"YOU BETTER GET on with it if you hope to be done in time for dinner!" came George's mum's voice from the window. It had been one exhausting week for him and his brother, having to do numerous tasks around the house as punishment. After already having put in two days worth of work on the garden, they also had to finish hanging some new paintings, then wash the dishes, clean the toilet, paint the kitchen cupboards and mop the floors. To add insult to injury, they were also forced to do it without the help of magic. Now, Fred and George hadn't the slightest idea about how Muggles went about cleaning their house, so their dad had suggested using this cleaning liquid he had seized from work. It came in a large yellow canister with the word 'Gasoline' plastered onto it, and it reeked something awful.

"This is child labour, George."

"You know, I think we've done a pretty decent job of it," George replied, obediently sliding the mop along the floor.

"Reckon we ought to forfeit our prosperous career plans and sign up to work as house elves instead," said Fred in a wry tone.

"At least it pays," added George.

But as they spoke, they saw their mother walk by with another batch of muddy washing in her arms. She glared at them.

George scowled. "You know if you'd just let us have our wands it'd be done much quicker," he complained, though he knew that efficiency was not the point of this.

"Not. A. Chance."

"Mum," began Fred, setting the mop aside and trying to reason with her for the umpteenth time, "why is it that we have to suffer, when you know that she gets to just walk away from all this?"

'She,' of course, was in reference to Luxanna Black, and the word was to be spoken with utmost disgust, because the mere mention of her name in front of their mother was like waving a red rag in front of a bull—a guaranteed way of having one's bottom well and truly rapped on. The reason being that despite Black having played an equally implicating part in this whole affair, her family's ways, according to their mother, were 'unprincipled and underhand,' and were not to be used in comparison in any way, shape or form, let alone as means of attempting to rationalise their punishment. And so, neither was the name of the girl which she had deemed a 'wretched tart' (they had heard her say this to theiar father in a fit of anger and could hardly hold in their laughter) ever to be uttered within their household.

Credit where credit's due, George thought; he hadn't anticipated that somebody could hate Black more than them.

"Because she is not you, and that's that. If you'd prefer the Blacks for your parents, then by all means, you're free to go and live with them!" With that, she dropped the basket in front of their feet and strode off, cursing something under her breath about how embarrassing it was that her sons should get involved in such nonsense.

"You're playing with fire, mate," George whispered to his brother.

Fred sighed and they both set to work.

For the rest of the afternoon, there was only the sound of scrubbing and the occasional scathing comment that came from their mother's whilst she prepared dinner. Eventually, Fred's back ached, George's leg was rubbed raw from kneeling on the garden steps, and they both stunk of that foul Muggle cleaning liquid, but they had managed to finish in time. Dad had been properly subdued, so it came as no surprise that at dinner he said nothing, but only cast them a sympathetic look over his glasses, as if to say, 'There's nothing I can do about it.' This made George wish that he had the power of telepathy, so that he could reply, 'Well, you could tell us where she's stashed our wands.'

"Cheer up," said Fred later that evening, once they were in their room. "Just one more day of prison and we're back at school."

George, however, was in no mood for cheer, because at Hogwarts awaited another, equally menacing prison. But he kept these thoughts to himself, knowing very well that his brother would mock him again for his pessimistic streak. And indeed, that was what he got, for a short while later Fred inquired, in a sarcastic tone, about exactly what had happened between him and Black during that night of the Yule Ball.

George would have much rather endured a thousand of his mother's lambastings than admit to his brother the difficulty he was having in reconciling the events of that night; or in particular, the crux of the evening, where Black had left him, utterly perplexed, with the knowledge of what her fragile frame felt like against his body.

He hadn't been meaning to do anything as rash as hug her, for Merlin's sake— No, that was on her. The initiative was hers, so it ought not to weigh on his conscience as much as it did, because before he could even process what had happened, she pulled away. Then the next thing he knew, she was gone.

What on Earth's wrong with that woman?

George twisted around to face the wall, trying to avoid Fred's studying glare. Either he was the most horrid liar ever to walk the planet, or both Fred and Alicia appeared to have become some sort of mind readers overnight; she, too, had somehow sensed that something was wrong and had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since.

"Nothing happened, I told you," muttered George. His back was aching, and it was impossible to find a comfortable position, this only made him even more irritable. "I saw her argue with Harry. I followed. She told me to go piss up a wall. I left. We've been over this." And indeed they have, multiple times, yet Fred never let up on interrogating him. George hated it, mostly because Fred was right—he was lying. But he would never be able to explain that he was only doing so to avoid all these implications that were being thrown at him. That was all. That was the only reason.

"You've just earned yourself a detention, Weasley. Welcome back."

It had been during Potions class. George and Lee had agreed to nick some Potion ingredients that were to be used in that morning's lesson in hopes of using them for their own creations. But, no sooner than George had pocketed the Billywigs, Snape noticed him and promptly demanded that he stand up and turn his pockets out, not only pouring the Billywigs onto the ground, but numerous other odds and sods he had stolen from the classroom on his way in. He had given George an almighty pasting about how stealing was 'despicable,' as well as 'degrading and dangerous' and so on. By the time he had finished with the scolding, George could hear Lee and the others chuckling quietly behind him. Yeah, laugh. You're the ones who put me up to this, you bastards.

He was making his way to detention that Thursday evening, praying that Snape had not set him up for cleaning anything; he'd had enough of that over the course of his suspension. That's when he realised that Snape had never actually specified what he would be doing. Nor the location. So that when he turned the corner, he was in for a nasty shock.

Namely, it was the ineffable she who was waiting for him.

Oh, no. Anything but her, please... He stopped walking, rooted to the spot.

"Enjoy your holiday, Weasley?" asked Black. She was standing in front of the Potions classroom with her arms folded over her chest, wearing a slight scowl. The last time he had seen her, she had been in tears, a complete mess. He felt an odd sense of relief at seeing that she was back to her usual self, her pale blue eyes cool and inscrutable.

"What are you doing here?" said George, ignoring her remark. He wanted to say that yes, he thoroughly enjoyed any place that didn't contain her, but something forbade him from snapping back at her at that moment.

"I'm supposed to, uh... escort you to your detention," she said, checking her watch. He was late, but she said nothing about it.

"But where's Snape?"

"I don't know, I suppose he had more important matters to attend to than your shenanigans. Come along now."

"But..." his voice trailed off. If Snape was not here, then who would be supervising his detention? Her? George clenched his fists and followed along reluctantly. Better not be some kind of trick. He couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she had set this up as a means of having her revenge. They were in the dungeons, just like that time with that boggart. He made sure to keep his wand tightly clutched in his hand under the guise of a Lumos charm, so that it was in line with her head, just in case.

"So, what am I supposed to be doing?"

"You're cleaning out some cells, from what I could understand."

George groaned loudly.

"What do you mean, from what you could understand? Hasn't Snape told you to pass on the instructions?"

Black didn't respond. Whether because she simply didn't care, or because it was all part of an elaborate plan of hers, he didn't know.

Descending deeper into the bowels of the castle, they soon reached a strange corridor, lined with bars of dimly lit cells. Cells? George found himself unable to take another step, his heart pounding, his mind telling him that this was wrong, all wrong, that he shouldn't be here, not with her. She's going to bloody kill me, he thought to himself.

"Well, hurry up!" demanded Black. "What are you doing? I don't have all evening to spare!"

With an exasperated sigh, George continued his descent. He had never been this deep into the dungeons before, and could not help but feel apprehensive at being in what was essentially her territory.

They had reached a door, on the right-hand side, halfway down. It was the only one which was not ajar, and so Black approached it. She held out her wand and muttered something under her breath—he couldn't make out the words—before touching her wand to the handle. A dim green light circled the entryway causing the entrance to creak open.

She cast a quick glance at her watch, then, with her eyebrows raised, inclined her head towards the dark, musty cell. "Go on, then."

George took a step back. "You know what? I don't think I will."

"Get in."

"Nah."

"Get in, you bloody carrot!"

George clenched his teeth. But just as he was about to refuse again, she raised her wand at him. George raised his. A sudden flurry of sparks followed as their spells clashed, both of them shouting simultaneously in a series of curses and charms, all jumbled up. Black was quick on her feet, quicker than him, but in a moment of unexpected luck, he had managed to get the better of her. With a loud shriek, she was propelled right into the cell behind him.

The door began to shut, and a quick gleam of triumph crossed his features, but the moment he turned around in the hopes of getting away, she shouted, "Accio!"

It caught him by the collar, painfully dragging him back towards her, his feet scraping against the floor in a furious effort to keep upright. George's hand grasped the metal bars, not willing to let go. But before he knew it, he had been wrenched inside the cell, all his efforts to flee thwarted.

Next to him, Black staggered to her knees, desperately lunging for the door that was about to seal itself shut. Just for the sake of not letting her get her way, he seized a hold of her foot, sending her sprawling backwards on the floor.

"No!" she shouted, wrenching her foot away in an attempt to kick at him.

Her hand was inches away from the door when the lock clicked shut, the dim green light surrounding it once again and sealing them inside the room.

Black glared at him. Her cheeks red, her eyes glistening with fury. It was only now that he realised what he had done.

"Shit!" he muttered, getting to his feet. He tried the handle, but to no avail. Through the bars of the cell, George could barely make out the faint shape of his wand some distance away in the corridor. His fists thumped the metal surface with a sigh of resignation.

"Will you stop that already?" groaned Black, for George had spent the last fifteen minutes in his futile attempts of trying to reach his wand. So far, he had tried fashioning something of rope out of his cloak to try and have a swing at it, but when that didn't work, he had resorted to simply lying on the ground and muttering 'Accio' over and over again, each time with more desperation than the last. It didn't help.

Glancing over his back he saw, with a burst of anger, that Black was busy doing absolutely nothing. She had positioned herself in a corner and was resting her head on the wall of the cell. Her eyes were closed, and she was being infuriatingly calm. How did she not understand the severity of the situation? "Some help would be appreciated, you know?" said George. "We could die if we stay in here for too long."

"If only we could be so fortunate..." muttered Black, more to herself than to him.

"You have your wand," he pointed out. "Do something..." Why was she so intent on torturing him? Did she fancy sitting around in here, just to see him in distress, even at the expense of her own well-being? "Honestly, who do you think will come for us? Snape?" He snorted, knowing that Snape had likely already forgotten about them, and would probably be delighted if he never had to see their faces again. "Provided that it was Snape who even put you up to this in the first place."

"Oh, no, I'd just been aching to spend some time with you," said Black. "Confined together in a musty old prison cell at that."

Very funny... thought George, but refrained from saying anything. If he roused her, he might as well be signing his own death sentence—he had absolutely no way of defending himself anymore. He despised being at her mercy like that. One thing had become clear, though, despite how much he was trying to deny it; if she wanted to punish him, she could have done so already. She's just biding her time... said a small fearful voice in his head.

A long sigh escaped from his lips, which was quickly followed by an equally long groan. He turned around, so that he was facing her, and leaned on the bars, ready to give up, when his eyes fell upon Black. Squinting, he realised that she was holding something in her hands, a very small object. "What's that?" he asked, and was in turn met with a shrug. A strange motion for somebody as tense and frigid as her, he thought.

She did answer his question, though—by placing the thing on a stray barrel that had been lying around in the cell, like a makeshift pedestal. It was a doll of some sort, made out of straw and wearing a black witch's hat.

"Hey—what are you doing?" George inquired, shrinking backwards into the metal bars, as she mumbled an incantation and set the tip of her wand alight. Shit, she'll burn me alive? he wondered, his heart thumping like mad.

Black began to speak in a low, eerie voice, her eyes closed in concentration. This oration of hers felt extremely uncanny to the ear, and it gave him no comfort that each word sounded like an incantation of its own.

"That's dark magic— Hey, that's dark magic, you can't do that!"

"...agli orbi benedicili la sua vista..."

She continued to speak in an almost a trance-like state, which was incredibly unnerving, and as much as he itched to get up and put a stop to it, it would have been an extremely unwise move to take, as the fire in her hand was burning ferociously. His palms could only curl around the metal behind him, helpless to do anything about it. George had never felt quite as petrified as he did in that moment.

With a crack of her wand, the sparks caught the straw, engulfing it in flames. The fire illuminated the dark cell, reflected in her eyes before it, too, burnt a bright blue, dancing and crackling with life. As the sparks settled and began to die down, Black, too, settled into her position in the corner of the room, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Wh— Huh?" He stared at her. "What was that about? What did you do?"

"It's only a ritual," she said with a huff of annoyance, "there's no need for you to be so bloody insufferable about it."

"A ritual? Just a... No, I know dark magic when I hear it, that was—that was old Latin or something!"

"It's Italian, you moron. And you wouldn't know your left arse cheek from your right one, I assure you," said Black, the phrase sounding incredibly out of character for her, almost silly.

"Yeah. Ah, yeah, sure," said George, nodding his head sarcastically. "As if you'd know Italian all of a sudden."

"Well, it's sort of a prerequisite to being Italian, you see."

"You're not Italian," he said with a near laugh of disbelief.

"Sure, and you're not a carrot topped ginger twat."

He had been aching to say something rude in response, but all he could manage in this moment of confusion was, "You're Italian?"

"Only half, but I was born in Italy, yes."

"Huh..." said George, a feeling of bewilderment sweeping over him. He'd teased her and mocked her, and this entire time he didn't even know where she was from. Whatever... he thought, deciding that it did not, in fact, matter one bit. Maybe he'd go and research some Italian insults after this was done with (presuming they don't starve to death in this cell).

"And—and the ritual, what about the ritual? What was all that about?"

"It's an old Italian tradition, dating back to the earliest of the witch-burnings. An homage to the divide between Muggles and Wizardkind... A rift which Muggles have created." That last bit she had added almost as an afterthought, but by the way in which she said the word 'Muggles,' it was clear she held nothing but disdain towards what was the majority of the human population. "My family still keeps it, and so do I."

"You know they didn't really burn any witches, though, right?"

"Yeah, because of Giubiana's sacrifice!" she suddenly snapped, her eyes flitting alive with anger. It was clear that his comment had struck a chord. "It was Giubiana who burnt at the stake so that other witches and wizards didn't have to—and you know what? Muggles still keep at it! In fact, it's them who gather around the fire every year in cheer, only they don't know what it means! What any of it means!"

"As if you lot actually care about friendly relations with the Muggles!"

"You lot?" she echoed his words. "You are from the same lot as I am—the Pureblood lot. Only you've done a disgraceful job of adhering to it, if I say so myself."

This snuffed out the small bit of sympathy he had left from listening to her talk about her family, reminding George who he was talking to.

"And thank Merlin we have! Who'd wanna be a bigoted, conceited prat like you, or the likes of your family?"

"Don't you ever talk about my family, Weasley!"

"Oh, yeah? Why not? What makes you so much better than us? Think all that money somehow makes your family above reproach?"

"You don't know the first thing about me," she said bitterly. "Or my family."

That much was true. He hadn't even known they were Italian—part Italian, at least. This made George consider the reality of prejudice, because from the way he heard his mother and father speak about the Blacks, it was clear that his own family was not entirely above it. Perhaps they were wrong, and perhaps not—it did not matter much, and it did little to absolve the distaste he held for Black. But to continue to berate her family on the basis of prejudice would only mark him as a hypocrite, and he would not allow himself to sink to her level, so after a moment of tense silence he said, "Alright. Maybe your family are a right cheery lot, I don't know, and honestly I don't care, but it doesn't make you any better."

"Like you're some saint yourself," said Black in a low tone: a strange reply coming from her, because it did not directly deny any of her own faults, but rather sort of... acknowledged them? And in a way which would suggest they were equals. They were not equals.

"Maybe not," said George: an equally strange reply coming from him, "but at least I wouldn't stoop as low as you. What you said to Angelina... To Ciara... that was pitiful. I don't know how you can live with yourself." It felt easier to bring up those two rather than to confront her about the damage she had done to him—that was too personal somehow.

Aiming straight for the jugular, Black snapped back in her very venomous fashion, "I find it hard to believe you care about anyone else but yourself. All of your nasty little tricks and jests... you think you're so entertaining, don't you? Have you ever considered the effect you have on the victims of your 'jokes'? Do you even care? No, of course not," she interrupted him before he could reply. "You're nothing but a sly, insufferable git with a penchant for trickery and cruelty. Who are you to judge me?"

"I've never done a thing to hurt somebody!" George snapped back in a spur of anger, quickly realising his own mistake; he had, in fact, done a number of things to try and hurt her. Not bearing to hear her reaction, he instantly added, "Well, you deserved it!"

"Deserved, is it?" whispered Black, her eyebrows raising. "Deserved?" She slowly got to her feet, her demeanour suddenly much less composed. Fuck, she's not going to cry, is she? he thought with a sense of terror; that was the one thing he could not bear right now. Black did not, in fact, cry, but the feeling of relief which swept over him was fleeting, because the way in which she was calmly approaching him was far more frightening. "Tell me..." she began, her voice icy; unforgiving, "did I deserve what started this in the first place? Did I... deserve the public humiliation that evening?"

"Well..." he began, but quickly shut his mouth. Yes, you bloody well did...

"Did I deserve all the names I know you've called me behind my back?"

Oh, this is not good... he thought, hoping that his conscience would prevail over his fears, but he was mistaken. The voice of doubt, the voice of weakness was beginning to overpower the voice of willpower, rendering him completely speechless.

"How about the ones you've called me to my face?"

He felt a cold sweat running down his neck; he wanted to protest, desperately so, but found himself unable to.

"I... Wh..."

Yes, just say yes.

Black had come to a halt in front of him. "How about that boggart? Did I deserve that?"

He wished nothing more than to sink right through the bars behind him.

"Just... Just do it already," he muttered, the words wrenched from him against his will.

She blinked at him. "Do what?"

"I don't know! Whatever it was you came here to do— My punishment! Just get it over with!"

She considered him for a moment before replying, her gaze burning a hole right through him. He felt utterly exposed being stared at like that. "Is that what you want?" she asked calmly. "Punishment, is it? You think that... punishmentwould somehow erase all the bad you've done?"

"Well, I... No..." He was stammering. "I-I mean..." He wanted to say 'What bad have I done?' but the way in which she was looking at him made him feel guilty for things he had not even done. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"And suddenly you care what I want?"

"No!" He was digging his own hole at this point. "I mean— Well— Just what do you want?" But he knew what she wanted—he remembered with a surge of shame; her crying face, muddy clothes, pleading voice.

Black said nothing. With a quick glance at her watch, she moved past him and wrenched the door open, then left the cell without a backward glance. George felt his breath being stolen away from him as he watched her go. She left behind her an empty, hollowing feeling; a feeling of regret.

Wait, hold on... How did she leave just now?