Time seemed to still for a beat. The rush of magic still hummed beneath Jane's skin, the echo of the portkey's pull lingering in her bones. She blinked hard, trying to steady herself as her senses adjusted to her new surroundings.
She stood in what she could only assume was a receiving hall, its grandeur unlike anything she had ever stepped foot in before. The space was cavernous, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral, as if someone had recently walked through with a perfumed handkerchief. The floors gleamed with cut marble, pristine and cold beneath her feet. Towering columns stretched toward a ceiling adorned with elaborate moldings, and above her, a crystal chandelier caught the low light, casting fractured rainbows against the walls.
Everything about this place screamed wealth. Old wealth. The kind that didn't have to flaunt itself because it had always been there, woven into the very foundation.
Cat squirmed in her arms, his claws pressing lightly against the fabric of her bloodstained overalls. He was as unsettled as she was, his ears twitching, his sharp eyes darting around the unfamiliar space. Jane tightened her grip on him, murmuring a quiet reassurance she wasn't sure either of them believed.
It was only then that she glanced down at herself and let out a short, almost hysterical laugh. Her shoes were gone, likely left behind in the chaos of her father's house, and all she had on were her blood-soaked socks. The deep red had darkened to near black in some places, the dampness still clinging to her skin. The sight was surreal, grotesque even, and yet the absurdity of it pulled a dry, humorless smile to her lips.
"Well," she muttered under her breath, voice slightly hoarse, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."
And then her situation truly dawned on her.
She was standing, barefoot and bloodstained, in the home of an old pureblood family. A family who had invited her here for a gathering—a celebration in honor of the Dark Lord himself. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
She was screwed.
Where could she go? She had no friends left, not anymore. Hufflepuff's warmth had turned to ice the moment she chose her own path, and there was no running back to them now. Her house—well, her father's house—didn't even have a Floo connection. She couldn't Apparate yet. Her only option was to find a fireplace and get out before anyone noticed her.
But where?
The Leaky Cauldron? Maybe. That was public enough, but then what? She had no real plan, no allies waiting for her with open arms. Just a handful of crumpled Muggle notes stuffed in her pockets, stained now with her father's blood. It wasn't enough for a room, barely enough for food. She could try to find a bus, blend in with the Muggles, but how far could she really get?
She gripped Cat a little tighter, her breath coming in short, harsh bursts. She needed to move. Now. But before Jane could take a step, a voice rang out from just beyond the grand hall.
"Who let you in here?"
Her blood turned to ice. And that was when she saw him.
Standing at the far end of the grand hall, effortlessly poised, was the most beautiful man Jane had ever laid eyes on. He was dressed in a casual black shirt—expensive, clearly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and lean frame—and dark trousers that moved with him like a second skin. The fabric, though simple, spoke of wealth and power in the way that only pureblood aristocracy could. But it wasn't just his clothes that struck her. It was him.
His skin was warm, sun-kissed in a way that set him apart from the pale, shadowy figures Jane had grown used to in Slytherin's dungeon. His hair, golden like spun sunlight, was styled just precisely enough to make her want to ruin it. Jane wanted to thread her fingers through it and see if he'd look just as devastatingly handsome with it a little less perfect. And his eyes—Merlin, his eyes—were a piercing, crystalline blue, knowing as they dragged over her disheveled form.
A slow smirk curled his lips, both amused and assessing. He flicked his wand at her, muttering a quick Tergeo.
Jane barely had time to register what he'd done before she felt the shift in her clothes. The sticky warmth of fresh blood no longer clung to her skin, though traces of it still remained—streaks against the yellow of her overalls, stains on Who t-shirt. He hadn't cleaned her up entirely, just enough that she no longer dripped.
As if he wanted her to look presentable but still bear the evidence of whatever had happened before she arrived.
Then, with a practiced ease, he slipped his wand away and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the toned lines of his forearms. And there, against the golden tan of his skin, was the Mark.
Dark. Twisting. A promise, a brand.
This was not some charming stranger. This was a Death Eater. And he had just helped her.
The man tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as his gaze swept over her. It was slow, deliberate, like he was sizing her up. His stance was effortless, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other hung loosely by his side, the way a duelist might rest just before drawing their wand.
"Well," he drawled as smooth as silk, "aren't you an interesting little thing?"
Her fingers twitched around Cat, gripping him tighter. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
He shifted his weight onto one foot, his shirt stretching slightly across broad shoulders as he regarded her with clear amusement. "Covered in blood, barefoot, and looking utterly lost in the middle of Yaxley Manor. Now, who might you be?"
Fumbling, Jane's knees began to feel weak. Say something. Anything.
"I—I'm supposed to be here," she managed, shifting Cat in her arms as the Kneazle squirmed harder, yowling a bit.
Moving her hand for her pocket, Jane's fingers brushing against the folded invitation, but Cat had other plans. His tail lashed, ears flattening as he twisted violently in her grip, making her stumble slightly backward. She clenched her jaw, trying to keep hold of him while tugging the parchment free with her other hand.
The man let out a quiet chuckle, watching her struggle with something akin to lazy amusement. "Need some help, darling?"
Before she could refuse, he extended his hands, palms open. His movements were smooth, confident, like he expected obedience.
To Jane's absolute shock, Cat stilled. His long body tensed as he turned his bright, intelligent eyes on the stranger. There was a pause, a considering moment, before, to her utter betrayal, Cat allowed himself to be lifted from her arms.
The man adjusted Cat against his chest with ease, one large hand bracing the Kneazle's back while the other absentmindedly scratched behind his ears. The way he held him was almost… practiced. Comfortable.
Cat flicked his tail, sniffed at the expensive fabric of his shirt, then settled in.
"Traitor." Jane scowled.
The man only smiled, his thumb stroking lightly over Cat's fur. "Clearly, he has good taste."
Freed from her burden, Jane yanked the invitation from her pocket, the parchment crinkled and smeared with fingerprints. She unfolded it before she thrust it toward him, her arm stiff, chin lifting slightly in defiance.
He took it with the same unbothered ease. His expression didn't shift as he read. No reaction to the blood. No surprise at her name. He didn't even glance at her again, as if whatever he found on that parchment already told him everything he needed to know.
Then, without looking up, he called out, "Ribble."
A soft pop echoed through the hall as a house-elf appeared at his side, bowing so low its long nose nearly touched the marble floor.
"Yes, Master?"
Jane's mind barely had time to latch onto the name before he moved again, shifting Cat slightly as he handed him off to the elf. "Take the Kneazle, clean him up, and settle him in the guests' quarters." His words were dismissive, an effortless authority. "Make sure he's comfortable."
The elf dipped its head again, bony fingers wrapping carefully around Cat. In another soft pop, they were both gone.
Staring after them for a moment, Jane's breath was still uneven. Her thoughts were still tangled from everything that had happened, and now she was standing in front of a Death Eater who was acting as if none of this was remotely unusual.
She straightened her spine, fists clenching at her sides. "And who the hell are you?"
His brow arched slightly, that damnable smirk still in place. "Daring, aren't you?" He asked in a way that made it sound almost like a compliment.
Then, with an air of casual ease, he flexed his fingers absently, as if testing the stretch of muscle, before finally meeting her eyes.
"Thorfinn Rowle. You should come with me." He said, stepping back and gesturing for her to follow.
Jane wasn't stupid enough to refuse him. They had her pet, and Thorfinn looked like the kind of man who could kill without breaking a sweat—probably without even a second thought. So she followed.
Her socked feet moved soundlessly against the hard marble floor as she hurried to keep up with his long strides. The manor stretched around her, regal and imposing, with towering columns and walls lined with dark, expensive wood paneling. Every inch of the decor screamed, I have so many galleons it's physically disgusting. Even the sconces looked like they were made of gold.
Fingers twitched at her sides, Jane ached to fidget, to do something with the nervous energy twisting inside her. She had no idea where Cat had been taken, but she had little choice except to trust that the house-elf would care for him. The thought made her stomach churn. Trust was not something she had in abundance anymore.
Thorfinn walked a few paces ahead, moving with an easy, confident stride, as though he owned the very air around him. She hated how effortlessly he carried himself, how untouchable he seemed. She forced herself to match his pace, though her feet ached from the lack of cushioning. Every part of her felt twisted and wrong, like it was another one of her dreams—like none of this was real.
They reached a set of massive rosewood doors, polished to a high shine. Jane caught her own reflection in them, disheveled hair, tired eyes, far too skinny frame. The gold inlays on the wood swirled in an intricate, almost hypnotic pattern, and an uneasy feeling settled further in her stomach. Whatever was behind these doors was important. And dangerous.
Thorfinn rolled his shoulders back before adjusting his sleeves. Jane had seen him do this multiple times in the last few minutes as if it was a tick. His blue eyes flicked over her again, taking in every detail. Including the way she held herself, tense and ready to bolt.
Then, with a tone far too sensual, he explained, "If you want everything to go smoothly, I suggest you keep that beautiful mouth of yours quiet unless you're spoken to, love."
The words settled over her like warm silk, wrapping around her senses in a way she hated. Her breath hitched before she could stop it. Jane clenched her jaw, fingernails digging into her palms. Her pulse betrayed her with an unwanted spike of awareness. Caterpillars were beginning to cocoon in her stomach.
It was annoying.
It was so annoying.
Because the man was clearly dangerous. Clearly a Death Eater. Clearly someone she should not be reacting to in any way other than fear and survival instincts. And yet, her treacherous heart skipped a beat anyway.
Thorfinn pulled the door open with an easy flick of his wrist and turned to Jane, waiting in silent expectation. She hesitated just for a moment, just long enough for him to notice.
Before she could decide whether to walk in on her own or bolt in the opposite direction, he placed a warm, steady hand on the small of her back and gave her the lightest of nudges forward. It wasn't forceful, but it left no room for argument. Jane swallowed hard and stepped inside.
The room was ornate, but in a way that was softer than the intense wealth of the entrance hall. The walls were lined with large tapestries, each depicting battles and great feats of magic. Unlike the static woven art she'd seen in history books, these moved like enchanted photographs, the embroidered figures dueling and clashing in a silent, endless war. Spells lit up the fabric with shimmering gold and silver threads, illuminating scenes of power and victory.
The rich scent of bergamot tea and honey clung to the air. Near the massive windows, each framed by silk drapes so heavy they must have cost a fortune, sat a tea table surrounded by a set of plush, high-backed chairs. And in one of the chairs sat an old woman.
She was dressed in robes of pale blue, embroidered so finely they seemed to shimmer as she moved. Her silver hair was intricately braided into a crown atop her head, a style that only enhanced the worn lines of her face. Though age had softened her features with fine lines, there was an unmistakable steel in the way she sat. She was the kind of woman who had seen much, worried much, and learned from it all.
She cradled a teacup in her hands, her fingers adorned with elegant rings. She didn't turn as they entered, simply keeping her eyes on the world outside the window.
"Mr. Rowle," she said in a measured tone. "Who is our guest?"
Thorfinn closed the door with a quiet click before stepping further into the room, his movements unhurried, like a man who belonged here. His presence was commanding, but not in an overtly aggressive way. It was more like a wolf prowling into familiar territory.
"Lady Yaxley. This is Miss Jane Lewis, the girl Mr. Snaperecommended. "
The young witch's stomach twisted into knots at the mention of Snape's name. She had been invited, yes—but she hadn't expected to be introduced like some carefully vetted newcomer. It felt exactly like being paraded out for evaluation.
Finally turning from the window, Lady Yaxley's assessing gaze settled on Jane. Up close, her eyes were a pale, icy blue, as if time itself had drained the color from them. She studied Jane in silence, her expression unreadable, before setting her teacup down with deliberate care.
Jane swallowed hard.
Keep your beautiful mouth quiet unless spoken to. Thorfinn's words echoed in her head, making her heart stutter. She wasn't sure if the flutter in her chest was from nerves or the way his voice had dipped ever so slightly when he said it.
Lady Yaxley folded her hands in her lap. "Well," she said at last, voice cool, yet not unkind. "Let us hope Mr. Snape has made a worthy recommendation."
"I believe he has," Thorfinn said with an easy confidence that sent a strange mix of relief and wariness through Jane.
By this point, Jane's hands were no doubt covered in small crescent marks from how hard she was digging her nails into them. She watched as Thorfinn just slightly cocked his head right before Lady Yaxley gave a slow, measured nod, then finally turned her stare back on Jane. Her expression remained unreadable, but something flickered across her face: curiosity, perhaps, or mild amusement at Jane's discomfort.
"Mr. Rowle, escort the young woman to her rooms. And do make sure the elves tend to her... clothes," she said, a delicate pause making her distaste clear.
Jane stiffened, hyper-aware of the dried blood stiffening the fabric of her overalls and the sticky sensation of it clinging to her skin. Before she could dwell on it, Lady Yaxley continued, lifting her teacup as though she were discussing nothing more pressing than the weather.
"I'll have the elves stock your lavatory with everything you'll need to rid yourself of this unfortunate grime."
Lips pressing together to keep from saying something that might get her hexed on the spot, Janer gave a shallow nod. The enormity of the situation pressed down on her, making her feel like all the air in the room had vanished. Thorfinn moved beside her, reaching for the door. The muscles in his forearm flexed showing off his veins as he pushed it open, and he turned slightly toward her, one brow arched in silent command. Jane hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, moving quickly past him and out into the hallway.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, she exhaled, not realizing how tightly wound she had been until now. The tension in her shoulders eased, but only slightly. She wasn't safe yet.
He walked beside her at an unhurried pace, his stride confident, effortless. Jane kept her head high, trying not to let her nerves show, but his presence was impossible to ignore. The marble floors reflected the warm glow of enchanted sconces, casting long shadows across the walls adorned with regal, moving portraits. The ancestors of the Yaxley family watched her with thinly veiled judgment, their painted expressions shifting as she passed. Some looked curious, others disdainful, but none of them looked welcoming.
Jane swallowed hard and glanced at Thorfinn from the corner of her eye. He had his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture loose, almost lazy, but there was something undeniably deadly beneath the ease. A predator's grace. The way he moved, how he occupied space. It was magnetic in a way that made her feel both drawn in and wary at the same time.
Then he spoke, his voice deep, smooth, and touched with an edge of amusement.
"So," he drawled, "how exactly did you end up covered in that much blood?"
Her mouth went dry. For a brief, fleeting moment, she considered... But before Jane could remember the reason why, the words tumbled from her lips.
"My father wouldn't let me attend."
As if turning her words over in his mind, Thorfinn let out a low hum. Then, with a slow smirk, he looked down at her, blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "So you killed a Hippogriff to convince him?"
Jane nearly tripped over her own feet. "No, I didn't kill a Hippogriff!" She shouted, then clamped her mouth shut.
Thorfinn stopped walking then.
She felt the heat of him before she fully turned to face him, the air between them suddenly charged. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, and before she could step back, his fingers brushed against her cheek. Jane froze. It wasn't a forceful touch—just the barest graze of his knuckles along her skin, like he was testing something, gauging a reaction.
His smirk deepened as his fingers traced down to her jaw, featherlight but undeniably possessive. "I heard rumors that you were fiery," he asked so slowly it was almost like a purr. His thumb hovered just below her chin, like he was considering tilting her face up. "Looks like the rumors are true."
Jane's breath caught in her throat. Her heart was a riotous drum against her ribs, her mind screaming at her to step back—but she didn't.
She should.
She really should.
Instead, she stood there, her pulse betraying her, her skin prickling with the awareness of just how close he was. The scent of him—something warm, musky, and expensive—wrapped around her like a slow, suffocating spell. He was teasing her—she knew that—playing a game she wasn't sure of the rules to.
But Merlin help her, she didn't hate it.
Thorfinn's fingers moved from her jaw to her hair, his touch slow, deliberate. He caught a loose curl between his fingers, twirling it idly as if he had every right to do so, as if she weren't standing there barely processing what was happening. Jane swallowed, poorly willing her face to remain neutral even as her pulse betrayed her.
"Where exactly did a girl like you come from?" he mused. "I've never met a witch who would dare show her face in the ancestral home of the Noble House of Yaxley in anything short of her best. And yet…" His blue eyes flicked over her, trailing down the length of her overalls, the blood still darkening the fabric. His smirk deepened. "Here you are. In muggle clothes, no less."
His fingers lightly pulled at a curl before he let the strand slip through his fingers, the sensation sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.
Feigning confidence she didn't quite feel, Jane defiantly lifted her chin. "Well, I do try to make an impression."
"Oh, you've certainly done that." Thorfinn chuckled, the sound deep and pleased.
"Good," she shot back, crossing her arms. "I'd hate for all this effort to go unnoticed."
His smirk widened. "You're cheeky." He tilted his head, eyes glittering with intrigue. "I like cheeky."
"That's funny," Jane quipped, arching a brow. "I thought men like you preferred their witches quiet and obedient."
Thorfinn took a slow step closer, closing the space between them. "Most do," he admitted in an almost intimate way. "But I'm not most men."
Jane refused to step back, though it took every ounce of willpower she had. "Oh? And what exactly are you, then?"
His smirk turned wolfish, and for the briefest moment, she saw something dangerous flicker in his expression—something dark, something knowing.
"You'll find out," he whispered into the shell of her ear. Then, as if he hadn't just sent a chill straight through her bones, he reached out again, brushing his knuckles along the same curl before turning away. His pace was unhurried, his hands slipping into his pockets as if he had all the time in the world.
"Tell me. Where can I find your father?"
Jane blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Your father," he repeated. "Where can I find him? I assume he'll need some…convincing to allow you to stay."
Her stomach twisted. "He's—" she started, but Thorfinn politely cut her off, raising a hand ever so slightly in a gesture of easy authority.
"Whatever the issue is. I'll take care of it."
Jane stared at him, unsure if he truly understood what he was offering. "That's not—"
"While I'm at it," he interrupted again, "is there anything you need from home?"
She hesitated, the surreal nature of the situation making her brain lag behind her mouth. "I… I think there's a few sickles under my mattress," she said slowly. "If you could bring those. I am saving for my Apparition test."
Thorfinn chuckled, shaking his head as they reached a pair of dark oak doors. He turned to face her, leaning slightly against the frame, arms folding lazily across his broad chest. "A handful of sickles? You're a simple thing, aren't you?"
"Not all of us are drowning in gold, Rowle." Jane lifted her chin, arms crossing over her own chest in defiance.
"Not yet," he hummed in amusement. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
She frowned. "What do you mean, 'you'll take care of it'?"
Thorfinn's smirk didn't fade. Instead, he tilted his head, considering her for a beat before saying, "A question for a question."
Jane narrowed her eyes. "That's not how this works."
"Sure it is," he countered smoothly. "I answer yours, you answer mine."
Her pulse ticked up. He was enjoying this, toying with her like a cat batting at a mouse, drawing out every moment just to watch her squirm.
She exhaled quickly, glaring up at him. "Fine."
Thorfinn's smirk curled into something victorious. "Good girl."
Jane hated the way her stomach flipped.
He studied her for a long moment, once again fixing his cuffs even though they lay perfectly straight. "So tell me. Why did Snape work so hard to get you here? He had to practically beg Lucius to sponsor you. What exactly did you do to impress him so much?"
Jane leaned back against the heavy wooden door. She felt the cool surface press against her skin, grounding her just a little. "Impress him?" she echoed, then huffed a quiet laugh. "I may have dueled him once."
Thorfinn's brow arched.
She bit her lip, as if debating how much to say, before finally shrugging. "I got the upper hand by fake crying. Then I attacked him when his guard was down. Almost killed him." She tilted her head, eyes glinting with something close to mischief. "Oh, and I may have sent him used Cat litter for Valentine's Day."
For a brief moment, there was only silence. Then—
Thorfinn let out a low, rumbling chuckle, something dark and approving flashing across his face. His eyes burned into hers, heavy-lidded and heated in a way that made her breath hitch.
"That," he murmured, stepping just a little closer, "is the best thing I've heard all night."
Jane swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. His presence was overwhelming in a way she hadn't expected. He was close enough now that she could see the faintest scar along his jaw, the way his lips quirked as he watched her.
His voice dropped even lower. "When I say take care of it. I mean, I'll make sure no one finds out about the hippogriff."
Her legs turned to jello.
Before she could process what he said, he leaned in, so close she thought—just for a second—he was going to kiss her. Her breath caught, her heart spasmed, and she could practically feel him. Without thinking her eyes began to flutter closed.
Then, with a smile that told her he knew exactly what he was doing, he simply reached past her and pushed open the door she was leaning against.
Jane gasped as the support she'd been relying on suddenly disappeared. She stumbled slightly, her body tipping backward into the brightly lit room. Her hand shot out, catching the doorframe just in time to steady herself. Thorfinn chuckled, a deep, amused sound, and before she could glare at him, his hand closed around her wrist.
"This is your room," he explained, entirely too satisfied with himself.
Blinking, Jane tried to gather herself, but the moment she turned to step inside, his grip tightened, fingers sliding down to catch her hand.
Her body froze as he lifted her knuckles, slow and deliberate, to his lips. His mouth barely grazed her skin—just a whisper of warmth, enough to make the fine hairs on her arms rise. His thumb traced a slow, idle pattern over the back of her hand, sending a ripple of heat through her veins.
His eyes met hers, dark and knowing.
"I'll be seeing you tonight," he promised.
And with that, he let go.
A/N: This section is going to take longer to come out just because there is a ton to tinker with. Did I say this was a slow burn? Because it is. Did I mention I am writing the sequel because I am. But now we are onto my favorite section. Pureblood antics!