Lucy wakes to an uncomfortable Severus Snape blinking down at a miniature version of himself. It's too bizarre to be anything other than a dream, so she succumbs to the heavy exhaustion weighing on her limbs.
The next time she comes around, the room is bathed in warm candlelight and the rim of a glass is at her lips. Instantly, there is Sirius's leg warm and hard against her cheek, his hand cupped around the back of her neck, thick sludge crawling down her throat. She jolts upright. A rush of cold power explodes from her skin. A woman clad in a crisp apron braces herself the wave of magic.
"Miss Tonks! Lucille, it's only me, Madame Pomfrey." Slowly, though not fearfully, she returns to hover at Lucy's side. "It's been five days since Sirius Black brought you to Hogwarts. You'll be glad to hear that both he and your house elf are perfectly well, but if you wish to join them anytime soon, you'll have to drink this potion."
Lucy suddenly realizes the goblet in her hands is steaming. Only the most effective potions have such visceral qualities and Madam Pomfrey is a sworn healer. They have their own strict set of magical vows to abide by. Lucy nods, relaxing so that it is easier to swallow. The steaming goblet tastes like grass and vomit. The next potion seems to swirl down her throat. The last could be water if didn't prickle her tongue so terribly.
"I do so love Slytherins," Someone says as her eyes droop closed. "You always make the easiest patients."
Lucy spends the next two days in and out of consciousness. On the third morning, Madam Pomfrey makes her walk around the room. It goes well enough for Lucy ti be permitted a hot shower. Bathing is slow going and nauseating, but it works better than any magic could. They return to find Severus Snape waiting in the bedside chair. Madam Pomfrey helps her back into bed and leaves with a curt warning about noise and exhaustion levels.
Lucy and Severus do nothing except stare at one another for several moments, his beady black eyes cutting into Lucy's skin as he surveys her pallid cheeks and cracked lips.
"Congratulations," he finally says. "You're not dead."
"All thanks to you, according to Madam Pomfrey."
He casts an absentminded muffliato.
"The Dark Lord would have been most displeased."
"Still, thank you. Really."
As he relaxes back into his seat, she thinks back on their earlier years. Neither of them were very affectionate or verbose, but they were the outcasts, the sort of strange people that Regulus or Voldemort would eventually collect. They would never truly find a home at Hogwarts, so they tried to find some semblance of amity in each other. It helped that Severus, even at thirteen, was more clever than most grown adults. He drifted from her when he joined the Death Eaters of course, ever eager to please and belong. She never begrudged him that. She knows who he really is.
"When you commissioned that poison, I did not realize you intended to use it on yourself," he says.
Lucy summons a glass of water and sips it as she chooses which direction to steer the conversation.
"Would you have made it for me if you knew?"
"No. There are gentler poisons."
"But they don't have antidotes."
"No, they do not. Did you brew the antivenin yourself?"
"Yes."
His bland expression finally drops into a scowl. "Why?! Using the same specimen when brewing inverses makes for a much more effective result! I know you know this!"
"It would have made you too curious and if you were going to brew either, I'd rather it be the more important one."
Severus sighs and reaches into his robes. A delicate gold chain with a pale crystal pendant dangles from his spidery hand. "Here, you foolish witch. I replaced the fake molar and the poison. This is the antidote, made from the same frog. Be more careful with your life. I can't save it every time you run into a dementor."
Lucy meets his eyes, a slow smile pulling at her lips. So that's the story they're going with then. This has Andromeda written all over it.
"Nasty little buggers, those dementors," she says.
"Yes, well, I didn't just stop by to give you the means to try and kill yourself again. Brown's brother tipped her off this morning. Aurors are on their way to question you and Regulus is-"
"Dear God, no. Please, no. I can't deal with him dealing with them right now."
"I was going to say he's unavailable," he says, lips twitching as he looks down at his watch. "We've got ten minutes. I can step outside if you want to get dressed."
Lucy sighs heavily. There truly is no rest for the wicked.
"No, but would you mind transfiguring a mirror?"
He vanishes three empty potion vials from a metal tray before tapping it with his wand. It smooths out into a mirror that he levitates so that it hovers just in front of her face. Lucy blanches at her reflection. Her eyes are sunken and ringed with purple bags, her lips are cracked and tinted blue, and her wet hair hangs limp around her shoulders.
"I look like an inferi."
"Use it."
Lucy beams up at him. There are times when she is genuinely saddened that she is not around more of her housemates. No one can understand a Slytherin like a Slytherin. No one else has the instinct to twist the smallest things to one's advantage. No one else can understand the visceral pleasure of a successful manipulation.
She begins with a purposefully half-assed drying charm that leaves her hair frizzy and lank. Next, she pulls her hospital gown down over one shoulder, exposing the graceful curve of her neck and her sharp collarbone. To finish it off, she charms the dreadful garment the most unflattering shade of pale yellow that washes out her already pallid complexion. Severus watches it all with fond amusement.
"How do I..." she trails off at the sudden voices.
"Lie back," Snape hisses, already reverting the mirror back into a tray.
At least three men and one woman. Heavy boots scuffing against the stone. Aurors, then. She can't decide if that's better or worse. On one hand, she might get lucky with a bunch of James Potters. On the other, she might be interrogated by a bunch of Mad-Eye Moodys.
"This is an infirmary!" Madame Pomfrey cries. "My patient is very unwell! As her careg-"
"This can't wait, Matron," the woman says, frighteningly close.
Severus scrambles to cancel the eavesdropping charm.
"It very well can!"
Madam Pomfrey's protests are all for naught. The bed curtain flies back violently. Lucy takes several beats to pretend to acclimate to the bright sunlight, imagining them as large silhouettes slowly turning into red-robed people. At the foot of her bed, there is a grey haired witch, a tall black wizard, a man with a mop of blonde curls, and none other than Alastor Moody, mad eye and all.
Lucy bites back a curse. She is so fucked.
"Merlin's beard," the witch breathes. She pushes her glasses up her thin nose. "You look like an inferi."
Lucy stares back coldly.
"Auror Norah Byrne," the witch says with inappropriate cheer. "This is-"
"Kingsley Shacklebolt, Michael Brown, and Alastor Moody," Lucy finishes. "What do you want."
Moody stomps forward to glower at her with both eyes. He still has all of his nose and both legs, but he's already scarred to the high heavens and has the damn eye. He won't have the patience to deal with an obstinate teenage witch. She might be able to bait him into storming off or more likely, giving her a few scars of her own.
"We're here to question you about the night of November eighteenth," he snarls.
"Shouldn't a professor be present?" She asks, gaze darting from auror to auror.
"You're of age," Moody tells her without an ounce of sympathy.
"Well can't it wait until I'm feeling better? Today is the first day I-"
"I'm afraid not, Miss Tonks," Byrne cuts in with a kind smile.
"Why are there so many of you?" She demands. "Surely I don't merit four aurors."
Moody grumbles something under his breath, but Kingsley Shacklebolt steps forward. He's very tall, broad shouldered, and has a deep voice that adds to his allure.
"How versed are you in Ministry politics?" He asks.
"Well enough to know there's about to be an election in the middle of a civil war. Which one are you here for?"
The aurors- bar Moody, who keeps scowling at the two students suspiciously- share a silent conversation. Michael Brown is the one who answers. He's recognizable from some of the photos Violet has shared and their unmistakeable blond curls. Like Lucy, Violet was half raised by her older brother. After their father died of a bad case of wizard flu, Michael took her in just as she was starting Hogwarts. He was a Gryffindor, like most Browns, but never judged his sister for her sorting.
Brown shakes Lucy's hand with a firm, warm grip.
"Hello, Lucy. It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard all about you from Violet."
Before she can reply, he leans over her lap to offer his hand to Severus. Severus is hesitant to return the unexpected gesture, but plays along as expected.
"And you, Severus Snape. Vi talks about you often as well."
"I doubt that."
Moody makes an odd sort of snort-scoff sound.
"No, really!" Brown protests excitedly. "She says she's never met a mind as sharp as yours. Says you're the brightest wizard of your age."
"That title is usually reserved for Lucy."
"Ah, but Lucille's skills are not as holistic as your own, Mr. Snape."
Everyone, even Moody, startles at Dumbledore's sudden presence. The headmaster stands behind their esteemed guests, radiating pride in his chicanery and ridiculous robes. Today he's chosen to dress in black silk with pinstripes that flash every color imaginable and some that aren't. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of candy.
"Strawberry Bon-Bon, anyone?" He asks.
"What?"
"Pardon?"
"What are you going on about now, Albus?"
"Are you fucking serious?"
"ALBUS!" Moody roars. He whirls on the headmaster, his eye spinning madly in its socket. "I've better things to do with my day and I won't let you hold me up with any of your rubbish!"
Dumbledore pulls himself up to his impressive height and presses his lips into a firm line. "Forgive me, old friend, if I do not consider a ministry interrogation of one of my students rubbish."
"It's only standard protocol, Professor," Kingsley Shacklebolt assuages.
"Under which minister, I wonder?"
Comprehension dawns on Lucy. "Ah, I see now. Two of you are here for Minister Minchum and the other pair is here for his opponent. Based on Auror Moody's...forwardness, I can deduce that he supports Bagnold, which leaves Miss Byrne in favor of the current minister."
"'In favor' is strong choice of words," Byrne says drily.
Moody grunts.
"So now you're both scurrying around, trying to score a win before the other party, and I'm the latest lead you've got to go on," Lucy surmises.
"Very clever, Miss Tonks," Dumbledore applauds. "Five points to Slytherin."
"Well, I hate to break it you, but I don't have anything to tell you. There were dementors, they made me sad, and I tried to kill myself. There's really nothing else for me to say."
"Mr. Black exhibited signs of an inferi attack," Shacklebolt points out.
Severus snorts. "And I'm sure he boasted of charging into them with a flaming Sword of Gryffindor," he drawls.
Moody and Byrne both shrug, to Brown's bewilderment. Neither of them are spring chickens; they've probably encountered far more fantastical things during their tenure.
"I'd like to focus on what happened with the dementors if that's alright with you," Byrne suggests. Her cheerful demeanor softens into a motherly mien. It's masterfully done: relaxed shoulders, close-lipped smile, crinkled eyes. "It's awfully rare for dementors to affect someone to such an extent."
"No, they just suck out-"
Moody stomps closer and crosses his arms. His electric blue eye catches on the new necklace under her hospital gown as he shoves his weathered face in front of her pale one.
"Cut the shit," he growls. "You poisoned yourself with an illegal potion brewed with a rare frog from South America that you shouldn't be able to afford. How the bloody hell did you have it on your person?"
Lucy narrows her eyes. "They're going to kill me slow and I'd rather die quickly."
"Then why carry the antidote?"
"In case my escape plans work."
Moody straightens abruptly with his arms still crossed.
"Escape plans?"
"I have escape plans for my escape plans."
"Seems awfully paranoid."
"Constant vigilance," she coos.
The magical eye whirls to a stop, pinning her into the bed.
"Merlin's beard," Brown whispers in awe. "There's two of them."
"You never answered the question. I asked how, now why."
Lucy scrunches her nose. "Does that really matter?"
"Yes," he says bluntly. "We're not going to get anything useful out of you and I don't want this to be a wasted trip."
"Alastor," Byrne groans.
"It's the truth. I reckon Black killed whoever really attacked them that night and they're covering it up." He spits on the floor. "Good riddance."
Lucy, for whatever reason, is affronted that Sirius is the killer in this scenario. She's not stupid enough to let it show, however. Slytherins are opportunists and Lucy is supposedly the most Slytherin of them all. She fixes Moody with a black glower. It isn't difficult to feed into the lie. If Sirius really had killed someone, she would most certainly have covered it up. There are three pages in her journal dedicated to eradicating bodies.
"Jesus Christ, Alastor," Auror Byrne sighs. "You can't spit in a hospital wing. It's unsanitary."
The scolding sets off a quarrel amongst the aurors. Lucy settles back into her pillows with weariness. She really does feel like shit and a cacophony of petty insults isn't helping matters. Severus shoots her a dark look that says, 'You owe me more for suffering through this than for saving your life'.
"Any good reading, Miss Tonks?" Dumbledore inquires amicably.
Lucy nods at the nightstand to her left. She'd looked them over last night while waiting for her sleeping draught to kick in.
"Severus brought me the academic journals, mostly potions. I think Lupin or Evans told Sirius to give me that book on runes. Those fashion magazines are definitely from Violet and I think those novels are too. Or they might be from Regulus. It seems like something he would do."
Severus furrows his brows as he reads the glimmering text on the spines. His face contorts into a deeper horror with each title he reads.
"The Amorous Acromantula. Liaison with a Lethifold. Naked with a Nundu?!"
Lucy's heart soars with affection. She's missed reveling in his scandalized terror. Her favorite instance was the time she tried to incorporate a beauty charm into his curse during fourth year. She was quite pleased with the results but he had cursed her with a cursing curse that lasted three days.
"Oh!" Dumbledore exclaims. "I've read most of this series. There was one about a Horned Serpent that reminded me of a time in Paris with-"
They are rescued by none other then Kingsley Shacklebolt, who is shaping up to be man of many merits. He leans in just as Moody's yells triple in volume.
"She'll be storming off any second, Professor," he murmurs, sparing Lucy and Severus a wink.
Dumbledore nods almost imperceptibly. How the old bat wasn't sorted into Slytherin is beyond her sometimes. His talent for deception and manipulation is remarkable. It's no wonder Voldemort fears and despises him in equal terror. He is a shade of what Tom Riddle could have become. Powerful, intelligent, ambitious. Voldemort's madness and lust for violence prevented his ascension as the next Merlin. He could have been beyond great.
Sure enough, Auror Byrne loses her temper moments later. She turns on her heel and leaves in a swirl of red robes. Michael Brown lingers long enough to shake their hands again and give them heartfelt goodbyes. As soon as he disappears around the corner, Madam Pomfrey pops up out of nowhere.
"Out!" She orders, herding the men through the curtains. "Everyone out! You too, Mr. Snape. Lucille needs rest, not conversation. You may visit her later tonight."
Lucy strikes before her friend can obey. She catches his wrist in a tight grip, imploring him to meet her eyes. When the gentle probes of Legilimency brush at her mind, she brings the crippling gratitude to the foreground of her mindscape. He may be here on behalf of Regulus, and perhaps the Dark Lord, but she is infinitely grateful for his companionship nonetheless.
Severus has never been one for sentiment, yet when he jerks his arm away his fingers brush against the tips of her own. It's enough for Lucy. She falls asleep daydreaming of the two of them old and grey and sharing snarky comments over a hot cup of tea.
Lucy wakes to Ted nicking a box of Bertie's Beans from her pile of gifted sweets. She doesn't realize she's crying until her shoulders begin to shake and he turns around to clutch her to his chest. He rocks with her, brushing her hair back and whispering nonsense. It all comes flooding out: Dumbledore's mercurialness, her reunion with Severus, Violet's unexpected assistance, Sirius in the cave, Coco, the draught, the horcruxes.
Dying.
She never allows herself to think about her death. It's too tempting. After the initial horrible, maddening pain, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No light, no dark, no fear, no happiness. There was only the sweet bliss of nothing.
It would be so easy to give it all all up, to say goodbye and slip back into that nirvana.
The thought brings about another violent sob.
"There, there, Lu. There, there. Let it all out."
When she's finally cried herself sick, Ted wipes her tears off with an embroidered handkerchief. She tugs it from his hand, marveling at the silk vines charmed to twine around his initials in perpetuity.
"Your wife is so posh," she accuses.
"She's pretty enough to make up for it."
Lucy snorts, then curses as it sends her into a coughing fit.
"Nice."
"Shut up," she snaps, reaching up wipe the dirty handkerchief on his face. He curses and shoves her out of his lap so he can retreat back to his chair.
"Where is Andy, anyway?"
Ted scowls as he wipes at his cheek. "She thought she'd give us some bonding time."
"Lame. I was hoping she'd bring by some of her minestrone."
"You've got a castle full of house elves to make you all the soup you could need."
"Yeah but it's not the same."
Ted huffs and collapses back into the cushioned seat. He eyes her critically, evidently going into healer mode. Lucy is well acquainted with this version of her brother. He slips into it every time he picks her up from the Express.
"You're looking better."
"I feel better, physically. It's just..."
"Just what?"
"I'm just so tired," she sighs, slamming back against the raised bed and staring at the tall, arched ceiling. It's been seven years and she's still not used to living in a castle.
"Tell me something. Maybe I can help you think it out."
"It's too dangerous."
"Even the aurors? Everyone knows they came here."
"No, but..." She turns to face her brother again. Really, they could be mistaken for twins if it weren't for the age difference. "Dumbledore was behind it all."
Ted manages to fight back an exasperated sigh and she loves him all the more for it.
"How do you figure that?" He asks.
"It happened right in front of us. Ask Severus if you don't believe me. Shacklebolt didn't even bother to hide it. Dumbledore put him and Moody up to manipulating the others into leaving me alone."
Ted frowns, his thick blond brows furrowing together. "What's so bad about that?"
"Dumbledore hates me! He said it himself not a month ago!"
"Well...you're still his student and he takes his role as headmaster very seriously. There are plenty of people I don't like that I've had to treat, but it's the right thing to do so I take a deep breath and carry on. I imagine it's something similar with him."
Lucy chews on her lip. It might be true, but she doubts he would have defended Tom Riddle from anyone and the two of them have always been synonymous in Dumbledore's eyes.
"I think he said something about choosing between what is right and what is easy once," she allows.
They are quiet for some time. Lucy turns her thoughts over like a tarot reading, each one revealed in concordance with the last. Secrets and revelations are etched into the face of each card, holding a thousand answers and none.
"There's Violet, too," she muses. "Why would her brother tip her off? Why would she tell Regulus?"
"Maybe she just likes you," Ted asks, an unreadable tenor to his voice.
"Don't be daft," she scoffs. "The world doesn't work like that. Life is never so simple."
Ted makes an odd sort of laughing noise. She looks at him questioningly, but he ignores her. She makes a mental note to ask Andy about it later.
"Well, I'm always hearing about how opportunist Slytherins are. Accept the kindness and face the consequences when they come. One thing at a time, Lucy. One thing at a time. But Lucy?"
"Hmm?"
"Why would Regulus help you? Don't you think he might want something in return eventually?"
Lucy hesitates before admitting ,"With most people, yes."
"But not with you?"
They've never brought up what he assumes she is. He can pretend his baby sister is safe and happy as long as the words are never spoken aloud. She's let him have that small ignorance. It's not as if she's really a seer, after all.
"He knows what I am," she tells him.
Ted stiffens. His cheeks pale above his honey-colored stubble and his bright blue eyes go wide.
"You told him?" He whispers hoarsely. "You told Regulus Black?"
"Sirius let it slip, not me. Regulus and Dumbledore were in the room when something happened and Sirius threw a fit like he always does."
"Christ, Lucy."
"It wasn't my fault! And he took an unbreakable vow, so he can't tell anyone."
"It's bad enough that he knows it!"
"Why are you-..." Lucy tilts her head to the side. "Did you meet him?"
"Sirius wanted to see him that night. I think he needed to see that he was safe."
She nods almost absentmindedly. She might have done the same in Sirius's situation. "What did you think of him?"
"I hate the little shit."
Lucy's lips twitch but she presses them together in a firm line. He catches her mirth anyway and scowls. It fades into exhaustion quick enough.
"He's a pompous, cocky, handsome little shit, but I owe him."
"Why?"
"Well, that Snape boy didn't so much as move a muscle to help you until Regulus nodded at him. And then he warned us about something."
"About what?"
Ted meets her curious gaze with sad eyes. "He's coming for you, Luce."
Lucy thought her heart might stop or her stomach might flip inside out. She thought she would be terrified or enraged, but she doesn't feel any of that. Instead, it's almost a relief to have it over and done with, a relief to know her family will soon be safe.
"We're going under the Fidelus. We were going to tell you together, but..."
"It's okay," Lucy says.
Ted nods miserably. "Andy's found a flat for you in London. She and Coco are working on the furnishings. We figured you'd want to add your own protections so they've just got the basics on it now."
It's not worth mentioning that she already has hideouts in London and Glasgow. Besides, anything Andy picks out will be exponentially more welcoming than a safe house.
"But really, Lucy, watch yourself around Regulus. I don't like him one bit. The things he said. Can you believe he threatened to feed that Yaxley boy to a Gringotts dragon?"
Lucy's brain comes to a screeching halt. She turns to her brother like a wolf on a scent.
"What do you mean?" She demands.
"I dunno. Said something about giving the goblins dragon food in return for a favor."
"Was he serious?"
"I dunno. I couldn't tell with him."
"Did Andy think he was serious?"
"Well we didn't talk about it, did we? We've been too busy worrying over you and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
If Regulus has that sort of clout with Gringotts, he could be instrumental in retrieving Hufflepuff's Cup. Truthfully, even if he doesn't, he's closer to the Lestranges than Lucy has any hope of ever being. He'd only need to pocket a couple strands of hair. Blood would be better really, but that's asking too much. Well. In most cases it would be. The Lestranges are so insane they probably spill each other's blood on a daily basis.
"Luce, I don't that face."
Lucy flashes a blinding smile that makes his lip curl.
"I don't like that one either, but I suppose I'd better look at it while I can."
She reaches over to hold his hand, squeezing it tight.
"Will I even get to see you for the holidays?" She wonders.
"Not Nymph," he says apologetically, "but Andy and I will be at the Longbottom's Yule Party on the twenty-fourth. We'll be safe enough with Dumbledore in attendance."
"Eugh. Will you really make me spend Christmas with a bunch of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors?"
"Better than with the Malfoy's, I suspect. Their party is only a couple of days before."
Lucy's hand falls from his. She raises herself up and peers at her brother intently. "They're having a party? At their manor?"
"Yes. Lucy...I really, really don't like that face."
Lucy doesn't pay him a bit of attention. She summons her leather bag and extracts her journal, flipping through to the section she needs. Ted takes one look at it and pales. 'Malfoy Manor' is scrawled at the top in a messy feminine hand.
"You best leave, big brother. The less you know, the better."
Ted opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He kisses his sister on the crown of her head, making sure not to look at the diary in her lap. She hardly notices him leave.
Occasionally, Lucy finds herself wondering if she's being a little too paranoid. There's constant vigilance and then there's renting a flat in the worst part of Manchester, warding it to the high heavens, only ever leaving in it disguise, and confunding every person and animal that makes eye contact. Normal people don't go to such lengths. Sirius would have just used his own place and damn the consequences. Inversely, Mad-Eye Moody would probably take even more precautions than Lucy has, but she can't think of what they might have been. Dumbledore and Regulus wouldn't have to worry about it. Grimmauld Place is almost impenetrable to anyone that isn't a Black and Dumbledore is Dumbledore. Lucy isn't either of those things, so she has to work with what she has: paranoia and cunning.
Gawain Yaxley, the poor fool, isn't nearly paranoid enough. He's never had reason to be. There are very few spells that require more than a couple of drops of blood and Lucy still has three vials of his. She also has his fingernail trimmings, his hair, his saliva, and his tears. A bit overboard maybe, but she likes to be prepared. Besides, it's always better to experiment with old magic on someone inconsequential.
She keeps track of him with blood, a map, and a house elf. The Yaxley estate appears to be just north of Exeter. Lucy figures he must have been somewhat punished for the chaos he caused in November, because he never leaves his ancestral home except for Diagon Alley. Coco reports that he takes lessons at an apothecary on Wednesday mornings and visits a posh gentlemen's club on Friday evenings. The Malfoy's party is on Saturday the twenty-second so Lucy strikes that Friday night. She waits until he stumbles out of the wizarding parlor, casts her very first imperio, and side-alongs him directly into the shabby living room.
From there it's quick work. Still under the Inperius, Yaxley calls for his house elf in the hall. He gives a message to pass on to his parents and demands that his dress robes are brought to him. As soon as they're delivered, he comes inside and drinks a foul potion that has him crumbling to the peeling linoleum floor in a tangled heap.
Lucy wrinkles her nose and glances at Coco. "I kinda want to leave him there."
"He's a be escaping easily this way, Miss Lucy."
"I know. He just looks so uncomfortable."
"I's can make him the same in the circle."
Lucy sighs. "No, best to get it over with."
She and Coco work together to levitate him into the tiny bedroom. In lieu of a bed, there's the same old intricate ritual circle she used in the Slytherin common room. This time it's on the floor and she charms him to stay on his back. It's unlikely he did any research into escaping it, but she can't take any chances. This is too important.
Lucy showers after- the Imperio left her feeling grimy- and downs a light sleeping potion. There's no way she could sleep without it and she needs her wits about her. Sirius can't help her with this one. She's going into enemy territory alone.
Gawain Yaxley arrives at Malfoy Manor at six o'clock sharp. His brown hair is carefully combed behind his ears and his embroidered robes are immaculately pressed, but his shoulders are slumped and his green eyes flick around the crowded grounds nervously. He was never the most confident of wizards. Here in the presence of Death Eaters and ministry officials, he knows better than to draw attention to himself after his disastrous semester. His uncle seems to agree. Corban Yaxley grips his nephew by the bicep and shoves him up the gravel walkway.
"I'll kill you myself if you embarrass this family tonight," he hisses. "You seem to forget that my own children are just as capable as carrying on the family line as you."
Lucy makes herself gulp. It isn't difficult; she's terrified. So many things could go wrong. As clever as she is, it's difficult to stay in character. The walk alone is torture. It's tricky to walk like she has a broom shoved up her ass while trying to acclimate to new organs dangling between her legs. That's to say nothing of her long limbs and flat chest.
"Yes, Uncle," she intones.
"This never would have happened if your father had put your mother in her place and sent you to Durmstrang with your cousins."
"Now, now, Yaxley," a smooth voice drawls.
They turn to see Lucius Malfoy striding towards them. His silver robes manage to complement both his looks and the glittering Yule decorations perfectly. Unbidden pleasure takes over Lucy. It would have been glorious to rile him up in his own home looking like that. He's always despised her so vehemently.
"It is essential to uphold tradition," Malfoy says, "and despite its recent decline, Hogwarts is a British tradition. We must be patient. It will only a matter of time before we are returned to our former glory."
Lucy and Yaxley bow their heads in greeting. No matter how far back they can trace their ancestry, no matter how many muggles they maim and torture, a Yaxley will never be equal to a Malfoy. It would take generations of diligence and prudence to accrue that sort of wealth.
"A wise sentiment, Lucius," Yaxley allows.
Lucius cuts his grey eyes over Lucy's tall, slender frame. "Yes. Wisdom. Something your family could do with more of."
He leaves in a swish of glimmering robes. She watches him stalk off with hidden admiration. No one can do pompous sass quite like Lucius Malfoy. He does the most pretentious things and somehow still remains the most threatening man in the room.
"Get out of my sight," Yaxley mutters.
Lucy tears her gaze away from their host's retreating frame to find her new uncle baring his teeth. She stares at him for a moment, wondering if she should be afraid or if Gawain would be too proud to admit it. She settles on turning on her heel and stomping up the marble stairs into Malfoy Manor.
Light and music and laughter assault her senses as she crosses the threshold. Hundreds of witches and wizards are mingling in ostentatious robes and gowns, the bright golden light reflecting off their colorful attire. Lucy allows herself a moment of pure delight as she winds through the packed rooms. There are hairstyles that defy gravity, dresses that change color, and decorations that give Yuletide greetings. It's all so magical. She's grown so accustomed to combat spells and explosive runes that simple things like dancing tinsel and caroling mistletoe have her captivated.
"Narcissa has outdone herself this year."
Khadijah Shafiq appears at Lucy's side dressed in a golden hijab and a flowing gown with tight beaded sleeves. She slips her right arm around Lucy's left and peers up through her thick eyelashes.
"Be my first dance?" She coos.
Lucy carefully disentangles herself with as much grace as she can muster, trying to ignore the foul taste on her tongue. If she were Shafiq, she'd be begging her father for a marriage contract with one of his Egyptian business partners far away from the war. Instead, she seems content to stay in England and marry a sycophantic terrorist. At least Bellatrix has the gall to join her husband in his sick predilections.
"Uncle Corban's forbidden me from partaking in any sort of pleasure, I'm afraid," Lucy grimaces.
Shafiq's round lips pull into a pout. "Is this about the mudbloods?"
"It's more about getting caught."
"Very well," she sighs, "just don't give my kisses away to other witches, Gawain."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Lucy says with complete sincerity.
The next hour passes excruciatingly slow. Pretending to be Yaxley is difficult. The devil is in the details and the only thing she truly knows about Gawain Yaxley is that he's a moronic prick. She strolls around with a glass of wine, offering polite salutations to anyone she thinks he might consider worth acknowledging. As the hour drags on, it becomes more and more difficult to stay in character. The bigotry is even more pronounced when the elite are amongst themselves. There are no condescending grins or haughty sniffs when she speaks. None of the bastards are sincere of course, but they aren't disdainful or disgusted by her presence.
Eventually, there is a call for the dancing to begin. As the bulk of the crowd drifts to the ballroom, Lucy slips further down a brightly lit hall. She can't help but admire the architecture and design. It's a tasteful amalgamation of French influence and British tradition. Distantly, she wonders if their family magic is similar. The Blacks were the first wizarding family in London, founded by a Roman wizard and a female druid. It's why their magic is so dark. They call on the old forgotten things that were used before wands and latin were brought by the Romans.
Lucy casts her thoughts aside with a shake of her head. This is not the time to ruminate on magical theory and history.
The Malfoy library is massive. Pale wooden bookshelves fill a room slightly larger than the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Tables and sofas and glass cases are littered throughout. A quick spell reveals that it is empty other than the cluster of old men drinking near the entrance. Lucy nods in greeting before she disappears into the stacks.
She goes deeper and deeper, striding through the aisles until magic begins to brush at her skin. Books dance on their shelves and whisper secrets into her ear. Further on, the whispers turn to hisses, the gentle touches turn into passionate caresses. The shelves become darker and more worn, chips and scratches and burns contrasting with the polished wood.
Finally, she reaches the outermost corner of the room. Dark magic dances in the air, calling on her fear, her anger, her loneliness, her greed. Lucy hones in on the last one. That is what the Diadem used to lure her in. After that calamity, she made sure to immediately place the horcruxes in the boxes. It isn't a longing for wealth or power that calls to her. It's knowledge, something that Voldemort has an abundance of. He has explored the world and unearthed magics that Lucy could never dream of existing. He could teach her everything she could ever need to keep her family safe. He taught Bellatrix. Who's to say he wouldn't take Lucy under his wing? He would never hold her birth against her, he tried to recruit Lily after all. He would only hone her mind into-...
"Right," Lucy snaps. "That's enough of that, thank you."
She steps around the heavy oak desk and pulls a small black book off the shelf. It takes a moment to retrieve the replica from her expanded pocket, but she manages to place it just as a familiar voice drawls, "Blonde suits you better."
Her first thought is that he looks infuriatingly handsome. Regulus is dressed in deep indigo robes that bring out the blue in his eyes. Unlike the others, the only accessory he's bothered with is the massive sapphire ring he always wears on his left hand. His dark hair falls in waves to chin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and his full lips.
Lucy forces herself to stop ogling and turns her back to him, hastily rummaging around for the runed box in her trouser pocket.
"Fuck off, Black," she snarls in Yaxley's haughty tones.
But Regulus is already standing beside her, leaning against the bookcase as if nothing is amiss. She halts in her ministrations to glare at him. It's disconcerting to not have to bend her neck to manage it.
"I much prefer it when you call me Regulus. You're the only one with the balls to do it. Pun intended."
Lucy scrunches up her face in a very not-Gawain way. There's no point in denying it, not with him. He's just as obstinate as she is.
"Was that necessary?" She asks.
"Yes," he says, unrepentant. His gaze sweeps over her borrowed body. "How is it changing genders?"
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Strange. I didn't realize how much power I have over men until now. I mean, I knew but I didn't know."
"Merlin save the fool you test that out on."
She searches for a sign of sarcasm or mockery, but she can only make out amusement and sincerity in his features. His emotions have always been nearly impossible to discern. They are limited to a quirk of a brow, the twitch of a lip, the twist of a ring. Sirius is the complete opposite. He is ruled by his emotions and doesn't bother to hide them.
Lucy narrows her eyes and turns to rest her shoulder against the shelf. "And what if I tested it out on you?"
"You won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
He leans in, his breath ghosting against her lips. "Because you aren't ready for me."
Lucy opens her mouth to respond, but her own breath is stolen from her lungs. Power crests through the stacks, slamming into her with the force of a tidal wave. It is the most glorious thing she has ever felt. It is the wind on a winter's night, sharp and cold and unrelenting and wild.
"Shit," Regulus hisses, the color rapidly fading from his cheeks. "Shit!"
Lucy shoves the diary deep in his robe pocket just as several people round the corner. The three old men from earlier congregate on one side. Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, and a woman who can only be Bellatrix Lestrange mirror them on the right. In the center, Corban Yaxley stands beside the most attractive man Lucy has ever laid eyes on. It isn't just his thick hair or square jaw. It's the intelligent gleam in his eyes and the magic billowing around him.
Voldemort waves his wand to vanish the furniture, his scarlet gaze never leaving Lucy. She slams the shields of her mind down with a force strong enough for her ears to ring. They move almost as one, crossing the space to study one another. This close, she can feel his cold magic prickling in the air. She wants nothing more than to vomit. Her stomach is in a perpetual state of nausea, but this is like seeing the basilisk again. The sheer vastness of his power is almost too much for her to comprehend.
The infamous yew wand raises and she flinches despite the slow, unthreatening speed. A spell wraps itself around her shoulders, poking and prodding for a way in, but it recedes before it finds purchase. His plush lips pull back in a savage grin.
"You do not disappoint, Lucille Tonks."
"Nor do you, Lord Voldemort."
He turns his attention to Regulus, who is still lingering beside the shelf. She realizes, with a start, that they almost look similar. Both of them are dressed in plain, dark clothes and a single ring. They're the sort of men that do not need ornamentation to catch attention. Yet despite Regulus's easy confidence and proud stature, he bows easily. Unashamedly.
"It is an honor to meet you once more, my lord," he says.
"And you, Regulus," Voldemort returns. He glances between them curiously. "You were not surprised to learn of Miss Tonk's identity."
"I was not, my lord. I knew it wasn't Yaxley as soon as she stepped into the Manor."
"How?!" Corban Yaxley bites out. His graying hair has escaped its velvet ribbon and his neck is red with fury.
Regulus tries to shoot Lucy a taunting smirk but it comes across as a cringe in his anxious state.
"Gawain Yaxley's wouldn't be ogling the beading on Shafiq's gown, if you catch my meaning," he explains.
"It's a nice gown," she says.
One of the older men chuckles. She chances a peek to find them amused and more intrigued than any of their ilk should ever be by a muggleborn. Lucy shifts away from them the slightest bit. The Dark Lord, of course, does not miss the exchange. In fact, he seems delighted by it.
"Can you guess who these men are, Lucille Tonks?"
"I'm assuming they're your OG Death Eaters, my lord." Everyone turns to stare at her in bewilderment. She curses herself for her stupidity. Even if that term exists in this decade, its probably only in America. "Muggle saying. Means 'original gangster'."
Bellatrix starts screeching something ridiculous, but Voldemort raises his hand to silence her.
"Is that how you perceive us, Lucille Tonks?" He asks.
"Uh, no. Definitely not. I only meant- it's an anaphora of sorts. And it can actually be meant as a sign of respect."
An elderly wizard with dead eyes and gold embroidery on his robes steps forward.
"And do you mean it as a sign of respect?"
Lucy furrows her brows in confusion. She glances from him to Voldemort to Severus to Regulus and back again. They're only here because she respects and fears the Dark Lord. He would have just killed her outright if he didn't think he could manipulate her into joining his ranks.
"I thought that would be obvious," she says slowly. "I'm a Slytherin. We respect power above all things, no matter what form it takes."
Voldemort chuckles. The warm sound runs a shiver down her spine, makes her breath come even shorter.
Softly, he says, "They do not understand you as I do, Lucy. No one can. No one will ever know the insatiable desire pulsating through your veins as I do."
He turns to his followers in a swish of black silk and loudly pronounces, "Lucille has not used something as common as polyjuice or transfiguration. No, my friends. She has used the same forbidden magic that your lord has used this night."
Lucy glances at the ring on his hand, a thick silver band inset with uncut rubies. Her own is much more modest, but then she only expected to use it for a few hours. If she'd wanted to slip into Yaxley for years to come, she would need more than runes and silver to anchor his blood.
"Show them, Lucille," the Dark Lord commands.
The ring is off before he finishes speaking. Her body immediately shrinks and widens until she is swimming in her tailored suit and polished oxfords. The waistband of her trousers tightens with a flick of Yaxley's wand, but she hastily replaces his with her own. She breathes out a sigh of relief when the ebony wood thrums against her palm. Though conquered into coercion, Yaxley's was never content to do her bidding. At least it hasn't been unicorn. Everything would have been fucked if it had been.
Lucy quickly vanishes her outer robe and then shrinks her pants and shoes. There's nothing to be done for the loose vest and billowing shirt, but she'll at least be able to run away without falling on her face.
"Your ring," Voldemort commands.
She banishes it in his direction to avoid direct contact. He smirks knowingly down at her. He's tall. Taller even than Severus, who surpasses six feet by an inch or two.
"A blood glamour," he explains, holding the ring close to his crimson eyes. "Expertly done. Flawlessss."
"My lord," Yaxley inquires hesitantly. Voldemort waves him on impatiently, his attention still caught on the ring. The painful pressure in her chest loosens the slightest bit.
Dearest Uncle Corban rounds on Lucy with barely constrained rage. He seethes at her for several beats before he manages to bite out, "Does my nephew live."
"For now," she answers, relieved to have escaped the Dark Lord's scrutiny. It doesn't hurt to breathe as much. She'll have a panic attack before the night's out. "I figure he has another day or so in the circle."
"What circle?" The old wizard asks.
"The Sanguis Vinculum."
Bellatrix Lestrange finally loses control. Her haughty features contort into a furious scowl that betrays the madness brimming under her porcelain skin. She looks so much like Andromeda it hurts, but Lucy can't afford to think of that now. She shoves it down, down, down until the twisting in her gut disappears into an unnatural calm.
"And where did a filthy little mudblood learn of such sacred-"
"Bellatrix," Voldemort snaps. The act of a benevolent lord is abandoned for that of his true facade. An almost hysterical fury pulsates from him, causing even his oldest followers to cower in on themselves. "The girl has more brains than you could ever hope to and more drive than any of the rest of you will ever be capable of. You have all grown complacent in your prosperity. Girl!"
Lucy's heart lurches painfully. "Yes, my lord?" She squeaks out.
The wand raises again and Lucy knows, deep in her bones, what is about to happen. She has prepared for this since she was eight years old, when her new sister-in-law agreed to teach her.
"Legilimens!"
Lucy's knees buckle from the force of his strike. He is a snake on the hunt, scales writhing through the forest after his prey.
Yaxley's prone body surrounded by a sinister arrangement of circles and runes in the dingy bedroom; blood rushing to her head as she meticulously draws shapes onto the common room ceiling; blue flames licking at Yaxley's long bare feet, his screams echoing off the dungeon walls; Regulus casting a lazy cruciatus; Regulus inviting her back to the common room, Dumbledore's rapt with attention between them.
An alien fit of anger clouds Lucy's mind. She breathes it in, settles it into her bones, letting it steer him away from everything else that happened that night.
Dumbledore saying, "You've spent your years at my school studying the same old magics that Tom was partial to. Quite frankly, the only reason I haven't intervened thus far is because you do not hold enough brute power to become a Lady in your own right."; Lucy dismantling the wards around the Headmaster's office and sneering at his disapproving expression as she crosses the threshold; Dumbledore's eyes darkening as the Hat tells her to go be great and terrible.
Green light illuminating the Common Room; flobberworms exploding in a ritual circle; skin sliding off of a squeaking rat's body under an orange spell; Severus grinning triumphantly as their poison bubbles the blood of a pine marten.
Awe as Severus disarms her in two jabs of his wand; amused affection as he shoves her away from a bubbling cauldron; fondness as he snorts at Regulus's dramatic tirade; love- pure, unadulterated, fierce love- as his face contorts into horror over Violet's book.
The Dark Lord rips himself out of her mind with an almighty lurch. Lucy comes to on sore knees. The soft light blinds her vision and Bellatrix's mad cackling grates on her ears. She blinks several times to orient herself to the stinging rawness of the world. Voldemort stares down at her with a mixture of antipathy and calculation as she rubs her eyes.
"That...love you feel..." he muses. "You would join me if I swore no harm would come to those you love."
"Probably," she admits, pushing herself to her feet. The best lies stem from the truth, after all.
He tilts his head to the side as if she were an interesting test rat. Just as she's sure he's going to call her out or perhaps kill her outright, he says, "Retrieve Gawain Yaxley."
Most of Lucy's plans hinge on how laughably undervalued house elves are. Coco can't just drop him in the middle of Malfoy Manor. She definitely isn't about to send Voldemort and his cronies into the middle of Manchester. Especially that part. It's a rough area with hardened people that have been battling their whole lives to just survive. It would start a war the likes of which has never been seen.
"Malfoy will have to make a portkey," she finally says.
After a short nod from the Dark Lord, Malfoy scrambles around until another older wizard produces a crumbled quill. Lucy doesn't dare call for Coco until it glows blue. When the house elf arrives, her little body is a taut as her starched pink uniform, but she meets Lucy's gaze with a brutal focus.
"Coco, I need you to please smear the left triangles on the circle we made and place the portkey in Yaxley's hand. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Miss Lucy," she agrees, her ears flopping as she nods.
"Thank you."
The others gape at her with disgust and horror. Only the OG Death Eater and Voldemort seem interested. Regulus, of course, has always appreciated house elves and settles for smugness.
"You let it help with a circle?!" Malfoy cries aghast.
"She's magic isn't she?" Lucy asks.
"Will it be a wand next?" The third wizard drawls.
"Of course not. They don't want wands; that'd be much too boring. Now, a goblin, that would be interesting."
Even Voldemort glances at her strangely. More worryingly, Regulus looks contemplative. Lucy is reminded of his crass consideration to offer a Yaxley up as dragon dinner. She hastens to bury the thought deep down before they catch anyone's attention. Only Severus- and perhaps Regulus- are capable of fooling the Dark Lord.
A loud crack echoes and Gawain Yaxley appears midair. He falls to the floor with a thud. Thankfully, the room is too occupied with him to notice Coco's bout of sass. The defeated boy, and Merlin does he look like such a young boy, breaks into relieved sobs at the sight of his uncle. Guilt pricks at Lucy. She doesn't want to be like these people. She doesn't want to be cruel and cold and-
Regulus stomps on the top of her foot, his eyes glacial when she peers up at him.
Get yourself together, he seems to say.
"You are a disgrace."
Lucy jumps, ridiculously assuming that the insult was directed to her. Instead, Corban Yaxley is looming over his pitiful nephew. One corner of his lips are pulled back in derision and a red flush is creeping up his neck
"You humiliate us with your asininity and impotence."
"Please," Gawain wheezes. "Sev, please."
Severus is unmoved. He merely continues to watch with his customary apathy.
Gawain contorts his body painfully to beseech Regulus. "Black. Black, don't let him. Please. I don't- I'm only sevent-"
"Avada kedavra!" Yaxley cries.
The library glows green and Gawain Yaxley slumps to the carpet with unseeing eyes. Something cracks underneath the thick walls of her Occlumency shields. A shallow fissure bisecting a cliff, loud and vulgar as it cleaves up and up to the snowy precipice, a prelude to the disastrous avalanche to come.
Voldemort's face splits into a wide grin, a smile made all the worse by Bellatrix's insane cackling. He spins on his heel to turn his unholy joy onto Lucy.
"You will join us, Lucille, and you will be worth ten of what he would have been."
"Th-that's a big decision to make."
"Of course," he preens, sidling closer. Lucy uses every bit of strength she has to remain still. "It is a momentous decision to make. You will come to learn that Lord Voldemort is charitable. I will allow you to finish your year at Hogwarts."
"Thank you, my lord. That is indeed very gracious."
"Indeed. Until then, however, a demonstration of what awaits you should you refuse my invitation. Crucio."
Lucy's world dissolves into pain. It begins in her chest and storms out to the ends of her hair. Her body arches into the torment, rolling with it as crests.
Don't scream, she thinks. Don't scream, don't scream don't scream don't scream.
"Good. Very good, Lucille. Crucio!"
If the first was a storm, this is a blizzard. It cuts through her bones, searing through her blood until her joints are exploding and her skull is ringing and everything is gone. There is only her and her body and the agony. She screams. It unfurls from her lungs, tearing through her throat, and yet the pain still comes. It comes and comes and comes until her throat is raw and her arms are twitching and darkness swallows her up.
Finally, she thinks, and she assumes it's her last thought in the world until she wakes up in a new world with a new body and a new name.
It is not to be. Fate is never so kind. She wakes up in a soft bed with James Potter's face a hands-breath above her own.