The sun kissed the horizon with a languorous descent, painting a veil over the ivory sands of the Jamaican shore. Palm trees swayed in the breeze as the waves embraced the beach just beyond a sprawling plantation. Within it nestled a grand colonial manor perfumed by vines of jasmine and hibiscus. Defying age, its pastel lilac façade stood proudly as its sweeping veranda cradled hedonists relishing the day's farewell.
"Just like magic," Alex slurred. "Fucking ace." A chuckle rang out from the wild blue yonder, but it didn't reach one bit. "I feel, I don't know, like lightning, fucking thunder-like… But not the wet sort, y'know? Not that blasted raining, damp, nasty drench of a place."
Moira reclined in one of the white wooden chairs, capturing the essence of the island with braids adorned in green beads and a dress colored like the departing sun. On the other, Alex emulated her tranquil demeanor, his loose curls tousled by the warm, briny wind, and his attire — an unfastened shirt and white linen trousers — the caricature of a foreigner who had unanchored into the lull of the tropics. A glass of dark rum shimmered in each hand, the liquid catching light as they laxly indulged each sip. Behind them, the nostalgic notes of Blueberry Hill by Fats Domino drifted out the open parlor windows, jazzing up the forthcoming evening.
"Chill, a jus di sun," Moira remarked with another snicker. Since their arrival, she had reawakened to the island's sounds, and whether Alex understood or not was never any matter. Either way, he'd been sedated with drink before they had even arrived. Who could say for sure that he'd retained anything at all?
"It's bloody brilliant," he spieled, head bobbing up and down. "Yeah, mate, best idea I've had in ages." The sun's dramatic exit stole his attention as it dipped below the sea. "And I've had more than a few best ones, reckon all of 'em."
"Mm." Moira leaned forward, whisking the rum into a lazy circle before settling it on the small white table between them, preparing to deliver some bacchanalian revelation. "Cah wha else wi coulda do? Go back a 12 Grimmauld Place?" She wrinkled her nose as if the mere suggestion to pass by the London townhouse would contract gangrene. Her eyes locked with Alex's, and they both erupted into synchronized snorts.
"And to think that Fletcher nearly made us miss this," he raised the glass, toasting to the island, "to go to that."
"Him neva stand a chance."
"Never," Alex echoed, yet an octave too low. For, despite the alcohol-induced bravado, a nosy nip itched his brain. Was it the notion of returning — or running forever — that hung heavy like the stick of humidity? He fished about the rum as if the amber liquor would speak, springing forth an epiphany. "Read the news?" What sort of question was that? "Or a letter from..." He briefly grimaced. "Anyone?
Moira glanced from the corner of her eye.
"Britain? Wha you still fret 'bout dem for?"
"Wonder how it's going over there," he mused. "If they're still alive, yeah?" Moira's brow arched. "What'd we do if they're...not?"
The witch scrutinized the apparently covert, deep-seated love for the wizard's homeland, reshaping Alex into someone unrecognizable. A devotion she had never encountered and one presumably stirred up and revealed only under extreme intoxication. She had always assumed that his world revolved around the next laugh, the after-party, a life lived on the surface. But now, this sudden, fervent spew of scruples contested all of that. Silly bwoy, she thought, distancing it with a flippant hand wave.
"Nah, mi cyaan bodda fi write or read nuttin til mi reach back," she muttered, smacking and licking her sugar-coated lips.
"But how'd you reckon it's going?"
"Real terrible. It get worsa every day. Imagine dem stuffy purebloods all jam up inna one house?" She rolled her eyes at the hypothetical divination. And though Alex played audience, in all honesty, only a little held water for either of the two, given their current state. They'd been drinking and smoking since noon, so clarity had long since left the building. "House of Black, Malfoy Mansion," the witch rabbited on, "and whatever foolish name dem give to dem stone house inna di middle a nowhere."
"Right, but... You don't think we deserted them, yeah?"
"Deserted?" Moira sputtered like she was hearing someone try—and fail—at a joke. "Who!?"
"You know," he went on, reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette. "Fletcher and them."
"Di Order?"
"No, the Mandrakes, Moira," Alex quipped, but she didn't crack a smile. With a simple snap of his fingers, he lit the cigarette, his half-lidded gaze drifting back to her.
"I set tings in order," she reassured him with a brisk head shake. "Mi tell yuh dat before."
"No, you told Fletcher," he pointed out. "You really meant it?"
"Mi seh what mi mean."
"Because you don't lie, yeah?" Alex shot back, smirking at her expense.
But the amused cadence prompted her to look at him again, something she had avoided ever since the conversation threatened to unsettle the solace of her island slumber. As they exchanged glances, her doubts from before dissolved, and she knew that he was unmistakably Alex— holding the glass in one hand, gently thrumming its rim with a fingernail, while a cigarette hung from his mouth at an angle, a wisp of smoke drifting upward.
"You're not going to tell me who it is, are you?"
Mi know it, she thought. Grinning, she slumped back into the chair, legs stretched out. One arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other hand wrapped around the glass on the side table.
"We trust this person?" Alex pried, shedding the ash off the cigarette with a nimble tap, not entirely concerned where it landed.
"Yuh cyaan trust nobody," she replied coolly. "But him will listen to mi."
Alex inspected the palm trees, then the sky above them— a periwinkle color. But he was no artist, and even more so, he wasn't interested in any of that— fuck the color of the sky. He just knew as soon as she said he would listen to her who it was. There was no need to divulge further; he'd gotten what he wanted: itch scratched. There was no doubt about it, either, for the grand majority of them in that castle meant nothing to her. But there was one— an exception.
He snorted.
"So, this entire time, the grand plan was to have someone else run for us?"
"Definitely," Moira confirmed without a hitch.
"Interesting."
Alex finished the cigarette as Moira polished off the drink.
"Stop fret 'bout all a dat," she insisted, lifting a hand and gliding it over the landscape. "Yuh here now—wi here, this land, this sea. Where yuh ever see sucha beauty before?"
"Oh, I know," Alex stated. "We might never leave. They could all be dead by now."
"And?"
"And?" He shrugged. "What's done is done."
"A so it go, Sykes."
With that, they clinked empty glasses, toasting to what's done is done.
But, had Alex not been so deep in his cups— there were countless questions he should have imposed upon the witch beside him. Because they were going to return, and he knew that. So, first, he should have weeded out a confession of the person she was essentially exploiting to uncover her true intentions with him. Even through the cloud of rum and hash, he could guarantee no noble cause drove this person. Second, what if they turned on her? And not only her but potentially him as well? What if their secrets unraveled, leaving them both exposed? And third, what was Moira's actual role in all of this? She held Dumbledore and Fletcher in disdain, convinced the entire island of Britain could sink into the Atlantic without a tear from the rest of the world. Her end game surely wasn't the survival of Great Britain. No, there was something far more profound at play.
Yes, there were many questions Alexander Sykes should've asked, but instead, he raised his glass, pointing it toward Moira with a broad, toothy grin, as the initial notes of Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry spilled out from the house.
"Deep down in Louisiana, close to New Orleans," he began.
"Way back up in the woods among the evergreens," Moira jumped in.
And just like that, the remnants of their conversation faded with the last of the sun.
It was Boxing Day, yet this part of London was abnormally quiet— as if the capital city had withered away to nothing, fragments of an existence. Grim, to say the least. The deserted streets exacerbated the wildering alarm that had commandeered Eve's flight out of Knockturn Alley and through London's crowds. To make matters worse, the streetlights flickered a drab orange glow, intermittently casting short-lived shadows on the slick, black ice and dirt-ridden snow blanketing the ground. It was a total state of unreality, a night terror.
Except, among all the closed shops, a pub just across the street— visibly named O'Neills — remained open. Its casual din bathed the empty surroundings in an inviting light while laughter spilled out whenever patrons exited for a smoke. There was nothing exceptional about it. A pub among pubs. And yet, regardless of how absurd, to Eve, amidst all the unfamiliarity, the pub's name alone provided a spark of hospitality— a name she had known her whole life.
Where there was nothing, anything was something.
Eve's hand rifled through the cloak to fasten her wand securely into the dress's sleeve. Then, she refocused on the pub. Muscles tightened in readiness; she cautiously laid one foot onto the precarious ice-covered street that seemed prepared to shatter at the drop of a needle. Just as she went to lift the other, a blinding white flash beamed out from the left, abruptly halting her in place.
She never made it to the pub.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Saurus Galloway, and I will be your conductor for this evening," a stout little man announced, reading aloud from a stack of cards. He wore a chain connected from his breast pocket to the monocle perched on his eye, while a white, whisker-like mustache decorated his upper lip.
As if the existing state of unreality hadn't sufficed, this man was the last person she had expected to encounter at such a moment. Plus, his appearance, which was not the sort one would typically imagine as a bus conductor, only contributed to the nightmare-like stupor. Bar all that— what about the fucking bus? How was she meant to process this bizarre thing that had materialized out of thin air?
Saurus Galloway's wide, round eyes blinked down at the bedraggled witch.
"You waitin' for somethin', luv?"
Her attention scantily floated about, fixating on the glaring disparity between the bus in front and the streets around her. Truthfully, there was a certain security in knowing that this man—Saurus Galloway—was a wizard, a disconcerting first impression given that he was, in fact, a stranger and that she knew nothing of the Knight Bus or how it had appeared. Yet, Eve still hadn't shaken off the disorienting stupor. The dregs of shock from torment and escape stifled the urge to debate, discarding any measure of caution to the vacant streets of London.
"Luv?"
"No," she managed to say hoarsely.
"All right, come on now!"
Then and there, Eve grasped the bus's golden exterior pole, which fired a sharp sting into the cuts on her palm and fingers. The unintended reminder made her wince, briefly drawing her out of the haze to inspect the torn skin, freshly raw from the baffling assault. Sucking in air, she willed herself to ignore the searing pain in her hand and knees to ultimately schlep onto the bus' platform. The conductor, characteristically blinking with an unreadable expression, stepped aside as Eve limped past him.
Her progress was humiliatingly slow, each step a torturous trial as she clung to anything within reach to stay upright. Otherwise, they would find her crawling on hands and knees. Thankfully, there was no need to wrestle long— a spot behind the driver was vacant. And yet, the instant she clasped the armrest, the bus sped off, zipping through the city at breakneck speed. Haphazardly and gaspingly, it forced Eve to drop into the armchair, narrowly avoiding a backward tumble from the ad-lib jolt— although at the cost of her battered knees.
Bloody hell.
"And where might you be off to?" Saurus Galloway chimed in.
Merely boarding the bus had been such an ordeal that she hadn't even thought to ask or wonder where they were going. In effect, the entire night was a blur, programming her into fight-or-flight mode. Only when Saurus posed his question, sheltered in a plush chair among witches and wizards, did the sense of unreality gradually wane.
"Well... where're we going?"
"How would I know? The decision is yours, luv, not mine!" Saurus chuckled. "I was hoping you'd tell me!"
Eve stared blankly. Until then, she had only sought an escape— a bid to outrun and stay ahead of the game. Beyond that, there hadn't been a plan.
Then again, nothing that night had gone according to plan.
"Can you take me to Ireland?"
The stout wizard erupted in another chuckle.
"We could, but they'd certainly have our heads for it," he replied with a cheerful grin. Eve pursed her lips, nodding knowingly.
For a moment, she canvassed the nauseous whirl beyond the windows; impossible to discern the bus' location or direction. Peering out the corner of her eye, she explored its cluttered, eccentric interior, filled with scattered items and oddities. Then, her explorations moved to the other passengers. None appeared threatening. They sat quietly in their respective seats, keeping to themselves with their hoods up to shield their faces, likely asleep as they journeyed to wherever they needed—or maybe didn't need—to be.
Without a doubt, Eve stuck out like a sore thumb with her artisanal pine-green velvet cloak, and the hood left down to reveal pearl-studded lobes while adorning an array of silver gemstone rings that glimmered even with the feeblest of motions. Her throat desiccated, begging for a drop of water as the comparison concocted a disturbing inkling. The observation shattered her reality anew. She gnawed at her inner cheeks, too adrift to notice that Saurus Galloway had already made several attempts to readdress her.
Who were these people, and what did they know?
Any recognition could lead straight to Melisende— wherever the witch lurked. Especially if Melisende was in an active, rabid pursuit, combing through one place to another, badgering anyone who might have caught a glimpse of Eve. How far was she willing to go? That was a speculation Eve couldn't speak to, and it alone solidified one certainty— the game wasn't over yet.
Where was she going?
The path home was fraught with risk. Given the recent border restrictions, it meant waiting in Diagon Alley until morning for the first Portkey to Ireland— if not already fully booked. Or, she could return to Hogwarts early— though that would undoubtedly raise a few brows; regardless, she'd likewise be stranded outside the school gates until morning. Alternatively, this bus could take her to Hogsmeade, where she could rest her bones at the Three Broomsticks. And, at this point, Muggle options weren't off the table either, if even available at this hour, but where and how to locate these Muggle means in the first place, on the whim, in the dead of night? Still, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts— all places Melisende would expect Eve to go, no?
Eve switched from biting her cheeks to biting her bottom lip, zeroing in on the floor.
"I have nowhere to go," she muttered, refusing to meet the conductor's gaze.
"It's 40 sickles for the night, luv."
"BLOODY HELL! ENOUGH WITH THE POSH BIRD!" An older wizard shouted from the back of the bus, startling Eve enough that she wound up, lifting her drooping head and hunched shoulders. "HOW LONG TO HOLYHEAD, GALLOWAY!?"
She instantly bent forward to confront him; his bellows a commanding call among a hushed crowd. Deep wrinkles scored his face, with a dark, unkempt beard shrouding the rest. He was draped in a tattered burlap cloak with loose threads and the occasional protruding feather. Though 'posh bird' had been a somewhat ironic slight to her, he seemed utterly indifferent, likely drunk, chiefly glaring at the conductor. Dismissing the embroilment, she sat back once more, gazing at her reflection in the window— the only visible thing in sight.
"Next stop, Swindon," Saurus squawked with a raised chin. "Wales after! Holyhead, next half of an hour." A thunderous groan resounded from the rear. "Cardiff first— of course, possible unexpected stops on the way, as usual."
"Three-quarters of an hour ago," the old wizard grumbled, crossing his arms and retreating into the shadows of the rough burlap cloak.
"Wal— Where...we're going…" Eve whispered absentmindedly; something hoisted like a half-remembered childhood memory.
"Swindon first, Cardiff, Wales, and then Holyhead— still Wales," Saurus informed, interrupting the reverie.
She finally looked at him.
The two blinked in unison.
"Penmon. There's also a Penmon in Wales," she mindlessly cohered.
"One ticket for passage to Penmon, Wales, is it?"
"What?" Eve jolted awake, disengaging from wandering fascination. "Pardon?" she added with slightly parted lips. "Ticket to where?" Her face contorted. "No." She shook her head. "No— what, why, what made you think that?"
"Because you said it, luv."
"Said what?"
"Penmon in Wales," he replied.
Again, they clocked one another, unsure who was mocking who.
"But I've never been to Penmon in Wales," Eve said. "I don't know where it is. I was only thinking out loud." A coy, impish twine verged upon the edges of her mouth. "Wales... Aren't you familiar with the tales of Mabinogion?" She angled her head toward him as if speaking to an imbecile. "Why would you assume—" But before she could complete her sentence, the conductor was already busy ripping off a ticket. He handed her the flimsy piece of paper, which she reluctantly took, her gaze springing back and forth between him and the faint ink on it.
"I…" she paused, reading the ticket, "I don't understand."
Perhaps the imbecile was her.
"14 sickles for passage to Penmon, Wales."
Penmon, Wales? She dwelled on it, staring at the scrap of sheet between her blood-ridden fingers. The name was a smear she couldn't pinpoint— where was it? North or South? East or West? Like a wet finger searching for wind, it echoed from somewhere. But where? Penmon? It was as if someone had mentioned it in passing, and she just hadn't been listening, as usual.
"Right, except I was merely mentioning that there is a Penmon in Wales," she stressed.
"14 sickles for passage to Penmon, Wales," Saurus Galloway repeated.
Fucking hell.
Sighing, Eve tugged at the pearl earring to unfasten it, leaning forward to showcase it to the conductor.
"Here, it's about ten gal—"
From the cue ten galleons, the stout wizard tout de suite snatched and pocketed the pearl. By all means, a rather ill-mannered, sketchy occurrence, but one which Eve glossed over, for that was not the prevailing peculiar, impetuous occurrence that unsettled her. She leaned into her palm, rubbing at the middle of her forehead with her face cast down yet again. Somehow, she had worsened her situation, heading to a destination unknown for reasons unclear.
"Excuse me, Galloway," she called out to the conductor, who peered over his shoulder from where he stood next to the driver's window. "But where in Penmon am I going, then?"
"I suppose St. Seiriol's, luv."
St. Seiriol? Eve ruminated. Who the fuck was St. Seiriol? She clamped her forsaken bottom lip back between her teeth. Was it that bloody potion? How much of her brain had it smashed into mush? Another sigh, albeit short and taut.
"Saurus," she harped, and the conductor, surprisingly patient with her claims for recognition — though he seemed delighted to have it — not only veered but waded over to stand beside her. "What's St. Seiriol's? A hospital?"
"No, luv," he responded immediately. "A Muggle tomb, I reckon. Think that's what it is, aye."
A tomb? Eve frowned. She couldn't know of Penmon for some tomb— especially that of a Muggle. And no St. Seiriol was mentioned in any tales, stories, or History of Magic books.
"And Penmon," she soldiered on, speaking more than she had in the last five years. His attendance never wavered, even if she herself was preoccupied with contradicting contemplations, sparing him only glances when he spoke. "What else is there? Only a tomb?"
"There's a beach," Saurus recited. "A lighthouse." A hmm noise rolled through his throat as if reeling a flashback. "Stopped a few times myself some years back, though it's been quite a while."
"And this lighthouse? What's there?"
"The one out in the Irish Sea?" Eve blinked, for she hadn't mentioned the lighthouse— he did. "No, luv, reckon it hasn't seen a soul in, oh, perhaps a half a century or so."
Helplessly, her shoulders slumped. Too many questions needed answering to coax the elusive memory from the depths of her mind. Tongue-tied, what else was there to ask? Meanwhile, the bus sloppily stopped somewhere to gather another strangler. 'Gwent County' was the only piece she had ingested from the encounter between the conductor and the latest stray. Gwent County, she recreated repeatedly to induce a map for herself to continue engaging with Saurus, for their exchange was the one thing preventing her from climbing up the walls.
"Saurus," she summoned once the bus rumbled back to life. But as soon the strangler had paid their due, he returned to her— as though he had been expecting to do so. "Is there anything there? Anything at all? Or is that all it is— a tomb and a beach?"
"As I said, luv, used to drop off some lads there a couple of years back— reckon they were headed for the beach. It was summer, you see. Didn't seem to me they lived there." He paused. "Well, there's also the Old Lifeboat Station. Can't say for sure, though; I've never stopped there myself. Reckon it's abandoned." He frowned. "Shame, though, lovely spot by the sea."
At this stage, she supposed an abandoned station in the middle of nowhere would suffice to wait out the night to avoid the likes of Melisende. Either way, they were already en route and entirely out of alternatives.
"Can you take me there? To the station?"
Without migrating to the window, Saurus knocked on the partition between them and the driver.
"Old Lifeboat Station in Penmon before Holyhead, Earnie."
"OH, FOR BLOODY SAKE!"
Both Eve and Saurus side-eyed the ruffled drifter. Under another pretext, she would've patiently waited out the journey. Yet, the creeping terror that she was being hunted and needed to disappear overrode any patience, not to mention the anticipation of reaching the far-removed destination that had subconsciously slipped from her lips, wondering whether it was a lost memory to be retrieved only upon arrival.
"I'VE BEEN WAITIN' AGES, GALLOWAY! I'LL DIE ON THIS BLASTED BUS!"
"And she paid ten galleons," Saurus retorted, tilting his chin upward.
Right, ten galleons to nowhere— how entirely deranged.
The curtain twitching ended with a defeated exhale. Eve pinched the corners of her eyes, closing them as time passed, skewed and soundless. What happened? The trial of recasting and reworking every step, all the night's events, and everything leading up to them. It compounded. Steadily, a new, unsettling inkling festered. Her body stiffened, unmovable and impliable as the prospect dawned on her—and what if Melisende wasn't acting alone? This wasn't the first blight at all, now. No, but the second within nearly a week.
First, a poisoned apple.
Then, a triggered Portkey.
'So, you claim your nose is as dull as a rock, yet you're convinced something's amiss? Quite the curious dilemma, wouldn't you say?'
In the dimly lit, oppressive grandeur of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the atmosphere hung heavy with the weight of tradition, unspoken expectations, and the occasional clink of fine crystal.
From her seat at the far end of the imposing ebony dining table, Walburga Black had spent the evening surveying the attendees with the predatory leer of a hawk. She counted them once, then twice, her eyes consistently sharpening at one glaring absence— one seat conspicuously empty. Walburga rose with reserved authority as the house elves scurried to clear the leftovers of the elaborate multi-course dinner, and the guests drifted toward the parlor to continue an evening of music and drink. In purposeful strides, she entered the candle-lit hallway to discover her husband in deep conversation with Abraxas Malfoy.
"Orion, Malfoy," Walburga announced as she approached, beckoning the attention of the two men at the foot of the stairwell.
"Black," Abraxas acknowledged.
"Wife," Orion added, lifting a glass of whiskey to his lips, his gaze flicking briefly toward her.
Walburga inhaled sharply, willing herself to remain discreet. Her piercing stare moved between Orion and Abraxas, both prudently tending to her. She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. "The Irish."
"Indeed," Orion muttered, his focus drifting past Walburga's shoulder to the dining room beyond. He settled on the empty seat at the far end of the table. With a bitter, toothless smile, he reoriented towards his wife. "How uncanny— Abraxas had just mentioned it."
"Did he?" Walburga's tone was taut, her lips pressing into a thin line as she caught Abraxas' sapient nod.
Above, on the first-floor landing, Regulus emerged from his room but stopped short as he heard the three elders sibilating below. Lingering in the shadows to observe, his finger thrummed absently on the banister as he tried to grasp subtle hints to decode the nature of their conversation. He noted his father's speculation of the dining room, the rise in his mother's chest, and the subsequent nod from Abraxas Malfoy. Regulus' brows furrowed.
"And?" Walburga pressed.
"Concerning," Abraxas admitted.
"Druella promised," Walburga hissed. She promised! May I remind you, Abraxas, that her daughter, Narcissa, is married to your son?"
"Perhaps," Abraxas countered, a slight scowl twisting the ends of his mouth, "it would be best to ask your son, seeing as they're friends." His eyes tightened at the corners before he decisively departed, heading into the parlor where the rest of the guests had gathered.
Walburga watched his leave, her expression unreadable.
"Perhaps he's right," Orion suggested.
"And where is Regulus?" Walburga snapped.
"Here," sounded a younger voice as its carrier descended the stairs. Regulus' hand slid along the railing, overworking its grip. He stopped short at the last step, his attention shifting between his parents. Like lightning, the blaring tightness of his mother's posture and the rigid set of her jaw flushed him at once.
"Mother... Father."
"The girl," Walburga began without preamble.
He hesitated, though careful to mask any confusion.
"Girl—?"
"The Kavanagh girl," Orion clarified pointedly. Regulus' gaze lingered suspiciously, resisting the sudden urge to glance over his shoulder at the dining room.
"I didn't realize she had been invited."
"Of course, she was invited!" A shriek escaped his mother, but she abruptly cut it. Walburga glanced up and down the hall, ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "They confirmed the invite, too," she added with a stifled scowl, her lips curling in distaste. "They made us into fools— an empty seat at my table! It's blasphemy!"
"I don't…" know what to say, but snapped into shape and forced it aside."Yes, of course, mother. It's rather rude of them. They should know better."
"Rude!?" Regulus gulped. "Rude, is it!? Have you gone slow, boy!? It's slander! Backbiting mockery! And that O'Connor blood traitor bitch is behind it!" Walburga spat.
Orion remained speechless, though Regulus had hoped he'd partake in one way or another. Instead, his father pursed his lips and fiddled with the rim of his glass, the gesture heavy with unspoken yet uncertain agreement. But why? Had he offered his son up as the lamb to slaughter, or was he a step ahead, holding knowledge his mother had yet to chase? Orion's gaze fleetingly flickered to Regulus as if drawn in by the mute speculation.
"Your peers will be in the drawing room," he informed him. "You should attend to them at once."
"Yes, Father," Regulus accepted, inclining his head dutifully. But Walburga wrenched his forearm before he embarked, her hold nearly white-knuckled. He looked down at the claw caging him and then apprehensively back up at her.
"Find out from that arrogant boy where she is."
This time, no clarification was necessary. Only two boys had ever earned that particular epithet from Walburga Black, and one had been forever struck from the Black family tree— a memory erased for eternity. Regulus bound his lips into a tight line, offering a single nod. His mother's iron fist uncoiled, but the scorch it left behind burned deep. Without a backward glance, he hurried toward the drawing room, his hand wrapped tightly around his throat as though stifling an urge to gasp.
As Regulus stepped into the drawing room, the suffocating weight of his mother's presence lifted, her merciless stare no longer slicing him. The hold on his throat dropped, and he released a quiet exhale. Although familiar, the opulent decoration distracted him— the grandeur of the family's legacy woven into every inch. He took in the enchanted tapestry dominating the wall, its intricate embroidery obediently reflecting an unspoiled lineage. Now and then, a name vanished in an ominous puff of smoke, a silent testament to the family's unforgiving traditions. But here, away from her scrutiny, he could at least breathe.
In the corner, away from the distant hum of the dinner party, three individuals had assembled. A faint fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating the intricate patterns of the embroidered rug with dancing shadows. Evan Rosier reclined in an armchair, his steely grey eyes glinting with icy amusement. By the mantelpiece stood Edmund, his formal countenance betrayed by the thumb twiddling a ring of the Nott family's signet.
"I've succeeded in bringing Annie and Oliver Wilkes into our fold. They're eager to prove themselves," Regulus heard Evan boast as he inched closer.
"With a little help, I'd say," he cut in, a sharp snort escaping him. Edmund and Melisende Gamp, the latter seated on a loveseat opposite Evan, sharply wound up to him. "I believe I handled most of the legwork. Tell me, Evan, when was the last time you so much as looked at one of the Wilkes?"
Evan's stare hardened, yet a smirk lingered as he cross-examined his cousin.
"And Jacknife has joined. His skills will be invaluable," he added, instigating Regulus to a duel.
"Right," Regulus commented, withholding another snort. "And I suppose Blishwick was your doing as well?"
"Has that pompous brat truly joined?" Melisende interjected, indifferent to the sour grapes Evan had been fingering to force-feed Regulus.
"He'll be pleased," Edmund mused to himself. "With the Wilkes, especially."
"Are you sure they can be trusted?" Melisende queried, rotating back to Edmund. "Annie Wilkes— do we know anything of her?"
"She has a penchant for the Dark Arts," Evan stated.
The atmosphere in the drawing room thickened as they debated the newest recruits. Despite being their host, Regulus neither participated nor sat, unable to shake off his mother's thirst for Eve Kavanagh. And Walburga was undoubtedly pacing — or harassing Kreacher — while awaiting an immediate explanation for the witch's absence. Yet, examining their faces as they spoke — Melisende's heated opposition, Evan's fiendish confidence, Edmund's calculative omission — Regulus grew increasingly uncertain of addressing the matter with any of the three.
But what choice did he have?
"Kavanagh isn't here," Regulus interrupted, accidentally spitting. Even so, it cut through them like a blade. The room dropped into a deathly silence as all sights returned to him. His own, however, was placed on Evan, whose expression became inscrutable as one cousin furtively read over the other. The disruption clearly designed for him.
"Didn't think she'd been invited, given the travel bans," Evan said, shrugging half-heartedly.
"The O'Connors regulate the borders. Kavanagh can still travel," Edmund sighed.
"Oh, she can?" Melisende piped up. Edmund's contemplative stargaze cramped into vigil concentration for the first time since Regulus had joined them. "Well, can't say I blame her," she added with a short cackle, yet the fingers clawing at her black tights betrayed any jest.
At once, Edmund and Regulus exchanged glances— why was Melisende speaking?
"You despise her," Edmund spotlit— as the witch reclined in the loveseat, crossing her legs and arms.
"Let bygones be bygones," she responded a tad too swiftly.
"What do you know?" He scanned her from top to bottom. "What did you do?"
The witch's face slackened at the pinch of Edmund's baseless accusation, her composure wavering momentarily. Meanwhile, once absentminded and leaning against the mantelpiece, the wizard straightened with a regimented shift in posture. Evan, too, cast a sidelong glance at Edmund before honing in on Melisende, scrutinizing her from every angle.
"Don't be ridiculous," the witch chaffed. "I've been here all evening. What could I have possibly done? I can't even go to Ireland, or have you forgotten already? And, honestly, why would I've done anything? Merlin, Nott, what about you? I could ask you just the same, yeah?"
"Too many questions, Gamp," Evan barged in. His tone was nothing like Edmund's— it wasn't a pinch but an abrupt bite. Regulus's eyes widened, darting toward Edmund, catching his faintly open-mouthed visage. Both spellbound by Evan's swift, venomous injection— an unexpected strike from someone who only ever defended himself. "What the fuck did you do?"
No matter her attempt, Evan's belligerent glower compelled her to meet it. As a result, the facade she had built slowly crumbled, and she found herself battling him head-on. Her expression darkened as she locked eyes with him.
"Just a friendly reminder."
"Friendly reminder?" Evan repeated lowly.
"What sort of reminder, Gamp?" Edmund furthered at full tilt. Unbothered, Melisende traced the delicate polish on her nails as if their collective scrutiny had no more significance than the lint on the carpet.
"GAMP!"
"What's it to you?" Melisende sneered, neck-snapping up to glare at Evan. "She's a blood traitor! She betrayed me, put my neck on the chopping board—"
"You set a student on fire," Edmund harked back.
"I set a mudblood on fire," Melisende corrected him pointedly.
"Where is Eve?" Evan plowed through, his rock-solid focus not once having left her face. The witch's nostrils slightly flared as she scoped out both of them.
"I don't know."
"Bollocks! You may despise her," Edmund exclaimed. "But she's still the Heir of the Kavanagh Clan! One of the five rulers of Ireland! The future Master of Coin! Our bloody neighbor!" Blood surged into his face, coloring it a dangerous shade of red. "And possibly missing because of you! Have you lost your mind, Gamp!?"
"I'm not your daddy, Nott. No need to impress me with your political knowledge," she ridiculed.
But it was not only Melisende who had lost her mind, for the cyclonic speech had muddled Regulus, who didn't know who to look to or listen to as words shot back and forth like bats out of hell. Even worse, it became increasingly apparent that Eve Kavanagh hadn't simply skipped the dinner— she might be missing. If true, the implications were inconceivable. And how can he even begin to explain it to his mother? Whose wrath was already murderous, two ticks away from dispatching Bellatrix to burn Margaret O'Connor at the stake. A shared sentiment for sure between the two family matriarchs.
"We should find her," Regulus announced hoarsely. "If something happens — happened — to her, it could lead back to us."
"She'll be fine," Melisende dismissed, fluttering a hand as if the matter were trivial. "She'll come crawling back out of her hole soon enough. She always does."
"And what hole would that be?" Edmund interrogated.
"I don't fucking know!"
"If we don't know…" Regulus paused. He read between the lines and pieced together the spoken words to form a complete picture. If Melisende firmly upheld that Eve would reappear at some point, it meant that nothing that terrible happened to the Irish witch. Right? Fuck did he know, though, and the heightened emotions between the four left an unshakeable feeling that something must have gone wrong. "I don't know, we don't know," he cleared his throat, "but my mother—"
"Oh, go cry to mummy about it, Black," Melisende jeered.
Despite being the first to prosecute, Evan sat back in his seat, though the tension in his body was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap. Every tap of his foot, every guarded breath—a barely controlled outlet for the heat simmering beneath the exterior. His bind increased on her, grinding his teeth to count every passing second of silence. At the same time, Edmund momentarily shut his eyes, a finger pressed to his lips. The wizard was flustered by a less-than-ideal situation and the scenarios that could manifest from it. Yet, Regulus' insights held, and despite the same doubts they shared, he knew he had to tag along with Melisende's reckless actions until evidence proved otherwise.
"No one says anything," Edmund instructed. "As of now, Kavanagh is fine—"
"You're a lunatic," Evan interrupted coldly. "Nott is right— you've lost your fucking mind. No self-control to speak of."
"You're one to talk, bloody hypocrite."
"Eve is a pureblood. She will be one of us."
"Oh, not this again," Melisende cried in mirth. "Merlin, Evan, she'll never fucking marry you." The parading derision sharpened into a chillingly sarcastic grin. "She's a blood traitor, not one of us— never will be." The witch feasted on him as if he were the last slice of cake. "When will you realize that, you lunatic?"
"The only lunatic here is you, Gamp," he released tensely. "For, as you seek your quick revenge, I've thoroughly ensured to align her loyalties where they belong."
Edmund unblinkingly surveyed Evan's profile, unraveling and appraising the meaning behind his unfazed, confident proclamation. Similarly, Regulus' regard reoriented toward the tapestry, speculating Evan's statements' conceivability. No matter what was underneath, it tasted of madness.
"Right, and we all see how well that's been working out for you," Melisende taunted.
"You speak, but you know nothing," Evan rebutted, his conviction unwavering, firing the air around them. Alone, Regulus unexpectedly stepped forward, coming between Evan and Melisende— the four now forming a diamond. In spite of better judgment, curiosity had gotten the best of him. Or, maybe it was just the insatiable pull of rivalry.
"But how?" Regulus asked.
"While you've all been dillydallying, preoccupied with the mudbloods at that good-for-nothing school, I've been securing the path to Ireland," Evan revealed. Once more, albeit more dramatically, Melisende issued a belittling fit of forced giggles, freely falling sideways onto the loveseat. Evan's jaw visibly clenched. "Go on, laugh, Gamp," he snarled. "Manic drunkard. How embarrassing."
"I'll take manic drunkard over deranged oaf any day," she said, short-winded. The witch grabbed onto the edge of the loveseat to regain control and beckoned with her fingers for him to continue. "Entertain us. What's this grand plan of yours?"
"The Irish won't bend," Edmund urgently reminded them.
"But Eve will," Evan asserted with the certainty of a trap already laid out. "In three months."
"In three months!?" Edmund's face screwed up.
"And so? What of it?" Melisende scoffed, her chin flinching back.
"As I said, Annie Wilkes has a penchant for the Dark Arts," Evan riddled. Regulus tilted his head to one side as if the clue would drop right out of his ear. Evan's lips minutely flicked upward as he adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt with feigned precision. "I quite like her, you know." Grinning, he raised a wrist to exhibit the rose-shaped cufflink attached to the sleeve he had just been toying with. "Pure 24-karat gold."
Pattern transformed into habit, and Regulus shared another glance of mutual understanding with Edmund. Their meeting of minds concluded that whatever Evan's plans were, they had ventured into chaotically unpredictable territory. Again, madness. However, and on the contrary, if he were to ignore his misgivings, Edmund couldn't rationally deny the potential power of successfully recruiting and procuring one of the Ancient Five, particularly an heir.
"Still, we may face unforeseen repercussions," Edmund cautioned. "We must tread carefully."
To Regulus, the blindsiding accord manifested into a sinking sense of betrayal.
"Gamp," Edmund continued. "She's alive, at very least?"
"Merlin's Beard," Melisende huffed. "Of course she's alive!"
They peered, perched like birds observing their prey.
"WELL!? What else do you want?"
"Your lack of control threatens everything I've set in motion," Evan answered, his grey eyes electrified with glacial decree. "Step aside, Gamp."
Melisende shot him a disdainful glare but remained silent. For, unbeknownst to them, her unwillingness to engage further against the scorch of Evan's and Edmund's accusations was due to her own unsettling experience with Eve when she had intended to break the witch's spirit with the Cruciatus Curse, only to discover that Eve was able to resist it. All night, the picture tore at her— confused, humiliated, and left shamefully threatened. How could she have resisted? That uncertainty made her skeptical of Evan's plan and any plans involving the residents next door. For if Eve could withstand such dark magic, what else could they do?
'They know things that we don't; they keep it to themselves on purpose; they weren't forced to lurk in the shadows like us; they believe Muggles have magic," her father divulged over the years. Indeed, she knew more than she would ever let on, for Melisende's pride would endure.
"Since you say she is alive, then there's nothing to be said," Edmund concluded. "She purposefully chose not to attend this evening. We'll not make a fuss of it and hope for the best— our luck is already at its limits."
On that note, Regulus registered everything: their words and faces relentlessly replaying in his head, the malice that tainted them. Swallowing down the bitter tang in his mouth, he absorbed the three of them— his friends, family, and allies. A pit formed in his chest. Had any of them truly understood the heft of their words? The willingness to destroy one of their own, the ruthless plotting and utter indifference against a pureblood witch— this was not the oath they had taken. No, they had pledged to safeguard their people, not tear them down from within.
'Fuck that— you're going to give your life for this bastard, huh?' Regulus' stare flattened as his memory brought forth the unwanted memory. 'You will never be free under Him! None of you! None of us! Don't you see that?' He clenched his clammy hands into fists, his stomach cramped and nauseating.
'You want to get out, kid?'
"Old Lifeboat Station, Penmon, Wales," Saurus Galloway announced.
The Knight Bus screeched to another halt, momentarily plucking Eve out of a trance. A rattling affair that had become a constant with every stop the bus made— each so unceremoniously jarring that overlooking them was impossible. This time, though half-taken in a groggy haze, the conductor's insistent wave and focused stare severed through the fog, blearily squinting at the beckoning gesture to decode it through drowsy recognition— oh, this was her stop.
"Come on, now! No time to lose!"
Body moved on instinct while mind scrambled to match it.
Eve rose with wobbling legs to make way for the already open exit. But the very moment she reached the platform, a blast of glacial wind slashed at her like a knife. Wincing at the storm's howl, she immediately receded into the bus, where a nearby witch muttered something unintelligible, glaring out at her. Under increasing pressure, her hand lifted to the exterior brass pole beyond the door, fingers slipping on the wet metal. She held it tighter, cramming it into her palm. And with one shaky breath, she finally hopped off the bus, gasping as a thorny jab carved up her bruised knees on landing. Behind her, the bus door slammed shut with a deafening bang before she could recompose herself. Catching only a fleeting glow, which then vanished into the night with a crisp crack.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her heart hammering as the velvet cloak whipped violently around. Soundless other than the roar of the wind and ocean waves— beyond that, nothing. Not a soul in sight. It was vast and desolate, the landscape stretching into an endless void. In the distance, the Old Lifeboat Station hovered, barely visible through the sheets of sleet. Its weathered structure blended into the rugged coastline as if it, too, had been swallowed by the night. Applauding Saurus Galloway's brutal speculation— it was abandoned, and not even a road led to it— or if one did, she couldn't make it out. Yet it wasn't the darkness or the emptiness that cemented her in place. It was the cruel realization that she had been wrong. The groundless familiarity she'd felt earlier now resembled a twisted joke. It went without saying that she wanted to run after the bus, to scream for it to return— but she didn't know how. She couldn't even think of how.
So, this is it; she surrendered, exhaling visible puffs into the winter air as a violent shiver wracked her body. Eve knew better than to linger. Even so, she hesitantly surveyed the station one last time, but shelter, no matter how uninviting, was still shelter. Of course, with no road, moving was no cakewalk either. Her legs throbbed with every step, kicking up semi-frozen mud, and the treacherous winds seemed determined to shove her back. With gritted teeth, Eve trudged through the slush. Step by agonizing step, she inched toward the station until she eventually stood before its entrance.
It looked as dead as the land around it— no light, no warmth, no sign of life.
Only a thick Dutch door, battered by time, greeted her. Deep cracks marred its wooden surface, and patches of moss clung to the canopy's pillars. Without a second thought, she grabbed the latch and pulled up.
What?
It groaned under the sudden strain, and given its chipped nature, she expected it to lift with ease. But it didn't, not one bit. She yanked at the latch again. Nothing. How could it be nothing? Her breath hitched, chest tightening. Her fingers fumbled with the latch again, pulling, twisting— nothing. She tried harder, her movements clumsy, frantic, amounting to a panic-stricken vortex that galvanized her to slam a shoulder against the door. Black dots spotted her vision as she staggered backward, mopping up another unforgiving assault. Completely unforeseen, the Old Lifeboat Station had wildly withstood the test of time— its mechanisms rusted shut after countless years.
A rocketing pulse triggered a heedless return to the encroaching blackness behind her. The storm obscured everything over a few feet, forming a distorted curtain over the surroundings. Yet, through the cascades of sleet, she swore a thickening shadow crept closer. Melisende? Eve wondered, reckoning that her whereabouts found Melisende by one of the presumptively unthreatening ridership. Fuck. Gnawing on her lower, a whirlwind settling within, she raised both hands to rip at her hair, though something hard buckled inside one of the sleeves.
Eejit, she cursed, the realization both slapping and relieving. With quivering hands and eyes still on the horizon, she brought forth the wand hidden deep within— its simple presence empowering her enough to ignore whatever was lurking in the dark to undertake the damnable door again.
"Alohomora."
Nothing. The door didn't so much as creak as it had before. Despite purple-colored fingers, she gripped the wand and pressed it firmly against the latch.
"ALOHOMORA!"
Her arms fell as she stared at the unyielding latch. Either she was incapable of casting such an elementary charm, or the door was resistant to magic. Could that be possible? And how? Her gaze trailed up the ancient stonework. Truth be told, the Old Lifeboat Station left the impression of being much older than anything from the last half-century— contrary to what the conductor had guessed. Was it possible that it had once been used for magical purposes? A sanctuary of sorts for witches and wizards?
And yet, these sanctuaries were not meant to defy or deny witches or wizards, either.
Perhaps a riddle was needed, or another means to enter…
There had to be a way in. Withdrawing from the door, she exposed herself to the winter storm, that same wildering alarm engulfing her. She rushed to the first window, trying to pry it open, using her hands and wand in much the same way as the door. But it was just as stubborn. It wouldn't give in, not one bit. She tried another and then another, but none gave way. Even worse, there weren't that many to begin with. The building itself was rejecting her.
Why?
A gust of wind ripped by, nearly sending her over. Somehow, she managed to remain upright though knees buckled as sight blurred. Wounds and ice sapped and ravaged any strength; hypothermia ate away, and the titanic weight of being lost at sea and at wit's end crushed any thread of rational reality that remained. Her breathing quickened, body trembling as black dots returned to cover the world before her. Seconds before total collapse— there was no fight left to fight. With one final effort, she scrambled for the front door. Instantly, her legs gave out, sinking to the ground.
This would be, apparently, the closest semblance of refuge.
"Tergeo," Eve wheezed, then shut her eyes and merged with the door. At the very least, the once-wet velvet cloth was dry, no longer hanging like a metal chain. Exhausted and defeated, with no desire to move, she did the last of what could be done and wrapped the cloak over herself to escape the hellish abyss of shadow and ice. Sorrily sheltered, though no longer confronting an untamed wilderness, Eve sought to quell the panic, gulping down air, and somehow regain rationality. It was in vain. Tears welled, and quiet sobs came unbidden, quaking her frame further. Her arms hugged her legs as she buried her face against her knees, curling up until the world disappeared into nothing else other than whatever was under the cloak.
What had brought her to this forsaken place?
Eve couldn't say how long she sat there, huddled against the door, her thoughts drifting away as the tempest raged on and on.
Was this how it would end— caught between the storm and whatever was out there?
And then— a thump. Within ear-shot, closer than any other. Even as her pulse drilled away, she stifled her breath, refusing to make a sound. Moon-eyed and unblinking, she listened keenly for the source. As she searched, desperately probing through the noisy clang of hail against the station, a subtle force bore into her shoulder. Responding to the touch, she spun toward the shadow, reconciling with the terror beside her.
It took a moment, her vision blurred with tears, to fully grasp what was unfolding. Without fail, Eve questioned—no, doubted—her own mortality. What was this? She swept a shaking hand across her face, brushing aside undone strands of hair to confirm it wasn't a hallucination. But if not a hallucination, then what the fuck was it? By and large, if not dead, that night would never be forgotten— not by a memory charm, sedatives, or a total lobotomy.
"Come on, inside now." Without fail, it was a voice— a human voice. The thing currently crouching down was a person. Rooted in place, Eve stayed unmoving, eyes swollen, staring and unblinking in tense silence. "Come now, let's go."
A woman's voice.
It was a woman beside her.
A small one, too, with a soft voice, kind eyes, and a gentle touch.
Falsely convinced of its gravity, the scene loomed larger than reality.
"Go where?" Eve inquired vacantly.
"Inside, dear," the woman responded while smiling.
"Inside?"
The woman hesitated, attention vacillating up and down, and then lightly chuckled.
"Right," she mentioned, rubbing Eve's back. "Don't worry, dear, you're welcome here. Please do come inside."
When the words left the woman's lips, the canopy's pillars wobbled, as though ready to crumble. Eve instinctively flinched forward as the stone walls and Dutch door began to tremble, too. In that instant, it was hard to tell if she was witnessing something extraordinary— or utterly absurd. Baffled, she stood and stepped back, watching as the transformation continued to unfold. Though lost in the spectacle, the woman's hand found its place again on Eve's shoulder. As Eve stared, the station, once a rusted relic, reshaped itself entirely. The stone walls strengthened, solidifying as if drawing power from the very earth. The cracked wooden slats of the Dutch door spruced into a proper one, rich mahogany gleaming where worn wood once existed, and a brass handle appeared where there had been none before.
It was no station— it was a proper house.
"I'm dying, aren't I?"
"I certainly hope not," the woman replied with an incredulous stare. "But you must be so very cold."
"I don't understand."
Eve turned toward the woman, the urge and fragile ache to cry creeping back in.
In the end, much of life had slipped through her fingers, unfolding beyond her grasp. It simply happened— never asked for, never within control. So, if this was how it ended, so be it. Strangely, any fear had melted away, leaving only an empty stillness, a strange harmony with numbness wrapped around it. Too weak, too crippled to speak, let alone battle, she nodded. The woman's face softened, arms opening in welcome. With mute resignation — a trembling chin masked behind a faint smile, tears slipping from dull eyes — Eve stepped forward, reaching for the woman's arm as though it were the first tether to a life yet to be discovered.
"Go on, love, lean on me," she coaxed, sensing Eve's final thread was about to snap. "Come on, come on now, it'll all be okay, I promise."
Eve yielded to the woman, whose slight frame belied the strength to guide them both through the last few steps into the house's warmth. Surreal— like a dream, or perhaps the threshold of death itself. She watched the world around her as if it were the final chapter of a story already known but still reading to see it through to the end. Tears continued to fall without clear reason, and yet, in the midst of her crying, she caught the bitter irony of it all and smiled. The door opened with a mere twist— just as doors should. And beyond it, the storm ended.
Author's note: this was a very difficult chapter to write. I had spent a great time working and editing it with the only hope being that whoever is still following and reading this story enjoyed it. Again, chapters will be slower but this one did take a lot of thinking, re-writing, and trying to place all the bits together. I'm still getting a good number of readers almost on a weekly basis, so it's so inspiring (even if one person reads it) for me to really do my best to get this down on paper for you all- of course, as I said, this was a dream of mine to write for over ten years. So, I'm getting there. thank you, this keeps me going through some of life's hardest challenges. i'll see you soon, MM.