X. Strictly Confidential
For the third time within the hour, Theodore Nott cast a furtive glance toward the Theatre's main entrance. His heart harboring a flicker of hope that Hermione Granger would yet grace the rehearsal with her presence. Two men entered, floating maintenance equipment behind them. A wave of disappointment washed over Theodore, though he valiantly tried to mask it behind a stoic façade.
Why did he persist in clinging to the hope of her arrival? It was clear she wouldn't be coming. The coach he dispatched returned empty. His employee informed him that Hermione had been absent from Macmillan's Great Librarium that morning, citing illness.
He couldn't shake off the feeling that her claimed illness was merely a convenient excuse to evade the engagement. Hermione's lukewarm response to his invitation had hinted at her reluctance, and her absence only served to confirm Theodore's suspicions.
He crossed the short distance to the grand piano positioned at centre stage. He nodded to the orchestra mage to indicate that he was ready to continue.
"Let's proceed with the second movement," he directed, lifting his wand elegantly.
A theatre employee approached Theodore near the end of the rehearsal.
"Mr. Nott, there's a woman insisting on seeing you at the entrance. She's been informed of the restricted access before the performance, but she's adamant about meeting you." the employee relayed, clearly uneasy.
Theodore's heart leaped with excitement, his earlier disappointment momentarily forgotten. "Let her in," he instructed, his voice brimming with hope.
The employee nodded and hurried off, leaving Theodore to stand at the edge of his seat, his gaze fixed on the door. However, his anticipation was swiftly replaced by a fresh wave of disappointment as the newcomer was not Hermione but another woman.
The newcomer's arrival created quite the spectacle. She was a young woman in her mid-twenties with striking black hair. She commanded attention with her towering stilettos and a white puffskin fur coat adorned with a matching wide-brimmed hat. She confidently moved through the room, striding as if she owned the place. All eyes in the theatre were on her.
Theodore immediately recognised Pansy Parkinson. She carried herself with the same air of self-importance that had marked her since her younger days. Pansy had embodied the quintessential diva from an early age, always demanding attention and commanding any room she entered. Her heels echoed in the silent room as she paused before Theodore, a sly smirk playing about her lips.
"Theodore Nott," she drawled in a formal tone, her piercing black eyes scanning him from head to toe. "The prodigal son finally returns."
Pansy's eyes flickered towards the orchestra behind Theodore before she continued in a haughty voice, "What kind of ragtag ensemble have you assembled here, Theodore? This clueless woman hadn't the faintest idea who I was," she declared, shooting a disdainful glance at the hapless employee.
"Why should she recognise you?" Theodore queried, his tone tinged with genuine curiosity.
Pansy rolled her eyes, a patronizing smile curving her lips. "Much has changed since you fled the country, darling - I'm rather well-known these days. And what in Voldemort's name has happened to your hair? You can't possibly be thinking of facing all of high society looking like that tonight?" she declared critically, with a disdainful glance at his overlong locks. "You desperately need a haircut. "
Theodore self-consciously ran a hand through his hair, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. His hair was admittedly longer than usual, a result of prioritizing more pressing matters since his return to Britain. The trivial task of scheduling a haircut had simply slipped his mind.
"What brings you here so early?" Theodore inquired. "The performance is not until this evening."
"Is my presence not a pleasant surprise after all these years?" Pansy queried, her voice dripping with feigned indignation. "We were such great friends before you left."
Theodore regarded Pansy with a dubious expression, questioning the sincerity of her words. His recollections of relationships in the UK were sparse, yet he vividly remembered Pansy Parkinson seizing every opportunity to mock him during their childhood, seemingly for her own amusement.
"I was pleasantly surprised to receive an invitation from you," Pansy revealed, her voice laced with a hint of mischief. "I was quite convinced you still harbored resentment over that speckled diricawl egg prank."
Theodore had little hand in managing the invitations. He loved composing and playing music, and he found the theatre's organizational tedium to be a dull distraction. The Nott family enlisted a considerable staff to oversee these matters in his stead.
"Anyway, let's leave that silly incident in the past. We all make mistakes, don't we? You really ought to have moved when I warned you," she remarked with a mischievous grin.
She surveyed the surroundings with an air of appreciation.
"I've heard tales of your remarkable exploits abroad," she commented, looking impressed. "Look at us, the current subjects of everyone's conversation. I'm sure Draco is sick with envy over all the attention we're getting."
"What is he involved in these days?" he inquired, his query more a formality than a show of genuine interest.
In truth, Theodore and Draco Malfoy had never much clicked as companions. Theodore's temperament differed vastly from the other two. Whereas Pansy and Draco interacted like two peas in a pod, Theodore often felt like an outsider in their company. Looking back, he couldn't shake off the feeling that their friendship had been more of an obligation than a genuine connection. The Sacred Thirteen resided in seclusion, primarily for security purposes. The preference was for the children to socialise within their circle, rather than mixing with the common folk.
"Alas, Draco won't be attending tonight," Pansy replied absently, scrutinizing her manicure. "Off chasing some new scheme, no doubt. Out of the three of us, Draco has always been the only one to chase after his ambitions."
She sighed dramatically before continuing,
"The very notion of leisure is lost on that boy. But no more of Draco - tonight the spotlight shines on you, darling, at least until I eclipse you with my dazzling presence this evening. You ought to see the gown I've chosen; it might just coax a proposal out of Magnus Cunningham," she declared, her voice dripping with self-satisfaction.
Pansy let out a dreamy giggle, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"But keep this between us; Draco would be livid. He despises Magnus," she whispered conspiratorially.
Her gaze swept across the theatre once more, taking in the bustling activity as the staff prepared for the evening's performance.
"Are the rehearsals over?" she inquired with a hint of impatience.
Theodore nodded.
"Perfect. In that case, let's go for a quick jaunt," she declared excitedly, grabbing Theodore's arm and pulling him towards the stage steps. "We'll be back before you can say 'Golden Snitch'."
"I can't leave now—I need to focus," protested Theodore.
"It appears you've overlooked a vital aspect of my character during your time abroad, darling," Pansy remarked, a smirk playing on her lips.
"What's that?" Theodore asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"Saying 'no' is not an option when it comes to me," she declared, with a confident flourish, as she led him towards the grand doors.
Pansy led Theodore to an exclusive salon tucked away on Scarlet Promenade. Upon their arrival, the attendants swiftly cordoned off the premises, transforming the space into a private sanctuary for the privileged pair.
"I bear no ill will towards the masses, yet there's something about exclusivity that I find particularly appealing," Pansy commented airily, as though this excused her haughty behavior.
"Why have we come here?" he inquired, his gaze darting around the unfamiliar surroundings with uncertainty.
Pansy rolled her eyes, her impatience palpable. "Surely, you didn't think I'd let you attend your performance with that hair? What sort of friend would I be to allow such a thing?"
She turned to the salon staff, issuing instructions that Theodore struggled to follow. He allowed himself to be guided to a comfortable chair, where a stylist swiftly draped a cape around his shoulders. As a sizable pair of enchanted scissors began their menacing dance close to his face, Theodore recoiled slightly.
"What exactly do you have in mind?" he questioned, discomfort apparent in his tone.
Pansy, who had already taken her seat under the care of another stylist, assured him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Relax. They're amazing at what they do. Fret not, Theodore. They'll transform you into the ultimate lure to every wellbred young witch in Britain," Pansy continued, a sly grin playing on her lips.
"What do you mean?" Theodore asked, his brows furrowing in confusion.
Pansy swiveled on her seat, observing Theodore's reflection in the mirror facing him. "By Voldemort's grace... You're so naive. It would almost be adorable if it weren't so pathetic," she critiqued, her voice dripping with disdain.
Theodore raised his eyebrows, dumbfounded by the insult.
"Surely you realize your homecoming has not slipped by unnoticed in elite circles. A most eligible new bachelor has arrived on the scene - a sacred heir, no less," Pansy elaborated pointedly.
"I'm far from the only one in this situation, if I'm not mistaken," Theodore reminded her, embarrassed.
Pansy scoffed. "You know the allure of the new. And remember, only a male heir can bequeath the family name."
Despite their privileged status among the Sacred Thirteen, women couldn't pass on their maiden names to their offspring. To retain her sacred status, a woman was required to either wed a man of another noble lineage or embrace spinsterhood. A rule Theodore found archaic and sordid.
"Heirs aren't exactly a dime a dozen. We're all doing our calculations," Pansy added with cynicism.
Theodore raised an eyebrow, his expression sardonic. "That includes you as well, I assume?"
Pansy's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Don't flatter yourself, darling. You were stricken from my list of potential suitors the moment I saw you in your birthday suit at eight. That scrawny image is indelibly etched in my memory," she stated, her tone oozing with disgust.
A reluctant chuckle escaped Theodore's lips. He had never envisaged Pansy Parkinson as the person who would make him laugh. The previous weeks had been particularly challenging for him, and Pansy's unexpected candor offered a welcome reprieve.
Her smirk widened, clearly delighted with her own wit. "To be utterly candid, I've set my sights on other prospects," she divulged, her tone conspiratorial.
"Who?" Theodore inquired, curious.
"Magnus Cunningham," Pansy replied, her eyes gleaming with ambition. "I've been subtly influencing him for years. He's smitten with me – he simply hasn't realized it yet," she proclaimed, crossing her legs with a self-assured air.
Pansy sighed dramatically, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.
"Consider this fair warning, Theodore. Brace yourself for a barrage of feminine admiration—and undergarments—aimed your way this evening."
Theodore felt his ears grow hot.
"I'm not interested," he grumbled.
"I knew it. I just knew it," Pansy said, her eyes widening in a flash of comprehension. "I just knew you were hiding something."
"Knew what?" Theodore asked, puzzled.
"That your affections lie with your own gender," Pansy proclaimed, as though revealing a long-held suspicion. "A gentleman so enamored with arts and culture must be compensating for something."
Theodore rolled his eyes, unimpressed by her predictable psychoanalysis.
"Is that all you've got?" Pansy inquired, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
An awkward silence descended upon them, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the hairstylists' tools.
"Perhaps there's already an object of your affections," Pansy surmised, moments later.
She turned towards Theodore, shifting in her seat, clearly exhilarated by the prospect. Pansy's beautician appeared to struggle against her client's constant fidgeting, yet did not dare to voice any complaints. He saw her darting awestruck yet wary looks toward Pansy's hulking security escort.
"Discovered a romance in France, have you?" Pansy inquired, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"There's no one," Theodore replied curtly, his voice laced with a hint of finality.
He became sullen, his thoughts drifting to Hermione. Her absence had hurt him more than he cared to admit. He felt foolish for pressing on after her initial refusal. Pansy kept her gaze fixed on him.
"Here we go again," she commented, shaking her head disdainfully.
Catching his quizzical look, Pansy clasped her hands before her, miming the etching of an invisible newspaper headline.
"Theodore Nott, the Eternal Brooder," she declared theatrically. "I bet that gives you a style that women find irresistible, doesn't it? The French ladies must have been quite enamored with your melancholic charm. After all, they have a reputation for being fond of brooding men—and for being rather, well, easy to sway."
Pansy returned her attention to her own reflection, her eyes narrowing in annoyance as she noticed the hairstylist had deviated from her instructions.
"Goodness gracious!" Pansy exclaimed sharply to the mortified stylist. "I never requested such a drastic trim!"
Moments later, as he exited the dimly lit backstage area of Damasus the Decadent, Theodore couldn't help but acknowledge that his new haircut had indeed enhanced his appearance.
"We're completely sold out tonight," the theatre's director declared, her voice brimming with excitement.
The return of the 'prodigal son', the 'virtuoso with an international reputation', had undoubtedly drawn the crowds. Theodore, however, barely registered her words. As always, on the cusp of stepping onto the stage, he found himself enveloped in his own world. For a brief moment, he felt as though he was drifting away, far from the commotion surrounding him.
An unfamiliar nervousness crept into his heart. When he was on stage, indulging in his greatest passion, he typically didn't feel stress—only a pleasant euphoria. However, the prospect of being back in his own country, where the expectations were monumental, made him anxious.
As he walked down the long corridor leading to the grand main stage, Theodore took a deep breath. On the platform, the sound of his polished shoes echoed with each step he took. Immediately, a robust wave of applause erupted. The theatre was packed—from the stalls to the balcony. Theodore cast a brief glance towards the royal box where his family was sitting and caught sight of his mother's face. He couldn't make out the expression on her features, but he knew it was a blend of emotion and pride—a mirror of what he himself was feeling at that exact moment.
Theodore took his seat at the piano bench and looked up at the orchestra mage who had raised his wand. Theodore's fingers then touched the ivory keys, and he began to play, letting his passion run free.
/
Narcissa Malfoy harbored an intense distaste for the obligatory family dinners at the manor. She regarded them as a tedious ritual, akin to a meeting with irksome business associates. Despite her aversion, Narcissa maintained a flawless façade of enthusiasm, never allowing her true feelings to betray her. After all, she was a woman of impeccable composure, rarely succumbing to emotional displays, especially those of frustration.
Every evening, she would feign excitement at the prospect of joining her son and husband around the dark, imposing dining table in Malfoy Manor. The irony was not lost on her. It was she who had instituted this tiresome custom, demanding her family's nightly attendance with unwavering insistence.
"I've heard one of Adamus Carrow's daughters is expecting," Narcissa remarked nonchalantly, carefully unfolding her napkin onto her lap.
Thus went these daily dinners, filled with stilted conversations revolving around endlessly monotonous matters.
"Who's the father? A relative, I presume? It's difficult to keep track with that lot," Lucius sneered, breaking his silence.
Of all diversions, the Malfoys found none more gratifying than idle denigration of their peers. It was a petty exercise in affirming their perceived preeminence over less distinguished clans.
The Carrows were widely known for their lack of discrimination in matters of consanguinity. Unions between close cousins were not only tolerated but even coveted within their family circle. This tendency towards marrying within their own, while ensuring purity, also encouraged a culture where polygamy was not only accepted but encouraged as a means to expand the family's legacy. Governor Adamus Carrow, the family's figurehead, exemplified this tradition with his three wives.
The Carrows stood as an anomaly within the Sacred Thirteen, often boasting multiple births that hinted at a genetic predisposition for such occurrences. Governor Adamus Carrow was a case in point; born a triplet alongside his siblings Amycus and Alecto, he distinguished himself as the cerebral anchor amidst their more brutish tendencies. The pattern of multiple births continued with his twin daughters, Hestia and Flora, from his first wife Desdemona, with Hestia now extending the lineage through her own pregnancy.
Adamus possessed a polarizing personality that evoked extreme reactions of love or hatred, rarely indifference. This likely explained how he had amassed thousands of loyal followers in his community, all advocating for individual sacrifice in the name of Voldemort's cause. Bellatrix, Narcissa's own sister, was a fervent member of his flock, donating several hundreds of thousands of Galleons to the cause each year.
"I'm not certain, to be honest," Narcissa replied, taking a sip of her white mead.
The drink was divine, perfectly complementing the dish—a fillet of sea bream with thyme, accompanied by oyster mushrooms and mesclun salad.
The Malfoy table fell into silence once more, disturbed only by the intermittent clinking of silverware. Narcissa let out an internal sigh. These forty-five minutes were the most grueling part of her day. It was emotionally taxing to manage both her emotionally distant husband and a son who showed scant interest in connecting with his father or even pretending to engage for her sake. After dessert, Draco took his leave and disappeared into his chambers, visibly relieved to have fulfilled his daily chore.
While they projected unity and exemplariness to their peers, the Malfoys' household was, in truth, rife with unvoiced tensions, simmering frustrations, and deep-seated resentments. Narcissa had never perceived matrimony as an affair of the heart. Their marriage was a cold, calculated and strategic alliance, with both families endeavoring to bolster their respective financial, social, and political interests.
As she consumed the last of her mead, Narcissa cast a contemplative glance at her husband. Had she genuinely loved the man who had been her companion for nearly twenty-eight years? Perhaps. At the outset, at least. It seemed so remote now that she couldn't ascertain with certainty.
In her girlish eyes, Lucius had embodied the ideal suitor. A fitting match for a woman of Narcissa's stature. He hailed from a lineage of exceptional purity. Like the Blacks, the Malfoys were esteemed as founding members of the Sacred Thirteen. Narcissa had also anticipated the waning influence of her own lineage. The fact that all her siblings were women implied that none could perpetuate the Black family name through their offspring. Even if Narcissa had opted to remain unwed, she would never have been the primary candidate for assuming the position of Governor for her lineage. As youngest issue of her generation, precedence of heritage fell to elders Bellatrix and Andromeda, and cousins Sirius and Regulus alike.
Following various scandals, Andromeda and Sirius were expunged from the Black tapestry, a drastic step to preserve the family's dignity. None now deigned acknowledge they had ever drawn breath. All record of their existence had been meticulously obliterated.
Speculations surrounding Regulus ran rampant. Certain whispers hinted at infertility, while others alleged his exclusive preference for male companionship—either proving sizable obstacles to succession.
Bellatrix, her elder sister, had first been the chosen one to uphold the family legacy. Narcissa had never imagined her sister embarking on a conventional life. From a tender age, Bella had harbored an unwavering devotion to Voldemort's cause.
Unexpectedly, and to the astonishment of all, Bellatrix found a kindred spirit in Rodolphus Lestrange—a man who mirrored her own malevolent tendencies. Their connection was instant. Within just three months following their fateful encounter, Bellatrix and Rodolphus were wed in a grandiose and theatrical ceremony, mirroring Bellatrix's own penchant for the dramatic and extravagant. To entertain their esteemed guests, the newlyweds had orchestrated a macabre spectacle—a Dissident hunt in the dense woods enveloping the opulent Lestrange estate.
Narcissa had long nurtured doubts regarding her sister's mental stability. The day of these nuptials had served as a grim confirmation of her fears. The wild passion and frenzied joy in Bella's eyes, as her new husband inflicted pain on a Dissident in her honor, profoundly unsettled Narcissa.
By contrast, her own nuptials mirrored her nature - flawless, beyond reproach, steadfastly traditional. Lucius and Narcissa embodied the epitome of a storybook coupling. Two individuals of noble lineage, exceptional intellect, and boundless ambition. A pact forged, by design, for perpetuity.
Their alliance—or rather, strategic partnership—had yielded remarkable financial success. They presided over an expansive empire, which had flourished exponentially since their ascent to power. A frequently echoed adage, 'Successful in business, unlucky in love,' succinctly captured the essence of their predicament.
Despite her loveless marriage, Narcissa didn't describe herself as unhappy—far from it. Her marriage to Lucius Malfoy had bestowed upon her the most precious of gifts—her son, Draco. Furthermore, her professional life was fulfilling, with her ambitions soaring to new heights. As for more personal needs, Narcissa discreetly fulfilled them through alternative avenues.
After dinner, Lucius retired to his private chambers. They no longer shared a bed but continued residing in the same wing of the Manor. This arrangement was maintained out of a sense of duty, as if it still held some semblance of meaning.
Exhausted from the day, Narcissa sought refuge in a long, indulgent bath. The steaming water relaxed her tense muscles, and she let out a sigh of contentment upon emerging. She then entered her lavish dressing room and chose a set of fine blue lace underwear, complementing it with an elegant black dress that gracefully highlighted her figure. Her hair was neatly fastened with a silver clasp, and her lips were adorned with a striking shade of cinnabar lipstick. A final touch of her preferred perfume completed the ensemble.
With a sense of illicit excitement coursing through her veins, Narcissa glided through the Manor's hushed hallways. The anticipation was intoxicating, and she relished every moment of this clandestine thrill.
Approaching the Hall's fireplace, hidden behind a grate, Narcissa waved her wand, and the barrier vanished. She stepped into the fireplace and tossed in a pinch of Floo powder, instantly transporting herself to her office at Malforescent Machinations.
Settling at her desk, Narcissa surveyed the parchments arranged before her. Her current focus was on vulture funds, a high-risk investment strategy that had proven remarkably profitable over the decade. Acquiring companies burdened with debt at low prices and profiting from their restructuring was a game of calculated risk, one that Narcissa relished. Indeed, in the realm of finance, she eclipsed even Lucius, her cunning mind the driving force behind Malforescent Machinations' most lucrative ventures.
A knock on the door disrupted her concentration. "Enter," she instructed.
Allegra McGrath, her executive assistant, stepped into the office. Despite the late hour, most of the staff had already departed.
"Power and purity, Mrs. Malfoy," Allegra greeted with her customary professionalism. "We've made some revisions to the contract, and I require your signature before your meeting with Mr. Urquhart tomorrow morning."
Narcissa watched Allegra approach, placing the folder on her desk. In Allegra, she saw a reflection of her younger self - ambitious, driven, and wholly committed to her professional life. Allegra's discretion matched her efficiency, a quality that had solidified their effective working relationship. She had successfully met Narcissa's high standards, thanks to her meticulous nature and unwavering loyalty. Her discretion extended even to her appearance. Her attire was consistently composed of witch's robes in neutral tones, complemented by her neatly styled brown hair. Her makeup was subtle, just enough to maintain presentability without attracting undue attention. Her entire demeanor exuded an air of quiet competence, allowing her to blend seamlessly into the background.
Allegra was Narcissa's shadow, a loyal and discreet right-hand woman committed to alleviating her burdens and streamlining her daily routines. Their dynamic mirrored Narcissa's past relationship with Lucius, where she had been the power behind the throne, subtly influencing his decisions and shaping his public persona from the sidelines. This dynamic allowed Narcissa to exert influence without drawing attention to herself, a role she had mastered with finesse.
"I'd also like to clarify two points," Allegra explained, circling the desk to stand beside Narcissa.
Leaning over the document placed beside Narcissa, she swiftly outlined the unresolved issues. Narcissa inhaled the subtle, floral scent of Allegra's perfume, a fragrance that hinted at both innocence and allure.
"We must insist on their commitment to exclusivity in clause 45b," Narcissa stated firmly, her eyes scanning the document.
Allegra made a note on the parchment. She leaned closer, her presence momentarily invading Narcissa's personal space.
"That should cover the remaining issues," Allegra concluded, neatly assembling the documents in the folder. "I'll prepare these for your signature."
Straightening, she turned to face Narcissa. "Can I be of further assistance, Mrs. Malfoy?" Allegra inquired politely.
Narcissa's heart raced as she met Allegra's gaze, an unspoken desire simmering beneath the surface.
"It has been a long day," Narcissa remarked, exhaling deeply.
Allegra nodded sympathetically, a knowing smile curving her lips. "You work tirelessly, Mrs. Malfoy," she acknowledged. "Your dedication is truly admirable."
With a practiced movement, Allegra loosened the cord of her witch's robe, letting it cascade to the floor and reveal a figure tantalizingly clad in black lingerie. "You deserve to unwind, my dear," she advised, her tone rich with suggestion.
As she spoke, Allegra stepped closer to Narcissa. Her movements were deliberate, calculated to give Narcissa ample opportunity to admire the intricate lacework adorning her slender form.
"Allow me," Allegra whispered huskily into Narcissa's ear.
Allegra's lips trailed over the sensitive nape of Narcissa's neck, sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She felt Allegra's hand linger on her shoulder before sliding down to the delicate edge of her neckline.
Narcissa's fingers curled around Allegra's wrist, a gentle yet firm restraint that held her captive. Allegra looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise and intrigue. Standing tall, Narcissa's elegance was amplified by her high heels, giving her a commanding presence.
Allegra's eyes sparkled with fascination as she admired Narcissa's statuesque form. The blonde witch led her lover to the desk, her touch delicate as a feather as she guided her into a seated position. With a flick of her wrist, she effortlessly swept away the scattered parchments.
Narcissa's gaze traced the contours of Allegra's figure, lingering on the exquisite contrast of her porcelain skin against the ravenous darkness of the lingerie. The young woman's slender form, with its delicate curves, held an irresistible allure.
Allegra gasped as Narcissa's fingers lingered on her collarbone, trailing a deliberate path down her exposed skin. The older woman maintained eye contact as her other hand ventured to her assistant's knee, slowly tracing an electrifying path up her thigh.
A gasp involuntarily escaped Allegra's lips, her cheeks flushing with arousal. Narcissa's other hand snaked around her waist, her fiery crimson nails digging into the velvety softness of her skin, eliciting another breathy sigh.
"Cissy..." Allegra's voice was soft, filled with yearning and surrender under Narcissa's attentive caresses.
Their eyes locked in a fiery gaze, the blonde witch leaned forward, their lips meeting in a fervent and impassioned kiss.
Indeed, Narcissa Malfoy was a woman of distinct wants. Nothing and no one could hinder her pursuit of those desires.
/
"What have you discovered now, in Merlin's name?" a gruff voice asked, the echo stirring Hannah from her slumber.
A searing pain throbbed in her head, centered on the spot where she had been brutally knocked out. She remained still as a statue, her eyes squeezed shut, fearing any movement might draw attention. Where am I? she thought, a wave of panic washing over her. As the seconds ticked by, her memories slowly returned. The Rowle home... Jacob… Her desperate escape... The strangers who ambushed her in the dense forest. And Terry... He was likely beside himself with worry. How long had she been gone? Were the Aurors still on her trail?
"I was under the impression we had agreed to halt the kidnappings," another voice, higher in pitch and likely female, interjected.
"A misguided decision, if you ask me," the gruff voice grumbled, his disdain evident in his rasping tone.
"Is violence always your go-to solution, Moody?" the woman countered, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
"It's the only language these fanatics understand," Moody retorted, his tone hardening. "An eye for an eye, as the saying goes."
"You do realize that won't bring back your eye," the woman said, her words edged with sarcasm.
"Maybe not, but it offers some solace. Now, back to my original question, Tonks. Who is she?" Moody persisted.
"You should ask Dean. He made the call to bring her back following our patrol," Tonks sighed.
"We really need to have a word with him. He can't keep bringing us wounded strays every time he goes topside," Moody grumbled, visibly annoyed.
"Ah, here he comes," Tonks announced.
The sound of a door creaking open reached Hannah's ears. A draft of cold air swept through the room, causing her to shiver. She realized her cloak was missing. The rhythmic thud of footsteps signaled an approaching presence in the room. Hannah cautiously pried open her eyes. She found herself in a dimly lit hall, bearing the marks of neglect and time.
The windows had been hastily boarded up with crudely fashioned wooden planks. The room was haphazardly furnished with an eclectic assortment of chairs, tables, and cabinets, each piece seemingly plucked from a different era and style, creating an atmosphere of disarray and disorganization.
Hannah made out three individuals in the room. A large man, his wooden leg clicking on the floor with each step, paced the room with evident agitation. This was likely the man known as Moody. Opposite him stood a woman with striking blue hair, her posture relaxed against a disused fireplace. The most recent arrival, a tall, slender black man with a short afro, appeared noticeably younger than the others.
"Moody's not too pleased with your latest rescue, Dean," Tonks commented lightheartedly, nodding towards Moody.
"I had no other choice. With Aurors patrolling nearby, and I didn't want to risk drawing them here," Dean explained, shrugging. "She seems to be a civilian."
"Why not question her directly? She's been eavesdropping for some time," Moody stated icily, his magical eye locking onto Hannah.
At his words, Hannah suppressed a grimace. The gaze of everyone in the room shifted to her. She opened her eyes fully, realizing any pretense of sleep was now pointless. As Dean approached, Hannah instinctively recoiled in fear. She winced, noting a throbbing pain in her ankle.
"Best not to move too much; it looks quite nasty," Dean commented, kneeling beside the worn sofa where Hannah was lying.
Hannah followed his gaze and, with growing horror, noticed her ankle was swollen and bruised a deep purple.
"We can treat that," Dean offered reassuringly, "but first, we need some answers from you."
Hannah glanced uncertainly at him, then swiftly at the door through which he had entered, contemplating escape.
"Don't even think about it. You wouldn't make it to the door with your head still attached," Moody threatened.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Moody! Must you always be so morbid?" Tonks exclaimed, shaking her head in exasperation.
"Apologies for my friend. He's not exactly at ease around strangers, tends to make him a tad anxious," Dean explained to Hannah, his voice laced with a hint of apology.
A silent communication passed between Dean and Tonks, leaving Hannah bewildered.
"Back in my day, we didn't pamper prisoners of war," Moody grumbled, shuffling towards a chair in the centre of the room.
He lowered himself heavily into the chair and, to Hannah's astonishment, nonchalantly unfastened his wooden leg, producing a clattering sound. He let out a long, audible sigh of relief and rested the wooden limb on a nearby table.
"May I ask your name?" Dean inquired gently.
Hannah turned her gaze back to him, her eyes darting nervously towards his.
"Ha- Hannah Boot," she stammered, her voice trembling noticeably.
"And your blood status?"
"I'm a Half-blood," she replied.
"What brought you to that forest? How did you hurt your leg?" Dean probed, his eyes reflecting a blend of concern and curiosity.
Hannah hesitated, her mind racing with doubt. She was unsure of these people's intentions and feared divulging information that could put her in danger. Could they be Death Eaters in disguise? No, she reassured herself; Death Eaters would conceal their identities. A metallic clink disrupted her thoughts. She glanced sideways to see Moody sharpening two long blades, his intent gaze not leaving her. The chilling sight sent shivers down her spine, and she quickly looked away.
"I was... hiding," she uttered softly, turning back to Dean.
"Who were you hiding from?" Dean pressed.
"The Aurors," Hannah finally admitted, her voice low and resigned.
"Why were the Aurors after you?" he persisted.
"I broke into a house," she confessed, her voice trembling with guilt and fear.
"For what purpose?"
A lump lodged itself in Hannah's throat, choking back her words. She buried her face in her hands, her sobs muffled yet heart-wrenching.
"I just wanted... to see him... to touch him... just once..." she gasped between sobs. "Jacob..."
Dean's hand rested on her shoulder, offering a gentle reassurance, but her sobs intensified. She was overwhelmed with regret and confusion. Why hadn't she listened to Terry?
"I've had enough of this nonsense," Moody abruptly declared, his irritation palpable. "Let me handle this."
In an instant, Hannah felt an excruciating pain in her head, as though her skull had been split by an unseen force.
"Speak the truth!" Moody's commanding voice thundered within her mind.
Hannah's thoughts rewound to the previous night's events. The Rowle's house, her stealthy ascent through the open window, her quiet movement towards the upper floor. She vividly recalled herself leaning over Jacob's cradle, gazing at his peaceful, sleeping form while whispering a lullaby and clutching his blanket. She remembered the terrified expression on his mother's face, followed by her frantic descent down the stairs, seeking refuge in the woods. A torrent of memories flooded her mind: her pregnancy, the harrowing childbirth, and Alfie's lifeless figure.
The pain ceased abruptly, leaving Hannah dazed and traumatized by the invasive probe. Moody stood before her, his wand clutched menacingly in his hand. Hannah stared at him in disbelief, her mind grappling with the implications of his actions. She felt violated.
Moody motioned to Dean, and they discreetly slipped away into a secluded corner for their hushed exchange. Tonks remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on Hannah with an air of intrigue, her arms folded across her chest.
"Looks like you were honest," Dean remarked as he returned to her. "Moody just probed your mind."
His demeanor softened, the suspicion dissipating, allowing his eyes to reveal a hint of warmth.
"You're in luck today. Had you encountered Aurors, I doubt it would have ended well," he remarked gravely.
"Are you all... dissidents?" Hannah inquired timidly.
A flicker of indignation flashed across their faces, as if she had inadvertently uttered an insult.
"We're not fond of that term," Dean clarified. "We are known as the Defiants here."
Throughout her life, she had heard whispers of the Dissidents—feared as highly dangerous outlaws. Rumours painted them as savage and barbaric individuals capable of attacking innocents to incite social anarchy.
Dean raised his hand, forming an 'L' symbol with his thumb and index finger.
"Liberty and Dignity," he proclaimed with unwavering conviction, his eyes glowing with pride and resolve.
"That's what we fight for. "The right to exist and live freely regardless of blood status."
Dean's words resonated in Hannah's mind: one's inherent right to exist, unburdened by the shackles of blood prejudice. It was precisely this right that the regime had stripped from her son. Vivid images of her Alfie's pale, lifeless body assailed her mind, triggering a fresh wave of tears to well up in her eyes.
"Let me see to your injury," Dean offered gently.
She watched as he retrieved a clear vial from his satchel and carefully applied several drops of a yellowish liquid to her ankle and leg injury.
"This is dittany essence," he explained. "It'll help with the pain."
Almost immediately, Hannah felt a soothing sensation on her ankle. She glanced down at her wound, noting the swelling was still present but the pain had become manageable.
"Thank you," she murmured, her eyes filled with sincere gratitude.
"You're welcome," he replied with a smile.
Dean stood, addressing his two companions with a noticeable concern in his voice. "What do we do now?" he asked.
"You brought her here; she's your responsibility now, lad," Moody grunted in response, carefully adjusting his wooden leg.
Hannah couldn't help but notice that Moody's hostility towards her had softened after delving into her mind. He had likely realized that she was not an enemy, merely another victim of the regime's cruelty. With a final, stern glance in her direction, Moody exited the room.
"You know our rule, Dean," Tonks reminded him, her gaze lingering meaningfully on Hannah before she too disappeared through the doorway.
"What rule?" Hannah asked, her voice trembling with anxiety.
"Bringing you here makes me responsible for you," Dean explained, scratching his head with a grimace.
"What's going to happen to me?" she inquired, her stomach churning with fear.
"That's the dilemma. You have three options," Dean stated, his voice somber.
Hannah held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she awaited the rest of his words.
"I could send you back with a Memory Charm to erase your knowledge of our existence. Alternatively, I could end your life," Dean stated plainly.
His words sent a chill down Hannah's spine, her eyes widening in disbelief.
"And the third option?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Stay with us. Join us in our fight against the regime. It's your choice," he said, his gaze unwavering.
Hannah remained silent, her mind wrestling with the enormity of the decision before her. The past few months had been a relentless cycle of pain and despair, plunging her into a deep depression from which she saw no escape. With each passing day under Voldemort's oppressive rule, Hannah had contemplated whether leaving would free her from her relentless suffering.
However, the brief time she had spent among these individuals, evading the Aurors' pursuit, had awakened her dormant survival instinct. She realized, in that moment, that she did not want to die.
Returning to her old life was out of the question. What would her fate be if she were captured? Imprisonment in Azkaban, perhaps? Had the Aurors already visited her home to arrest her? She couldn't rule out the possibility.
There was also the chance that Jacob's mother hadn't recognized her. Their encounter had taken place months ago, after all, in the dimly lit corridors of St. Mungo's maternity ward. However, Hannah couldn't afford to take that risk. The thought of Terry brought a sharp pang of guilt to her heart. Over the past months, they had become strangers living under the same roof, each consumed by their own grief.
"I... I can't go back," she finally managed to say, her voice quivering. "I'll stay here."
Dean's face broke into a relieved smile. "You've made the right choice. Our cause is just," he assured her, his words filled with conviction.
Hannah nodded, her resolve hardening. The regime had ruthlessly ripped her son from her arms, shattering her world and extinguishing all life's joy. Now, she was determined to make a difference, to fight with every ounce of her being to prevent others from enduring the same unimaginable pain.