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The streets of Knockturn Alley had never known charm, unlike Diagon Alley. Diagon was bustling with light and laughter, shopfronts gleaming like polished teeth, and children darting between windows filled with sweets and spellbooks. Knockturn was the exact opposite. The cobblestones were always slick with something that could have been rainwater, but the people living there never knew if it was slick with something worse. So many things stayed hidden in the darkened cracks, a young witch or wizard wouldn’t know what to expect.
The air stank of ash and old blood and things best left unnamed. Lanterns flickered weakly overhead, barely keeping the dark at bay, their glow casting warped reflections in shattered window panes. The shops were narrow and slouched like old drunks, their signs swinging on rusted hinges that screamed in protest. Everyone here moved like they had somewhere to hide and nowhere to go.
It was grotesque. It was rotting. It was a place abandoned by the light.
It was perfect for Lavender.
“Watch it, witch.” A voice snarled, deep and low, as Lavender walked past. She nodded and tugged her hood over her head, hurrying past. She didn’t want to aggravate anyone, especially not the angry voices or grabby hands that tried to take ‘pretty’ things like her. Her glamour spell flickered. She let it. No one noticed. No one cared.
Nobody kept an eye on you too closely, especially not here.
She felt awful living in such a place. It didn’t make sense to her, not really, but it was the only place she could at least pretend to be alive. A flash of scarlet—blood, hair, a dress Lavender didn’t know—reminded her of Gryffindor. It made her stomach clench and twist as if she had eaten something rotten. She gagged, gripping the wall for support as nausea rushed over her in putrid waves.
It was always like this.
“I’m home,” Lavender muttered, walking down a flight of stairs to her hidden hideaway with the other stowaways like her. She rubbed her neck, ignoring how the smell of rot and despair made her scar ache and burn like fire under her skin.
No one appeared to be inside.
She drifted toward her cot, the sagging thing shoved into the corner like an afterthought. The faded pink blanket, stolen from the hospital the night she ran, was the only softness left in her world. How she clung to it was childish, even stupid. But it was the last thing that felt like her, like Lavender Brown, the girl she used to be. The girl smiled without flinching. The girl who believed in love and lucky numbers and pink.
Now, it felt like she was borrowing someone else’s name, wearing someone else’s skin. She sat on the edge of the cot and stared down at the blanket in her hands, trying to remember what it felt like to belong to herself.
“What are you even doing, Lavender?” She whispered to herself as if the younger, happier version of her soul was inside, listening. Her voice barely carried in the quiet, crumbling room. She moved to this place–somewhere hidden in the belly of Knockturn Alley–to be brave. To become someone who could defy the pitying looks and the well-meaning echoes about healing. This place suited her, understood the filth and rot that had begun to grow inside her.
She scoffed, running a hand over her dust-covered blanket. “Were we brave, or were we just naive?”
The voice in her head didn’t answer.
She didn’t know what to do. She never knew. Not since the war ended. Not since her identity crumbled. Her hands trembled as they flew to her throat, nails pressing deep into the ridged scars like she could claw the memory out. But it only made it worse. The flash came fast—fangs tearing into the skin, blood spilling too hot, too fast, the screams twisting into something inhuman. Her breath caught short, sharp, and shallow, like a fish drowning in the air.
Her face burned. Her chest. Her neck. Every inch of her ruined skin pulsed with fire and memory. It wouldn’t stop. It never stopped. The ache was in her bones now, threaded into her nerves. She rocked forward, choking on sobs she didn’t want to admit to, pressing her forehead to her knees.
She would never forget what had been done to her. She would never forget what it turned her into.
“I wish they never saved me,” she sobbed, choking on the words like they were poison. Her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore—it was warped, hoarse, stripped of all the lightness it once held. It didn’t sound like the girl who used to buy pink bows, hum to herself in shop windows, and wear joy as if it came naturally. It sounded ruined, cracked straight down the middle, like a spell turned inside out. “I wish I had just died.”
The words echoed in the quiet, too loud, too real. She curled tighter as if she could crush herself small enough to disappear. Her hands trembled against her temples, nails digging in like she could rip the thoughts away. But it wasn’t true. Not really.
Because she remembered.
She remembered the moment Greyback’s teeth tore through her skin. The agony. The terror. The silence between heartbeats. And beneath all of that—wanting. Wanting to live. Wanting to breathe. Wanting to survive, no matter how mangled or shattered she became. Now, that desire haunted her just as much as the scars.
She hadn’t wanted to die .
She just didn’t know how to live like this.