Amoria stood in the center of her new quarters, her eyes drawn upward as she analyzed the vastness of the room. It looked just as she remembered. A grand canopied bed dominated the space, its emerald green curtains swaying slightly in the draft from the nearby fireplace. Flames crackled warmly within the ornate hearth, casting flickering shadows over the polished wood floors. A plush loveseat placed directly in front. To the right, a wardrobe stood slightly ajar, revealing that her belongings had already been meticulously put away.
She approached the bed and sank onto its edge, letting herself fall back against the plush mattress. Staring up at the intricately embroidered canopy, she let out a deep sigh. The room stirred memories she hadn't revisited in years. She and Draco used to jump on this very bed, their laughter filling the air until the base gave way under their weight. They'd quickly blame one of the house-elves, only to witness the creature punish itself—slamming its head against the floor or burning its hands with a hot iron. At first, the sight had unsettled her, but over time, it became so routine that she stopped reacting altogether. It was simply the way things were.
She lay there for a moment, unsure how to process it all. So many fond memories had been made within these walls, but with them came the shadow of grief—those dark days following her mother's death. She remembered isolating herself in this very room, refusing to come out no matter how much Lucius or Draco coaxed her. Hours would pass as she lounged on the loveseat, burying herself in books from the library, many of which were far too advanced for her to fully understand. Her grief had drawn her to the darker tomes, particularly those on necromancy. She missed her mother desperately and wanted her back, no matter the cost.
She barely made it past the first chapter before the complexity overwhelmed her, leaving her more despondent than before. Before she could return the book, a house elf found it in her room, telling Lucius who promptly confronted her. He pulled her into the library, where he delivered the sternest reprimand she had ever received. He pressed upon her the dangers of necromancy, emphasizing that no magic—dark or otherwise—could bring her mother back. His voice was sharp, his words unyielding. She was too young to grasp the knowledge in those pages, and attempting such magic could lead to dire consequences.
The intensity of his scolding shocked her. It wasn't like the Lucius she knew, whose usual demeanor toward her was measured and kind. Her fragile hope of somehow reclaiming her mother was shattered under the weight of his anger and the finality of his words. Staring down at the floor, she began to sob.
Lucius's tone softened as he knelt to meet her gaze. He gathered her in his arms, offering a comfort she hadn't expected. She clung to him, tears soaking into his robes as her small frame trembled. His expression, though gentler, remained firm. He made her promise never to delve into the Dark Arts again—not until she was older and properly guided. Reluctantly, she agreed.
That promise remained unbroken, yet her curiosity about the forbidden arts—those her father had adamantly refused to teach her—had never truly faded. As she lay there now, she wondered if that old book was still tucked away in the library. Surely, they wouldn't have discarded something so ancient. A part of her was tempted to find it again, this time armed with the understanding and maturity she lacked as a child, if only out of curiosity. But she knew the risks. Even now, consequences would follow if she were caught. With a sigh, she resolved to leave it alone—for now.
Resolving herself, she rose and moved toward one of the large chests on the floor, dozens of jars and vials packed neatly in, she surveyed the contents. Though traditional academic studies had always been secondary to mastering the Dark Arts, she had developed a growing fondness for potion-making. The idea of enhancing one's magic with nothing more than a small vial had fascinated her from a young age, and she considered herself quite good.
Her passion for the craft had been solidified the night her father returned home near death after a failed negotiation. She had saved him that night, pulling him back from the brink of death. Since then, she had vowed never to be caught unprepared again.
Turning back to the chest, she began taking inventory of the potions she'd brought with her. Her hands moved deftly as she organized the vials, and with a flick of her wand, she levitated her cauldron to the desk, ready to set to work.
Carefully, she poured shimmering moonwater into the cauldron and brought it to a boil. The rhythmic stirring was meditative as she added valerian root, powdered moonstone, and sopophorous beans. When the liquid turned a soft lavender, she finished it with a few drops of lavender essence. Once the potion had cooled, she carefully bottled the Sleeping Draught into three neat vials and placed them in their designated slots within the chest. Amoria let out a quiet sigh, her fingers tracing the edge of the fully stocked kit. Though healing held little interest for her, there was a strange comfort in knowing she could handle an emergency if one arose. She knew the Malfoys had hundreds of potions at their disposal, many of which Amoria had certainly never even heard of. Still, she would make sure her small kit stayed stocked. After all, it was probably best to avoid asking the Malfoys for any more favors.
Amoria wandered to the window and settled onto the bay seat, her gaze drifting over the sprawling gardens below. Winding paths wove gracefully through meticulously shaped topiaries and grand, glimmering fountains, each detail a testament to the estate's enduring opulence. Vibrant blooms in carefully curated arrangements added bursts of color to the otherwise subdued landscape, their layout unchanged from the memories she held.
The outdoors had always been her refuge, a place where her fears and anxieties seemed to dissipate with every breath of fresh air. It was as though the clarity of the open sky could untangle the chaos within her mind. She longed to step outside, to return to the sanctuary that had once lightened her burdens. Yet now, there were other commitments.
The clock chimed softly in the corner, drawing her hour until the quickly headed into the bathroom, grabbing a soft cotton towel from the stack placed on the vanity. She undressed with care, folding her clothes neatly before stepping into the shower. The hot water cascaded over her, the soothing mist filling the air and enveloping her senses. For a moment, the rhythmic sound of water against tile calmed her nerves.
After drying herself lightly, Amoria returned to the bedroom, where a set of dress robes lay across the bed. The striking combination of black and deep violet caught the light, the luxurious fabric shimmering subtly as she picked it up. She held the robes aloft, admiring their design—a fitted bodice tapering into a dramatic, floor-length skirt. The modest V-shaped neckline and puffed shoulders gave the dress an air of understated elegance. Despite Narcissa's lack of fondness toward her, Amoria felt grateful that she had chosen something so exquisite for her.
She slipped into the silk dress, marveling at how perfectly it fit, its smooth fabric hugging her form with elegance. Sweeping her black hair back, she carefully styled it into a neat bun, allowing a few loose strands to fall in soft, deliberate curls. Turning to the wardrobe, she reached for her mother's old jewelry, its intricate designs glinting faintly in the light. With each piece she selected, a sense of connection to her mother settled over her, adding a quiet but poignant grace to her transformation. A simple pair of silver and onyx earrings with their matching necklace rested against her collarbones, it was subtle, yet complimented the dress completely. She finished her look with a muted eye makeup and a dark, glassy lip, slipping on black heels.
Amoria studied herself carefully in the mirror, making sure nothing was out of place. Tonight was for her father, and making a strong impression was essential. Even the smallest imperfection—like a stray lock of hair—could reflect poorly on him. As she took in her appearance, a sense of confidence grew within her. She looked poised, a woman of stature. At just twenty-two, she carried herself with a poise well beyond her years, fully attuned to her father's expectations. Upholding the image of a distinguished pureblood family was a duty she couldn't escape, no matter how nonsensical it often seemed.
The hallway hummed with the distant sounds of revelry. Voices and music grew louder with each step, the once-silent corridor now filled with the lively buzz of the festivities. Amoria's heart thudded in her chest as she drew closer to the grand ballroom. She had never been allowed to attend a Death Eater's party, her father always forbidding her without offering any explanation. She hadn't been particularly eager to go, but curiosity had always lingered about what took place. She and Draco had often schemed to sneak in, using the manor's maze of hidden passages to spy unnoticed, only to be discovered and promptly sent back to their rooms. As she rounded the corner, she stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
She'd never seen a gathering of this grandeur. The vaulted ceilings were adorned with floating fairy lights, their warm glow casting a soft luminescence over the elegant crowd below. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with a faint sulfuric tang that seemed to seep from every wall.
Death Eaters moved in clusters, their black robes swirling like shadows. Sharp clinks of goblets filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and hushed whispers. Scanning the room, Amoria spotted her father at the far end, engaged in stiff conversation with a group of men. His distant smiles and curt nods betrayed his discomfort.
She straightened her back and began to make her way through the throng, murmuring polite apologies as she brushed past flowing cloaks and glittering jewels. Just as she neared him, Lucius Malfoy appeared at her father's side, leaning in to whisper something before leading him away down a darkened hallway.
Amoria sighed, pressing her lips into a thin line. She glanced around the room, recognizing only a few of the other guests. A tightness began to form in her chest—she had no idea what to do at an event like this. She wasn't one to socialize with strangers, let alone those twice her age. No one seemed to notice her, but the anxiety only grew. She grabbed a glass from a passing tray and quickly retreated to the edge of the room.
Standing there, she let her eyes drift over the crowd, catching fragments of mundane conversations and observing the subtle dance of body language. As she sipped from her glass, the warmth of the alcohol flushed her face. She never truly liked the feeling alcohol gave her—it made her thoughts feel hazy, and regaining focus was nearly impossible. It was a distraction from the real world, and a poor one at that. The next morning, she'd be all too aware of the real world, vowing never to drink again. But tonight, she needed just enough to boost her confidence and ease the constant anxiety that had followed her since her arrival. Her vision blurred slightly as she scanned the room.
A snippet of dialogue nearby caught her attention. She shifted closer, careful not to draw notice.
"...blew up the prison. Killed all the prisoners, even got a chunk of ours, including Dolohov. Breckan said he even saw a few of theirs castAvada. Guess they've finally realized they're fighting a war."
The man laughed heartily and moved on, oblivious to her eavesdropping.
Amoria froze, the words sinking in. The Resistance had blown up the prison in Sussex. Her father had warned her of their growing desperation, but she hadn't thought them capable of such drastic measures. For years, the Resistance had avoided killing, clinging to their ideals of mercy and restraint. That approach had cost them dearly. Battle after battle, they were crushed, their soldiers slaughtered in traps laid by the Death Eaters.
But this... this was different. Destroying the prison had meant killing not just their enemies, but their own as well—lives that hundreds had died trying to save. The sheer desperation behind the act could signal a turning point in the war, only not in their favor. Her father must have known about this before their arrival. Perhaps that was what had secured their "invitation".
Amoria's breath quickened as the room suddenly felt too crowded. People brushed past her, the heat from their bodies suffocating the air around her. Her chest tightened. She needed to get out—now. Without thinking, she pushed through the crowd, her desperation guiding her aimlessly through the sea of people, seeking escape from the overwhelming crush.
A glass door leading to a balcony appeared ahead, and she slipped outside, closing it softly behind her. The sharp night air stung her cheeks, but it steadied her frayed nerves. She descended the stone staircase to the garden below, her steps hurried. Finding a bench nestled among the flowerbeds, she collapsed onto it, the sweet scents of blooming flowers and fresh water mingling with the cool breeze.
Her father had always spoken with unwavering confidence in the Dark Lord, insisting that the Resistance was doomed from the start. Their refusal to embrace the dark arts, he claimed, crippled their progress, costing hundreds of lives in a futile effort to uphold their so-called "morals". She needed to calm down—if her father trusted the Dark Lord and his cause, then so should she. As she steadied her breathing, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A man stood nearby, leaning casually against a stone wall, a glass of amber liquid in hand. His white-blond hair shimmered in the moonlight.
Though she recognized him right away, he obviously didn't look like the boy she remembered. Deep shadows of purple etched beneath his hollow eyes, and his face tense. He was only a year older, yet he had already accomplished so much. At sixteen, he had killed one of the most powerful wizards, becoming the youngest to receive the Dark Mark. Just a few years later, he had risen to the rank of general. A close follower of the Dark Lord, just like his father.
Draco smirks, his gaze lingering on her. "Look at you, all grown up and still as dramatic as ever. Some things never change." he said with a bitter laugh as he drank the rest of the contents in his glass.
He used to tease her about her "dramatic" moments, often with a smirk, and at one point, he'd try to comfort her. But over time, he grew cold, turning his teasing into bullying over even the smallest infractions. Just as the friendship between her father and Lucius had soured, so too did the bond between her and Draco. They'd exchange insults, using the growing tension between their fathers to dig under each other's skin, each loyal to their own side. Their once-solid friendship eventually shattered, but even then, she never harbored any real resentment toward him. She'd briefly thought of him as an arrogant prick, but his abrupt change in demeanor had always stung. They had been like siblings—fighting at times, yes, but always making up in the end. Until, one day, they didn't. That was the day she and her father left the manor for good.
She let out a sigh, almost relieved it wasn't someone important, though a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks at being caught so frazzled. Crossing her arms defensively, she met his gaze. Despite their once-close relationship, the comfort between them now felt distant, fleeting. They hadn't seen each other in years, and this was how he chose to greet her? She hadn't expected anything warm, but the bitterness and mocking tone in his voice threw her off. He had changed—there was a hardness in his expression, a tension that seemed more than just the result of time. As he drew closer, the faint scent of firewhiskey clung to him, deepening her discomfort.
Amoria stood her ground, pressing her back against the cold stone wall. She had no patience for him or his drunken judgements of her. With a sharp breath, she forced a mocking smile, trying to mask the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
"Huh, I remember you being a lot better at this, Draco. Looks like all that military training has dulled your creativity. Or maybe it's just the firewhiskey talking." she spit out.
He scoffed, his eyes scanning her up and down before stepping back. He flicked his wand lazily and conjured another glass of firewhiskey, taking a deep gulp. He glared at her, shaking his head.
"Funny" he remarked, his tone flat and cold. "Give it time, and we'll see if you're still laughing."
Amoria's gaze remained icy as she locked eyes with him, offering nothing but silent defiance. The air between them grew thick with tension, the silence oppressive and charged. Despite the praises she had seen in theDaily Prophet, Draco seemed nothing more than the usual bully he once was, but now, he had authority backing his viciousness.
Draco's jaw clenched, and before she could react, he moved closer, pressing her harder into the wall. His lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowing with malice.
"Let me make one thing perfectly clear," he growled. "You and your father aren't here because anyone wanted you. You're here because the Dark Lord decreed it. Don't mistake that for hospitality."
Her eyes widened at the sheer bitterness in his words, the venom seeping through his voice. She fought to conceal the shock and hurt she felt, quickly replacing her expression with a scowl.
"My father and I don't need—nor want—the Malfoys' hospitality," Amoria shot back, her tone sharp as a blade. "If you can even call this pathetic charade 'hospitality.'"
Draco's lips twisted into a bitter, startled laugh, his eyes flashing with a mixture of disbelief and fury.
"What's really pathetic is your father, strutting around like some war hero, basking in the praise for his 'efforts.' It's easy to avoid the fight when you're off gallivanting through Europe." His voice dripped with venom as he stepped closer. "While your father enjoyed his extended holiday, mine was locked away in Azkaban, at the hands of the fucking Resistance—his reputation destroyed. Where was your father when his 'old friend' was tossed aside, left to lose his mind?"
His voice faltered, the anger barely concealing the raw pain beneath.
"Oh, that's right—he was too busy cozying up to the Dark Lord, climbing his way up to where we are now. For someone who always preached about loyalty, he sure had no problem exploiting others' mistakes for his own benefit."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She was hurt, offended even. Yes, the way they were welcomed was far from ideal, but that wasn't something her father or she could control. Lucius' lack of control wasn't their problem. The Dark Lord had deemed it best for her father to take over. It was war, and though she understood that desperate times called for harsher measures, she couldn't understand why the one person most affected by it was the only one who had opened himself to them. Despite the years apart and the unfamiliar distance between them, Dracos hatred still stung—threatening to bring tears to her eyes. She blinked them away quickly. The last thing she needed was for him to mock her tears.
"You have no idea what we've been through—the things we've lost. And now, after all these years, you show up just as victory's within reach, after staying as far from the battle as possible. Do you know this is the first time I've seen your father since the Dark Lord's return? All these years of fighting, and he couldn't even be bothered to show his face. Your father's no hero. He's a coward who let everyone else bleed and suffer while he stayed safe."
Safe?They had been anything but safe these past years. Countless times, her father had come home bloodied, or they'd been forced to flee in the dead of night after a safe house was compromised or he'd been recognized. Most of the time, she wasn't even allowed to leave the house under her father's strict orders. Years spent trapped, suffocating under the weight of constant anxiety and crushing loneliness.
Amoria's chest tightened at the words, a bitter laugh bubbling in her throat. Draco Malfoy had no idea of the suffering her family had endured. The constant anxiety, the gnawing fear that every time her father left, he might never return. Each departure felt like a knife in her heart, and when he came back, there was no relief—just the grim knowledge that the cycle would start over.
Heat surged through her veins, pulsing in sync with her rapid heartbeat. She scowled, determined not to break eye contact. The conflicting emotions this place—and he—stirred in her were overwhelming, clouding her thoughts. There was no love left between their families, at least not anything genuine. Maybe Lucius was pleased to have them there, but a strange sense of pity crept over her. He was the one being replaced, yet at least he had treated her with a semblance of decency. The others, however, were nothing more than strangers clinging desperately to the remnants of their power, trying to drag others down with them before their inevitable fall. It was pathetic.
Her breaths came sharp and shallow, quickening as her vision a blurred black, her gaze still fixed on his. Her emotions swelled—fear, anger—consuming her entirely. Draco's confused expression only fueled her fury further. Just moments ago, he had stood over her, demeaning her and the only person she had left. Now, he dared to look confused, scared even? Her limbs trembled as the anger built into a roaring inferno. Whispers swirled in her mind, growing louder and louder until everything else faded, urging her to release it. Her mind felt unnervingly clear, sharper than ever before. Amid the chaos, she focused solely on Draco, her hatred for him intensifying with every passing second.
A dark glow enveloped her, wrapping around her like fire, consuming her entirely. Terror struck as the realization hit—she felt euphoric. It felt raw, uncontainable. She'd never felt anything like it before, and she didn't want it to stop.
She whipped her wand from her robes, a sharp pulse of magic exploding from her fingertips in an arc of black light. The force of it slammed into Draco's chest, his eyes wide in shock, as he shot back, his body slamming into the earth. Amoria's vision flickered, the black haze fading to total darkness as the power burned out of her, leaving her weak and trembling. Her head pounded intensively as she collapsed to the ground. The last thing she felt before everything went dark, was a hollow emptiness swallowing her whole.