Chapter Text
Matt
It had been two weeks since his capture. Maybe longer. Hard to tell when the air never shifted and the pain never stopped.
“Blessed are the merciless, for they inherit nothing but blood.
Blessed are the betrayed, for they learn how to bleed without sound.
And blessed am I, who walks among shadows, carrying sins not mine, and debts unpaid,” Matt whispered, voice low enough to pass for a prayer.
The guard shifted at the sound. Boots scraped lightly across stone, followed by a quick exhale through the nose. Uneasy.
Matt tilted his head slightly, listening. The heartbeat told him more than any glance could. Strong, steady enough, but there was a tightness in it. A stumble in the rhythm. Fear.
He didn’t know the Death Eater’s name, and he didn’t need it. Their soul carried weight—resentment, cruelty, and a flicker of doubt they probably didn’t even realize they had. Whoever they were, they’d been here a while. Days, maybe longer.
Voldemort hadn’t appeared in at least a week. Matt wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or the prelude to something worse. Silence stretched into its own punishment.
The stone at his back was cold, and the air hung heavy with dust and the residue of old spells. Every breath carried that taste. His body hurt constantly; the beatings blurred together, and the curses left his nerves raw, sparking at random like fire racing through veins. The plan had been simple: wait, listen, adapt, escape. That plan felt further away now.
He hadn’t eaten properly in days. One meal here or there, scraps tossed at him without care. Just enough to keep him alive. Which meant they weren’t finished with him yet.
Matt leaned his head back, closing his eyes even though it made no difference. He reached out with the only weapons he still had—his senses. The heart across the room, the uneven breaths, the taste of dust and iron, the shift of fabric against leather.
For now, he could only wait.
Wait, and listen.
He picked up voices now and then—muffled, distant. Doors opening, footsteps on stone, robes brushing over cold floors. Most of the time, he couldn't make out words. They weren’t near him. Wherever the main gatherings were, he was kept far from them.
But there were moments when the air shifted. When he could feel someone approaching—more than just noise. Magic, intention, something deeper.
He’d sensed Snape first. The man walked like he was always three steps ahead of the room, every movement sharp, exact. Then Lucius Malfoy—cold, rigid, full of bitter pride. Draco had passed by once, less sure of himself. Less steady.
And then Karen.
That presence had caught him off guard. The way her guilt pressed in around her, sharp and tightly packed, like she was holding something in and it was killing her from the inside out.
She was still here. Which meant if he got out—when he got out—he’d have to find a way to bring her too.
That complicated everything.
He could barely stay conscious for more than a few hours at a time. His body gave up long before his mind did. Every time he woke up, the pain had settled deeper in his bones. Every time he drifted off again, he wasn’t sure if he’d wake up.
But he would.
He had to.
<hl>
Karen
Really, it was bound to happen eventually.
Karen had held it off for as long as she could. She could’ve hidden in one of the unused rooms upstairs, maybe waited it out in some dusty corner of the manor—but what was the point in that? Better to get it over with. And if a few Death Eaters lost some sleep over it, even better.
She moved through the halls of Malfoy Manor in her basilisk form, silent but unmistakable. The stone floors were cold against her scales. There was noise coming from one of the lounges—low voices, laughter. Someone had left the door open.
Fine. Let them see.
She slid inside.
The reaction was immediate. Gasps. Chairs scraping back. One man tripped trying to stand.
Her eyes swept the room. Draco was there, standing near the fireplace. Narcissa and Lucius flanked him. The others—mostly minor followers, people who had always looked too comfortable in this house—were already edging toward the walls.
Lucius’s expression was frozen. Wide-eyed, pale. He didn’t even reach for his wand.
“Get behind me, Draco,” Narcissa said sharply, though her voice trembled.
One man—Dolohov—started trying to inch his way toward the exit. Karen turned her head sharply in his direction. He flinched, stumbled, and half-ran for the door. Pathetic.
Then, unexpectedly, Draco stepped forward. Narcissa reached for his arm, trying to pull him back, but he shrugged her off.
“Lucius!” she snapped, glaring at her husband. But Lucius didn’t move. Still locked in place.
Karen watched the scene unfold with quiet focus. No one had attacked yet, but tension was thick in the room. The Death Eaters shifted restlessly, their wands twitching, their eyes flicking between her and the others. Cowards, most of them. All noise and robes when they thought they had the upper hand—shaky and unsure when they didn’t.
Draco stepped forward. His posture was stiff, his jaw set tight. He stopped just a few feet in front of her and said, “What are you doing, Karen?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let out a low hiss—not aggressive, just enough to be a warning. Then she slid a little closer, her weight shifting smoothly across the stone floor. She could feel how many of them flinched at the sound alone.
Lucius and Narcissa moved quickly, stepping toward Draco as if they might pull him back.
“That’s a basilisk, Draco!” Lucius snapped, his voice sharp with panic. “Get away from it.”
Draco didn’t move. If anything, he inched closer.
Karen straightened, her muscles tightening as she lifted her head. The heavy weight of her body shifted with the motion. She flicked her tongue into the air, drawing in the scent and taste of the room. Fear clung to it—sharp and sour—but not overwhelming. Just enough to put her on edge.
Draco stood across from her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He let out a short, humourless snort.
“And you call me the dramatic one,” he muttered.
Then the atmosphere shifted. She didn’t need to see him to feel it—the way the air dropped, the tension crackled, how bodies went still. Karen turned.
Voldemort had entered the room.
Everyone moved quickly, heads bowed, bodies folding in on themselves. Karen held her ground, towering, coiled, her scales brushing cold stone as she turned fully to face him.
They came face to face—snake to snake.
“A basilisk,” Voldemort said, his voice low and smooth, speaking in Parseltongue. “And yet… your gaze does not kill.”
There was a note of disappointment in his tone, like he’d expected more.
“My gaze only petrifies,” Karen answered, steady. Truthful.
He tilted his head slightly. “Yet… it is not.”
She hesitated, calculating what to reveal.
“Snape created a device,” she said at last. “It suppresses the effect. Keeps it from activating while I’m in this form.”
He was quiet for a beat, then gave a thoughtful hum. “I suppose that is ideal for now,” he said. “But one day, I shall have use for that gaze.”
She stared at him, unmoving. Her jaw ached from how hard she held herself back. She could strike. Lunge forward, fangs bared, bite down. There was no shield between them. No one fast enough to stop her.
The thought pulsed through her—fast, dangerous, tempting.
But her body didn’t move.
“I am curious,” Voldemort hissed softly. “Move.”
No.
Karen didn’t speak it out loud—she couldn’t—but the refusal was there, sharp in her mind. Her thoughts thrashed against the words, trying to push them away, trying to hold still. But it didn’t matter.
Her body moved anyway.
The stone beneath her shifted as her coils dragged forward in slow, unwilling motion. She wasn’t choosing this. Every part of her fought it, but her muscles ignored her. The obedience was automatic. Wrong. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. No. Not again.
Back in the Chamber, she’d managed to fight it. She remembered that. She had pushed back then. But that was years ago. She had been younger. Stronger, maybe. Or the curse had just been weaker.
It had grown since then. Spread deeper.
“Lift your head. Higher,” Voldemort said, stepping into her field of vision, calm, watching.
And she did. Her head rose, slow and smooth. Her jaw clenched. She could feel her own breath leaking out in a slow hiss between her fangs. Not by choice.
“Stop,” she said. The word came out low and distorted, a painful rasp.
Voldemort didn’t react. “Strike at the wall.”
She struck.
There was no pause, no hesitation. Her body launched forward, slamming into the stone with enough force to send cracks through it. The sound echoed. Dust fell. People scrambled back—Draco, the others—shocked, unprepared for the violence of her movement.
Karen stayed where she was, heart racing, fangs still pressed into the damaged stone. She hadn't meant to. She hadn’t wanted to. But that hadn’t mattered at all.
“You’re not… you can’t…”
Voldemort’s voice was calm. Too calm. “I wondered. If Parseltongue could command you,” he said, sounding almost satisfied. “And it seems… it can.”
“No.” The word came again, sharper this time, from somewhere deep inside her. “I am not a pet.”
He stopped in front of her again. Looked her in the eye.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re a curse. And curses don’t get to choose.”
Karen didn’t move. Every muscle in her body was trembling now, her body still under his command—but her mind wasn’t. Not yet. Not completely.
Inside the beast, she was still there. And she was screaming.
<hl>
Draco
“Lucius,” said his mother quietly. “It is time.”
“Cissa—” his father started.
“No,” she cut in, firm this time. “Enough is enough. It’s time to leave.”
Draco didn’t argue. He couldn’t. His father looked worse than ever—pale, thin, unshaven. Azkaban had taken more than just his health. He looked like someone who had nothing left.
The door swung open without warning. All three of them turned. Draco reached for his wand on instinct but stopped when he saw who it was.
Karen Page.
She looked just as wrecked as the rest of them—dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back carelessly, jaw tight. There was dried blood on her sleeve, and something about the way she moved made Draco think she hadn’t slept in days.
“Miss Page,” his mother greeted her, voice clipped but polite.
“Lady Malfoy,” Karen replied with a short nod.
“Y-You’re a…” Lucius began, staring.
“Maledictus,” Karen said flatly. “Yes.”
“I knew,” Draco said uselessly.
Karen didn’t respond to that. She just kept her eyes on his mother.
“Well,” his mother said, straightening and brushing imaginary creases from her robes, “what can we do for you?”
Karen raised an eyebrow. “Looking for a way to escape?”
His parents tensed. Typical. Draco resisted the urge to groan.
“Mother, you have a portkey, yes?” he asked instead.
Narcissa looked at him in horror. “Draco…”
“Relax,” he said, waving a hand. “We’ve planned this.”
Karen gave a quick nod. “You three should go. Take the portkey. Leave now.”
“The Dark Lord—” his father started.
“Has power in Europe,” Karen cut in, “and even that is shaky. Go to America. Or Australia. Keep your heads down and you’ll be fine.”
Draco frowned. “Wait—three? No. Four. You’re coming too. That was the plan. If things went bad, you’d come with us.”
Karen looked away. Her jaw tightened. “That was before Matt.”
Draco stepped forward and grabbed her by the arms. “Karen.”
Her eyes met his, hesitant.
“He can control you in that form,” Draco said, quieter. “You know that.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“He’ll twist you into something else.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you staying?” he asked, almost pleading.
“I can’t leave Matt.”
His father scoffed. “Your friend won’t last much longer. Frankly, I’m surprised the Dark Lord hasn’t killed him already.”
Draco turned sharply. “Shut up.”
“It’s true,” Lucius said, not even looking ashamed.
“Your father is right,” his mother added gently. “Though he could stand to learn some tact.”
Karen’s voice came softer now. “I won’t leave him to suffer. Not alone.” She met Draco’s gaze again. “It’s okay. You three should go.”
Draco looked at her for a long moment. Then he closed his eyes.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going.”
“Draco…” she said, her voice strained.
He opened his eyes again. His hands were still on her arms.
“Time to be brave, right?” Draco said. His voice trembled, just enough that he hoped no one noticed. He turned back to his parents.
“You two should go.”
“No,” his father said sharply. “You’re coming with us. That’s an order.”
“Reconsider, Draco. Please,” his mother added, her voice softer but just as firm.
“I’m not leaving without Karen,” Draco said, standing straighter. He didn’t care if they liked it or not. He wasn’t walking away from her.
“Oh, Platinum…” Karen’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Draco didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on his parents. Narcissa was the first to break. She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that came before accepting something you hated.
“Very well,” she said. “But we’re not leaving without you.”
“Mother—Father—please,” Draco tried again, but Lucius cut him off.
“Your mother’s right,” his father said. “You’re our son. We don’t abandon family.”
Draco clenched his jaw. There was no winning this argument. Not really. They weren’t leaving without him—just like he wasn’t leaving without Karen.
They would all stay, or none of them would.
<hl>
Foggy
Foggy sat on his bed, staring at the wall. The suitcase his mum brought in two days ago was still lying open on the floor, untouched.
The door burst open.
“Come on, you need to pack,” his mum said quickly. “Or we’re going to miss the flight.”
He didn’t move. She crossed the room and started pulling his clothes from the wardrobe, folding them with quick, practiced hands. Her voice was clipped, efficient. Not angry—just scared.
Foggy had been thinking a lot since he got back. The last year kept running through his head, piece by piece. Matt dying. Karen—Karen joining the Death Eaters. Dumbledore’s death. Everything falling apart, one thing after the next, until there wasn’t much left.
His mum had started packing the moment he walked through the door. His dad was a Muggle. His little brother was a Squib. Foggy didn’t blame her for panicking. Families like theirs didn’t stand a chance if things got worse.
America had been the first idea, but that was a dead end. The laws over there were stricter now, especially when it came to Muggle-wizard relationships. Africa, then. Somewhere remote. Somewhere safer. He forgot which country she’d finally settled on. It didn’t matter.
He didn’t want to go.
Foggy looked up and met her eyes. Her hands stopped moving.
“I’m not going,” he said.
There was a beat of silence. She blinked, like she hadn’t quite heard him.
“What do you mean you’re not going?”
“I mean I’m staying.”
“You can’t stay here. Not now. It’s not safe.”
“I know,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t shake. “But I still have things to do.”
His mother opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked like she wanted to argue—like she should argue—but couldn’t find where to start. The fear in her eyes was worse than anything else. Foggy looked away.
“You’re seventeen,” she said after a second, like that was supposed to mean something.
“I know,” he repeated.
But seventeen didn’t mean the same thing anymore. Not after everything. Not after Matt. Not after the last few months.
“Franklin Nelson—” she began, her voice tight.
Foggy pushed up from his chair. “Mom,” he said, cutting her off. “Please. You can’t force me to come with you.”
She stepped toward him, like she might try anyway.
“Then none of us leave,” she said. “We’ll stay together.”
“No.” Foggy shook his head. “You three need to go. Theo and Dad are in danger. I won’t let you stay behind with me. It’s not safe.”
“Foggy—”
“Mum, please.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I have to stay. I still have friends at Hogwarts. People who need me. I can’t lose anyone else.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her shoulders tensed. Foggy could see how badly she wanted to argue, to pull him into a hug and not let go. But she didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Finally, she spoke. Her voice was steady, but clipped. “Very well. But you’ll have to say goodbye to your father and Theo. Properly. Look them in the eye.”
She turned and walked out without another word.
Foggy stood still for a beat longer, letting the quiet settle. Then he let out a breath, shut his eyes, and forced his feet to move. One step, then another, down the stairs.
<hl>
“Fog’s,” Theo called from the doorway, his voice tight. “Where’s your bags? We gotta go.”
“I’m not coming,” Foggy said quietly.
Theo blinked. “What?”
“I’m staying,” he repeated, voice steadier now. He looked at his little brother—fourteen, taller than he used to be, still had that scrunched-up nose when he was frustrated. They never did get to go to another Quidditch match together.
“What do you mean, son?” their father asked, stepping in behind Theo.
“I can’t leave my friends,” Foggy said, eyes fixed on the floor. The words sat heavy in his throat.
“Well, we can’t leave without you,” Theo snapped. His voice cracked in that way it did when he was holding back something else. “That’s not happening.”
Foggy looked up, met his brother’s eyes. “You have to. It’s not safe here. Not for you. Not for Dad.”
“That’s not fair!” Theo’s face flushed, hands clenched at his sides. “Why? Because we don’t have magic?”
“Yes,” Foggy said, without flinching.
Theo flinched like Foggy had hit him. Their dad didn’t say anything. Just stood there, stiff, jaw tight.
“I don’t care what I am,” Theo said quietly. “You’re still my brother.”
“I know.” Foggy’s throat tightened. “That’s why I need you both gone.”
“Anna—” their father said, glancing at his wife.
“It’s his choice,” she said, though her eyes were glassy, too full. She wasn’t arguing. She wasn’t agreeing either.
“I’m sorry,” Foggy whispered. “B-but I’ll come find you. After the war. Okay?”
Theo’s mouth twisted. “A-and what if—?”
“It won’t come to that,” Foggy said quickly. He could hear how flat it sounded. Knew they didn’t believe it. He didn’t either.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Please. You need to go. You’ll miss the flight.”
Their father crouched beside him, pulling him into a hug. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held on.
“Be careful, my son,” he murmured.
“I will, Dad,” Foggy said back, almost too soft to hear.
His mother leaned in, wrapping both arms around them. Foggy breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume, steadying himself.
When they pulled back, he looked at Theo—still standing there, stiff, eyes wide like he hadn’t quite caught up to everything.
Foggy reached out, grabbed his brother’s hand. Gave it a squeeze.
“You’ll be alright,” he said. “Both of you will.”
He didn’t say he would be. Not out loud.
<hl>
Foggy stood on the edge of the gravel driveway, watching the car disappear down the road until the red taillights vanished around the bend. He didn’t move. Just stared at the empty stretch of road, trying to breathe through the tight feeling in his chest.
He let out a shaky breath and rubbed at his face. Then he sat down on the porch step, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Gave himself a few minutes—just a few—to feel the ache, to let it settle. Then he forced himself to sit up straight.
“Millie,” he said quietly, “I need you.”
The sharp crack of apparition cut through the quiet, and Foggy took a step back as a small house elf appeared on the path just ahead. She was dressed in a neat, oversized tea towel, and her ears twitched slightly as she looked up at him.
Millie blinked, then gave a small nod, her expression unusually serious for her. “Foggy called Millie?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I might need your help.”
Millie stepped forward without hesitation. “Millie will certainly try,” she said. Her voice was soft, but her tone left no room for doubt.
“I need to find some people,” Foggy said, watching her closely.
Millie tilted her head, ears flicking again. “Who?” she asked.
<hl>
Sirius
Sirius took a slow sip of firewhiskey, letting the sharp burn settle in his chest. With Dumbledore gone, Grimmauld Place wasn’t secure anymore. The old man had been their secret keeper — the one holding all the keys, the passwords, the protections. Without him, everything was exposed. Sirius snorted, bitter. Secret Keepers, what a joke. Bloody useless things, if you asked him.
Now he was homeless. Not that Grimmauld Place had ever felt like a home. It was more a prison, a reminder of everything he wanted to leave behind. But with Harry he’d almost imagined the place could change. Could be something new. Something better. Not the place of his childhood pain, but a fresh start. A chance to build something different.
But no. That was gone, just like the rest. Sirius wasn’t one to waste time mourning what he’d lost. He had more pressing things to deal with. So he drained the rest of the whiskey and set the glass down with a sharp clink.
Time to move on. Sirius knew Kreacher would probably be furious, though. He hadn’t seen the elf since sending him off to Hogwarts at Harry’s request. His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. The paperwork was finally done — all of it completed before Dumbledore’s death. Now all that was left was for Harry to sign, and he’d officially be a member of the House of Black. Officially under Sirius’s care. A new era for the family. Sirius smirked to himself, imagining what his mother would say if she could see this. She’d either be spinning in her grave or screaming in her portrait. Probably both.
He exhaled slowly, tension easing just a little. Moving Harry out of the Dursleys’ was going to be tricky, dangerous even. Not something to take lightly. He was about to step forward when a sharp crack echoed through the room. Sirius spun on his heel, wand out instantly, ready for anything.
It wasn’t an attack. Just Kreacher. Of course.
“Think of the devil,” Sirius muttered under his breath, but stopped himself from saying it aloud. He’d been trying to keep his temper in check lately. Maybe even trying to be… kinder. The idea made him shiver.
“Kreacher,” Sirius said, his voice firm, though he kept it level. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Hogwarts?”
Kreacher appeared in the centre of the drawing room, hunched and scowling, his long fingers clenched tightly around the hem of the rag tied across his shoulder. “Kreacher brings the blood traitor a message,” he muttered without looking up.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “From who?”
“Kreacher is not a messaging system,” the elf snapped, lips curling back in something close to a sneer.
Before Sirius could press him, there was another sharp crack of apparition—and a second elf appeared beside him. This one was smaller, younger-looking, her ears sticking out comically wide, her expression anxious.
“Come on, Kreacher, we must hurry,” the young elf said urgently.
“Kreacher does not take orders from Tibsy,” Kreacher growled, turning slightly to glower at her.
“Mister Foggy needs us,” Tibsy said quickly, tugging on Kreacher’s arm.
Sirius’s brow furrowed. He stepped forward. “Wait… Foggy…?” The name stirred a flicker of recognition. “What does he want?”
<hl>
Matt
Matt could hear everything.
Even from outside the room, every voice carried clearly. He didn’t need to be inside to know who was present—each person’s tone, breath, heartbeat, and the weight of their soul gave them away. He could hear the cold sharpness in Lucius Malfoy’s clipped syllables, the low murmur of Snape’s controlled breathing, the strained silence of Karen’s father. Voldemort’s presence, as always, pressed in like pressure behind Matt’s teeth—unnatural, distorted, wrong.
He’d finally been moved from whatever pit they’d kept him in. Long enough to count steps. Long enough to track the turns and note the wards humming through the walls. The manor was large, old. Enchanted. Even the windows—tall, drafty things by the way the wind curved through—were spelled. A fortress.
He was still bound, though. Heavy iron chains, runes etched deep into the metal, keeping him still no matter how sharply he focused or how far he reached out. Magic buzzed just beneath his skin, but the bindings didn’t let it rise. No point in fighting. Not yet.
Inside the room, they were gathered. Draco. His parents. Karen’s father. Snape. Voldemort. A few other Death Eaters—he recognized their voices, and the particular cadence of their cruelty. And then—
Charity Burbage.
He hadn’t met her before. But Foggy had spoken of her—kind, sharp, one of his favorite professors. She taught Muggle Studies, a class Matt never took. But Foggy admired her. Said she treated students with fairness, didn’t talk down to them. That mattered.
Her heartbeat was fast. Panicking.
“But you would not have taken her classes,” Voldemort said. His voice was calm, almost conversational, which made it worse. “For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage, who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There were murmurs. Recognition. Shifting. A soft cackle—low, grating, from the woman Matt had only heard once before, the one with the crooked voice and too-wide laugh. Bellatrix.
“Yes… Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles,” Voldemort said, voice smooth, deliberate. “How they are not so different from us…”
Matt felt the shift instantly.
The way silence thickened. The way the tension edged up, slow but sharp. He could feel how some in the room tensed—not out of outrage or grief, but out of discomfort. Guilt stirred in a few, buried but still breathing. In others, there was nothing. Just a blankness that didn’t even twitch.
Voldemort let it sit there. Let the room reach the conclusion he wanted without saying anything more. A quiet kind of threat. Not loud, not direct. But unmistakable.
“But before we delve deeper with that,” Voldemort continued, calm and cold, “we have another special guest.”
The doors opened with a groan and then a crash. Heavy footfalls. Hands on him.
Matt was hauled in, rough grips on either side. His wrists were locked in something cold and unforgiving—metal enchanted to suppress magic, maybe even drain it. His legs were chained too, just enough to keep him upright but forcing him into a slow, awkward shuffle. It was the most he’d moved in two weeks.
His body ached. His skin felt too tight. His senses—dulled slightly from hunger and the lack of motion—still caught the room around him. The magic. The breath patterns. The hearts.
So this was it. A performance.
Voldemort wanted a show.
Matt didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. He kept his chin level as they shoved him forward.
He caught the sound of someone swallowing too hard. A sharp exhale. Familiar rhythms in breathing—tightened throats, clenched jaws. People he’d met before. Fought before. Some of them had screamed. Some had begged. Some had just tried to run.
He didn’t need to see to recognize them now.
There. A beat skipped. Snape.
Matt had figured it out days ago. It was Snape who’d handed him over. He hadn’t said anything then and he wouldn’t say anything now. Snape’s soul pulsed with guilt—raw, constant. It was all Matt needed to know. He understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood. That would have to be enough.
And then—there. Closer. A rabbit-fast heartbeat, panicked breath.
Pettigrew.
Matt turned his head slightly, unhurried, just enough to let him know he was seen. His lips pulled back, a flash of teeth. Not a smile.
Pettigrew’s pulse stuttered. Then quickened again.
Good.
Let him sweat.
“Ah, Ascalon,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the stillness, precise and cold. “So glad you could join us.”
Matt tilted his head, measuring the weight behind the words. A trap, always a trap. He didn’t answer. That name wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to someone he had already buried.
For a moment, he thought of Azrael— Angel of Death, Endings. It didn’t matter. He was tired of names and tired of roles. He only wanted to be Matt. But maybe Azrael still had a place here. Endings came for everyone. Even Voldemort.
“Azrael,” he said quietly.
A pause. Then Voldemort’s voice again, smooth and disdainful. “I didn’t catch that. No matter, parasite. Today is the day you break. Today, you answer my questions.”
The room shifted around Matt. He heard it in the scrape of boots against stone, in the chuckles that died too quickly. Death Eaters leaned forward, waiting. None of them dared speak.
Matt let his senses stretch, sharpening. The air was crowded with magic, thick and foul, crawling across the walls and pressing down on the floor. Every breath carried violence. Pride. Greed. Hunger. And buried under it—fear.
He stayed still. Calm. Listening. “You seem so sure,” he said, his voice steady.
Voldemort didn’t answer right away. The faintest movement—cloth brushing, a body shifted by unseen force. Matt recognized her instantly. Professor Burbage. He’d heard them dragging her earlier. Now she hung suspended in the air above the table, alive but silent.
“Such restraint,” Voldemort said. “Days of silence, despite the pain. Noble. But tell me…” His voice dropped, blade-sharp. “How much is silence worth when someone else pays the price?”
Matt swallowed. Her heartbeat was fast—too fast. Panicked, shallow. Her breath hitched. She was terrified. He could hear her trying not to make a sound.
She was surrounded. Cornered. And she knew it.
“One answer. One truth,” Voldemort said. “Give me what I want, and she walks out of here alive.”
Matt didn’t need to think about it. He knew the words were false the second they left the man’s mouth. He could hear it—steady breath, not a single shift in rhythm. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt in the heart, no tightening in muscle. The man had already made up his mind. Charity was going to die.
“Please... please,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, raw with terror. She still believed she had a chance. Still thought pleading mattered.
Matt didn’t.
He’d lived this before. He knew what it meant when someone like Voldemort asked questions. It wasn’t about truth. It wasn’t about answers. It was about pressure, about breaking the will of whoever was left to watch. Control—that was the point.
And still… how could he just stay silent? How could he let it happen, knowing she was already marked for death? Maybe she couldn’t be saved, maybe she was gone the moment she was dragged in here, but maybe he could stall. Maybe he could shift something, anything, before it ended.
“Stop,” Matt said sharply. “I’ll talk. Just—don’t—”
“Avada Kedavra.”
The words cut through the air. The stillness that followed was worse.
A second later came the sound—the heavy collapse of her body against wood, the rattle of the table legs, then silence. No heartbeat. No breath. Just nothing.
Matt surged forward, the chains biting deep, wrenching him back hard with a metallic snap.
“NO!” His voice broke, raw and shaking. “No—you didn’t even let me talk! You didn’t even give me a chance!”
His throat burned with the effort. His chest heaved, air tearing in and out but never filling him. He bowed his head, jaw tight, fighting against the tremor that spread through him. There were no tears—just the hollow pull in his gut, the kind that left him scraped out inside.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” he muttered. The words were thin, fractured. “I knew...”
“And yet you hoped,” Voldemort answered, calm and cold. “That is your weakness.”
Matt couldn’t answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came.
Footsteps approached, measured and slow. Voldemort moved closer, and Matt didn’t need eyes to feel it. The air shifted, warped around him. Power pressed outward from Voldemort like a storm, sharp and suffocating. Magic clung to him, bitter and heavy, prickling across Matt’s skin.
“How noble,” Voldemort said with disdain. “You were going to beg. How very... human of you.”
He was circling now. Matt tracked him with his hearing—the scrape of robes, the faint brush of feet on stone. Not pacing. Stalking.
“I suppose I should be flattered,” Voldemort said. “It takes a lot to break a martyr.”
Matt didn’t move. His jaw was clenched so hard it sent a dull ache up the side of his face. He kept his chin lowered, his arms steady at his sides. Stillness was the only control he had left.
“Oh, don’t go quiet on me now.” Voldemort’s tone shifted into something lighter, mocking. “That was your moment. Your grand sacrifice. Shame it accomplished nothing.”
Matt caught the sound of fabric brushing against itself—the robes shifting as the man stepped closer. The air around him shifted too, pressing tighter, warmer. Then came the faintest breath at his ear.
“Tell me,” Voldemort murmured, “did you mean it? That pathetic little ‘don’t’? Or were you just testing me?”
His body betrayed him. A small flinch, quick and sharp. But it was enough.
The weight of a smile spread across the space between them. Matt couldn’t see it, but he could feel the change—the quiet satisfaction radiating from the man in front of him.
“She was a pawn, boy. And so are you. The only difference is…” Voldemort’s voice thinned into a hiss. “…she stopped being useful.”
The closeness withdrew, leaving the air easier to pull into his lungs.
“Dinner, Nagini,” Voldemort said.
The snake stirred. Matt heard the scrape of scales across stone, the low, deliberate glide of its body circling. He felt it skim the edge of his shoe, the faint ripple of cold air that clung to its movement. Then the strike—the sudden rush of motion, sharp and absolute. His senses caught every detail: the coil, the snap, the rush of displaced air.
And still, he could not breath.
<hl>
Snape
He had told himself it was survival. Strategy. Sacrifice.
Dumbledore had made him promise to kill him, hadn’t he?
Had made the boy promise—what? Return from the dead and what? March willingly into the Dark Lord’s hands?
There were no answers.
Only consequences.
Murdock hadn’t screamed.
Not when they took him.
Not when Voldemort circled like a vulture, drawn to rot.
Severus had stood there—still, composed, heart howling in his chest—and watched.
He’d done nothing.
Charity Burbage had begged him. Looked him in the eye.
Severus, please.
And he had watched her die, too.
That’s all he did now.
Watch. Let them burn, break, vanish.
Dumbledore. Burbage. Matt.
He hadn’t even been sure it was Murdock at first when they brought him into the room—the way the boy moved, stiff and wrong, like the soul had come back cracked.
What had the Dark Lord done to him by now?
What had he done?
He told himself it was all for the greater good.
A phrase so hollow now, it made him sick.
What good? What strategy?
He wasn’t playing a game anymore.
He was cleaning up corpses and pretending his hands weren’t red.
Every night, Lily’s eyes looked back at him from Murdock’s face. It was absurd. Lily, even in death, had seemed more alive than this boy did in life. Still, both held the same accusation: Look at what you’ve done.
Severus sat at his desk, the fire reduced to a dull glow.
There was no potion for this. No Occlumency strong enough, no words sharp enough to cut it away. Only memory, festering. Only the boy.
Murdock should have died. That would have been simpler, cleaner. Instead he lived—shattered, breathing, a reminder that Severus had failed yet another child. He could barely look at him without revulsion twisting in his gut.
How many ghosts could one man bear?
Charity Burbage’s screams still woke him at times, raw and tearing. He remembered how her blood seeped into the carpet, spreading slow, and he had not moved. Not a word, not a step. He had watched her die, offered her nothing, and called it necessity.
And now? Now he delivered children into the Dark Lord’s grasp, and told himself it was for a greater cause. As though the lie still mattered.
He had once believed he knew his own limits. That there were lines he would never cross. But Murdock’s survival proved otherwise. Severus had stepped over every boundary, burned them all, and the fire never touched the Dark Lord—only those around him.
How many more would there be? How many more before there was nothing left of him at all?
He hated Murdock for coming back.
Hated him for surviving.
Hated him for still being good.
For not becoming what Severus had long ago accepted he was—spiteful, bitter, necessary.
A half-life held together by rage and usefulness.
That night, Severus stood over the sink, water scalding against his hands. He scrubbed until the skin burned and split, until the basin ran pink, then red. Still it wasn’t enough. The stain clung, invisible and heavy.
He whispered an apology to no one in particular. Not to God—he had no faith in that fiction. But to the boy. To Lily. To the man he might have been.
When he lifted his head, the mirror gave him back the truth: black robes, hollow eyes, the mark etched into his arm.
“I am a coward,” he said aloud.
Because what kind of man betrays the only boy who had ever reminded him of his own humanity?