The second day back of summer holidays was the worst for Jane. Hogwarts had its challenges, but at least it offered escape—quiet corners, hidden alcoves, and a sense of purpose. Home was different. Home was a battlefield she couldn't win.
The house groaned under the weight of years, its walls thin and fragile. Cracks split the ceilings, and the wallpaper curled at the edges. At night, the wind howled through the window frames, loud and constant. It was unseasonably cold and there was a steady stream of cool drafts that crept under her door, and her thin blankets did little to keep out the chill.
The noise was relentless. Car horns blared, factory machines clanged, pipes groaned, and floors creaked. The sounds wove into everything, leaving no space for peace. Her headaches pounded behind her eyes, completely inescapable. Sleep offered no relief, broken by every distant honk and clanging of the windowpane.
At school, the chaos was different, manageable. Here, there was no silence, no refuge. Jane sat in the dim light of her bedroom, the wind rattling the walls, and for the first time in weeks, she felt truly trapped.
Then there was her father. It was as if a switch had flipped in him overnight, and he was a completely different man. Usually distant and detached, he was a man of routine—working long night shifts and sleeping through the day, barely acknowledging her presence. He had never been the warm, attentive father she quietly wished for, but now his attention had suddenly shifted toward her in a way that unsettled her. It wasn't affection or concern. It was pure suspicion.
His eyes lingered on her like a bird of prey, just waiting to strike. It felt like he was overanalyzing her every action, searching for something beneath the surface. What it was, she wasn't sure.
For years, he'd shown little interest in her life at Hogwarts, brushing aside any mention of magic with disinterest. Jane had always assumed it was because he was a Squib, burdened by the invisible line that separated him from the magical world. But now, something had changed. He wanted to know everything—pressing her with questions about her classes, her friends, even the school itself. His sudden curiosity was probing, deliberate.
He had paid particular attention to Cat for some reason. He wasn't unkind to her Kneazle, but there was a quiet wariness in the way he watched the creature. Jane had explained Cat's origins months ago in a letter, yet her father still seemed doubtful. He didn't trust the Kneazle, and Cat, in turn, kept his distance, sensing the unease in the house.
But the worst of it came at night. Every time Jane shifted in bed or so much as breathed too loudly, it felt like she had summoned him. His footsteps would creep down the hall, always pausing outside her door. She could hear the faint creak of the loose floorboard he never seemed to remember, a quiet but constant reminder that he was there—waiting, listening.
Why else would he have taken the entire week off work for her return home when they could barely afford it? The question gnawed at her. It wasn't care or concern. It was something else. Apprehension? Distrust? As if he was convinced she might do something terrible.
Exhausted by the constant presence, Jane gave up on her creaking mattress altogether. She pulled her blanket to the floor, curling up on the cold, hard boards where no groaning springs could betray her to the man silently standing on the other side of the door.
It had only been two days but there were no signs of this getting better. Her father, a man set in his traditional ways, was at the stove making breakfast—sausage, eggs, beans, and toast. The rich scent of frying meat filled the small kitchen, but it did nothing to settle the uneasy pit in Jane's stomach.
Her hip ached from spending the night on the floor, but she simply gritted her teeth and bore it. Without a word, she set the table, placing mismatched plates and chipped mugs in their usual spots. Her father quietly loaded their plates with food, his movements slow and deliberate.
Jane picked at the meal, forcing herself to chew, but every bite tasted like ashes. It wasn't her father's cooking—he was a decent enough cook. It was her own lack of appetite that had made eating feel like a chore. The clinking of cutlery against the plates filled the silence between them, awkward and food sat heavily in her mouth, swallowed without thought. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make the tension worse.
And then he dared to speak.
"Any big plans for the summer, Jane?"
Her mind felt as if it was full of sawdust, so Jane took another bite of her food to give herself time to think. "I'm hoping to get a job at the Crown and Fork again," she finally replied. "Save up for school supplies and a few extra books for N.E.W.T.s." It seemed like the expected answer, something practical and sensible.
He didn't react immediately, but then he spoke again, a little more probing this time. "Anything else?"
Furrowing her brow, Jane was unsure of what he was getting at. "Ummm... Maybe visit the local library?" she offered, though even as the words left her mouth, she realized it sounded like a weak attempt to make the conversation feel normal.
Her father didn't say anything else, just nodded. He sipped his tea in silence, his eyes flicking to her briefly before returning to the steam rising from his mug.
Feeling the tension of the silence, Jane pushed her plate aside. She stood, picked up her half-eaten food, and walked over to the fridge. "I'll save the rest for later," she murmured, placing the plate inside.
She closed the fridge door, but didn't turn to face her father. Instead Jane trudged back to her room, her footsteps leaden on the floorboards as she felt the familiar unease pressing against her chest. She shut the door behind her with a soft click, the quiet inside her room more welcome than the stress of the kitchen.
Jane walked over to her desk, where her books were scattered in distinct piles, and sank into her chair. The headache that was already beginning to make itself known had her massaging her temples, trying to ward it off before it became unbearable.
With a sigh, she opened one of the books in front of her—anything to distract herself. But her mind kept wandering, the feeling of unease lingering like a shadow. The soft rustling of pages was the only sound in the room, and despite the calm, Jane couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Almost immediately she closed the book in front of her with a snap, the sound far too loud in the stillness of the room. Her eyes snapped to the window, but the view of the street outside, the same dull scene of cracked pavements and closed shops, offered no solace. The city outside was just as suffocating as the house she was trapped in.
The silence was deafening.
With a huff of frustration, Jane pulled a book from her desk. It was her well worn copy of The Outsiders. She opened it to the first chapter, but she barely glanced at the words. The cycle seemed endless—Jane would try to read, but her mind would inevitably drift back to her father. The more she overthought, the worse the headache became. By mid-afternoon, she couldn't take it anymore. She stood up, muttering to herself, "Screw it," and decided to get some water from the kitchen.
As Jane stepped into the hallway, she moved almost instinctively, her body remembering the routine. Moving with the silent precision of a cat, Jane crept through the house, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and took slow, deliberate breaths. It was a habit formed during years of tiptoeing around her father's sleep schedule.
Right before she entered the kitchen, Jane's hair tie broke and caused her to pause to untangle it from the disaster that was her hair. As her fingers fumbled with her curls, she noticed a strange stillness in the air, the kind that always preceded something unsettling. Her father's back was turned to her, but she could see him clearly enough.
The clink of porcelain breaking sliced through the quiet. A mug, old and familiar, almost as ancient as the house itself, slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor, sending fragments scattering in all directions. Instead of doing what any muggle would do, Jane watched in horror as her father, without hesitation, reached into his sleeve. The motion was deliberate, smooth, and practiced. And when his hand emerged, it was holding a wand. Her world burned around her as she watched him flick the wand effortlessly.
"Reparo."
The fragments of the mug seemed to defy reason, moving as if drawn by an invisible hand. One by one, the shards reassembled with a faint clicking sound, the mug remaking itself as if it had never been shattered at all.
Jane's entire world seemed to freeze in place. Her mind raced, confusion and disbelief crashing together like thunder. The truth she had always known—her father was a Squib—was now crumbling before her. For years, she had been told that he had no magical ability, that he couldn't do anything the way others in their world could. She had accepted it, internalized it, even found comfort in it. He was a man of habit, of simple explanations. His lack of magic had been a permanent fixture in her life.
But here he was, wielding a wand like any wizard.
It wasn't just the magic itself—it was the betrayal, the impossibility of it all. How long had he been hiding this from her? Was everything she'd been told a lie?
Her knees began to buckle, and she felt her jaw tighten as it tried to hold back the tears. Her father didn't even notice her presence as the last piece of the mug clicked into place, the soft hum of magic lingering in the air. Jane's thoughts swirled, each one colliding with the next, drowning out all else. She had to get out of there, had to make sense of this... had to know why.
Betrayal. That was the word that clawed at her throat. Her hand instinctively reached for the familiar soothing feel of her wand, hidden in the deep pocket of her faded yellow overalls.
Retreating as silently as she could, Jane made her way back towards the stairs. The old house creaked and groaned in protest, and one particularly defiant floorboard gave a loud, accusatory squeak.
"Jane?"
Time splintered. The world simultaneously froze and exploded into a thousand dismembered pieces. She'd always known her father was different, but this was something else entirely. Was he involved in something dangerous? Was she in danger? The questions burned through her mind like a wildfire, consuming her thoughts. She had to be careful. One wrong move could change everything. With stiff fingers, she gripped her wand tightly. Something was terribly wrong.
He knows I'm here.
Without giving herself time to second-guess, Jane bolted, her legs carrying her upward as fast as they could manage. She pushed past the banister, the stairway feeling like a trap. Her breath hitched as she passed her father's room, a fleeting moment of opportunity. But then, something caught her eye—something shiny.
Cat.
Her Kneazle was crouched at the foot of her father's bed. He was playing with something small and glittering between his paws, batting it around like he would do with a dead mouse. Jane's pulse quickened, her feet almost continuing to run, but she didn't. Not completely. She had to know what he was playing with.
She edged closer, and as the light flickered across the object, her blood ran cold.
An emerald.
The one that had come with the Yaxley letter. The one that Snape had wanted her to get. The one that had gone missing. The one that Dumbledore has. No. The one that Dumbledore had.
Her hands wavered as she reached toward it, causing the direction of her spiraling thoughts to shift. Why is it here? Why is Cat playing with it?
Her eyes flicked from the gem to the bed, and back again. How had it ended up here? Why was it in her father's room?
Cat meowed softly, nudging the emerald toward Jane as if offering it to her. The light from the hallway reflected off the gem, and Jane couldn't tear her eyes away. The room around her seemed to blur, and the gravity of the situation grew heavier by the second.
"Jane?"
The back of Jane's neck began to sweat as she knelt beside Cat. Her heart thudded in her chest like a war drum, each beat echoing in her ears. She reached for the emerald, her hands trembling, and whispered, frantic with a desperate urgency.
"Where did you get this, Cat? Where did you—?"
The Kneazle responded by slinking away, his sleek fur gliding against the tattered quilt as he padded off the bed. Without thinking, Jane followed him, her eyes wide with mounting panic. Cat didn't stop, didn't look back. He simply ducked underneath the bed, then lay down, curling up beside something hidden in the shadows.
Jane's stomach twisted. No. It can't be. It just can't.
Without hesitation, she crouched down, her hand shaking as she reached under the bed and pulled out the small, dust-covered shoebox. Her fingers fumbled at first, then quickly tore the lid open, scanning the contents. She wasn't surprised, but she was horrified.
There, sitting in the box, were all the papers she knew she would find. Her birth certificate, neatly folded; her parents' marriage license, the paper yellowed with age; the lease for the house. But that wasn't all.
Beneath these, in a careful pile, was an invitation. Yaxley Manor.
The words burned into her mind like a brand. But it was what lay beneath that made her blood freeze.
Dozens of letters. Letters that were thick with years, faded ink smudged across pages, and the unmistakable wax seal of Dumbledore—Albus Dumbledore. Jane hesitated, but then she ripped open one of the letters, her eyes flying over the words.
The first letter was dated from her first year. She could barely breathe as she read the carefully penned words.
"We must proceed cautiously. Jane's future may be the key to everything. You know what must be done. We must prepare her for what's to come. Keep her close. Watch her. Do not let anything interfere with her concealment."
Her body shook, the words blurring as her mind tried to process what she was reading. What is this? What does it mean?
"Jane?"
The letters went on. Year after year, conversations between her father and Dumbledore about her. About her. What was happening? What had her father been hiding?
A loud bang sounded from downstairs, and Jane's body went ridgid. A door creaked open, and footsteps echoed on the stairs.
No.
Her father was getting closer.
Panicked, she shoved the letters back into the box, trying desperately to hide what she had seen. The air felt thick. Every noise seemed amplified. Her father was nearing. She had to make a decision. Fast.
The sound of his steps was growing closer. He was almost at the top of the stairs.
With one last, fearful look at the shoebox, Jane shoved it back under the bed, her fingers numb as she tried to make everything look undisturbed.
Just as the door to her father's room creaked open, she stood, and instinctively darted towards the window.
If she could just make it—
But she knew it was too late. The footsteps had stopped. Her father was standing in the doorway.
"Jane."
She froze, not responding. Her hand gripped the edge of the windowpane, the wind outside howling through the crack in the glass.
"Jane," he said again, this time with a slow, calculating pause. "What are you doing in there?"
Every part of her screamed to run, to do something, but she was paralyzed. Trapped. She had no choice but to turn and face him, the overwhelming surge of terror in her chest making it hard to think.
"Nothing," Jane managed to croak, her throat tight, her words trembling as she tried to keep her voice steady. "I was just... I was just... thinking."
He stepped closer, and she took a step back, her hand still gripping the window. Her father's gaze never wavered.
"You've been thinking a lot, haven't you?" he asked, his words colder now. "About what exactly, Jane?"
The intensity of his stare was unbearable, and Jane could feel the walls of the room closing in on her, the letters hidden under the bed, the emerald on the bed, the truth that seemed to be slipping through her fingers.
Her father wasn't who he had claimed to be. He had never been the man she thought she knew. And suddenly, she was terrified of everything—the house, the man, and the world she had believed in.
The air between them crackled, an unspoken threat hanging in the silence. Every muscle in her body tightened as she slowly raised her wand, her hand shaking but determined. Her father stood there, eyes narrowing, studying her with a calm that made her want to scream.
"You're not going to do this, Jane. Put the wand down."
"No," she spat. "You're working with Dumbledore." The words came out of her before she could stop them, a raw accusation.
His eyes flashed, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of something she hadn't seen before—anger, maybe, or something darker. He took a step forward, his expression hardening into something unrecognizable.
"No, Jane. I'm not working with Dumbledore. You don't know what you're talking about." He said it gently, but it made the hair on her arms stand on edge.
No, he was lying. He had to be.
"You are," she insisted, growing more desperate. "I've seen the letters. I know what you've been hiding."
Her father's expression faltered for only a second, and Jane seized on it, pushing herself further.
"Calm down," he demanded, more forceful now, but there was something beneath the surface. Something strained. "This isn't the way, Jane. This will only end badly for you. You won't win."
But Jane couldn't stop herself. Her teeth ground with fury as she cast the first spell that came to mind, her wand blazing with the power of her anger.
"Stupefy!"
The red light flew toward him, but in a blur of motion, her father raised a hand, and the spell was absorbed into the air with a crack. He hadn't even moved his wand.
Jane's eyes widened, her pulse quickening. "What the—?"
He didn't answer. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, he drew his wand from his sleeve, his movements smooth, practiced. In that instant, Jane knew: this wasn't the man she had thought him to be.
Before she could react, he flicked his wand with barely any effort, and a jet of green light shot toward her. Jane dove to the side, barely missing it. The air around her sizzled as the bedframe slammed against her ribcage. Her breath was ragged, but she quickly raised her wand again, her mind frantic.
"Expelliarmus!" she shouted, hoping to disarm him, to give her a chance to run.
But again, he barely flinched.
She scrambled back to her feet, her eyes stinging, her brain whirling for anything that could stop him. She had no idea what he was capable of. The years she'd spent thinking he was nothing more than an ordinary Squib felt like a lie, a cruel trick.
"You won't win this Jane. Just lower your wand and let me take you to him." He took a slow step toward her.
She clenched her jaw, her wand steady in her hand despite the fear that threatened to take over her. Jane had no Gryffindor courage to fall back on and she knew it. But, she wasn't going to let him win. She was going to fight.
He's not my father anymore. The thought echoed as she cast again, desperation fueling her. "Petrificus Totalus!"
This time, her spell seemed to hit him square in the chest, but her father snapped his wrist once more, and the spell dissipated harmlessly. He looked at her with something almost like pity in his eyes.
"You're not even close," he sneered. "You're not ready for this, Jane."
Her frustration boiled over. She was ready. She had to be. She cast a torrent of spells this time, her wand moving in wild, erratic motions as she unleashed wave after wave of magic. But it was like throwing punches at a wall. Her father stood there, his shield blocking everything with effortless ease. Every spell she cast was repelled, leaving her more breathless, more desperate with each failed attempt.
And then, without warning, her father launched a counterattack. The speed with which he moved was nearly impossible to follow. In an instant, her father's wand jerked, and a blast of magic surged toward her. Jane barely had time to react, her own spell barely grazing his arm as she tried to defend herself. It wasn't enough. The force of his power was overwhelming, and within moments, she realized just how outmatched she was.
She had been foolish to think she could win. He wasn't the weak, Squib father she had always believed him to be. He was a skilled, dangerous wizard—one she could barely keep up with.
Her thoughts were jumbled as she tried to think of something, anything, to turn the tide in her favor. One stray slicing curse finally nicked him on the arm, and he stumbled against the wall, leaving a space just large enough for her. And for the briefest second, Jane thought she had a chance.
Desperation surged in her chest, and without thinking, she turned and fled. She bolted for the door, dodging her father as she hurled herself down the hall as fast as her legs could carry her. She needed to get away. She had to escape.
But she wasn't fast enough.
Before she reached the stairs, a blinding flash of light hit her in the back. The force of the spell sent her stumbling forward, all the air in her lungs leaving her in a strangled gasp as her body was thrown off balance. She tumbled down the stairs, the world spinning around her as she collided with the jagged wooden steps.
Pain exploded in her body as she hit each one, the impact jarring her bones. At the base of the steps, she lay in a heap, her vision blurring in and out, the house tilting dangerously, but through the haze, she saw him coming. Her father, the man she had trusted all her life, was advancing toward her. His face, usually so calm and familiar, was now twisted with something dark—something malevolent. His eyes were cold, empty, and his lips curled into a twisted, almost detached smile.
He had been working with Dumbledore all this time—her whole life a lie. He wasn't the man she thought he was. Jane's head felt like it might explode from the pain.
She struggled to push herself up, but her limbs wouldn't obey. The heartbreak was too much, the terror too overwhelming.
He was getting closer, and she could hear the faint click of his shoes on the wooden floor, each step growing louder, heavier. Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Her wand felt so far out of reach now, almost useless against him.
The way he looked at her—the way he spoke—like she was nothing more than an object to be controlled, to be disposed of when the time came…
"You never should have crossed me, Jane," he muttered, his voice almost a whisper now, as though savoring the moment.
He was so close now, just a few feet away, and Jane could feel his presence. She could feel his magic swirling around him and the air crackled with the hostility between them.
"I told you," he whispered, "this will only end badly for you."
The finality in his voice was like a death sentence.
As her father's footsteps echoed closer, something in Jane's mind began to unravel. His figure seemed to blur at the edges, flickering like a faulty light. For a heartbeat, his face wasn't his at all. It was Dumbledore's—calm, cold, and distant, eyes gleaming with that same calculating detachment she had seen from across the Great Hall.
Then it snapped back to her father.
But the next blink brought something worse. A thin, pale figure with hollow eyes and slitted nostrils, its skin stretched tight like ancient parchment over bone. The creature from her nightmares. The one she could never name.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
He shifted again. Back to her father. His face twisting in anger.
"I told Dumbledore it was time," he growled, but the words seemed to crawl out of the creature's mouth now, its lipless mouth curling into a sneer. "Time to take you away, lock you up… to take your secrets."
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't stop. When she opened them, it was Dumbledore staring down at her again, his eyes glinting behind his half-moon spectacles.
No, no, no—
The walls of the house seemed to close in, warping, suffocating. Her father's figure loomed larger, the air around him pulsing.
"But he wanted to give you one more year," he continued, his voice warping between her father's, Dumbledore's, and that high, cold hiss she didn't recognize. "Wanted to see how you'd turn out. How far you'd fall."
Her chest tightened as the words tangled in her mind. Dumbledore's piercing stare, that pale creature's smirk, her father's familiar scowl—they bled together into something monstrous.
Jane scrambled backward, her palms slipping on the hardwood floor, but her limbs felt sluggish, like she was moving through mud.
Her father—Dumbledore—the creature—took another step.
"But I think it's time now," he said, and his voice was everywhere. In her ears, in her bones. "Time to end this little charade."
Jane's vision swam. His face flickered again.
Her father.
Dumbledore.
The creature.
Over and over.
Her hands shook violently as she tried to push herself up, but her muscles wouldn't respond. It felt like something was coiling around her, squeezing tighter with every breath.
"You never should have crossed me, Jane."
Her father.
"I should have known better than to trust you."
Dumbledore.
"You'll never escape me."
The creature.
Her wand felt impossibly far away now. Her mind screamed for her to fight, but she was frozen.
"I told you…" the voices hissed as one, melding into something inhuman, "…this will only end badly for you."
The air cracked. The house groaned around her.
And Jane could do nothing but watch as he closed in.
Jane's shaking hand stretched out, fingers clawing toward the wand lying just out of reach. Her fingertips barely grazed the smooth wood, nudging it forward an inch. Panic surged in her chest.
Come on, come on!
She strained, forcing every ounce of strength into her arm. The wand slid closer—finally pressing into her palm. The second her fingers curled around it, something dark cracked through her mind.
A flash of a worn book in spiky handwriting. Spells scribbled in the margins.
The Half-Blood Prince.
Blood on cold bathroom tiles. A boy gasping for breath.
The memory wasn't hers, but it tore through her like it belonged. Her eyes snapped to her father. No, not her father. Not anymore. Without thinking, without hesitation, her wand shot up.
"Sectumsempra!"
The words cut from her throat like a blade. Her father didn't even have time to raise his wand. The spell slammed into him, sending him hurtling backward. He crashed against the far wall with a sickening crack, sliding down in a heap. Blood burst from deep, invisible slashes, staining the floor beneath him.
Jane slowly pulled herself to her feet, her legs steady now. She stared at him—at the man choking on his own blood, struggling to breathe. His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto hers. He weakly reached out a hand, as if to plead, to explain.
But Jane didn't move. She felt… nothing. No guilt. No fear. No relief. Just a cold, hollow stillness. She watched as life drained from his eyes, his body finally going still.
And still, Jane didn't look away.
The warmth of something wet and sticky against her skin pulled Jane out of her detached shock. She glanced down, her stomach twisting violently as she realized her socks were soaked in blood—his blood. It seeped between her toes, warm and coppery scent filled her nostrils, mingling with the sharper tang of sweat and fear. Her stomach lurched.
Move.
The thought cracked through the fog in her mind like lightning. Her body moved on instinct, dropping to her knees in the sticky pool of blood. The warmth of it soaked through the thin fabric of her overalls, clinging to her skin. Jane barely noticed. Her hands were shaking violently as she pawed at his pockets. Keys. Wallet. Money.
Her fingers caught on worn leather. Jane yanked it free, snapping it open. She didn't care about the photos or the cards. Just the couple of pounds he carried. The bills were damp and sticking together with blood, but she clawed them free, stuffing the crumpled notes into her pockets. Red fingerprints smeared across the pale fabric.
The smell of blood was everywhere. Jane's breath rasped in and out of her lungs, quick and shallow. The walls felt too close. The house seemed to lean in around her.
But she wasn't done.
Stumbling to her feet, Jane's legs nearly gave out beneath her. She caught herself against the banister, bloodied fingers slipping on the wood. She bolted up the stairs, every step a blur. Her father's bedroom door groaned open as she shoved it with her shoulder.
Cat was there. He sat beside the bed, his yellow eyes calm and unblinking. Between his paws, something gleamed in the dim light. The emerald.
Jane dropped to her knees again, ignoring the sharp sting in her joints. The shoebox under the bed was still there. She yanked it out, nearly dropping it when her slick hands slipped against the cardboard. She ripped off the lid. Her birth certificate. Their marriage license. The house lease.
And then—
The Yaxley invitation.
Her hand shot out, snatching the emerald. The stone was cold, now slick with blood from her hands. She grabbed the Yaxley letter, crumpling it into a tight square, and shoved it into the breast pocket of her overalls. More bloody smears. She didn't care.
Cat meowed softly, an uncertain sound in the silence. Jane scooped him up, wrapping one arm tightly around his middle. He squirmed, claws flexing, but she didn't let go.
The emerald still shown through all the blood.
It wasn't the right time and she didn't know the passcode.
She didn't care.
"Yaxley Manor!" she screamed.
Nothing.
Her throat burned.
Jane squeezed the emerald so hard it bit into her skin. "YAXLEY MANOR!"
And then—
It hit.
That brutal, gut-wrenching hook yanked behind her navel, tearing her from the blood-soaked floor.
And the house vanished in a blur of color and sound.