As they usually did, Senna and Struan trained in the secluded training room. Her focus was on mastering blood magic, a complex and potent branch of magic that their father insisted they learn. The air around them crackled with magical energy, and each spell they cast left traces of red and black in their wake.
Struan, always the more experienced of the two, was carefully drawing Parseltongue letters in the air with his wand, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Senna copied him with a fierce intensity, her movements bold and decisive. Blood magic was demanding, requiring not just skill, but a piece of the caster's essence. It was magic that bonded, that commanded, that could control.
For some reason, Senna's magic was gold-colored, while Struan's was black. It was an unusual phenomenon that neither of them could explain. As they continued their training, the color of their magic became a topic of curiosity and concern. Her golden magic seemed to exude warmth and light, while her brother's black magic appeared cold and ominous.
"Is there something wrong with my magic?" She asked him, frowning at the whisps of gold, envying the rich and mysterious ebony color of his magic.
"No, it's just different for everyone." He reassured her. But the crease between his brow told her otherwise.
As they paused to catch their breath, Voldemort's sudden appearance in the room made them both start. He was wearing long, flowing robes, and his expression was cool and stern.
Struan's reaction was immediate and visible—his shoulders tensed, and his expression turned wary.
Senna felt a surge of unease but masked it with a composed facade.
Voldemort swept his cold gaze over them, his red eyes piercing. "I see you are hard at work," he said, his voice carrying a tone of approval that was as rare as it was unsettling. "But let us pause your training. I have something to discuss."
Struan and Senna exchanged a quick glance before nodding and approaching Voldemort, who began pacing the length of the room. His cloak billowed behind him, the air seeming to chill in his wake.
"You are not just my children. You are gods among men, born of my blood," Voldemort began, his voice rising with fervor. "You are entitled to everything this world has to offer. The power you wield, the blood that runs through your veins, sets you apart from the ordinary, the mundane."
He stopped and faced them directly. "The scum that runs the world, the weak, they should bow before you. Claim what is rightfully yours. Command them, control them. You have that power, that right."
Senna listened, her heart pounding. His words were meant to inspire, to empower, but they carried an undertone that disturbed her. The disdain with which he spoke of others, the entitlement he asserted—it was a worldview she found increasingly difficult to reconcile within herself.
As Voldemort concluded his impromptu lecture and swept out of the room, Struan let out a barely audible sigh of relief.
Senna, however, remained silent, her thoughts racing. Something was off, not just about what Voldemort had said but about him. His vision for them and the world was rooted in supremacy and subjugation.
"Struan," she whispered once she was sure Voldemort was out of earshot, "do you ever feel like something's odd with what he's teaching us?"
He looked at her, suddenly guarded, his eyes conflicted. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she paused, thinking about this, "Is this really the right way?"
His conflicted expression glazed over into a hard mask. "He's our father, and he's always right."
Senna nodded, feeling a flicker of reassurance at her brother's words. But something, deep inside her, writhed uncomfortably. Perhaps this was the truth, and she was the one who was being odd.
With a grim and serious face, Struan continued his class, calling her back to focus on the task at hand.
The waning moon cast hardly any light through the window of Senna's room, bathing it in a ghostly darkness as she sat on her bed, deep in thought. The day's events replayed in her mind, leaving her restless and uneasy. The sound of a soft knock at her door broke her reverie, and she looked up to see Struan entering quietly. Though it was dark, she could tell his face was etched with concern.
"Senna," he began, his voice low and urgent as he closed the door behind him. "I've been thinking about our conversation earlier."
"Oh?" She prompted with a raised brow.
She patted the bed beside her, inviting him to sit. He took a seat, his posture tense, his hands clasped tightly together. "I know what you're feeling," he continued, "and I understand why you're questioning father's teachings. But you must be careful."
His eyes met hers in the dark room, and she could see the genuine worry in them. "He isn't just our father—he's a powerful and dangerous wizard. Questioning him, even in private, can be risky. You need to keep these thoughts to yourself, for your own safety."
Senna felt a chill run down her spine. His words, the earnestness in his voice, alarmed her. It was one thing to harbor doubts, but the implication that even private doubts could be dangerous was deeply unsettling.
"Why are you so concerned all of a sudden?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning closer. "Because I've seen what happens to those who disagree with him," he confessed, his voice tinged with fear. "They disappear, Senna. Some are found later, changed or broken, and some are never seen again. Don't think he won't do that to us, just because we're his children. In fact, he will be even stricter with us as we represent his lineage."
The gravity of his words hung in the air between them. Senna's heart raced as the implications of her brother's warning sank in. The sense of confinement, of danger, suddenly felt suffocating.
"I know you, Senna. You're strong and brave, and you believe in doing what's right," he said, reaching out to grasp her hand. "But please, be cautious."
She nodded slowly, the weight of her brother's advice settling on her shoulders. She squeezed his hand in acknowledgment, her resolve hardening. "I understand, Struan. Thank you for looking out for me. I'll be careful," she promised, though her mind raced with thoughts of how they might one day make things right without putting themselves at risk.
He gave her a small, relieved smile and stood. "Why don't we do stargazing?" he proposed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Stargazing?" She blinked, trying to wrap her head around the sudden change of subject.
"The night is clear, and the constellations should be spectacular." He said eagerly.
Intrigued by his rare enthusiasm and eager for a distraction, she agreed. As they slipped out of the dark mansion, the chill of the night air was a refreshing change from the stifling atmosphere inside.
They walked in companionable silence to a nearby hill, one of the few places unmarred by the shadows of their father's dark domain.
Once at the top, he spread a large, old blanket on the grass, and they both lay down, gazing up at the vast, star-filled sky. He began pointing out constellations. His voice filled with passion and an almost childlike excitement that Senna had never before seen in him.
"That's Orion," he pointed, "and next to him, you can see Taurus. But my favorite has always been Aquila, the eagle. It's right there—if you follow the line from that bright star."
She followed his gestures, marveling at the beauty of the night sky and the way her brother animatedly talked about each constellation.
It was as if the stars held a special kind of peace for him, a respite from their troubled lives.
"Wow. It's beautiful." She smiled.
"You know," he confessed as he traced the imaginary lines between stars, "I often escaped into these stories as a kid. The stars were like friends during times when I felt particularly... lonely."
She turned to look at him, her heart swelling with sadness for the loneliness he had endured. "I'm sorry you felt that way. I wish I could have been there for you," she said, squeezing his hand.
He chuckled, squeezing her hand back. "Hey, we're here now, right? Besides, it's not all bad. The stars are pretty good company. They're quite the conversationalists, though they tend to repeat themselves a lot," he joked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
She laughed, the sound mingling with the soft night breeze. "Well, I'm glad they were here for you. And I'm here now, too. No more lonely stargazing, okay?"
"Deal," Struan agreed with a grin.
They spent another hour or so talking and laughing, constellations being the only witness of their bonding.
The soft morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Struan's study, casting long shadows over the ancient tomes and polished wood surfaces. Senna sat in a high-backed chair, her posture fixed and her face a mask of calm. He stood before her, his hands clasped behind his back, exuding an air of purpose.
"Today, Senna," he began, his voice measured and commanding, "we will discuss your status and the expectations that come with it. You must understand that you are wont merely a student at Hogwarts. You are royalty, and it is imperative that you conduct yourself as such."
Senna nodded, her expression unchanged. She had grown accustomed to these lessons, where Struan would impart the doctrines and philosophies that she needed to know for her mission.
"You are a member of the ruling class," he continued, his gaze piercing. "Our father, the Dark Lord, has bestowed upon us a great legacy. We are not like the others at Hogwarts. They are beneath us, and it is crucial that they recognize and respect your superior status."
Struan began to pace, his footsteps echoing softly in the grand room. "Etiquette is not just about manners, Senna. It is about power. It is about showing everyone that you are untouchable, that you are above them in every conceivable way. From the way you speak to the way you carry yourself, everything must exude authority and command respect."
She listened intently, absorbing each word. She knew that her actions and demeanor were under constant scrutiny, both by her peers and by those loyal to her father. She had to be perfect, an unassailable embodiment of the power and prestige that came with her lineage.
"First," he said, stopping his pacing to face her directly, "your posture. It must always be impeccable. Shoulders back, head held high. You must look down upon others, never the other way around. Your very presence should instill a sense of awe and intimidation."
Senna adjusted her posture slightly, ensuring that she met her bother's exacting standards. He nodded approvingly before continuing.
"Next, your speech. Every word must be deliberate and measured. Speak clearly and confidently. There is no room for hesitation or uncertainty. When you speak, it should be as though your words are law, unchallengeable and absolute."
He moved closer, his eyes locking onto hers. "You must also be aware of the power of silence. Often, it is not what you say, but what you do not say that conveys your authority. Let others fill the silence with their nervous chatter while you remain calm and composed." Struan said, his tone softening slightly. "Now, let's discuss your interactions with others. You must always remember that you are royalty. No one should ever question you or disrespect you in any way. If they do, it is not just an affront to you, but to our entire legacy. You must respond swiftly and decisively to any such challenges. You are not to tolerate insolence," he continued. "If someone dares to defy you, you must remind them of their place. Use your power judiciously but firmly. Fear is a tool, and you must wield it expertly. It is better to be feared and respected than to be liked."
Senna nodded, her resolve hardening.
"Remember, Senna," he said, his voice almost a whisper now. "You are a symbol of our father's power. You are the embodiment of his vision for the future. Your actions, your demeanor, and everything you do reflect upon our legacy. You must be perfect. There is no room for error."
Senna felt the weight of her role upon her shoulders, a heavy but now familiar burden. She would not falter now. She would try to be the ruler that her brother and father expected her to be.
With that, the lesson was over. Senna rose gracefully from her chair, her movements smooth, practiced, and deliberate.
But for some reason, she couldn't help but pause at the doorstep.
"Is there something wrong, sister?"
She thought about this for a moment. "It's… nothing."
Struan met her at the doorstep, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure?"
"Well…" She bit her lip. "It's just that sometimes I feel like something is very wrong, but I can't place my finger on it. It must just be remnants of the backfire that erased my memories."
"Yes, I think so." He said softly, "Nothing is wrong. You are doing perfectly."
