Chapter 23 - A Crude Awakening
Ava dropped her trunk at the foot of her bed with a dull thud, the familiar creak of floorboards beneath her feet reminding her she was far from Hogwarts now. She sank back onto her mattress with a sigh, the scent of old wood and lavender detergent wrapping around her like a memory. The silence in the room was thick, eerie in its stillness.
Before she could close her eyes and breathe, something thudded against her window. She sat up with a jolt. She heard another thud.
She rushed over and pushed it open and there, sprawled on her windowsill in a dramatic heap, was the Weasleys' disheveled old owl.
"Errol," Ava breathed, smiling despite herself. The bird flapped his wings weakly, clearly exhausted. She gently extended her arm, and he clambered onto it with all the grace of a drunken gnome.
A scroll was tied to his leg. She untied it carefully and unrolled the parchment.
Dear Ava,
I couldn't wait to write you. George says hi. I hope the break's okay.
If it's not, or if you just need to get out, my room's always open.
Floo powder's in the jar next to the fireplace.
Love,
Fred
p.s. Please give Errol some water before he dies dramatically on your floor.
A laugh slipped from her lips before she could stop it. She set Errol down on the desk, poured some water into a chipped bowl from her shelf, and watched the owl dunk his entire face into it.
"Poor thing," she murmured.
She pulled out her own parchment and quill and scribbled her reply.
Dear Fred,
You missed me that much already?
Tell George hi back. I think I'll be alright.
My godfather picked me up from the station.
Planning on talking to my father when I can and hopefully, he can let me visit.
But thank you for the escape route. I'll keep it in mind.
–Your Ava
She tied the note to Errol's leg. He blinked at her sluggishly before launching himself off the desk in a wobbling glide through the open window. Ava leaned against the frame, watching him disappear into the gray sky, a small smile lingering on her lips.
Then came the knock.
Her stomach tensed. "Come in…" she called cautiously.
The door creaked open and Yaxley stepped inside. He didn't speak at first. Just lingered in the doorway, tall and imposing in his long black coat, his expression unreadable.
"I was about to make dinner," he said. "Are you hungry?"
Ava shook her head. "I ate before we left the station."
He nodded but didn't move. His eyes looked her over, slow and unsettling. "You've grown," he murmured. "No wonder you've got yourself a boyfriend."
Ava stiffened. "Yeah... thanks." She turned and pulled off her jacket, folding it over her arm. "I think I'm going to take a nap."
Yaxley leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, still watching her. "You were always such a quiet little thing," he said, voice low. "Strange how fast girls grow up."
Her skin prickled. She took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest, a chill working its way up her spine despite the warmth of the room.
"I'll leave you to it, then," he said finally, his lips curling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He turned and stepped out of the room, but not before giving her one last lingering glance. The door clicked shut behind him.
Ava stared at it for a beat, her heart ticking a little faster than before. Then, wordlessly, she crossed the room and slid the lock into place, her fingers stiff on the latch.
Ava had been home for days now, and her father was still barely a shadow in the house. She caught fleeting glimpses of him, passing in the hall, or briefly visible through the crack of a study door, but they hadn't spoken. Not properly. Not since she arrived.
Her godfather, however, was another story entirely.
Yaxley was everywhere.
He lingered in doorways, appeared in corridors without warning, and watched her in quiet moments when he thought she wouldn't notice. She'd begun avoiding meals entirely if she heard his voice echoing from the dining room. Her stomach had been in a near-constant knot, but tonight, the hunger clawed past her nerves.
Carefully, she cracked open her bedroom door, peering into the dim hallway. All was still, save for the sound of snoring coming from the guest room. Yaxley's room. Heavy and rhythmic. Ava held her breath and slipped into the hall, padding barefoot down the stairs as quietly as she could.
In the kitchen, she fixed a simple sandwich and grabbed an apple, relishing the rare peace of being alone in her own house. But just as she bit into the bread, she heard something, a cough, low and gravelly, coming from the study.
She paused mid-chew, set her plate down on the counter, and crept toward the source of the sound. Peeking through the cracked door, she spotted her father seated at his desk, quill in hand, head bowed over a pile of parchment.
She took a step back, unsure if she should interrupt, but his voice stopped her before she could retreat.
"Come in, Ava."
She swallowed hard and pushed the door open.
The study was warm, filled with the faint smell of old ink and fireplace ash. Her father didn't look up as she entered, his focus still fixed on whatever he was writing. She crossed the room and sank into the worn armchair in the corner, folding her hands tightly in her lap.
"How was the term?" he asked, tone unreadable.
She shrugged. "It was okay. Interesting."
Another line of ink scratched across parchment. He still hadn't looked at her.
"Yaxley tells me you're seeing that Weasley boy."
Ava's back straightened like a bow pulled taut. "Yes, Father."
There was a heavy pause and she braced for the familiar sharpness, the disappointment, the cold disapproval that always hung just beneath his surface.
"I normally would disapprove…" he said at last, setting the parchment aside, "but you're nearly of age." His tone was so flat, so devoid of feeling, that it almost didn't register at first. But then– "I do wish you'd chosen… differently," he added, almost as an afterthought. "A more respectable family. The Weasleys are loud. Undisciplined. Poor in more ways than one."
Ah. There it is. The judgment. The quiet scorn curled beneath the paper-thin civility.
He reached for another parchment, his voice cool and offhand. "Marcus Flint's father and I have done business for years. Marcus is well-bred. Disciplined. Comes from the right kind of bloodline."
Ava fought the urge to gag. Marcus Flint–seriously? That slab-jawed troll with the grace of a troll in skates and the personality of sour milk? She'd rather duel a Hungarian Horntail than suffer five minutes of his smug company.
She didn't say any of that out loud, of course. She simply nodded once, staring down at the folds of her skirt, pressing her nails into her palms. Let him talk. Let him think she was still listening.
Because nothing he said now could change her mind.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of a scratching quill and the ticking of the small brass clock on the mantel.
She folded her hands in her lap. "I haven't really seen you much since I got home."
He turned a page. "I've been busy."
"I know," she said quietly. "You didn't say goodbye. When you left Hogwarts."
He didn't look up. "It wasn't necessary."
Ava swallowed, picking at a fraying thread in her sleeve. "I just… I didn't know if something had happened. You left so quickly."
Still, he wrote. "There were things I needed to handle."
A beat of silence stretched between them. She looked around the room, so familiar, and yet so distant. Her father's study had always felt more like a museum than a place for conversation. Everything had its place. Everything was precise.
"How have you been?" she asked finally.
That, at least, made him pause. But only briefly. "Well enough," he said. "Thank you for asking." And then he reached for another parchment. "Unless you have something important to discuss, I'd like to get back to work."
Ava's chest tightened. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She glanced at the edge of his perfectly organized desk. Not a page out of place. Not a crack in the mask.
"I do have something," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Something I need to ask."
His quill hovered over the parchment for a second, then he slowly set it down. He looked at her now, finally. His gaze was impassive, unreadable. "Go on."
Ava's throat felt tight. Her hands balled into fists on her knees. "Is it true," she asked, "that Professor Lupin is my father?" The words hung in the air like smoke, lingering and heavy.
Her father didn't flinch. He just… stared. For a long, excruciating moment, she thought he might deny it. Or laugh. Or yell. But instead, his eyes cooled further, settling into something colder than apathy. A look she recognized all too well. It was an expression he wore when talking about failed investments, weak politicians, and things that didn't matter.
"It's possible," he said.
Ava blinked. She hadn't expected a confession, but the flat indifference hit harder than fury ever could.
"I never truly believed you were mine," he continued, as if he were commenting on the weather, or the quality of tea served at breakfast.
The floor dropped out from beneath her. A cold rush swept through her, like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let the wind steal the breath from her lungs. She couldn't speak. Couldn't blink. The words echoed in her ears, dull and distant like she was underwater.
She had rehearsed this moment, this question, for weeks. Wondered if he'd deny it. Rage. Break something. Instead, she was nothing to him. Not even worth the pretense of pain. Her fingers curled into her skirt, gripping the fabric like it might anchor her to the room. But she felt herself floating, untethered. A girl with no center. No anchor. No name that felt like it truly belonged to her.
Across the room, her father calmly picked up his quill again, the soft scratch of ink on parchment filling the silence like falling ash. As if the most intimate truth of her life was just another item to file away. Another document to draft.
He didn't look at her again. Didn't offer a word more. Just kept writing.
"I have guests arriving tomorrow," he said, voice once again drifting toward indifference. "Business. I expect you to stay in your room."
The words landed with the same cold finality as the rest of the conversation. A closing statement. A dismissal.
Ava stood slowly, her legs leaden, her throat burning. She wanted to scream at him, shake him, demand to know how he could say something like that. How he could throw away everything she had ever believed about their family with one offhand comment and then move on to his schedule like nothing had happened.
But there was no room for anger in the space between them. Just silence. Just cold.
"You may go to bed," he added, already reaching for another scroll. Like a servant. Like a guest.
She didn't say goodbye. Didn't say anything. She turned and left the study, the door clicking shut behind her with the finality of a slammed vault. Her footsteps on the stairs felt distant, muffled, as though she were walking through someone else's house and someone else's life.
The house felt colder now. The shadows stretched long across the hall, wrapping around her like smoke. Even the air seemed heavier as if it could feel what she now knew, that this place was no longer home. Maybe it never had been.
At the top of the landing, the bathroom door creaked open and her stomach twisted sharply.
Yaxley.
His silhouette filled the doorway, loose-fitting shirt hanging from his frame, his posture slack with sleep but his eyes, those cold calculating eyes, sharp even in the low light. Watching her.
She froze but only for a second. Her instincts kicked in and she moved, fast and quiet, slipping down the hall and into her room before the door behind her had fully opened. She shut it firmly, heart pounding in her throat, and pressed her back against the wood and she waited.
There was a pause. Then the soft sound of footsteps in the hall. Slow. Deliberate. They stopped just outside her door and she held her breath.
Then a door opened. Yaxley's. It closed with a quiet click.
Only then did Ava reach for the lock and turn it with a trembling hand. This time, the click of the bolt sliding home sounded like a lifeline.
The next day, Ava stayed in her room, just as her father had instructed.
She hadn't objected. What would have been the point?
The weight of the previous night's conversation still clung to her like smoke, thick and suffocating. Her father's indifference. His admission. The sterile way he'd dismissed her from the study like she was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. She hadn't seen him since, nor had she seen her godfather, but somehow, Yaxley's presence still felt like a shadow cast over every inch of the house.
By late afternoon, hunger had started to gnaw at her. She'd eaten the last of the meager lunch left for her hours ago, and now even the idea of stale bread seemed appealing.
She set down her quill mid-sentence, pushing aside the half-written letter to Fred. Her fingers were cramping, and her neck ached from hunching over her desk. She stood, stretching her arms above her head with a soft sigh. She hadn't changed out of her pajamas all day, nor did she care to. Comfort had become a luxury she barely noticed anymore.
As night fell and the house dimmed, Ava heard it: the groan of the front door hinges, followed by the muffled thrum of voices echoing from downstairs. Male voices. Low. Tense. Uneven.
Not her father. Not Yaxley.
Strangers.
She padded across her room in socked feet and cracked her bedroom door. The hallway stretched out in silence, dimly lit by the sconce at the end of the corridor. No movement. No sound of footsteps.
Carefully, she slipped into the hall and crept toward the top of the staircase. She lowered herself onto the highest step, peering between the balusters toward the drawing room.
Her father sat in his armchair, posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. A glass of brandy rested in his hand, catching the glow of the firelight. Yaxley stood near the closed curtains like a sentry, his sharp features drawn in a mask of calm alertness.
Across the room stood three men.
One of them she recognized immediately, even from behind, the platinum blond hair, the arrogant stance. Lucius Malfoy.
He held a cane in one hand, gripping it like it was more than just for show.
"Anthony," Lucius said, his voice silky and controlled, "he is about to rise again. Your allegiance still stands?"
Her father barely looked up. He took a slow sip from his glass, then leaned back in his chair.
"I have always remained faithful," he replied. "It is you, Lucius, who have fallen from him."
Lucius took a single step forward, eyes narrowing, but a broad, heavy-set man behind him laid a hand on his arm. Ava recognized him too. Crabbe. And beside him, standing slightly behind was Goyle.
The fathers of Draco's ever-present shadows.
"We never faltered," Crabbe growled. "If we'd known anything, we'd have acted."
Lucius bristled. "Where is he now?"
A slow, amused chuckle rolled from Yaxley. Her father answered instead, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Albania," he said. "Regaining his strength."
A beat of silence followed. The kind that made Ava's skin crawl.
"Regaining?" Goyle asked, uncertain.
Yaxley spoke now. "The diary you planted on the Weasley girl contained a fragment of him. When Potter destroyed it, he destroyed that fragment. A setback... but not the end."
Ava's breath caught.
It was Lucius. He was the one who had caused the Chamber to open. The attacks. The fear. Ginny. All of it... from him.
Lucius said nothing. But his jaw tightened, and he turned away from the firelight.
Her father, meanwhile, drained the last of his brandy and set the glass down on the side table with a soft clink.
"The Dark Lord," he said, voice smooth and deliberate, "will deal with you all... when his strength is restored."
The air shifted. The weight of his words settled into the room like a fog. Ava gasped. It was soft, but not soft enough. Yaxley's head snapped toward the staircase. His eyes found her instantly.
She scrambled to her feet, heart thudding in her chest.
Her father nodded once, barely lifting his hand and Yaxley moved.
She spun on her heel and bolted down the hallway, skidding back into her room. She slammed the door and fumbled the lock, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her and then the door shook under a heavy fist.
"Ava!"
She stumbled backward. Her mind screamed at her to hide. The closet. She dove inside and pulled the door shut just as the bedroom door blasted open.
Silence. Then: slow, measured footsteps.
She squeezed her eyes shut, barely breathing. Her hands trembled in her lap as she tried to stay completely still, heart hammering in her ears. Then she was blinded by light.
The closet door flung open, and a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Yaxley yanked her from the closet with far too much force. "Little eavesdropper," he muttered.
She bit his hand. He hissed in pain, then struck her across the face. Her vision spun.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Her body locked. Limbs frozen. Mouth sealed. She hit the bed with a dull thud, helpless to move.
Yaxley stood over her, breathing hard, lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. His eyes glittered with something cruel, sharp and possessive in a way that made her stomach twist.
"Well, look at you," he said softly as if admiring a rare artifact rather than a terrified girl. "You've grown up nicely, haven't you?"
Ava's eyes darted, the only part of her that could still move. Her mind screamed, but her body remained paralyzed by the spell.
Yaxley crouched beside the bed, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and ran a single finger along the edge of her jaw.
"You've got your mother's face," he murmured, voice dark with nostalgia. "Pretty little thing, just like she was."
The bile rose in her throat. Her skin burned where his finger touched, every nerve in her body screaming to move, to fight, to run. But she couldn't. She was trapped inside herself—watching, helpless.
"You should really learn to keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you," he said, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. "It'll get you hurt, sweetheart."
His hand drifted lower.
And then like a gunshot –"GET AWAY FROM HER!"
The voice exploded through the room, and in the next instant, a jet of red light struck Yaxley in the chest. He flew backward, hitting the wall with a brutal crack and crumpling to the floor.
Ava's frozen limbs trembled. Her eyes snapped to the doorway.
Her father stood there, wand raised, fury radiating off of him in waves.
"Finite Incantatem!" he barked.
The spell lifted at once, and Ava gasped as breath rushed into her lungs. She curled forward instinctively, every limb tingling with returning sensation.
Her father didn't hesitate. "Run."
She blinked, stunned.
He crossed the room and hauled her to her feet. "I said run!"
And this time she did.
Ava stumbled out of the room, bare feet skidding on the wooden floor as her father's voice echoed behind her, shouting spells, one of them unmistakably the Cruciatus Curse.
She didn't look back.
The house roared to life with chaos. Somewhere below, she heard shouting–Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle. Doors slammed, boots thudded against the floorboards. Glass shattered. The world was falling apart.
Her legs barely worked. Her limbs ached with the memory of being frozen. Her face stung from Yaxley's slap, and her skin still crawled from his touch.
Her father's study was blocked. The foyer was too far. She turned sharply and bolted for the only place she could think of–His bedroom.
The dark wood door groaned on its hinges as she shoved it open and locked it behind her. Her chest heaved, heart hammering as she darted across the carpet toward the fireplace. Her lungs burned with every breath. The sound of footsteps, multiple, now, rushed down the hallway after her.
She spotted the Floo powder on the mantel and lunged for it, heart hammering in her chest like a trapped snitch.
A crash echoed down the hall. The bedroom door groaned under pressure.
She grabbed a fistful of glittering powder.
Then she heard it.
Her father's voice, was sharp with fury and something almost unrecognizable: fear. "Stay away from her!"
There was a sudden, deafening blast followed by a magical shockwave that rattled the bedroom walls. The hiss of a spell gone wild.
Then came Yaxley's voice, smooth as poison: "Avada Kedavra!"
Ava flinched as if struck. Somewhere beyond the door, something hit the floor with a sickening thud followed by a deafening silence. Her breath caught. Her mind screamed but her body wouldn't move.
The door handle jiggled. A chuckle followed, low and rasping, far too calm. "You really think this door will keep me from you?" Yaxley cooed through the crack. "Come now, little one. Open up."
Ava couldn't speak. Couldn't cry out. Every nerve in her body had gone numb.
The handle twisted harder.
She stumbled into the fireplace, shoving the powder at her feet with shaking hands. The Burrow. The Burrow. Fred. Fred.
A loud crack then wood splintered behind her. "No more games, Ava," Yaxley's voice crooned, closer now. "You know I always find you."
She didn't look back. With a breath that tore from her throat, she whispered, "The Burrow…" And just as the door exploded, green flames surged around her, and then…darkness.
Fred lounged on his bed, arms folded behind his head, absently tossing a small Quaffle into the air. Across the room, George sat hunched over a thick potions book, flipping pages with something close to genuine interest.
Fred squinted at him. "What are you doing, reading? Are you feeling alright?"
George didn't look up. "Just brushing up on a few things. Thought I'd give Mum the shock of her life by not flunking every OWL."
Fred snorted. "She'd cry tears of joy… then probably hex us anyway just for the scare."
George grinned, flipping another page. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Fred rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling. "I'm just going to have Ava give me a crash course the night before. She's terrifying with a highlighter."
George raised an eyebrow. "Assuming Ava's speaking to you."
Fred groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I said I'm sorry. Twice. And I kissed her, didn't I? That counts for something."
George hummed, noncommittal. "Mm. Maybe you should write a sonnet next."
Fred peeked between his fingers. "What about you? Gonna keep pretending Angelina's just your Quidditch buddy forever?"
George snorted. "I like to take things slow, unlike you, who snogs first and thinks second."
"Yeah, well," Fred said, sitting up, "just don't wait too long. Someone else might get there first."
George slammed his book shut and tossed it across the room. "Alright, enough revision for one lifetime. I'm starving. Think Mum's done with dinner?"
Fred opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the sharp call of their mother's voice echoing from downstairs.
"Fred! George! Come down here, now!"
The twins exchanged a look.
"Right on time," they said in unison, scrambling to their feet and thundering down the stairs like a pair of overexcited Hippogriffs.
But the moment they reached the bottom, everything changed.
Fred stopped cold. His stomach dropped.
There, in the middle of the sitting room, lay Ava.
Unconscious. Her clothes were soot-streaked, her face pale. A few strands of hair clung to her damp forehead. Ginny was kneeling beside her, clutching Ava's hand, while Mrs. Weasley hovered, frantic, one hand over her mouth and the other gripping her wand tightly.
"What–" Fred's voice caught in his throat. He stumbled forward. "What happened? Is she–?"
"She came through the Floo," Molly said breathlessly. "Collapsed the second she landed."
George stood frozen behind him, his expression darkening by the second.
Fred dropped to his knees beside Ava, brushing the hair gently from her face. "Ava," he whispered. "What happened to you?"
There was no answer. Just the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the awful stillness that filled the room. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And Fred had a terrible feeling it had only just begun.
