Dear Ellis,
I missed you at Hogwarts. Regulus Black informed me that you were off celebrating with Ned, and I did not wish to ruin the joy you two must've felt at the win. Some good news: Mulciber will not be returning to Hogwarts save for exam season. Professor Dumbledore agreed that it was the best course of action given what I uncovered from his father's testimony and some of Mulciber's own incidents. Among which, you featured in a few.
I do not know where your mother and I may have failed in teaching you this but never put the family name above your own safety. Never. My career means nothing if something were to happen to you. I cannot imagine why you carried this burden alone, but I forbid you from ever playing a selfless martyr again. And though I praise you endlessly for retaliating as you did, I would have had him in a cell in Azkaban within the hour if you had told me. A Cruciatus Curse was too light a punishment.
I will find some time to visit before Christmas and we can talk. I am not angry, nor disappointed. I know that you are strong, but I am your father for a reason. Use my name and power as it pleases you, be it sword or shield.
All my love,
Edward Selwyn
Ellis blinked rapidly upon reading the letter, feeling a weight that she hadn't known was there lift off her chest. The urge to cry was strong.
Ellis had been deeply ashamed that she had fallen so easily to the Imperius Curse, so ashamed that the thought of telling her parents that such a careless thing had to her stole away her voice. She had not even told Ned and the only people who knew were Snape, Helena, and the few Slytherins who were in the common room when Snape dragged her and Mulciber back.
Another part shuddered to think of what might have happened had she not broken the Curse. She knew what would happen. What Mulciber wanted to do. What men always did to humiliate a woman. She had not slept well for weeks after it happened, something only Helena was privy to as she would often slip into Ellis' bed with her and try to coax her out of her nightmares.
It wasn't as if Mulciber had gotten close to touching her, but she could still remember the feeling the crept over her mind, that all she had to do was take it, that this was what she wanted, that the idea was her own and not his—she swallowed hard, folding the letter back up with trembling hands. It took her a moment to gather the strength to rise from the table and another to pick her destination.
She ended up at the Gryffindor table without really realizing why. Despite all their stalking over the last few weeks, they all seemed surprised to see her. Ned wasn't around, so there was no reason for her to be there. He was likely getting to know his latest fangirl.
"Macdonald," said Ellis, with a sickly expression on her face.
Before Mary could respond, Lily Evans slid a few plates aside and gestured to the bench. "Ellis, sit down," Lily offered. "You look like you're about to keel over."
Ellis shook her head, ignoring the red head's use of her first name. "My father says that Mulciber won't be coming back. I thought you should know. His friends won't be happy about it, so be careful."
Having said what she wanted to, she made to leave, but Lily caught her hand and dragged her into the seat. Ellis lurched back, shaking her off violently. "What are you doing?" she asked, tightly.
"We're probably the only people here who understand what you're feeling right now, so stay and talk."
"Lily," Mary murmured, giving her friend a reproachful look, "don't push—"
"I'm not feeling anything," Ellis said, cutting across Mary's quiet protest. "I just assumed you'd appreciate some good news. One less Death Eater lurking around these halls."
Lily folded her arms, tilting her head in that way she did when she was about to speak her mind. "Right, because you're all about good news," she said dryly, though her tone was more amused than mocking. "If you hated us as much as you pretend, you wouldn't have walked over here."
Ellis tilted her head, "You're very presumptuous."
"You can leave if you're scared—I'm sure it's an absolute nightmare that we might steal your magic or suck the blood of your firstborn or whatever else you nutters have come up with about muggleborns." Lily slammed her fork and knife down, fury flooding her face. "I am so sick of wizard Hitler killing innocent people. I'll kill him myself; I swear I will."
"…are you…alright?" asked Ellis, unsurely.
Mary slid an arm around Lily's shoulders. "Her sister still hasn't asked her to be maid-of-honor, so she's taking it out on…just about everything else."
Ellis nodded, knowingly. She had not thought of Lily's sister for some time, but the woman was hard to forget. "Petunia doesn't like you very much, does she?"
Lily's face darkened. "She doesn't have to like me," she muttered, her voice clogged with tears, "but she's my sister—she's supposed to love me."
"There, there," said Ellis, hand hovering awkwardly by Lily's shoulder. "You're a witch and she isn't, that's all."
Very much against her will, Ellis was regaled with the latest drama from Petunia's wedding planning. She remained standing and tried to leave several times but ended up being pulled back into the conversation in one way or another. In fact, she didn't mind the Gryffindor girls all that much and found Lily Evans to be an endless source of amusement because she cared so much about everything. Helena and her had more gossip than they knew what to do with.
When she tried to leave, they pressed her for more information as to where she was going. "The library."
"You spend an awful amount of time in there," said Lily, blinking at her. "Remus too."
"Do you not study?"
"Not every day."
"Lily's a bit of a genius," murmured Mary, behind her hand. "She only needs to see Flitwick's demonstration once to get it right. Dorcas is like that too."
"That's lovely," said Ellis, though she was scowling fiercely. "I'm glad you were graced with natural talent, Evans, but someone of us like to know why magic works, not just how to do it."
"Does it kill you to be nice?" asked Lily, looking a bit weepy again.
"Nice? Nice is nothing but pleasantries and politeness. People can be nice and stab you in the back if it suits them."
"Thank you for telling me about Mulciber," said Mary as Alice stopped Lily from replying by stuffing a muffin into her mouth. "Really, it was kind of you to think of me."
"You can all thank me by leaving me alone and dropping out of my Dueling—"
"That's just extra practice for the Order," explained Marlene from across the table.
Alice, who had been quietly sipping her tea, almost choked. She shot Marlene a glare laced with exasperation and alarm. Mary and Lily tried to laugh it off, but Marlene didn't seem bothered by the slip.
"Can't do 'missions' yet," Marlene went on, "but—"
Ellis contemplated biting on the line she'd been cast, but decided that she very much didn't care about the secret they were all hiding or what missions meant—some sort of anti-Voldemort group, no doubt. Alice and Dorcas were both budding Aurors. Mary had been selected into a prestigious internship at St. Mungo's, Lily Evans was planning on pursuing a potioneer's apprentice, and Marlene McKinnon would see where life took her. It was a waste of their futures to throw everything away in combat against the Dark Lord, but Gryffindors were exceedingly good at dying for noble causes. Better them than me, thought Ellis.
"Whatever this Order is, keep it far from my brother. If you put the foolish idea in his head that he ought to join the fight, I'll hunt you down myself. And when I do, you'll wish I hadn't."
Ellis's tone sucked out any levity and replaced it with a shocked silence that pushed in on them from all sides. Their expressions turned wary and uncertain, as if they'd only just realized they were standing too close to a coiled viper. Fear, she decided, was an excellent tool. If it managed to keep them all on edge, then she'd gladly take advantage of it.
She let the tension linger, lifting her chin with a faint smirk. "And I'd be a bit more careful with your secrets, McKinnon, the Dark Lord has eyes and ears everywhere."
With that she skipped off to the library to return some of the books she'd borrowed and then set about the castle to find Mr. Filch. He was in the corridor outside the Clocktower Courtyard, scrubbing hard at streaks of paint stuck to the wall. Ellis snuck up behind the three Ravenclaw boys sniggering round the corner and waved her wand, tying their cloaks together in one big knot. Startled, they fell back and caught sight of her.
"Ten points from Ravenclaw—each."
"It wasn't—" one of them started, but her glare halted their denial.
"Clean up that mess or I'll tack on a month of detention," ordered Ellis. She had half a mind to knock them over the head as well, but she'd likely get in trouble for that.
They grumbled and called her names beneath their breaths, but none of them dared to disobey and set about cleaning the remnants of their prank.
"Mr. Filch," she greeted, turning to the caretaker.
"Nasty brats," muttered the man in a wheezy voice, drawing his hunched shoulders together. He had a pasty face with pale eyes and sunken cheeks. His long hair, which was balding at the top, had been tied back neatly. He shuffled forward, picking up his bucket. "Dumbledore should let me hang 'em by the thumbs. Now, what do you want, lass?"
Ellis waved her wand, drawing the spilled water back into the pail. The old mop's splintered handle turned gleaming and polished under a quick charm. Filch grunted, though his posture straightened ever so slightly.
"I need some rats for an assignment," she said. "Preferably ones that won't be missed. I can catch them, but I just wanted to know where I can find them."
Mr. Filch sniffed, eyeing her wand. "Rats, eh? Mind you don't lose them around the castle," Filch warned with a sneer. "I don't fancy chasing squealing vermin while you wizards wave your fancy wands around. There's a nest or two in the catacombs—if you know how to get there."
Without another word, he set off, bucket sloshing, and Ellis followed. They descended into the catacombs, one level below the Slytherin common room, accessible only via a dark, cramped passage behind the dusty tapestry of King Arthur. Ellis lit her wand to see in the gloom and just about jumped out of her skin when a rat darted underfoot.
Filch gave a rasping laugh that echoed in the stone corridor. "Afraid of a little rodent? Thought you needed 'em?"
She recovered quickly, cheeks aflame. "I'm not afraid, exactly. I just wasn't expecting—"
"You wouldn't last a minute under Dippet," Filch declared, cutting her off. "We had bigger things than rats scuttling around, let me tell you." He paused as another rat skittered across the floor. "Grab that one, quick."
Ellis conjured a metal cage and levitated the squealing rat inside, snapping the door shut. Filch scowled at the squeaks echoing through the darkness. Filch guided her around slimy corners and pointed out broken bits of stonework where the rodents scuttled.
"Seven," Ellis murmured, carefully counting. "I only need seven."
She caught the remaining rats one by one. When she had all seven, Ellis shrunk the cage to fit in the palm of her hand.
Mr. Filch guided her back out, "Last time a student went chasing after rats, I ended up with a hoard of them in the Charms classroom. And I had to catch half of them myself. Useless, the lot of you."
Ellis dipped her head in apology. "That won't happen. And thank you, Mr. Filch—I really appreciate your help."
Filch sniffed. "Don't go making doe eyes at me." He hefted his mop. "If you see any more brats running around causing trouble, send them my way. I'd be more than happy to sign them up for a little nighttime stroll through the Forbidden Forest."
Ellis managed a small grin. "Understood. Thank you again, Mr. Filch."
The caretaker said nothing, but the faintest of sneers curled his lips. As she slipped the shrunken rats into her bag, she caught him glaring down the corridor, still muttering under his breath about how "Dumbledore's softened this place right up."
"Best be on your way," Filch snapped finally. "Go on."
She gave him a quick goodbye and headed back upstairs to the Hospital Wing. The moment Madam Pomfrey spotted the rat cage, she insisted Ellis move her experiments to an empty classroom in the Headmaster's Tower; vermin in a sterile healing environment was out of the question.
Rather than lugging everything to the Tower, Ellis drew on her knack for expansion and extension charms. In almost no time, she shrank and carefully packed her entire workstation—equipment, notes, potions, and all—into a small, unassuming box. The charms worked so perfectly that she decided there was no need to bother with the classroom at all. With a practiced flick of her wand, she opened the box, pressed her fingertips to its gleaming rim, and vanished inside.
At first, the interior of the box was a featureless void, but after a series of precise incantations and a wave of her wand, the space expanded into a sunlit greenhouse modeled after the one she remembered from home. Towering glass walls arched overhead, refracting rays of conjured sunlight onto rows of lush foliage and vibrant blossoms. A gentle, earthy warmth permeated the air, and a neat row of tables—fully restored to their original size—lined one side of the greenhouse, already set up with her experimental apparatus. Satisfied with the transformation, Ellis set down the rat cage, rolled up her sleeves, and prepared to resume her work.
She made her way to the far side, where the most important piece of equipment sat on a broad wooden table: her microscope. The eyepiece glowed faintly with a purple hue; those were her prototype dark-detecting lenses, painstakingly spelled to target curses. On the table next to it lay a half-unwrapped parcel of items sent by her uncle—small, cursed objects he had collected and sent her. A tarnished necklace with suspicious etchings, a twisted silver ring that hummed with malice, and a cracked goblet that always dripped stale water no matter how dry it was kept.
She successfully taught her microscope to locate on the malicious threads in these artifacts, but her bigger challenge remained: once she began extracting a curse from its original host, the object itself would crack or shatter under the strain, often with little warning. Despite her protective charms and carefully inventive spells, the malevolent magic reacted violently, splintering its old vessel like brittle glass.
The plan—if she could manage it—was to apply the same principle to people afflicted by blood maladies. She'd spent sleepless nights scribbling diagrams of runic circles and experimenting with binding agents. Her curse-detection spells were working (she could make a fortune off that alone). The lab rats were caught and ready for the next stage of testing—but the problem of extracting the curses and figuring out how to destroy them seemed a long way off.
If curses were so violently opposed to being extracted, how could she hope to do it without harming Helena? And once contained, what method of destruction was powerful enough to sever them entirely without unleashing a magical backlash?
Patience, she reminded herself as her mother said. Patience, else you'll do more harm than good.
She read through the books her uncle sent her, stumbling across the horcruxes that Regulus alluded to. The process was so vile and violent that Ellis tore that pages out of the book and set them aflame. After that, she decided she was done for the day and wrapped everything up to head straight to bed.
Or tried to.
"ELLS," called Ned, waving her down as she passed by the Grand Staircase, "ELLS, WAIT UP!"
He leapt over the side of the railing, falling the few short feet left. Ellis' hand flicked out to slow his fall before he ended up a splat of blood and flesh on the stone. Ned jogged the rest of the way to her and threw an arm around her shoulder. "You're gonna end up looking like a hag if you keep scowling like that."
"That's exactly why I was going to take a nap. Beauty sleep."
"Merlin," he gasped, "Why would you waste your day off like that?"
She eyed his jersey, wondering how he found the strength to get right back on a broom after the events of yesterday, "As opposed to living on a Quidditch pitch?"
"Just finished a scrimmage match against some of your lot—Black thought it'd be a good show to make up for that pisspot running the game yesterday." Ned smiled, "He's the only decent competition I've got."
Things were so simple for Ned.
"Tied evenly after four rounds," he continued. "I've gotta crush Hufflepuff during the next match though. Can't have people thinking I'm a fluke."
"It's really not that serious."
"It really is."
They strolled along the corridor, chatting about everything and nothing. Ellis brought up the news about Mulciber not returning to Ned's great pleasure. She also tried to explain her ongoing project which made Ned's head spin; he readily admitted he hadn't a clue what she was talking about but said she sounded "impressively pretentious." In turn, he regaled her with the tale of the girl he'd snogged the previous night—he refused to give a name, only that Mary Macdonald had caught them in the common room and offered him a congratulatory pat on the back the next morning.
"I'm a legend now," he joked, waggling his eyebrows, while Ellis just shook her head and tried not to laugh at his unabashed pride.
"Oh, is Black dating anyone?" asked Ned, thoughtfully. "Blott asked me about it—she saw Pothead and Evans putting up notices for the Yule Ball committee and thought she'd get a head start. Maybe, I should too."
"I'm not sure," said Ellis, carefully. Diplomatically. Trying hard to temper the sudden pulse racing through her. "Blott can ask him if she likes. She certainly wasn't shy about sticking her tongue down his throat last year."
Ned narrowed his eyes, staring at her with narrowed eyes, "What was that?…your voice just now…"
"What are you talking about?"
"Merlin, Ells, don't tell me you…you and Black…"
"No."
"Merlin," he repeated. "Merlin's beard, I told him to go get you when you were naked! I wouldn't have done that if I knew you fancied him! It must've been so humiliating."
"I'm not ugly, Ned."
Ned exhaled in a gust, clearly distressed, "You can't even talk right. Are you angry with me? Hell, did I…did I ruin it for you?"
"Ruin implies that there—"
"Now, you're deflecting," muttered Ned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Alright, alright, leave it to me. I'll fix this, yeah?"
"Fix…fix what?"
He tossed a glance down the corridor. A few other students wandered by arms loaded with books, but he waited until they passed to continue, voice low. "You're always snapping at each other like a pair of dogs in heat. Isn't that usually a sign of something?"
Ellis huffed. "Please stop reading Witch Weekly."
"Can't help it," said Ned, with a cheeky grin. "It's addicting."
She slid her gaze away, trying to keep her heart from thumping too obviously beneath her robes. "I can handle it myself if—and I mean if—there's anything to handle. Which there's not. I'd rather marry a dementor."
Ned raised an eyebrow. "Marry?"
"Shut up." She drew herself up, folding her arms. "This is none of your business."
He rocked back on his heels, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. "Fine."
She peered at him, unconvinced by the easy way he'd agreed. "Good," she said. "If you see him, walk in the other direction. Swear it."
Ned lifted a hand, placing it solemnly over his heart. "Scout's honor."
Her eyes narrowed. "What is that?"
"Don't worry about it," he teased with a casual shrug. "I won't say a word to Black, or about Black, or around Black."
Ellis eyed him for another beat, then turned on her heel, continuing down the hallway. "Good. Because there's nothing for you two to talk about."
"Crystal clear," Ned replied, following her. "There's obviously not a single feeling in that black heart of yours."
They threaded their way past a group of fourth-years, and Ellis glanced at Ned, who seemed content enough to let the matter drop. Suspiciously content, in fact. He hummed something under his breath, tapping lightly on the banister as they reached a set of stairs.
As they walked, he kept casting sidelong looks at her, an unmistakable gleam in his eye. Despite everything she'd said—despite her demand that he do absolutely nothing—Ellis knew that he was already planning ten different ways to annoy her. And judging by the smirk on his face, he wasn't even trying to hide it.
She pressed her lips together. "I'm warning you right now that whatever you're thinking—"
"Do you want an Unbreakable Vow?"
"It'd make me feel better."
"Alright," said Ned, stretching his arm out toward her. "Let's do it."
This was going to end badly—or, possibly, in exactly the kind of trouble she was dreading. "Forget it."
"It's not a bad thing for you to like someone. Or even love them. Or have friends. I know it's probably hard down there with everyone having a murder fetish, but they can't all be bad. You're not, Ells. You're a good person beneath it all. That's why Potter and his friends keep bugging you—they can see that."
Ellis glowered. "You're the worst, you know that?"
Ned's grin was bright and unrepentant. "Love you too, Ells."
The rest of her Sunday slipped by swiftly. Monday morning came far too soon for her liking. Ellis found herself in the Great Hall at breakfast, where a low, steady hum of conversation mingled with the clinking of cutlery. She stifled a yawn as owls swooped overhead, dropping letters and packages to their recipients. Weedpicker, Ned's large barn owl, made a careful landing in front of her, depositing the morning's Daily Prophet along with a small stack of envelopes—far more than she typically received—and a box.
GIANT ATTACK IN WILTSHIRE LEAVES 47 MUGGLES DEAD, 13 WIZARDS.
Ellis read the article twice, including the execution order from the Ministry on all Giants in the United Kingdom. There was a group of Giants who lived on the Isle of Fen. They were smaller than the Giants on the continent, no more than 15-16 feet, and liked uprooting the trees in the forest to use as clubs. If you didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother you. For centuries they'd lived together, and Ellis could not imagine that the Ministry would be welcomed on the Isle. No, she was certain that the laws would be thrown to the side.
She folded the Prophet up with an angry sigh and reached for the rest of her mail. The first was surprising, but not because Ellis hadn't known it would happen, rather she hadn't realized she would be invited. It was a wedding invitation.
The House of Selwyn is graciously invited to the wedding of Lady Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy to be held…
She looked down the row where Regulus sat. It seemed that he had received the same invitation alongside another letter. There was a small smile on his face as he read it, but it quickly vanished when Barty tried to seize the letter for himself. She tucked the invitation below the other letters she received.
The thickest came from her mother who wrote her a manifesto on the new employees in her office. Her father had written another long letter as well, but Ellis didn't open it yet. She could only imagine his worry if he'd carved out time to send two letters in two days.
A few of her cousins wrote her, offering news of what was happening on the continent—stirrings of striga and hags in Albania, Poland, and Romania. A report from the muggle news that someone saw Baba Yaga's house. Vampire attacks in the Black Forest. Rogue Dementors in the streets of France.
René Volant, her cousin who worked at the French Ministry, wrote what seemed like a manifesto. Ellis read the first few pages, laughing when she got to the part where he mentioned transferring to Beauxbatons and taking Helena with her because it was dangerous in the United Kingdom and the English had no class anyway.
She turned her attention to the box. It was white trimmed with a black border and a neat black bow holding it closed. Ellis inspected the tag, Maison Cadolle, and then laughed a bit. Lingerie.
The letter that went along with it was from her Aunt Lola, René's mother, who wrote to her saying that she heard Ellis had never brought a boy home and was sending something to help Ellis with her love troubles. The bottom of the letter had a bright red lipstick print on it.
"It's from your future mother-in-law," said Ellis, a grin on her face as she tapped the top of the box with her fingertips. "She's worried I'm lonely."
Helena, curious, opened the box. She stared at the scraps of silk, lace, and satin for a full minute, seeming not to breathe, face aflame. Helena, unlike everyone else in their dorm (sparing Alecto Carrow who was a cow and likely would end up marrying her brother), was a virgin. It showed itself frequently in the way she giggled over René's letters.
Helena's reaction caught the attention of Althea who stuck her stupid nose in everyone's business.
"What is it?"
Ellis gestured for her to look. Althea made the mistake of just reaching in and pulling out what was possibly the skimpiest pair of underwear Ellis had ever seen. At that point, she might as well have skipped wearing any entirely.
Ellis poured herself a glass of cold cherry juice and sipped it. Althea's face twisted with a rancid kind of anger. She stuttered, seeming to not know what to say, before deciding to throw the lace at her. Ellis had the sense to duck, so they hit Regulus in the face as he passed by.
Althea and Helena both paled, looking horrified by the turn of events. He caught them as they fell and crooked his finger around the band, inspecting them.
"The tag's still on, Selwyn."
"I haven't worn them yet."
His gaze landed on her. She could hear his thought echo in her mind as he slipped to the forefront of her mind: Let me know when you do.
She couldn't help but be impressed. Legilimency was difficult to master, even moreso when one did it wandlessly. Part of her wanted to clap and sing some praises. Though he was not yet a great dueler—her standards were frighteningly high—Regulus was very talented and picked things up quick. A trait that he happened to share with his brother.
Don't compare me to him.
Her occlumency shields slam down, throwing him out of her mind.
He pressed closer, drawing himself against Ellis' spine. She could smell the faint hint of cologne clinging to his collar—something warm, but clean. Not so heavy that it overwhelmed, but she would remember it after he left. Placing the fabric back in the box, he leaned over her, bracing his hands on either side of her in a near-cage. Her fingers stretched out skimming next to his.
"I see you've received Narcissa's wedding invitation," Regulus said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Are you planning to attend?"
"Why would she?" Althea cut in, surprising them both. She had recovered from her embarrassment but evidently couldn't help the sour twist of her lips. "Her father won't allow it, I bet. He never lets her out of that house, and it's obvious why—"
"I am," said Ellis, cutting Althea off. She turned in her seat, forcing herself to meet Regulus's gaze head-on. He was closer than she expected—close enough that a slight tilt of her chin would bring her mouth to his. She wondered what he would do if she did just that. "Are you in the wedding party?"
He nodded once, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. Then he dipped lower, breath skating across the curve of her ear. "It won't be much of a party with Cousin Bella around. Bring a calming draught."
Regulus slid the box closer, his hand grazing Ellis's knuckles in a featherlight touch that made her pulse skip. The slight tension in his fingers, the way they curled just so around hers, so sure and controlled—she shifted, trying to force away the ache building between her thighs.
He guided her hand to rest on the lid, and though his face remained carefully composed, she swore she spotted a flicker of a smirk in those storm-gray eyes.
"And black," he said, his low voice. Smooth. "Wear something black."
Helena refused to speak to her the rest of the way to class. They dropped their letters and packages off in the dorm without a single word exchanged between them. Ellis' cut her finger in potions, tense with anxiety because it felt as if Helena were angry at her, and she knew why.
Just before they reached the DADA classroom, Helena pulled her into an empty corridor. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"It's not like that."
Helena shook her head violently. "You care too much when you get involved with people and they take advantage of that. Can't you tell?"
"I know when to stop."
"Do you?"
"I don't care about other people as much as you think I do," said Ellis, shaking her head. "I care about what I want."
"And what's that?"
"My own happiness." Ellis hesitated, "Isn't that worth protecting?"
"Happiness?" asked Helena, face twisting with dread. "I'd kill for you much the same as you would for me, but don't make me choose between my own life and yours. Sometimes, you do the most maddening things and this—Black—you really must have lost your mind."
"We won't die," said Ellis with such confidence that she started to believe it. "Not you and I—didn't I promise you that?"
Helena sighed, looking agitated. "You would've been better off in whatever other house the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in. It would've spared me the worry too."
"And leave you all alone with Alecto Carrow breathing down your neck? She looked as if she'd steal your perfume bottles this morning just to smell like you."
"Do not make me laugh when I'm trying to be angry," warned Helena, lips twitching.
"She didn't ask you about it? She used your shampoo—"
"No, she didn't!"
"I swear I smelled it on her when she came out of the shower." Ellis leaned in close, "Careful with your combs, she might just pull out some Polyjuice—"
"I absolutely despise you," laughed Helena. "Oh, Merlin, what if she does do that?"
"I'll notice the difference and save you."
"What if she's killed me? You'll avenge me, won't you?"
"Of course," said Ellis, stretching her arms high overhead.
Though, she knew Helena would be watching her more closely going forward, it felt like a great relief that someone else seemed to see what she did as well. It wasn't something she imagined. Every glance he cast her way had weight. Even across the Great Hall or the library stacks, when she happened to glance up, there he was—poised with a measured calm, studying her with almost unnerving intensity. At first, she'd felt certain it was a trick of her imagination. But, it was real. Solid.
He was crazy, likely. She thought about his life, about that looming Black family home the seemed to only contain nightmares. The kind of house that could crush freedom out of a person—an atmosphere all too capable of driving someone to madness. Sometimes, she thought that maybe Regulus had gone a little mad in there.
It was likely no more than a desperate need for something to break the dull monotony of his existence. An escape.
But it wasn't entirely unwelcome, was it? Ellis had to admit to herself that part of her savored the attention. Regulus Black demanded a closer look. She couldn't pretend she was immune to his appeal, even if she knew better than to let herself be too flattered.
When she pictured cutting Regulus off completely, something in her chest twisted unpleasantly. Yes, he was strange; yes, maybe he was losing his grip on reality. But if he needed whatever part of her he kept reaching for, maybe she was willing to indulge him just enough to dispel those urges. If she could satisfy his curiosity—kill it—then perhaps she could walk away, unburdened.
She told herself it was for Regulus's sake—he'd move on, find someone else to occupy his time, and she could get back to her own life. But deep down, Ellis knew better: for all her resolve, she wasn't entirely certain she wanted him to let go.
She was a mess during DADA that day. Professor Karkaroff had grown to like her, so when her stray spell hit Davey Gudgeon, he only barked out an order for his friends to send him to the Hospital Wing. It wasn't often that Ellis played the teacher's pet, but she did enjoy the sour faces that her classmates displayed when she got complimented and they earned a scolding.
"Sloppy," goaded Barty as they dueled, "Want me to teach you how to duel properly?"
"Do you even know how to?" she asked. "Last I checked, you get heated whenever someone mentions your father, Barty. You need to leave that behind and focus."
"I bet you knew about Mulciber weeks ago. You didn't think you should have warned me too? Didn't think I'd care about what my father was doing?"
"Take that up with the Ministry. It's not my job to inform you of—"
A bright flash of light slammed against the wall behind her head. Ellis kept very still. She had never been frightened of Barty before, but there was something dangerous lingering in his face that made her wary.
Barty looked down at his wand, surprise flashing across his face. He didn't seem to register what he'd done. Rather he was fascinated by the fact that it happened at all. "I only want to know what's going on and my father constantly disappoints me these days. It's bad enough that I share his name."
Ellis's eyes flicked to the scorch mark on the flagstones where the curse had landed mere seconds earlier. Her breath came steady, but her grip on her wand tightened. Everyone else in the room was wrapped up in their own duels, spells ricocheting off conjured shields or clashing in midair, oblivious to the quiet standoff happening in the corner. She'd never seen such callousness in Barty before.
"Pity you don't share his respect for the law," she said, forcing a level tone even though her heart was still hammering. "That curse could've killed me."
He shrugged one shoulder, unfazed. "You saw it coming."
"And if I hadn't?" she pressed.
"You did," he said simply, the detached certainty in his voice setting her teeth on edge.
That careless response was enough to make her decision. Ellis had no intention of feeding his recklessness by giving him another opportunity to aim a curse in her direction. So, she loosened her stance and stowed her wand away, taking several controlled breaths to steady herself.
"I forfeit," she declared. If she continued, it might only push him to do something worse—something he might come to regret if he ever grew a conscience. Or, more horrifyingly, something he wouldn't regret at all.
Barty's brow creased in surprise, but Ellis forged on before he could speak. "And you need to talk to your father, Barty. I mean it. He's wrong to treat you like he does, but take that up with him—not me, and not anyone else. Do you understand?"
"I bet he'd prefer having a son like you," said Barty, reaching for her to stop her from leaving. "What do you think? Should we switch out?"
"Don't touch me," she snapped, shaking his arm off her. A flash of anger crossed his face. His grip turned painful, digging in.
"Do you think you'll avoid—"
A spell knocked Barty back and sent Ellis toppling to the ground. She drew her wand immediately, looking for the idiot who had misfired, offering far less grace than she had gotten. Helena shrunk back, dragging her hand toward her chest. "Sorry," she called out. "It bounced off Nott's shield."
Ellis nodded, relieved that someone had stepped in, though her nerves still hummed from the confrontation. She swallowed hard, trying to shake the uneasy thought that one morning she might wake up to find they were in a real battle rather than just a classroom.
Professor Karkaroff wrapped up the lesson by assigning three feet of parchment on the differences between the three Unforgivable Curses—material they'd be covering more deeply next week. His cold gaze swept across the rows, stopping briefly on Ellis before he dismissed everyone. Chairs scraped against stone as students hurried out, clearly eager to escape.
"Ms. Selwyn," Karkaroff called over the low hum of departing voices, his accented tone carrying easily across the room. "Stay behind, if you please."
Ellis tightened her grip on her bag's strap, wishing she could vanish alongside the crowd. She watched the others file out and then stepped forward. Karkaroff's expression was guarded, and the sharp angles of his face seemed more severe than usual.
"Extra lessons?" she repeated when he finally spoke, surprised by his intensity.
"You have potential," he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile curling his lips. "Great potential, but you are too cautious, yes? The Dark Arts need nurturing, practice, if you are to master them. Practical experience. There are a few others—"
He trailed off, and Ellis found herself leaning forward, intrigued despite herself. She wondered what, exactly, he had in mind—and whether getting caught in his orbit was the last thing she wanted or something she couldn't afford to miss. But, others? Others…her mind caught up quickly and all thoughts of academic pursuits vanished.
She straightened, spine stiff, "Do you mean to recruit me for the Dark Lord, Professor?"
He laughed. "Very good, Miss Selwyn. Very good, yes, then, I will not lie about my intentions, and you should not lie about yours."
She felt a jolt of shock, but refused to let it show. "My father is the Chair of the Wizengamot," she said quietly. "If I told him what you're proposing, you'd be in Azkaban before you could draw your wand."
Karkaroff only smiled thinly. "You must wonder what the Dark Lord is like. If you met him, you would understand—and I believe such a meeting would benefit you and the others who haven't chosen a side yet. Your cousin Rosier, for instance. He hesitates. But Bartemius…you've seen how ready he is."
"A meeting with the Dark Lord?" she repeated, carefully controlled disbelief lacing her words.
"You're curious," Karkaroff went on. "He attended Hogwarts once. I wasn't lucky enough to be among his first knights, but we crossed paths after the war—after Grindelwald." He pulled on the chain beneath his robes, holding it up to reveal a charm at the end. Ellis knew it. Of course, she knew it. Her aunt was Grindelwald's closest ally and the Deathly Hallows were not unknown to her. "It is no lie to say the Dark Lord's power and influence persuaded me. He is the Heir of Slytherin—"
"What do you mean by that?"
Karkaroff's eyes gleamed. "Do you think the pureblood families would kneel to a half-blood if he were anything less?"
Ellis couldn't help a short, humorless laugh. "Half-blood," she echoed, the word strange on her tongue. These same people had called her a blood traitor, yet they bowed to a half-blood? She vowed silently to flay the next person who dared throw that insult at her.
"A Gaunt on his mother's side," Karkaroff said dismissively, as though it hardly mattered. "His father was a Muggle. Long dead now. Don't repeat this to anyone, Miss Selwyn. I'm telling you because you hesitate—and neutrality is a dangerous stance to take these days. You are a powerful witch. You would excel under his care, but—"
She cut him off, her tone laced with contempt. "You can tell the Dark Lord that if he wants to meet me, he can come himself. I have no intention of serving a half-blood, heir of Salazar Slytherin or not. Hiding behind a mask and an false name is awfully Muggle-like, wouldn't you agree?"
She watched Karkaroff blanch, whatever grudging warmth he might have harbored for her dying on his face. His jaw worked, but no words came out.
"Is that all, Professor Karkaroff?"
He swallowed. "Y—yes."
Ellis spent the rest of the day in a haze, her thoughts looping back again and again to what Karkaroff had said. The name Gaunt rang in her ears. By the time supper rolled around, she had already decided what she needed to do. Not long after curfew, she slipped through the silent corridors with her wand at the ready, pulse hammering
The Records Room was in the Headmaster's Tower and was frequently used to administer mind-numbing tasks during detention. She wasn't supposed to be here, not at this hour. Curiosity dragged her there.
Ellis preferred serving her detentions here rather than in the trophy room, where she was made to clean without her wand. During her last detention, courtesy of Professor McGonagall, she gathered quite a bit of information on the modernization of Hogwarts (the installation of plumbing, piping, and ovens in the centuries-old castle). Ellis dug out her old copy of Hogwarts, A History by Bathilda Bagshot afterward, only to confirm that all the modern plumbing had indeed been installed in the eighteenth century and was privately funded by the alumni of the school.
The simple wooden door creaked ominously as she eased it open, and she hovered in the gap for a moment, listening. No footsteps. No distant voices. The coast was clear.
Ellis slipped inside, wand at the ready. With a hushed whisper of "Lumos," the tip of her wand glowed, illuminating the tower's dusty rafters and walls lined with archives. Rolls of parchment, battered ledgers, and aging tomes crammed the shelves.
She let her wand skim across the rows of documents until she spotted the ones with an eighteenth-century label. She already discovered that the Gaunt Family had something to do with the plumbing installation during her detention, but the exact details were maddeningly vague.
Quietly, she traced her fingertip along the spines. "Seventeen…twelve?" she muttered. Most volumes were thick with intricately embossed titles, but time had rendered some unreadable. She tugged on a ledger, wiping away layers of dust before carefully prying open the cover. It creaked like an ancient hinge, and she settled onto a rickety stool, half hidden behind the largest shelf.
A wave of must, tinged with old ink, drifted up making her nose itch. She set her wand on the desk, the glow illuminating the carefully scripted lines:
"Renovations to the Second Floor, East Wing: Funding for these repairs has been secured via…"
She turned the page. The brittle parchment threatened to tear at the edges, and she worked to keep her hands steady.
"…the Gaunt Family. All improvements to be overseen by direct liaison—Corvinus Gaunt—whose instructions supersede normal maintenance procedures. Immediate records of expenditures are to be kept under lock and key."
Her breath caught in her throat. So, the Gaunts had funded more than just new plumbing—they had specifically invested in that very lavatory. But why? Curious, she continued skimming until she found a footnote scribbled in cramped handwriting:
"Headmaster Viridian concludes the area will remain off-limits, based on modifications unknown to staff."
Ellis frowned. The Gaunt family wasn't one she knew well. Despite her mother's insistence on etiquette classes, Ellis had never been particularly eager to memorize family trees. She couldn't recall a single Slytherin student with the name, though she knew of Professor Vindictus Viridian—a renowned Slytherin who served as Headmaster for nearly thirty years until his sudden death in 1723. His portrait on the Grand Staircase was infamous for its cutting remarks toward anyone who wandered too close.
Why, then, would a man of such pride defer to the Gaunts?
For the same reasons, they bow to a half-blood now. Because of Salazar Slytherin's bloodline.
A floorboard creaked outside the corridor, and Ellis nearly dropped the ledger. She snapped the book shut, holding her wand close to her chest so its light wouldn't spill too far. Adrenaline hammered in her veins.
Once the footsteps receded, she dared a quick look around, wandlight casting flickering shadows over shelves as tall as the ceiling. In the silence, she heard her own shallow breathing.
Abandoning the ledger for a moment, she murmured a quick summoning spell on any more records directly related to the Gaunt family.
A nearby filing box rattled and then whizzed through the air toward her. Ellis grunted as she caught it, carefully lifting the lid. Its contents were official Hogwarts watermarks stamped on parchment, some older, some more recent. She fanned through them, eyes scanning for key words: Gaunt, Viridian, second floor. Nothing jumped out. Another box, more rummaging. She finally encountered a heavily creased letter sealed with a broken wax crest in the shape of a coiled serpent.
"Remain discreet. Once the entrance is fully operational—"
The rest of the letter was unintelligible from a massive ink blot. Entrance to what? What in Merlin's name had they been building?
She heard another soft noise, closer this time—like the squeak of a shoe on stone. Her heart leapt into her throat. Slamming the letter back into the box, she flicked her wand, making the lamp-lights around the desk wink out. She dove behind a tall cabinet, breathing as quietly as she could.
A figure stepped into view, wandlight sweeping methodically across the shelves. Ellis recognized the threadbare robes and mild features—Remus Lupin. There was no mistaking him. He had a perpetually tired look about his eyes, but he also had a knack for noticing trouble.
Ellis held her breath. Maybe if she waited him out, he'd assume no one was here.
"Selwyn." Remus' voice was gentle but firm, "I know you're there."
Remus studied her from the threshold of the Records Room, the faint glow of his wand reflecting in his tired eyes. Then he sighed, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I won't ask what you're doing here," he said in a subdued voice, "but you should head back to your common room."
Ellis, caught between annoyance and gratitude, dipped her head once and slipped past him. She could tell from the set of his shoulders that he wouldn't mention this to anyone.
By the time she reached the Slytherin dungeons, her thoughts were consumed by a single thread: Gaunt.
She barely slept that night. When she finally closed her eyes, her dreams were a tangle of stone corridors, flickering torchlight, and the symbol of a coiled serpent. By morning, she found herself pacing the dormitory restlessly, turning over the question again and again: Who were the Gaunts—really? What secret had they buried at Hogwarts? And why was Lord Voldemort so adamant about hiding his bloodline when it was storied?
Classes the next day blurred by. She vaguely recalled Helena commenting on her preoccupied state during Potions. Ned shot her a strange look in the halls, but she merely scowled until he lost interest. She kept expecting Professor Karkaroff to corner her again, but he seemed to avoid her altogether, glancing away whenever she passed. It should have alarmed her—the memory of her rash words still lingered somewhere at the edge of her mind—but she was too fixated on other things to dwell on it for long.
It wasn't until late afternoon, after dinner, that she finally caught sight of Regulus. He sat by a tall window in the Slytherin common room, framed by the greenish glow of lantern-light, leafing through a battered pamphlet from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The flicker of the fire cast an uneven glow across his composed features, and as soon as he saw Ellis approach, he raised his head.
Regulus could recite her own family tree better than she could. He could name Nott's ancestors back ten generations. Tracing someone's bloodline through the ages was second nature to him. Ordinarily, she might have eased into it. Tonight, though, she had no patience for banter. Her stomach twisted with urgency.
She came right to the point, voice hushed. Though the common room was half-empty, the few students present could be lethal gossips if they overheard something too intriguing. "Do you know anything about the Gaunt family?"
Regulus arched a brow, marking his place in the pamphlet with one finger as she sat down, folding her legs beneath her, angling her body toward him. Her legs brushed against his. Neither moved. "They're nearly extinct," he began carefully. "The last one I know of is in Azkaban, serving a life sentence for murdering a Muggle family."
"Is that it?"
"They were wealthy once, but it dried up in the eighteenth century and they never recovered. Prideful, instable and violent, more so than my own family." He smiled thinly here—the joke meant to humor her. "They would sometimes marry brother and sister…or their own cousins—" Regulus' cheeks crested with color, a frown building on his face as if it embarrassed him to speak of such things. Ellis wondered if his parents' marriage shamed him more than he let on. "—to keep the line pure. Some said they were Slytherin's closest descendants."
"How did they know?"
"It's exceedingly rare for anyone other than a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin to speak Parseltongue," Regulus said softly. He glanced around to ensure no one was listening and then leaned forward. "That alone was enough to keep their name feared."
Ellis felt a chill skate along her spine.
"Are you asking because of Greengrass?" he asked, mistaking her intensity.
"What?" She frowned, shaking her head. "No—what about Helena?"
Regulus shrugged. "A rumor. One of her ancestors insulted the Gaunts by refusing a marriage proposal; she died in childbirth soon after under suspicious circumstances. It's said the Gaunts were the ones who cursed her bloodline."
So many threads to pull, but Ellis didn't know which would unravel the mystery for her best.
"The Dark Lord is a Gaunt. Professor Karkaroff told me." She took a breath, forcing composure. "He wanted me to meet him. Said I had…potential. That he was worried about Evan's hesitance, that Barty was more than ready—" She faltered.
Regulus sat straighter. "What did you tell him?"
Ellis swallowed. "I—I told him…if he wanted to meet me, he could come himself."
She broke off, color draining from her face. Somehow saying it out loud made it sound even worse. "I…I might've even called him no better than a Muggle," she admitted in a near-whisper. "I didn't think about it at the time—I was shocked. Karkaroff said it so casually, and it made me so angry that—"
"What did Karkaroff say?" Regulus pressed, voice taut.
"He just stared," Ellis managed, shoulders stiffening with remembered adrenaline. "He didn't know what to say. Would he…would tell him that?"
Regulus' gaze flicked toward the nearest group of third-year Slytherins huddled over an assignment. Then, with deliberate softness, he leaned in. His hand reached out, fingers trailing lightly over her shoulder before sliding into her hair. In one graceful motion, he swept it aside, his knuckles grazing the curve of her neck. Gently, he let his palm rest there, cradling the nape of her neck in a way that sent a sudden warmth through her. Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to catch on that simple, intimate touch.
"He won't." Regulus spoke with quiet certainty. There was no trace of a doubt in his eyes, only a resolve that tightened his jaw. "I'll take care of it. I promise. Karkaroff won't bring it up again. And none of what you said will reach the Dark Lord's ears."
Ellis' eyes darted over his features. She knew the weight of a vow when she heard one, but the question rose unbidden in her mind: Why? Why risk his own position because of her stupidity? He owed her nothing, yet he kept reaching for her. And it was still strange—and wonderful, so wonderful—to have his undivided attention.
She forced herself to nod, feeling something uncoil inside her chest. "Thank you," she said at last, voice soft.
Regulus hesitated, then added, "If Karkaroff tries to corner you again—tell me."
She tried to smile. "You'll swoop in like some valiant knight?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "If that's what you'd like."
Silence pressed between them, laden with unspoken thoughts. For once, Ellis couldn't muster a cutting remark or a playful jibe. Instead, she took in the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine—the dark glint in his eyes that told her he was serious.
At length, she found her voice. "I want it all to stop," she whispered, swallowing hard. "I'm tired of hearing about deaths every morning, about how many people were murdered. My father is Chair of the Wizengamot, and there's always a chance—" Her voice wavered. "There's always a chance it might be him on the front page next."
Slowly, testing the boundaries of something unspoken, he let his arm draping over her shoulders with effortless ease. His fingers brushed against the outer curve of her arm, lingering there. Regulus nodded once. "I know." He studied her a fraction of a second longer. The tension in his face softened. "If I could change it all, I would."
She wanted to believe him, but it was difficult to disregard what she already knew. As much as she tried to blame his parents and Sirius, Regulus Black had always been an avid supporter of the Dark Lord—the first to speak out in praise of his actions. When the choice presented itself, she imagined that he made it without hesitation, without regret. To be a Death Eater was to give your life completely to the Dark Lord.
Ellis could not forget that he had always been the first to turn his back on her. This won't last. One day, we'll leave Hogwarts, and all of this will be forgotten.
She started to move away, the tension in her shoulders coiling tight—
The entrance to the common room opened, cutting across the moment like a slash of cold air. Maisie Burke climbed through. She had the sort of face that made people feel at ease, with round cheeks and warm, inviting brown eyes. Her skin was a deep tan, a shade that made it easy to imagine her lounging in some faraway summer, even in the dead of winter. She had a softness about her—not just in her rounded frame, but in the way she moved, the way she tilted her head when she listened, the way her full lips always seemed on the verge of a knowing smile.
A smile split across her face as she caught sight of Ellis, "Goodness, aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Ellie? Where have you been?"
Her dark brown hair was fluffed about her head and Ellis only had to take one look at her swollen lips and rumpled clothes to garner a guess as to where she'd been.
"Here," said Ellis, shifting as Regulus let his arm fall. "You're the one that's gone missing."
Maisie flapped a hand through the air, climbing over the back of the couch and throwing herself down in Ellis' lap, legs hanging over the armrest. "I'll be chained up for the rest of my life soon enough," she said, beneath a yawn. "Can't blame me for getting my fun in now."
"Don't lie down like that," muttered Ellis, pulling Maisie's skirt down over her thighs, before anyone caught sight of her unmentionables. "Go upstairs and sleep in your bed."
"Merlin, do you ever take that stick out of your arse?" She raised her head, looking over at Regulus who had gone back to reading his pamphlet. "Black, why don't you help her relax a bit? She's wound up so tight, she'd probably snap your cock clean off."
"I—that's—that's—"
"Oh?" Maisie shot up, looking at Ellis with far too much interest. "Playing the blushing virgin, now? Oldest trick in the book."
"Maisie."
"She's not one—"
"Burke. Upstairs. Now."
"Aye, aye, mum." Maisie strode up to her, kissed her cheek, and then brought her mouth to her ear, whispering, "Selwyn, he looks like he'd be good on his knees. Have a bit of fun and find out."
Maisie laughed at her stunned expression and skipped off, taking the steps two at a time to put as much distance between her and Ellis' wand. "HELENA! ALTHEA!" Maisie shouted as she climbed. "I BETTER NOT FIND OUT THAT SOMEONE'S TOUCHED MY—"
Silence settled in the common room, broken only by the crackle of the low-burning fire and the distant sounds of other students drifting upstairs. Ellis exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead as if she could will away the weight pressing against it. When she turned, she found Regulus watching her with a level, unreadable gaze.
"Don't entertain her nonsense," he said at last, his voice firm.
Ellis frowned. "I'm not."
The lie was effortless, but not good enough.
Regulus didn't look away. He wasn't easily fooled, and she knew it. The pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Ellis had the unsettling sensation that he saw right through her, through the careful set of her shoulders, through the way she kept her expression even, through the way her fingers absently smoothed the hem of her sleeve—anything to keep her hands busy.
The greenish glow from the enchanted lanterns flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting patterns across his face, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones and catching on the dark fringe of his lashes.
Regulus exhaled softly, as if resigning himself to something, "Do you want to play chess?"
Ellis blinked. "What?"
Regulus tipped his head, watching her with that same quiet intensity, then held out a hand. "Play a game with me."
She hesitated, searching his expression for some deeper motive, but all she found was the same unreadable calm. It wasn't an offering of pity—not quite. It was a distraction, a deliberate shift of focus, a quiet way of pulling her out of her own head without acknowledging that he was doing so.
For a moment, Ellis considered refusing. After some hesitation, she took his offered hand. His palm was warm against hers, his grip steady. As soon as their skin met, she felt that rush of magic beneath her skin, the same familiar current she felt whenever she picked up her wand.
Regulus guided her toward a far corner of the common room where an empty chess set lay waiting. They took their seats across from one another, and Ellis' brow furrowed as she surveyed the pieces.
"Don't think too hard," he said, amusement threading his voice. She reached to turn the board, but Regulus stopped her with a gentle press of his fingertips. "White has the advantage."
She was hoping to go second and copy whatever he did. "It may have been a while since we last played, but it'd take a miracle for you to have the advantage here."
"I'll let you win," he reassured.
"Then why play at all?"
His gaze locked onto her; edges softened by warmth. It sent an unfamiliar thrill curling in her stomach. "I'm feeling nostalgic," he murmured.
"Well, don't."
He smiled, just slightly, and Ellis had the maddening realization that he knew exactly what he was doing to her. "Why not?"
Her throat felt tight. She forced herself to take a steadying breath. Reaching forward, she moved one of the center pawns, recalling that Helena always started her games that way.
They played in silence and Ellis found herself relaxing into the rhythm of the game, the familiar dance of strategy and counter-strategy pulling her focus away from the slow coil of tension that had been wound too tight in her chest.
He watched her as she reached for her knight, intending to move it forward in what she thought was a reasonable play. Before her fingers could brush the piece, his hand shot out, stopping her with a light touch to her wrist.
"Not that one."
Regulus nudged her hand away and reached forward to adjust one of her pawns instead. "Open up space for your bishop."
Ellis eyed him suspiciously. "Are you actually helping me, or just making sure I lose less embarrassingly?"
He leaned back in his chair, entirely too at ease as he moved his own piece, "I told you I'd let you win."
She reached for her queen this time, thinking she might get ahead of whatever trap he was laying, but once again, his hand found hers, fingers curling lightly around hers to stop her.
"Why don't you just play both sides yourself?"
"You wouldn't be here." He guided her hand to a different piece instead, his fingers barely brushing hers as he positioned it. "Move your knight to this square. It'll protect your queen."
They continued like that for a while—Regulus directing, Ellis following, his fingertips brushing hers more than once, each time more deliberate, more lingering. It was not lost on her. It couldn't be.
She should have stopped it. Should have walked away from the game.
Instead, she let it happen.
Somehow, somewhere between her first mistake and his directions, between the flicker of magic that pressed between his fingertips to hers, something shifted.
If he reached across the table to kiss her, she would not stop him. She wanted him to. To have his mouth on hers, hand tangled in her hair, violent with the force of his desire. Wanted him to kiss her with such raw hunger that it made her blood sing, made her forget where she ended, and he began. To unravel her until she lay bare.
And that—more than anything—was the problem.
Because Ellis had never been taught that love was something to fear.
AN: I wanted to thank you guys for reading and reviewing. It's very motivating and I really get overjoyed to read your thoughts, so thank you for that :)