Well?" You-Know-Who said. "What does it say?"
Grace's head snapped up to meet his crushing gaze. What would he do with this information? What would he do once he got Greyback? Grace knew it couldn't be anything good. The war was bad enough with the dark wizards and witches who had aligned themselves with You-Know-Who. But to introduce dark creatures into the mix? To have werewolves attack the defenseless at the behest of You-Know-Who? Grace couldn't allow it. She wanted to lie to him. She wanted to say it was impossible for You-Know-Who to convince Greyback to join his ranks. She wanted to say it was best he just scrap this plan and move along to another one entirely.
But she was trapped in the crimson of his eyes. The pain of the Cruciatus curse flashed through her mind. It only took one word, one flick, for that terrible pain to crash into her, to bring her down to her knees, to collapse her chest and wreck her voice with scream after scream. She never wanted to feel such pain ever again. She never wanted to feel so weak ever again.
"You must go yourself, and you must give him what he wants." The words slipped out her mouth before she could stop herself. Shame and guilt fell over her. Her fingers trembled over the faces of the cards. "To have Greyback on your side, you must give him what he wants no matter the cost."
"No matter the cost," You-Know-Who repeated, voice quiet, like a hum. "And what is it Greyback desires?"
She looked back to that last card, because she knew the answer was tucked somewhere in it and because she could not bear to have those eyes on her for so long. She studied the length of the card, the grey of the arch the men were huddled under, the gleam of the stars as they burned bright in the sky, the carefree dash of the child as he skirted along a hedge. It was only when she caught sight of the hound sniffing at the boy that she realized. She knew what it was Greyback wanted. It was what Greyback had always wanted. It was why he had bitten Remus and countless others. It was children—more people to turn and rear as werewolves.
Her jaw tightened. She could not reveal this. She could not, because if You-Know-Who agreed to give this to Greyback, if he agreed to turn over the children of his victims, then it was Grace—not You-Know-Who, not Greyback—who had condemned them. With one word, she could ruin the lives of so many. With another, she could save them.
She looked up and met the deep, dark gaze that had watched on listlessly as she was tortured. She looked up, and she unearthed some last shred of strength buried inside her chest. She looked up, and she said, "I don't know."
"No?" You-Know-Who leaned back and regarded her carefully. "You said you were trained by Vablatsky herself, and you don't know?"
He threw out each word like a dagger. Grace winced under the onslaught and ducked her head. "You only asked how he can be convinced, not what the convincing factor is."
Bellatrix hissed from her seat. "The impertinence to speak so casually—"
"Enough," You-Know-Who said, voice sharp and pointed as a needle. "I have no more time to waste on this."
He gave Grace one last probing look, lips thinned and bloodless, before moving on. Just as he did before, he called out Death Eaters and questioned them relentlessly on their missions. The atmosphere of the drawing room was still charged, still thick with worry and fear, but none of it was directed at Grace anymore. She let out a quiet exhale, slumping against the back of her seat, watching silently as Death Eaters were called and questioned, waiting patiently for the meeting to end. In the course of an hour, she learned more than she thought anyone in the Ministry or even Dumbledore himself might know. She learned that You-Know-Who had a spy, Rookwood, stationed in the Department of Mysteries. She learned that, in addition to Crouch, You-Know-Who was looking to assassinate the Head of the Auror Office and introduce an Imperiused Auror of their own in his place. She learned that he was well aware of Order activities, so much so that he knew there was an ambush planned for the night he wanted to attack the Head Auror. Just as Grace was beginning to think there couldn't possibly be anymore You-Know-Who was planning to accomplish, his crimson eyes turned and settled back on Grace—but not just her this time. He swept over all the Hogwarts Death Eaters and asked, with growing boredom, in what manner they were instilling unrest and shaking students' faith in Dumbledore.
When it was clear no one was going to speak immediately, You-Know-Who leaned forward and bit out, "Well?"
Rosier snapped forward and swallowed thickly. "Well, my Lord, we've been intimidating those of lesser blood but our influence within the castle is limited because of Dumbledore and those on his side. Our Hogsmeade stint did a good job of scaring Mudbloods from returning this term."
"Yes, and that was quite some time ago," You-Know-Who said.
"R—right," Rosier said. "Well—"
"We'll be doing another one, my Lord," Yaxley interrupted, drawing You-Know-Who's gaze to him. Besides Grace, Regulus stiffened and stared at Yaxley. "Many of the students have been feeling cooped up in the castle. It's been easy for them to sneak out. We can draw many of them out to Hogsmeade on a prearranged date and organize another scare."
You-Know-Who hummed thoughtfully. "This is an acceptable idea. If you're able to kill a student, I am certain the Ministry will shut down the school and Dumbledore will lose some influence." His crimson eyes surveyed the group of Hogwarts students. "You will carry this out a week from now. Do you understand?"
A chill slipped down Grace's back. She could not see much of the other Hogwarts Death Eaters, but nothing in their manner or movement suggested they were particularly surprised by this order.
"Yes, my Lord," they all murmured together.
And the agenda moved swiftly on, as if You-Know-Who had only asked them to pick some flowers instead of murder a fellow student in cold blood. Grace refused to be caught in the current of You-Know-Who's malevolence. She remained stuck in that moment. Kill a student. She knew, immediately, instantly, that it was time to go to James. She had found out a great many things, and it was time to put aside their argument, time to forget the past, time to push past all the petty thoughts that kept her awake at night, and tell James everything. Because if anyone could fix this, if anyone could save the people You-Know-Who meant to kill, it was James.
The meeting concluded a short while later. Death Eaters rose from their seats. Some stalled around the room, clustered in conversation. Others headed out speedily, ushering quick thanks and revered goodbyes to You-Know-Who. As Regulus and the rest of the Hogwarts Death Eaters stood, so did Grace. She rose and pressed her palms, slick with sweat, against the front of her robes, trying to tamp down her unease.
"Okay?" Regulus asked her quietly as they made their way to the door.
"Yeah," she whispered.
Rosier and the others ducked out the entrance. Just as Regulus made to follow suit, he was stopped by Bellatrix, who had pulled him roughly aside before he could leave. Grace dashed towards him, as if pulled along to Regulus by some invisible, taut thread. Her hand flew up to meet his elbow, quick as a flash. She wanted to tug him back to her, but she stopped in the middle of the motion, wary of upsetting Bellatrix.
"The Dark Lord wishes to meet with you," Bellatrix informed Regulus. Her eyes were lit. "Immediately."
Regulus tensed. "Oh." He looked to his side, where Grace remained, her features drenched with suspicion and stress. "You can head off with the others—"
Strangely, it was Bellatrix who opposed this. "No need," she interrupted and turned to look at Grace. "You can wait in the parlor. It shouldn't be long."
And then Bellatrix's lips spread into a wide, unnerving smile. It was the smile of someone who knew something no one else did. It was an unfeeling smile, sharp and cruel, entirely disingenuous. It was a smile meant to alarm—and Grace was very much alarmed. This world was still unfamiliar to her. She did not know why You-Know-Who wanted to see Regulus. She did not know why Bellatrix was smiling so sharply her way. She did not know why any of the people here did what they did. She only knew herself. She only knew she would not leave, not if Regulus was here. Even if it meant she was falling into a trap of some sort, she would not go.
"All right," Grace agreed, staring down the hard black of Bellatrix's eyes, trying to understand what was coming next. But the older witch's eyes were as dark and inscrutable as an abyss. "Where's the parlor?"
The Malfoy's parlor was extremely luxurious, with richly patterned couches and glass tables. A silver chandelier stuck with candles hung from the ceiling, and an array of silver and gold baubles decorated the far corners of the room, looming overhead. Along one wall was a gilded fireplace; the flames within were dying, soft and subdued, casting little light in the dim room.
Grace rotated around the walls of the room. Although it seemed very nice, it wasn't the slightest bit comfortable. The couches and chaises were stiff and too silky to lounge on without sliding off. The tables and trinkets that dotted the room seemed so frail and fragile that Grace didn't dare near them in case she broke something. She kept to herself and to the side, afraid to bring attention to herself, and too consumed in her worry for Regulus to really sit down and relax. She tried to assure herself that he couldn't possibly be in trouble. He'd done absolutely nothing, after all, and his cousin was a favorite of You-Know-Who's. Despite this, dread flared in her stomach, all-consuming and inescapable. Bellatrix's leering, not-a-smile smile flashed in her head. Grace continued to pace anxiously, passing underneath a wall of portraits.
"I knew this would happen," one of the portraits snapped. Its occupant was pale-haired, with sharp, sleek features and a nasty scowl. He watched Grace with narrowed eyes. "Lucius has opened his doors, and now we have all sorts of miscreants traipsing around."
"Now, now, Septimus," another ancestor called from the next portrait over. He was far more portly, and his hair was hidden under a powder-white wig. "You know this is all for the greater good."
"But does it have to be my home?" Septimus sighed.
"Your home?" a portrait on the far side of the wall huffed. "When I am ze one who procured eet in ze first place?"
Several portraits groaned. Grace shied away from the wall of ancestors, drawing closer to the fireplace, trying to drown out the pointless bickering. The fire flickered down, the dying embers glowing a hot red. Grace reached a hand into her pocket, intending to pull out her wand and re-light the hearth.
Just as her fingers grasped the handle of her wand, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. "What the hell are you doing—?" the man behind her began.
Grace wrenched herself away and whipped her wand out, pointing it steadily at the Death Eater who approached her. "What the hell are you doing?"
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she faltered, because she knew this man. It wasn't any of the usual Death Eaters she was acquainted with, Rosier or Snyde or the others at Hogwarts. This man was much older, with a wan, thin face and dark, perfectly coiffed hair.
"What the—put that bloody thing away. It's just me."
"Avery?" Grace gaped. "Castor Avery?"
He stared at her, unimpressed. "No. I'm his twin brother."
Grace opened and closed her mouth several times before finally, weakly, letting out, "Castor…has a twin…?"
"Merlin's beard! Were you always this thick?"
She stared at him, unsure of what to say. Her mind was reeling. She hadn't seen Avery during the meeting, although her focus hadn't quite been on the other Death Eaters then. A million and one questions burned at the tip of her tongue. This, she wanted to ask, voice shrill and demanding, this is where you've been all this time? She recalled the last time she saw Avery, at the end of her first year, helping Vablatsky decipher his future. Don't give up, the old witch had warned. Grace had hoped he hadn't—but here he was.
Her lips opened without her telling them to. "What are you doing here?" she found herself asking. It was a useless question. They both knew what he was doing here.
He stared back at her with disbelief. "What am I doing here? What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"
She blinked in surprise. "I'm here to, you know, follow and—er—aid the Dark Lord in his quest to bring order to the wizarding world."
He continued to stare at her as if she'd grown a second head over the course of their conversation. After a moment, he sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His eyes flickered to a close.
"Are you…okay?" Grace asked hesitantly.
"Just give me a moment," he said.
"Er…alright…"
The chattering portraits had fallen silent. When Grace glanced back at the wall, she saw the many Malfoy ancestors watching the unfolding conversation with heavy interest. Avery caught sight of them as well, and took Grace further aside, towards a dark corner partially eclipsed by the hulking mantle of the fireplace. He dug his wand out of his pocket, a handsome sliver of redwood, and raised it.
Grace reflexively raised her own wand again.
"It's just a Muffling Charm," Avery said with heavy exasperation. He pointed his wand towards the portraits and then towards the doorway of the parlor before pocketing it. "Now, where were we? Oh, right—what are you actually doing here?"
She eyed him warily. "I'm here to follow and aid the—"
"Yeah, and I'm here to have a fucking tea party with the Dark Lord," Avery sniped. "Really—what are you doing? I'm genuinely concerned you're up to no good and you're going to get yourself, and others, maimed with whatever cockamamie plan you've come up with."
"What makes you think I'm up to no good?"
Avery gave her a withering glance. "Would you like me to list all your shenanigans? You pelted your brother with Howlers infused with stink pellets, you hung your brother's underpants in the Hogwarts courtyard, and you broke into Slughorn's private storeroom numerous times. And that was all in your first year. I can only imagine the sort of menace you are now."
"I haven't seen you in seven years, and the first thing you do is point out all my flaws? I'll have you know I did a lot of good things in first year, too."
"Like what?"
"Like…" She paused thoughtfully.
"You can't think of anything, can you?"
"You put me on the spot! Merlin—what is this, an interrogation? You know what? How do I know you're not up to no good? What if you're the one with a cockamamie plan?"
"What are you talking about?" He stared at her like she'd gone mad. And, honestly, maybe she had. Grace certainly felt like the moment she was living in wasn't entirely real. "Look, Potter—I don't know if you're reckless or dumb or some combination of the two, but this isn't some Gobstones club you can just waltz into without a second thought. I don't know why you're here, but I know it certainly can't bode well. Right now, my primary concern is my own well-being, so, again, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"
His face was pinched into something tight and serious. Grace searched his eyes frantically. While she hadn't seen Avery in seven years, she had certainly written him. There had been mountains and mountains of letters between the two in her second and third year, and then, suddenly, none ever again. The correspondence had stopped sometime during the summer, when Avery left her last letter—and the many follow-ups she sent—unanswered, having seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. Where are you? she had written. What happened? Why won't you write back? At the time, she reasoned he was extremely busy. Now, she knew it was because of the war, but not because he had gone into hiding or because he was busy fighting for the right side. It was because he had joined You-Know-Who.
The reality of the situation hit Grace like an avalanche. She stared up at the man in front of him. It was the same Castor Avery she knew from first year, except reedier, with sallow cheeks and a few grey strands tucked into the shining copper of his curled hair. It was the same Castor Avery, but he was hunched forward, bent into himself, glancing behind himself now and again. It was the same Castor Avery, but it was not. She could not trust him. She did not know him anymore. Even worse, she wondered if she had ever known him.
"I—I'm here to protect Regulus," she let out eventually.
His brows furrowed. "To protect Black?"
"He joined during the summer. I was a bit miffed at first…but then I sort of realized that this is kind of a dangerous occupation, you know. And the best chance I've got of making sure he's okay is if I'm here, too." She held his gaze for a moment and hoped he believed that this was it. That she really was this self-sacrificing. "That's it. That's why I'm here."
"You…" Avery looked up at the ceiling briefly and took a deep breath before returning his gaze to Grace. "You joined a group of dark wizards because your friend joined first?"
"He's actually sort of my boyfriend now, so—"
"Oh, then that makes everything all right, of course."
"You've gotten a lot snarkier, you know."
"Yeah? Well, forgive me, I just found out a seventeen-year-old decided to do something extremely dangerous because her boyfriend did it first."
Grace's lips pursed. "I'm eighteen."
"Eighteen and you still don't have the sense to—"
"Do the other Death Eaters know how much you despise being here?" Grace cut in. Her voice was hard and unflinching.
Avery's lips clamped shut. For the first time, he seemed unsure of himself. His eyes searched hers hesitantly. "I'm here because I'm good at what I do and because I'm loyal to the cause," he said very carefully. "I can't say the same for you."
"You're suspicious of me?" she pressed.
"I find it hard to believe someone joined the Dark Lord's forces simply because their boyfriend—"
"Do you think the Dark Lord overlooked my motivation to join his cause?" she challenged. "Do you think he hasn't already thought the exact same thing you have? Do you think an eighteen-year-old without any sense managed to slip something by him and only you noticed?"
A long silence settled between them. The fireplace was nothing more than ash now. The only light in the room was the sparse white of the moon flickering through the half-drawn curtain and the candlelit chandelier hanging high above them. Grace matched Avery's gaze with a defiant one of her own, chin up, brows raised, like she was back at Hogwarts with him, like he had caught her sneaking back from Slughorn's storeroom while on patrol. In the dark of his eyes, she could see him reevaluating everything he thought he knew about her.
"And the story in the Prophet? About your brother—"
"You know I never got on with him. You said it yourself. I sent him those Howlers and hung his pants up in the courtyard—and that was only first year."
"Yeah," Avery accepted quietly. "But…"
"But?"
He shook his head slightly. "I just never thought I'd see you here. Of all places."
"And I never thought I'd see you here." She gave him a suspicious look of her own, voice drenched with skepticism. "In your letters, you always talked about getting away—going to your mum and sister in France. But you're here. And I suppose you've just been here the past few years, and—" the hard trace in her voice vanished, transformed into something softer, subtler, more curious, "—what about Fran—?"
"As much as I'd like to continue this thrilling interrogation, Potter," Avery interrupted stiffly, "it's getting late and I ought to be going home. My wife is expecting me for dinner."
Grace's brows rose. "I'm sorry, your what?"
He didn't say anything immediately. His face fell, and Grace found a pinprick of guilt ease into her. She did not exactly know why Avery was here, but she was beginning to wonder if his involvement with You-Know-Who wasn't by choice.
"My wife," he repeated. His voice was strained. "We got married last spring."
"Oh—er—congratulations."
He turned away, not meeting her gaze. "Thank you."
Avery's wand lifted as he recanted the spell he'd placed to keep anyone from overhearing them. Grace glanced at the grandfather clock tucked in the corner of the parlor, and frowned as she saw that it had been fifteen minutes since Regulus had been called for a private conversation with You-Know-Who. She looked back at Avery, who was preparing to leave the parlor altogether, and abandoned her plan of questioning him relentlessly until he revealed what had happened to him. It was Regulus she needed to worry about, not Avery.
She strode towards Avery, catching him before he ducked out of the parlor. "Before you go—do you happen to know where Regulus might have gone?"
He barely glanced at her as he stepped out of the doorway, entering the long hallway. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—Regulus was asked to meet with the Dark Lord. Except it's been a while. Do you know where—?"
They both stilled in the hallway as a faint scream pierced through the otherwise quiet area. Grace might have ignored the noise, except she knew precisely whose voice that was. No matter how muted, how distorted, she would always know that voice.
Without another word, she turned her back on Avery and rushed down to the end of the hallway. The further along she went, the more she recognized it. It was the same corridor Bellatrix had led her down doing her initiation. At the very end, there was a small alcove with a door hidden in the side. This was where she had met You-Know-Who for the first time. This was where she had been questioned relentlessly, where she had received her Dark Mark, and where Regulus was currently being tortured. Behind the heavy wooden door, she could hear scream after scream twisting and tearing from his mouth, awful and spine-tingling, gut-wrenching enough that Grace felt nauseous, so shrill and desperate it sounded more animal than man. Her hands, trembling and shaking, reached for the knob of the door. Running on instinct and fear and utter disbelief, she wrapped her hands around the doorknob and pulled.
It was locked, but she kept trying, tugging against it, letting the silver knob rattle against the door. She took her wand out and tried again, but it didn't work, either. She curled her hands into fists and prepared to beat down the door, ready to pound against the door with both her hands and her heart. She would do anything to get him out of that room. But before her hands could make contact with the wood, she was pulled back, further and further away, until the door was eclipsed by the sharp dip of the hallway.
"What are you doing?" Avery said. "You can't just barge in—"
Her heart beat against her chest like a jackhammer. "I need to—I don't understand—he didn't—" Her voice stuttered and shattered. He didn't do anything to deserve this. He shouldn't be in there. He can't be in there.
"Black hasn't done anything noteworthy or reputable. If the Dark Lord wanted to talk to him, it can only be because he is displeased with Black—or you."
Her frantic eyes snapped to meet Avery's solemn ones. "Me?"
"I don't think he was very impressed by your tarot charade," Avery said quietly.
"So?" Grace demanded. "What does that have to do with Regulus? What does that matter when it comes to him? It was my mistake. I should be in there, not—"
"This is what I meant when I said you didn't know what you were walking into. You can't be so cavalier about your relationships here. If you've got a good thing, you're meant to hide it. If you don't, the people here will take it and break it. If you've got a weakness, they'll use it. You should have never let the Dark Lord know you care for Black. It…it hurts more knowing the person you love is being punished for the mistake you made," he finished bitterly, sounding very much like he was speaking from experience.
He might as well have been talking to a wall. She didn't care to hear the explanation. Her heart was sharpened to a point and digging painfully into her chest. She shrugged Avery off forcefully and tried to make her way back to the door, wand tight in hand, her knuckles taut with the force of her grip. She hadn't realized Regulus could pay the price for her mistakes. She hadn't realized it wasn't just her playing this game. She hadn't realized that everything—every single thing—she said or did could affect someone other than herself, whether that was Regulus right next to her or the countless children Greyback wanted. Every bone in her body thrummed and ached under the weight of this colossal realization, this terrible world that she had misread, that she had thought would be so easy for her to slip and meld into. Avery was right. This was dangerous. She thought she had been ready. (She was Grace Potter. She had always been ready. She had been ready her whole life. She had been ready to retaliate against James every time he pranked her. She had been ready for Hogwarts the second she heard of it. She had been ready to be cured of her condition before it became chronic. She had been ready to steal from Slughorn's storeroom when she needed to. She had been ready to duel anyone who crossed her. She had been ready. Always, always ready.) But not now. She felt grossly underprepared and frightened. Each of Regulus's screams bit into her, hooked itself deep into her skin. (She could feel the burn of the Cruciatus again. She had not been ready then, either.) She wanted to help Regulus. She wanted to save him. But she could hardly save herself.
Avery stopped her before she could charge forward again. "What are you doing?" he whispered fiercely, drawing her back. "Do you have a death wish?"
His hands rested on her shoulders, firm and sure. She looked up at him, eyes burning, equal parts aghast and angry. She was seized by the desire to kick him, to shove him, to have him let her go. Didn't he understand? Didn't he hear? That wasn't just anyone in there. That was Regulus.
She struggled against him. "That—"
"He'll survive."
"How do you know?" She meant for the words to be hurled at him, like a whip striking skin, but it came out choked and hushed. She wanted proof. She wanted a promise. She wanted to be let go. "How do you know?"
"I know."
And she saw it in the hard, rigid planes of his face, in the dreary circles under his eyes, in the dull, leaden way his words fell from his mouth, in the way he'd spat out wife and refused to entertain her questions, in the way he'd pulled her aside and demanded to know what she was doing here—in Avery's tired face, she saw that you could not die in this place so long as you pretended you belonged, but you could suffer. You sure could suffer.
A/N : Castor Avery is BACK! (For those who didn't read 'Flying,' he was a Slytherin Prefect that Grace befriended.) I've been waiting *so long* to bring him back into the story. Shit's been crazy for him since he graduated Hogwarts, and we'll eventually get into exactly what's been going on with him.
As always, thank you for the follows, faves, and reviews! Please keep letting me know your thoughts :)
elle : thank you so much for all the reviews you wrote for Flying and Falling! They were a joy to read, and it made me so happy to see how immersed in the story you were. To answer some of your questions: I know Sirius is being super rude right now! I'm trying to stay somewhat true to canon with his thoughts that Remus is the leak in the Order, and I feel like that's making him a bit irritating to everyone. I will be doing a little redemption arc for him and having him reconcile with others. There's just a LOT to unpack when it comes to Sirius. With James, we'll just have to see what happens! (I don't want to give spoilers, haha.) I don't think he would do anything horrible, though. He does love Grace very much; that's what makes the argument at the funeral hurt so much more. Yes, Grace saw the cave! But she doesn't remember it, so she doesn't know she needs to save him. :( But don't worry; this is a fix-it fic, so you can be rest assured that Grace and Regulus will live. "In all honesty I don't have much faith in Grace's plan" is a really good take! It's not a foolproof plan, and a lot of things go awry pretty much immediately. But Grace is full of hubris and she doesn't quite understand what she's getting herself into, so she thinks it will work—and Regulus trusts her. About prophecies and Seeing—we'll see! I don't want to give anything away, haha. Thank you again for all your wonderful reviews and compliments! I truly appreciate it!
Mars : Wow, thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! :) Oh man, if I ever get this colossal story done, there will 100% be another sequel with a Potter-Black baby. As to whether or not Grace will ever have a real prophecy—spoilers! We'll just have to see what happens. As to why James hasn't put two and two together: He doesn't know Regulus needs saving, or that Regulus is even a concern. I'm sure he's had a few passing conversations about Grace with Dumbledore or Vance, but Grace hasn't done anything (good or bad) in school to really warrant professors' attention, so there's not much to say there. (Also, James has a ton on his plate with Auror and Order work and worrying about his friends. As far as he knows, Grace is perfectly safe and out of trouble at Hogwarts.) Oh, Regulus absolutely thought of Grace when casting his Patronus (it was of a chess match; we'll see the memory soon, but from Grace's POV). I don't think he smelled stink pellets in his Amortentia, haha. It would have been very funny, though. It was just that whatever he smelled so strongly reminded him of Grace and the fact that they're not talking at the moment that he closed the cauldron so he wouldn't have to smell it anymore. I think McGonagall has some fondness/appreciation for Grace's abilities, but Grace's judgement of/interactions with McGonagall are clouded by her knowledge that McGonagall so obviously favors James. I also think Slughorn thinks Grace is a very talented potioneer; he just hasn't been able to get through to her and get her interested in Slug Club or anything besides Divination, so he kind of counts her as a failed project (also, she's stolen from his storeroom on multiple occasions and released a Niffler during a Slug Club meeting, so that factors into his wariness for her). Your reviews for the chapters are absolutely hilarious! You're so sweet for bumping me up to 90 reviews, thank you! :)
Graculus : Thanks for reading and for the sweet review! Right now, I have about 30 chapters planned for this fic. I hope you enjoy Flying! Haha, it actually took me a moment to realize "Graculus" was a ship name. Grace was born in January and Regulus in February (in this story). I don't really have a specific date down, but Grace is a Capricorn and Regulus is a Pisces, so that sort of narrows down the date.
Anne LM : thank you for reading! Grace has been hesitant about going to James because of the argument (truthfully, she's her biggest obstacle rn), but after what just happened, you know she's going to James ASAP.
Eupheremi : PM'd you!
Piffthemagicdragon21 : thank you! I know :( things are quite sucky for Grace atm. Every time she manages to gain something, she loses something else. These next few chapters are the "darkest" of the whole story, but hang on tight! The happy ending will be coming eventually!
Guest (1) : You have no idea how shocked I was to see you mention Castor because I've been waiting and waiting to introduce him in this chapter! Francis will be coming, too! Francis and Castor play a pretty big part in this story (as do Fabian and Gideon, but much later), but it'll be a while till we get to that since Grace has only just ingratiated herself with the Death Eaters. I meant to have Pokey back in the story, but it's been hard to fit scenes in the kitchens since there's so much going on all the time. But I added the kitchens scene specifically to bring a little Pokey back in! Pokey will also be playing a somewhat sizable role in the end of the story, so she definitely hasn't disappeared! Thank you so much for reading! :)
Random Reader : whoa, thank you again for this wonderful review! It was a joy to read :) Ugh, yes, Reg and Grace are both in dire need of a vacation! It'll happen, one day. Good point about sealing extra passages! She does need at least one for her own purposes of sneaking out of the school (to see James, for example) and there are some that she can't seal (like the Shrieking Shack underneath the Whomping Willow). Hopefully this chapter answered the questions about Sophia and Greengrass :( Grace hardly has time to herself, so she's been neglecting Sophia, which hasn't been sitting right with the younger girl. It's not so clear what's going on with Greengrass, but, basically she figures if she went to someone to rat out the Death Eaters in Slytherin she wouldn't be believed (most of them come from influential families). And if she were believed and something was done about it, I'm sure someone would find out she ratted them out and I don't think Voldemort's crowd would take that well. So, Greengrass's silence is part helplessness, part self-preservation, and maybe even part loyalty? Because she and Grace are friends. Oh man, oh man, are we going to get to Dumbledore and what he's been up to… Your thoughts about James are super insightful! I don't think James would ever turn her over to the Ministry or have her be put to death; his love is *so* strong (so much so that Peter managed to stop Remus and Sirius on their death rampage in POA by simply invoking his name!). But he might still be angry with her, and he's got a lot on his plate, too. Thank you again for the wonderful review!