Amoria sat motionless on the edge of her bed, her fingers clenched tightly around the hem of her robes. Her father had left moments ago, the slam of the door still echoing faintly in her ears. But she couldn't bring herself to move. Fear rooted her in place, icy and suffocating, as her mother's voice played over and over in her mind:
"They'll want to control you. He will make you do terrible things, Ami—heinous things. And he won't take no for an answer."
The Dark Lord knew. He always knew. And now he would punish her for what she had done. For harming one of his beloved generals. It didn't matter that she hadn't killed Draco—just that she had dared to act against the Dark Lord's will.
Her breath hitched as her mind spiraled, painting vivid, violent possibilities of what awaited her. Would he subject her to theCruciatus Curse, pushing her to the brink of madness until every sense of herself unraveled? Or worse—would he kill her? No, not yet. She couldn't quite believe he'd go that far. After all, she was still useful.
Still, the thought lingered, gnawing at her. She had been taught to serve him, to believe in his divine power, to trust him. But the Dark Lord was merciless, and her mistake would not be forgiven.
Her gaze drifted to the faint moonlight spilling across the room. She clenched her fists tighter, nails biting into her palms. She needed to get up. She knew better than to keep the Dark Lord waiting. But still, she sat frozen, bracing for the inevitable reckoning.
After lingering much longer than she should, her hands trembled as she swung her feet to the floor, the cold wood beneath them grounding her, however faintly. Every nerve screamed for her to stay put, to cling to the safety of her room, but she forced herself forward. One step. Then another.
Reaching the wardrobe, she fumbled through the hanging robes, her shaking hands grabbing the first plain black set she found. She stripped off her dress robes with frantic movements, slipping into the simple ones and shoving her feet into flats. At the vanity, she smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, staring into her reflection.
Her face betrayed her terror. Pale, taut features framed wide, frightened eyes. The pressure in her chest swelled, suffocating and relentless, an urge to scream and cry threatening to spill over. But she couldn't—she wouldn't. The uncertainty of her punishment was unbearable, but failure would cost not just her but her father as well. He had trusted her. And her failure could destroy them both.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath as she tried to steady herself. Slowly, her features hardened into a mask of neutrality. The terror didn't vanish, but she buried it deep, locking it away. Her trembling hand reached for the doorknob, the cool metal biting against her palm. With one final breath, she twisted it and stepped into the corridor, leaving the fragile safety of her room behind.
The manor was deathly silent, the air thick with foreboding. Portraits glared down at her from the walls, their painted eyes tracking her every step. Shadows danced under the faint torchlight, twisting and flickering as if alive, amplifying the unease that coiled in her stomach.
Ahead, the drawing room door stood ajar, a sliver of orange light spilling into the darkened hallway. Drawing closer, she caught the faint murmur of voices, interspersed with the steady crackling of a fire.
Amoria squared her shoulders, forcing her trembling hands to steady. She couldn't let them see her fear. Not now. Not ever. She knocked firmly on the door.
"Come in," came a cold, commanding voice that sent a shiver down her spine.
Pushing the door open, she stepped inside. Three figures stood near the fireplace. Her father was the first she noticed, clutching a glass of amber liquid, his expression carefully blank. Beside him stood a man she knew only from the pages of theDaily Prophet—Severus Snape. His sallow, gaunt face and calculating eyes were exactly as pictured, though he didn't spare her a glance.
The third figure sat in a high-backed chair, facing the fire. Even without seeing his face, she knew who he was. The room felt heavier, as though his very presence warped the air, suffocating any sense of stability she might have had.
At his feet, a great serpent lay coiled, its yellow eyes glinting in the firelight as they flicked toward her.
Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she clasped them tightly behind her back, desperate to conceal the trembling. She glanced toward her father, hoping for reassurance, but he avoided her eyes. His expression was grim, his usual composure betraying a trace of unease.
"Y-you wanted to see me, my Lord?" she stammered, her voice faltering despite her best efforts.
The figure in the high-backed chair made a subtle flick of his wand, and a second chair materialized beside him. "Please, my child—sit," the Dark Lord said, his tone deceptively soft, with a venomous undertone that made her skin crawl.
Amoria crossed the room, her steps feeling heavier with every inch. She sat stiffly in the conjured chair, the unnatural heat of the fire clawing at her skin and adding to the suffocating pressure of his presence. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she braced for what was to come.
His crimson eyes bored into hers, unblinking and probing. She had expected his appearance to be monstrous, but what struck her was how diminished he seemed—thinner than in photographs, his sallow skin stretched tightly over sharp bones. And yet, his aura was anything but diminished. The raw, oppressive power radiating from him made her feel as though she might shatter under its weight.
For a moment, he studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, his lips curling into a faint, serpentine smile.
"You are your mother's child," he said at last, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "The resemblance is undeniable—not merely in appearance, no—but in potential."
Amoria's chest tightened as the words sank in, her pulse quickening.
"I've heard of last night's events," he continued, his tone calm but laced with danger. "Though you failed to kill the boy, you made an impression nonetheless. Your father, however, seems to have neglected to inform me of your… talent."
Amoria swallowed hard, the weight of the Dark Lord's words settling heavily in her chest. Her father had only mentioned her mother's magic once—a vague remark about how it had been unlike anyone else's. That she had mother's illness had made even the simplest spells a struggle, let alone summoning the energy to wield the kind of magic Amoria had unintentionally released.
"I wasn't aware I shared my mother's gifts, my Lord," her voice steady despite the fear threatening to crack it. "Father rarely spoke of her, let alone her abilities. I didn't even know they could be passed to me. This is the first time I've experienced it."
The Dark Lord tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "I knew your mother well," he said, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "She was… impressive. But ultimately, she was weak—held back by sentimentality and fear. You, however, could succeed where she failed."
Amoria's chest tightened painfully. Her gaze darted to her father, silently pleading for comfort, but he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. He offered her nothing.
"You may have heard whispers surrounding her… manner of death," the Dark Lord continued, his tone calm but venomous. "Let me assure you, her end came not because of me, but because of her lack of resolve to becomemore. Both she and your father knew the price of failure—and ultimately, that price had to be paid." His gaze unblinking. "Do not make the same mistake."
Amoria clenched her fists tightly behind her back, her nails digging painfully into her palms. She forced her breathing to steady, willing herself to mask the terror clawing at her insides.
"A rare gift flows through your veins," the Dark Lord murmured, his tone low and serpentine. "It is a power that has shaped empires and brought even the mighty to their knees. A power that, for centuries, had been hidden away by those who feared it—too ignorant to recognize its true potential. Instead of learning to harness it, they hunted its wielders to extinction, erasing any trace of its existence. Such a gift makes you a target. They will fear what you possess and what you could become. The enemy will do everything in their power to destroy you once they realize what you are. Do not give them the chance."
He paused, his focus sharpening on her. "Your father taught you the Dark Arts, did he not?"
Amoria swallowed, feeling her throat tighten. "He did, my Lord. Though I wouldn't consider myself very knowledgeable in them, I—I know some curses and dark magics."
"Have you ever used them on anyone?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft but chilling. "Felt the true power of controlling another man's fate—deciding whether they live or die?"
Her heart sank, the weight of his question pressing heavily on her chest. Though the Dark Arts intrigued her, torture and murder were lines she had only crossed in theory, never in practice. "No, my Lord," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I—I've only studied them, thus far."
The Dark Lord sighed, disappointment flickering across his face. "A shame, truly. The feeling is… unparalleled. I was but a boy when I took my first life," he said, his tone almost wistful. "Of course, I made sure to practice on lesser beings first—animals, Muggles—whatever opportunity arose. But after that first kill, everything changes. It becomes real. And each one after that only strengthens the power, the hunger for more."
His expression shifted, a gleam of satisfaction lighting his eyes as he spoke, his voice dripping with nostalgia. The sight of his pleasure sent a wave of nausea rippling through Amoria, but she forced herself to remain still, masking the revulsion threatening to betray her.
"To ensure you learn to properly hone this power," his tone cold and deliberate, "I have assigned Severus to oversee your progress. He will help you master your abilities, ensuring that you perform as expected. As for young Draco—he has been tasked with training you in combat and advancing your studies in the Dark Arts during his time between assignments. His recent… distractions have dulled his focus."
Combat training. The words echoed in her mind, cold and unrelenting. He expected to send her onto the battlefields alongside the rest of the Death Eater army. A knot tightened in her stomach as the realization struck—Draco would be training her to kill. She hadn't truly considered it before, the significance of what that meant. But now, the truth was undeniable. Of course, Draco had killed people. How could she not have realized that sooner? A general of his rank would be expected to kill without hesitation.
But herself? She wasn't so sure.
The Dark Lord rose from his chair, his gaunt frame looming over her. His serpent-like eyes stared into hers with a terrifying intensity. "Understand this, girl: I do not tolerate failure. You will wield this gift for a purpose far greater than yourself. For me. Defy me, and you will find your mother's fate was merciful by comparison."
A cold, mirthless smile curled his lips. "Do not disappoint me. I have high hopes for you, my dear."
Amoria nodded stiffly, her voice failing her.
"Good," he said, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. "Now leave us. Your father and I have matters to discuss."