EXTENDED SUMMARY
Ivy Evans did not apologize. If one were to ask the Evans mother, this would be due to the least favourite child's complete disregard for morals and empathy. If one were to ask Petunia Evans, this was due to her irresponsibility and privilege. Lily Evans would say that it was merely a matter of pride. Did anyone ever ask Ivy? The problem child, the prideful, irresponsible, privileged child?
Ivy refused all apols and shows of regret. She was called a 'one-in-a-generation' talent, a magical prodigy like nothing Hogwarts had ever seen.
This very same arrogance led her to an expulsion that tore sisters apart, broke mother and daughter, and decimated the foundations of a family. The rift would never be mended, and when Lily died, Ivy only felt the unspoken words between them, the unresolved fights, and the actions they could never take back.
In avoidance of her grief, Ivy Evans goes down the dark path to learning the truth of her twin sister's demise. Old demons come out, new enemies strike, and she lands straight in the middle of the fight she'd been trying to avoid since the beginning of the war.
Despite all of it, the magical genius would not apologize.
"I WAS A MUGGLEBORN IN SLYTHERIN, IN THE HEIGHT OF PUREBLOOD DOMINANCE AND PREJUDICE. HOW DO YOU THINK IT WENT?"
Notes:
This story will feature a variety of very strong, but completely ruthless women, told from the perspective of who you'd normally see as the typical antagonist. There are certain triggering elements in this story. Ivy Evans is not a heroine. She is selfish, cruel, vain, spiteful, and envious. Despite that, I personally love her. As Shrek would say, she's an onion so this story will strip away her layers.
Most importantly, romance is a subplot in this series. It will be an incredibly slow burn, but I promise, eventually, it will burn.
ＯＮＥ
𝕚𝕧𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕕𝕠𝕨
"He has her eyes."
"You used to like her eyes."
"I used to be able to consume dairy too."
𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟺, 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟶
SHE CLASPED THE cards firmly within her worn hands, her fatigued eyelids drawn thin, revealing mere slivers of dark hazel peeking through the narrow gaps. Her deft hands manipulated the tarot cards, their corners gliding seamlessly between her fingertips. Her lips, coated in a rich, velvety crimson, hid a small smile, peaking out the corners.
A solemn figure seemed to sink in her seat, her eyes brimming with tears that glistened like dewdrops on a fragile petal. With delicate grace, she reached for a handkerchief, lightly blotting her misted gaze. Her attention was drawn to the meticulous movements of Ivy's fingers—or Wendy as she went by here—deftly arranging a deck of cards into a neat stack. Ivy exuded an aura of carefully crafted tranquillity, emanating a gentle smile that seemed to weave a soothing spell around the weeping woman.
"They told me you can—you can get in contact with loved ones passed." The woman's voice trembled, tears slipping onto her lips. Ivy's features turned stoic, her eyes fixed on a distant point. "I just want to speak to my husband."
Widows, burdened by their grief and desperation, often proved to be the most willing benefactors. Ivy was hardly a good woman, and she wasn't one to turn down an opportunity in magic. Leaning closer, Ivy extended her hand. "Allow me to examine your palm," she intoned, her voice embracing a melodic rhythm that echoed through the room.
"You—You can do it then?" The woman, her tone laced with a touch of scepticism.
"In the event that you find my services unsatisfactory," Ivy replied, her voice subtly altering to match the northern accent she adopted, "you need not pay."
They always pay, one way or another. The delicate touch of Jacqueline Harper's hand in Ivy's grasp marked the beginning of the connection, a transaction of magical invasion veiled in the guise of trust. Ivy's affinity for targeting the affluent was not without reason—connections forged through desperation often yielded the sweetest fruit.
"What can palm reading do?" Jacqueline, a vision of French elegance, possessed a beauty that had undoubtedly enchanted a Selmy dark wizard into matrimony, despite his racist beliefs. The irony of her ignorance regarding her late husband's true nature did not escape Ivy's perceptive gaze. It certainly explained the absence of a new marriage line etched upon Jacqueline's palm.
With a calculated air of confidence, Ivy allowed her gaze to wander over Jacqueline's face, taking in every delicate feature. "He departed from this world five weeks ago," Ivy uttered, observing the woman's frozen reaction. "A truly tragic end."
Jacqueline's eyes widened with astonishment, her gaze shifting to her own palm as if hoping to decipher the secrets hidden within its lines. "How could you know that?"
"I possess the details necessary to establish contact with the other side," Ivy explained. While this aspect of her craft was a mere charade, it served its purpose in comforting her clients and filling Ivy's pockets. It was a win-win situation.
Ivy reclined in her chair, releasing Jacqueline's hand with a sense of detached satisfaction. Muggles, lacking the safeguards of magical barriers, were vulnerable to her intrusive magic. Morality held no sway over Ivy's actions, and with effortless grace, she delved into the depths of the woman's memories. She sought private moments and intimate secrets shared—a treasure trove of hidden knowledge. Dark wizards, particularly those who held wealth and power, often possessed the most enticing spoils.
The flickering candles cast shadows upon the circular chamber. Ivy had taken inspiration from a film she once watched, recognizing the muggles' affinity for the mystique of hoodoo. A smile curled upon her lips as the candles extinguished, only to be reignited moments later. The sudden interplay of darkness and light elicited a jump from Jacqueline, her gaze now fixated upon Ivy as if she were a devil in disguise. Ivy's vibrant red curls cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned forward.
"He's here," Ivy whispered, her voice barely above a breath, causing the widow to press trembling fingers against her face, tears slipping through the cracks between her digits. Her words became a torrent of incomprehensible murmurs muffled by her moist palms.
As the session drew to a close, Ivy's palm held nearly 250 sterling. She had a vague idea what prizes were stored in the confines of the Selmy vault, proving that it was perhaps worth her expensive time. With a subtle twitch of her fingers, the room responded to her will. The broom whisked away fragments of sage ash, the windows swung open to invite sunlight, and the curtains billowed, dusting themselves off. Ivy gracefully rose from her seat, her emerald skirt cascading past her ankles as another dress soared towards her. With nonchalance, she shed her gipsy costume, slipping into a simple grey checkered button-up. The buttons obediently fastened themselves, and the belt coiled around her waist, dressing her effortlessly.
"Sometimes I wonder if you're just showing off." As Ivy's gaze shifted, a voice emerged from her right with a tone laced with playful observation. Sirius Black, with his unmistakable air of style, leaned casually against the door frame.
"I thought I was alone," Ivy responded, her fingers crackling with a subtle surge of magic, causing her vibrant tresses to transform into an intricate flower crown, adorning her head like a regal enchantment.
"Then you're just lazy," Sirius retorted.
"What are you doing here, Mr Black?" Curiosity piqued, Ivy took a step around the circular table, her fingertips gliding along the smooth fabric of the tablecloth. Sirius's gaze followed her every movement, his dark eyes tracing the path of her touch, as if anticipating some veiled threat concealed within a single motion. She mused that perhaps the war had left him perpetually on guard, his senses honed to detect even the slightest danger.
"Aren't you worried about the Ministry?" Sirius, once the worst prankster of Hogwarts, interjected, his words tinged with a cautious undertone.
"With the war," Ivy responded thoughtfully. "I imagine they have enough on their plate."
"I suppose you can't expect to be expelled twice," he replied with a sly smile. "But you could always find yourself in Azkaban as a substitute."
The mention of Ivy's past expulsion evoked a twinge of discomfort, the memory of disappointing her parents lingering like a bitter aftertaste. However, as the years had progressed, she had distanced herself from that notion. Yet, her longing for a wand remained, as hers had been confiscated and broken. She managed well enough without it, as anyone could see, but wand magic held a certain simplicity that she yearned for.
"Indeed," Ivy replied, her fingertips gracefully trailing along the buttons of her dress, a hint of false playfulness in her voice. "Please don't tell me I dressed up in vain, Mr Black."
Sirius glanced down at the buttons, yet whatever had brought him here seemed to outweigh the allure of their teasin5 food g banter. Instead, his smile vanished, and Ivy watched his mask falter. "Marlene and her family were killed."
Ivy's smirk remained, but her stomach lurched, akin to the sensation of falling from great heights. "Who?" she asked, feigning ignorance.
Sirius frowned, the weight of grief etching lines on his face. "Drop the act, Miss Evans. It's unbecoming and—" He faltered, his words interrupted by a surge of overwhelming emotion.
Her smile faded, but she didn't let her sorrow seep through. She thought herself a connoisseur of sadness, delving deep into its depths rather than merely skimming its surface. While others assumed she felt nothing, she revelled in the intricate strands of perpetual emotions, appreciating their subtle nuances as one would appreciate a complex spell.
Yet, she also prided her reticence and so, she revealed none of her sorrow now. "How did it happen?" she asked, her voice devoid of sentiment.
"I think you know," Sirius replied, taking a step back, creating a physical distance between them as he sank into a chair at her table. With a wave of her hand, a glass of water materialized and hovered next to his bowed head. He made no effort to reach for it. Sirius was a genius in his own right, but his emotions were not easily concealed. He had carried an impending storm since entering the room, even if he would rather she not witness it. Ivy scrutinized the weariness etched beneath his eyes, the dishevelled state of his appearance, and the unshaven stubble he couldn't be bothered to remove.
Leaning against the table, her fingers lightly grazing its surface, Ivy fell silent. There had to be a reason for his presence, and comfort was not it. He had attempted to conceal his own grief—an intrusive ball of emotion—for a purpose. He had once labelled her a sociopath, a judgment she had brushed aside. Although their old teasing dance had effortlessly resumed, there remained a chasm between them, a divide that had emerged even before her expulsion. The war raged on, fracturing their hard-earned and once-easy silences into unspoken arguments they were reluctant to revisit. He had embraced responsibilities, while she had purposefully avoided them.
"I know you were friends," he finally spoke, and the former Slytherin lowered her gaze, peering at him through her long, fluttering lashes, their delicate sweep nearly caressing her cheeks.
"I haven't spoken to her in five years," she reminded him, with a hint of melancholy. "And as you know, she's the one who aided in my expulsion."
Sirius swiftly came to Marlene's defence, as he often did. The familiar way he uttered Ivy's name dripped with sardonic contempt. Every time they met, the air around them was thick with unspoken animosity.
"When did it happen?" Her voice concealed the unease churning in her stomach.
"Two months ago."
"An awfully long time," she remarked cautiously, her fingers gliding over her skirt, tracing the intricate protective runes she had stitched onto the fabric. The gold stitching seemed to be a jumble of abstract shapes and symbols tangled together, yet each was meticulously selected and placed with purpose. When her fingertips grazed the runes, a wave of calmness washed over her. But as soon as her hand pulled away, her mind whirled again in an endless cycle of anxious thoughts. Relaxation bred carelessness, and even if she had chosen not to engage in the conflict, it did not mean the war had left her untouched.
Sirius, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, lowered his hand and brushed the back of it along his rough jawline. She noticed how every muscle in his arm trembled—biceps bulging—as if fighting against some unknown force. "I am neither your messenger nor your owl. Communication requires effort from both parties, Ivy." His tone held a genuine bite, his anger as potent as his grief, leaving her to wonder how he reacted upon hearing of Marlene's passing.
Her murder.
She had to conjure an image in her mind to suppress her callous retort. "Will you ever join the cause?" Sirius asked, his grey eyes meeting hers, a trail of bitter disappointment lingering in the air, even though she couldn't fathom why. "We need you. Your sister needs you."
It had been far too long since she last laughed with genuine, rib-scraping laughter that reverberated through her chest. Such laughter eluded her now and would continue to do so in the days to come. Threads of sadness tugged at the corners of her eyes. She had forgotten the sound of her own laughter, forgotten how deep and resonant it could be. She had grown complacent and content with her melancholy, finding solace in fleeting moments of giggles and smiles over the past few years. She had nothing to offer—no smile, no laughter, no fight.
Ivy possessed only magic, but lacked the will to engage in battle. "I haven't spoken to my sister in two years," she confessed, her fingers idly picking at the strings of her dress—those very same stitchings of runes that revealed her vulnerability. Realizing this, she let her arms fall to her side. "As you mentioned, communication is a two-way street. We have demonstrated that we do not need each other."
Sirius' gaze hardened, but softened as he reached over and grasped her hand. She allowed it, sensing his need for comfort, though she felt rather numb. "She's pregnant," he disclosed.
They held each other's hands for only a fleeting moment before Ivy abruptly withdrew hers. "Convey my congratulations to her."
"She wanted to see you."
"Then why isn't she here herself?" Ivy tilted her head, reminiscing about their childhood home—a place vivid in her memories, despite the passing years.
She recalled it during each haunting season, with summer being Lily's favourite. "A summer carries the weight of every new blossom," Lily used to say, describing each flower they encountered on their walks through town. "Look how the sunflowers weep, draping over the fence, and see how the iris curls away with its dry edges." Ivy both despised and somewhat cherished the poetry Lily extracted from dying flowers.
"If she truly wishes to see me, she should have come in person," she said softly. Ivy couldn't forget that after every excursion where Lily wept over the flowers, the very next day they would bloom again as if the prior day had been a dreadful nightmare.
"You are not easily traceable," Sirius remarked, standing up, his dishevelled hair catching her attention once more. "I found you only because there have been rumours of a witch among the muggles—a red-haired 'she-demon'." Sirius inhaled deeply, exhaling fragments of despair that felt as tangible as the stitches on her dress. "She cannot come."
A smile tugged at the corners of Ivy's lips as she envisioned her sister's reaction when Ivy touched the upright sunflower, causing it to wither and die. "Why not?"
"There's been word that she and her family's lives are marked for death."
As the words escaped his lips, the deck of tarot cards she had been about to lift from the table slipped from her fingers, scattering in a halo-like formation. "Why?"
"I can't disclose that."
Clicking her tongue disapprovingly, Ivy retrieved the cards and began gathering them to shuffle. "It's preposterous. She's no one. Nothing remarkable enough to warrant a death sentence."
Sirius exhaled, releasing all the pent-up anger accumulated over the endless war and the worry he harboured for his friends who continued to suffer. "Much has transpired. I can't explain everything here. It's far too risky." He extended his hand, and she watched as it trembled. "Come with me."
Ivy blinked, her gaze steady and reminiscent of an owl's. She comprehended the offer he was extending if only she accepted his hand and dismantled the anti-apparition wards in the room. He was inviting her into a fight she had rejected on numerous occasions. Who awaited her on the other side of his proposal? Acceptance back into the wizarding world seemed like a fairytale, but she was too old to indulge in fantasies of happy endings. Did Dumbledore and his Order anticipate her return with open arms? The same Dumbledore who had refused to listen and snapped her wand instead. She could deceive herself, claiming she didn't miss it or crave it. But she knew all too well the bottled-up emotions that surged within her as she observed his fingers trace the contours of his wand.
She had tried to find a replacement, but a wand was a finicky son of a bitch, and none she encountered in the Night Markets chose her. She was an extraordinary sorceress, an artist with a wand, but that day they had shattered some of the magic. She had nothing to satiate her insatiable curiosity or her talent for the craft. She might have even considered exchanging the restlessness and preoccupation with any other whim that provided her with the thrill of magic that she had yearned for. She had become an artist without an art form. She had grown desperate. Addicted. Dangerous.
And while she could not apparate, they had not succeeded in cutting her off from magic.
"No," Ivy replied slowly, her decision brimming with certainty as Sirius lowered his hand.
When she had obtained her wand from Ollivander, she had spent a solid five hours testing every wand in his shop, nearly exhausting entire rows in search of one that resonated with her. The Night Market had offered meagre choices, but Ivy wondered if Lily could have found a suitable wand within days, just as she had when they were children. When the Sorting Hat had been placed on Lily's head, it had deliberated. On Ivy, it swiftly declared Slytherin, but that victory had been short-lived.
By the way his shoulders slumped yet remained steadfast, she surmised he had anticipated disappointment and her refusal. She could analyze every expression, but their conversation had already consumed too much of her day. The ticking clock resounded with a quiet rhythm, and she suspected it was only a matter of moments before Selmy's acquaintances attempted to beat her to his stash.
Raising her hand effortlessly, Ivy cast a spell, feeling the satisfaction of her magic as a golden bracelet soared towards her. It unclasped mid-air, hovering over her bare wrist before seamlessly fastening itself in place. It glistened in the light, concealing within it a layer of protective charms she had placed, hiding its true purpose. This bracelet served as a reassurance that she would never lay eyes on Sirius Black again.
"That is not my life anymore, Mr Black." She couldn't say the words, "It's not my fight," as she might have done in the past.
"You are her only remaining family," he reminded her.
"Petunia," she offered unhelpfully.
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "Ivy, we need you and your magic." She shook her head, and when she closed her eyes, she could replay all the times she needed help. She never asked, never ventured into the darkness and found solace. She stumbled, fractured her hands, scraped her knees, and rose back up on her own.
She owed them nothing, and she required nothing in return. "I have another appointment, Mr Black. I trust you know the way out."
An ancient desire, nearly forgotten, resurfaced as she observed him. She wanted him almost as much as she had desired magic itself, a lifetime ago. She had yearned to peel away his clothes, to expose his core and discover what made him tick. It wasn't love—she was aware of that—but it was something that consumed her entirely. It had consumed her once, but now only embers remained, and she certainly had no intention of igniting them. Instead, she retrieved a small hair clip from the desk next to the extinguished candles. Turning towards him, she handed him the clip. He stared at it, his expression bewildered. "Give this to her."
"What is it?"
"A hair clip, you imbecile. It belonged to our mother." It was the very same diamond clip that Lily had scolded Ivy for pawning. When Ivy had earned her first thousand after being expelled, she repurchased it intending to give it to her sister. She had intended to do many things, but Ivy had always refrained.
He tucked it into his pocket, hesitating for a brief moment before departing.
"I cannot give you what you want, but it was good to see you," she said, causing him to pause at the doorway. He possessed enough sense to realize she had warded the place against apparition.
"I know you care, Ivy. Come to your senses before it's too late." He paused, his voice breaking in such a way that her heart stuttered midbeat. "You can't say goodbye to ghosts."