Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was thick with fog, a heavy, suffocating presence that swallowed the narrow lanes winding toward Spinner’s End. The murky, black water of the river churned beside the crooked row of houses, whispering secrets only the Dark could hear. It was late November.

A knock broke through the quiet—three sharp raps, deliberate, commanding.

Severus Snape, seated beside a dying fire, a man hollowed out by grief, closed his eyes. He had been expecting it. He rose, his black robes a whisper against the floorboards, and pulled the door open.

Bellatrix Black stood on the threshold, her wild hair damp from the rain. In her arms, wrapped in a tattered dark green blanket, was a baby: the Heir. Bellatrix’s eyes, usually manic, now held a brittle, proprietary satisfaction.

"Severus…" she hissed, her voice a rough whisper. "I don’t have time, the Aurors aren’t too far behind. You must take the child."

"The child?"

Snape’s obsidian eyes settled on the infant. Persephone Gaunt. Born last summer, barely a year old. She was a miniature Gaunt, possessing the impossible eyes of her father, yet wrapped in the fragile, innocent flesh of humanity. A wave of nausea, a visceral rejection of the task, washed over him. He hated the child for the blood that pulsed beneath her pale skin; he hated the choice he was being forced to make.

Bellatrix shoved the small bundle into his reluctant arms, her eyes darting over her shoulder. "She is not to be coddled. She is his heir. His legacy. You will teach her ruthlessness. You will ensure she masters the dark arts of the mind and the ancient ways of magic. She is to be the true weapon that Potter’s brat will never see coming. Do not fail the Dark Lord, Snape."

His mind flashed back to Lily. The vivid green of her eyes, the desperate promise he had made to protect her son, a promise he failed to keep. Harry Potter was saved, but only by the ultimate sacrifice. Snape knew he couldn't protect Lily’s memory by simply aiding the light, not fully. He needed to strike at the heart of the darkness, where it would hurt Voldemort most.

This infant, Voldemort’s legacy, was the greatest vulnerability of the Dark Side. If he raised her as ordered, he would complete Voldemort’s plan. But if he raised her against her nature—if he infused her with the very compassion, empathy, and love that Voldemort despised—he would be dismantling the Dark Lord’s future, piece by agonizing piece. He would use the love he carried for Lily as the foundation of the greatest, most profound betrayal in magical history.

The child stirred slightly in his arms, snuggling closer to his chest, looking for warmth. A small whimper escaped her lips. His eyes met Bellatrix’s gaze, his expression unreadable.

"She will be raised under the necessary conditions," he said, the lie tasting cold and hard on his tongue. "I’ll make sure of it."

Bellatrix gave a satisfied, chilling smile. With a loud crack, she Disapparated into the storm.

For a moment, Severus stood there, staring at the empty space. He adjusted Persephone in his arms, turning back into his home, closing the door softly behind him. Outside, thunder rolled—the storm that would reshape the wizarding world—but in that small, dim room, a different kind of magic was born. Not the magic of curses or prophecy. But the simple, dangerous kind—the kind that begins with love.

"You will not be what they want you to be," he spoke softly, rocking the baby gently. "I swear on it…"

Age: Six

Spinner’s End never knew sunlight. Yet inside one of its crooked houses, a single lamp burned, always at the same hour, always in the same window. Behind the curtains, Severus Snape was teaching a six-year-old girl how to make a feather float.

"Concentrate," his voice was low but patient. "Magic is not a trick, Persephone. It is a conversation. You must listen to it before you speak."

The child’s brow furrowed, a small crease forming between her eyes. Her dark brown eyes—so deep they almost seemed black—reflected the trembling feather on the table. She whispered the incantation, barely moving her lips: "Wingardium Leviosa."

The feather rose, quivering, then steadied. It hovered at eye level, perfectly still. Snape’s expression didn't change, but something in his shoulders loosened. He allowed the corner of his mouth to lift—just barely.

"Well done."

Persephone grinned, the joy on her face bright and unguarded. "Did I do it right this time?"

"You did," he admitted, folding his arms. "I want you to do it again."

Age: Eight

At eight years old, Persephone was a study in contradictions. She wore a constant expression of thoughtful intensity, a trait inherited from her father, but her eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, held the kindness her guardian had painstakingly sewn into her soul. Her dark, wild, and frizzy hair often obscured her face as she worked.

Persephone stood on a worn Persian rug in the center of the sitting room, facing a brass snuffbox resting on an antique side table. She closed her eyes, dismissing the distracting image of Snape’s familiar, austere profile. Her young mind, already a disciplined fortress due to years of training, centered on the snuffbox. She felt the magic pool behind her sternum—a dark, cold current that obeyed instantly, instinctively.

The air around the box did not shimmer, nor did the furniture rattle. There was no flash of light or spoken word. There was only a quiet, absolute shift in reality. The brass box lifted three feet into the air, rotated twice, and settled back gently, precisely where it had been.

Snape felt the familiar, cold dread constrict his throat. Bellatrix had promised a talent; the Dark Lord had sired an innate force. At eight, Persephone could already cast complex charm-work non-verbally with the ease most Seventh Years only dreamed of.

"Acceptable," he murmured, deliberately dampening his praise. He did not want her to revel in power, only to control it. "Tell me, what did you feel as the box obeyed?"

Persephone opened her eyes. "I felt… nothing, really. It wasn’t a push. It was just… like as if told my hand to close."

Snape leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers. "And what did you learn about the nature of the magic, then?"

This was the core of his quiet rebellion. Every lesson in dark skill was paired with a lesson in ethical philosophy.

"That the magic does not care what the goal is," she recited words Severus had spoken so often. "It is neutral. If my purpose is to move the box, the magic is obedient. If my purpose is to harm, the magic is equally obedient. The consequence resides solely with the wielder."

Snape nodded once, a barely perceptible gesture. It was a tightrope walk. He had to temper her control over the power she had inherited, yet instill the conscience she hadn’t. Every incantation was a word of power, and every act of kindness was a counter-curse against her destiny.

The lessons went on long into the evening. Sometimes Potions, sometimes Charms, sometimes simple exercises in control—breathing, concentration, the discipline of the mind.

And always, there was Occlumency. He would kneel before her, his black eyes level with hers, and say, "Push me out, Persephone. Empty your mind. No emotion. No fear." At first, it had terrified her. Now, at eight, she could already block him for a few seconds—a feat most adult wizards could not achieve. When she failed, he never raised his voice. He would simply sigh and start again. Persephone learned early that silence was his kindness, and patience was his love.

Age: Ten

It was a gloomy afternoon when a polite knock sounded on the door. Snape stiffened immediately. No one ever came here uninvited. He glanced at Persephone, who was curled in a ball at the end of the sofa, her eyes peeking at him from above the book she was reading, before he opened the door.

"Good afternoon, Severus."

Snape let out a quiet breath. "Headmaster."

Persephone leaned over the couch, gazing at the unexpected visitor. Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, his blue robes swirling faintly in the chill breeze. His eyes twinkled—as they always did—though Snape had long since stopped finding comfort in that expression.

"I hope I’m not intruding," Dumbledore said mildly, stepping inside. His gaze drifted toward where Persephone sat. "Ah. Miss Prince, how you’ve grown. I believe the last time I saw you, you were about so high." He motioned with his hand, placing it near his knee.

Persephone offered Dumbledore a shy smile, remembering their last encounter. "You gave me some sweets."

"Which I always carry with me for emergency situations." He dug through his robe pockets, pulling out three brightly wrapped candies.

Persephone bounded from her spot and hurried over, cupping her hands to receive the offering. "Thank you, sir!" she beamed.

Snape stood expressionless next to Dumbledore as he watched her. "Head to your room, Persephone. No listening."

She simply nodded, gave Dumbledore a quick smile and skipped upstairs. Snape led the Headmaster into the small kitchen, filling a kettle with water.

"Her progress is remarkable," Dumbledore observed. "Her control, especially. She continues to defy expectation. You’ve done well, Severus."

"She is a prodigy of frightening capacity. The Dark Lord’s blood is potent, and her mother’s influence is undeniable," Snape replied, his voice flat. "She mastered the rudimentary principles of Apparition last month. Silent. No pop, no residue."

"And the Occlumency?"

"Impenetrable." A sliver of pride—and fear—laced his tone. "She built a wall before she understood what a wall was. She is a perfect weapon, Albus. A monster waiting for its master."

Dumbledore smiled gently, placing a comforting hand on Snape’s shoulder. "She is not a monster, Severus. She is a child raised by a man who tucks her into bed, who patiently tolerates her mistakes, and who feeds her morality with every lesson. The love you pour into her is the strongest counter-magic in existence. She is your daughter, Severus, in all the ways that matter."

Snape scoffed, shrugging off Dumbledore’s touch. He ran a tired hand over his face as the kettle began to steam. "The sentiment is lovely, Albus, but it will not protect her when her biological father returns."

"Which is why we must prepare. The boy, Potter, is reaching that age where he needs allies. Persephone is to be the most critical piece on our board—the one whose moves no one, least of all Voldemort, can predict." Dumbledore paused, his gaze hardening slightly. "I have arranged for her name to be on the Hogwarts register."

"No."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"She will not be attending Hogwarts. Not yet," Snape insisted. "I have plans to keep her homeschooled by Narcissa Malfoy while I’m away at Hogwarts. She needs to be completely concentrated and focused on her studies and not be sidetracked by her peers."

"I trust in your decision, Severus, for you are her father and know what is best. But there will come a time when she—"

"I know," Snape cut in, anticipating the rest of the sentence. "I know."

Dumbledore offered a faint, melancholy smile. "We must manage the expectations, Severus. The Dark Lord's and ours." He slid a small, red box along the kitchen counter toward Snape. "A gift for the little one. A small testament to her hard work."

Snape grabbed it, flipping open the lid to reveal a small golden pendant in the shape of a phoenix. He looked back at the Headmaster, only to find that Dumbledore was already gone, having silently Disapparated from the small kitchen.

Snape stared back down at the pendant before heading up the stairs. He gave Persephone’s door a light knock and opened it. Persephone was waiting patiently on her bed, the sweet wrappers discarded beside her, her eyes full of innocence. Snape lingered in the doorway for a moment before entering, taking a seat on the corner of her desk.

"Is Professor Dumbledore still here?"

"No. He just left," Snape replied, placing the small box into her hands. "He wanted me to give this to you."

She looked it over before opening the lid, letting out a soft gasp at the beautiful necklace. "A phoenix...What does it mean?"

Snape stared at her for a long moment before speaking. "It means protection… and hope."

"Hope?" She gently stroked the golden phoenix, looking back up at her father. "Dad...Do you believe in hope?"

Snape hesitated. "Not often."

She smiled, pulling the necklace from the box and slipping it over her head. "Then I’ll believe enough for the both of us."

For the first time in a long while, Severus Snape smiled back.

Snape couldn’t sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Dark Lord returning, coming to take back the girl he now called his own. Growing restless, Snape left his bed, slipping silently into Persephone’s room. She was asleep, curled around a pillow, her dark, unattainable hair fanned out across the sheets. Moonlight spilled in from the open window, the soft glow illuminating her peaceful face. Severus reached out, his thumb gently brushing her hair from her forehead.

Let him return, Snape thought, the challenge aimed at the vacant throne of the Dark Lord. Let him try and take back what I have made her.

The fragile little family—a child of darkness, raised by a spy, protected by a love born of guilt—was readying for the inevitable war.

Chapter Text

Age: Eleven

Malfoy Manor was a monolith of marble and echoing corridors. Every inch of it—from the bewitched iron gates to the cold, elaborately ornamented halls—was designed to broadcast the Malfoy family’s pure-blood prestige and immense wealth.

Persephone had long since learned to tolerate it. The Manor had become her second home while her father taught at Hogwarts, and place that often hosted late-night meetings between Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy. Tonight was one of those nights.

She stood stiffly beside Snape as Lucius greeted them with his usual cool politeness, before leading them into a pristine sitting room where Narcissa and Draco awaited. Narcissa offered Persephone a smile that never quite reached her pale gray eyes. Persephone returned the courtesy before sitting primly on one of the hard-backed chairs.

“Severus, she looks frail,” Narcissa declared, a sliver of aristocratic concern curling her words as she pushed a silver tray of scones toward the girl. “You must feed her more.”

“She eats perfectly well, Narcissa,” Snape replied sharply.

“Nonsense.” Narcissa rose, gliding over to Persephone. She smoothed a stray lock of the girl’s unmanageable hair—an almost maternal gesture that felt oddly out of place. “And she needs to visit a proper salon.”

Snape chose not to answer. Instead, he leaned toward Lucius and murmured something low and urgent. A moment later, both men stood and swept from the room, their robes whispering against the marble floor, leaving the children behind.

Narcissa insisted Persephone eat two scones before dismissing them both with a wave of her hand. “Go find something intelligent to do with your time.”

The moment they were free, Persephone and Draco darted off to their usual sanctuary: the library.

Of all the rooms in the Manor, Persephone loved the library most. It was a vast, hushed chamber lined with towering shelves and filled with the scent of polished wood and aged parchment. The collection was staggering—volumes on magical philosophy, ancient wizarding history, and even a heavily warded section devoted to the Dark Arts. Snape had forbidden her from touching those books. Naturally, Persephone found them irresistible.

As they entered, Draco immediately settled behind his father’s enormous mahogany desk, rifling through a drawer with the practiced curiosity of someone who knew he shouldn’t.

Persephone scanned the shelves until she found the book she had been looking for: a thick, leather-bound tome titled Time Travel and Chronomancy. It sat high above her reach. Without a word, she lifted her hand. The book slid free from the shelf and floated gracefully down to her waiting arms. She caught it and sank into a deep black armchair, clutching it to her chest.

“You’re so lucky,” Draco muttered, glancing up from the drawer. There was envy in his pale eyes.

“What?” Persephone asked, looking up from the cover.

“It’s not fair that you get to do magic.”

She smirked, rolling her eyes. “Only if it’s wandless.”

Draco huffed, spinning lazily in his father’s chair. “That’s even less fair,” he muttered, then added, “Have you gotten your Hogwarts letter yet?”

Persephone’s expression cooled. “You know very well I’m not going to Hogwarts,” she said evenly. “Your mother is homeschooling me.”

Draco sat a little taller, clearly pleased to have something she didn’t. “That is… unfortunate.”

“I wouldn’t gloat, Draco,” Persephone replied, her tone deceptively mild. “It would be a shame if an infestation of Flobberworms were to appear in your room while you’re away.”

Draco froze, eyes widening. “You wouldn’t…”

Persephone only shrugged, already flipping through the first pages of her book.

He quickly recovered, clearing his throat. “I meant—it’s unfortunate you can’t go. It’ll be quit boring without you.”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “That’s better,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving the page.

__

Later that evening, the gloom of Spinner’s End felt particularly heavy. The last night before Severus Snape returned to Hogwarts always carried a certain weight—but tonight, it pressed harder than usual. Tomorrow, Persephone would be sent back to the cold formality of Malfoy Manor, back to Narcissa’s polite lessons and polished smiles.

She was already exhausted, her nerves frayed. The memory of Draco’s smug grin over his Hogwarts letter still simmered in her chest, and now Snape had chosen this moment to administer a complex lesson in ward-breaking—not for malice, but for protection. Persephone had been trying for ten minutes to complete a sequence of ancient protection runes, and the copper-colored chalk marks on her parchment refused to link.

Frustration boiled over. A hiss escaped her lips—low, cold, and dry, like scales scraping across stone. It wasn’t human.

Snape froze.

The chalk he had been holding clattered onto the flagstone floor. Persephone looked up startled and confused, her heart hammering. She hadn’t known she could make that noise, much less that it held meaning.

Snape’s expression hardened into a mask of stone, yet his body language was one of profound shock. He recovered instantly, but the silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

"Never speak that language in front of anyone," he commanded, his voice shaking barely perceptibly. He had hoped, against all rational thought, that she hadn't inherited that particular, vile gift from the Dark Lord, but it had simply manifested, waiting for a flash of temper to draw it out.

Persephone’s confusion deepened, her lips parting to protest, but he cut her off with a sharper tone. "It is not a talent, Persephone. It is a curse. It is the language of what they want you to become."

Persephone’s throat tightened. She nodded, understanding instantly. Her unique talents weren’t gifts; they were weapons that needed to be hidden, sealed away inside the walls of her disciplined mind. She bowed her head, a small sound of shame escaping her.

"Now, please try again," Snape said, his voice regaining its usual steel, though the chalk dust still clung to his knuckles. He tapped her paper with the tip of his wand, clearing her frantic scribbles. "If written correctly, the rune will disappear. They’re meant to be invisible..."

"Just like me?" she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

Snape faltered. Her voice had been so small, so quiet that for a moment he thought he’d imagined it. “What makes you say that?”

She raised her head, her eyes meeting his—dark, uncertain, searching. "Isn't that what you want me to be? Hidden. Unseen. Learning advanced magic...you keep me here, away from everyone else. Why can’t I go to Hogwarts?”

Snape let out a heavy sigh. This had been the main topic of conversation since they left Malfoy Manor. " Because, Persephone, your studies must continue as they are. You are years ahead of the curriculum. You would be bored, wasting your time on beginner spellwork."

"Why can’t you continue my lessons at Hogwarts, then?" Persephone demanded, pushing her hands against the table. Her eyes, those unnervingly dark, inherited eyes, were suddenly wild—just like her mother’s had been. She could feel the anger bubbling up, the resentment over Draco, her only friend, getting to escape to a real life.

"You’ve already completed everything they teach to first years," Snape insisted. “And I will have no time. I’ll be responsible for hundreds of other students.”

"I don't care about my lessons!" she yelled, slamming her clenched fist onto the table. "Why can’t I just be a normal kid!"

Snape hesitated, reaching out a hand to comfort her, but she shrugged it off with a furious flinch.

“Persephone, you’re not—”

"I know I’m not normal!" she cut him off, tears stinging her eyes. "And I hate myself for it!"

Snape watched, stunned, as she aggressively pushed herself away from the table. Her chair toppled backward with a loud crash. She bolted from the room. He heard her heavy footsteps stomp up the stairs before the sudden, violent slam of her door, followed by the sound of muffled, heartbroken sobs.

Snape stood rigid for a long moment, then flicked his wand at the fallen chair, silently righting it. He never would have allowed such disrespect from any student, but he couldn't help but feel a hollow, aching empathy for his daughter. She had just realized the weight of her unique imprisonment. He decided to give her space.

He walked over to the abandoned parchment. She hadn't cleared the rune, but she was close. He tapped the paper, watching the chalk sequence vanish into invisibility.

A monster waiting for its master, He had regrettably called her that day Dumbledore had visited. But tonight, he had seen only a terrified, angry child who hated the darkness she carried.

Snape sat down, burying his face in his hands. He had built the strongest defense for her mind, teaching her Occlumency to push out every foreign invasion. Yet he had utterly failed to build a defense for her heart. That small act of rebellion—the Parseltongue hiss, the raw, furious hatred for her own dark nature—was proof that his counter-betrayal had begun to work.

He stood up, collecting the ancient runes books from the table. He needed to be at Hogwarts before dawn, where the real betrayal—the one that required his mask and his coldness—would resume. Before extinguishing the lights, his gaze drifted toward the closed door at the top of the stairs.

In the dim glow of the hearth, he made a silent promise: Whatever darkness she inherited, it would never claim her completely—not while he still breathed.

Chapter Text

It was late June, and the sun beat down on the manicured labyrinth of the Malfoy Manor gardens. The air hummed with the sound of unseen magical topiary trimming itself into precise, arrogant shapes—a perfect reflection of the estate’s sterile atmosphere.

Draco Malfoy, home from his first year at Hogwarts, paced the winding, gravel paths with boundless, restless energy. He clutched a sleek, silver-tipped cane (a recent gift from his Father, of course) and twirled it, slicing the air like a sword, as he recounted his time at school.

Persephone watched him. She maintained a placid, polite expression, though she couldn't suppress a sharp, unwelcome stab of jealousy with every thrilling anecdote. Draco, utterly oblivious to her internal struggle, continued his monologue.

"I was sorted instantly into Slytherin, of course," he announced, a sneering smile flickering over his face at the memory. "The Hat barely touched my hair when it screamed it out—no tedious contemplation necessary. Potter, his dumb friend Weasley, and that insufferable know-it-all Granger—all got chucked into Gryffindor." He spat the house name as if it were a foul ingredient, then shuddered dramatically.

"Harry Potter?" Persephone asked, the infamous name finally piquing her interest.

Draco groaned, throwing his head back in an extravagant display of suffering. "The sheer waste of it all! When I first met him, I thought he might be salvageable. I offered him a chance—a real, genuine chance—to align with the proper people. But he chose that Weasel." Draco waved a hand dismissively. "It’s just as well. I wouldn't be caught dead associating with that lot anyway. They do nothing but break school rules, and since he’s the 'golden boy,' he gets rewarded for it instead of punished! He even managed to get his way onto the Quidditch team—a Seeker in his first year!"

The venom in his voice was thick, like spoiled Potion. "I couldn't even enjoy watching the matches..."

He paused, looking for her reaction. A brief, resentful smirk crossed Persephone’s face—not directed at Potter, but at the unfairness of the life he was describing.

"And don't even get me started on his pathological need for being a hero," Draco continued, warming to his theme. "On Halloween night, a mountain troll—a great, stinking brute of a thing—managed to break into the castle..."

"A troll?" A sharp stab of disappointment, mixed with intense longing, shot through Persephone.

"A troll! And guess what? Little Potter and his stupid friends decided to go hunt it down. To be praised, naturally."

"What happened? Did they get hurt?"

Draco sighed with utter disgust. "No! They managed to somehow defeat it—with the help of that ridiculous girl, Granger—and he didn’t even get a detention! The Headmaster simply patted him on the head." Draco gripped his cane and slammed its silver tip angrily into the turf.

"And speaking of detention!" His voice rose, working himself into a familiar, self-righteous rage. "I caught Potter and his annoying little gang out past hours with that bloody oaf of a giant who was illegally hatching a dragon..."

"A dragon?"

"Yes! A Norwegian Ridgeback! A completely illegal monstrosity! And guess what happened?"

"What?"

"I got in trouble for it! I was the one who went to McGonagall to expose them, and I received the detention for being out past hours!" His face was growing slightly red, flushed with injustice. "And you wouldn’t believe what Dumbledore had us do for punishment."

"Lines?"

"They made us go out in the Forbidden Forest! At night! Do you know how dark and dangerous that place is? And that’s not even the worst part. We had to track some creature that was going around killing unicorns—and I was nearly attacked by a demonic, cloaked figure drinking the blood."

Persephone's eyebrows shot up, a purely involuntary reaction to the dark thrill of the story. "You were attacked?"

"Yes! Nearly killed me. The centaurs had to intervene."

She forced a dismissive roll of her eyes, attempting to hide how desperately she wished she had been there, fighting alongside the centaurs and hunting dark creatures.

"And then, the grand finale!" Draco declared, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Potter, in his heroic fit, decided to go after Professor Quirrell, who was apparently trying to steal something vital from the castle... In the middle of the night, of course—he always has to be snooping around. I don't really know what all happened, but Professor Quirrell never returned to the castle. It was completely unnecessary. Naturally, Potter received a massive, ridiculous amount of points from Dumbledore, resulting in us losing the House Cup and the Gryffindors winning! It’s just typical Dumbledore favoritism."

"For hating him so much, you certainly speak a lot about him," Persephone observed dryly.

Draco turned to her, his expression shifting to the petty, rehearsed arrogance he'd inherited from his father, yet still unable to hide his obsession. "Because he is a disease, Persephone. He is a walking disaster that you can’t take your eyes away from.”

Persephone continued listening, but underneath her expressionless mask, the envy still burned. It seemed like Draco had lived the greatest adventure of his life at Hogwarts, facing real danger and actual dark magic. Meanwhile, she had been stuck here, perfecting advanced Dark Arts spells and reading dusty pure-blood texts, with no one to talk to but the Malfoys’ loyal House Elf, Dobby, who was a wonderful listener but hardly a companion.

Draco tossed his silver cane into the air and caught it with practiced ease. "...you missed nothing, Persephone. It was nothing but tedious drama and appalling displays of poverty."

Persephone’s mouth dropped slightly. She would have traded her complicated, suffocating life here for his simple, exhilarating chaos in an instant.

__

The following afternoon, Severus Snape returned to Malfoy Manor.

He found Persephone in the drawing room, her small, worn trunk packed neatly beside her. She stood before a grotesque oil portrait of a sneering wizard, brow furrowed in faint distaste, before her eyes flicked to the doorway—and softened.

The moment Snape entered, she rose and crossed the room quickly, throwing her arms around his waist. For a brief, awkward moment he remained stiff, a silhouette of black robes and restraint, before resting a hesitant hand on the back of her head. His robes still smelled faintly of damp stone, potion fumes, and parchment—the scent of Hogwarts.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked quietly.

“You have no idea.”

Her voice carried a spark of relief that made something twist painfully in his chest.

She grabbed her trunk and followed him down the marble corridor. Their footsteps echoed in the vast stillness until they reached the gravel path outside. Only when the open air filled her lungs did Persephone finally speak.

“What really happened at Hogwarts?”

Snape didn’t answer until they reached the wrought-iron gates. His expression was unreadable.

“Nothing I care to speak of,” he said dryly, the subject already sealed behind walls she knew better than to breach.

Before she could press him, he caught her arm. With a sharp crack, the Manor vanished—and Spinner’s End rose around them, damp and narrow, the air thick with the faint smell of soot and rain.

Snape dropped both trunks by the staircase and moved toward the kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves. Persephone followed, unwilling to let the silence win.

“Draco mentioned some things that happened,” she said carefully, lowering herself into one of the old wooden chairs.

He paused mid-motion, turning to give her a narrow, assessing look.

“I’m sure he did,” Snape said coolly. “Let me guess—an exhaustive account of his Potions marks and his noble crusade against Gryffindor idiocy?”

Persephone flicked a speck of lint from her trousers, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Something like that. He mentioned Harry Potter a lot.”

A sharp sound escaped Snape’s throat—half snort, half derisive laugh.

“Potter is nothing but trouble. Defiant, reckless, incapable of following a single instruction.”

His tone was clipped, but Persephone noticed the flicker of something else—an emotion colder than anger, older than irritation.

“Just like his father,” he muttered. “Always at the center of attention, inviting chaos like a moth to a flame.”

Persephone frowned, unsure of what to make of his bitterness.

“He can’t be that bad. Draco said he stopped a troll.”

“Ignorance that nearly got him killed,” Snape replied, slicing the air with his words.

“Draco also said Harry stopped a professor—from stealing something?”

Snape froze, the wand in his hand hovering above the chopping board. His shoulders tightened.

“That,” he said flatly, “is not your concern.”

“That’s not fair!” Persephone protested, her voice rising. “If it’s dangerous enough to risk people’s lives, I should know.”

“You’re a child.”

“A child who could outduel most grown wizards,” she shot back, arms crossing.

Their eyes locked—hers burning with challenge, his with sharp, disbelieving restraint. The tension in the room coiled tighter, humming like a drawn bowstring.

Snape exhaled through his nose, weary. He knew that stubbornness well—it was his own, reflected back at him.

At last, he said the words that would silence her.

“It was the Dark Lord.”

Persephone froze. The air seemed to vanish from the room.

“He’s... back?” she whispered.

Snape’s voice softened, seeing the terror flicker across her face.

“Not fully. He’s weak—diminished. He attached himself to Professor Quirrell, using him as a host. Promising him power while feeding on his mind.”

Persephone’s hands gripped the edge of the table.

“What was he trying to steal?”

Snape turned back to the kitchen counter, rinsing the chopped vegetables with deliberate precision.

“The Philosopher’s Stone.”

Her breath caught.

“Why?”

“To restore his body,” Snape said quietly. “To rise again.”

Persephone slumped into her chair, the idea chilling her blood.

“Good thing Harry stopped him,” she murmured.

“Potter was merely lucky,” Snape snapped. He hesitated, eyes flicking downward. “The Dark Lord could not touch him—a lingering consequence of his mother’s sacrifice.”

His voice faltered briefly, heavy with memory, before he continued.

“It doesn’t matter now. The Stone has been secured and destroyed. He’s still weak. Powerless. You need not worry.”

Persephone bit her lip, wrestling with the question burning in her chest. Snape saw the hesitation and raised an eyebrow, wordlessly commanding her to speak.

“Can I go to Hogwarts next year?”

The flicker of emotion in his eyes vanished instantly.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Especially after what’s happened. If you had been there—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening. The thought of Voldemort being near her, using her, was unbearable.

Persephone’s shoulders sank, but she said nothing more. She knew better than to push him when his voice took that tone.

Still, as the quiet stretched between them, she made a silent promise of her own. She would ask again. And again. Until one day, he said yes.

Chapter Text

Age: Twelve

Mid-August sunlight spilled over the manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor, catching on the silver filigree of wrought-iron benches and the soft shimmer of enchanted lilies that bloomed year-round along the marble paths. A warm breeze carried the faint, expensive scent of rare roses and freshly cut grass—perfect flying weather, as Draco had declared.

Persephone stood on the lawn below, her hand moving in lazy circles as a handful of smooth stones lifted from the ground. Under her quiet spellwork, they darted and looped through the air like miniature Snitches, whistling past Draco as he tore after them on his brand-new Nimbus 2001, the broom’s polished handle gleaming obsidian and silver in the afternoon sun.

Draco leaned forward, pale hair whipping behind him as he swooped low to catch one of the stones. He missed by inches, scowling before pulling sharply upward into a corkscrew that made Persephone’s stomach twist just watching him.

“Did I tell you,” he called down, his voice carrying on the wind, “Father invited Marcus Flint and his parents over for tea last week? They talked Quidditch the entire time. Father’s offered to buy brand new brooms for the entire Slytherin team—Nimbus Two-Thousands and Ones, just like mine.”

Persephone raised an eyebrow, feigning boredom. “All that just to guarantee your spot on the team?”

Draco smirked, circling once around the tallest hedge before touching down gracefully beside her. The Nimbus glittered in his grip, clearly his pride and joy.

“It’s an investment,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Father wants Slytherin to win. And besides—Flint said he’d make me Seeker even without the brooms.”

Persephone snorted. “Right. Because modesty has always been your strongest quality.”

He ignored the jab, twirling the broom in his hands, eyes shining with self-satisfaction. “It’s not about modesty, it’s about undeniable talent. I’m simply the best.”

“Of course you are,” Persephone said dryly, rolling her eyes. One of the bewitched stones zipped past his ear, narrowly missing him.

He flinched. “Oi! Watch it, Seph!”

“You’re supposed to be the best,” she shot back with a wicked grin. “A proper Seeker would’ve caught it.”

Draco gave her a mock glare, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You just don’t appreciate greatness when you see it.”

“Or I’m just tired of watching you chase rocks,” Persephone said, lowering her hand. The stones dropped one by one onto the grass with soft thuds. “Game over.”

Draco frowned. “You’ve been moody all day...”

“Maybe I’m just tired of hearing you talk about yourself since lunch,” she countered, brushing at her skirt. “Come on—can we please do something else?”

Draco sighed, slinging the broom over his shoulder. Together, they walked back up the stone path toward the Manor. The sun cast long shadows across the lawn, and the lingering scent of lavender followed them into the cool marble halls.

“So,” Draco said lightly, “you don’t like hearing about me anymore?”

Persephone smirked. “It gets tiring after a while.”

Draco bumped her shoulder playfully, forcing her to stumble a step toward the wall. His grin softened—less arrogant now, more boyish, almost sincere.

“Admit it, you enjoy it,” he said. “It’s why you love being around me.”

Persephone shoved him back, just hard enough to make him laugh. “Oh please, I just choose to sacrifice myself to save anyone else from having to deal with it.”

Draco leaned in slightly, his tone dropping. “I always knew you saved your best efforts for me. It’s highly flattering.”

She met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Draco.”

Their footsteps echoed softly across the vast, cold marble floors as they wandered toward the east corridor. Sunlight filtered through high, arched windows, glinting off the silver-framed portraits of stern, elegant Malfoy ancestors who seemed to judge their every move.

Persephone slowed as they turned a corner—several large wooden crates were stacked haphazardly along the wall, half-covered by a forgotten velvet sheet. The Malfoys’ house-elf, Dobby, must have abandoned his work mid-task.

She tilted her head, her sharp curiosity winning out over good manners. “What’s all this?”

Draco glanced at the boxes, his smug expression tightening just slightly into a mask of mild irritation. “Father’s been... reorganizing.”

“Reorganizing?” she echoed, tugging back a corner of the heavy sheet. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light, illuminating the contents—strange, dark objects wrapped in cloth and old newspapers, metal that seemed to hum faintly with residual, unsettling enchantment. “Is he getting rid of all of this?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He is, actually. Father’s worried the Ministry might start raiding homes again—looking for cursed artifacts, family heirlooms they don’t approve of. They think they can just take things from respectable families.”

Persephone arched a brow, intrigued despite herself. “So what’s he going to do with a mountain of incriminating evidence?”

Draco gave a small, confident smirk. “He’s going to try and sell most of it at Borgin and Burkes. Whatever Mr. Borgin doesn’t take, Father’s moving into the secret chamber that’s under the drawing-room floor. Better safe than sorry.”

But Persephone’s curiosity had already won. She crouched beside one of the boxes, carefully pushing aside bits of brittle parchment and stiff cloth. Her hand brushed against a small, leather-bound book, dark brown and soft with age, tucked beneath a tarnished silver locket.

The book was utterly unremarkable to look at, yet something about it felt profoundly wrong.

The moment her fingers grazed the cover, a faint, icy chill pricked up her arm, deeper and sharper than the cool air of the Manor. Still, she opened it. Page after page—blank. No ink, no script, not even a hint of age-worn writing. Just silence pressed into parchment.

Her brows knit together in confusion. “Strange…” she murmured, flipping to the very front. On the inside cover, faintly etched in elegant, looping ink, were the words:

Property of T.M. Riddle.

The name hit her like a physical blow to the chest. Her breath caught, the air suddenly thin and cold. T.M. Riddle. She had seen that name—or a version of it—in the dusty, restricted texts her father allowed her to study. It was a phantom, a whisper from the past, a name her father never spoke.

She dropped the book as if it had instantly scorched her skin. It landed with a dull, heavy thud back into the box.

Draco jumped. “What?”

“Nothing—” she said too quickly, scrambling up and backing away a step. “Just—just a spider. Big one. Crawled out of the pages.”

Draco frowned skeptically but crouched to peer inside anyway, his lip curled in distaste. “You and your ridiculous fear of spiders.”

Persephone forced a strained, brittle laugh, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She rubbed them furiously against her skirt, as if trying to wipe something invisible—and contaminated—away. The echo of that name pulsed through her thoughts like a curse.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Her father’s name. Before he became what he was.

“Let’s go,” she said abruptly, grabbing Draco’s sleeve with a tight, urgent grip and pulling him away from the crates.

He gave her a puzzled glance but followed. As they walked beneath the grand staircase, the light grew warmer again, and she tried to steady her breathing—tried to bury the icy, metallic feeling twisting in her gut.

Persephone forced a smile, her voice deliberately bright and casual. “So,” she said, injecting a false lightness, “are you excited for term to start? Now that you’re practically a professional Quidditch star?”

Draco, immediately distracted, swung his gleaming Nimbus over his shoulder. “You bet,” he exclaimed excitedly, his face lighting up. “Especially now that I’m on the team, Slytherin’s going to dominate this year—I can feel it. I’ve already decided how I'll catch the Snitch against Potter in the first match—”

Persephone nodded, offering small acknowledgements without truly hearing him. She walked beside him as they climbed the steps toward Draco’s room, the unsettling chill of that book lingering beneath her skin like a fresh wound. She was eager to get back home tonight to ask her father about what she had found.

__

The night air in Spinner’s End was heavy with the scent of rain and river soot. The narrow row houses pressed close together, their blackened chimneys coughing faint wisps of smoke into the damp August sky. Most of the street was silent—save for the occasional drip of water from an eave or the distant clatter of a passing cart.

Inside one of the dim houses, a modest fire burned low in the grate. Its glow reached across a small sitting room, painting restless amber patterns over peeling wallpaper and the worn edges of an old rug.

Persephone sat curled in the faded armchair nearest the fire, her knees tucked up beneath her. Her owl (a gift from her father for her twelfth birthday)—She had named Beans, a great greyish-brown Ural owl with sharp, intelligent eyes—perched on the armrest, shifting its talons and clicking its beak softly. Persephone stroked his feathers absently, her mind far from Spinner’s End.

The image of the small, leather-bound book wouldn’t leave her—the words Property of T.M. Riddle branded into the inside cover as though seared there by a curse. She could still feel the wrongness of it in her fingertips, as if the pages had pulsed faintly with something alive.

Behind her, Severus entered. His footsteps were barely audible even on the creaking floorboards. He carried two steaming mugs of tea, setting one gently on the small, rickety table beside her before lowering himself into the opposite chair. His black robes seemed to absorb the firelight, hanging like curtains of perpetual shadow around him.

He regarded her quietly for a moment. “You’ve been unusually quiet since we returned,” he said at last, his voice cutting cleanly through the hush. “I would almost mistake you for well-behaved.”

Persephone smiled faintly, her eyes still on the mesmerizing flames. “I saw something today... at the Malfoys’.”

That got his immediate attention. His posture stiffened slightly. “Go on.”

“There were boxes—full of strange things. Dark objects, mostly. Draco said Lucius was hiding them because he’s worried the Ministry might raid the Manor.” She hesitated, her fingers lingering slightly on Beans’ soft feathers.

Snape’s expression remained unreadable, though his fingers tightened around his cup. “Lucius does have… a talent for collecting trouble.”

Persephone took a sip of her tea before she continued. “One of the things inside was a book. A small, leather one. It looked old. And inside the cover…” She swallowed hard. “It said Property of T.M. Riddle.”

The name hung in the cramped, fire-lit air, sharp and heavy as a curse.

Snape’s brow furrowed deeply. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face suddenly taut. “Riddle...” he repeated, the sound a low, dangerous inflection. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.” His tone was low—a fusion of disbelief and cautious, cold calculation. “You are certain that’s what it said?”

Persephone nodded. “Positive. I saw it clearly.”

He sat back slowly, his gaze distant, processing. “I’ve never heard of a personal diary belonging to him.” His mind, normally a precision instrument, was visibly turning rapidly through possibilities. “Was there anything written inside?”

“No. It was empty,” she said. “Completely blank. But…” She hesitated, searching for the right words to describe the feeling. “It felt wrong. Like it was... alive somehow. Waiting.”

Snape’s dark eyes flicked toward her sharply at that. For a brief, terrifying moment, the firelight caught them, revealing a distinct flash of fear beneath the usual practiced stoicism. But then he exhaled through his nose and leaned back, dismissing the fear with practiced detachment.

“It was likely nothing,” he said curtly, though his tone carried a faint, unsettling edge. “Lucius has always been fascinated by dangerous artifacts. If the book were truly cursed, he wouldn’t leave it lying about for anyone to find. It’s just an old object.”

Persephone frowned but didn’t argue. Still, she could tell by the rapid, rhythmic drumming of his fingers against his knee that he wasn’t entirely convinced by his own words.

Snape stood, straightening his robes with an economical movement. “In any case, I will speak with Lucius. But, Persephone—” His voice grew colder, firmer, cutting through the silence. “Do not go meddling with things you don’t understand. Artifacts like those are rarely harmless. Especially ones that once belonged to him.”

Persephone nodded, guilt flickering in her chest. “I know. I didn’t mean to—it just looked like an old book.”

Snape’s expression softened, just barely. He crossed the room and rested a hand on the back of her chair. “Curiosity is not a sin, but recklessness can be fatal. Promise me you won’t touch anything like that again.”

“I promise,” she said quietly.

“Good.” He withdrew, picking up his tea once more. “Now—get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Her brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“Going to Hogwarts,” he said dryly, the barest hint of a tired smile twitching on his lips. “I’m behind on preparations for the new term. You can assist me in sorting the storerooms.”

Persephone’s face lit up instantly. She sprang from her chair, the motion sending Beans flapping into the air with a startled hoot. The owl swooped around the room, scattering loose feathers and nearly clipping Snape’s head with a wingtip.

Snape scowled and ducked, muttering something unrepeatable under his breath.

Persephone laughed, too excited to care, already envisioning the castle’s endless corridors and secret rooms. “Yes! This is going to be so much fun!”

“You’re going to be weighing out potion ingredients, Persephone,” he said dryly, brushing a feather from his sleeve. “You’re not going to go to have fun.”

Persephone grinned, not caring what her father had to say. Clutching her tea, she darted toward the stairs. “Good night, dad!” she called over her shoulder.

"Good night," Snape muttered, retreating toward his study as Beans landed triumphantly on the mantel. "Bloody bird."

Upstairs, Persephone’s laughter echoed faintly through the narrow house—bright, fleeting, and warm against the chill of Spinner’s End. For a little while, the shadow of the diary slipped from her thoughts.

Chapter Text

Morning came grey and cool. A thin veil of mist clung to the chimneys and cobblestones, turning the world outside Persephone’s window pale and dreamlike. She woke early, long before she needed to, her stomach fluttering with excitement.

Today—they were going to Hogwarts.

She dressed quickly in comfortable clothes: old jeans, a dark green sweater, and sneakers scuffed from years of wear. Her hair, still tousled from sleep, was twisted into a hurried braid before she bounded downstairs.

Snape was already in the kitchen, black robes sweeping behind him as he set a small pot of tea on the stove. The room smelled faintly of toast and something distinctly medicinal, a scent Persephone associated with her father’s presence.

“You’re up early,” he remarked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Persephone admitted, grinning as she slid into her seat. “You said Hogwarts, remember?”

A faint smirk ghosted over his lips. “I did. And I regret it already.”

Breakfast was a quick, silent affair of toast and strong tea. Once finished, they moved to the sitting room. The old grate was filled with fine, shimmering emerald powder. Persephone took a pinch from the small jar on the mantel.

"Do you remember what to say?" Snape asked, his hand hovering near her shoulder.

Persephone grinned, stepping into the hearth. “Of course. Hogwarts, Professor Snape’s office!”

With a whoosh of emerald flame, she vanished.

The world spun and blurred—a rush of color and heat—and then, in an instant, she was standing inside her father’s office at Hogwarts.

It was just as she remembered: shelves of ancient books lined the walls, their spines cracked and faded; glass jars glimmered with preserved specimens that floated lazily in potion fluid; and the faint scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air. The only sound was the steady tick of a small clock on his desk.

She smiled. It was dark, quiet, and oddly comforting.

Seconds later, green fire roared again, and Snape stepped through, brushing the soot from his sleeve. “Come along,” he said briskly. “We’ve work to do before I regret this decision entirely.”

They crossed into the adjoining Potions classroom. The air was cooler here, and their footsteps echoed off the flagstone floor. Snape gave a small flick of his wand, and the room responded instantly—hundreds of jars and bottles shimmered into view atop the desks, their labels glowing faintly in the low light. Dried herbs, powdered roots, preserved beetles, and curled slivers of dragon liver filled the space with a strange, sharp fragrance.

Persephone’s shoulders dropped. “This is going to take forever!” she groaned.

“Indeed,” Snape replied dryly, but there was a rare, almost imperceptible warmth in his tone. “Which is why you’re helping.”

He conjured a quill and parchment that began scribbling an inventory list on its own. Persephone set to work eagerly, lifting jars, checking labels, carefully measuring and filling the containers before carrying them back to the students’ supply cupboard. Each time she moved, the soft clink of glass filled the air, rhythmic and precise.

As she worked, Snape’s voice floated across the room. “Tell me, Miss Prince—what is the primary stabilizing agent in a Draught of Living Death?”

“Valerian root,” she answered promptly, shelving a bottle of preserved bat spleens.

“Correct. And what would happen if one were foolish enough to substitute monkshood for it?”

“The potion would become fatally unstable,” Persephone said without hesitation, straightening proudly. “It would cause paralysis before inducing death.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Very good. Ten points to... me.”

Persephone laughed. “You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

He gave a soft hum of amusement. “Perhaps. It’s not every day one encounters a student who actually listens.”

They continued for the next several hours—Snape quizzing, Persephone answering—until the last of the jars were neatly organized. Dust motes floated lazily in the morning light slanting through the high dungeon windows, and the fire in the grate burned low and steady.

When they finally paused, Persephone brushed her hands off on her sweater, surveying their work with satisfaction. The classroom gleamed with order.

Snape gave a small nod. “Acceptable,” he said, which from him was the highest possible praise.

Persephone smiled to herself, secretly thrilled.

The steady chime of the brass clock on the dungeon wall broke the silence. Snape glanced up from his parchment, one dark brow lifting as the hands of the clock landed on noon.

“It appears,” he said, setting down his quill, “that my assistant has earned her lunch.”

Persephone perked up immediately. “Does that mean we’re done?”

“For now.” He stood, sweeping his robes around him in a single fluid motion. “I’ll fetch something from the kitchens. The house-elves would be delighted to have something to do.”

As he moved toward the door, Persephone followed quickly at his heels. “Can I come with you?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “The last time you went to the kitchens, you returned with an entire basket of treacle tarts and an overly affectionate house-elf who attempted to iron my socks.”

Persephone grinned guiltily. “Okay… then can I go explore? Please, Dad?”

He stopped, shoulders stiffening. “Explore?”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, clasping her hands dramatically. “I just want to see more of the castle! You said I have a good sense of direction, remember?”

Snape gave a long, weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though this conversation aged him by years. “One hour,” he said finally. “If you are not back by then, I will send Filch to find you, and you will not enjoy the result.”

Persephone beamed. “One hour. Got it!”

Before he could change his mind, she darted past him and out the door, her footsteps echoing through the stone corridor. Snape muttered something about “inherited recklessness” and disappeared down the opposite hall toward the kitchens.

Persephone’s heart raced as she climbed the winding staircases, her shoes clicking softly against the ancient stone steps. She’d explored much of Hogwarts on previous visits—The dungeons, the Great Hall, the library—but she’d never had the chance to truly roam.

This time, she was determined to see the upper floors.

She passed portraits that whispered to each other as she went, suits of armor that seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking, and windows that poured sunlight across the stone floors like golden lace. The castle breathed around her—alive, humming with magic.

Rounding a corner near the third floor, Persephone nearly collided with a tall figure in deep purple robes.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Professor—” she began, then froze.

The old wizard’s blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, his expression one of mild surprise and immediate amusement. “Ah, Miss Prince,” Albus Dumbledore said warmly. “What a pleasant surprise. Out for a bit of adventure, are we?”

Persephone’s cheeks flushed. “My father’s letting me explore. Just for an hour,” she added quickly, as if to prove she hadn’t escaped.

“Only an hour?” Dumbledore said with a soft chuckle. “A terrible limit, but I suppose a fair one where Severus is concerned.”

Persephone smiled faintly, her excitement dimming. “I wish I could be here all the time,” she confessed. “It’s so different from Spinner’s End or Malfoy Manor. Everyone my age will be coming here in a few weeks, and I’ll just be… at home again. Learning from books.”

Dumbledore’s kind expression softened. “You feel you would rather be a student here?”

“Of course I would,” she said earnestly. “But my father doesn’t trust me enough. He says it’s safer if I stay home.” Her voice dipped into frustration. “He doesn’t understand that I’m not a child anymore.”

Dumbledore regarded her quietly for a moment, his eyes gentle but wise. “Severus understands more than you think,” he said finally. “His protectiveness comes from love, though it may not always feel that way. The world, Miss Prince, can be… less forgiving than Hogwarts’ walls.”

Persephone looked down at her shoes, frowning. “I know he means well. I just wish… I knew where I belonged. What House I’d be in. Maybe then I’d feel like I was part of something here.”

A smile touched Dumbledore’s lips, slow and thoughtful. “Ah. That, at least, we can remedy.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

He turned, gesturing for her to follow him down the corridor. “Come with me.”

They climbed a short staircase, and the air grew warmer as sunlight spilled through tall windows. A few minutes later, they entered the Headmaster’s circular office—filled with golden trinkets, softly ticking instruments, and the faint scent of lemon drops. On a shelf beside the great phoenix, Fawkes, sat an ancient, patched hat.

Persephone froze in awe. “Is that—?”

“The Sorting Hat,” Dumbledore confirmed, eyes twinkling. “It has an excellent sense of character—and a flair for theatrics.”

The Hat twitched slightly, as if aware it was being discussed.

Persephone hesitated. “But… am I allowed to?”

“I see no harm in asking it a harmless question,” Dumbledore said, his tone light but laced with quiet meaning. “Besides, I suspect it’s been dreadfully bored these past few months.”

Persephone stepped forward slowly. The hat was older than anything she’d ever seen—creased, frayed, and humming faintly with ancient magic.

“Go on,” Dumbledore encouraged softly.

She took a deep breath and lifted it gently onto her head.

The hat slipped down over her brow, dimming the world around her—then, a voice, low and knowing, whispered in her mind:

Ahh… now this is interesting.

Persephone’s heart skipped a beat.

Nervous, are we?

The voice asked oddly amused. It didn’t sound cruel or intimidating, but it carried centuries of knowing within it. Persephone’s fingers nervously intertwined with each other as her stomach fluttered.

“Y-yes,” she whispered, unsure if she was supposed to answer aloud.

Hmm… the Hat mused. You’re an interesting one, Miss Prince… or should I say… Miss Riddle.

Persephone froze. Her blood ran cold, the breath catching painfully in her throat. No one—not even Lord Voldemort, who insisted on the name 'Gaunt'—had ever referred to her using that hated Muggle surname.

“You—you know?” she whispered shakily.

Of course I do, the Hat replied, its tone neither accusing nor kind—merely knowing. I see everything that lives inside you—the memories that aren’t yours, the shadows that whisper behind your name. I see the weight you carry.

Her heart hammered violently. “Then… you know what he was,” she said softly.

Oh, I do.

A pause. The voice deepened, gentler now. You fear that his blood makes you like him. That darkness must run through your veins because it ran through his.

A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t answer—she couldn’t.

But you’re mistaken, child.

The words cut through the dread like sunlight piercing through fog.

You have his power, yes. The same sharp mind, the same hunger to prove yourself—but your heart is his opposite. Compassion burns in you where cruelty lived in him. You protect what he would destroy. You love where he could not.

Persephone blinked rapidly, tears stinging her eyes. “Then… if I was sorted… where would I belong?”

The Hat gave a low, rumbling chuckle. You already know, don’t you? Not in Slytherin, though you bear its legacy. Not in Ravenclaw, though your mind is keen. Nor in Gryffindor—courage you have, but it’s not your compass.

It paused for a moment, as if savoring its answer.

You belong in —HUFFLEPUFF.

“Hufflepuff?” she repeated, startled—but then something warm, almost weightless, bloomed in her chest.

Loyal, kind, steadfast, the Hat went on. You would rather heal than harm. You would rather forgive than conquer. You are proof that lineage does not define destiny.

Persephone smiled—wide and bright. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Thank me by being yourself, the Hat murmured. But remember this, Persephone—light born from darkness often shines the brightest.

With that, the Hat went silent.

Persephone lifted it gently off her head, her hands trembling slightly, her heart full of something she hadn’t felt in years—relief.

Dumbledore, who had been quietly observing, smiled knowingly. “Well,” he said, his voice soft with amusement, “you look as though you’ve just heard something wonderful.”

Persephone nodded, still dazed, still glowing from within. "I did," she said simply. "Something I really needed to hear."

“Then I suspect the Hat has served its purpose,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. “You see, my dear, Hogwarts has a way of showing us who we are, even when we aren’t quite ready to believe it.”

Persephone laughed quietly. “I think I’m ready to believe it now.”

Dumbledore gestured toward the door. “Then I imagine your father is already timing your return to the second. Best not to keep him waiting.”

She grinned and nodded. “Thank you, Professor.”

For the first time in her life, Persephone didn’t feel like the daughter of a monster.
She felt like her own person—bright, kind, and entirely herself.

Persephone thanked Dumbledore again before dashing off, her footsteps echoing lightly down the corridor. Her heart fluttered with excitement — the castle seemed brighter somehow, the portraits along the walls smiling knowingly as she passed.

By the time she reached the dungeons, she was slightly out of breath but grinning ear to ear. She burst into the Potions classroom, her hair slightly windswept from running.

Snape looked up from his desk, quill poised over a stack of parchment. He had already set out lunch: a neat stack of sandwiches and two goblets of pumpkin juice rested between them on the scarred wooden surface.

“You’re finally back,” he said dryly, though his tone carried more curiosity than reprimand. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to summon a search party.”

Persephone laughed and hurried over to the desk, her excitement spilling over. “You’ll never believe what happened, Dad!”

Snape arched an eyebrow, setting his quill down carefully. “Enlighten me.”

“I ran into Professor Dumbledore while I was exploring,” she began, her words tumbling out quickly. “And I told him how I wished I could go to Hogwarts — and that I always wondered what house I’d be in — and he let me try on the Sorting Hat!”

Snape blinked, momentarily taken aback. “He… what?”

Persephone nodded eagerly, unable to contain her joy. "The Hat talked to me! It said it knew everything about me—my name, my lineage—but it also said that I wasn’t like him at all."

Snape’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, though his expression stayed composed. “I see,” he said softly. “And… did it tell you which house it would have placed you in?”

“Hufflepuff!” Persephone beamed. “Can you believe that? Hufflepuff! The Hat said I’m loyal, and kind, and that I’d rather help people than hurt them. It said I’m proof that where you come from doesn’t decide who you are.”

For a long moment, Snape didn’t say anything. His dark eyes searched her face — the brightness there, the innocence, the quiet pride radiating from her like light. Then, slowly, his shoulders eased.

“A Hufflepuff,” he murmured, and for the first time that day, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well. I suppose that explains the incessant optimism.”

Persephone giggled and reached for a sandwich. “You’re not disappointed, are you?”

"Disappointed?" Snape repeated, his voice low but warm, carrying a depth of feeling he rarely revealed. "No, Persephone. I am… surprised."

She tilted her head, curious. “Surprised?”

He nodded, watching her with a rare softness in his gaze. “Your mother was a force of fury. Your father, a force of darkness. But you—” his voice caught slightly before he went on, “you are light. And I sometimes forget that light can come from the unlikeliest of places.”

Persephone smiled shyly, her heart swelling at his words. “You really think I’m nothing like him?”

Snape reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face — a rare gesture of affection that nearly undid her. “You are nothing like him,” he said firmly. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

She grinned again, unable to stop herself. “So… does this mean you trust me enough to possibly attend Hogwarts?”

Snape gave her a look — that sharp, warning glare that only half-hid his amusement. “Let’s not push our luck.”

Persephone sighed, taking a big bite of her sandwich, the tension between them melting into something warm and familiar.

For the first time in a long while, Severus Snape allowed himself to breathe—really breathe. The Sorting Hat's answer was not just a house; it was a powerful, magical reassurance that his radical act of love had worked.

Chapter Text

A few quiet weeks passed, and the summer’s warmth began to fade into the chill of autumn. Snape had already left for Hogwarts, resuming his role as Potions Master, and Persephone once again found herself at Malfoy Manor—the vast, echoing estate that felt both magnificent and suffocating all at once.

The days were unnervingly still. The manor was quiet, the only sounds being the rustle of leaves outside the tall windows and the occasional creak of the ancient floorboards. Persephone spent most of her days in the library with Narcissa Malfoy, where the air was thick with parchment dust and candle smoke.

Narcissa was a patient but firm teacher, guiding Persephone through complex spell theory, potioncraft, and magical history. Although Persephone was technically only in her second year, she was far ahead of her age group, studying material meant for seventh-years and beyond.

"Some things," Narcissa had said delicately one afternoon, her fingers trailing across the spines of the various dark art books, "require understanding, not oversight."

Persephone quickly learned what she meant. Many of the spells Narcissa introduced her to were not in any Hogwarts textbook—ancient enchantments that required precise focus and iron restraint. Darker magic.

Among these lessons were the usual Occlumency exercises, which Persephone took to naturally, though they left her exhausted afterward. Narcissa stressed that shielding her thoughts was essential—a matter of life and death, given who her father was and who her bloodline served.

But what troubled Narcissa most wasn’t Persephone’s skill—it was her raw power. There were times when Persephone’s emotions seemed to ripple through the room like an unseen, volatile wave. Candles flickered violently and books rattled on their shelves when she became upset or frightened. Narcissa never said it aloud, but Persephone saw the caution in her pale eyes. Her magic was unnaturally strong, and if she ever lost control of her feelings, the consequences could be catastrophic.

At night, Persephone would retreat to her room—a quiet chamber with pale green curtains and large windows that looked out toward the edge of the manor’s gardens. There, she spent her evenings caring for her owl, Beans, or chatting with the only other being in the manor who seemed to listen without judgment: Dobby, the Malfoys’ house-elf.

Dobby was peculiar, even by house-elf standards. His enormous green eyes always darted nervously around the room, and he flinched whenever Persephone mentioned the Malfoys. Still, he was kind to her, always bringing extra blankets or sneaking in sweet treats when she was feeling alone.

She often vented to him about her frustrations—how she longed to be at Hogwarts, to make friends her own age. Dobby would listen silently, wringing his hands, sometimes nodding so vigorously that his long ears flapped.

But one evening, her words struck a nerve.

"I received a letter from Draco yesterday," she said absently while brushing Beans’ feathers. "He said Harry Potter arrived to school in a flying car—"

Before she could finish, Dobby let out a strangled squeak. His eyes widened in sheer terror, and he suddenly slammed his head against the sharp corner of her wardrobe.

"Bad Dobby! Bad! Dobby must not speak of Harry Potter!" he wailed, his voice cracking with genuine distress.

"Dobby! Stop!" Persephone cried, rushing toward him. "You’re going to hurt yourself!"

But Dobby shook his head violently, his long ears flapping as he muttered fragments of desperate words she couldn't quite make out: danger, warning, and Master must not know.

Then, with a sharp, sickening crack, he vanished into thin air, leaving Persephone standing alone in the middle of her room. She was wide-eyed, shaken, and deeply unsettled.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before, thick with a sense of foreboding. Even Beans gave a low, uneasy hoot from his perch. Persephone sank onto her bed, confused by Dobby’s hysterical reaction. Dobby had always been anxious, yes, but this had been something entirely different—a warning rooted in genuine terror.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

Persephone lay awake in her bed, her mind circling endlessly around Dobby’s hysterical outburst. The manor was steeped in its usual nocturnal quiet—that heavy, muffled silence that seemed to swallow even the sound of her own heartbeat. But beneath it, something felt violently wrong, a profound disquiet that chilled the air.

Beans stirred restlessly on his perch, his great feathers ruffling. Persephone whispered, "It’s all right," but the words were thin and unconvincing.

When she finally gave up on sleep, the clock on her bedside table read half-past one. She sat up, wrapping herself tightly in a woolen robe.

"Dobby?"

She waited, but the elf didn't appear. This was deeply strange; usually, a single call brought him instantly.

"Dobby!" she repeated, louder.

Again, no reply. She slipped out of bed and crept to the door. The corridor beyond was dimly lit by flickering wall sconces, their weak flames barely pushing back the vast darkness.

She hesitated. Wandering at night was strictly forbidden—Snape’s voice echoed clearly in her mind: Curiosity is not a sin, but recklessness can be fatal.

Still, Dobby’s terrified, cracked voice rang louder than any parental warning: Dobby must not speak of Harry Potter...

Something was desperately wrong, and Persephone knew she had to find the elf.

Her bare feet made no sound on the cold marble floors as she began her descent, moving silently through the deep, carved shadows. The manor at night was a different creature: the closed portraits whispered in their sleep, and the oppressive air seemed to pulse with the weight of old, dark magic.

As she neared the bottom of the grand staircase, she heard it—faint voices drifting from the drawing room below. She paused on the landing, crouching low, careful to stay hidden behind the thick banister rails.

The drawing room doors were slightly ajar. Candlelight spilled through the crack, accompanied by the smooth, dangerously calm voice of Lucius Malfoy.

"…the diary has already been placed where it needs to be," he was saying, his tone chillingly deliberate. "It will do its work from within the castle walls. They will never know what hit them."

Persephone froze. The diary. Her breath caught in her throat, burning painfully.

Narcissa’s voice followed, soft but urgent. "Lucius, are you certain this is wise? If the Dark Lord—"

Lucius cut her off sharply. "The Dark Lord entrusted me with his relics for safekeeping. I am simply… putting one to better use. The Ministry grows too bold, Narcissa. Dumbledore’s influence is spreading. A reminder of what true power looks like is long overdue."

There was a quiet pause—the faint sound of footsteps, perhaps Narcissa pacing. "And what of the girl? She’s in the house, Lucius. If she—"

"She knows nothing," Lucius said dismissively. "And we will keep it that way."

Persephone’s stomach twisted violently. Her heart pounded so loudly against her ribs she feared it might give her away.

She didn't need anyone to explain what they were talking about. The book she'd touched weeks ago was no mere artifact. It was Voldemort's. And Lucius had sent it into Hogwarts. Given Dobby's panic, Persephone realized with sickening certainty that something terrible, something directed at the school, was already in motion.

Narcissa spoke again, her voice trembling slightly. "You're certain no one will trace it back to you?"

"Please," Lucius replied with a low, humorless chuckle. "By the time anyone realizes what’s happening, it will be far too late."

Persephone's hands clenched tightly around the banister rail, her pulse racing with cold adrenaline. She turned and crept back upstairs, her legs feeling weak and unreliable beneath her. She shut her bedroom door softly and leaned against it, her chest heaving.

Beans hooted quietly from his perch, tilting his head as if to ask what calamity had befallen her.

Persephone walked over to her bed, sinking slowing onto the edge, staring into the darkness. "The diary's at Hogwarts," she whispered to herself, the words feeling horribly real now. "And they don't even know."

She sat for a few moments, quietly thinking to herself before jumping up. Her father needed to know immediately.

Persephone stumbled to her desk, pulling out parchment and a quill. The tip of the quill hovered over the page as she tried to determine how to word a letter that would be terrifying enough to be believed. The urgency of the situation made her hand shake.

The quill scratched softly against parchment as Persephone bent over her desk, the flickering candlelight catching in the wet ink. She had just written the word Dad at the top of the page when heavy, purposeful footsteps thundered down the corridor outside her room. The sound was too fast, too loud, too wrong for the usual nocturnal silence of the Manor.

Her heart jumped.

Before she could even turn around, her door flew open with a crash.

Persephone shrieked, jerking so violently that the ink jar beside her elbow toppled over, spilling a black river across her desk and dripping down onto the floorboards.

“Dad!” she gasped, clutching at her chest. “You nearly gave me a—”

But one look at him silenced her.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his normally composed face a storm of conflicting emotions — fear, anger, and something colder, deeper, that she had never seen there before. His black robes were travel-worn and soot-stained, and his breathing came in harsh gasps, as though he had run the entire way from Hogwarts.

He crossed the room in three long strides and gripped her shoulders. “Persephone,” he said sharply. “Look at me.”

Her wide eyes met his. “What’s wrong?”

“Answer me,” he demanded. “Have you left this house? At any point? In the last twenty-four hours?”

The intensity in his voice sent a jolt of panic through her. “What? No! I haven’t gone anywhere! I’ve been here with Narcissa all day, studying. What’s happened?”

He searched her face for a long, terrible moment — as if he were trying to see the truth behind her words — before finally releasing her shoulders. His hands trembled slightly as he turned away, dragging a hand through his hair.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hollow. “It has been opened.”

Persephone blinked, uncomprehending. “The what?”

Snape exhaled slowly, his back still to her. “A legend,” he said. “One nearly as old as Hogwarts itself. Centuries ago, Salazar Slytherin built a hidden chamber beneath the castle — a secret only his true heir could open. It was said to contain a creature of unimaginable power… something meant to ‘purge the school’ of those unworthy to study magic.”

Her stomach twisted. “Unworthy?”

“Muggleborns,” Snape said flatly. “Students without pure wizarding blood.”

Persephone’s mind reeled. “But… but that’s horrible.”

“It is,” he agreed grimly. “And it’s happening again.”

She felt suddenly cold, as though all the warmth in the room had been drained away. “Why would you think I had anything to do with that? You looked like—like you thought I—”

Snape turned to her then, and the anguish in his eyes made her throat tighten.

“There was a message written on the wall,” he said quietly. “In blood.”

Persephone froze.

“What did it say?” she whispered.

He hesitated, the silence stretching, heavy and suffocating. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a murmur, laced with dread.

“‘The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.’”

The words hung in the air like poison. Persephone’s pulse hammered in her ears. “The… Heir?” she repeated. “Who—who is the Heir?”

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. His eyes flickered toward the floor, then back to her face, his expression torn between duty and love — between the truth and the unbearable desire to protect her from it.

When he finally spoke, it was with the weight of a confession he had prayed never to make.

“You are,” he said.

The room seemed to tilt. Persephone stared at him, her mind blank.

“I—what? No. No, that’s not—” She shook her head furiously, her hands balling into fists. “That can’t be true.”

Snape stepped closer, his voice firm but not unkind. “Persephone, listen to me. You are not responsible for what’s happened. But your lineage—your blood—ties you to Slytherin’s line. You are his last living descendant. Which means that, to the world, you are the Heir.”

She stumbled back, her legs hitting the edge of the bed. “But that doesn’t mean I— I would never—”

“I know,” he said quickly, reaching for her hands before she could pull away. “I know, my girl. But others won’t see it that way. If word gets out—if anyone suspects—”

Her voice trembled. “Then what do I do?”

“You do nothing,” he said firmly. “You stay here. You stay safe. I’ll handle what’s happening at Hogwarts. But you cannot speak of this. Especially to Draco. That boy can not keep his mouth shut and if he learned who you really are…”

Persephone swallowed hard. “You think people will really believe I’m the one who opened it?”

Snape’s eyes softened with quiet sorrow. “People believe what they fear most.”

She nodded numbly, her breath shaking. Persephone felt something cold settle deep in her chest — the knowledge that no matter how far she ran from her bloodline, it would always find her. Her eyes landed on her desk, the ink had dried into a dark, jagged stain – the letter she was starting lay forgotten beneath it.

“The diary,” she breathed.

Snape’s head lifted sharply. “What?”

Persephone shot up from the bed, the sudden movement making Severus slightly jump. “The book! The one I told you about—the one with his name in it.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, her mind spinning so fast she could barely form the words. “You said it was probably nothing, but what if it’s not? What if that’s what opened the Chamber?”

Snape’s expression hardened, a storm of comprehension and fury gathering behind his eyes. "What do you mean, Persephone?"

She took a steadying breath, lowering her voice, though the urgency still bled through every word. “I was just about to write you about it. Just a little bit ago I overheard Lucius talking to Narcissa about the diary...”

His eyes narrowed instantly, recognizing the gravity of the situation, but the immediate impulse to reprimand surfaced first. "You were eavesdropping?"

"Not on purpose!" she said quickly, the denial hollow. "But when I overheard him talk about it... I couldn’t help but listen."

He began to pace, his robes whispering across the floorboards, the candlelight glinting off the deep lines around his eyes. "Lucius Malfoy," he muttered under his breath, the name laced with contempt. "Of course."

Persephone watched her father, feeling the fear that radiated off him. Snape turned back to her, his expression now severe and focused. "What exactly did he say about it?"

“The diary has been placed where it needs to be” Persephone repeated, her stomach dropping. “That it’ll do its work from within the castle walls.”

Snape didn't answer. The silence was thick, confirming the worst of their shared dread.

“How does a diary open a secret chamber?” she whispered, dread flooding her veins.

His jaw tightened. “I don’t know.”

Her voice cracked with desperation. "You have to tell Dumbledore!"

He hesitated. For a long, unbearable moment, his gaze dropped to the floor as if weighing every possible consequence—his allegiance, his cover, her safety. "Not yet," he said finally, voice low and strained. "I need to speak with Lucius first."

Persephone’s fists clenched. "But people could get hurt! You saw the message—"

“Enough!” The word cracked through the room like a whip. Snape immediately regretted the sharpness in his tone, exhaling and running a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was softer but no less firm. “You have done well to tell me this, Persephone. But you must leave the rest to me. You are not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

Persephone nodded, though her chest still burned with frustration. “I just thought… maybe if you knew, you could stop it.”

“This is far more complicated, Persephone,” he said grimly. “Lucius is unaware of my loyalties toward Dumbledore. If he is following orders from the Dark Lord that I’m not aware of and ruin whatever plans they have going on, I could be severely punished.”

Persephone swallowed hard, not allowing herself to imagine the possibility of that happening.

Snape’s eyes met hers, and for once, there was no denial in them. Only the quiet, terrible truth.

He reached out and placed a steady hand against her cheek, his voice dropping to barely more than a murmur. “You look tired, you should get some sleep.”

Persephone nodded weakly, rubbing her eyes. The adrenaline that had carried her through the conversation was fading, leaving her trembling and exhausted.

He let his hand fall, his expression softening with rare gentleness. “You’ve done well, Persephone.” his tone returning to its measured calm. “But try not to listen in on any other conversations. The less you know the safer you are.”

Persephone didn’t argue as she climbed back into her bed. Her father leaned over, tucking her covers snugly around her. He stroked her hair lightly, not saying anything but his eyes saying everything. He then turned to leave, his long shadow stretching across the room.

"Are you going back to Hogwarts?" she asked, her voice small.

Snape's eyes flicked toward her, unreadable in the dim light.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice heavy as stone. “But I need to have a word with Mr. Malfoy first.”

"Be careful," Persephone whispered.

The corner of Snape’s lips twitched upward, a faint, almost invisible reassurance.

"For you. Always."

He left Persephone’s room, pulling the door shut quietly behind him, leaving her alone with the cold, terrible weight of the new secret she acquired.

Snape turned from Persephone’s door and descended the stairs of Malfoy Manor, his mind a tangle of thoughts that refused to quiet. Each step echoed against the marble floors, the vast hallways filled with the heavy, lingering scent of dark magic.

Lucius had done something reckless. Of that, Severus was absolutely certain. And if Persephone was right—if the diary was truly one of Tom Riddle’s relics—Hogwarts was in far greater danger than anyone realized.

He reached the drawing room. Lucius Malfoy sat on a plush velvet couch, peering into the fire, perfectly composed, though his pale eyes flickered with something wary when Snape entered. Narcissa must have retired to bed.

“Severus,” Lucius drawled, a cool, velvet coating over a sharp edge. “You rushed out so quickly I didn’t even have a chance to welcome you. Is everything alright?”

Severus folded his hands before him, his expression an impenetrable mask. “You tell me, Lucius.”

Lucius arched a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Snape said softly, the danger in his tone all the more potent for its quietness. “A diary. Brown leather. Bearing the inscription T. M. Riddle.”

For the briefest instant, Lucius’s mask cracked. A flicker of cold unease passed across his face before the smooth, aristocratic calm snapped back into place. “You’ve been rummaging through my affairs?”

“Your son has,” Snape countered coolly. “With my daughter. And they found something that should never have been found.”

Lucius’s smile tightened, thin and humorless. “Children have vivid imaginations.”

Severus leaned closer into the firelight, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Not that vivid. You fool—if that diary is what I think it is, you may have unleashed something far beyond your comprehension. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.”

For the first time, true alarm flashed in Lucius’s eyes. “Opened?”

“Yes,” Snape said flatly. “Tonight. A message written in blood upon the wall. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Lucius’s composure returned with calculated ease. “My dear Severus, surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with it. Perhaps your daughter’s heritage has made you… overly sensitive to rumors.”

The remark hit its mark, and Snape’s temper flared—but he controlled it, his voice dropping to a deadly hiss. “You will not speak of her. Not as his daughter, not as anyone’s but mine.”

Lucius’s thin smile widened. “Touched a nerve, have I? You can raise her however you wish, Severus, but blood will out in the end. You can’t scrub away who she is.”

Severus’s jaw clenched. “You mistake who she is for what she’s been made from. I will not allow you—or anyone—to use her.”

Lucius tilted his head, his silver eyes glinting with malice. “Then you’d best keep a tighter leash on her. Children have such a dreadful habit of stumbling into places they shouldn’t. Especially curious ones.”

Snape's blood ran cold. He knew a threat when he heard one, veiled though it was. The flames snapped and hissed between them, the silence stretched taut and fragile.

Finally, Snape straightened. His voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper, vibrating with suppressed magical force. “If I find out you’ve involved her in this—if she so much as touches another of your cursed toys—you’ll wish the Dark Lord had dealt with you himself.”

Lucius’s composure solidified into an expression of cold disdain. “Careful, Severus. Loyalty is still a valuable currency.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied.

Snape turned without another word, striding out of the drawing room and the Manor. He did not slow until he reached the wrought-iron gates, where he Disapparated.

He reappeared in Hogsmeade, landing hard near the entrance of The Three Broomsticks. He walked in, ignoring the surprised looks from the few late-night patrons. He didn't return the bartender's welcome, simply slamming a coin down and ordering a shot of Firewhisky.

He grabbed the small glass impatiently, throwing his head back and allowing the liquid to scald his throat. Ignoring the burn, he slammed the empty glass onto the bar, and left. The whole detour lasted less than a minute.

He walked toward the castle, rubbing a weary hand over his face. The danger was already in motion. And no matter how tightly he tried to protect her, Persephone was part of it—the Heir of Slytherin, targeted and vulnerable.

Enemies of the Heir beware.

The words from the wall burned in his mind like a curse. And though he would never admit it aloud—not even to Dumbledore—part of him feared Lucius was right.

Blood would out, in the end.

Chapter Text

The remainder of Persephone’s time at the Malfoy Manor passed with a heavy, dragging slowness. The intense fear and adrenaline that had rippled through the household after her father’s sudden midnight arrival faded into an uncomfortable, strained quiet.

She hadn’t heard a single substantial word from him since that night—no letters answering her questions, no visit, nothing. Whatever was happening at Hogwarts, he wasn’t going to share it with her. Persephone tried to convince herself that it was because he wanted to keep her safe, but the absolute silence still stung. It made her feel distant, as though the world was moving on without her, and she was trapped in an echoing cage.

Lucius had also become strangely avoidant. Whenever she entered a room, he would find some immediate excuse to leave: papers to sign, urgent correspondence, something in the study that required his attention. Narcissa tried to pretend she didn’t notice, but Persephone could see the rigid tension behind her careful smiles.

Persephone's only saving grace was the flurry of correspondence from Draco, who seemed more interested in writing to her this year compared to the previous one.

Her heart fluttered every time she saw his owl, its leg carrying a letter in Draco’s elegant, looping handwriting. The first few lines were always what she expected—complaints about homework, exaggerated bragging about Quidditch, and a running commentary on Potter’s every move—but she read every word as if it were a window into the world she was desperately missing.

Through Draco’s letters, she pieced together bits of the chaos surrounding the Chamber of Secrets.

He wrote first about the minor scandals: how Potter had broken his arm during a Quidditch match, and how Professor Lockhart—Draco’s words, not hers—had "heroically made things worse by removing all the bones." Persephone couldn’t help but laugh, picturing the terrified, pompous professor. She even read that line aloud to Dobby, who gave a weak, nervous chuckle before hurrying away.

But Draco’s next few letters carried a tone that chilled her.

He wrote about the ongoing attacks with a disturbing fascination, retelling the escalating rumors with excitement instead of fear. He openly bragged about how frightened the Muggle-born students were, his sense of entitlement making her blood boil.

That night, she’d snatched up a quill and written back furiously, filling both sides of the parchment with a scolding so sharp that even Snape would have been impressed. She reminded Draco that fear wasn’t strength, and cruelty wasn’t cleverness. She’d finished by telling him he sounded just like Lucius—and that had been enough to make her feel marginally better when she sent the letter off.

To her surprise, Draco’s next reply was… quieter. He didn’t apologize, of course—Draco Malfoy would sooner swallow a Snitch—but his usual arrogance was tempered. He spoke instead about the Duelling Club that Lockhart had started, and how Potter had inadvertently revealed he could speak Parseltongue in front of everyone.

That word stayed with her. Parseltongue. It was the language of serpents—Salazar Slytherin’s gift, and her father’s as well. She knew the connection, the implication. If Harry Potter could speak Parseltongue, then what did that make him? Could he also be connected to Slytherin’s line?

She didn’t dare write that question to Draco. He wouldn’t understand the weight of it.

Persephone sat at her desk, a candle burning low beside her, its wax pooling at the base in uneven ridges. The letter from Draco lay in front of her, its contents already memorized after a dozen readings.

Beans perched silently on the back of her chair, his black eyes half-lidded, feathers puffed slightly as if uneasy. Every so often, his head would swivel toward the dark window, letting out a soft, uncertain hoot. Persephone didn’t blame him.

There was a strange energy in the that night—something she couldn’t quite name. It was faint, like the echo of a sound that had already passed, but she felt it. The way some people might sense a storm before the first drop of rain.

She pulled out her worn notebook, the one she kept hidden in her secret drawer. Inside were notes from her advanced Occlumency lessons, bits of complicated potion theory her father had taught her, and scribbled thoughts about things she wasn’t supposed to dwell on: her parentage, her powers, and now the escalating chaos at Hogwarts.

Her quill hovered over the page, ink gathering at the tip before dripping onto the parchment like a black tear.

Harry Potter speaks Parseltongue, she wrote.
He might be connected to Slytherin somehow. Or maybe... to Voldemort?

She frowned at her own handwriting, shaking her head. "Don’t be ridiculous," she muttered under her breath. "There’s no way." But the thought, dark and impossible, wouldn't leave her.

A couple of days later, the next letter arrived from Draco, his tone returning to a familiar, breathless excitement. He explained how a boy from Hufflepuff had been petrified, along with the Gryffindor Ghost, Nearly-Headless Nick, the day after Potter’s Parseltongue incident. Draco noted that the entire school now suspected Harry was the one opening the Chamber, though Draco himself didn't believe it.

Persephone stared down at the letter in shock, the terrifying feeling of foreboding she’d experienced two nights prior making sickening sense.

She remembered the night her father had burst through her door—the sheer panic in his voice when he’d asked if she’d left the Manor. The way he had looked at her as if she could have been the one to write that horrible message on the wall at Hogwarts: Enemies of the Heir, beware. And then the way he’d said it—You are the Heir.

The words had haunted her every night since.

She didn’t feel like an Heir. She wasn’t cruel or hungry for power. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. But somewhere deep down, in the quietest, most vulnerable part of her mind, she feared that maybe she didn’t have a choice. That maybe some part of that darkness would always live inside her, waiting for her to lose control.

Could I be the one doing this?

The thought was pure terror. Logically, she was hundreds of miles away from Hogwarts. Yet the question lingered in the back of her mind, a cold, poisonous seed: if her power was strong enough to shake rooms when she was angry, was it possible her magic was capable of acting without her knowledge? Was her own dark destiny finally catching up to her?

The chilling thought of her own potential involvement lingered, but the sheer distance from Hogwarts kept it at bay. Her logic fought a losing battle against the gnawing fear that her powerful, untamed magic might be tied to the attacks.

However, the agonizing silence from her father and the continuous stream of chaos from Hogwarts soon overshadowed her self-doubt. It was the first week of May when Persephone received another letter from Draco, his handwriting slightly more agitated than usual.

He wrote that two more girls had been attacked. The first was a girl he viciously referred to as a 'Mudblood,' a word he had then angrily crossed out, leaving a small, ragged hole in the parchment. He replaced it with the name 'Granger,' scribbling it hastily next to the ruined word. The second victim was a Ravenclaw prefect.

The result, Draco fumed, was the cancellation of the final Quidditch match, meaning there would be no determination of the Quidditch Cup winner that year.

Persephone stared at the letter, feeling a cold rush of disgust that momentarily eclipsed her fear. He was genuinely more upset about a cancelled sports match than the fact that students were being petrified and that one of his own classmates had been attacked.

She traced the angry hole he'd punched in the parchment with her finger. Even when attempting to be politically correct (likely in response to her earlier scolding), his underlying contempt was clear. His casual cruelty—the defining trait of the Malfoy line—made her sick. Sighing, she stuck his letter in between the pages of her journal with the others.

The escalating attacks made the truth more terrifying than ever. Hogwarts was plunging into crisis, and it seemed like no one was stopping it.

That night in her dreams, Persephone saw a pale, slender hand turning the pages of a small leather book—its blank pages whispering in a voice that sounded almost familiar.

The next couple of weeks at the Manor passed in a kind of suspended animation.
The fear that had once haunted Persephone—the dread of what might be happening at Hogwarts—was replaced by the suffocating weight of her father’s silence.

His letters, when they came at all, were little more than proof that he was still alive. A few careful sentences, stripped of warmth or reassurance, written in his usual precise, slanted hand. He offered no answers to her coded, anxious questions, no clues to what was truly happening within the castle walls. It was as if he had built an invisible barrier around himself—protecting her, yes, but also shutting her out entirely.

She tried to tell herself that he was only being cautious, that distance was safer.
But it didn’t stop the ache.

Then, at the start of June, the last letter of the school year arrived.
It was from Draco.

His handwriting looked more hurried—sharp, uneven strokes that betrayed either fury or nerves. He wrote that his father had been livid: Lucius Malfoy had been abruptly and unceremoniously removed from the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Draco didn’t know why, though he suspected Dumbledore’s meddling.

Persephone could picture it perfectly—the glacial coldness, the clipped words, the way Lucius’s knuckles would whiten as he gripped his cane. She had no doubt her own father had quietly had a hand in the decision. The thought left her torn between satisfaction and unease.

She skimmed through Draco’s usual tirade about Dumbledore and “unfair treatment of the pure-blood elite,” barely paying attention—until her eyes caught on a short, almost casual line near the bottom.

At least the Chamber’s business is over. The petrified students have been revived. Father says it’s a shame.

Persephone froze.

Just like that, the months of gnawing dread unraveled into silence. The Chamber was closed. The danger gone. The victims safe.

And yet Draco’s tone—Father says it’s a shame—sent a chill through her chest. How could he sound so dismissive? So detached? She pressed her lips together and read on, ready to roll her eyes at whatever boast came next.

Instead, her gaze snagged on the letter’s closing lines.

I can’t wait to hear about what you’ve been up to. I miss you.

Persephone blinked, reread the words twice.
Then a third time.

For a few seconds, she just stared at the parchment, half expecting the ink to rearrange itself into something more believable. Draco Malfoy misses me?

She leaned back slowly in her chair, holding the letter like it might vanish if she looked away. “Who the hell possessed him?” she muttered under her breath. “And what have they done with my narcissistic, closed-minded friend?”

But even as she said it, something unfamiliar was blooming beneath her ribs. Relief, maybe. Confusion, definitely. And something else she didn’t quite have the courage to name.

The Chamber had been sealed.
The students revived.
Lucius Malfoy publicly humiliated.
And Draco, apparently, missed her.

Of all those revelations, it was the last one that refused to leave her mind.

She stared at the ink stains on her fingers, the faint glow of her lamp, the windowpane streaked with the fading blush of sunset. Somewhere out there, Hogwarts was alive again—buzzing with chatter, laughter, and stories she wasn’t part of.

Another school year gone, another year she’d watched from the sidelines.
She felt like a character trapped between the pages of someone else’s story—aware of every plot twist, but never allowed to live any of it.

Persephone sighed softly, folding the letter carefully, smoothing its creases before slipping it into the pages of her journal. She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head toward Beans, who was perched nearby, feathers puffed and eyes closed in contentment.

“What the hell is going on, BB’s?” she whispered.

The owl cracked one sleepy eye, blinked at her, and let out a soft, noncommittal hoot before tucking his head back under his wing.

Persephone sighed. “Thanks. Very helpful.”

The silence that followed was thick but familiar. She’d grown used to it—the kind of quiet that settled deep in the bones of the Manor, heavier than the cold marble. It wasn't peace; it was absence.

She thought of the one small source of genuine kindness in the echoing estate: her little house-elf friend. On lonely nights like these, Dobby would normally appear instantly, wringing his hands but eager for conversation. However, for the last few days, every time she whispered his name, the air remained undisturbed. There was no tell-tale crack of Apparition, no nervous shuffling of feet.

A knot of anxiety tightened in her chest. She desperately hoped that nothing bad had happened to him.

The start of the summer stretched ahead, endless and suffocating, promising nothing but more isolation and more difficult lessons. Outside, the wizarding world was celebrating a crisis averted, a victory won.

And in the shadowed corner of Malfoy Manor sat the one girl who knew the truth—
the quiet, dangerous daughter of the Dark Lord,
the heir of Slytherin,
who had done nothing at all…
except stay hidden in the dark.

In late June, as the school term ended, Persephone was taken aback to see her father arrive at Malfoy Manor earlier than expected. He was rarely punctual, let alone early, especially at the end of a school year when duties at Hogwarts usually kept him for days after the students’ departure. Yet here he was—the familiar dark figure in sweeping black robes, appearing in the grand marble entryway like a shadow.

Narcissa recovered from the surprise quickly, offering her usual polite warmth before ushering Persephone to gather her belongings. Lucius Malfoy had yet to return from King’s Cross with Draco, and Persephone felt a pang of disappointment. She had wanted to ask Draco about his last day, about the train ride, and whether he had meant what he’d written in that final, confusing letter.

But her father’s presence left no room for delay.

By the time they Apparated back to Spinner’s End, the sky had deepened into that peculiar shade of summer twilight—neither day nor night, but something quiet and in-between. The familiar scent of his home—old books, potent potions, and faintly of old tea and smoke—wrapped around her like a heavy, comfortable blanket. For all its dimness and creaking floors, Spinner’s End always felt more honest, and therefore more comfortable, than the glittering grandeur of Malfoy Manor.

Persephone quickly unpacked her belongings before retreating into the kitchen, setting the kettle on, her hands moving automatically while her mind buzzed with everything she’d bottled up for months. What had really happened at Hogwarts? How had the Chamber been sealed? Had Lucius been caught? And what of Harry Potter?

She waited until after their supper, giving her father time to unwind. He sat in his usual armchair, a thick book open in his hand, his long fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea. The lines on his face seemed deeper than when she’d last seen him; exhaustion was etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Persephone hesitated only a moment before the questions burst out like a dam breaking.

"Dad—what happened at Hogwarts? What happened with the Chamber? Was Lucius the one who—did Dumbledore find out? And—what about Harry, did he really—"

Snape nearly choked on his tea, setting the cup down with a sharp sound of ceramic on wood that broke the quiet air. "Persephone," he rasped, coughing hard. "For Merlin’s sake, one question at a time."

But Persephone was already leaning forward, her eyes alight with the curiosity she’d bottled up for half a year. "You have to tell me, Dad! I need to know!"

Snape’s dark eyes flicked toward her, softening just slightly at the earnestness in her voice. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, the ghost of a weary smile pulling at his lips.

"I seem to recall," he said dryly, "asking you to curb your reckless curiosity."

"That’s not fair," Persephone muttered, crossing her arms. "It’s not reckless to want to know what happened when half the castle was petrified."

Snape regarded her in silence for a moment, studying her the way he studied potion ingredients—calculating, careful, searching for hidden volatility. Finally, he gestured for her to sit in the small chair beside him.

"There are some things," he began quietly, "that even the most curious minds are better off not knowing in full detail. But—" his voice softened, "—you deserve to know enough."

Persephone’s breath caught, anticipation bright in her eyes as she waited for him to continue.

Snape leaned back, his expression unreadable in the flickering lamplight. "The Chamber was indeed opened," he said slowly. "And yes—Lucius Malfoy’s carelessness played a part. Dumbledore is aware of that, though the Ministry… prefers not to know."

"And the diary?" Persephone pressed, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Destroyed," Snape said quietly. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly before he continued. "By Potter of course."

"Harry?" Persephone’s eyebrows shot up in shock. Draco hadn’t mentioned Harry’s direct involvement, only the Parseltongue incident.

"None of the students at school know the specifics," Snape said sharply, reading her thoughts. "Including Draco, so you are not to repeat a word of what I tell you."

Persephone nodded, her gaze glued to his face.

"I don’t know much myself. Dumbledore kept most of the specifics to himself, most likely for a reason," Snape continued. "But what I gather is that the Weasley girl was taken into the Chamber. Potter and his sidekick Mr. Weasley took it upon themselves to fetch her. In the process, they confounded Professor Lockhart—who was originally sent to retrieve the girl—so thoroughly that he was sent to St. Mungo's."

Snape took a long, steady sip of his tea, staring into the dim fire, shaking his head in profound disapproval. "Potter," the name spat from his mouth with characteristic distaste. "Then proceeds to destroy the diary. If that relic did belong to the Dark Lord, and it was used to open the Chamber, then Lucius Malfoy is as good as dead if the Dark Lord were to ever find out he let it be destroyed." The thought made him briefly shudder.

"Is the girl who was taken okay?" Persephone asked, her eyes wide with worry. "What about Harry and his friend?"

"Potter—he survived, as usual, same with his little friends." Snape sighed, sounding utterly exhausted.

"Potter always survives," Persephone mocked, mimicking his irritated tone with a slight roll of her eyes.

That earned the faintest flicker of amusement from him. "It seems to be his defining trait."

The silence that followed was almost companionable. The fire popped softly, sending curls of gold light between them. Persephone watched her father lift his cup again, the faint steam rising like an unspoken truce between their stubborn wills.

For now, her curiosity was sated. For now, the world felt safe again.

Chapter Text

Age: Thirteen

The summer days at Spinner’s End went by in a blur of focused, demanding study. Severus Snape wasted no time advancing Persephone’s private curriculum. Now that she had proven her absolute mastery of Occlumency—the defense of the mind—he began teaching her the inverse art: Legilimency.

It was a subject he approached with particular caution, though Persephone could detect a flicker of pride behind his restraint. He had made her rebuild her mental walls from scratch each morning until they were impenetrable, forcing her to practice while he tried—and always failed—to slip into her thoughts. When he finally declared her ready to attempt the offense, she felt a strange, thrilling surge of accomplishment.

Legilimency, her father warned, was not a weapon of brute force but of perception. “It’s not about tearing through walls,” he’d said, his tone as cool as the shadows that clung to the corners of the sitting room. “It’s about seeing the cracks. The smallest slip in thought. The flicker behind the eyes. Control, not intrusion.”

Persephone, however, already possessed a peculiar sensitivity that made the art come naturally. Even before her father’s formal instruction, she’d always been able to feel people—their moods, their hidden unease, the faint hum of emotion beneath their words. Sometimes, she could even catch a sharp echo of what they were thinking, like hearing whispers through a door she wasn’t meant to open.

Her emotional connection to others dictated how easily she could access their thoughts. With strangers, the mental noise was muffled, distant. But with those who stirred strong emotion in her—whether affection or frustration—the link flared brighter. If she locked eyes with them, the surface of their mind sometimes shimmered open, unguarded for a heartbeat.

Draco Malfoy, for instance, was dangerously easy to read. His mind was a constant storm of vanity, pride, and corrosive restlessness—always circling around petty grievances and jealousies. Persephone had stumbled into his thoughts by accident more than once, and each time she’d emerged irritated, sometimes even overwhelmed, without knowing why. It wasn’t that his mind was inherently dark; it was simply exhausting. Loud. Frantic.

She had even managed, years ago, to catch glimpses inside Dumbledore’s mind. But Persephone knew, even then, that the Headmaster was only sharing what he didn't mind being seen, already aware of her unusual skill.

Her father, however, was the complete opposite.

Severus Snape’s mind was a fortress—cold stone, iron gates, and shadows that never revealed what they hid. Even when she concentrated with everything she had, the closest Persephone could get was the faintest whisper of emotion, like catching a single ripple on a vast, frozen lake.

There were moments—rare and fleeting—when she thought she caught a trace of warmth, a pang of something that might have been pride or even tenderness. But the instant she reached for it, the feeling vanished behind an impenetrable wall of iron will.

Her father, of course, noticed every attempt.

“I can feel you pry, Persephone,” he would warn softly, his eyes narrowing in that way that froze her spine. “You will learn nothing by forcing your way in. True Legilimency requires subtle invitation, even if it is only given subconsciously.”

“Yes, sir,” she’d reply dutifully, though her curiosity burned hotter with every failed attempt.

Yet despite the intellectual frustration, Persephone found a strange comfort in those lessons. Spinner’s End became a world of quiet rituals—tea in the evenings, the gentle sound of the river outside, the scent of potions drifting through half-open windows. Her father, for all his strictness, seemed more at ease here than he ever had at Hogwarts or the Manor. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she’d catch a ghost of a smile when she managed a particularly complex spell or blocked his mental probe faster than expected.

In those moments, Persephone didn’t need to read his mind to know how he felt. The quiet approval was the only communication she ever truly needed.

When Persephone wasn’t being consumed by her father’s relentless Legilimency lessons, she took refuge in her small upstairs bedroom — the only place in Spinner’s End where she could truly exhale.

There, the world felt softer. The dim afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, her beloved owl, Beans, perched contentedly near the window, preening his feathers. The faint crackle of her stolen portable radio hummed in the background, drifting between wizarding broadcasts and faint snippets of Muggle music when the signal flickered.

It was her secret rebellion — the radio she’d quietly lifted from her father’s room last summer. Snape, of course, had noticed it missing, but for reasons unknown, had chosen not to comment.

Her favorite hours were the ones spent reading Draco’s letters.

To her surprise, he’d kept up with them throughout the summer, writing almost every week. His tone had changed since the spring — less biting, less showy. There were still the familiar traces of Malfoy arrogance, but now softened by a kind of eagerness that she hadn’t seen before.

He wrote about Quidditch practices that stretched long into the evenings, the Slytherin team gathering in the Malfoy’s sprawling gardens as though the season had never ended. He bragged, of course, about his improved reflexes — but between the boasts, Persephone began to catch hints of something else.

Something oddly charming.

His comments turned unexpectedly personal — an offhand remark about wishing she were there to watch, or a joke about how she’d probably critique his flying form anyway. At first, she brushed it off as teasing, but the letters kept coming, and the tone grew... different. Warmer.

Persephone found herself smiling at the words far too often.

It was during one of these smiles — the unguarded, ridiculous kind that she’d never admit to anyone — that disaster struck.

She was curled up in her normal spot in the sitting room, Draco’s latest letter in hand, when her father entered silently, as he always did, like a shadow sliding through the doorway.

Snape’s voice cut through her reverie. “I assume the contents of that letter are of great academic importance, Persephone, judging by that expression on your face.”

Persephone froze. Her heart leapt to her throat as she realized she’d been caught — grinning down at Draco’s words like some lovesick fool.

“N-no, Dad! I—It’s just—” she stammered, the letter snapping shut in her trembling hands.

One of his eyebrows arched, the faintest ghost of amusement tugging at his otherwise stern expression.

Before he could probe further — Legilimency or otherwise — Persephone shot up from her chair, muttering something incoherent about needing to feed Beans, and fled up the stairs two at a time, her face burning crimson.

She didn’t stop until she’d locked her bedroom door behind her, pressing her back to it as she tried to catch her breath.

Beans hooted softly from his perch, tilting his head as if judging her.

“Oh, don’t you start,” she said, tossing him a treat anyway.

The embarrassment faded eventually, replaced by a nervous kind of anticipation. And that anticipation turned to shock on the morning of her thirteenth birthday.

A single owl arrived at her window bearing a silver-and-green ribboned package — unmistakably from the Malfoys.

Her hands trembled as she untied the ribbon and opened Draco’s letter first.

Happy birthday, Persephone. Thought you might like these. Try not to lose them. — Draco

That was it. No long paragraph, no teasing line — just that simple message and a small box beneath it.

Inside, nestled in velvet, was a delicate pair of golden earrings, each set with a black opal that shimmered faintly with green when the light caught it.

Persephone gasped softly. They were beautiful — and far too expensive. She didn’t even want to imagine the conversation that had led Draco to buy them.

Her fingers shook slightly as she lifted them out, the stones catching the dim light of her room. The moment she fastened them, a smile spread across her face — soft and genuine, the kind she didn’t often allow herself.

She turned toward the mirror on her desk, brushing her hair aside. The dark opals gleamed against her skin, subtle yet striking. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked different — more confident, more… seen.

“Bloody hell, Draco,” she whispered, touching one of the earrings with a small, incredulous laugh.

Beans hooted approvingly from his perch.

It was the morning of July 31st. Persephone padded into the kitchen still tugging at the hem of her worn t-shirt, her hair mussed from sleep, only to stop short in the doorway. Her father sat at the small wooden table, a cup of tea forgotten beside him. He was staring down at the Daily Prophet, his entire posture carved in stone.

It wasn't his usual anger. Not irritation. It was something worse—a quiet, perfectly contained horror.

The air in the kitchen was thick, heavy with the cold scent of old stone and unease. The silence pressed on her lungs.

"Dad?" she asked cautiously. "What's wrong?"

Snape didn’t answer right away. He blinked, as if her voice had pulled him from a trance, and folded the newspaper neatly in front of him. "It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with," he said, his tone too level, too casual to be remotely believable.

That was precisely the wrong thing to say.

"Nothing?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Snape’s jaw tightened. "Persephone—"

But she was already moving, swift and stubborn, the paper slipped from under his fingers, zooming straight into her extended hand. He made no move to retrieve it, merely exhaling sharply through his nose as she unfolded it.

Her eyes found the headline instantly:

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN

Below the bold black letters was a moving photograph of a gaunt, wild-looking man—hollow-eyed, filthy, and laughing manically as though the photographer had told a joke only he could hear.

Persephone’s breath caught, a sharp, metallic taste in her throat. "Sirius Black…" she whispered, the name sharp and familiar. Her eyes flicked up to her father’s face, which remained unnervingly still.

"That’s—my uncle." It wasn't a question.

Snape’s expression was unreadable, a perfect shield. "Yes," he confirmed softly. "Your mother’s younger brother."

Persephone’s pulse quickened. She’d heard the name before, in muttered half-conversations and from the ancient clippings she'd occasionally stumbled across. But to see his face—wild, dangerous, alive—sent a cold, sickening current through her.

Her voice barely registered above a whisper. "How could he have escaped?"

"I don’t know," Snape replied. His voice was level, but Persephone caught something beneath it—a rare note of profound unease. "No one has ever escaped Azkaban before. Not even your mother has managed that feat."

He stood abruptly, moving to pour himself more tea, though his hands were so unnaturally steady the gesture felt like a tightly controlled performance.

Persephone studied him carefully. Her father was many things—composed, guarded, maddeningly unreadable—but overt fear wasn't one of them. Yet there it was now, flickering faintly behind his dark eyes.

"Why are you so worried?" she asked quietly.

Snape didn’t meet her gaze, focusing on the dark liquid in his cup. "Because Black is a dangerous man, even before his imprisonment," he said finally. "If he’s escaped, it’s not by accident. There is intent behind it—and that never bodes well for those in our orbit."

Persephone hesitated, biting her lip. "Does… does he know about me?"

That question made Snape look up immediately. His dark eyes softened—just a fraction—before he shook his head. "I am not certain, Persephone."

Something in his voice made her stomach twist again, turning the butterflies of the morning into dread.

She folded the newspaper slowly, her fingers lingering on the moving, hateful image of Sirius’s grinning face.

"Will he come here?" she asked after a long moment.

Snape’s voice dropped low, a warning rumble heavy with threat. "He would be a fool to try."

Persephone wasn’t sure if that was meant to reassure her or himself. She set the paper back on the table and turned toward the window. Outside, Spinner’s End was its usual stretch of colorless brick and smoke, yet it felt suddenly smaller—as though something unseen, feral, had finally slipped past its boundaries.

August arrived cloaked in oppressive heat and deep tension. The air felt heavier than usual, as though the entire neighborhood shared in her father’s unspoken worry about Sirius Black.

Persephone sat cross-legged on the worn rug of the sitting room, her brow furrowed in concentration as her father’s low, measured voice guided her through the intricacies of Legilimency.

“Focus,” Snape murmured. “It’s not about force, Persephone. It’s about precision. You can’t batter your way into a mind—you slip through it. Like smoke.”

Persephone nodded, trying to still her breathing, her eyes fixed on her father’s. The moment she met his gaze, the room seemed to tighten, the air itself crackling faintly with unseen energy. She pushed, gently, searching for the faint thread of emotion, the smallest fracture in his composure—

Then, suddenly, the mental wall slammed down like an iron door.

“Again,” Snape said coolly, his expression unchanged.

She groaned, falling back against the rug. “You make this impossible.”

“I make it challenging,” he corrected, standing over her. “If you can breach my mind, you will be able to breach anyone’s.”

Persephone shot him a frustrated look. “You say that like it’s encouraging.”

He arched a single eyebrow—the closest thing to amusement he ever allowed mid-lesson.

But even as they continued, Persephone’s thoughts were elsewhere. For weeks she had been circling back to the same question, the one her father refused to answer. Finally, as he turned to refill his tea, she blurted it out.

“Why can’t you just tell me about Sirius Black?”

Snape froze, the teapot hovering midair. Slowly, he turned, setting it down with precise, deliberate control. “We’ve been over this.”

“No, we haven’t,” she countered, scrambling to her knees. “You won’t tell me anything. You just said he was dangerous. That doesn’t explain why he chose to kill all those Muggles.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers. “Because the truth won’t change the fact that you’re not going anywhere near him. That’s all you need to know.”

She crossed her arms, unrelenting. “So I’m supposed to just sit here while a psycho’s on the loose? Maybe I’d be safer at Hogwarts—at least it’s protected!”

Snape’s look sharpened instantly. "No.” The word was absolute, cutting the air. “You will not attend Hogwarts this year.”

Persephone’s heart sank, though she’d half expected the answer. “But why not? You said the Dementors are guarding the school—wouldn’t that make it the safest place for me?”

Snape’s mouth thinned with profound displeasure. “Hogwarts will be anything but safe this year. Dementors do not distinguish between whom they protect and whom they destroy. They are... unpredictable.” He set his cup down with a quiet clink. “I won’t have them anywhere near you.”

Persephone frowned, confused. “Then why would the Ministry send them there?”

“To hunt Sirius Black,” he said, his tone flat. “They believe he may try to infiltrate the castle.”

Her curiosity deepened, a mix of dread and fascination. “Why would he want to go to Hogwarts?”

Snape hesitated, his eyes darkening. “To finish what he started,” he said finally, voice low.

Her breath caught. His tone, heavy with unspoken history, left no room for further questions. “That is all you need to know.”

Persephone wanted to argue, but one look at her father’s expression—tight, guarded, aching with something she couldn’t quite name—made her swallow her protest. She dropped it. For now.

Still, the disappointment festered. Another year watching from the sidelines, while the wizarding world plunged into more chaos.

A few days later, on a gray mid-August afternoon, Snape appeared in her doorway, arms crossed, that familiar air of finality about him.

“You’ll be going to the Malfoy Manor earlier than planned,” he announced. “I need to prepare for the new term.”

Persephone blinked in surprise. “Already? Can’t I come with you? I’ll stay out of the way—I promise.”

“No,” he said sharply. Then, after a pause, his tone softened slightly. “The Dementors will be arriving before the students. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

Persephone sighed, defeated. “Fine.”

It was hard to stay upset for long, though. The thought of seeing Draco again stirred something bright and nervous in her chest—a spark she didn’t quite understand.

She packed her trunk quickly, humming along to a song that played on her radio under her breath. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she frowned at her reflection. Ink-stained shirt. Torn jeans. A smudge of something that looked suspiciously like potion residue on her sleeve.

“Absolutely not,” she muttered, rummaging through her trunk for something cleaner. She settled on a simple, dark grey shirt that clung tightly and her least-wrinkled skirt. She brushed her hair back severely before fastening her black opal earrings and adjusting the golden phoenix pendant she never removed.

As she glanced once more at her reflection, she felt that same nervous flutter in her stomach—the one that always seemed to appear whenever Draco Malfoy was involved.

Chapter Text

Persephone clattered down the narrow, rickety staircase, her heavy trunk bumping against each step as she tried to keep her balance. In her other hand, Beans hooted irritably from inside his cage, feathers ruffling with indignation.

At the bottom of the stairs, her father looked up from the front door—his black robes already fastened, wand in hand—and froze.

“What,” he said slowly, his voice dripping with distilled distaste, “are you wearing?”

Persephone blinked, glancing down at the dark grey shirt that fit a bit too snugly and the skirt that might have been just a touch too short. “Clothes,” she said simply.

Snape stepped forward, blocking her path. His eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion. “Why those clothes?”

She exhaled heavily, the sound full of teenage exasperation. Setting her trunk and the owl’s cage down with a clunk, she crossed her arms. “Because they look nice. Am I not allowed to wear nice clothes now?”

“Those aren’t nice clothes,” Snape replied in a low, almost hissing tone, his lip curling faintly.

Persephone’s eyebrows shot up. “Just because you have the fashion sense of a Catholic nun doesn’t mean I have to dress like one.”

Her father’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin, but before he could reply, she snatched up her things and swept past him with a small, triumphant smirk.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to grab my books.” She made her way toward his study, her sandals clicking sharply on the wooden floor. Behind her, she could practically feel the heat of his glare burning holes in the back of her head.

Snape followed close behind, his robes billowing like a dark cloud. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with those letters you’ve been receiving from Malfoy, would it?”

Persephone froze mid-step. The sudden stop made Snape collide gently into her back with a soft, surprising thud.

She clenched her jaw, forcing her face to stay perfectly neutral, then slowly turned to face him. Her expression was the picture of innocence, eyebrows raised just slightly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Father,” she said smoothly, her voice sweet enough to be sickly.

For a long, tense moment, they simply stared at each other—the master of Occlumency versus his infuriatingly quick-witted apprentice.

Then Snape sighed, the sound heavy and defeated, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Get your things. The Malfoys are waiting.”

Persephone smiled faintly as she turned toward the study, victorious—for now.

After gathering her books and tucking them neatly into her trunk, Persephone joined her father by the hearth. He placed a steady hand on her shoulder and, with a sharp crack, they Apparated. They landed on the gravel path before the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor.

The sprawling estate loomed above them, framed by manicured hedges and the faint, cold shimmer of protective wards that hummed faintly in the warm August air.

The heavy, ornate gates recognized them instantly, creaking inward without a sound. Snape’s black robes fluttered in the unexpected summer breeze as they stepped through.

“You should have put on a jacket,” he said curtly, still unwilling to drop his disapproval of Persephone’s outfit.

Persephone stared at him in disbelief. “It’s boiling outside, Dad. I’ll die of heat exhaustion if I wear one!”

“You’ll survive,” he stated flatly.

She folded her arms, chin tilting upward in defiance. “I think I’ll be fine, thank you.”

Snape exhaled through his nose—long and sharp—and didn’t argue further. Instead, he directed his concentrated irritation into the brisk, echoing knock he gave the Manor’s great oak doors.

The sound reverberated through the hall beyond, and before either could prepare, the door swung open—revealing Draco Malfoy.

“Hey, Seph!” he said with an easy, genuine grin, his normally slicked-back pale hair now hung untamed across his forehead.

Persephone blinked, momentarily struck dumb. He'd definitely grown several inches taller since she’d last seen him; his face had sharpened, and that signature drawl of his had deepened just enough to make her heart do something traitorous and quick in her chest.

Behind him, Narcissa appeared halfway down the grand staircase, hurrying with practiced grace. “Draco, mind your manners! Let them in, and close the door before the heat comes in!” she called.

Draco stepped back, still grinning, and opened the door wider. Snape brushed past him with deliberate force, his shoulder clipping Draco’s as if the gesture itself were a tangible warning.

Persephone followed, the immediate, coolness of the Manor washing over her like a physical welcome. Draco closed the door softly behind her, shutting out the oppressive August heat with a muted click.

“You look nice,” Draco said smoothly, leaning slightly to catch her eye around the looming wall of black fabric that was her father.

Snape shifted almost imperceptibly—just enough to instantly block the boy’s view.

Persephone felt heat rush to her cheeks, entirely separate from the summer warmth. “You don’t look bad yourself, Malfoy,” she shot back, mimicking his easy tone with a hint of playfulness.

Draco’s smirk widened, his pale eyes sparkling. Snape’s jaw visibly tightened.

From the foot of the staircase, Narcissa’s voice broke the charged silence. “Severus, it’s wonderful to see you again. And Persephone, darling, you’ve grown so much since spring. Come in—I’ll have one of the house-elves take your things up to your room.”

Persephone smiled gratefully and stepped forward—acutely aware of her father’s gaze and Draco’s eyes lingering a little too long for Snape’s liking.

They followed Narcissa into the grand sitting room, sunlight spilling in soft, golden beams through the tall windows and glinting off silver tea trays. The air, cool and controlled, was rich with the scent of fresh biscuits and scones.

“You’re just in time for tea and warm biscuits,” Narcissa said brightly, her voice the picture of polished hospitality. She motioned gracefully toward the low table where an assortment of delicate porcelain cups and neat trays of food were already arranged.

Persephone took a seat on one of the smaller couches near the hearth, smoothing the hem of her skirt. To her surprise—and secret delight—Draco sank down beside her, close enough that their knees brushed. The light contact sent a sudden, dizzying flutter through her chest, making her momentarily forget to breathe.

Narcissa handed her a delicate teacup, and Persephone accepted it with a quiet "thank you," praying her slightly shaking hands wouldn't betray her nerves.

Across from them, Severus Snape sat in a high-backed, severe chair, every line of his body stiff and guarded. His dark eyes flicked from Draco’s casual knee to Persephone’s flushed cheeks and back again, radiating silent death threats like invisible daggers across the porcelain tea service.

Draco, either blissfully unaware or deliberately ignoring the psychic tension, leaned in toward Persephone. His tone was casual, but his grin was boyishly proud. “Did you hear about the new broom that’s just come out? The Firebolt. Fastest model yet—faster than anything the Nimbus ever made.”

Persephone turned toward him, her interest genuine despite the heat still rising in her cheeks. “Faster than a Nimbus 2001? You’re lying.”

“I would never lie about Quidditch,” Draco said, feigning deep indignation, and the two fell into an easy rhythm of shared teasing and soft laughter.

Meanwhile, Narcissa—ever the perfect hostess—was entirely oblivious to the silent war unfolding beneath her nose. She had turned her focus toward Snape, discussing with composed enthusiasm her plans for Persephone’s continued studies.

“I thought this year we might move her into more advanced Transfiguration theory,” Narcissa said, pouring herself another cup. “Her essays last term were brilliant—far beyond her age. I believe she’s ready for the next level. Human Transfiguration, perhaps.”

Snape offered no verbal response. His gaze had not moved from where Draco’s shoulder lightly brushed Persephone’s.

It was one of those rare moments where Persephone didn’t need Legilimency to sense the powerful emotion emanating from her father. The dread was written plainly in the taut line of his mouth and the rigid set of his hands gripping his teacup. It wasn’t the familiar cold anger she knew; it was something else, something piercingly raw.

Fear.

In that exquisitely painful moment, as his dark-eyed focus locked on the subtle, dangerous physical gap between his daughter and the Malfoy heir, Severus Snape realized there existed a threat he had not prepared for—one that no defensive spell, no Occlumency shield, and no potion could protect his daughter from.

Boys.

Snape’s patience shattered in a single, ugly instant.

He had been watching—enduring—as Draco Malfoy’s hand, casual and oblivious, drifted onto the top of Persephone’s knee. The movement was small, innocent, perhaps, but to Severus Snape, it might as well have been a declaration of war

He shot to his feet so abruptly that the teacup rattled violently in its saucer, hot tea slopping over the white porcelain rim. Narcissa blinked in surprise; Draco froze mid-sentence, his hand instantly retreating. Persephone’s stomach sank with dread.

“I think,” Snape said through clenched teeth, forcing an unconvincing, chilling calm into his voice, “that I will have a private word with my daughter before I leave.”

Persephone’s head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing in disbelief and fury. Now? she thought wildly. Here?

But one look at her father’s face—tight, pale, and visibly trembling with the effort to remain composed—told her she had no choice. She rose stiffly from the couch, and without a word, followed her father out of the sitting room.

The echo of their sharp footsteps trailed down the long, marble hall. Snape didn’t stop until they reached the front door. Then he whirled around, black robes swirling, his dark eyes blazing.

“Persephone Lillian Prince,” he said in a tone that dropped like a blade.

She flinched. He never used her full name unless she was in serious, undeniable trouble.

“I don’t know what is going on between you and that boy,” he continued, his voice low, harsh, and dangerously controlled, “but whatever it is—you are far too young for it.”

“Nothing is going on, Dad!” Persephone snapped back, crossing her arms tightly. Her voice trembled somewhere between sheer indignation and hot humiliation.

“I am not blind,” Snape hissed, each word cutting through the small space between them.

“He’s just being nice,” she muttered, rolling her eyes in reflexive defiance.

Snape leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. “He is not nice.” He stabbed a finger toward the sitting room. “I have seen him at Hogwarts. Arrogant. Charming. Playing with every girl’s heart in that castle.” His finger swung to her—his fury now edged with something raw that almost resembled terror. “You do not need to get involved with him.”

Persephone smirked despite herself, stepping closer and gently pushing his hand down. “Don’t worry, Dad,” she said softly, her eyes glinting with teasing defiance. “I promise I’ll behave.” The light, almost mocking tone was undermined by the faint blush still coloring her cheeks.

Snape glared down at her for a long, taut moment, fighting an internal battle. Then he exhaled sharply, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, and rubbed his forehead as though warding off an oncoming headache.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, dropping his hand to look at her fully. “I expect you to make wise decisions while I’m away.”

Her hands were clasped behind her back; she balanced precariously on the balls of her heels. “Always do,” she replied, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

He let out a defeated sigh, then pulled her into a tight, rare hug, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Don’t grow up too fast,” he muttered against her hair.

She gave him a fierce squeeze back. “I suppose I just become a Lost Boy and run away to Neverland, then?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he conceded, pulling her away just enough to look her in the eye. He gave her one last, intense look—a mixture of warning and weary love—before dropping his hands from her shoulders and disappearing out the great oak door with a final rush of black fabric.

Later that evening, after the kind of lavish, multi-course dinner only Narcissa Malfoy could orchestrate, Persephone found herself standing beside Draco in the Manor’s back gardens. The night air was warm, scented faintly with blooming roses and the distant, constant hum of crickets. Above them, the sky stretched wide and velvet-black, littered with diamond-bright stars.

They had been out there for a while, the conversation having long since drifted into an easy, comfortable quiet. Draco stood close enough that the soft heat of him radiated through the thin fabric of her sleeve. Every so often, his arm brushed hers, sending a strange, buzzing warmth through her chest that had absolutely nothing to do with the summer air.

“That one’s Orion,” Draco murmured, pointing upward. His finger traced along a cluster of stars, his tone softer than usual—less boastful, more thoughtful. “And I think… that’s Lyra. Or maybe Andromeda. Hard to tell from here.”

Persephone tilted her head, pretending to squint at the sky, but she couldn’t focus on the constellations. All she could think about was how close he was standing, and how his voice sounded when it wasn't dripping with Malfoy arrogance.

Their elbows brushed again, this time lingering—his arm resting lightly against hers for several seconds. Her pulse quickened, hammering against her ribs.

Merlin’s beard, what is wrong with me? she thought, mentally kicking herself. It’s just Draco. You’ve known him since you were practically in nappies. He’s annoying, smug, and—

But then he looked at her.

His pale eyes caught the faint starlight, turning them silver and soft, and for a moment Persephone forgot how to breathe. The vast night seemed to fall away until it was just the two of them—his expression curious, almost vulnerable, and her heart doing a ridiculous little somersault in her chest.

Before she could stop herself, her defensive mental connection to him flickered open. A rush of raw emotion hit her—quick, sharp, and intensely unfamiliar. She sensed excitement, genuine nervousness, and something tender, unguarded, focused entirely on her.

Her cheeks flushed hot as she looked away, breaking the eye contact and hastily retreating behind her mental walls. But the echo of what she’d felt still shimmered in her chest like the afterglow of a powerful spell.

“Persephone?” Draco’s voice was quiet now, uncertain, the moment having stretched too long.

She forced a small, shaky smile, pretending to study the stars overhead. “You’re wrong, by the way,” she said lightly, her voice a shade too fast. “That’s not Lyra—it’s Cygnus. The Swan.”

Draco smiled faintly, his lips curving in amusement. “Of course you’d know that.”

Persephone’s heart fluttered again, the strange, terrifying thrill of his unexpected attention settling deep within her.

Draco kicked a small pebble across the gravel path, his pale hair shining faintly in the starlight as he smirked. “Can you believe it? Third year already. I’m willing to bet Potter manages to get himself killed before Christmas this time.”

Persephone gave him a dry, playful look. “This must be a breaking record for you, Draco. It’s been almost, what, a full day since you’ve brought up Harry Potter.”

He nudged her playfully with his elbow, his smirk widening. “He aggravates the hell out of me. If I don’t vent, I’ll explode.”

Persephone laughed, nudging him back with her shoulder. “So you’re predicting his demise this year?” she said, the tone light and mocking.

“I know so,” he declared, straightening his posture with mock confidence. “Last year it was that ridiculous duelling club disaster, then the Heir of Slytherin mess—if trouble doesn’t find him, he goes looking for it.”

Persephone shook her head. “I think you secretly enjoy it, Draco. You’d be bored if he behaved for once.”

He gave her a sly grin, leaning closer. “Maybe. But I have to admit—watching him make a fool of himself is excellent entertainment.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

Draco’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, his arm once again brushing against hers. “Father says the Ministry’s sending Dementors to guard the school this year. He was there last week for a meeting—heard it straight from Fudge himself.”

Persephone’s expression instantly sobered. “I’ve heard.”

Draco tilted his head, intrigued. “Isn’t that mad? I heard they can suck the happiness right out of you. They’re like walking corpses, honestly.”

A faint shiver ran through Persephone, though she tried to suppress it. “If they’re protecting the students, I suppose the Ministry thinks it’s necessary,” she admitted quietly.

The silence stretched comfortably between them for a while, the warm night wrapping them in its soft hush. Draco ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the pale strands across his forehead.

“Have you read what the Prophet’s been saying lately? About Sirius Black?” she asked, quickly glancing away before he caught her staring at him.

Draco snorted, lowering his arm. “Of course. You’d have to be blind not to. Every headline since summer began has been about him.” He crossed his arms, his tone sharp with absolute disdain. “Murderer. Traitor. Escaped convict. Father says the Ministry should have caught him by now if they weren't utterly useless.”

Persephone’s brow furrowed. She needed to hear the words spoken aloud. “You think he really did all that? Kill all those people?”

Draco looked at her for a long moment, a touch of genuine curiosity replacing his usual arrogance, as if trying to gauge why she would ask such a redundant question. Finally, he shrugged dismissively. “You overthink things, Persephone.”

“I can’t help it,” she admitted with a soft, ironic smile.

He chuckled lightly. “I don’t know why you’re questioning it. It’s all in the records, isn’t it? He had to have done it. They wouldn’t lock up an innocent man in Azkaban for nothing.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Persephone said, the words feeling dry and heavy on her tongue.

Draco smirked, triumphant. “I’m always right.”

Persephone laughed, the sound light and teasing. "All of a sudden?" she asked, giving Draco another playful nudge with her elbow.

Draco only grinned, that familiar smugness curling at the corners of his mouth. "All of a sudden." He repeated, and with practiced ease, he slung an arm over her shoulders. The casual touch sent a sudden, dizzying rush of warmth straight through her chest. Persephone froze for half a heartbeat, acutely aware of the weight of his arm and trying not to let her expression betray the wild skip of her pulse.

Draco, either oblivious or pretending to be, continued talking as if nothing momentous had occurred. "We should probably get to bed," he said. "Tomorrow's going to be busy. Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and a few of the other lads from the Quidditch Team—Flint, Montague, and Bletchley—they're all coming over to hang out. Probably play some Quidditch while we're at it."

"Really?" Persephone asked, glancing up at him. "Then I suppose I won't get in your way."

He smirked, tightening his grip slightly. "Don't be silly. I want you to join us. They're all eager to meet you anyway, since I hadn't shut up about you last year."

Persephone laughed softly, though she couldn't hide the genuine warmth that flared in her chest. "Is that so?" she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"I may as well just say it," he declared, his confidence momentarily wavering. "I told some of the guys at school that we were dating."

"You what?!" Persephone stopped dead, snapping her head up to look him squarely in the eye.

He laughed, throwing his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender, his sheepish shrug contrasting sharply with the arrogant statement.

"Look, the guys at school were constantly going on about me and my 'secret girlfriend' who never showed up," he explained quickly, the words tumbling out. "I finally just gave in and said that you were. And after going along with it, I kind of came to the realization that I actually did fancy you... so I figured, why not give it an actual shot?" he finished nervously, watching her reaction closely.

"You know you have to actually ask me to be your girlfriend to give it an actual shot," Persephone said, a slow, delighted smile spreading across her lips.

"That's what I'm doing right now," he said, mock arrogance instantly returning.

They had resumed walking through the marble corridors of the Manor, the faint glow of enchanted sconces reflecting off the polished walls. Persephone pretended she had to deliberate, tapping her chin dramatically. Draco gave her a worried, hopeful look.

She smirked. "You're lucky you're cute."

He smiled, looking visibly relieved, linking his arm with hers, leading her up the large staircase and towards Persephone’s room.

They lingered outside her door longer than either of them intended. Draco turned to face her fully, his expression softer now, the bravado slipping away in the dim light. He leaned in just slightly, close enough that she could feel his breath brush her ear.

"I really do like you, Seph," he whispered, his voice low and deliberately intimate. "I hope you have a good night.

Her breath caught, a sudden, powerful heat washing over her.

Draco’s lips curved into a knowing smirk at her flustered expression before he stepped back, his silver-blond hair glinting in the dim light. Without another word, he turned and strolled down the corridor toward his own room.

Persephone stood frozen at her door for a moment longer, the frantic echo of her heartbeat filling her ears. When she finally slipped into her room, she leaned against the door and smiled to herself, her thoughts spinning faster than any broom could fly. She was officially Draco Malfoy's girlfriend—a secret, rebellious victory that felt impossibly sweet.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Persephone woke with a familiar flutter of nerves in her chest. Today, she would finally meet Draco’s friends—his Slytherin inner circle—and for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she wanted to make a good impression.

She dressed carefully, choosing clothes appropriate for spending the day outside. Standing before the mirror, she attempted to tame her hair but eventually gave up, wrapping the dark waves into a messy bun. It’s just Draco’s friends, she reminded herself.

Before leaving her room, she paused to stroke the soft feathers of Beans. "Have fun last night, BB’s?" she murmured. The Ural owl blinked sleepily and gave a faint, satisfied hoot.

Down in the kitchens, Persephone spoke briefly with the house-elves to request her breakfast. She couldn’t help noticing Dobby’s continued absence again—a faint frown pulling at her lips. Though the other elves refused to say much, the silence surrounding his name felt deliberate and heavy.

Shaking the dark thought away, she made her way to the dining room.

As soon as she stepped through the archway, she stopped short. Lucius Malfoy sat at the far end of the long, gleaming table, the Daily Prophet spread open before him. Morning light from the high windows cast his pale hair in a cold halo, and for a brief moment, Persephone was struck by how eerily he resembled a marble statue—beautiful, unyielding, and dangerous to touch.

He looked up as she entered. The faintest trace of a possessive smile curved his lips. “Ah, Persephone,” he drawled, folding the newspaper neatly and setting it aside. “I trust you’ve had a pleasant summer?”

“Yes, sir,” Persephone replied politely, keeping her tone even. She slid into one of the side chairs, acutely aware of his pale eyes tracking her every movement.

Lucius cleared his throat lightly, steepling his long, silver-ringed fingers beneath his chin. “I couldn’t help but notice Draco’s... newfound enthusiasm with you.”

Persephone blinked, caught off guard. “Enthusiasm?”

He gave a soft, approving hum. “It pleases me. The two of you have known each other for years—it's only natural that friendship might grow into something more... enduring.” His tone was mild, almost pleasant, but the cold gleam in his eyes was something else entirely—calculating, and deeply rooted in a hunger for legacy.

A sudden, sharp chill ran down Persephone’s spine. As their gazes locked, she let her guard down just enough, catching a devastating, fleeting impression from him—a pulse of thought, quick but sharp, like an icy wind: The Dark Lord’s bloodline. The Malfoy name. A union of power...

Her stomach twisted violently. She tore her gaze away just as one of the house-elves scurried in with her breakfast on a silver tray. The gentle clinking of porcelain was a blessed, necessary distraction.

“Thank you,” Persephone murmured quickly, giving the elf a grateful nod.

Lucius inclined his head, the smile still ghosting his mouth. “You’ve grown into a fine young witch, Persephone. I have no doubt Draco’s friends will find you... intriguing.”

She forced a polite smile and reached for her teacup, trying to ignore the way her hands trembled ever so slightly. The tea’s warmth was the only thing grounding her in the moment.

Across the table, Lucius unfolded his paper once more, the crisp rustle of the pages filling the room. But Persephone could still feel the heavy weight of his gaze—cold, proud, and proprietary—as if he were already weaving her future into the Malfoy tapestry.

The quietness of the dining room was abruptly broken by the sound of approaching footsteps and Narcissa’s familiar, slightly echoing voice.

“—What time are your little friends coming over, Draco?” Narcissa’s tone was warm and effortlessly polite as she followed her son in from the kitchens, gliding with her usual, practiced grace.

“They’re not little, Mother,” Draco replied, his words carrying that typical teenage mix of irritation and wounded pride. “Bletchley’s in fifth year and Flint’s in his seventh!”

He brushed past her into the room, his eyes immediately finding Persephone at the table. His annoyance vanished in an instant, replaced by an easy, proprietary smile. “Morning, Persephone.”

Before Persephone could respond, he dropped lazily into the ornate, high-backed chair beside her, leaning back in practiced nonchalance. Narcissa glided past him, placing a gentle kiss on Lucius’s cheek before taking her seat across the table.

“Answer your mother properly,” Lucius said, his voice clipped and authoritative, without ever lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

Draco sighed dramatically, the picture of aristocratic suffering. “Around noon, then,” he muttered, reaching over without hesitation to steal a ripe blueberry from the edge of Persephone’s plate.

She arched an eyebrow at him but didn’t protest, a small smile playing on her lips as he popped it smugly into his mouth.

“Wonderful,” Narcissa said brightly, her mind already moving to the smooth mechanics of hospitality. “I’ll have the elves prepare some tea sandwiches and perhaps lemon scones to serve with—”

Draco groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “They’re not coming here to have tea, Mother. We’re playing Quidditch.”

Lucius’s eyes lifted sharply from his paper, the faintest edge of ice cutting through the air. “You will not speak to your mother in that tone.”

Draco straightened instantly, chastened, the effect of his father's disapproval absolute. “Yes, sir.”

Narcissa offered a soft, knowing smile, the perfect hostess accepting the terms of surrender. She smoothly poured herself cup of coffee. “Then I’ll have a cooler of refreshments set out in the gardens. Water, perhaps, and pumpkin juice.”

Persephone watched the small, exchange with quiet amusement. The Malfoys’ breakfasts were nothing like those at Spinner’s End—everything here gleamed, every movement calculated.

She nibbled at the edge of her bacon, catching Draco’s faint smirk from the corner of her eye—a silent acknowledgment that they were sharing the secret humor of the moment. She felt a connection to him that was both thrilling and terrifying, especially under the cold, assessing gaze of his father.

After breakfast, once the plates had been cleared away, the house settled into its usual morning rhythm. Lucius departed for the Ministry, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall before fading entirely. Narcissa excused herself soon after, gliding toward her study with a promise to check in later. That left Persephone and Draco blissfully alone.

Draco led her into the grand sitting room, its high ceilings and pale marble hearth glowing with soft morning light. “We’ve got a couple of hours before they arrive,” he said, dropping himself lazily into one of the leather armchairs.

“Then what should we do while we wait?” Persephone asked, a playful challenge in her voice.

Draco drew in a deep breath as he thought, his eyes scanning the lavish room for inspiration. They lit up when they landed on the Wizard’s Chess board sitting on a shelf near the fireplace. He pushed himself from the chair, grabbed the heavy game box, and laid it out on the thick rug before dropping to his knees.

“How about,” Draco said, smirking as he began arranging the carved pieces, “a nice game of Wizard’s Chess.”

Persephone arched an eyebrow, returning the smirk. “Nice? The last time we played, you ended up chucking one of the pieces out the window, if I recall.”

“For your information, Prince,” he said, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “I’ve gotten quite better since the last time we played.”

Persephone laughed lightly as she dropped to her knees on the opposite side of the board. “Oh, really? So you spent your days at Hogwarts practicing in hopes of one day beating me?”

Draco’s eyes gleamed. “You won’t be laughing when I crush your King.”

They played several rounds as they waited, the crystal pieces clattering smartly across the board, their tiny movements and shouted commands breaking the Manor’s silence. Draco managed a few victories—only because Persephone strategically allowed him to, purely for the sake of his ever-fragile ego. Between strategic moves came easy teasing, soft laughter, and the lingering glances that always made Persephone blush.

Draco grinned wickedly each time he thought he’d outsmarted her. “Admit it—you’re impressed,” he said, leaning slightly forward.

Persephone chuckled, tilting her head. “Luck doesn’t count as strategy, Malfoy.”

“A win,” a mischievous smile forming on his lips, “is a win.”

She bit the bottom of her lip, trying to stop herself from smiling like an idiot.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” he continued, his voice dropping to a sly murmur, “I won more times than you.”

Persephone’s smile finally managed to break free. “I believe it was a tie.”

“Prove it,” he said smoothly, resting his chin on his fist.

“Shall I fetch you a ribbon, then, Mr. Malfoy?” she retorted, her smile widening.

“I think a kiss would be more rewarding.”

“A kiss—” But before Persephone could say anything else, Draco closed the distance. He leaned across the chessboard, his lips landing softly, possessively on hers. The electricity she felt was immaculate—a strange, buzzing warmth that was instantly addictive. The kiss lasted mere seconds, but to Persephone, time stood still.

She blinked at Draco as he pulled away, a look of smug accomplishment and surprise lighting his face.

Before either of them could say another word, the fire in the marble hearth flared suddenly green, the emerald flames roaring higher than expected. The air shimmered with Floo powder as a tall, broad-shouldered boy stepped through, brushing soot from his shirt. Another boy followed right after—equally large, equally square-jawed.

“Crabbe. Goyle,” Draco said with satisfaction, jumping up from the floor, his attention instantly diverted. “About time.”

The fire flared again, spilling out four more figures in quick succession. Persephone stood up and stepped back instinctively as Marcus Flint appeared first—his broad grin marred slightly by his uneven teeth—followed by Theodore Nott, Graham Montague and Miles Bletchley, all tall and lean with that same sharp Slytherin confidence.

Draco practically glowed as he moved through the group, exchanging back-slaps and quick handshakes, looking every bit the self-appointed prince among them.

Persephone, meanwhile, stood quietly to the side, arms folded, observing the sudden influx of chaos. She could already feel the weight of their collective, curious attention. The boys looked her over with frank, assessing eyes.

Draco noticed everybody’s attention fixed on Persephone, and he cleared his throat, his chest puffing out with pride.

“Everyone—this is Persephone.” He said, his voice ringing with arrogant ownership. “My girlfriend.”

Goyle shot Draco a heavy high-five. "Nice," he grunted, the smirk on his face plainly conveying his seal of approval for his new girlfriend.

“So she is real?” Marcus Flint drawled, grinning as he cast a knowing glance at Bletchley. “I guess I owe you a Galleon, Miles.”

Bletchley smirked, crossing his arms victoriously. Draco shot him a glare, but Persephone tried to remain neutral, her heart fluttering. The words of Draco announcing her as his girlfriend—a fact confirmed moments ago with a kiss—rang triumphantly in her ears.

The moment Draco finished the introductions, the floodgates opened. Questions came from every direction—fast, loud, and overlapping—slamming into Persephone like a rogue bludger.

“Is it true your father’s Professor Snape?” one boy, Montague, asked eagerly.

“Of course not—she looks nothing like him,” Bletchley cut in immediately.

Crabbe leaned forward, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Is it because you’re a Squib that you don’t go to Hogwarts?”

“She’s not a Squib, you idiot,” Draco snapped, his voice sharp enough to make Crabbe physically flinch backward.

“—So it’s true, you’re homeschooled, then?” Nott chimed in, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

Persephone blinked as the circle of tall boys closed in around her. Their voices blurred together, a relentless barrage of questions and half-jokes. She’d never been surrounded by so many people her age before—let alone all talking at once. Her pulse quickened as she tried to answer one query only to be cut off by the next.

Draco noticed immediately. He stepped forward, holding up both hands like he was trying to tame a herd of wild Lions. “One at a time, will you? Merlin, you’re going to scare her off.”

The noise died down slightly, though the intense, assessing staring did not. Persephone’s cheeks burned under the attention, but she managed a small, polite smile. She could already tell Draco had told them plenty about her over the previous years.

Flint leaned forward, folding his arms. “So, Draco says you can do magic without a wand. That true?”

Persephone froze, shooting a sharp, accusatory look at Draco. He suddenly found something immensely fascinating to examine on the cuff of his sleeve.

“Did he now?” she said flatly.

Draco gave her an infuriatingly innocent shrug. “They were curious.”

Persephone sighed, looking back up at the group. “Yes, sometimes,” she admitted carefully. “It’s... complicated.”

“Blimey,” Bletchley muttered under his breath, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with Flint. “You can actually do that?”

Goyle’s eyes widened with awe. “Can you show us?”

Draco’s proprietary instinct kicked in again before she could even open her mouth. “No, she can’t,” he said quickly, his tone brooking no argument. “She doesn’t perform tricks on command.”

The possessive authority in his voice made the others fall silent—half respectful, half cautious.

Draco flashed her a sideways smirk, the protective tension easing. “I just don’t want you melting anyone’s eyebrows off.”

That earned a nervous laugh from the group, easing the immediate tension. Persephone rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at her lips.

Still, beneath the laughter, she could feel it again—that quiet, potent hum of unease. The boys’ curiosity wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t simply friendly either.

Persephone let out a quiet sigh of relief when the boys’ relentless questioning finally shifted elsewhere. Flint had begun boasting about his newest prize: a deluxe Quidditch ball set, freshly gifted by his parents in celebration of his final year at Hogwarts.

The others crowded around as Flint threw open the trunk, revealing the polished scarlet Quaffle, the gleaming Bludgers, and the tiny golden Snitch that twitched impatiently inside its dark casing. The boys leaned in close, admiring the craftsmanship with the reverence most reserve for sacred relics.

“Brand-new—straight from Quality Quidditch Supplies,” Flint announced proudly, his chest puffed out.

Within moments, chaos erupted. Like a pack of excited hounds, they stormed toward the gardens, broomsticks thrown over their shoulders, shouting over one another about positions and strategy, the clamor echoing through the quiet marble halls.

Draco paused only long enough to grin over his shoulder at Persephone. “Come on, Seph!” he called, his hand reaching out to catch her arm. Without thinking, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the door with easy, possessive familiarity.

Her pulse stuttered, the unexpected contact sending a warm flush to her cheeks—but Draco was already too busy arguing with Nott about who’d make the better Seeker to notice her reaction.

By the time they reached the gardens, the match assignments were being loudly debated. Voices rose, brooms were brandished, and eventually Flint’s deeper voice cut through the din.

“Fine! Final call!” he shouted. “Malfoy and I are Seekers, Montague and Nott are Chasers, Crabbe and Goyle—you’re Beaters. Bletchley, you’re Keeper with… uh—”

“Persephone,” Draco supplied quickly.

Flint gave a rough shrug. “Right. You’re both Keepers. Don’t get in the way.”

Persephone arched a brow but said nothing, accepting one of Draco’s older brooms. It was sleek, if a bit scuffed from use, and surprisingly well-balanced in her hands.

Truthfully, Quidditch had never been her sport. She’d rather observe from the ground—or the library—than risk splattering herself across the pitch. But Draco’s expectant grin and the others’ skeptical glances left her with little choice.

As they kicked off the ground, the rush of warm wind hit her. The gardens spread out beneath them—green lawns, sculpted hedges, and the Malfoy white peacocks scattering in startled flight at their ascent. Persephone wobbled slightly before finding her rhythm, gliding toward the tall, makeshift goalposts that Flint had conjured.

The game began with Flint’s shout, and within seconds, it devolved into organized havoc. Bludgers rocketed past, the Quaffle sailed between players, and Draco streaked through the air with all the smug precision of someone born to fly.

Persephone held her ground as Keeper, her eyes sharp as the Quaffle came her way, a powerful throw from Montague heading straight for the ring behind her. The boys played rough—too rough, she thought—but she adapted quickly. When the ball swerved just out of reach, she narrowed her focus, extending her hand.

In that instant, deep in her mind, she gave a silent, wordless command. The Quaffle changed its course, curving an impossible degree toward her open palms.

She caught it cleanly.

The boys, consumed by the fight, failed to notice the magical nudge. Draco, however, who had been circling nearby in the Seeker pursuit, shot her a brief, knowing smirk.

“Nice save,” he called, his voice carried by the wind.

Persephone smirked back. “All skill, Malfoy.”

Nott whooped at the successful defense, flying by to give her a high five that left her hand stinging, none the wiser that Persephone had quietly cheated.

They played for hours, stopping only for short, hurried breaks to gulp down water or steal handfuls of the assorted finger foods Narcissa had left out. By the time the final, grueling game drew to a close, the afternoon sun hung low, gilding the gardens in honey and bronze. The air shimmered with warmth and laughter—the kind that came only after shared exhaustion and friendly rivalry.

Flint was already re-enacting his “winning” Seeker maneuver for the fifth time, gesturing wildly with his broom while Montague argued that his goal had saved the match entirely. Crabbe and Goyle celebrated their own victory with an awkward high-five, nearly dropping their bats in the process.

Draco dismounted, landing with effortless grace. His usually perfect hair was a tousled, sweat-dampened mess, strands plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed with exertion and satisfaction. “Not bad for your first proper game, Persephone,” he said, his voice hoarse from shouting.

“Not bad?” Persephone echoed, her broom wobbling slightly as she touched down beside him. She brushed the loose strands of hair from her eyes, smirking. “I seem to recall blocking practically every shot that came my way.”

He tilted his head, that infuriatingly smug smile curving his lips. “You cheated.”

“Prove it,” she shot back, her tone light but her eyes daring him to try.

Draco laughed—really laughed—and the sound caught her off guard. It was warm, unguarded, free of the arrogance he wore around everyone else.

“You’d make a decent Keeper, Persephone,” Bletchley called as he landed nearby, leaning casually on his broom. His voice held no teasing, only honest approval. “When I graduate, if you ever come to Hogwarts, you can take my spot.”

Persephone blinked in surprise, then grinned, a rare surge of pride warming her chest. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, trying to hide how much his praise meant.

Draco rolled his eyes, though the faint glint of something softer—admiration, maybe—lingered behind his smirk.

One by one, the boys trudged back toward the Manor, their voices carrying talk of food, rematches, and exaggerated tales of near-death Bludger encounters.

Persephone stayed behind a moment longer, the hum of the day still buzzing in her veins. Her arms ached, her hair was tangled, and she was a sweaty mess—but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this content.

Draco lingered just long enough to fall into step beside her. Their hands brushed lightly, then their fingers tentatively intertwined, settling into a comfortable grip as they walked toward the Manor. The silence between them was easy, filled only by the distant laughter of their friends and the soft rustle of the evening breeze.

For the first time in a long while, Persephone felt something entirely new settle within her: not the familiar weight of fear, nor the strain of proficiency, nor the chill of isolation, but the quiet, intoxicating relief of normalcy.

Chapter Text

The following week at Malfoy Manor drifted by like a dream—the kind of dream that felt both weightless and dangerously real. From the moment Persephone woke to the hour she fell asleep, Draco was a constant presence, a pull she couldn’t resist. He was everywhere — an ever-present shadow and light, threaded through every part of her day.

They were inseparable. If he wasn’t teasing her with that smug, infuriating grin, he was reaching for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers as though he couldn’t tolerate the distance of a single inch. Whenever they were alone—tucked away in the gardens, hidden behind the tall yew hedges, or wandering the quiet corridors—those fleeting touches turned into stolen kisses. They were soft and electric, leaving Persephone breathless and clinging to him, her world tilting just a little more off its axis.

With every glance, every shared smirk, every whispered word, she felt herself sinking deeper. The very things she used to find infuriating—his arrogance, his self-involved dramatics, the compulsive way he always had to be right—now felt endearing, even charming. His arrogance was confidence; his dramatics were passion. It was as though her entire world had shifted, reorienting itself to orbit him.

Draco, for his part, seemed to revel in being the center of her universe. His affection was constant and unrestrained: a hand always finding her waist, his lips softly brushing against her cheeks, an intimate whisper near her ear. What had once startled her soon became a comfort she craved. His presence grounded her, even as the rest of her life felt suspended in uncertainty.

Not everyone at the Manor shared their enthusiasm. Narcissa had tolerated the displays for several days with polite, strained restraint, but by the end of the week, her composure finally cracked.

She caught them one afternoon in the library — Draco’s arms wrapped around Persephone as he pressed her against a bookshelf, the two of them lost in a kiss that was far from innocent.

Narcissa raised an elegant brow and sighed, her voice clipping through the silence. “You two need to acquire some control.”

Draco merely grinned, entirely unbothered, pulling Persephone closer. “We’re just appreciating the literature, Mother.”

Persephone flushed, ducking her head as Narcissa placed her hands on her hips. “Draco, release her. Honestly.”

She muttered something under her breath about teenagers and a distinct lack of decency as she swept from the room.

That effortless affection, however, had its immediate boundaries. The only time Draco’s warmth truly receded was when his friends came to visit.

Around them, he slipped back into the role of the poised, confident Slytherin: detached, self-assured, and perpetually aloof. He wasn’t unkind to Persephone—quite the opposite—but the easy tenderness he showed her in private became something quieter, more guarded. The hand that would have been on her waist now rested on the back of her chair. The kisses were replaced with quick, watchful glances.

Still, he never truly strayed. Even while playing the host, Draco always manufactured reasons to linger near her—brushing past her shoulder, angling his body toward hers in a silent show of possession, making sure she was never left out of the conversation. Persephone noticed it every time: that subtle, protective instinct tucked neatly behind his cool, detached exterior, and it always brought a smile to her face.

Surprisingly, she found she didn’t mind when his friends came by. They filled the Manor with noise and movement, a welcome chaos that broke up the endless, heavy quiet that usually hung over its halls. Persephone began to feel what it was like to belong to a group—to have peers, to share laughter, to be surrounded by familiar voices instead of just books and shadows. She began to map the constellations of his inner circle, learning who to trust and who to watch.

Of Draco’s circle, she found herself drawn to Miles Bletchley most of all. His sense of humor teetered between wicked and absurd, and he could be sarcastic to the point of cruelty, but never toward her. His jokes were the only ones that could make even Draco crack a genuine smile. Beneath the easy banter, Persephone sensed a keen mind and a surprising warmth that made him one of the few boys she genuinely trusted.

She also grew fond of Theodore Nott. Theo was quiet and sharp, with an introspective calm that reminded her, faintly, of her father—though he was far less severe. He had a dry wit, spoke little, and listened intently. Most importantly, he always treated her like an equal, an intellectual peer, rather than just Draco’s girlfriend. They often found themselves deep in conversation about obscure magical theory or the books they’d both read, discussions that stretched well beyond what the others could follow.

Not all of Draco’s friends were as tolerable. Marcus Flint was as intimidating as he was blunt—all muscle, scowl, and Quidditch obsession. His constant, simmering need to prove himself made Persephone uneasy; she’d seen enough volatile tempers to recognize one bubbling just beneath the surface.

Graham Montague, on the other hand, seemed to have inherited every ounce of Draco’s arrogance without a single drop of his charm. His smirks were sharper, his jabs meaner. He was the kind of boy who enjoyed being the loudest in the room simply because he could be. 

As for Crabbe and Goyle, they were… simply there. Mostly silent, occasionally confused, and forever hovering like Draco’s personal bodyguards. Persephone didn’t dislike them—it was hard to dislike people who said so little—but they were hardly the kind of company she sought.

Still, amid the laughter and Quidditch talk, Persephone caught glimpses of something she had never truly known: the simple, reckless joy of youth.

Now more than ever, Persephone needed Hogwarts.

It wasn't a desire; it was a fundamental, desperate need.

Her friends were going. Draco was going. And she was once again being left behind in the echoing silence of the Manor. The thought of another year spent entirely alone while everyone else laughed, studied, and lived twisted her stomach into a knot she couldn't untie. She tried to maintain the cheerful facade, but as the summer drew to a close, the smile felt like a painful effort.

Draco, with his precise way of noticing everything about her, knew her moods better than anyone now. Every time her thoughts drifted toward the inevitable goodbye, he seemed to sense it—the way her voice would drop, or how her gaze would fixate on a distant, blank spot. He'd pull her close, his presence a temporary anchor, assuring her he'd write every day, that Christmas wasn't far, that it would all be fine.

But it didn't help. Not even a little.

The night before Draco was set to leave for Hogwarts, Persephone lay in bed, wide awake, her thoughts chasing themselves in circles. She tossed and turned, her pillow feeling like a rock. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Draco’s face — his smirk, his stupid perfect hair, the way he said her name like it was something precious.

Frustration boiled over into pure, white-hot misery. She slammed her face into the pillow and let out a strangled, guttural groan. The ache in her chest was no longer simply heavy; it was suffocating, threatening to crack her ribs. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

Screw the rules.

She flung the blankets off and slid out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. Consequences were irrelevant. She had to talk to her father. Maybe if she begged hard enough, maybe if she cried with enough desperation, he would finally understand the gravity of leaving her here.

Tiptoeing down the silent hallways, she made her way into the Manor’s sitting room. Everyone was asleep. Perfect. She grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder from the jar on the mantel, threw it into the fireplace, and whispered urgently,

“Hogwarts — Professor Snape’s office.”

The flames roared to a bright emerald green. Persephone dropped to her knees, took a shaky breath, and thrust her head straight into the fire. The heat was immediate, warm but harmless, until the familiar view of her father’s s dungeon office swam into sharp, flickering focus.

At first, the office looked empty—all dark corners and shadows dancing in the meager candlelight. She was about to pull back when she caught a flicker of movement near the workbench. Snape stood at a large, simmering cauldron, his back rigid, delicately sprinkling something into the potion.

“Dad—” she began, her voice raw.

Snape didn't just jump; he jolted as if struck by a high-powered Stupefy. The jar in his hand slipped, shattering violently against the stone floor. Glass fragments and the silver-green leaves of Wolfsbane scattered everywhere.

He spun around, his heart audibly pounding in the abrupt silence. His expression was a perfect mask of cold, controlled fury overlaid with true alarm.

“Persephone!” His voice was a low, filled with worry. “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

Persephone frowned, her voice already shaking.

“No, Dad. I am not okay.” Tears welled up, hot and unrelenting. “I have to go to Hogwarts this year! You have to let me go!”

Snape’s face tightened into a harsh mask. “I’ve specifically told you that you’re only allowed to use the Floo Network to reach me if it is an absolute emergency!”

“This is an emergency!” she snapped, her voice cracking. “If I don’t go to Hogwarts, I’ll die!”

Her words echoed brutally off the dungeon walls, her sobs rising like a haunting wail through the green flames.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not have time for your dramatics right now, Persephone.”

“You don’t understand, Dad!" She said, howling through her tears. "Draco is my life now! I... I’m in lo-o-ove with him!” 

Snape froze. Every muscle in his body went utterly rigid. His expression cycled through five rapid stages, starting with cold annoyance and ending with a look of profound, stomach-dropping horror.

Persephone hiccupped mid-sob, but powered through. “I’m being serious!”

Snape stared at her, disbelief written across every line of his face. “I thought I told you to make wise decisions, Persephone.”

“This is the wisest decision I’ve ever made in my life, dad!” she shot back.

He sighed deeply, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Merlin, save me.”

“I am done with this conversation,” he said finally, his voice slicing through the air like a cutting curse. “You are not coming to Hogwarts. You will return to your room this instant before I come through and drag you out of that hearth myself!”

Persephone’s anger exploded. She let out a frustrated scream that made the very air seem to vibrate. The fireplace shuddered violently, and a deluge of soot and fine ash rained down over her like black snow until she was completely blanketed.

Snape’s eyes went wide, a flicker of alarm—was that uncontrolled magic?—crossing his face. “Persephone!”

But before he could say anything else, the connection snapped. The flames flickered back to normal, leaving only silence in his office.

Back at the Manor, Persephone sat blinking through a face full of ash, furious, humiliated, and utterly desolate. She wiped at her eyes, creating thick, black streaks across her cheeks, and trudged upstairs.

She didn’t care if her father thought she was being dramatic—he would never understand. He didn’t know what it felt like to love someone that much.

He didn’t know what it felt like to be left behind.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Persephone woke with a pounding headache and eyes so swollen she looked like she'd lost a duel with her own pillow. She dragged herself into the shower, using the hot water to try and scrub away the sticky heaviness clinging to her from last night’s breakdown. After her shower she struggled into some clothes, before moving over to her vanity.

She was halfway through the delicate operation of fixing her hair when she caught sight of Draco leaning against the doorframe, a familiar, easy smirk tugging at his lips.

“Hey, you,” she managed, offering him a forced smile.

He looked annoyingly, impossibly perfect—crisp white shirt, black slacks, shoes polished to a mirror sheen, and his Slytherin tie knotted just so. His cloak hung carelessly over one shoulder, like he’d stepped straight off the cover of a school catalogue.

“You’re looking exceptionally handsome this morning,” she teased, trying to inject some lightness into the room.

Draco chuckled, crossing the space with that lazy, inherent confidence that always made her heart perform ridiculous flips. “Only for you, my love,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her temple.

He straightened and held up a stark white envelope. “This was outside your door.”

Her name was scrawled across the front in her father’s unmistakably sharp handwriting. Persephone groaned, taking the letter from him. “Oh, yay.”

She tore it open and skimmed the contents quickly. Of course, she'd been right—it was pure, distilled Snape. A full page of disappointment and icy fury. He scolded her for using the Floo Network for “an unnecessary emotional outburst,” reminded her (in ink that was fiercely underlined) that her attachment to Draco was “unhealthy and strategically unsound,” and ended by demanding she resume her Occlumency and Legilimency practice immediately, to prevent her “undisciplined emotions compromise her control.”

Persephone let out a long, shuddering, exasperated sigh. She crumpled the letter into a tight ball and sent it sailing straight into the wastebasket.

Draco, who had been casually inspecting the selection of perfumes on her vanity, glanced over. "Was that from your father?”

“He’s still mad about last night,” she said flatly, ruthlessly tugging her hair back into a high ponytail. “I begged him to let me come to Hogwarts. He said no—obviously. He probably thinks watching me suffer builds character.”

Draco’s smirk softened into a genuine frown. He understood her father better than most. “I’m sorry, my love. Truly.”

She shrugged, forcing a tiny, brittle smile. “It is what it is. I’m trying very hard not to think about it… otherwise, I’ll start to cry again, and you don't need that side of me.”

Draco reached out, his thumb brushing gently along her jawline, but she instinctively pulled her head back an inch, blinking hard. She didn't want him to see how precariously close she was to unraveling again.

Her father was right about one thing: she needed to control her emotions. The wild magic simmering under her skin had a terrifying way of reacting to every spike of anger or grief, like a volatile storm waiting to break loose. Right now, that storm was pressing against her ribs, begging for release.

She clenched her fists until her knuckles were white, forcing the feeling, the volatile energy, down. It felt like swallowing fire.

She hated it—the constant, agonizing need to bury how she felt. Why did her emotions have to be dangerous? Why couldn’t she just feel without fearing she might accidentally break the room?

Sometimes, when she locked everything away too tightly, she felt frighteningly hollow—like a Dementor drifting through her own life, cold and empty.

And yet, as she sat there, Draco's reflection hovering warm and steady behind hers in the mirror, his eyes focused entirely on her, she managed to hold herself together and offer him a small smile.

"Ready for breakfast, then?" she asked, standing up from her stool, wanting to change the subject.

He simply gave her a nod, his hand immediately finding the small of her back. They walked down to the kitchens together, murmuring their orders to the house-elves before taking their seats in the dining room.

Breakfast that morning felt painfully suspended in time.

Persephone sat quietly at the table, absently rearranging the untouched food on her plate, every clock tick a reminder of the inevitable separation. Across from her, Narcissa was in full motherly command—she double-checked Draco’s trunk list for the tenth time, offered severe lectures on appropriate posture, and constantly fussed with his hair as though he were still ten.

“You look so much more presentable with it slicked back, darling,” Narcissa insisted, trying to smooth his unruly blonde strands back with her fingers.

Draco ducked away from her hand, half-listening, his eyes already glazed over with practiced tolerance. The very instant Narcissa turned to address a house-elf, he gave an exaggerated, silent imitation of her fussing, his eyes rolling dramatically toward the ceiling.

Persephone snorted loudly into her hand, which she quickly dropped back into her lap when Lucius entered the dining room, the air shifting instantly, growing colder and denser.

Both Persephone and Draco straightened reflexively, pretending to find the patterns on their plates utterly fascinating as the older Malfoy crossed the room with his usual quiet, contained authority.

“The Portkey will be ready precisely at ten sharp,” Lucius announced, his tone smooth, commanding, and utterly final.

No one dared offer an argument.

After breakfast, Persephone followed Draco up to his elaborate bedroom to help him pack his owl—an exercise that proved, as always, to be an act of minor magical warfare.

Draco’s large eagle owl, an arrogant brute named Atlas, loathed confinement. The moment Draco approached with the leather-strapped travel cage, the bird puffed up its feathers to twice its size and let out an outraged, indignant screech.

“I swear he’s part demon,” Draco muttered, ducking quickly as the owl’s talons scraped the air inches from his ear.

“You’re the one who raised him to be a spoiled tyrant,” Persephone teased, reaching out to try and gently scoop the frantic bird, but Atlas merely flew straight through her outstretched arms in a flurry of feathers.

By the time they finally managed to wrestle the furious creature inside the cage, they were both slightly breathless and covered in faint scratches and feathers. Draco’s perfectly knotted tie was now crooked, Persephone’s hair was a mess again, and Atlas glared murderously at them from behind the bars, promising bloody revenge.

“Success,” Persephone gasped, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead.

“Barely,” Draco muttered, rubbing a small scrape on his forearm. “He’s going to murder me the minute I let him out at the castle.”

They shared a look—a blend of exasperation and exhausted amusement—before dissolving into shared laughter.

They headed downstairs, the light mood dissolving as they approached the sitting room. Lucius and Narcissa were already waiting, their presence heavy and solemn.

Sitting on the coffee table was an old, tattered copy of a muggle newspaper, its frayed edges faintly pulsing with a dull, bluish glow.

Persephone tilted her head. “That’s the Portkey?”

Lucius gave a sharp nod. “Indeed. It will activate any moment now.”

Narcissa turned to Draco for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. “Are you absolutely certain you have everything? Your winter cloak? The signed permissions?”

“Yes, Mother,” Draco sighed, dragging out the words with practiced, weary exasperation.

Lucius checked his pocket watch, his posture stiff and exact. “Gather round.”

Everyone circled the paper, its surface now throbbing with a stronger, insistent light. They each placed a hand down on the fragile newsprint. The familiar, dizzying pull arrived without warning, an invisible hook yanking them sharply off their feet. The Manor instantly spun away in a blurring vortex of colored light and rushing wind.

They landed hard in a narrow, dingy alleyway—the impact of the Portkey still buzzing in Persephone's bones. The air reeked faintly of city grime and exhaust fumes. The Ministry had set it up as a temporary transport station, marked only by a corner where a box was already overflowing with discarded Portkey junk.

Lucius dropped their old newspaper into the pile with a look of utter disgust, wiping his hands together as though the mere act of touching the paper had contaminated him.

“Disgraceful,” he muttered under his breath, his lip curling in palpable disdain.

The walk to King’s Cross Station was only a couple of blocks, but it felt much longer thanks to Lucius’s ongoing commentary. Every passing car, every billboard, and every bustling shopfront seemed to personally offend him.

“Barbaric contraptions,” he sneered, glaring at a row of parked cars. “No elegance, no sense of refinement—just noise and filth. A true eyesore.”

Persephone rolled her eyes when he practically recoiled at the sight of a homeless man playing a guitar on the corner. The tune was badly off-key, but something about the raw melancholy of it tugged at her. She wished she had some Muggle coins to give him.

Draco, of course, barely noticed the surroundings. His eyes were fixed ahead, eager, restless, and focused only on the final destination.

By the time they reached the brick barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, Persephone’s stomach had twisted itself into cold, tight knots. The sound of excited laughter and chatter hit her like a physical wave—families clustered together, students dragging heavy trunks, owls hooting from their cages.

And then there it was: the scarlet steam engine of the Hogwarts Express, gleaming in the morning light, all noise, smoke, magic, and intoxicating excitement.

Persephone’s throat tightened painfully. Watching the other students—hugging friends, waving to parents, shouting last-minute goodbyes—made her feel like she was standing on the wrong side of a glass wall. She was close enough to see everything she wanted, but forbidden from entering.

She bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to cry.

Draco must have sensed the exact moment she began to break. Without a word, he reached over and firmly squeezed her hand, grounding her. She squeezed back, taking in a deep breath before giving him a tight lipped smile.

Something across the platform caught his eye, because a smirk immediately spread across his face, and he shook his head with amusement.

Her eyes flicked over just in time to catch Miles Bletchley climbing aboard the train with such animation that he nearly knocked down a younger boy with his swinging trunk. He spotted her, grinned wide, and—predictably—flipped her off.

Persephone couldn't help it; a short, startled laugh escaped her before she flipped him off right back.

“Persephone!” Narcissa gasped, clutching her pearls as though she’d just witnessed a public scandal. “That’s not ladylike behavior!”

Draco snorted, quickly covering his own laughter with a forced cough.

Theodore Nott wasn't far behind Miles. Forcing his way through a group of what looked like first years. He caught Persephone's eye, giving her a small wave and a polite smile. Which she had returned.

Narcissa wrapped Draco in a tight, final hug, fussing over his hair one last time, trying to sweep the strands from his forehead, her eyes visibly glassy with emotion.

“Study hard, and for Merlin’s sake, write to me every week,” she said, her voice wavering dangerously.

His father merely nodded, his tone cool and final. “I expect nothing but excellence in your reports, Draco. Conduct yourself appropriately.”

Draco managing to escape his mother's arms gave his father a sharp nod.

Lucius glanced between his son and Persephone for a moment before taking Narcissa firmly by the arm, leading her a few steps away—presumably to give them a “moment”—Persephone silently thanked every star in the sky.

Draco turned to her, his silver eyes softer than she’d ever seen them. Then, without a word, he pulled her fiercely into his arms.

The kiss he gave her was deep and desperate—like he was trying to imprint the memory into her very bones. Her knees nearly gave out beneath the intensity. The train let out a sharp, cruel whistle, forcing them to pull apart, a violent reminder that their time was abruptly over.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek with aching tenderness.

Persephone nodded quickly, blinking back the sting. “I’ll be waiting,” she whispered, her voice barely a thread.

He leaned down until his lips brushed her ear, the warmth of his breath the last thing she felt.

“I love you, Seph.”

Before she could form a reply, he pressed one final, quick kiss to her cheek, grabbed his things and disappeared swiftly into the crowd of students surging onto the train.

It wasn't long before the train began to move, smoke hissing, the voices of departing students echoing into the rafters. Persephone stood frozen, watching until the very last scarlet carriage vanished from sight.

She only let two small, silent tears escape before ruthlessly wiping them away. No scenes. No weakness.

But as she turned from the platform, her chest felt suddenly, terribly hollow—like someone had quietly scooped out all the warmth and left only the chilling air behind.

When Persephone returned to Malfoy Manor, the silence didn't just meet her—it hit her like a physical weight, pressing the air from her lungs.

Lucius had already departed for the Ministry, leaving the house feeling both emptier and strangely cleaner. Narcissa drifted toward the kitchens, presumably in search of tea, but paused before she disappeared.

“Would you care to join me, dear?” she offered, her tone measured but gentle. “A cup might help take the edge off.”

Persephone shook her head, the movement tired and heavy. “No, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa simply nodded. “I know it’s difficult,” she said finally, her voice imbued with a rare, unexpected motherly kindness. “The first few days are always the hardest. But you’ll adjust again. You always do.”

Persephone tried to offer a reciprocating smile, but it felt thin and brittle on her lips. “Thank you.”

The stillness of the house was unbearable, pushing her up the grand staircase. Her footsteps echoed softly off the marble floors, amplifying the emptiness. When she reached her own door, she hesitated—and then kept walking, straight past her room and down the familiar corridor.

She stopped at Draco’s door.

For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the polished silver handle as if waiting for it to turn on its own. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, she pushed the door inward.

The room hit her with an immediate wave of familiarity: the faint, comforting scent of his cologne and broom polish. His bed was perfectly made, as the house-elves always ensured, but the sight of its flawless, empty perfection made her chest tighten painfully.

Persephone crossed the room and collapsed face-first onto the the duvet, burying her face deep into his pillow. It still held his scent—clean, sharp, and unmistakably, tragically Draco.

That was all the trigger required for her to break.

The tears came fast, hot, and messy, spilling into the pristine fabric as her shoulders convulsed. She cried until the edges of her thoughts blurred into nothingness, until exhaustion finally dragged her into an uneasy, feverish sleep.

When she woke again, the sunlight streaming through the drawn curtains was softer, shifting to a golden, late-afternoon glow. Someone was calling her name.

“Persephone?”

She blinked, sitting up groggily, instantly realizing she wasn’t in her own bed. Narcissa stood in the doorway, her expression kind but faintly amused.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” Narcissa said gently.

Persephone scrambled to her feet, cheeks flushed with humiliation. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” Narcissa interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “You miss him. That is perfectly natural.”

She crossed the room and handed Persephone a piece of thick parchment. “This just arrived. Your syllabus for the term. It seems Severus has decided to keep you… exceptionally busy.”

Persephone unrolled it, scanning the densely written list: Advanced Defensive Formations, Human Transfiguration, Complex Arithmancy, High-Level Potion Theory, and, of course, Legilimency.

Her stomach plummeted. “He’s punishing me.”

“No,” Narcissa said, her smile softening with a genuine warmth. “He’s giving you a focus. You are far too clever, dear, to waste your days sulking.”

Persephone managed a faint, sharp laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears. Narcissa’s gaze grew gentler still.

“Tell you what,” she said, looping her arm through Persephone’s. “Why don’t we go out for the afternoon? Some fresh air and a bit of shopping in Diagon Alley. It will feel better than staying cooped up in this room all day.”

For a moment, Persephone desperately wanted to say no—to stay in Draco’s room just a little longer, to cling to the fading warmth of his presence. But she knew Narcissa was entirely right.

She forced a small, genuine smile this time. “Okay. Shopping sounds…nice.”

As they walked down the corridor together, Narcissa’s heels clicking softly against the marble, Persephone glanced back over her shoulder one last time. Draco’s door was still open, the empty room beyond it lit by pale afternoon light.

The ache in her chest was still there — heavy and persistent — but she held on to Draco's lingering words, whispering it to herself like a promise.

You can do this, Persephone, she told herself. He’ll be back before you know it.

Chapter Text

The first few days after Draco’s departure were nothing short of miserable. The Manor, once filled with his ever-constant chatter, now felt impossibly quiet—like all the air had been sucked out of the rooms and replaced with cold, empty stillness. Persephone was desperate for her lessons with Narcissa, hoping the challenging work would provide the necessary distraction.

It wasn’t.

Her studies were undeniably advanced—her father, had ensured that—and Narcissa demanded a daunting mix of precision, control, and grace. Persephone could manage the difficulty of the spells; that wasn't the problem. What she couldn’t manage was the constant static in her head.

No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to Draco: What was he doing? Who was he with? Was he thinking about her? It was like trying to read a complicated textbook while someone whispered intoxicating gossip in her ear the entire time.

The worst, though, were the Legilimency lessons.

They demanded absolute, calm, unwavering focus—and Persephone was anything but calm. Narcissa was a patient teacher, gentle but firm, guiding her step by step through the process of building her mental defenses while simultaneously learning to slip into another’s mind undetected.

But it was maddening.

“How am I supposed to keep my walls up,” Persephone groaned one afternoon, pushing her hair back in frustration, “if I also have to lower them just enough to see inside someone else’s?”

“It’s not about lowering them,” Narcissa explained in her usual smooth, collected tone. “It’s about learning where the cracks are—and deciding which ones you let light through.”

It sounded annoyingly poetic. It also made Persephone want to scream.

The real difficulty was that Narcissa’s mind wasn’t exactly neutral territory. Every time Persephone managed to reach through the veil of her consciousness, she was bombarded by flashes of Draco—his smile, his voice, his face at different ages. Narcissa thought about her son constantly, her worry threaded through every thought like fine, gold embroidery. Every time his image appeared, Persephone’s focus shattered.

The mental exhaustion built day by day until she could barely keep her eyes open at dinner. Her head ached, her magic felt dangerously strained, and she’d begun to dread every lesson, knowing how much of her inner self it would take just to fail.

By the fourth day, she sank into her chair after class, her face buried in her hands. “I can’t do this,” she muttered. “It’s like trying to hold my breath and breathe at the same time.”

From across the room, Narcissa’s voice floated softly but firmly. “You can and you will, Persephone.”

Persephone lifted her head, frustrated tears pricking her eyes. “You sound just like my dad.”

“Then perhaps you should listen to him more,” Narcissa replied with a faint, knowing smile.

Persephone managed a tired laugh that faded quickly. She felt utterly drained—not from the magic, but from the brutal effort of keeping herself together. Every mental wall she built felt fragile, ready to crumble the second her emotions slipped through.

When Atlas, Draco’s owl, arrived one crisp morning, swooping gracefully through the tall dining room window and landing neatly beside Persephone’s plate, her heart leapt with immediate, intense relief.

“Finally,” she whispered, instantly untying the thick envelope from the bird’s leg.

The handwriting on the front—elegant, looping, and distinctly overconfident—made her smile before she even broke the seal.

She unfolded the letter, and several more sheets came tumbling out—three full pages, written furiously, front and back, in his dramatic hand.

He started, of course, with his favorite nemesis, Harry Potter, expressing morbid joy that Potter had passed out on the train from a Dementor attack.

By the second paragraph, Persephone was fighting to contain her laughter.

Apparently, Draco had barely survived his first Care of Magical Creatures class. His retelling was nothing short of a theatrical tragedy, complete with "razor-sharp talons," "a savage beast of the sky," and a "reckless half-giant" who, according to Draco, "clearly has a vendetta against Slytherins." He ranted about the blatant favoritism shown to Potter, who was "allowed to ride the monstrous beast," while he had been unjustly attacked.

He described in excruciating detail how he had only just escaped with his life—“a miracle of grace and quick thinking,” as he put it—though the three pages of complaints confirmed the danger was, at best, a minor exaggeration used for maximum effect.

She finished the letter with her sides aching; she hadn't laughed so freely since he left. She was still beaming when Lucius swept into the room.

The sight of her amusement stopped him cold. “What’s so amusing?” he asked sharply.

Persephone quickly tucked the pages back into the envelope. “Draco wrote me. He had a bit of… an accident at Hogwarts.”

Lucius’s expression darkened instantly. “Accident?”

“He’s fine!” she assured him. “Apparently, there was a—um—Hippogriff involved.”

That name alone sent Lucius pacing, his voice rising sharply. “Outrageous! They allow dangerous beasts to roam! Dumbledore’s incompetence knows no bounds! And Hagrid—that half-bred fool—”

He stopped himself, nostrils flaring. Narcissa entered just in time to hear the end. She gave a long-suffering sigh. “He’s fine, Lucius. I received a report from Madam Pomfrey; it’s merely a scratch.”

Lucius fell silent, muttering darkly about “reckless negligence.” Persephone merely smirked, placing the envelope into her pocket. His dramatic words were a precious, tangible piece of him, and for now, that connection was more than enough.

In early November, the wind howled through the Manor’s chimneys, and the fire in the sitting room had burned low. Persephone was preparing for bed when a sharp tapping came at the window.

She glanced up to see Atlas looking thoroughly annoyed by the weather. She hurried to open the latch, letting the bird swoop in with a dignified huff before it dropped a thick envelope. Draco’s writing sprawled across the parchment. She already knew she was in for a story.

The first few lines made her sit up straighter. Just as her father had warned, Sirius Black had broken into Hogwarts.

Draco’s version of events, of course, read like a thrilling tale of personal inconvenience. He described how Dumbledore had ordered every student to sleep in the Great Hall “like cattle,” a detail Draco seemed particularly offended by, complaining bitterly about his sore back from the hard floor. He wrote about the Fat Lady’s portrait being slashed to ribbons—“a rather grotesque display, though artistically impressive in its execution”—and speculated Black had been after Potter.

Typical Draco—even amid a near-tragedy, he managed to sound disappointed.

“I was so close to having my prediction about Potter being dead before Christmas come true,” he wrote. “But we still have forty-seven days left, so it could still be a possibility.”

Persephone sighed, shaking  her head, half-amused, half-exasperated.

The rest of the letter shifted gears entirely, diving into his next favorite subject: Quidditch.

He described the first match of the season—or, rather, the match that should have been. According to him, Slytherin had been set to play Gryffindor, but thanks to “unfavorable weather” (and his "still-recovering injury"), Flint had petitioned for a delay. Persephone rolled her eyes so hard it hurt; that “injury”—a small cut—had healed weeks ago.

But Draco, undeterred by facts, painted himself as the brave, convalescing hero robbed of glory by poor timing.

He then went on, with extreme enthusiasm, about the replacement match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff—specifically the moment when Harry Potter fainted mid-game. Draco’s glee practically bled through the parchment.

“Potter went down like a sack of galleons. The Dementors didn’t even touch him—just the sight of them, and poof! Out cold. Of course, Gryffindor lost the match, and his broom was obliterated by the Whomping Willow. Best Quidditch match of my life.”

Persephone smirked. She could practically hear his smugness in every word.

Near the bottom was the last bit Persephone always looked forward to: a brief paragraph about how terribly he missed her and how he longed to have her back in his arms with the promise of seeing her soon, signed with a “Love, Draco.”

For a few minutes, as she reread the last part, smiling to herself, she allowed the wave of longing to wash over her.

She folded the parchment neatly, tucking it away in the drawer in her desk where she kept all of Draco’s letters. Each one was a window into his world—full of arrogance, humor, and a bit of chaos—and she cherished them all.

The weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays seemed to move just a little faster—not quite racing, but gliding forward with a steady, quiet rhythm that Persephone clung to.

When she wasn’t completely buried in her advanced studies or rereading Draco’s latest letter for the hundredth time, she was helping Narcissa prepare for the festivities. The Manor was slowly transformed, bit by bit: garlands of evergreen draped heavily along the bannisters, silver ribbons trailing like delicate frost, and the constant, faint scent of pine and cinnamon filling the cold air.

Persephone found herself enjoying the preparation more than she expected. Narcissa loved to decorate and shop—an art she approached with her usual impeccable poise and precision. She could spend hours in Diagon Alley selecting the exact shade of lavender candle or debating which ribbon color best complemented the ancestral winter china set.

At first, Persephone had only gone along out of politeness, but soon she began to genuinely look forward to those outings. Narcissa never treated her like a child or a burden; she spoke to her as though she were an equal, sometimes even her confidante.

They'd walk arm-in-arm down the cobbled streets, their cloaks fluttering in the crisp December wind, stopping for steaming coffee and warm pastries when their hands grew cold. Persephone would listen as Narcissa reminisced about Draco’s childhood—intimate, embarrassing stories that made Persephone laugh and would have utterly infuriated Draco if he knew his mother was sharing them.

Persephone didn’t fully understand why she found such deep comfort in Narcissa’s company. Maybe it was because she was growing up, and some part of her longed for the familiar warmth of a mother’s subtle guidance—something her own lonely life had never truly offered. Or maybe it was simply because Narcissa was Draco’s mother, and being near her felt like anchoring herself to a tangible piece of him.

Whatever the reason, Persephone realized she didn’t feel quite as hollow as she once had.

The acute ache of missing Draco was still there—it always would be—but it no longer swallowed her whole. Between the relentless focus of her lessons, the easy laughter shared with Narcissa over too many shopping bags, and the festive twinkle of winter lights across the Manor, Persephone was beginning to feel something almost foreign.

She was beginning to feel okay. She was healing, not by forgetting him, but by building a life that could exist, strong and purposeful, even in his absence.

Chapter Text

The day had finally arrived. Draco was coming home.

Persephone had been counting the hours—literally. She’d worn a path into the rug pacing back and forth, glancing at the clock as though her sheer willpower could accelerate time. Her heart was hammering so loudly she almost didn’t hear the soft, distinctive pop of apparition echoing from the entrance hall.

She didn’t think. She ran.

Her feet nearly slid out from under her as she vaulted down the marble staircase. Draco barely had time to set down his heavy trunk before she launched herself into his arms, the force of the collision knocking the breath out of both of them. He let out a startled, delighted laugh, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Merlin, Seph,” he managed between chuckles, “trying to kill me before I can even take my cloak off?”

She ignored him, peppering his jaw and cheek with small, desperate kisses between gasps of laughter and relief. “I missed you—so much.”

Narcissa, who had been watching, smiled softly and slipped away, granting them the privacy they desperately needed.

Draco chuckled again, gently brushing his nose against hers before kissing her properly—slow, warm, and utterly familiar, like a home she’d long awaited. When they finally parted, he looked around the grandly decorated sitting room and smirked.

“So, you and my mother went completely mad this year?” he teased, eyeing the abundance of silver ribbons and sparkling candles.

Persephone laughed. “Your father said the same thing. He nearly had a fit when he saw that we added a Christmas tree to every room.”

“That sounds about right,” Draco grinned, taking her hand and pulling her toward the stairs. “Now I’m terrified to see what my room looks like.”

“You should be,” Persephone said mischievously, taking the lead. “I personally decorated your tree myself.”

“Oh, then I’m sure I’ll love it,” he deadpanned with mock dread.

She pushed open his door open once they reached his room with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da!”

Draco froze, taking in the sight. His tree towered near the window, decked out in gleaming silver and emerald ribbons. Silver tinsel cascaded like waterfalls down the branches, and tiny enchanted Quidditch players—the entire miniature Irish National Quidditch team—zoomed in endless loops among the glittering fairy lights that Persephone had charmed to sparkle like stars.

She turned to him expectantly. “Well?”

He blinked, forcing a grin that was just a bit too tight. “Yeah, Seph. You did a brilliant job.”

She narrowed her eyes knowingly but let it slide, laughing. “Don’t lie, Malfoy. I can tell it’s far too festive for your delicate aesthetic.”

He laughed properly this time, pulling her close. “Maybe. But you made it. So it’s perfect.”

Before he could protest further, Persephone grabbed his hand again. “Come on, you have to see my room.”

He followed her, curious—and promptly stopped dead in the doorway.

Her bedroom had been transformed. The ceiling shimmered with a perfect illusion of the bright blue sky over Hogwarts, complete with gently falling snow that dissolved before it could touch the top of their heads. The soft, luminous glow of enchanted blue frost lit up the walls, and the air carried the faint, fresh scent of pine and vanilla.

Draco tilted his head back, staring in disbelief. “How in the bloody hell did you manage that?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Persephone said casually, clearly proud. “Atmospheric Mimicry Charm, layered with runic wards to stabilize the illusion, then a few aesthetic spells for effect.”

He blinked at her. “You what?”

She shrugged. “I was going to do this to your room too but, I figured it would be a bit too much.”

Draco shook his head, still gazing up. “Remind me never to underestimate you again. My mother’s turning you into a one-witch storm.”

Persephone smiled faintly. “Hopefully my father thinks the same. I’m still a disaster at Legilimency.”

Draco took her hand and squeezed it gently. “You’ll get it. You always do.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, sprawled on the rug by the fireplace, trading stories and laughter. Draco filled her in on everything he hadn’t mentioned in his letters—rumors, Quidditch drama, the ridiculous escapades of Potter and his friends. Persephone listened, occasionally teasing him for his flair for exaggeration, but secretly she was just happy to hear his voice again. They laid there hands intertwined, basking in the simple comfort of being together again—like no time had passed at all.

Within days, they’d slipped right back into their rhythm — together from morning till night, finishing each other’s sentences, constantly teasing, constantly touching.

One lazy afternoon, they sat across from each other in the sitting room, finishing up a game of wizard’s chess between them. The fireplace crackled, the scent of pine and smoke lingering in the air.

Draco leaned back on his hands, frowning. “Remind me why I agree to play this game with you?” Draco muttered, watching as Persephone's Rook demolished his Knight.

“Because losing to me is your favorite hobby,” Persephone said sweetly, swiping the chunks of his obliterated Knight of the board. “Checkmate.”

He groaned. “It’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Malfoy,” Persephone shot back.

Draco laughed. “You sound exactly like your father.”

She laughed, scrunching up her nose at the thought.

"Speaking of my father," She began. "How has he been treating you at school?"

She loved these moments with Draco — hanging out, listening to his constant chatter as he talked about his classes, the professors, friends, even his homework.

Her own studies came up eventually, as they always did. She sighed, poking at a stray chess piece. “I’m still terrible at Legilimency. I hate it. It’s so stupid.”

Draco looked intrigued. “What exactly are you supposed to do?”

“It’s kind of like Occlumency, but reversed. Instead of blocking, you’re trying to get in,” she explained.

He raised a brow. “Wait — so you can see my thoughts?”

Persephone gave a helpless shrug. “Sometimes. Not on purpose, but it happens. That’s why my father’s so obsessed with me learning control.”

“No wonder you always beat me at chess,” he joked.

“I’m sorry,” she said through laughter, dodging the decorative pillow he tossed at her. “But honestly, your mind is an open door. It’s practically inviting me in.”

“Oh, really?” Draco leaned forward, a challenge glinting in his eyes. “Then teach me. I want to see if I can block you out.”

“Fine,” she sighed in mock defeat. “Step one: stop thinking. And create a mental barrier—like closing a door in your head.”

He smirked. “Should be easy enough.”

He closed his eyes, his face scrunching in concentration. She laughed lightly, letting her mind brush against his. The connection came easily—too easily. Images flickered: the dementor on the train, the beating of wings from a Hippogriff, a brief flash of pain — the tiny cut on his arm which made Persephone smirk. And then—

A girl.

A girl she didn’t recognize, leaning over Draco’s bandaged arm, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, concern clouding her eyes.

The image vanished as Draco violently shoved her out of his mind. Persephone gasped, the connection snapping like a rubber band.

Her eyes narrowed. “Who was that?” she asked, her voice sharp with sudden, hot jealousy. “And why was she touching you like that?”

Draco blinked, thrown by her tone. “Oh, her? Just some girl from my House. She’s a bit of a weirdo. Follows me around like a lost Kneazle.”

Persephone narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. The unease twisted in her stomach, hot and ugly.

Draco sighed, leaning forward and gently framing her face in his hands. “Persephone. Stop. You have nothing to worry about, alright? You know I love you.”

He kissed her softly, slow enough to melt her anger for just a moment. When he pulled away, she nodded, forcing a small smile. “Okay,” she whispered. "I believe you."

But as he turned back to the chessboard, Persephone’s fingers stayed clenched in her lap. She fiercely threw up her own mental barriers, blocking the image from her mind. She would not ruin this relationship with jealousy; she had no reason not to trust him. He’s been nothing but good to her.

Christmas morning came faster than Persephone expected. The days leading up to it had blurred together in a haze with Draco — time always seemed to bend when he was near.

She was in a deep sleep when suddenly her blankets were ripped away.

“Persephone! Wake up, it’s Christmas!” Draco chirped.

She groaned, curling into a tight ball, trying to stay warm. “Draco—”

But he was already laughing, shaking her shoulder. “Come on,” he coaxed, grinning down at her. “Don’t you want to open your gifts?”

She cracked one eye open, scowling half-heartedly. Then, quick as a flash, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him down onto the bed with her.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbled, snuggling against his chest. His body was warm, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. Within moments, she started drifting back to sleep.

Draco chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Seph,” he murmured, “you’re snoring.”

“I am not,” she mumbled burying her face into his side.

He grinned. “You absolutely are. And loudly.”

Her head shot up. “Liar!”

He laughed again, dodging the pillow she tried to smack at him. “Alright, alright—But don’t you want to see what I got you?”

That did it. She bolted upright, her sleepy scowl melting into a grin. “Yes!”

She jumped off the bed and sprinted toward the door, giggling. Draco chased after her, both of them nearly slipping down the marble stairs as their laughter echoed through the Manor.

The sitting room looked like a holiday dream, with a mountain of silver and green gifts beneath the enormous tree. Narcissa sat gracefully on the couch, while Lucius pretended to read the Daily Prophet, subtly watching their childish excitement.

They both dropped to their knees in front of the enormous tree and began ferociously tearing through their gifts. Shouts of appreciation and delighted laughter punctuated the air as they admired their new possessions.

Persephone finally found the one she had been looking for, a small box addressed from Draco.

She tore through the paper eagerly and gasped. Inside was a silver ring — identical in design to Draco’s Slytherin crest ring, but smaller, more delicate. She slipped it onto her finger; it fit perfectly.

“Aw, Draco…” she whispered, holding her hand up to the light. The silver glinted against her skin. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I love it! Thank you.”

“I figured if we can’t be together at school, you should have something to remember me by,” he said, smugly pleased.

Draco dug through the remaining pile until he unearthed his gift from her—a rectangular box wrapped simply in silver paper. He peeled the wrapping open, forcing his expression into a polite mask so as not to hurt her feelings. “It’s… a journal?” he asked, his tone betraying a hint of confusion.

“And a quill." she said with a laugh. "Write something...it doesn't need ink, but that's not the cool part.”

He glanced at her suspiciously but obeyed, opening the cover and writing a single word: Hello.

“Now watch this,” she said, disappearing for a moment. Narcissa gasped softly at the sudden Disapparition, but Persephone reappeared seconds later, holding an identical journal.

When she opened hers, Draco’s handwriting shimmered across the page, glowing faintly in metallic ink.

His eyes widened. “Wait—how did—”

“Now,” Persephone said, smirking, “we don’t have to wait for owls anymore. Whatever you write in yours shows up in mine instantly. And vice versa.”

She picked up her quill, drew a small heart, and a moment later Draco’s journal glowed slightly, he opened to the first page revealing the same heart on his page.

He looked between her and the journal, utterly astonished. “Where did you get this?”

“I made it,” she said proudly. “Charmed them myself.”

Draco shook his head, grinning in disbelief. “You’re a bloody genius, you know that?”

“I know,” she teased, leaning in to steal another kiss.

Across the room, Narcissa hid a smile, while Lucius muttered something about “overly sentimental teenagers,” though the faintest trace of amusement crossed his features. Among the elegant boxes, Persephone found a new book from her father—Theoretical Applications of Magical Focus—and, unexpectedly, a small, polished portable radio, a clear sign he wanted his old one back.

After spending the late morning putting away their new treasures, Persephone and Draco got dressed for the day. They spent the afternoon playing games, opening enchanted Christmas crackers that filled the room with music and glittering bursts of light, and sneaking more sweets than either would admit to Narcissa.

By the time dinner rolled around, Snape arrived right on time—silent, composed, and wrapped in his black robes. Persephone ran to him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

“Thank you for the gifts, Dad! I love the radio—and the book will come in good use!” she said, smiling up at him.

Snape hesitated, then returned her hug, stiff but genuine. “I thought you might appreciate something to keep you company,” he said quietly.

When she proudly showed him the silver ring Draco had given her, he blinked, his expression unreadable. “Lovely,” he drawled, though she thought she caught a flicker of approval.

“This is for you!” she said eagerly, handing him a large, neatly wrapped box.

Snape stared at it for a moment before he unwrapped it with careful precision. Inside was a sleek black cauldron lined with delicate silver runes.

“It’s self-stirring,” Persephone explained quickly, bouncing on her toes. “And it adjusts the temperature automatically depending on the potion you’re brewing!”

For once, his stern expression softened into something resembling pride. “Thank you, Persephone. This is… perfect.”

Her grin nearly split her face.

Dinner began pleasantly enough. The table gleamed with silverware and candlelight, the scent of roasted pheasant and spiced potatoes filling the air. Narcissa kept conversation light, while Draco provided commentary about Hogwarts: Quidditch, the Dementors, and how “utterly hopeless” the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was. To Persephone’s surprise, her father actually nodded in firm agreement at that last point.

Lucius, meanwhile, chimed in now and again with his sharp, calculated remarks, while Narcissa steered the conversation with grace. Persephone tried to enjoy herself — and she did, mostly — though every time Snape’s gaze flicked toward her and Draco laughing quietly together, she sat up straighter, her fork suddenly much more interesting than her meal.

Draco, of course, didn’t help matters. Beneath the table, his hand brushed her knee every so often, and every time Snape’s brow twitched in quiet disapproval, Draco’s grin only widened. Persephone had to bite back her smile.

When the last course had been cleared, Snape rose. “I should be returning to the castle,” he said, his tone curt but not unkind.

“Already?” Persephone asked, disappointed.

“Students don’t stop misbehaving for Christmas,” he replied, the faintest hint of humor in his voice.

She hugged him again. As the sound of his departure faded and the firelight flickered across the dining room, Persephone felt a rare warmth—the quiet satisfaction of knowing her two worlds, and the people she loved, had successfully overlapped for one perfect evening.

Chapter Text

The winter holidays ended far too soon. Saying goodbye to Draco was hard—it always was—but this time, it wasn’t unbearable. Now, she had their enchanted journals. Whenever she could, she’d write to him, filling pages with stories about her lessons, her thoughts, or whatever ridiculous thing she had done that day. His replies always came quickly, scrawled in his familiar handwriting, teasing her or detailing the chaos of Hogwarts life. The little silver ring on her finger had become her anchor—a solid, comforting reminder that she wasn’t truly alone.

Persephone fell back into her routine with Narcissa, her lessons resuming in full swing, more demanding than ever.

Human Transfiguration quickly became her favorite. She was learning appearance alteration—subtle, cosmetic shifts to one’s physical form. It started simply: changing her hair color to vibrant shades of violet or turquoise, sprinkling temporary freckles across her cheeks, or shifting her eye color to vivid gold. Narcissa disapproved of the "outlandish" colors, but secretly seemed impressed by how effortlessly Persephone managed the complex spellwork. The effects were temporary, fading after a few hours, but it thrilled her all the same. There was something profoundly freeing about it—bending her reflection to her will, seeing herself become someone new, even just for a little while.

Legilimency, on the other hand, was still a nightmare.

Even after finishing her father’s dense, soul-draining tome on the subject, she couldn't maintain focus for long. The harder she tried to command her mind, the more it rebelled. Every session left her mentally pulverized, her temples throbbing with the sheer effort of control. Sometimes, by accident, she managed to breach Narcissa's primary defenses—flashes of thought, like sharp glimpses through a thick fog—but the intrusion lasted only seconds before Narcissa's powerful shove snapped her connection, shattering her concentration.

It was infuriating.

Narcissa remained endlessly patient. “Control comes with calm,” she would remind her gently. “Emotion clouds precision. If you are desperate to succeed, you already fail.”

But that was the problem—Persephone was, fundamentally, all emotion.

The newest lesson made things even worse. Narcissa had begun teaching her the art of mental alteration—planting false memories in another’s mind. It was complex, dangerous magic that required terrifying control, and Persephone loathed it. The very thought of twisting someone’s reality made her stomach turn with moral aversion.

Still, Narcissa insisted she learn it. “Power unused is power wasted,” she said, watching Persephone with a steady gaze. “Better to understand the mind’s defenses and offenses than fall victim to them.”

So Persephone kept trying. Day after day, she pushed herself—to still her mind, to open it, to command it. She could wield temporary beauty with just a thought, but she couldn't silence the turmoil inside her head.

Legilimency continued to elude her. It was the one skill she couldn’t conquer—and the one thing her father cared about most. That knowledge burned more than any failed spell, settling in her chest as a cold, heavy burden of failure.

February arrived, bringing with it gray skies, bitter winds, and Persephone’s first real fight with Draco.

It started innocently enough—a new message glowing softly in her enchanted journal one morning. She opened it eagerly, smiling at the familiar scrawl, only for that smile to drop like a stone the second she read the first line.

You’ll never believe it, Seph—that bloody hippogriff is finally going to be executed! Father says justice will be served—

Her blood went cold.

By the time she reached the end of his message, her hands were shaking violently. Persephone reread the paragraphs, hoping she’d misunderstood. But no—Draco had written, paragraph after paragraph, about how "reckless" and "dangerous" the creature had been, detailing how "it got what it deserved."

That was it.

Persephone slammed the journal shut so hard it rattled the perfume bottles on her vanity.

How could he celebrate that? Over a simple scratch?

She paced the room furiously, her emotions boiling over—sadness, disbelief, and a growing sense of disgust. She was an animal lover through and through; from Flobberworms to Unicorns, she adored them all, even the so-called dangerous ones. She couldn't fathom anyone taking pleasure in a creature's death, particularly one that had only acted out of pure instinct. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and slowly exhaled, fighting to calm herself; she could feel the volatile magic inside her beginning to vibrate through her bones. She absolutely could not afford to lose control and regret doing something reckless.

So, channeling that dangerous energy, she wrote him back.

It wasn’t a calm letter. It wasn’t even coherent. It was raw and sharp, filled with words she instantly regretted and then justified all over again. She told him how horrible it was to wish death on a creature who was merely acting out of instinct. She told him he was being cruel—heartless—and that maybe he should think for himself instead of merely parroting his father’s bile.

Then she slammed the journal shut again and shoved it deep into her wardrobe.

It wouldn’t stop glowing.

The light pulsed like a frustrated heartbeat from behind the wardrobe door, an insistent, rhythmic reminder of him, of the fight, of how stubbornly furious she still was. She refused to look at it. She needed space—from him, from his careless words, and from the deep ache that came every time she thought of their fundamental difference in values.

Two days later, on Valentine’s Day, she woke to a bouquet of wildflowers sitting on her nightstand—a beautiful, chaotic arrangement of colors that didn’t match in the slightest but somehow looked perfect together.

She plucked the small, handwritten note from between the stems.

Persephone,
I’m sorry. I was thoughtless. You’re right. But I’m trying. Please forgive me. I love you.
— Yours always, Draco

Persephone stared at the note for a long time. Her anger hadn’t completely vanished—the hurt was still sharp—but it dulled, replaced by the crushing ache of missing him.

She sighed, rolling out of bed and finally pulling the glowing journal out from under the pile of clothes she had draped over it. It nearly blinded her, shimmering gold from the dozens of messages he’d written since their fight. She didn’t read them. Not yet.

Instead, she flipped to a clean page and wrote a short message.

Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
I won’t forgive you. But I still love you. And I miss you.

When the ink shimmered and sank into the page, she closed the journal and placed it gently on her bedside table, allowing the faint, comforting glow to finally settle. The distance was bridged, though the argument still lingered—a fragile truce bought by wildflowers and honest confession. Their journals became a lifeline again.

It started slow — cautious messages at first, tentative and brief.

Morning. Hope your lessons aren’t killing you.
Barely surviving. Send help.

Then the teasing crept back in.

I’d send help, as soon as you tell your father to lay off the homework.
Two rolls of parchment on Undetectable Poisons, it’s madness.

They wrote like that for hours sometimes, long after midnight — pages of playful bickering, sarcastic commentary on Hogwarts gossip, and occasional glimpses of something softer between the lines.

Persephone could tell he was trying to make up for the fight. He asked about her lessons every day, told her she was “the most brilliant witch he’d ever met,” and even pretended to be interested in Legilimency theory. She still hadn’t forgiven him completely — but the hurt was fading, slowly replaced by the familiar warmth of their connection.

By early March, she realized she was smiling again when the journal glowed.

And then, one afternoon, the words appeared hastily across her page — blotchy, uneven, as though written in a rush:

You’ll never believe what just happened.

She grinned.

What did Potter do now?

Not Potter. Worse. That filthy little Mudblood Granger punched me.

She blinked at the ink. Then, slowly, a wicked smile tugged at her lips.

Draco Lucius Malfoy, don't you dare use that word! She punched you?

In the face! Draco wrote furiously. Blood everywhere! How dare she make me bleed my own blood—

Persephone burst out laughing, clutching the journal to her chest. She waited a beat before responding.

Well, I’d say it was well deserved.

You’re supposed to be on my side!

I am. But I can’t get in the way of karma.

There was a long pause before the next line appeared, his handwriting slightly messier than usual.

You’re awful.

You love me.

Unfortunately.

She could almost hear him saying it — that familiar mix of exasperation and affection.

And just like that, the tension between them finally broke.

From that day on, their messages flowed easily again. They went back to teasing, to sharing secrets, to being exactly what they were — two halves of a chaotic, inseparable bond.

Spring came softly to Malfoy Manor, carried on a breeze that smelled faintly of lilacs and earth.

The last of the snow had long melted, and Persephone’s lessons had grown even more rigorous. Between Narcissa’s relentless curriculum and the stack of assignments her father had mailed, she hardly had a moment to herself. Every spare hour was spent with her nose buried in dense, complex texts.

The end-of-term exams loomed, and with them, the crushing weight of her father’s impossible expectations. Persephone felt confident in most of her subjects—Transfiguration, Potions, even the complex theory behind magical wards. But Legilimency still refused to yield to her will.

Her control had improved; she could feel it. The walls of her mind no longer splintered as easily, and she could skim the surface of another’s thoughts without immediately losing focus. But true precision—stealth—continued to elude her. Every attempt left her drained, frustration simmering hot beneath her skin.

Until one bright afternoon in May.

They were in Narcissa’s private study, the windows thrown open to let in the soft, soothing hum of bees from the garden below. Narcissa sat serenely at her writing desk, reviewing notes, while Persephone stood across the room, feeling the familiar tension mount.

“Again,” Narcissa said gently, without looking up. “This time, balance your emotions. You mustn’t push—just flow.”

Persephone took a slow, steadying breath, consciously lowering her guard and letting her mind stretch outward. She could feel the edges of Narcissa’s thoughts—calm, graceful, and ordered, just like every other aspect of her life.

She imagined her consciousness as clear water, slipping through the smallest cracks, seeping into the quiet, forgotten spaces. And for the first time, Narcissa didn't flinch. She didn't pause. She didn't sense the intrusion. Persephone was in.

The images she saw were clear and bright—Narcissa’s thoughts turning idly toward the gardens, the soft flutter of satisfaction as she considered which flowers to plant for summer: hydrangeas, peonies, maybe a new patch of belladonna near the fountain.

It was the perfect, fleeting opportunity. Persephone concentrated fiercely, threading the desired illusion delicately through Narcissa’s consciousness.

She replaced the sunlight in Narcissa’s mind with the chilling sensation of drifting snow.

The result was instantaneous and dramatic. Narcissa gasped, her pen clattering onto the desk. “Snow? But I thought—” she murmured, glancing toward the sunlit window in total disbelief.

She hurried over, peering out—only to find the world outside as bright and green as ever.

When she turned back, Persephone was standing there with a sheepish grin and flushed cheeks, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

For a heartbeat, Narcissa only stared. Then, slowly, a genuine, powerful smile curved her lips.

“Well done, Persephone. Truly excellent.”

The praise, quiet and sincere, filled Persephone with more warmth than any spell she’d ever cast. For once, the crushing mental exhaustion was replaced with an overwhelming sense of triumph. She had done it. Finally.

As Narcissa went back to her desk, muttering something under her breath about needing a strong cup of tea, Persephone allowed herself a small, deep laugh. The most difficult wall had finally fallen.

The moment Persephone finished her final exams in June, the entire Manor seemed to exhale, settling into a blessedly calm quiet.

For the first time in months, there were no lessons waiting, no spell charts scattered across her desk, and no endless, dense reading lists from her father. There was just sunshine, quiet, and a profound sense of freedom.

She’d taken full advantage of it—lounging deep in the gardens with her shoes off, her toes buried in the cool grass, enjoying the rare peace that follows relentless studying. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of lilacs and Narcissa’s carefully arranged rose beds.

Persephone closed her eyes, letting herself drift—until a soft, insistent golden glow began pulsing beside her.

Her journal.

She instantly sat up, a grin already spreading across her face. She carried the enchanted book everywhere, just in case Draco decided to write, and now the pages shimmered with his familiar scrawl.

You’ll never believe what Professor Snape just told us.

She leaned over the book, biting her lip to suppress a smile as she read on, completely focused on the metallic script.

He dropped the biggest bombshell the Slytherin common room has ever heard. Turns out our dear Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Lupin—was a BLOODY WEREWOLF this whole time!

Persephone’s eyes widened, the sheer drama of the reveal pulling her instantly into the moment.

He told us right before breakfast. Half the house nearly choked on their toast. Obviously, word spread fast. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are terrified and the Gryffindors—naturally—are defending him.

She could practically hear Draco’s dramatic, indignant voice as she read his report.

Of course, Dumbledore’s protecting him—again—but the old fool can’t fix everything. Word is Lupin’s resigned already. Good riddance to him.

Persephone snorted, shaking her head. It figured her father, the champion of discretion, would be the one to make the grand, public announcement.

As she turned the page, more hurried, indignant lines spilled across the parchment.

Oh—and of course—Gryffindor won the House Cup AGAIN. Absolute scam. There’s no way Potter earned all those points. I swear, Dumbledore must have a secret soft spot for dramatic orphans.

Persephone laughed out loud, a clear, unrestrained sound that startled a nearby garden gnome who promptly dove headfirst into a flower bed.

She grabbed her quill, scribbling back quickly:

A werewolf professor? That’s… actually kind of fascinating. Leave it to Dad to ruin the surprise for everyone.

And as for Gryffindor winning the cup again—well, maybe they just like seeing you sulk every year.

The ink shimmered for a moment before Draco’s reply instantly appeared:

Cruel. I’m wounded.

Persephone smirked, resting her chin on her hand. For a moment, she let herself imagine him there beside her, complaining about Dumbledore and Potter and all the ridiculous injustices of Hogwarts life.

It had been a long year—lonely, frustrating, and full of lessons that tested every bit of her patience. But reading his words now, under the soft hum of bees and the warm stretch of sunlight, Persephone felt content.

The year was finally over. And soon, Draco would be home again.

Chapter Text

The first day of summer came wrapped in gold sunlight and the sweet, heavy scent of blooming hydrangeas and peonies that Narcissa had planted, drifting through the open windows of the Manor. Persephone had barely slept, too restless and too excited; Draco was finally coming home.

She had gone out of her way to look her best, brushing out her hair until it gleamed and even dabbing on a bit of makeup—a subtle experiment she had only recently begun. Then she waited in the sitting room, her heel tapping impatiently against the marble floor as her eyes flicked between the clock and the front doors.

When the clock chimed just past noon, a sharp crack of apparition shattered the quiet in the entryway.

Persephone bolted upright.

“Draco!” she cried, sprinting toward him before he could even set down his trunk. She collided with him, launching herself into his arms and nearly knocking him backward.

He laughed—a low, warm sound of pure relief—catching her easily. “You act like I’ve been gone for years,” he teased, spinning her once before setting her down.

“It felt like it,” she murmured into his shoulder, clinging to him for a few more precious seconds.

When she finally pulled back, she took him in properly. He looked different—more composed, the edges of his boyhood arrogance now cut with a faint, confident maturity. But that familiar smirk was still there, the one that made her heart skip every single time.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, a genuine grin tugging at his lips.

“Not as much as I’ve missed you,” she countered, grabbing his tie and pulling him down into a kiss—deep and necessary, erasing the distance between them.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Narcissa standing by the doorway, shaking her head with an amused smile. “I think I’ll just excuse myself,” she said dryly, gliding away.

The rest of the afternoon passed in easy bliss. They wandered the fragrant gardens, sunlight flickering across the fountains, their laughter echoing through the hedges. Persephone told him all about her exams, her endless studying, and her hard-won victory with Legilimency.

“I’ve actually been practicing too, the Occlumency,” Draco said, a familiar smirk returning. “I’m pretty sure I’ve finally got the hand of it.”

“Oh yeah?” Persephone challenged, grinning. “Well, let’s see then.”

Persephone allowed her mind to gently stretch and drift into Draco’s. He was right; he had definitely improved. At first glance, his mind felt tightly walled, and she didn't see anything. But the longer she sat on the periphery of his consciousness, the weaker the resistance felt until she was able to breach the barrier. She smiled when she saw thoughts of herself, flashes of his exams, and the memory of her father telling him and his friends about Professor Lupin.

Draco stared at her, waiting. “Well?” he asked.

She laughed lightly. “You definitely got better, but I was still able to see.”

That evening, the smell of roasted lamb filled the Manor. Narcissa had outdone herself with Draco’s welcome-home dinner. Lucius sat at the head of the table, elegant and unreadable, his silver eyes sharp as ever. Persephone could tell he was pleased listening to Draco recount the school year—especially the part where Severus had “exposed the werewolf.” It was a rare night of calm laughter and warmth.

But the peace didn’t last long. A few days later, Snape arrived.

His presence always seemed to change the rhythm of the house. Even the light seemed to dim a little as his dark robes whispered against the marble floor. Persephone brightened immediately, rushing to greet him with a smile that, to anyone else’s surprise, earned the faintest twitch of one in return.

“Are you ready?” he asked without preamble, his gaze piercing.

“I suppose,” she replied, though her eyes drifted past him—to Draco, who leaned casually against the banister, watching them intently.

Snape followed her gaze and gave a small, knowing scoff. “You’ll survive,” he said dryly, as if reading her exact thoughts.

Persephone sighed and nodded, then darted over to Draco, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. She didn't dare kiss him in front of her father; even that small gesture made Snape’s posture go rigid, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, glancing at Snape around Draco’s shoulder. “It’s just a hug.”

Snape’s expression didn't change, but his silence said enough.

Draco gave her one last, crushing squeeze, murmuring, “Love you,” before reluctantly stepping back.

Persephone grabbed her trunk and the traveling cage holding Beans, and with a blink of an eye, disapparated back to the silent, familiar confines of Spinner’s End.

The first few days back home were rough. Her father had always been stern, but now, there was something sharper about him. The air around him felt electrically charged, heavy with an irritation ready to ignite at the smallest spark. He snapped over trivial things—spilled ink, misplaced quills, the sound of a door closing too loudly.

Persephone knew better than to ask what was wrong, though she could guess the source. The Daily Prophet hadn't stopped printing headlines about Sirius Black, and now that the wizarding world knew about the werewolf at Hogwarts, the tension in her father's shoulders had only deepened into a rigid strain.

So she stayed out of his way.

She spent her days shut in her room, writing to Draco in her journal or listening to her portable radio, trying to drown out the sound of cabinet doors slamming downstairs.

That afternoon was no different.

She was sprawled across her bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling she had copied from her room at the Malfoy Manor—drifting clouds and pale blue light moving lazily overhead. But she couldn’t enjoy the peace. Not with her father raging below, a definitive crash of glass echoing through the house.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a chair being kicked over.

Persephone winced. She didn’t even have to look to know what set him off; she’d seen the latest Prophet headline on the kitchen table that morning: SIRIUS BLACK STILL AT LARGE. That haunting mugshot had been burned into her mind, and clearly into her father’s too.

She sighed, rolling onto her side, trying to shut it all out. Her thoughts drifted—half-curious, half-reckless—until a dangerous idea formed, fueled by her recent Legilimency breakthrough.

What if she tried to reach him?

It wasn't like she could actually succeed. Even face-to-face, she could barely slip through his mental barrier, and Snape’s mind was a known fortress. But still... what harm could there be in a failed attempt?

She closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing. She let her mind wander, unfocused, like it did during the lessons when she lost conscious control.

And then—she felt it.

A faint brush of awareness, a pulse of thought that wasn't her own. It was cold, deep, and fiercely disciplined—but somehow, she was in.

Her pulse quickened, thrumming against the bone in her neck.

Images flickered through her consciousness too fast to grasp: her father hunched over a cauldron, the silvery steam rising from Wolfsbane potion... his hands passing a goblet to a weary, hollow-eyed man—Lupin, she realized, the recently exposed werewolf.

Then another sharp, disorienting flash: Snape walking through a crumbling old house, shadows shifting around him. And then—

Sirius Black.

He was standing across from Snape and Lupin in a dimly lit, dusty room, his eyes blazing with furious accusation. The tension in the air was electric and volatile—and before Persephone could focus on a single word or detail, the connection snapped like a live wire.

She gasped, yanking herself back into her body. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her head spun violently.

What did I just see?

The noise downstairs had gone silent. Completely, unnervingly silent.

Then—heavy footsteps. Fast. Running up the wooden stairs.

Persephone shot upright just as her bedroom door burst open with a violent crack against the wall.

Snape stood there, his eyes wide and wild, his chest rising and falling sharply as if he’d run the entire way.

“Were you just—” He froze mid-sentence, his furious gaze catching on her enchanted ceiling. His expression shifted just for a second into stark disbelief, before the terrifying fury rushed back, hardening his features.

“I— I didn’t mean to!” Persephone stammered, scrambling off the bed. “I didn’t think it would actually work!”

Snape’s jaw tightened into a rigid knot, his hands curling into fists at his sides. For a terrifying heartbeat, neither of them moved—the air between them alive with a raw, powerful confrontation that wasn't just anger, but fear and a profound sense of violation.

“What,” he said slowly, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “did you see?”

Persephone swallowed hard, her throat instantly dry.

“Nothing—well, not nothing, I—”

“Persephone.” His voice cracked like a whip. She flinched, the sound vibrating through the small room.

She couldn’t lie to him. “I saw you brewing Wolfsbane,” she admitted in a breathless rush. “You gave it to Professor Lupin… and then I saw you in a house. With him. And Sirius Black.”

At the name, his eyes flashed—not with the expected theatrical rage, but with a stark flicker of something dark and cold: pure, contained dread.

Then he moved. One sharp step forward, and Persephone instinctively shrank back against the bed.

“What possessed you to think it would be wise to enter my mind?” he hissed, his voice low but shaking with suppressed rage.

“I didn’t mean to!” Persephone’s voice broke. “I was just—I didn’t even think it would work!”

“That is precisely the problem,” he snapped, the words cutting. “You never think. You treat this like a parlor trick—like some childish game you can play when you’re bored!” His voice rose, echoing sharply against the stone walls.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really am, I didn’t mean to—”

“You know better than to breach my mind without permission,” he said coldly, his expression hardening into an impenetrable mask.

Persephone looked away, staring at the floorboards. “I just wanted to know why you were so angry.”

Snape stared at her for a long time—long enough for the sharp edge of his fury to dull into something heavier, more resigned. He exhaled slowly through his nose, his voice quieter now but still holding a razor's edge.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he said. “But this—” He gestured sharply to her with a tense hand. “—this gift you have is not innocent. It’s dangerous. You cannot simply wander into someone’s mind because you’re curious.”

Persephone stayed silent, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest.

Then, almost unexpectedly, his tone shifted, carrying a strained hint of professional analysis. “Though I can’t deny your skill has improved significantly. Even Dumbledore himself cannot enter a person’s mind while in separate rooms.”

Her head lifted, her disbelief pulling her out of her fear. “He can’t?” she said quietly. “So that’s not normal?”

His expression faltered, a momentary weakness. “No.”

Her eyebrows knitted together as the implication sank in. “Do you think there’s a limit to how far I can go?”

“That, I do not know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Persephone froze. For a moment, she swore the air itself went still with the magnitude of what she had discovered about herself.

Then he turned away, his back rigid. “You will not do that again. Do you understand me?”

Her voice was small. “Yes, sir.”

He stood there for a moment longer, silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing. When he finally spoke again, his tone had softened to something almost startlingly human.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said quietly.

Persephone nodded, trembling but holding his gaze.

“Good job on the ceiling.”

He left before Persephone could answer, the door closing sharply behind him, leaving her alone once again.

June bled quietly into July, the days growing hotter and the air thick with an oppressive summer stillness. Persephone had little time to enjoy it. Her father kept her relentlessly busy.

From dawn until the afternoon light dimmed across the small windows of Spinner's End, they worked—drilling, testing, pushing the absolute limits of her mind. Snape’s patience was thin, but his focus was unwavering. It wasn't enough for Persephone to be capable—she had to be controlled, precise, and unshakable.

But as the weeks went on, something inside her began to shift. She was getting stronger.

It started small: the ability to easily enter her father’s mind across the room. Though, as always, she saw only what he permitted her to see: cold, impersonal moments of him teaching a class, brewing a potion, or pacing the dungeons at Hogwarts. Nothing real. Nothing personal. Still, it was undeniable progress.

They increased the distance. She practiced from the next room, then from the far end of the house. Eventually, Snape told her to stand outside while he remained inside his study. By the end of the month, she managed to reach him even from down the street—slipping her awareness past the layers of brick, wood, and ward until she brushed the edges of his consciousness.

She couldn’t see his thoughts from that far away—but she felt him.

His emotions came to her like echoes through a long, dark tunnel: controlled, contained, but profoundly tinged with something colder and heavier than fury. She sensed an agonizing weariness. A bone-deep regret. A scorching bitterness that had settled in his spirit like rust.

It frightened her a little, realizing how much raw feeling she could absorb. His emotions bled into her own until she wasn't sure which belonged to her anymore.

She never mentioned that emotional bleed-through.

And she certainly never mentioned the other thing—the forbidden memory she’d stumbled upon weeks ago.

The image of her father standing in that shadowed room with Sirius Black still haunted her, the memory pressing at the edges of her mind like a bruise she couldn’t stop touching. She wanted to ask about it—desperately. But she’d seen the look in his eyes that day, the mix of fury and genuine fear, and she knew better. Some doors, once forced open, weren't meant to be touched twice. So, she bit her tongue and trained harder.

With the constant exertion of expanding her mind came a new, deeply unsettling side effect: extremely odd dreams. She couldn’t make any narrative sense of them, but they always felt less like dreams and more like peeking through the window of someone else’s subconscious.

She would wake the next morning anxious and full of dread, laced with a strange, foreign mixture of anger and eagerness that didn't feel like her own. She didn't speak about these psychic intrusions to her father, feeling they were irrelevant or perhaps too embarrassing to admit. Yet, she couldn't shake the chilling feeling that what she was dreaming wasn't just a dream, but something dangerous and deeply true.

Before she knew it, it was mid-August, the heat hanging thick and heavy in the air.

Persephone sat cross-legged on her bed, humming along to a Muggle girl group blaring from her radio as she stroked the feathers of her owl—now an unapologetically hot pink thanks to a successful Transfiguration charm.

Beans ruffled his fluorescent feathers proudly, clearly quite pleased with his vibrant new look.

A sharp, warning knock came from her door before creaking open.

Her father appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable, though his eyes lingered for a long, stunned moment on the aggressively pink owl. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then decided—wisely—not to comment.

“We’re going to the Malfoys,” he said instead, his tone clipped. “So pack your—”

He didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

With a simple swoosh of her hand, Persephone’s trunk flew open from the corner of her room. Clothes, books, her journal, and the still-playing radio soared through the air in a blur of controlled motion, landing neatly inside. The lid snapped shut with a decisive click just as Snape finished dryly, “—things.”

The muffled beat of pop music thumped faintly from within the trunk, emphatically breaking the sudden silence.

Snape stared at the newly closed trunk for a long moment, his expression pinched. “…Charming,” he finally articulated, the word laced with dry disapproval.

Persephone grinned, completely unbothered, and grabbed her owl’s travel cage. She opened the small door, and Beans—unlike Draco’s temperamental eagle owl—hopped inside without so much as a flap of protest.

“Ready!” she announced brightly, clutching the handle of the cage.

Snape gave her a long-suffering look, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself at the complete lack of drama. “Right.”

With a faint sigh, he spun on his heel, his dark cloak sweeping dramatically as he strode down the hall. Persephone suppressed a laugh as she rushed to follow. The moment they reached the front door, his hand grabbed a hold of her shoulder, and they vanished with a sharp, instantaneous crack.

Chapter Text

Age: Fourteen

The second Persephone’s feet hit the ground outside Malfoy Manor, she was off like a shot. Leaving her father in a swift trail of displaced dust, she raced toward the great oak doors, her heart hammering with excitement.

Before she even had the chance to knock, the massive doors swung open—and there he was.

“Draco!” she squealed, a sound that was far from elegant but perfectly genuine.

He caught her mid-jump, his arms wrapping tightly around her middle as he effortlessly spun her off the ground. Her unrestrained laughter echoed off the high archways of the portico.

“Malfoy, put my daughter down,” came a cold, unimpressed voice from behind them.

Draco froze instantly, lowering Persephone back to the marble floor like she was made of fragile glass.

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly, stepping back.

Persephone glared fiercely at her father. Snape raised a single eyebrow in return, his tone dry and biting. “I’d fix that look on your face, Persephone.”

Before he could add another biting remark, Persephone grabbed Draco’s hand and marched into the Manor, deliberately ignoring the heavy weight of her father’s disapproving stare.

Behind them, Snape muttered something about boundaries and self-control before his footsteps faded as he disappeared down a corridor in search of Lucius.

Persephone didn’t wait around for the inevitable lecture. They hurried to her room to drop her trunk. She placed her owl cage on the dresser and unlatched the door, allowing Beans to immediately fly to his perch. They then raced downstairs to get outside and escape the house’s oppressive silence.

Draco couldn’t stop talking.

“I can’t wait—” he said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “The Quidditch World Cup’s only a few days away—Father finally secured our tickets!”

Persephone grinned, rolling her eyes affectionately. He’d been obsessing over the Quidditch World Cup nonstop since the second he learned they might go.

“They’re for the Ministers Box, of course, the absolute best seats he could have gotten,” he continued, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Ireland versus Bulgaria! Real international talent!”

She smiled not wanting to interrupt him. She loved listening to him talk like this—animated, confident, and full of life. His contagious excitement filled the space that her father's disapproval had previously occupied.

Persephone took a seat on the cool, carved edge of the fountain that sat in the middle of the courtyard, watching Draco pace back and forth as he described, in far too much detail, exactly how the Ireland team was going to utterly destroy Bulgaria’s chances.

Draco must have noticed the goofy grin on her face because he stopped pacing and gave her a sly smirk.

“What?” he asked, eyebrows lifting.

She laughed, trying to hide her smile behind her hand. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”

“Oh really?” He stepped closer, curious. “And what exactly were you thinking about?”

She bit her lip, her voice teasing. “You. If you really must know.”

Draco chuckled and sat beside her on the edge of the fountain, his shoulder brushing hers. “And what is it about me that you’re thinking about?” he asked coolly.

“I’m going to keep that part to myself.” She grinned, refusing to look at him.

“That’s not fair!” he protested, pretending to pout.

Persephone smirked, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. “It’s plenty fair.”

“You’re reading my thoughts all the time,” he shot back with a mock huff.

She gasped dramatically. “Draco Malfoy! I do not!”

“Oh, please,” he countered.

“Besides,” she said, her smirk turning into a genuine smile, “if you’d actually kept up with your Occlumency practice, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

Draco leaned back, grinning. “What if your father trained me?”

Persephone snorted. “You’d have better luck asking your mother. If my father ever got into your mind and saw how many times we’ve snogged, he’d hex you straight to the moon.”

They both erupted into fits of giggles, the mental image sending them into breathless laughter.

Draco caught his breath, his grin turning mischievous. “Speaking of snogging,” he murmured, leaning in closer, “I don’t believe we’ve done that today.”

Before she could reply, his lips were on hers. Persephone melted into the familiar warmth of the kiss, her heart racing as she leaned closer—

And then—

“What—is going on here?”

The voice cut through the air like a physical whip.

Before either could react, a sharp, invisible wave of magic burst between them. Persephone slid halfway across the fountain’s edge, and Draco went tumbling backward into the cold water with a loud, theatrical splash.

“Dad!” Persephone shrieked, scrambling upright.

Snape stood at the garden path’s edge, his expression a terrifying mix of profound rage and utter disgust.

“From what I recall,” he said coldly, his voice dripping with ice, “I told you both to maintain a respectable distance.”

Persephone groaned, dropping her face into her hands. Draco climbed out of the fountain, completely soaked and dripping.

“I suggest, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, his tone razor-sharp, “that you change into something dry before your mother sees the state you’re in.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco mumbled, water squelching loudly in his soaked shoes as he hurried toward the Manor doors. Once Draco disappeared inside, her father turned his attention entirely on her. His expression making her flinch.

“If this continues every time I turn my back,” he said, his voice low and sharp, “I will personally place a protective barrier around you so he can’t so much as breathe in your direction.”

“It was just a little kiss!” she argued, her tone matching his.

“I may have been born at night, Persephone,” Snape snapped, his dark eyes narrowed, “but I was not born last night. I am far too young to be a grandfather.”

Persephone crossed her arms, muttering, “And you say I’m dramatic.”

Snape dragged a hand down his face, a gesture of rare fatigue. “You’re not a child anymore, I’m well aware of that,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl. “But you are still too young to be snogging Malfoy like that.”

“Oh, please! I’m sure people my age do much worse!” she retorted.

“You are not like other people,” Snape said firmly, the statement a heavy weight of responsibility. “You are my daughter—and I expect you to behave with some modesty.”

Persephone opened her mouth to argue but wisely clamped it shut. There was no winning this battle.

Snape’s tone softened, just enough to indicate the lecture was over. “Now,” he said, straightening his robes, “I came out here to discuss something else—the Quidditch World Cup.”

Her irritation vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of desperate hope.

“Wait—can I go? Please, Dad, please! I’ll do anything!” she pleaded, clasping her hands together in mock prayer.

“I spoke with Lucius,” he began, fighting the urge to glare, “and you may go—”

Persephone didn’t let him finish. She squealed and jumped up, throwing her arms around his middle.

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Dad!” she said, bouncing on her toes. “You are the best father in the world!”

Snape rolled his eyes skyward, muttering, “Yes, yes… until the next time you hate me.”

But when she hugged him tighter, his lips twitched just enough to suggest the faintest hint of a smile, and he did not push her away.

The morning of the Quidditch World Cup arrived in a whirl of nervous energy. Persephone could hardly sit still, and even Draco—usually so composed—kept pacing by the fireplace, checking his expensive wristwatch every thirty seconds.

Her father had come to see her off, standing near the hearth with his arms crossed. His expression was the usual unreadable mask, but his dark eyes tracked her every move with a lingering intensity.

After a quick breakfast, everyone gathered in the sitting room. Lucius stood by the mantle, elegant as ever, holding what looked like the smooth handle of a broken coffee mug.

“The Portkey will activate in precisely five minutes,” Lucius announced, glancing at his pocket watch with precision.

“Have you both packed everything you need?” Narcissa asked, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from Draco’s sleeve.

“Yes, Mother,” Draco said with a long-suffering sigh.

Persephone stifled a laugh, earning a subtle, smirk from him.

Snape crossed the room to her, helping fasten the silver buttons on her travel cloak. “You will stay with them at all times,” he said quietly, his gaze piercing. “Do not wander off. And if anything happens—”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Persephone interrupted with a reassuring smile, knowing exactly where the lecture was going. “It’s just Quidditch.”

His expression didn’t change. “The world is not as safe as it was—”

“—no matter how it may appear,” she finished for him, grinning playfully. “You’ve said that at least a hundred times this morning.”

He sighed through his nose, but his hands lingered on her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said softly, the faintest, vulnerable thread of worry woven into his voice.

“I promise.” She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

For a brief second, Snape hesitated—then his hand came up to gently pat the back of her head, a rare, restrained gesture of affection.

“Seph! Portkey’s ready!” Draco called, his impatience finally winning.

Persephone pulled away, beaming up at her father. “I love you! I promise I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do!”

Snape gave her a weary look that clearly communicated: That doesn’t comfort me at all.

Before he could respond, she grabbed her small suitcase and darted over to where the Malfoys stood around the Portkey. Her hand touched the broken mug just as the familiar, sickening pull behind her navel yanked her off her feet.

The world spun in a dizzying blur of color and wind, the air whipping past her ears like a roaring tornado until—

Thud.

Persephone's feet hit the ground hard. She wobbled instantly, grabbing Draco’s arm for balance as he steadied her with a smug, knowing look.

They looked around—and her jaw dropped.

Stretching out for what seemed like miles was the Quidditch World Cup campsite. Thousands of brightly colored tents dotted the rolling green hillside, each one spectacularly charmed: some had golden snitches fluttering around their peaks, others were painted with roaring, magically flapping team mascots. The air buzzed with laughter, shouts, and the vibrant hum of hundreds of conversations in different languages.

Witches and wizards of every age filled the field—families setting up elaborate camp chairs, children waving massive team banners, and vendors selling miniature figurines of the Quidditch players and sparkling, self-cooling bottles of Butterbeer.

“This is incredible!” Persephone breathed, grinning from ear to ear.

Draco smirked beside her, straightening his cloak with an air of superiority. “Just wait until you see the Quidditch Stadium.”

He laced his fingers through hers as they followed Lucius and Narcissa along the crowded, buzzing path.

They made their way through the massive sea of tents. Small children zoomed through the crowds on toy broomsticks, their excited laughter mingling with the shouts of their parents. Vendors yelling out bargains for their glittering omnioculars and shimmering World Cup souvenirs. Persephone’s senses buzzed with the sheer energy of it all. Magic crackled in the air like powerful static, and she could feel it thrumming beneath her skin.

A loud chorus of Irish fans came marching past, singing enthusiastically and shooting streams of vivid green smoke from their wands. One of them—a burly wizard with a twinkling shamrock painted across his face—tossed handfuls of sparkling, collectible pins into the crowd.

Persephone reached up, her reflex honed and managed to pluck one out of the air.

“Careful with those,” Draco said, laughing lightly. “They randomly explode with glitter.”

“This is amazing,” Persephone said breathlessly, already pinning the tiny shamrock to the front of her cloak.

A split second later, the pin popped like a firecracker—covering her front in a sudden, brilliant cloud of shimmering green dust. Draco burst out laughing as she blinked through the haze, now glowing faintly emerald.

Lucius turned back, one brow sharply raised, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Do try to maintain some decorum, Miss Prince.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly, brushing at her robes—only for another puff of glitter to burst free. Narcissa gave a soft, melodic laugh.

“It is rather spectacular, isn’t it?” Narcissa commented, clearly amused by the chaos.

Persephone grinned, her embarrassment fading into pure delight. “It’s incredible,” she admitted.

Lucius, who had resumed leading the way, spoke over his shoulder. “The Minister has been most generous with our accommodations. It shouldn’t be much farther—ah, there it is.”

Persephone’s jaw dropped.

Nestled among the other, highly elaborate tents stood one far grander than all the rest. The Malfoy tent towered like a small manor itself, its silken exterior shimmering faintly in the sunlight, embroidered with the family crest in heavy threads of silver and emerald.

Draco smirked at her wide-eyed reaction. “Wait until you see inside.”

Inside was even more breathtaking. The air smelled faintly of cedar and expensive spice. Crystal lamps floated lazily above a polished marble floor that reflected the chandelier’s golden light. Plush velvet sofas, carved oak tables, and draped silks gave the space an atmosphere of effortless, almost excessive, luxury. Three large bedrooms branched off from the main sitting area, each with four-poster beds and enchanted wardrobes that neatly folded and arranged clothing on their own.

Persephone spun slowly in place, eyes wide. “This is a tent?”

Draco crossed his arms, clearly pleased with her reaction. “Not bad, is it?”

“Not bad?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Draco, this is bigger than my dad’s house.”

Draco snorted, adjusting his stance. “Yes, well, we Malfoys do believe in traveling comfortably.”

Persephone rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. The entire experience was magnificent.

“Ah, Cornelius!” Lucius exclaimed, his voice smooth and welcoming.

Persephone turned to see a crowd of Ministry officials entering the Malfoys’ tent, Cornelius Fudge himself waddling in the middle of them, his lime-green bowler hat perched precariously on his head.

“Perfect,” Draco said, leaning close, his breath brushing her ear. “Let’s go explore. My parents will be too busy entertaining to notice.”

She giggled, nodding excitedly, and they slipped quietly out before anyone could stop them. They held hands as they walked along the crowded path, the energy of the camp pulling them forward. They continued down the path until a souvenir stand caught Persephone’s eye. She stopped to admire the display of collectible figures, each one animated and shouting its team’s praise. She picked up a miniature Viktor Krum, which marched proudly across her palm, declaring in a thick accent, “Krum is number one!”

Draco scoffed, watching the tiny figurine. “Don’t tell me you’re rooting for Bulgaria.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she teased, eyes sparkling.

“Ireland’s far superior. Their Chasers are unstoppable.”

“But Bulgaria has Viktor Krum,” she said with a grin, holding up the little Seeker figure.

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. “Please. You’re not seriously swooning over Krum.”

She laughed, giving the figure a poke with her finger. “Don’t be silly, Draco—you’re still my favorite Seeker.”

A flush crept up his neck. He handed the vendor a few galleons and muttered, “I’d better be.”

Persephone gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. He’ll go on my shelf—right next to the picture I have of you.”

They wandered farther, playfully debating who would win the match, when Persephone suddenly noticed a small, shabby tent ahead. A group of red-headed wizards stood outside it, along with a boy with messy black hair and glasses. Persephone’s heart skipped—she recognized him instantly. Harry Potter.

Before she could react, Draco’s stride quickened, his expression darkening into a familiar, aristocratic sneer. He had noticed them too.

“Draco—don’t,” she hissed, grabbing his arm. But he brushed her off easily.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled as they reached the edge of the Weasleys' tent. “Didn’t realize the Ministry was handing out charity tickets this year. Or did your parents have to sell the house?”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” one of the red-headed boys snapped—tall and gangly, with a cascade of freckles dotting his face.

Draco smirked, hands sinking into his pockets with practiced ease. “Our seats are in the Minister’s Box—personal invitation from Cornelius Fudge himself—”

“Draco!” Persephone interrupted, giving him a sharp, light smack in the stomach. “Don’t be rude.” She stepped forward, offering the group a friendly smile. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“They’re not my friends,” he said sharply, glaring at the her.

She rolled her eyes and held out her hand to the nearest redhead. “Persephone Prince.”

The boy grinned, taking her hand enthusiastically. “George Weasley. That’s my brother Fred, our sister Ginny, and that’s Ron—oh, and Hermione and Harry.”

She shook each of their hands politely, taking care to smile genuinely at Harry, whose eyebrows slightly raised behind his glasses.

“I’ve never seen you at Hogwarts before,” Ron said curiously.

“That’s because I’m homeschooled,” Persephone explained.

“Homeschooled? I didn’t realize that was common in the wizarding world,” Hermione said, intrigued, already adopting an academic stance.

“It’s not,” Persephone said with a small smile. “But my father prefers it that way.”

Draco groaned loudly. “Seph, do you really have to tell them your life story—”

She shot him a piercing look. “What’s wrong with me trying to make friends?”

“If you want friends, we can go find my friends.”

“Oh, you mean Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum?” Persephone quipped, crossing her arms. “I’d rather go home than spend the day with Crabbe and Goyle.”

Fred snorted, and Harry hid a smile behind his hand. Draco scowled instantly, his father’s disapproval momentarily etched onto his features.

“Don’t look at me like that—you look just like your father,” she teased, tapping his chin.

That earned a few laughs from the Weasley group, though Draco looked ready to sink into the ground in humiliation.

Persephone turned back to them with a polite smile. “It was lovely meeting you all. Enjoy the game!”

Before any of them could respond, Draco grabbed her hand like a vice and stormed off, muttering fiercely under his breath.

When they were far enough away, he finally released a long, angry exhale. “Don’t even think about getting mixed up with that lot.”

“They seemed perfectly nice,” she said calmly, ignoring his venom. “I don’t know why you dislike them so much.”

“Oh, please,” Draco sneered. “You can’t be serious.”

She just smiled, swinging their joined hands lightly. “Dead serious.”

He groaned, defeated. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” she said sweetly, squeezing his hand, “you still love me.”

Despite himself, Draco chuckled—and Persephone grinned, knowing she’d not only won that round but had successfully derailed a far worse confrontation.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the excitement around the campsite had reached a fever pitch. Lanterns flickered to life, strings of enchanted lights weaving between the tents like constellations come to earth.

Persephone’s heart thudded in her chest as she followed the Malfoys toward the stadium. The air hummed with anticipation, and the distant roar of the crowd rolled like thunder over the hills.

The Quidditch World Cup Stadium loomed ahead—an immense, dazzling structure of burnished gold that shimmered against the twilight sky, its upper stands vanishing into the clouds. It gleamed like a colossal crown, every curve alive with crackling magic.

Inside, thousands upon thousands of witches and wizards filled the stands, their cheers rising in deafening waves. Floating light spells painted the immense arena in flashes of furious emerald and scarlet. Banners unfurled midair with shimmering, rippling enchantments—one moment displaying leaping Irish leprechauns, the next roaring Bulgarian dragons.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Persephone whispered, her eyes wide with undisguised awe.

Draco smirked beside her, feigning complete nonchalance. “Try not to faint. It’s only Quidditch.”

“Only Quidditch?” she echoed with a laugh. “You’re insufferable, Malfoy.”

Lucius led the way up the enchanted staircase, pausing every so often to nod curtly to Ministry officials who greeted him with strained, forced smiles. Narcissa glided beside him, perfectly composed, her arm linked through his like a silent shield.

When they reached the Top Box, Persephone hesitated at the entrance. They were so high up that the air felt thinner, and the people far below were mere dots of vibrant color. The view, however, was breathtaking—the entire pitch and the surrounding hills spread out beneath them, awash in gold light and sound.

Lucius immediately joined a cluster of Ministry figures where Cornelius Fudge was holding court, his voice booming with affected importance. Narcissa took her seat beside an elegantly dressed witch from the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

Persephone’s gaze briefly snagged on a small, hunched house-elf sitting stiffly in a corner chair, its eyes wide and constantly wringing its tiny hands. It looked utterly terrified, as though waiting for a harsh punishment. Persephone frowned, a flicker of concern overriding the excitement, but before she could ask who it belonged to, the trumpets blared.

The noise that followed was deafening. The stadium erupted as the Irish team shot into the sky in a blinding burst of green light, their robes gleaming like polished jade. Gold sparks trailed their broomsticks, and a dozen emerald leprechauns swooped down, scattering what looked like real gold coins that rained over the roaring crowd.

The Bulgarians followed—fire roaring from their dragon banners overhead, their crimson uniforms cutting across the night like lightning bolts. Viktor Krum himself zoomed past the box, his face a mask of fierce, singular determination.

Persephone was instantly spellbound. Every movement, every dive and spin, set her heart racing. She cheered until her voice cracked, caught up completely in the fever of the crowd. Even Draco, who tried hard to maintain his air of sophisticated boredom, couldn't hide his excitement—he was shouting right beside her, his hand tightly clenched around hers.

The match was a blur of motion—Bludgers whistled past the golden hoops, Chasers darted in seamless formations, the Quaffle flashing between hands like a streak of red fire. Persephone couldn’t decide where to look first.

When Krum finally caught the Snitch, the stadium went wild with a sudden, shocked cheer. Ireland had still won by ten points, but the explosion of color that followed was blinding—green and gold fireworks erupted over the stands, bursting into shimmering shamrocks that dissolved into a glittering mist.

Persephone leaned over the railing, laughing breathlessly as the sparks rained down. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

“That,” she said, turning to Draco, “was absolutely insane.”

Draco’s lips curved into a slow, lazy grin. “Told you Quidditch was worth watching.”

She nudged him playfully. “You said it was only Quidditch.”

He chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I lied.”

“Don’t make it a habit.” She teased, leaning in and giving him a small, quick kiss, savoring the moment of shared adrenaline.

After a brief, subdued celebration in the Minister’s Box, the Malfoys and Persephone made their way back to their tent. Dinner—roast chicken and garlic potatoes—was waiting, the meal accompanied by the faint, muffled sound of music drifting from nearby camps.

Draco couldn’t stop talking as they ate, excitedly recounting every play and near miss as though none of them had just watched the match. Persephone smiled through the entire meal, her cheeks aching from grinning. It had felt like the best night of her life—the air alive with laughter and distant fireworks, the world golden and glittering.

Outside, the celebration raged on. Voices sang into the night; bursts of color punctuated the dark sky. The entire campsite was a pulsating festival.

By the time Persephone crawled into bed, exhaustion hit her like a stunning spell. She barely had time to register the silk sheets before sleep claimed her.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours later when she was violently jolted awake by a deafening boom.

Her eyes flew open. For a moment, she thought it was just another final firework—until another explosion followed, louder, closer, and more metallic. Then came the distinct, horrifying sound of screaming.

Persephone sat bolt upright, her heart slamming against her ribs.

The tent flap to her room burst open and Narcissa appeared, her usually composed face pale and tight with alarm. “Get your shoes on,” she ordered, tossing them onto the bed. “Don’t pack—just grab your wand. We need to leave now.”

Persephone didn’t ask questions. She shoved her feet into her shoes, snatched up her wand, and ran out into the main room—just as Draco stumbled from his own, hair disheveled and eyes wide with confusion.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

Lucius stormed in from outside, his expression dark and severe. “It’s the Carrows—and others I couldn’t identify. They’re masked.”

“Masked?” Narcissa repeated, her voice trembling with dread.

“Death Eaters,” Lucius said grimly, gripping his wand tightly. “They’ve been drinking. They’ve got the Muggles in the air, and the rest are setting fire to the tents.”

Persephone gasped, looking toward Draco for comfort. “That’s horrible —” she whispered.

Lucius grabbed her arm, his grip hard. “We need to get clear of the campsite to Disapparate. Stay close—it’s chaos out there.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The moment they stepped outside, the night exploded around them. Flames licked at the rows of canvas, thick smoke coiling into the sky like a giant, dark serpent. Sparks rained down like burning embers. People were running in every direction—families clutching children, frantic witches dragging scorched trunks, shouts of “Get to the woods!” echoing through the panic.

The air was thick with the choking smell of burning fabric and sheer terror. Persephone’s eyes stung from the smoke. She clutched Draco’s hand tightly as they pushed through the terrified crowd, Narcissa’s distinctive silver hair flashing ahead of them.

A sudden burst of crimson light illuminated the sky—and Persephone froze.

Suspended high above the chaos, four Muggles hung upside down, twisting helplessly in midair as cruel, drunken laughter rang out below. Their bodies were contorted by invisible magic, their screams piercing the roar of the fire. A cluster of masked figures stood beneath them, wands raised, their dark robes billowing dramatically in the firelight.

Draco tugged desperately at her hand. “Come on, Seph!”

She stumbled forward, her heart hammering in her throat, the horrifying image burned into her mind.

But then someone—a burly, panicked wizard—slammed into her from the side. The impact sent her spinning violently. Her fingers slipped from Draco’s desperate grasp.

“Draco—” she shrieked, her voice cracking with terror.

Bodies surged around her—shoving, shouting, scrambling to flee. She was instantly swept in the opposite direction, nearly knocked off her feet. Her lungs burned as she tried to call out again, but her voice was swallowed by the surrounding noise and smoke.

She ducked and darted for cover, squeezing desperately behind a toppled souvenir stand. Wood splinters bit into her palms. The air crackled with spells overhead—bursts of chaotic green and red light streaking through the smoke. Somewhere nearby, a tent collapsed in a terrifying roar of flames.

Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she crouched low, clutching her wand. She couldn’t see Draco. She couldn’t see anyone she knew. Just fire, overwhelming shadows, and the menacing masked figures moving like dark ghosts through the destruction.

Persephone dared another look over the edge of the toppled souvenir stand, praying she’d spot Draco—or even a familiar flash of blond hair in the swirling chaos. Her heart hammered painfully. The air was almost suffocating, the raw screams of frightened witches and wizards echoing in every direction.

“LOOK OUT!”

A voice shouted directly behind her. Before she could turn, a strong hand yanked her violently backward, pulling her down just as a flaming ball of fire blasted over the exact spot where she’d been standing. The heat seared the air, stinging her eyes.

She gasped, twisting around to look up at her savior—and froze.

It was Harry Potter.

He was crouched beside her, chest heaving, a smudge of soot smeared across his cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked, his green eyes sharp as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Yeah—yeah, I just…” She swallowed hard, the smoke acrid in her throat. “I lost the Malfoys.”

“I lost my group too,” he said, his eyes scanning the terror unfolding. “Come on—we can’t stay here.”

He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and instantly practical, and together they bolted from behind the stand. The ground trembled with the pounding of running feet, the air split with the crack of spells and frantic shouts. Persephone stumbled once, but Harry pulled her along, weaving skillfully through the panicked crowd until the rows of burning tents gave way to the black, silent wall of trees.

The instant they crossed the invisible boundary into the woods, the noise dimmed. It was still chaotic—distant screams, the occasional, muffled explosion—but here, the deep shadows wrapped around them, momentarily muffling the madness beyond.

They collapsed behind a thick cluster of ancient bushes, breathing hard, lungs burning.

“Damn it,” Harry muttered, frustration etched onto his face as he frantically patted his pockets. “I lost my wand.”

Persephone’s head snapped toward him, horrified. “Do you want to go back for it?”

He let out a defeated sigh, shaking his head. “No chance. I’ll never find it in that mess.”

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. They sat side by side, hidden among the trees, watching as firelight flickered through the thickening smoke beyond the campsite. It looked as though the world was burning just outside their dark haven.

Then came a rustling sound nearby. Both of them jumped, wands—or in Harry’s case, hands—raised instinctively.

A small figure stumbled out from the brush, tripping over roots and squeaking in absolute fright. It was the tiny house-elf Persephone had seen earlier in the Minister’s Box.

The elf was moving oddly, as though invisible strings were violently tugging against her body. “Bad wizards about!” the House-Elf squealed, stumbling forward. “People—people high, high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!”

She darted past them, panting and squeaking, clearly struggling against whatever unseen force restrained her. Within moments, she was gone—swallowed by the impenetrable darkness of the trees.

Harry stared after her, frowning. “What was that about? Why was she running like that?”

Persephone’s chest tightened with a familiar ache of sympathy. “She probably didn’t get permission to run away. House-elves can’t act against their master’s orders without punishment. The poor thing was fighting her own instinct.”

Harry gave a tired, faint smile. “You’d get on with Hermione. She’s always talking about how house-elves are basically slaves.”

“She’s not wrong,” Persephone murmured, the sight of the struggling elf adding weight to her conviction. The thought of Dobby popping in her mind. “It’s an awful system.”

Another loud explosion shook the very ground beneath them, followed by fresh, close screams. Both their heads snapped up. Through the gaps in the trees, Persephone saw flashes of bright, malignant light.

“They’re coming this way,” Harry said, his voice low but urgent. “We should move.”

He was right. The masked figures were spreading outward, their torches and spells illuminating the night like twisted, chaotic fireworks. Persephone and Harry crept deeper into the woods, their footsteps muffled by the damp, fallen leaves.

After what felt like forever, they reached a small clearing bathed in faint moonlight. The sounds of chaos were still present—but distant now, muted echoes of a nightmare.

Persephone sank to the ground, clutching her knees, trying desperately to steady her ragged breathing. Her mind raced with worry: Where was Draco? Were the Malfoys safe?

Harry sat beside her, staring into the oppressive shadows. “It’ll be all right,” he said quietly, though his voice trembled slightly, betraying his own fear.

Persephone clung to her wand, staring into the dark. She desperately wished she could believe him.

“I reckon we can wait here,” Harry said after a moment, glancing through the thick cluster of trees. “We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off.”

Persephone nodded. The forest felt unnaturally still, the silence heavier and more ominous than the earlier noise. The faint, malevolent glow of the burning campsite flickered above the treetops, illuminating the thick smoke that curled lazily into the night sky.

Suddenly, a bulky figure stumbled out from behind a nearby ancient oak.

Both Harry and Persephone shrieked.

“Oh, shit!” Persephone gasped, clutching her chest, her heart threatening to leap out.

It was Ludo Bagman, his usually cheerful, flushed face now pale and completely disoriented. His expensive Quidditch robes were askew, his hair damp with sweat and dirt. “What in Merlin’s beard is going on?” he demanded, rubbing his head. “What are you two doing out here alone?”

“There’s a riot—at the campsite!” Persephone blurted, still severely shaken.

“A riot?” Ludo repeated, blinking furiously in the darkness.

“Masked wizards,” she said quickly, her voice trembling with the recalled horror. “They’ve got a Muggle family in the air—they’re setting fire to everything!”

Ludo’s eyes went wide with genuine shock. “DAMN THEM!” he roared, his voice echoing through the silent trees like a thunderclap. And without another word, he Disapparated with a loud, violent crack, leaving nothing but emptiness and ringing silence in his wake.

Harry and Persephone stared at the space where he’d just vanished.

“What the hell—” Harry muttered, thoroughly bewildered.

Persephone shook her head, trying to catch her breath. “I—I have no idea.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably. She wasn’t sure if it was the damp night air or the cold, visceral fear that made her tremble. Her thin pajamas—just a tank top and shorts—offered little warmth. Harry must have noticed because he shrugged off his worn jacket and held it out to her.

“Here,” he said quietly. “You can wear this.”

“But then you’ll be cold,” she protested, automatically.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, pressing the fabric into her hands. “I swear.”

Persephone hesitated, then slipped it on. It was still warm from his body heat, smelling faintly of smoke and pine. “Thank you,” she said softly, pulling the zipper up. The simple jacket felt like a small shield.

Harry nodded. “Don’t mention it.”

For a while, they sat in silence again, their ears painfully tuned to every crack of a branch, every distant, muffled scream.

“I hope everyone’s okay,” Persephone said finally, her voice small and tight with worry for Draco.

“I’m sure they are,” Harry replied, though his tone carried far more hope than certainty.

“But those poor Muggles…” She shuddered, remembering their twisted, floating forms illuminated by the firelight. “It was awful.”

Harry’s jaw clenched with contained fury. “Who were those people? The ones with the masks?”

Persephone shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his searching eyes. “I don’t know,” she lied softly, the word tasting like ash and guilt.

A sudden, close noise snapped them both intensely alert.

Footsteps—uneven, dragging—approached through the underbrush.

Harry and Persephone exchanged a single, panicked glance before rising slowly to their feet. Persephone raised her wand, a beam of light shooting from the tip, casting long, nervous shadows. She could feel her pulse throbbing visibly in her throat.

“Hello?” Harry called, his voice surprisingly steady despite a slight tremor.

No answer.

Persephone squinted into the oppressive shadows. The darkness between the trees seemed to move. Someone—or something—was standing just beyond the edge of her light.

She reached out with her mind instinctively, trying to pierce the forest gloom to sense whoever it was—but there was nothing. No emotion. No recognizable thought. Just a profound, chilling blank void.

That absence terrified her more than the screams of the riot.

“Who’s there?” she called out, the light from her wand scanning the dense trees.

For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Then—a sudden, blurring movement.

A figure darted out of the light, slipping instantly behind a thick tree trunk.

Persephone’s breath caught in her throat. She and Harry stepped back in unison, the silence between them now sharp as glass.

The entire forest had gone completely, unnaturally still.

Something was definitely coming.

Chapter Text

A deep voice rang out from somewhere beyond the trees—low, guttural, and powerful enough to chill Persephone’s blood.

“MORSMORDRE!”

The word echoed through the entire forest like a chilling curse.

A vast, sickly green light erupted from the shadows. It burst through the forest canopy, spiraling higher and higher until it ignited the very night sky.

Persephone gasped, her stomach dropping as she instantly recognized the symbol.

It was the Dark Mark.

A colossal skull formed from brilliant emerald fire, a serpent slithering from its open mouth like a living, venomous tongue. It shimmered against the black sky—beautiful in a way that made her sick.

She could barely breathe.

The collective screams began all at once—shattering the unnatural silence.

“Harry!” she cried, grabbing his arm fiercely. “We have to go!”

“Why? What is that?” he shouted, staring upward in horror.

“It’s the Dark Mark—Voldemort’s sign!” she hissed. “We have to move, now!”

Harry’s eyes went wide with pure disbelief. “Voldemort?”

“Come on!” she said again, tugging him with all her strength.

They’d only managed a few frantic steps when a series of loud cracks erupted all around them. Twenty robed wizards appeared from thin air, encircling them with wands raised.

Persephone barely had time to react before the terrifying realization hit her like a hex: They think we did it.

“NO!” she screamed.

“STUPEFY!”

A dozen red jets of light blazed through the clearing. Persephone threw herself to the ground, instinctively dragging Harry down with her. The air roared and crackled—tree trunks splintered instantly, leaves burst into flame, and the acrid smell of ozone filled her lungs.

“STOP! STOP!” a familiar voice thundered over the chaos, a sound laced with raw, unbridled panic. “That’s my daughter!”

The spells ceased instantly.

Persephone lifted her head just in time to see her father stride into the ring of Ministry wizards, his face utterly pale and furious, his eyes dark with residual fear.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, yanking her roughly but quickly to her feet. His hands gripped her arms, scanning her for injuries, his expression softening for only a second before hardening again.

“Dad— I’m fine,” she stammered, severely shaken.

“Out of the way, Severus!” barked Barty Crouch, pushing through the crowd, his face red with a mixture of fury and professional terror. His wand remained rigidly trained on Persephone and Harry.

Harry scrambled to his feet, brushing leaves from his clothes.

“Which of you did it?” Crouch roared, his voice shaking with volatile emotion. “Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?”

“We didn’t do anything!” Harry shouted back, defiance warring with fear. “Why’d you attack us?!”

“We didn’t!” Persephone added desperately, glancing toward her father for help. “We didn’t cast that!”

“Do not lie!” Crouch snarled. “You’ve been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

“Barty,” came a calm, female voice from behind him—a witch with weary eyes and ash on her robes—“they’re just kids. They couldn’t have conjured that.”

Snape stepped forward, his expression controlled but deadly. “Where did the Mark come from?” he asked Persephone evenly, though his sharp gaze flicked toward Harry.

“Over there,” she said quickly, pointing toward the trees. “Someone was hiding behind the trunks—”

Crouch’s head whipped toward her. “Oh? Stood over there, did they? Said an incantation, did they? You seem awfully well informed.” His tone dripped with corrosive suspicion.

Snape’s eyes flashed. “If you’re suggesting that my child—”

“I’m suggesting,” Crouch interrupted coldly, “that you have a history with that symbol, Snape.”

The air turned to ice.

Snape took a single, slow step forward, his face a mask of quiet, murderous rage. “You would do well to remember, Minister, that my past is not my daughter’s—nor has it ever dictated how I raised her.” His voice was low, carrying the undeniable weight of a powerful threat.

Crouch’s wand trembled slightly before lowering. The other Ministry wizards shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy glances.

Persephone stood frozen beside her father, still clutching her wand. The emerald glow of the Dark Mark burned above them, reflecting in his dark eyes like a scar he could never fully erase.

“Whoever did it is most likely long gone by now,” said a gruff voice from the back of the gathered Ministry crowd.

“I don’t think so,” another wizard countered, pushing through the others, wand still raised. “Our stunners went straight through those trees—there’s a good chance we hit someone.”

“Amos, be careful!” a witch called anxiously after him.

The wizard—Amos—disappeared into the darkness, branches snapping under his heavy boots. For a few moments, there was only the crackle of distant fire and the hiss of wind through the leaves.

Then came his triumphant shout.

“Yes! I found something! There’s someone here—unconscious! It’s… blimey—”

All heads whipped toward the trees. Crouch stepped forward, his wand trembling, his voice taut with desperation. “You’ve got someone? Who? Who is it?”

A moment later, Amos reappeared—and gasps rippled through the clearing.

He was carrying the limp, stunned body of a small creature in his arms.

“Winky,” Persephone breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. It was the same trembling house-elf who had rushed past her and Harry earlier.

Crouch went instantly white. “This—this cannot be,” he stammered, shaking his head as if trying to dispel a nightmare. Without another word, he turned and hurried back into the trees, his expression wild and frantic.

“No point, Mr. Crouch!” Amos called after him, his tone both apologetic and uneasy. “There’s no one else there!”

He turned to the witch beside him and muttered under his breath, “Bit embarrassing, really… Crouch’s own elf…”

The witch gasped. “You don’t mean to say you think she—?”

“Had a wand,” Amos interrupted grimly. “Clause Three of the Code of Wand Use—no non-human creature is permitted to carry or use one. But she had it in her hand.”

Several Ministry wizards exclaimed at once—"Impossible!" "A house-elf?" "Can't be!"—their furious disbelief mingling with the profound unease still thick in the air.

Before anyone could respond, a sharp pop sounded nearby, and Ludo Bagman reappeared, looking flustered and breathless, his robes still spectacularly askew.

“What’s all this? Why’s the Dark Mark in the sky?!” he bellowed, leaning against a tree for support. “What’s going on?”

Barty Crouch reemerged then, empty-handed and pale as the moon.

“Where have you been, Barty?” Ludo demanded. “We didn’t see you at the match! Your elf was saving you a seat—” He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on the motionless creature in Amos’s arms. “Merlin’s beard—what happened to her?!”

“She’s been stunned,” Crouch snapped, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.

“Stunned? Why—?” Ludo began, and then slow comprehension dawned. “No—no, not Winky! She wouldn’t know how to conjure the Dark Mark! She’d need a wand for a start!”

“And she had one,” Amos said again, his tone heavy with significance.

Ludo blinked at him, disbelief warring with confusion. “You’re joking.”

Amos shook his head. “Found her clutching it. If it’s all right with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we ought to hear what she’s got to say for herself.”

Crouch didn’t reply. His face looked hollow, haunted, and utterly defeated.

Amos adjusted the elf in his arms, holding his wand over her tiny, fragile form. “Rennervate!”

A faint golden glow surrounded her, and Winky stirred, her eyes fluttering open. The moment she realized dozens of eyes were fixed on her, she squeaked in terror and tried to scramble out of Amos’s grip. She tumbled to the ground, darting behind Crouch’s legs for protection.

“Elf!” Amos barked, his voice stern and accusatory. “Do you know who I am? Amos Diggory—Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures! Now, as you see, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago, and you were found directly beneath it. Explain yourself!”

“I—I is not doing it, sir!” Winky wailed, rocking back and forth in panic. “I is not knowing how, sir! I is good elf, sir!”

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” Amos roared.

He held it up, the polished wood glinting faintly in the eerie firelight.

Harry gasped. “Hey—that’s mine!”

The clearing went dead silent.

Dozens of heads whipped toward him—Ministry officials, Snape, Crouch, Ludo—all staring as though Harry Potter had just confessed to conjuring the Dark Mark.

“Excuse me?” Amos Diggory finally said, his voice breaking the tense, shocked silence that hung over the clearing.

“That’s my wand,” Harry said quickly, his voice dropping. “I lost it back at the campsite! It must have fallen out of my pocket!”

“You lost it?” Amos repeated sharply, his eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion. His tone hardened into accusation. “Is this a confession, then? You threw it aside after conjuring the Mark?”

Before Harry could speak, Snape’s voice sliced through the night—cool, sharp, and commanding.

“Let’s think logically, Amos,” Snape drawled, every syllable heavy with contempt. “I personally teach the boy. I can assure you, he hardly meets expectations when it comes to his studies. Harry Potter could not have conjured the Dark Mark.”

Harry blinked, his mouth falling open, uncertain whether to feel defended or insulted.

Amos flushed deeply. “Of course not. I—sorry, got carried away,” he muttered, lowering his wand slightly. He turned his attention back to Winky, who was trembling violently behind Crouch’s legs, eyes wide and wet with terror.

“So,” Amos said coldly, shifting his accusation, “you found this wand, did you, elf? Picked it up and decided to have a bit of fun with it?”

“I—I is not doing magic!” Winky wailed, wringing her hands until they cracked. “I is not knowing how!”

“It wasn’t her!” Persephone suddenly burst out, stepping forward.

“Persephone,” Snape hissed, instantly yanking her back by the arm and placing his tall, formidable body between her and the Ministry wizards.

“It came from a deep voice,” she insisted from behind her father, eyes darting toward the concealing trees. “It wasn’t her.”

Amos frowned, ignoring her. He raised his wand again, his tone shifting to something colder, more methodical. “Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we? There’s a simple way to see the last spell cast by a wand. Prior Incantato!”

He pointed his wand at the tip of Harry’s.

A blinding white light burst between the two, and from that light—like smoke turning solid—a gigantic, hideous, serpent-tongued skull erupted into the air.

The Dark Mark.

It hovered for a brief, terrifying moment above them before fading into a hiss of green smoke.

Gasps and shocked murmurs rippled through the group. Persephone instinctively took a step back, her stomach twisting with the undeniable proof.

“There!” Amos said triumphantly, pointing a shaking finger at the cowering elf. “Caught red-handed—the guilty wand in her grasp!”

Crouch’s voice cut through the noise, calm but seething with controlled venom. “Perhaps you’re suggesting, Amos, that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

Amos’s face went white. “Mr. Crouch—n-not at all—I never—”

Crouch’s tone sharpened to cold steel, immediately taking control of the narrative. “You have now come dangerously close to accusing the two people in this clearing least likely to have conjured it—Harry Potter and myself.” His eyes flashed toward Snape for a brief second, including him in the indictment. “I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Amos?”

“Of course,” Amos muttered, his face reddening further. “Everyone knows.”

“And I trust,” Crouch continued, his voice low and dangerously smooth, “that you remember the many proofs I have given, throughout a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts—and all who practice them?”

“Mr. Crouch,” Amos stammered, nearly bowing, “I never suggested you had anything to do with it!”

Snape finally spoke again, his voice smooth but edged with final, irritated authority. “I think we can all agree this has been sufficiently mishandled. Mr. Diggory, that wand has told us all it can. If you can return it to Potter.”

Amos hesitated, then awkwardly handed the wand back to Harry, who clutched it tightly, his expression a mixture of confusion and residual fear.

The tension in the clearing hung thick, the emerald haze of the vanished Mark still seeming to stain the sky above them. Persephone could feel her father’s raw fury simmering beside her—restrained, but barely contained.

“Come.”

Snape’s voice was clipped and colder than the night air. He spun on his heel, the hem of his robes billowing like black smoke as he strode out of the clearing. Harry and Persephone had to half-jog to keep up, stumbling over roots and debris in their haste.

“What’s going to happen to Winky?” Persephone asked breathlessly as they hurried through the trees.

“What I am far more curious about,” Snape said, his voice low and dangerous, “is why you were wandering the forest with Potter—when I specifically instructed you to stay with the Malfoys.” His tone cut through the night like a blade.

Persephone glanced nervously at Harry, whose stunned expression confirmed he was still processing the fact that his least favorite professor was her father.

“I was with them!” Persephone protested, her voice tight. “But the crowd got wild—people were running everywhere—and I got separated! I couldn’t find Draco or his parents. If it wasn’t for Harry, my head would’ve been blown off by a rogue fireball!”

“It’s true, sir,” Harry said quickly, stepping up to defend her. “It nearly hit her—”

Snape stopped so abruptly they nearly ran into him. He turned, his eyes blazing as he loomed over them, a figure of terrifying, protective rage.

“I do not want to hear another word from you, Potter,” he said harshly—the venom in his voice was so potent that Harry’s mouth snapped shut instantly.

Then Snape turned that same burning gaze on Persephone.

“And as for you,” he hissed, every word sharp as a whip, “you are never leaving the house again.”

Persephone’s jaw dropped. “What?! Why am I being punished? I didn’t—”

“Do. Not. Argue. With. Me.”

Each word was bitten off through clenched teeth, and Persephone knew better than to push further. Her mouth closed with an audible click of defeat.

Snape turned and stalked off again, his robes whispering against the forest floor. Persephone and Harry followed, slower now, the crushing weight of his fury pressing down on them both.

After a moment, Harry muttered under his breath, “Your dad’s… Professor Snape?”

“Sure is,” Persephone whispered, eyes fixed on her father’s rigid back.

Harry grimaced. “That sucks.”

Persephone snorted before she could stop herself. Snape’s head whipped around, and his glare silenced them both instantly, the shared humor extinguished in a flash.

The rest of the walk was heavy and silent. The air reeked of smoke and scorched canvas. The glow of dying fires flickered between the trees, and the distant shouts of panicked witches and wizards echoed faintly behind them.

Then—

“HARRY! I FOUND HARRY!”

They looked up as several figures broke through the tree line. The Weasleys and Hermione came rushing toward them, pale and frantic with relief.

“Thank Merlin!” cried Mr. Weasley, clasping Harry by the shoulder. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Oh—Severus, hello.”

Snape inclined his head curtly, a flicker of cold recognition in his eyes. “Arthur.”

Persephone noticed Harry, still stunned and trying to make sense of the situation, mouthing the words “That’s her father” to his friends.

The Weasleys’ expressions instantly shifted from relief over finding Harry to wide-eyed, comical disbelief. Persephone watched their eyes darting rapidly between her severe father and her—clearly trying to reconcile Professor Snape with the fact that he possessed a child.

“Persephone,” Snape said flatly, already turning away. “Come.”

She managed a quick, apologetic smile and a wave toward Harry before hurrying after her father.

They walked in silence again, the chaos of the camp slowly fading behind them. The only sounds were the faint crackle of distant fires and the occasional pop of Disapparitions. Snape’s stride never slowed, his breathing measured but harsh.

Finally, his voice broke the silence—quiet, but far more dangerous than when he’d shouted.

“You disobeyed me.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Persephone protested. “I got separated—”

“You are alive by chance,” he cut in sharply. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if you’d been found by the wrong sort of wizard?”

His voice caught slightly—not with rage, but something that sounded very much like raw, crippling fear.

Persephone slowed her pace, glancing up at him. His face was half-lit by the dim glow of the fires behind them, the lines of exhaustion deep and visible. His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes she had never seen before.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper:

“If anything had happened to you…”

He trailed off, the words hanging unfinished in the smoky air.

Persephone’s anger melted away, replaced by guilt. She kicked at a rock, her voice small. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Snape exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a shudder. “We will discuss this later,” he said finally, though the sharp edge in his tone had dulled to weariness.

They emerged from the campsite as a bruised dawn began to stain the horizon. The campsite behind them was a ruin of smoke, soot, and panic.

“I already told them to leave,” Snape said, his tone leaving no room for argument regarding the Malfoys. “You’re coming home with me.”

Persephone opened her mouth to protest, but the exhausted, desperate look he gave her froze the words in her throat.

Without another word, he gripped her arm. The world spun and folded with a familiar, violent crack, the camp vanishing in a rush of air and dizzying color.

When her feet touched solid ground again, the smell of smoke was gone—replaced by the damp, cold air of Spinner’s End.

They stood in the dim light of Snape’s narrow sitting room, the walls lined with books and gleaming jars. The silence between them felt heavier than ever, thick with unexpressed terror and absolute exhaustion.

Chapter Text

“I’ll give you a potion to help you sleep,” her father said curtly, his voice echoing in the close space as he strode toward his study.

Persephone followed, dragging her feet, and sank into the high-backed chair behind his desk as he rummaged through one of the potion cabinets that lined the walls. Glass clinked softly as he moved bottles aside, searching for the correct draft.

“Dad—” she began hesitantly.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up, his tone clipped but edged with exhaustion.

“Why were there Death Eaters there tonight?” she asked, absently spinning one of the quills that sat in its inkpot on his desk.

Snape sighed, closing the cabinet halfway. “I do not know, Persephone.”

She frowned. “But why put the Dark Mark in the sky?” she pressed, her voice barely above a whisper. The colossal skull still burned behind her eyes.

“I don’t believe the ones causing the chaos at the campsite were the same who cast the Mark,” Snape said, finally turning back to her. He held a small vial filled with a dark purple potion that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

Persephone’s heart sank as her mind turned over the possibilities. “Do you think…he’s back?” she asked quietly, the name hanging heavy in the air.

Snape’s expression hardened instantly. “No,” he said firmly, brooking no argument. “If the Dark Lord had returned, we would know.”

She nodded, though the reassurance did little to calm her spiraling thoughts. She took the vial, the cool glass a stark contrast to the lingering heat of the fire. Silence fell between them, heavy and fragile.

As she sat, she hugged her arms around herself for comfort—and realized she was still wearing Harry’s jacket.

Snape noticed too. His gaze flicked toward the rough fabric, one brow arching with sharp suspicion.

“I—uh—I forgot to give Harry his jacket back,” she said quickly before he could comment.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “And what precisely were you doing with Potter in the first place?”

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “I already told you. He saved me from nearly getting hit by that fireball. We ran to the woods to avoid being trampled—”

She felt it then: that faint, unmistakable pull in her mind. He was reading her thoughts. She didn’t resist; she knew it was pointless. He sifted through her memories until he reached the final, chaotic image—the one of her pulling Harry down before he had arrived.

When her father finally withdrew, his jaw was tight. “I don’t want you associating with that boy.”

“Why not?” Persephone demanded, furrowing her brows. “I don’t understand why you and Draco hate him so much. He’s nice, Dad. He let me borrow his jacket—he even saved my life! He’s quite the gentleman.”

Snape scoffed, shaking his head. “That boy is not a gentleman.”

“Well, he is to me,” she said stubbornly, a small, defiant smirk tugging at her lips.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly through his teeth. “You’re a very beautiful young lady, Persephone. Any boy would be foolish not to flatter you.” His tone softened only slightly, adding an entirely new layer of tension. “Which is exactly why you’re never leaving this house again.”

Persephone groaned, glaring at him. “You can’t be serious.”

He ignored her, snapping the cabinet door shut with a decisive clang.

“I was hoping,” she said, slouching defeatedly in the chair, “that maybe you’d give me the chance to feel like a normal teenager for once—and let me go to Hogwarts.”

Snape barked a humorless, short laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“But where else could be safer?” she argued desperately. “If you and Professor Dumbledore are both there, what could possibly happen to me?”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he said, his patience thinning to a razor's edge. “Trouble follows Potter wherever he goes, and since his first year, Hogwarts has been nothing but chaos. Tonight’s events only prove my point.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but found she couldn’t. He was right—though she hated to admit it.

Snape straightened, the edge returning to his voice. “Bed. Now.”

She sighed, pushing herself up from his chair. “Fine.”

As she walked toward the doorway, she paused and glanced back. He had turned away, his shoulders slightly slumped, one hand resting heavily on the edge of the desk.

“Goodnight, Dad,” she said softly.

He didn’t turn around, but his voice, low and profoundly tired, followed her out of the room. “Goodnight, Persephone.”

Persephone climbed the narrow stairs to her room, every muscle in her body aching. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, the soreness hit her in full force—her legs burned from running, and her arms felt heavy, her hands still faintly trembling.

When she opened her door, she stopped short. Her owl, Beans, was perched primly on her bedpost, blinking at her expectantly. Beside him, her enchanted journal glowed softly with the faint shimmer of fresh, silver ink.

“Draco,” she murmured, a warmth spreading through her chest that momentarily chased away the exhaustion. She hurried over.

She opened it quickly, flipping to the latest entry. His handwriting scrawled across the page, tense and hurried:

I hope you made it home safe. What happened to you? Mother was beside herself when she couldn’t find you—she went to fetch Professor Snape while Father continued searching. Snape looked furious when he arrived. I really hope you’re okay. Write me as soon as you can. I love you.

A faint smile tugged at her lips. Even through the panic and exhaustion, his constant concern was a comfort.

She grabbed her quill and scribbled a quick reply:

I’m safe. My dad found me. I’ll explain everything tomorrow—just need sleep. I love you too.

The ink shimmered once, then vanished into the page. She set the journal on her nightstand and reached out to stroke Beans’s soft feathers. “Good job, boy,” she whispered. He hooted softly in reply.

Then she uncorked the small vial of potion her father had given her. The dark purple liquid shimmered like captured starlight. She barely had time to finish the last drop before her eyelids grew impossibly heavy.

She didn’t even feel herself collapse onto the bed.

When Persephone opened her eyes again, bright sunlight streamed across her face. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—until the severe, familiar lines of her room at Spinner’s End came into focus, grounding her back to reality.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Her dream lingered—vivid, unsettling, and so real it made her chest tighten. It was the same recurring dream she’d had before.

She padded downstairs to find her father already awake, seated at the kitchen table, the Daily Prophet spread before him. A mug of coffee steamed by his elbow.

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” she said, dropping into the chair across from him.

Without lowering the paper, Snape asked, “About what?”

She frowned, trying to recall the details. “I don’t know… but I keep dreaming about this house.”

That made him lower the paper. His intense black eyes locked onto hers. “Go on.”

“There are always people talking in a room,” she said slowly, squinting as if she could still see the hazy shapes. “I can’t see one of them—he’s always sitting in this big chair—but the other is this short, fat man. Kind of ugly. And his name—what was it—something weird. Worm… Worm something.”

Snape’s fingers tightened visibly on the edge of the paper, crinkling the newsprint.

“Wormtail?”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yeah! That’s it. How’d you guess that?”

Snape didn’t answer. He just stared at her, the muscle in his jaw ticking rapidly.

“I can’t really remember what they were saying,” she continued, a shiver running down her back. “But it felt like they were plotting something big.” She looked at him anxiously. “It’s just a dream… right?”

The heavy, immediate silence that followed made her stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his tone low and charged with worry. “You’re going to have to start blocking your dreams—just in case.”

Her head snapped up. “Blocking my—how am I supposed to do that?”

“You’ll start practicing tonight,” he said simply, already folding the paper and pushing it aside.

Persephone groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Of course I will. I always have to be practicing something.”

Snape didn’t respond, but the faintest crease in his brow betrayed what she was beginning to recognize more and more: genuine, fear.

She looked down at her hands, still thinking about the dream—the way the hidden man’s voice, even in the hazy memory, had made her skin crawl.

After her late breakfast, Persephone returned to her room. Now that the raw, chaotic energy of the last night had faded, the entire house felt strangely, unnaturally quiet.

She changed out of her dirt covered, smoky clothing, then carefully folded Harry’s jacket—smoothing out the creases and brushing away the faint remains of forest soil. She wrapped it neatly in parchment, tying it up with simple twine before slipping a short note beneath the string:

Hi, Harry, Thank you again for letting me borrow your jacket—and for saving my life last night. Forever grateful, Persephone

Beans was asleep on her windowsill, feathers puffed in the sunlight. Persephone gently nudged him awake.

“Come on, BBs,” she whispered, stroking his head. “I need you to take this to Harry Potter, alright?”

He blinked his dark, intelligent eyes at her, hooted softly, and stretched his wings. With a quick charm to lighten the parcel’s weight, she tied it securely to his leg.

“Be careful, okay?” she said as he launched himself off the sill and took off into the sky, the jacket a small, awkward parcel of shared history disappearing over the trees.

Later that evening, Snape, still clipped and silent, escorted Persephone back to Malfoy Manor. The huge house gleamed under the moonlight, its white marble exterior looking utterly untouched by the horrors of the night before.

The moment they arrived, Persephone bolted up the marble staircase to Draco’s room. She found him there, tossing his school things haphazardly into an open, expensive trunk. His head snapped up when she entered, and his face broke into a genuine, massive grin.

“Seph!”

Before she could say a word, he crossed the room and scooped her into his arms, spinning her once before pressing a quick, relieved kiss to her lips.

“Draco!” she laughed, clinging to him. “You scared me half to death last night.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, his earlier composure completely shattered. “You scared me half to death. When we couldn’t find you—Mother nearly fainted, and Father was storming through the camps like a madman. Even Snape looked ready to hex anyone that got in the way.”

Persephone smiled faintly, her heart squeezing at the thought of her father’s fear. “Well… I’m here now.”

She looked down at the messy heap of clothes and books scattered across his floor. “You pack like a troll,” she teased, kneeling to help.

He rolled his eyes but smiled as she began neatly folding his uniforms. “I was in a hurry,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Can’t believe it’s almost time to go back. This year’s supposed to be incredible—the Triwizard Tournament, Seph!”

Persephone’s hands paused mid-fold, her excitement instantly dampened by a profound sense of exclusion. “The Triwizard Tournament?” she murmured. “I forgot that was happening this year!”

Draco stopped fussing with a pair of socks and looked at her softly. “I wish you could be there too, my love. Honestly, Hogwarts will be dreadful without you.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Oh, please. You’ll hardly think of me amidst all that glorious chaos.”

He smirked, leaning in close. “That’s not true. You’re always on my mind.”

She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to her cheek.

There was a light, formal knock on the door. They sprang apart instantly—Persephone grabbing a random book and pretending to read the spine as Narcissa entered, carrying a beautifully tailored suit draped over her arm.

“What’s that for?” Draco asked suspiciously.

Narcissa smiled faintly. “The Yule Ball, of course. There’s always one during the Triwizard Tournament.”

Persephone’s jaw dropped. “That is so unfair!” The Tournament itself was one thing, but a grand ball felt like the ultimate teenage exclusion.

Narcissa’s expression softened. “Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” she said kindly.

“Can’t she come to the Yule Ball?” Draco asked hopefully, turning to his mother.

Narcissa sighed, smoothing a wrinkle from the rich fabric. “Severus is quite firm about Persephone not attending Hogwarts, or any related events.”

Persephone threw her hands up, the pretense of reading abandoned. “Ugh! I swear he enjoys watching me suffer.”

Narcissa gave her a patient, gentle smile. “He’s not trying to punish you, dear. He’s protecting you. He loves you very much.”

With that, she glided out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.

The moment she was gone, Persephone grabbed the book she’d been pretending to read hurled it into Draco’s trunk with a loud thud.

Draco winced. “I’m guessing you won’t be writing to him about how grateful you are for his protection?”

She glared, then cracked a small grin. “Not unless sarcasm counts.” She said, then added, “I suppose I’ll just have to rely on your messages for every exciting detail, since I’m apparently on house arrest.”

Draco chuckled softly, closing his trunk long enough to lean against it. “You’ll probably get tired of my updates after a week.”

“Never,” she replied, giving him a pointed look that melted some of his earlier smugness.

For a while, they packed in comfortable silence. The quiet rustle of parchment and the gentle click of trunk clasps filled the high-ceilinged room—until Persephone noticed a folded Daily Prophet buried among his papers.

She picked it up and froze. The entire front page was dominated by a huge, vivid image of the green skull and serpent blazing against the night sky.

The Dark Mark.

Her stomach twisted, the terror of the previous night returning in a visceral wave. “I still can’t believe they think Mr. Crouch’s elf was the one who conjured it,” she said bitterly, tossing the newspaper onto the floor. “Honestly, that’s absurd.”

“I wonder who actually had the nerve to do it,” Draco mused, snapping his expensive trunk shut with a loud clack.

“I don’t know,” Persephone murmured, sinking onto the edge of his bed. “Dad doesn’t think it was any of the Death Eaters at the campsite—”

Draco frowned, walking over to her. “Then who else could it have been?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even think there were Death Eaters still active in any organized way…”

Draco shrugged, trying to look nonchalant as he took a seat next to her, pulling her close. “They were probably just wasted fanatics having a terrible laugh,” he said, wrapping his arm securely around her waist.

“Probably,” she admitted, though her voice was faraway. “Still… it was terrifying.”

“I wish I hadn’t lost you,” he murmured into her hair.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, leaning into his warmth.

Draco’s expression darkened as he pulled back slightly. “I’m more upset that Potter was the one who found you. Of all people—it had to be him.”

Persephone rolled her eyes, a teasing smile curving her lips even as she argued. “Well, if it weren’t for him, your girlfriend might be missing a head right now, Draco.”

Draco’s scowl deepened instantly. “Every move he makes is for attention. He saw a chance to play the hero again, and he took it.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, pulling slightly away from him, her good humor fading. “Not everything is about him, Draco.”

Draco crossed his arms, smirking in that infuriatingly smug way of his. “You’ll see, Persephone. With Potter, it always is.”

She shook her head, staring down at the discarded Prophet on the floor—the image of the Dark Mark still glaring up from the cover, a sinister reminder of the night's events and the deep, frustrating rift between her two worlds.

The day came far too soon—Draco’s departure for Hogwarts.

Persephone went with the Malfoys to King’s Cross, her heart heavy as they weaved through the chaotic crowd on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The platform was vividly alive with laughter and the high-pitched chatter of reunion. Steam billowed from the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express, curling through the air like a living, brassy-red dragon.

She couldn’t help the sharp, bitter jealousy that gnawed at her chest as she watched the students rush by—robes swishing, heavy trunks clattering, owls hooting indignantly from their cages. Every face was bright with excitement, every conversation humming with the anticipation of the year ahead. And there she stood, her own Hogwarts dreams locked away by her father’s suffocating, overbearing sense of protection.

She hated it.

The train whistle shrieked its final warning. Draco turned to her, his sharp eyes softening for a rare moment of genuine vulnerability. He pulled her close, hugging her tightly before pressing a quick, proprietary kiss to her lips—nothing more than a polite brush, carefully contained for his parents' eyes.

“You’re mine, Seph,” he whispered fiercely against her ear. “Even when I’m gone. I love you.”

Persephone smiled faintly, burying her face in his expensive robes, breathing in the scent of his cologne. “I love you too,” she murmured, then pulled back just enough to grin mischievously. “Be good—and don’t start any more fights with Harry.”

Draco smirked, straightening his tie. “Be good? And ruin my reputation? I don’t think so. And as for Potter—no promises.”

“Of course not,” she said, rolling her eyes affectionately.

He gave her a final wink before grabbing his trunk and swiftly boarding the train. Persephone stood perfectly still between Lucius and Narcissa as the Hogwarts Express gave a great roar and began to move, the engine’s sound echoing through the vast station.

When the train vanished around the distant bend, the platform seemed to exhale, settling into an instant, profound quiet. She bit her lip, refusing to let the sudden rush of loneliness turn into tears. Narcissa, ever perceptive beneath her elegant, composed exterior, immediately reached out and gave her hand a gentle, knowing squeeze. Persephone managed a small, practiced smile in return, but the effort didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained heavy and bleak with the ache of exclusion.

Chapter Text

Persephone’s fourth year of study began with an intensity that made the previous term feel like a mere warm-up.

The following morning, she and Narcissa reviewed her new syllabus over tea in the library. The list was utterly daunting: Advanced Spellcrafting, Unplottable and Undetectable Extension Charms, Advanced Defense Against the Unforgivable Curses, Alchemy, and Magical Healing, not to mention her nightly Occlumency and Legilimency sessions.

It felt less like education and more like a punishment disguised as elite training.

By the end of each day, Persephone’s mind throbbed and her eyes ached from the constant strain. Narcissa’s lessons were thorough but physically exhausting, and her father’s demands only grew sharper, his standards impossibly higher. When she finally retreated to her room that evening, the relief of solitude felt almost sacred.

She frowned when her enchanted journal lay silent on her desk. No new message from Draco. He’s probably just busy, she told herself, trying to ignore the small, sour knot of worry that tightened in her chest.

She sat at her desk and flipped to a fresh page.

Hey you, she wrote neatly. I hope your first day wasn’t as rough as mine. I’m pretty sure my father is trying to kill me with the amount of work he’s assigning. Write when you can. I love you and miss you.

She watched as the ink shimmered once before vanishing into the parchment. Persephone waited several minutes, staring at the page in hopeful silence, listening to the clock tick. When no words appeared in reply, she sighed, closing the journal with a soft, final thud.

Kicking off her shoes, she threw herself face-first onto her bed. Sleep, born of pure exhaustion, claimed her quickly.

But peace did not follow.

She found herself standing in a long corridor—dark, gray, and seemingly endless. At the far end stood a familiar figure. Draco.

Relief flooded her, but when she tried to call his name, no sound escaped her lips. Panic prickled her throat. She took a step forward—he moved too. Another step—he mirrored her, always exactly the same distance away, perpetually just out of reach. The space between them never closed, no matter how desperately she tried.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. The corridor pulsed with a strange, heavy energy, as if the walls themselves were alive and breathing.

Then, in an instant, Draco vanished—like smoke whisked away by a sudden draft.

“Draco!” she tried to scream, but the silence swallowed her voice whole.

She turned, and where there had been empty space now loomed a stone wall—tall, cold, unyielding. A faint metallic sheen rippled across its surface. Slowly, the metal formed a large, sinuous serpent, the creature bending inward, its body forming an ominous doorframe.

Drawn by something she couldn’t name, Persephone reached out. The cold stone shifted beneath her fingers, parting like a curtain.

She stepped through.

The world around her changed—the air colder, the light dimmer. She was standing inside the crumbling house again. The smell of damp wood and decay clung to the air.

Before her stood a door, slightly ajar, with the flickering light of a fireplace spilling through the crack. Two voices murmured on the other side—low, conspiratorial, their words indistinct but urgent. She leaned closer, heart pounding against the flimsy wood.

Her hand hovered over the door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound froze her mid-breath.

She turned slowly toward the noise.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her gaze darted to the narrow crack where the door met the frame—and her stomach lurched. Peering through the narrow fissure, eyes glinting small and black like a rat’s, was the short, hunched figure she’d seen before. The one her father had named.

Wormtail.

And this time, he wasn't just talking to someone; he was staring straight at her. The silent, impossible intrusion of his gaze snapped the dream's fragile reality.

Persephone jolted awake, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. For a disoriented, panicked moment, she didn’t know where she was. The dark corridor… the serpent door… Wormtail’s gleaming, rat-like eyes—

Then her surroundings settled into focus. Her room. The soft, controlled glow of her bedside lamp. The familiar, rhythmic hum of the enchanted ceiling above.

Just a dream.

She exhaled shakily, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. The clock on her nightstand read just past ten in the evening. She’d been asleep for hours.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound made her flinch violently, every nerve ending screaming a warning. Her mind flashed back to the dream—the same sharp, intrusive tapping that had echoed through the crumbling corridor. She scrambled off her bed, eyes darting wildly around the room, expecting to find those small, beady eyes peering through a crack.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her gaze snapped toward the window—then she gasped in relief and a rush of surprise.

A beautiful snowy owl was perched on the sill, its feathers gleaming brilliantly in the moonlight. Its large, intense amber eyes glared impatiently through the glass, clearly offended by the delay.

“Oh—oh, I’m sorry!” she stammered, rushing to open the latch.

The owl swooped gracefully inside, landing squarely on her bed with a soft rustle. It stuck out one leg in a manner that clearly indicated business before pleasure, a small piece of parchment tied securely around it.

Persephone laughed softly, the tension finally breaking, and untied the letter. The owl gave an indignant hoot and, without waiting for thanks or a treat, took off again into the night.

She unfolded the parchment and felt her breath hitch when she saw the signature—Harry Potter.

Settling onto the edge of her bed, she read quickly, her eyes darting across the page.

Harry thanked her for returning his jacket—apparently, it was his only one—and asked if she’d survived Snape’s wrath, which made her snort aloud. He then casually described his classes as if they were old friends, in Care of Magical Creatures, they were struggling with aggressive Blast-Ended Skrewts, and in Divination, Professor Trelawney had once again predicted his "mortal peril," though he noted that she’d been saying that since last year.

By the time Persephone reached the last paragraph of the letter, her jaw had dropped completely.

Apparently, Draco had tried to hex Harry earlier that day—and missed. Unfortunately for Draco, their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, a rather eccentric ex-Auror named Mad-Eye Moody, had witnessed the scene. His idea of discipline? Transfiguring Draco into a bouncing ferret.

Persephone clapped a hand over her mouth, torn between sheer horror for Draco and uncontrollable, desperate laughter.

No wonder he didn’t write today, she thought, grinning wildly. The poor guy’s probably still sulking about being turned into a ferret!

Still giggling, she crossed the room to her desk and pulled out a clean sheet of parchment, dipping her quill into the inkwell.

Dear Harry,

First off, I want to apologize for whatever Draco does. I do not condone his behavior or actions in the slightest. Secondly, HE GOT TURNED INTO A FERRET?! You’ve officially made my entire evening. Today was a struggle, to say the least.

I’d honestly rather care for a hundred Blast-Ended Skrewts on my own than do the overwhelming load of assignments my father is forcing me to do. He’s expecting a novel-length essay on the Philosophical Differences in Alchemy AND another for Ministry Regulations on Extension Charms by Friday. It’s the worst—but I suppose it's not as bad as being in "mortal peril"—Professor Trelawney sounds like a very lovely lady.

Her quill hovered for a moment as she smiled to herself.

Thank you for your letter, I absolutely needed the laugh.

– Persephone

She set her quill down, sealing the letter with a cheerful flourish. Beans accepted the letter, giving her finger a gentle, familiar nip as a goodbye before launching himself out the open window.

The next few days took on a noticeably lighter rhythm.

Harry replied almost immediately to her last letter—so quickly that when Beans fluttered back through her window the next morning, he was already carrying Harry’s response. Persephone smiled before she even opened it.

Their correspondence became something she looked forward to. Harry’s letters were filled with genuine humor and warmth, painting Hogwarts in a way that felt alive and imperfect—chaotic, funny, and deeply real. He wrote about classes, the eccentric professors, Hermione’s relentless studying, Ron’s complaints about homework, and the latest absurdities in Divination. His words made her laugh until her sides ached, and though she didn’t fully understand why, there was something about him that felt... familiar. As if she had known him once, long ago, in a different life.

Her exchanges with Draco continued too, though less frequently. He never once mentioned the ferret incident—and Persephone wisely avoided the subject altogether. His tone in the letters was steady but distinctly distracted.

Draco complained endlessly about the sudden surge in homework, the pervasive chaos surrounding the Triwizard Tournament, and how upset he was that Quidditch got canceled that year. Yet, beneath his trademark arrogant posturing, she could sense a deep-seated exhaustion.

He told her he’d joined a study group to keep his grades up, assuring her that late nights left him little time to write detailed letters. When she offered to help with his work from afar—a familiar comfort for them—he gently refused, saying he didn’t want to burden her with more lessons than she already had.

Still, the space between his messages felt heavier than she wanted to admit.

And with the distance, the dreams continued to spiral.

The cold, dark corridor stretched endlessly again, always echoing with her silent panic. Draco was always there ahead of her, his silhouette sharp, yet perpetually just beyond reach. No matter how fast she ran, he seemed to move in perfect parallel, slipping further away until his figure faded entirely into the shadow.

She woke each time with her heart pounding and a strange, visceral tightness in her chest—a feeling of impending loss that lingered well into the morning.

Draco reminded her every time she became concerned not to worry—that it was just a dream, nothing more—and that he would always be there for her, that he loved her. His unwavering words soothed her, but only for a moment.

Even Harry’s letters, as delightful as they were, couldn’t completely chase away Persephone’s persistent unease. The shadows of the dreams still lingered in the corners of her mind, and even the bright ink of Harry’s jokes sometimes felt like only a temporary distraction.

That changed one quiet, sun-drenched afternoon.

Persephone was sitting beneath her favorite willow in the back garden, one of her classic novels open in her lap, when a sudden shadow passed overhead. She looked up just as a stately brown barn owl swooped down and dropped a folded letter squarely into her lap before continuing on its way.

Frowning in mild confusion, she brushed away a few stray feathers and broke the seal. Her heart lifted with immediate interest when she saw the clear, precise signature.

She began to read, her eyes widening with every line.

Dear Persephone,

I don’t know if you remember me, but we met briefly at the Quidditch World Cup—my name is Hermione Granger, Harry’s friend.

I’m writing because I’ve just started an organization called the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare (S.P.E.W.), and Harry mentioned to me that you were equally disgusted by the treatment of house-elves. I was hoping you might like to join!

We currently have only three members, but we’re optimistic about growing. Membership costs two Sickles, which will go toward printing leaflets and making more badges.

If you’re interested, please write back so I can add your name to the official roster and send you your S.P.E.W. pin.

Sincerely, Hermione Granger

P.S. I couldn’t help but notice in one of your letters to Harry that you’re studying Alchemy. Do you have any book recommendations? I’d love to learn more—it’s fascinating!

Persephone nearly squealed aloud, clapping a hand over her mouth. Hermione Granger wanted her to join an organization—and not just any organization, but one dedicated to justice and equality. For a girl who had spent so much of her life isolated behind enchanted walls, this felt monumental. This was a real invitation, a genuine connection, and the promise of a possible friendship based on shared moral ground.

She jumped to her feet, dropping the novel on the grass, her heart racing with adrenaline and excitement. She ran upstairs to her room. Digging through her small purse, she collected a few coins—far more than the two Sickles Hermione had asked for, but Persephone didn't care; she wanted to help fund the campaign.

Then she hurried down to the library. She searched the tall shelves until she found a few of her well-loved beginner’s texts on Alchemy. They were annotated and worn at the corners, but she knew Hermione would devour the content.

Back in her room, she wrapped the books carefully in brown parchment and tied them with twine. She tucked in a folded note:

Dear Hermione,

Thank you so much for your letter—and of course, I’d love to join S.P.E.W.! Enclosed are the membership dues (and a little extra to help with your campaign). I’ve also sent a few Alchemy books I think you’ll enjoy—they’re old, but full of fascinating theory.

I’m thrilled to be part of something so meaningful, and I can’t wait to hear more about your efforts.

Warmly, Persephone

Beans hooted approvingly when she attached the parcel to his leg.

“Take this to Hermione Granger, please,” Persephone said softly, smoothing his feathers.

The little owl gave a proud trill and launched into the fading afternoon light.

Persephone watched him soar until he disappeared beyond the treetops, a genuine, joyful smile tugging at her lips. For the first time in weeks, the weight on her chest felt noticeably lighter.

Chapter Text

“Draco!”

Persephone tried to scream, but the sound was strangled in her throat. It felt as if an invisible, cruel hand had seized her vocal cords, leaving her gasping for air in absolute silence.

She forced herself forward, her shoes scraping desperately against the cold stone floor of the endless corridor. The darkness pressed close on either side, thick and suffocating. Ahead, Draco’s pale, retreating figure was her only focus, his back still turned to her.

Her heartbeat thundered a frantic rhythm in her ears. She lunged, reaching out with a desperate, final effort—her fingers brushed the smooth fabric of his shirt—

And he was gone.

The air where he had been shimmered once, then fell still, leaving her trembling, hands hovering uselessly. The silence that followed was absolute.

The world around her violently shifted.

The corridor dissolved into shadow, the floor beneath her feet rippling like black water. When it stilled again, she was standing before a tall, seamless stone wall—smooth and glistening like dark metal beneath a hidden light. The surface began to ripple, shifting and reforming until a pattern emerged.

A serpent.

Its body was long and sinuous, scales catching the faint light as it began to move—sliding free from the wall, dropping to the floor with a heavy, sickening thud.

Persephone stumbled backward, her pulse spiking into a frantic drumbeat. The serpent lifted its enormous head, uncoiling as it slithered toward her, its size growing exponentially. Its scales darkened to a poisonous green, and its eyes gleamed a menacing red, like molten glass.

“No,” she whispered, though the sound was only a breath.

Her heel struck something solid. She turned—and froze.

A door, slightly ajar, stood behind her. The frantic flicker of firelight glowed through the crack, spilling across the rotting floorboards.

And then she knew where she was.

The old house.

The air stank of mildew, old smoke, and decay. The walls seemed to moan with the faint sound of wind whistling through broken windows.

She turned back—and the massive serpent was right beside her. Its head lifted until its terrifying, red eyes were level with hers. It stared, unblinking, its forked tongue flickered—and then it slithered past, slipping through the narrow opening of the door.

The crack widened just enough for Persephone to peer through.

Inside, a tall, high-backed chair sat before the fire, its occupant hidden. Wormtail paced nervously in front of it, his shadow stretching grotesquely across the wall. And there, standing rigid near the fire, was Barty Crouch.

Her breath caught.

They were speaking, their voices muffled and distorted, as if underwater. Persephone strained to listen, catching fragmented words—a name, a command, a chilling laugh—but the words blurred together into a terrifying secret.

Then Wormtail stopped mid-stride. His head jerked up.

Crouch froze.

Both of them turned. Their eyes were unnervingly red, mirroring the serpent’s gaze, and they were staring straight at her through the crack.

Her blood turned to instant ice.

The door slammed shut with an explosive BANG! The sheer force hurled her backward. She flew through the darkness, tumbling, falling without end—

Persephone shot upright in bed, gasping for air, her skin slick with a cold sweat. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst from her chest.

She was in her room. At Malfoy Manor. It was just a dream.

She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, forcing her breathing to slow. The clock on her nightstand glowed faintly: 3:15 a.m.

Pulling her knees to her chest, she buried her face against them. The dream still clung to her like cobwebs—every sound, every color, the sight of those red eyes, too vivid to be dismissed. But worse than the sheer terror was a strange, unsettling secondary sensation.

A strange, morbid thrill. As though some dark, unseen part of her was waiting impatiently for the moment of intrusion, waiting for what came next. She frowned, intensely unsettled by the thought that the feeling wasn't genuinely her own.

Closing her eyes, she focused inward, visualizing the mental walls—cold, dark steel barriers sealing her mind against any intrusion. She reinforced them again and again until the tension eased slightly.

The chill October air slipped through her open window causing Persephone to shiver. She got out of bed, wrapping her arms around herself, shutting the window with a heavy thud.

The quiet of the manor was absolute, but she knew sleep was impossible now. With a resigned sigh, she glanced toward her desk, where a half-finished essay waited. She sat down, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write—trying desperately to drown the lingering whispers of her dream in the rhythmic, logical scratch of quill on parchment.

The brutal lack of sleep was no longer an inconvenience; it was a heavy, physical toll. Persephone felt it in every part of her body—in the dull, blinding ache behind her eyes, the constant, suffocating fog pressing at the edges of her thoughts, and the sheer weight that seemed to pull her down with every single breath. Each morning, she felt like she was dragging a lead weight from the bed, barely managing to remain upright through her rigorous lessons.

The high, elegant script in her books blurred before her eyes. Complex words and theories slipped from her mind as quickly as she read them, leaving only the echo of effort. Narcissa’s patience was wearing thin. More than once, the woman had to tap her sharply on the shoulder to jolt her awake mid-lecture, her tone growing crisper and colder with each passing day.

“Focus, Persephone,” Narcissa would now snap, the brief flicker of sympathy long gone, replaced by a cutting professional disdain.

But how could she focus when her mind refused to grant her peace?

Her father’s relentless academic assignments only made the situation worse. The stack of parchment on her desk grew impossibly higher each day, filled with his dense, neatly written notes and frustratingly difficult problems. Even the weekends offered no reprieve; she was either buried deep in the silent, oppressive Manor library or confined to her room, her quill scratching until her fingers cramped into useless claws.

And then there were the emotions.

At first, they were fleeting, like strange waves breaking far away—sudden, inexplicable surges of overwhelming sadness or scorching anger that arrived and vanished without warning. But now they struck like sudden, violent storms. One moment she felt a fragile calm, the next she was trembling with an irrational fury or overcome by a hollow, paralyzing dread that was categorically not her own.

It wasn't normal. She knew with a cold, absolute certainty that this creeping psychic invasion was not a normal side effect of fatigue.

Whoever those feelings belonged to, they were alien. They had a weight, a texture, a metallic, unfamiliar flavor, and each day they pressed harder, more urgently, against the boundaries of her mind.

She tried to keep her walls up. But the exhaustion of sleepless nights and relentless studying was eroding them. Every time she blinked too long, every time her focus wavered, the walls would slip and crack, and those foreign, terrifying emotions would come flooding back.

The intrusion left her dizzy, nauseous, and her heart pounding—like she was standing naked in the middle of someone else’s desperate fear.

The only thing keeping her grounded—the only thin, bright thread of normalcy left—came in the form of parchment and ink. Messages from Draco, sharp and dry but always reassuringly familiar. Letters from Harry and Hermione, filled with the vibrancy of the outside world, the political passion of S.P.E.W., and the comfortable details of friendship. Their words were the true counter-charm to the monotony and dread of her days. Their messages let Persephone pretend, for a little while, that she was truly there with them—a normal girl with friends, laughter, and the immense luxury of freedom.

By late October, Persephone’s enchanted journal was glowing almost every night. Messages arrived in a flurry. It was as if the entire wizarding world had suddenly roared with life, and Hogwarts was the explosive center of it all.

Draco’s latest message had practically buzzed with competitive excitement and theatrical scorn.

He described the dramatic arrival of the foreign schools for the Triwizard Tournament, every word dripping with his characteristic flair for drama and snobbery.

You should’ve seen it, Seph. The Beauxbatons carriage was massive—looked like a pale-blue palace with wings. Pulled by these ridiculous, giant, gold-maned horses that apparently drink firewhisky instead of water. And their headmistress? She’s enormous. A literal giantess, towering over Dumbledore like he’s a garden gnome.

Persephone had laughed aloud, imagining Draco's face twisted in theatrical disgust.

Then came the Durmstrang delegation. Now that was impressive, he'd conceded, grudgingly. They came in on this massive, dark ship that rose straight out of the Black Lake, dripping water. Very dramatic entrance. Almost made Hogwarts look like a rundown prison by comparison. Honestly, I’d transfer there in a heartbeat—no wonder they produced Viktor Krum.

He went on to explain that Krum, the world-famous Quidditch Seeker, was attending Durmstrang as a student champion.

He looks smaller in person, though, Draco had noted critically. And that accent—I can barely understand a word. Still, everyone’s completely obsessed with him. Pathetic.

The very next evening, her journal flared again—the script appearing so fast and furious that it looked as though Draco had been writing in a white-hot rage.

THE GOBLET OF FIRE CHOSE THE CHAMPIONS TONIGHT. Viktor Krum for Durmstrang, Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons, and Diggory for Hogwarts.

But guess what? A FOURTH NAME WAS PULLED.

POTTER’S.

Persephone blinked hard, certain the lingering exhaustion was causing her to hallucinate.

But Draco’s next lines confirmed the impossible, coming quick, hot, and heavy with outrage:

Can you believe it?! He’s not even of age! The whole school’s in an uproar. Dumbledore claims it’s some kind of mistake—some 'unbreakable contract.' But of course, Potter acts all surprised, like he doesn’t know how it happened. Typical. He always has to be the center of attention.

Persephone stared at the glowing, pulsing words long after they vanished back into the plain parchment.

Harry—chosen by the Goblet? It didn’t make any rational sense. He wasn’t of age; he wasn't even supposed to be eligible. And yet... something about this impossible event felt profoundly inevitable, as if fate itself had reached into the fire and violently yanked his name out.

She flipped for a fresh page, her quill hovering just above the paper.

Of course, Draco would be furious. His reaction was predictable where Harry was concerned. But as Persephone finally began to write her own reply, she couldn’t help but feel something else entirely—a deep, prickling curiosity mingled with dread. And why, deep down in the unsettled core of her being, did she have a sinking feeling that Harry’s name appearing in that goblet wasn’t just another Hogwarts scandal...

The next morning, two owls arrived almost simultaneously—a sturdy brown barn owl and the familiar, blindingly snowy white form of Hedwig. They swooped in through the open window and landed neatly, almost ceremoniously, on Persephone's desk. Her heart lifted sharply at the sudden burst of activity. She quickly untied the bundles of parchment, instantly recognizing the familiar, contrasting handwriting of Harry and Hermione.

She opened Harry’s letter first.

His words spilled across the page in frantic, uneven lines, the ink blotched and heavy in places where it looked like he’d pressed down too hard with a furious quill.

Persephone,

I swear I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. Everyone thinks I did—the entire school. Even Ron. He won’t talk to me. He says I’m lying. Says I just wanted more fame or attention—as if I ever wanted any of this. It’s a complete nightmare.

Hermione believes me, at least. But I don’t know who else to trust. Whoever entered my name wanted me in this Tournament for a reason, and that’s what terrifies me. I don’t even know what I’m up against yet.

Anyway, I just needed to tell someone who might believe me. I hope you’re doing okay. Hogwarts is chaos right now. Everyone’s divided—cheering for their own champion, glaring at me like I’ve committed a crime. Wish I could just disappear sometimes.

— Harry

Persephone’s chest tightened painfully as she read. She could almost hear his voice in the words—the raw panic, the utter frustration, and the profound loneliness that lay buried beneath the black ink.

She set his letter down gently and reached for the second.

Hermione’s handwriting, by contrast, was small, precise, and meticulously neat, but the anxiety and determined resolve in her tone came through clearly.

Dear Persephone,

I assume Harry’s already written to you—he’s beside himself. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now. I just wish Ron would see reason and stop being so monumentally stubborn. The whole school’s practically turned against Harry, and even though Professor Dumbledore’s investigating, no one has any idea how his name got past the Age Line and into the Goblet. It’s supposed to be impossible.

I plan to help him study ahead for the tasks—just in case. But it’s hard when everyone’s whispering and pointing behind our backs. It’s like Hogwarts has become a battlefield.

Honestly, I’m more convinced than ever that someone is actively trying to set him up. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it—you’re good at seeing angles other people don’t. This feels like a dark plot, not a stupid prank.

— Hermione Granger

Persephone read Hermione’s words three times. The uneasy feeling that had been gnawing at her since Draco’s first message grew sharp, cold, and metallic. Whoever had entered Harry’s name—it wasn't a prank. It was deliberate and dangerous.

She picked up her quill, the nib trembling slightly as she began to write back to Harry.

Harry,

I believe you.

If you didn’t put your name in the Goblet, then someone did it for a reason—and not a good one. Try to stay calm and focused. Don’t give whoever did this what they want, whatever that is. Keep your guard up and trust Hermione. She’s brilliant, and she cares about you more than you probably realize.

I know it feels like everyone’s against you right now, but you’re not alone. Don't forget that.

— Persephone

Then she took a fresh sheet for Hermione.

Hermione,

I agree with you—this isn’t a coincidence. There’s no way a fourth name just appeared by accident. The Goblet of Fire is ancient, powerful magic; it doesn’t make mistakes. Someone wanted Harry in that Tournament. The question is who, and why.

If I were there, I’d say we should start by looking at who benefits most from putting him in extreme danger. You’re clever enough to find out. Just promise me you’ll both be incredibly careful.

And Hermione—thank you for being there for him. He needs you.

When both letters were sealed and tied to Beans’ leg, Persephone watched her small owl soar into the crisp autumn sky until he was a tiny speck among the clouds.

But even after he was gone, she lingered by the window, staring out at the dull, gray horizon. The chill air smelled of rain and cold earth, but something else suddenly prickled at her senses—that strange, restless psychic pull in her mind again.

A distinct flicker of someone else’s emotions: A burning Tension. And a dark, keen Anticipation.

Her breath hitched. She gripped the cold windowsill and closed her eyes, forcing the walls in her mind to rise again, brick by agonizing, invisible brick. But they were weaker now, cracking under the crushing weight of exhaustion, letting the danger leak in.

Chapter Text

Persephone sat slumped at her desk, her elbows propped against the polished wood, her head buried heavily in her hands. The tiny Viktor Krum figurine Draco had bought her months ago was still trudging along its crooked path in front of her. The enchantment was so faded that its once-graceful stride had become a stiff, jerky shuffle, and its muffled shouts of "Krum is number one" came out distorted and pitiful. Persephone watched it absently as it limped in exhausted circles, its once-glistening robes dulled by time.

Three months. It had only been three months since the Quidditch World Cup, yet it felt like a lifetime had been erased. Back then, her world had been loud and full of color. Now, her days were painted in gray silence and never-ending strain.

Her gaze lifted, drifting toward the latest letter from Harry, lying open and crinkled in the center of her desk. He'd finally completed the first Triwizard task—retrieving a Golden Egg from a Hungarian Horntail. Persephone's palms still felt clammy at the thought. Harry had described the blistering heat, the deafening roar, and the exhilarating, terrifying rush of air as he soared past the dragon on his Firebolt. He admitted he'd never been that terrified in his life, but he'd survived.

And, perhaps most importantly, he and Ron had finally reconciled. That small detail brought Persephone an unexpected, visceral sense of relief, easing the weight of isolation she'd felt emanating from his frantic letters.

He mentioned, of course, that he was now struggling with the Golden Egg itself—every time he opened it, it let out a shrill, ear-splitting scream. Persephone managed a faint, weary smile, imagining him scowling down at the frustrated, screeching object.

She pulled her eyes from the letter to the framed photograph at the corner of her desk—Draco. His pale hair gleamed under the photo’s light enchantment, his mouth twisting into that trademark, arrogant smirk. He looked so effortlessly handsome, so far removed from her current reality.

She missed him. Even his smugness. She longed for his physical presence. Yearning to feel his arms around her again, to rest her head against his chest, to hear him whisper her name.

But when her eyes met her own reflection in the glass of the picture frame, she barely recognized the haunted figure staring back.

Her hair was a tangled, dull mess, knotted into a loose bun that hadn't been brushed in days. The dark shadows beneath her eyes made her face look hollow, her skin pale and drawn. She’d lost significant weight; food had lost all appeal when her stomach constantly twisted into anxious, painful knots.

She looked like a ghost haunting her own life.

Her eyelids fluttered shut for just a moment—a small, inevitable surrender—before her head slipped from her hands, jerking her violently back to wakefulness. She groaned, rubbing her tired, aching eyes. Sleep had become something she equally craved and feared.

The relentless dreams still clung to her mind: the same cold corridor, the same endless, silent chase after Draco, his figure always retreating, always out of reach. But in the most recent recurrence, the dream had twisted, adding a new, gut-wrenching cruelty.

She had seen arms wrapped around his neck, fingers threading intimately through his hair—and they were not hers.

She had woken up, tears clouding her vision, her chest aching as though her heart had been physically ripped apart. When she’d relayed the torment to Draco, desperate for reassurance, his casual dismissal felt like a deliberate insult:

"You’re being silly, love. Dreams don’t mean anything. Stop worrying yourself. Nothing is happening."

He’d sent her a gift afterward — something to cheer her up, he had said.

For a fleeting moment, she’d felt a spark of warmth again. That spark quickly died the second she unwrapped the small parcel. Inside lay a large badge, gleaming  green, its letters flashing across the surface:

“POTTER STINKS.”

Her smile evaporated. The words shot up at her like a beacon. She felt something inside her about to snap. With a strangled noise, she hurled the badge into the wastebasket — so hard that it tipped over, scattering crumpled parchment across the floor. She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She was so angry. She was so tired.

By December, even the traditional festive hum of the season couldn’t penetrate her isolation. The Manor had been transformed—garlands and wreaths, softly floating candles, and faint carols echoed through the halls—but Persephone felt none of it.

She declined every holiday shopping trip Narcissa offered, ignored the boxes of decorations, and spent most of her days locked away in her room. The mere thought of having to socialize, of facing the world and pretending everything was fine, made her stomach twist in genuine nausea.

She was unraveling, and she knew it.

Her nightmares, her crippling exhaustion, the constant psychic intrusions (now blended with personal, agonized fear)—it was all pressing in at once. She could feel the hard, sharp edges of her sanity beginning to fray.

The one fragile thread that kept Persephone from unraveling completely were the letters from Hermione Granger.

They arrived with comforting fidelity, each one neatly folded and brimming with an earnest, focused warmth. Having another girl her age—especially one so fiercely intelligent and grounded—to confide in felt like an absolute blessing, a secret therapeutic lifeline. Persephone poured her heart into those letters, confessing her crippling exhaustion, the mounting anxiety, and the haunting dreams that plagued her nights. She even managed to admit her growing fear that she and Draco were drifting apart, though the words felt heavy and difficult to write.

Hermione never judged. Never scolded. Her replies were thoughtful, full of sharp empathy and gentle, rational advice. Persephone often marveled that someone Draco mocked so ruthlessly could possess such deep, genuine kindness. The guilt of that hypocrisy weighed heavily on her shoulders. Hermione deserved better than the ridicule of her boyfriend.

Hermione also wrote extensively about S.P.E.W., her passion for justice leaping off the page and offering Persephone a welcome distraction.

I’ve begun knitting hats for the Hogwarts house-elves, she wrote in one letter. If I can trick them into picking them up, maybe they’ll be freed before they even realize it!

Persephone smiled sadly at that fierce, idealistic optimism. She admired Hermione’s determination to champion what was right, even though Persephone knew, from her time spent in the Malfoy household, that the reality was not so simple. House-elves rarely desired freedom; many feared it as a curse. But Hermione's heart was entirely in the right place, and Persephone adored her for it.

She even decided to take up knitting herself—the Muggle way. At first, she was clumsy with the needles, dropping loops and tangling the wool. But soon, she found the rhythm profoundly soothing. The repetitive motion, the quiet click of the needles, and the concentration required to manipulate the yarn calmed her when the magic in her own bones began to tremble from stress and psychic overload. It became her secret, non-magical therapy against the Manor's oppression.

One snowy afternoon in December, another of Hermione’s letters arrived—and this one was brimming with utterly unexpected, delighted excitement.

You mustn’t tell anyone, Hermione had written, the script slightly more frantic than usual, but Viktor Krum asked me to the Yule Ball!

Persephone gasped, nearly squealing aloud. She could practically feel Hermione’s infectious nerves and delighted surprise dancing through every line. Her friend was clearly over the moon and trying very hard to maintain an academic facade of indifference.

Hermione also mentioned how Harry was taking the upcoming Ball far less gracefully.

He’s been sulking for days. It’s quite funny, actually—the great Harry Potter, Hogwarts Champion, reduced to a stuttering, defensive mess when asked to invite a girl to dance.

Persephone surrendered to a genuine, hearty laugh. Her next letter to Harry was full of teasing encouragement:

You faced a Hungarian Horntail, Harry. Surely asking a girl to the Yule Ball can’t be harder than facing a dragon! You’re Harry Potter—I think you’ll manage.

But a week later, her laughter faded when she received Harry’s disappointed reply. His attempt had been too late; the girl he wanted to ask had already accepted an invitation from the other Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory. His tone was wry and self-deprecating, but the raw disappointment seeped through every word. Persephone sighed, her heart aching for him. Poor guy couldn't catch a break. Even through ink and parchment, she could sense the deep ache of loneliness he was trying so hard to hide.

When she tried to bring up the Yule Ball to Draco, hoping maybe it would lighten her own mood, his reaction was indifferent.

Going with a group of the lads, his lack of a reply came back. Not much point in going, anyway, since you won’t be there.

She closed her journal slowly, the leather pressing against her palms. Persephone hated that she couldn’t go to the Yule Ball.

The days leading to the highly anticipated event were agonizing. She found herself drifting during her lessons, her quill frozen mid-word, her gaze fixed on the frost-covered windows of Malfoy Manor. She would lose herself in vivid daydreams, imagining what it might feel like to walk into the transformed Great Hall—all twinkling lights and enchanted, silent snowfall—wearing a flowing gown of deep silver silk. In her mind, she could almost feel Draco’s firm hand at her waist, his other clasping hers as they spun beneath the glittering chandeliers.

But the beautiful fantasy always ended the same way—shattered by Narcissa’s sharp, disapproving Hem-hem.

Persephone would blink back to the Manor's reality, her cheeks flushing with shame as Narcissa peered over her shoulder. "If you spent half as much energy focusing on your Alchemy assignments as you do daydreaming, dear, you wouldn’t have so much work piled up."

Persephone would force a brittle smile and murmur an apology, but the deep ache of loneliness and exclusion wouldn't fade.

The tension only built as Christmas arrived, which, cruelly, was also the day of the Yule Ball.

Opening presents alone that morning was depressing. Last year, Draco had been there—teasing her, stealing sweets, slipping her tiny, illicit kisses. This year, she sat in complete silence, the sound of tearing wrapping paper echoing too loudly against the emptiness of the sitting room.

When she reached the gift labeled in Draco’s familiar, looping handwriting, her heart gave a familiar flutter—then sank almost instantly when she pulled the lid off the box.

Inside were a handful of classic sweets from Honeydukes—sugar quills, gummy wands, chocolate frogs, and a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. She stared at the haphazard assortment for a long time, waiting for the surge of warmth or gratitude to bloom. But it didn’t come.

It wasn't that she wasn't grateful for the thought; it was that the gift felt utterly impersonal and thoughtless.

She tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he just had a moment to grab something small until I see him again.

But the excuses rang hollow and weak.

Her gaze drifted to the silver Slytherin ring on her finger—the one he’d given her the Christmas before. It shimmered faintly in the light. She remembered his proud look when she first placed it on her hand, a symbol of their connection. Now it felt cold, heavy against her skin.

A sudden, sharp chill pricked the back of her neck as she looked at the Slytherin crest. Her mind, weary and restless, began to wander again, pulled inexorably toward her recurring nightmare.

The stone wall. The glistening, shifting metal. The serpent. The way the surface shimmered and slithered before opening a passage.

Her breath hitched.

It wasn't just a strange figment of her imagination. She knew that wall.

A sudden, forceful memory hit her—years ago, her father had taken her through the dungeons of Hogwarts on one of his rare indulgent days. She could still recall the damp, pervasive chill of the air, the echo of dripping water, the cold gray stone. And then—the great, seamless stone wall that had come alive under a whispered password, a great serpent of silver slithering across its surface before the hidden entrance to the Slytherin Common Room revealed itself.

Her stomach twisted violently.

The serpent in her dream—it wasn't random. It wasn't meaningless. It was the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.

But why? Why that specific place? What was its significance to the dark activities she was witnessing in her nightmares?

It’s probably nothing, she tried to convince herself, trying to dismiss it as her overstressed mind pulling random, familiar memories to form a distressing puzzle.

She looked back at Draco’s gift—the sugar quills, the gummy candy, the false, impersonal sweetness of it all—and felt something sharp and definitive lodge in her chest.

Profound disappointment.

Persephone didn’t sleep that night. Her enchanted journal, which remained stubbornly blank, lay in her lap.

The clock on her nightstand ticked away the agonizing hours while she sat by the window, staring out at the pale, indifferent winter moon. Snow drifted lazily over the frozen gardens, blanketing the world in a pristine, dead silence. The only movement was the weak flicker of candlelight dancing across her desk—and the fain.

She had written to Draco multiple times that night, her words shifting desperately from forced excitement to pleading worry to agonizing loneliness:

How was the Ball? What did you do? What was it like? Did you have fun?

But the pages remained empty, an infuriating symbol of his distance. Each time she leaned forward to check for a reply, her heart sank a little further, dragging her deeper into despair.

When dawn finally broke, pale and cold, Persephone gave up. She sat slumped at her desk, her head resting against her folded arms, her thoughts a tangled mess of envy and longing. She tried desperately not to imagine the scene: the glittering gowns, the infectious laughter, the rich music—and Draco surrounded by it all.

He had promised her she was the only one. So why did she feel so utterly, completely forgotten?

It wasn’t until late that afternoon, after a day spent in silent, miserable solitude, that the journal finally glowed. Her heart, which she thought had already given up, leapt violently as she scrambled to open it.

Sorry I didn’t write sooner, my love. Everyone stayed up after the Ball—we ended up having a bit of a party in the common room. Didn’t go to bed till nearly dawn.

Persephone stared at the words, rereading them again and again, her focus snagging on the casual description: A party. While she’d been up all night, consumed by anxiety, he’d been celebrating with his friends.

Her quill hovered, the tip trembling, before she forced herself to write back, maintaining a fragile facade of lightness:

It’s alright. I was just missing you and wanted to hear about what you were up to—what was the Yule Ball like?

She waited, the tips of her nails drumming an anxious rhythm against the desk, until finally, his response appeared.

I’m missing you too, Seph. It wasn’t much fun, honestly. The music was dreadful. The food was cold. I spent most of the night talking with the guys. Didn’t even stay the whole time.

Persephone sighed.

No mention of the enchanted decorations, no details of the dancing, nothing vivid or intimate that only she would understand—just vague, dismissive answers that felt like a door quietly and firmly closing in her face.

She reread the short, reply several times, her chest tightening with cold dread. It was utterly unlike Draco to be so restrained. Normally, his letters were full of sharp details and boastful ego—his words alive with energy. But this… this sounded like someone deliberately trying to avoid saying too much. Evasive.

Persephone swallowed hard, her eyes blurring as she shut the journal.

The silence of the Manor pressed in again, heavy and unrelenting. She tried desperately to tell herself that he was just exhausted, that he meant nothing by his brevity, that he still genuinely cared. But the empty, cold ache in her stomach, combined with the unnerving realization about the Slytherin serpent wall, told her a much darker truth:

Draco was hiding something.

Chapter Text

The next day was one of those days where the universe seemed determined to punish Persephone for the crime of being alive.

From the moment she rolled out of bed after yet another sleepless, nightmare-ridden night, her physical body was in full revolt. Her head throbbed with a dull, blinding ache, her eyes burned, and when she dragged herself into the shower hoping to wash away the exhaustion, she discovered—miserably—that her period had started, bringing with it a wave of cramping discomfort.

Perfect.

She groaned, pressing her palms into her eyes. By the time she was dressed, her patience was already hanging by a single, frayed thread. But fate wasn't finished.

Her favorite shirt, a soft, comfortable yellow one, was suddenly tattered—small, inexplicable holes scattered across the fabric. With growing, volatile irritation, she rifled through her wardrobe only to find that several other shirts were ruined as well. Threads dangled from gnawed sleeves, and the lining of the closet looked disturbed.

Something skittered.

Before she could react, a glossy black Doxy—a biting fairy—shot out from between the hangers and sank its sharp, needle-like teeth straight into her finger.

“OW!”

She shook her hand wildly, flinging the tiny, furious fairy across the room. It smacked into the wall with a sickening thump, sliding to the floor in a dazed heap. Persephone’s pulse pounded in her ears as she spotted it—an ugly, woven nest tucked into the dark corner of her wardrobe, crawling with wriggling wings.

“Brilliant,” she muttered through gritted teeth, slamming the door shut with a violent THWACK so hard that she could hear a swarm erupt from behind the closed door. "Just brilliant." The carelessness of her magic, usually so contained, was slipping.

Breakfast didn't offer any reprieve.

She’d barely managed a few sips of coffee before her exhaustion finally got the better of her. Her eyes closed for what felt like a single second—then a searing, shocking heat splashed across her lap.

“Fuck!” she hissed, jerking upright as the scalding liquid soaked through her jeans.

This was instantly followed by a sharp, cold lecture from Lucius about basic manners and the necessity of maintaining control in a house like this. She cleaned up the mess with a jerky wave of her hand, apologizing through lips pressed into a thin, white line.

Her nerves were frayed raw, her head hammered, and the Manor’s oppressive silence grated on her like sandpaper.

And the worst part? Hardly a word from Draco. Not a single message all day. Every time her gaze darted to her journal, her chest tightened, a familiar wave of hope immediately followed by the bitter sting of disappointment.

She felt desperately overstimulated—every sound, every flicker of candlelight, every movement felt too loud, too bright, too much. Her hands trembled as she began to pace her room.

“Chill, Persephone,” she muttered to herself, a useless command.

But she couldn’t. Her fists clenched. Her jaw locked tight. The air felt too heavy, pressing against her chest like a physical weight.

Inside her mind, her volatile magic stirred restlessly, pushing and pulling against her sanity like a raging tide against a fragile dam. Desperation clawed at her throat.

Not again. Don’t lose control.

She forced the walls in her head to rise—not gradually, but violently, with every ounce of psychic willpower she possessed. She built the mental barriers brick by agonizing brick, imagining them wrapping around her mind like iron bands, sealing every last feeling away, locking the creeping chaos behind cold, impenetrable stone.

She didn’t want to feel anymore. She couldn't.

It wasn’t until late that evening that her journal finally began to glow.

The faint, sudden shimmer of light on her desk instantly fractured her carefully constructed walls of numbness. Her heart leapt violently into her throat, and before she knew it, she was moving across the room like a drawn puppet, propelled by equal parts frantic hope and mounting dread. She sank into her chair, the wood creaking softly beneath her, and opened the journal with trembling hands.

Draco’s handwriting bled across the page in neat, annoyingly confident strokes.

Hey, Seph. Sorry I haven’t talked much today. The lads and I have been playing Quidditch all day—just got back in.

Her eyes immediately darted toward the window. Snow was falling thick and heavy outside, coating the garden in a heavy, pristine sheet of white. The wind howled mournfully against the glass. She frowned, a sharp spike of disbelief cutting through her hope.

Quidditch. All day? In this weather?

She reached for her quill, her hand steadying itself with effort.

You played Quidditch all day today? Weren’t you freezing?

She tried to keep her tone casual, almost playful, masking the sudden, cold pit in her stomach as she waited for his reply.

A few seconds later, the ink shimmered—his words forming with typical indifference.

I wore several coats.

Persephone's mouth twisted into a silent sneer. "Coats," she muttered under her breath, hearing his flippant voice in her head. The explanation was too quick, too simple, and too unbelievable.

Her hand hovered above the page. She knew she shouldn't sound needy, but the question—the one that had haunted her for days—spilled out before she could stop the desperate impulse.

Is everything okay between us, Draco?

For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, his reply appeared, perfectly crafted to dismiss her fears.

Of course everything’s okay, Seph. Why wouldn’t it be? I love you.

Her shoulders slumped, a mixture of immediate, overwhelming relief and residual guilt tangling in her chest.

I love you too, she wrote softly.

His final message appeared almost instantly, sealing the conversation:

I’m going to bed—I’m absolutely exhausted. But I’ll write first thing in the morning, promise. Stop overthinking, my love. Good night.

Persephone stared at the final line, the words glowing faintly before sinking into the page.

She glanced at the clock. 8:40 p.m.

That was early. Far too early for Draco, who usually stayed up past midnight, even on school nights. He played Quidditch all day, she tried to rationalize, He’s just physically tired. You are absolutely overreacting.

She forced herself to write a final, simple message—Good night—before slamming the journal shut.

The quiet in her room felt heavier than before, a suffocating vacuum pressing against her lungs. She drew in a shaky breath, but the air seemed thin and insufficient.

She stood abruptly, pacing the cold marble floor. Her movements were restless, frantic. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a violent, uneven drum.

Something was profoundly wrong.

The sensation returned, crawling under her skin—that prickling, intense electric unease that she had come to dread. The trembling started in her fingertips, spreading through her arms, up her neck. The hairs on her arms stood rigidly on end, reacting to a dangerous, unseen current.

Her reflection in the dark window caught her eye—pale, hollow-eyed, and haunted. She gripped her arms, clutching at her own flesh.

"Stop it," she whispered, her voice barely a thread. "Everything's fine."

But her own words rang entirely empty.

Persephone paced the length of her room, her thoughts running in wild, frantic circles. She was struggling to rationalize, to breathe, to simply hold herself together—but her mind was an echo chamber of doubt and burning questions.

She didn’t even hear it at first. The faint tap, tap, tap against the windowpane barely registered through the chaotic storm of her own thoughts.

Only when the sound grew more insistent did she finally glance toward the window—and gasp.

Outside, fighting desperately against the violent wind and snow, was a brown barn owl, its feathers violently ruffled by the gale. Its wings beat with a desperate, frantic energy, as if it might be blown away at any moment. Persephone hurried to the window, fumbling with the stubborn latch, and swung the heavy glass open.

The exhausted owl tumbled gratefully inside, scattering a sudden flurry of cold snowflakes across her floor. Persephone's heart softened instantly. It was the same brown owl Hermione often used.

A sudden wave of relief washed over her. Hermione’s letters had been the only consistent light in her life lately—warm, steady, and full of uncompromising kindness. She desperately needed that grounding comfort tonight.

She carefully untied the string from the owl’s leg, murmuring softly, “You poor thing.” The owl hooted weakly and, instead of leaving, fluttered over to Beans, who was perched sleepily nearby. The two birds exchanged a cautious, shared look before settling quietly side by side.

Persephone tossed them both a few treats before turning her attention to the letter.

Hermione’s neat handwriting curled across the parchment, the ink slightly smudged from the snow. Persephone managed a faint, grateful smile—then began to read.

Dear Persephone,

I hope your holiday was peaceful. It’s dreadfully quiet now that the Yule Ball is over—though everyone is still talking about it nonstop. It was a spectacular event, though the food was certainly better than the music, in my opinion.

Persephone, I don’t quite know how to say this, so please forgive my intrusion. But as your friend, I feel I must tell you. At the Yule Ball, Draco was with Pansy all night. And it didn’t look like they were there just as friends. I don’t know if something had happened between you two since your last letter—

The words snapped. The lines blurred, refusing to make any more sense. Her heart beat a sudden, deafening roar in her ears, drowning out the howl of the storm.

She didn’t realize her hands were shaking until the parchment began to tremble violently in her grasp—so much that the inked lines quivered like they were alive.

Her knees weakened, and she stumbled back into her chair, the wood protesting with a loud creak. Her chest tightened until it felt like she couldn’t draw a breath. The two owls shifted uneasily on their perches, their eyes glinting in the candlelight as if they, too, could feel the toxic tension thickening in the room.

The internal rage she had been suppressing found its limit.

A primal, bitter heat detonated inside Persephone, and for one suspended, terrible heartbeat, the entire world went silent—vanished beneath the roaring pulse in her ears.

Her Occlumency, already paper-thin from the constant strain, didn’t just crack—it exploded, splintering into glittering shards that rained down through her mind. The rush of emotion was violent, physical; grief and fury collided in her chest until she thought she might tear open from the force of it.

She shot to her feet so violently that her chair crashed backward, clattering against the floorboards. The room blurred. Every object seemed to tilt and twist, warped through the red haze that had taken over her vision. Her jaw throbbed from clenching; the taste of blood and iron filled her mouth.

Hermione’s letter sat on the desk, pale and damning, like a blade meant just for her. And before she even realized what she was doing, Persephone moved.

She didn’t open her door—she attacked it. She pulled it open with such force, the impact of the door hitting the wall cracked with a splintering scream. The knob punching through the plaster, leaving a cratered wound. Paint flakes fluttered down like snow.

Somewhere below, she heard startled gasps—the faint rustle of house elves—but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The world had gone red and hot and narrow, and every step she took was driven by pure, volcanic rage.

She stormed down the grand staircase, hair unravelling, hands shaking with too much energy. The air itself seemed to crackle around her as she crossed the sitting room, stopping in front of the cold, elegant fireplace. Her breaths came fast, ragged.

Without hesitation, she snatched a fistful of Floo powder from the jar on the mantel. The grains glimmered in her palm like crushed diamonds before she hurled them into the grate.

The hearth exploded into emerald fire. The heat hit her face in a wave, and the room flooded with green light, throwing wild shadows up the walls.

Her voice ripped from her throat—raw, hoarse, unfamiliar, yet charged with terrible power.

“Hogwarts — Professor Snape’s office!”

The flames roared, swirling in a storm of brilliant, furious emerald. Persephone stepped forward, chin up and face grim, letting the fire consume her whole.

Magic yanked her forward violently, dragging her through a hundred spinning hearths—room after room—until she was spat out with brutal force onto the cold, stone floor of her fathers office.

Her palms slammed the ground. Her hair whipped into her face, tasting of ash. The room was cloaked in heavy shadow, lit only by the meager sliver of moonlight cutting through the narrow windowpanes. Snape was nowhere to be seen.

Good.

Even if he had been there, she wouldn’t have let him stop her. Not tonight.

Her nails dug crescents into her palms as she stormed out of the office, her footsteps echoing sharply off the damp dungeon walls. The familiar, pungent smell of Potions filled her lungs as she crossed through the classroom, pushing through the door so violently it slammed against the stone wall with a crack that echoed down the corridor.

It felt terrifyingly like déjà vu. The endless corridor. The dim torchlight flickering off cold stone. It was the exact environment from her deepest, most frequent nightmares.

A boy—tall, broad-shouldered, a shiny prefect badge glinting against his chest—rounded a corner and froze at the sight of her. His eyes widened at her disheveled hair and wild, desperate expression.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be down here—it’s past curfew!” He reached for her arm.

Persephone didn't even raise her hand. She didn't need to. Her rage was a physical shield. The sheer, overwhelming force of her shattered Occlumency washed over him. His body went instantly rigid, the sickening sound of cracking joints and strained tendons echoing before he toppled like a statue to the floor. His muffled grunts followed her as she continued down the corridor, unbothered, unfeeling.

The pull grew stronger with every step. She knew exactly where she was going. She’d always known.

When she reached it, her breath hitched.

The wall. It looked exactly as it had in her dreams—cold, unyielding, alive. Silver light shimmered faintly over the black stone, and as she approached, the metal began to instantly move—curling, rippling—until a massive serpent carved itself into the wall.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She didn't know the password. But the realization—the ancient, familiar magic—hissed clearly in her mind: you don’t need a password.

She pressed her palm flat against the stone. The wall pulsed beneath her fingers, warm and alive, then silently gave way. The serpent melted into silver mist as the wall split open. The lair accepting its heir.

Cold, damp air spilled out, heavy with the scent of lake water and ancient candle wax. Persephone stepped through, her pulse roaring in her ears. She descended the spiral staircase, each step sinking deeper into the dark until the soft, eerie green glow of the Slytherin Common Room emerged below.

It was silent, still, and deceptively empty.

Green lamps floated midair, their dim light glinting off the damp stone. Ripples from the Black Lake shimmered across the tall windows, casting ghostly, watery patterns that danced across the floor and walls.

Then, a sound.

A soft, intimate giggle, high and breathy, that cut through the heavy quiet like a stiletto.

Persephone froze. Every muscle in her body went taut as her gaze flicked toward the source. She moved through the shadows, silent as smoke, following the echo of laughter toward one of the deeply shadowed alcoves near the fire.

Her eyes narrowed, adjusting to the dimness. Then she saw him.

The familiar crown of pale, silvery-blond hair peeking over the high back of a leather couch. Draco.

Her breath hitched, refusing to be drawn.

Another giggle followed—a girl’s voice this time, sweet, smug, and nauseatingly close.

“Draco,” the girl whispered, a low, playful warning, “you can’t leave any more marks.”

Draco chuckled, a low sound of deep satisfaction and pleasure.

“I can’t help myself, love. You taste too good.”

Persephone’s stomach lurched violently. The world around her shattering. Her pulse hammered the raw, final truth into her brain, drowning out the words, the laughter, the tiny sounds of lips brushing skin.

She clamped a trembling hand over her mouth, smothering the primal scream clawing its way up her throat. Her entire body shook as her vision swam with blinding rage and crushing disbelief.

The darkness within her was no longer something to fear; it was ready to claim its due.

Persephone watched him rise as if through a sheet of vibrating heat—slow, jagged, every movement a blade turning in her gut. The girl, who had been pinned beneath him moments before, sat up after him, and the sight of her made the last fragile thread inside Persephone snap with a violent finality.

It was Pansy Parkinson: the same smug face that had flashed across Draco’s thoughts months ago, the one he had casually assured her was “nothing.” The cold that uncoiled in Persephone’s chest went instantly, lethally hot.

She didn’t think. She acted.

She flung out a hand, and a raw, brutal surge of magic left her before she could react, slamming into Pansy’s temple. The girl flew from the couch like a ragdoll, crashing into the low coffee table with a sound of splintering wood and shattering glass. Silence fell for a heartbeat, then the room filled with the stunned, breathless wheezing of someone who hadn’t expected consequence.

“Pansy!” Draco shouted, scrambling away from the couch and towards the wreckage. He whirled, eyes wide with panic, scanning for an attacker. They landed on the shadowed corner where Persephone had been—where she was now stepping forward, all destructive heat and silent motion.

Draco fumbled for his wand, fear displacing guilt. “Who—”

He never finished the word. A soft, precise movement from her finger took the wand from his grip; it spun through the air and clattered uselessly at Persephone’s feet. She stepped out of the dark like a creature born of it, every muscle taut, knuckles white. His face crumpled into a devastating mix of guilt and sheer fear.

“Persephone.” His voice was a choked breath.

She didn’t give him the courtesy of an answer. She went after him.

What followed was not a polite probing of memory but a siege. Legilimency turned into a brutal, psychic ransacking. She dove past the flimsy barricades Draco tried to raise and tore through his mind: the small, intimate touches, the shared, secretive whispers, the stolen kisses. Images came at her like razor-sharp shards—a passionate kiss behind a tapestry, his hand lingering on the small of Pansy’s back, a laugh muffled against her shoulder. Each stolen moment struck her like a physical dagger.

The betrayal hit her body before her voice could find it. She screamed—a raw, inhuman sound that cracked the air—and the common room answered her pain.

Uncontrolled magic detonated. Lantern glass exploded into a glittering, dangerous shower. Porcelain vases on the mantelpiece burst into white dust. The tall windows that held back the Black Lake spiderwebbed violently, thin hairline fractures racing across the panes, and the dark, cold water began to stream out of the cracks as if the room itself were splitting apart.

Draco stared, wide-mouthed, terrified and utterly helpless beneath the storm she’d become. Persephone closed the distance between them in three furious strides and shoved him hard. He slammed against the damp stone wall; his breath left him in a startled, painful wheeze. She hit him again, then again, fists pounding into his chest and shoulders.

“LIAR!” — smack!

“LIAR!” — smack!

“LIAR!”

Each shout cracked like thunder between the stone walls, every strike punctuating the word with a sharp, echoing sting. Persephone’s voice was hoarse, ripped raw from screaming. Her fists came down again and again, a relentless, desperate assault, striking anywhere they could reach—his chest, his shoulders, his jaw.

Draco tried to shield himself, stumbling backward, a picture of sudden terror, but she was relentless, a storm given physical form. Every time he tried to move away, she was there—wild hair, tear-streaked cheeks, eyes blazing with total betrayal, forcing him to take the punishment.

“Persephone—stop, please—” he gasped, his voice trembling and thin.

She didn’t hear him. She had intentionally drowned out everything else—the years of being nice, the months of agonizing distance, the sound of her own heart shattering in half. Her fury was absolute.

Behind them came a sharp, terrified shriek.

Pansy had finally come to, blinking groggily through the haze of her own pain, only to see the incomprehensible scene: Persephone straddling Draco, fists raised, blood staining both their skin.

“HELP! HE’S BEING ATTACKED!” she screamed, scrambling to her feet and lunging forward with a renewed burst of protective fury.

Persephone whipped around, eyes feral and wild.

“SHUT UP, YOU STUPID BITCH!” she roared, her voice tearing out of her throat.

She didn't wait for the girl to get close. With another violent, unbidden surge of magic, she thrust out a hand. Pansy stumbled backward as if struck by a invisible, crushing force, crashing again into the shattered remains of the coffee table. The muffled crack of splintering wood echoed through the cavernous chamber, followed by Pansy’s renewed, terrified sobs.

The sudden, escalating commotion shattered the imposed silence of the Slytherin dormitories. Doors up and down the hall burst open. Footsteps thundered on the spiral staircase. One by one, startled students spilled into the common room, blinking through the haze of smoke and the glittering dust of broken glass.

“What the bloody hell—?” a sixth-year muttered, his eyes widening in disbelief at the sheer ruin.

The scene was pure chaos: furniture overturned, lanterns shattered, lake water aggressively spraying from the cracked windows, threatening to burst entirely, Pansy crying hysterically on the floor, Draco nursing a bleeding lip and looking utterly defeated. And in the center of it all stood Persephone—panting, trembling, her uncontrolled magic flickering around her like visible heat waves, ready to consume anything that moved.

The air vibrated with palpable, raw danger. No one—not a single student—dared to move, paralyzed by the sight of her complete and terrifying breakdown.

Chapter Text

Persephone stood rooted to the spot, her chest heaving, her ragged breathing the loudest sound in the chamber. Around her, dozens of terrified eyes stared from every corner of the room. The Slytherin students, having poured from their dormitories, crowded the entryways and staircases, unable to look away from the scene of ruin.

No one spoke at first. They simply looked: from Draco bleeding and bruised, to Pansy trembling beside the shattered table, to the chaos of the common room itself—water spraying from the cracked windows, overturned furniture, shards of glass glinting like frost—and finally, to her.

The whispers started again, quickly escalating into frightened urgency:

“Who is that?” “What happened?” “Did she do all this?” “Someone—get Professor Snape!”

That last name struck her like a curse. Her breath hitched, the sound cutting through the murmurs. Her head snapped toward the stairwell, a sudden, cold dread coiling in her gut. No, no, no—

She staggered backward, eyes darting wildly across the destruction. What did I do? The question spun through her mind like a silent scream she couldn’t let out. She turned to flee—anything to escape before he saw—

But she froze.

A figure stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase. The sweeping black robes, the heavy, measured stride, the unreadable yet furious stare that could burn through steel.

Her father.

Snape’s eyes swept the entire, ruined room. From the broken windows and leaking lake water, to the crying girl, the shaking crowd, and finally, his daughter standing amid the wreckage. His face—usually composed and calculating—tightened first with profound disbelief before twisting into something absolutely cold and devastatingly furious.

“Professor!!” Pansy shrieked, stumbling forward, her sobs echoing through the stunned silence. “This psycho attacked me and Draco! She hit me with an spell!”

Snape’s eyes snapped toward Pansy, but Persephone beat him to the response.

“I would’ve Crucioed your ass if I knew how!” she spat, her voice cracking with pure venom.

“Who even are you, you freak!” Pansy screamed, stamping her foot like a spoiled child.

Persephone lost the sliver of control she was trying to regain back. She took a step forward, reaching out as if to physically seize a handful of Pansy’s hair, her voice shaking with desperate rage.

“Your worst fucking nightmare, you cu—”

“SILENCE!”

The roar came from her father. The sound hit the air like a physical shockwave. Every person in the room—including Persephone—flinched. Even the torches on the wall flickered violently, as if the castle itself feared him.

Before Persephone could reach Pansy, Snape’s hand clamped around her arm. His grip was instant, crushing, and absolute iron. With one violent yank, he pulled her backward so hard that her feet left the floor for a moment. The world tilted; her hair whipped across her face as her father held her fast.

The fury in his expression was enough to silence the world.

“Everyone to your dormitories—NOW!” he thundered.

The command cracked like a powerful spell. The students obeyed instantly, scattering up the stairs in a terrified flurry of whispers and nervous glances. The common room emptied quickly, the echoes of their footsteps fading until only the dripping of water and Persephone’s ragged, heaving breathing remained.

Snape didn’t speak. He just moved through the room with deadly, controlled precision, his wand gliding through the air as he rapidly repaired shattered glass, sealed the cracks, and muttered complex restoration charms under his breath. His face was pale with contained fury, his movements sharp and efficient, each spell cast with a concentrated force that made the air hum.

Persephone stood trembling, her pulse roaring in her ears. The overwhelming rush of adrenaline was draining fast, leaving her body hollow, weak, and shaking violently. The sheer, sustained output of uncontrolled magic had exhausted her already fragile, sleep-deprived state. The air in the room grew heavy, thick—too thick to breathe.

Her vision blurred rapidly at the edges. She pressed a clammy hand to her forehead, swaying precariously. The floor rippled beneath her like water.

“Dad…” she tried to say, but the word barely made it past her lips before dissolving.

Snape turned sharply, his wand still raised, but before he could reach her, Persephone’s knees buckled. She stumbled forward, reaching out blindly for the nearest armchair—but missed.

There was a sickening, sharp crack as her head hit the unforgiving stone floor.

“Persephone!”

It was the last sound she heard, before the darkness took her.

Draco rushed forward the instant Persephone’s head hit the stone floor, his breath catching in a terrified gasp.

But Snape was faster. His black robes whipped through the air as he shouldered Draco aside with such sudden, crushing force that the boy stumbled back, colliding hard with an overturned chair.

“Stay back,” Snape snarled, his voice a low, dangerous command, dropping instantly to his knees beside her.

His long fingers, usually steady and clinical, trembled slightly as they swept her wild hair from her tear-stained face. He scanned for immediate injuries—pulse, head, breathing—all methodical, all desperate. Her skin was clammy, her breathing dangerously shallow. For a terrifying moment, the mask of the cold professor completely slipped, revealing a raw, profound terror underneath.

With a swift sweep of his cloak, he lifted her into his arms. She was terrifyingly light. Her head lolled against his shoulder, strands of dark hair catching the dim green light as he turned sharply toward the spiral staircase. His face was a thundercloud of concentrated fury, the kind that warned everyone to keep a lethal distance.

“Professor—” Draco began, his voice tight and shaking with belated concern. “Is she going to be alright?”

Snape didn’t slow his pace. His tone was surgical, absolute ice.

“Fifty points from Slytherin for your careless behavior, Malfoy.”

Draco flinched visibly.

“And you,” Snape continued, never glancing back, the words cutting through the air, “will clean up this catastrophe before I return. I expect every splinter to be gone.”

The words hung like a harsh, irrevocable sentence. Snape didn’t wait for a reply; his shoes echoed rapidly up the spiral staircase, the black of his robes disappearing into the shadows above the archway.

The common room felt instantly colder the second he was gone.

Draco stood rooted in the wreckage, his chest tight with shame and dread, his head pounding. The silence pressed in until he could hear the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat. He looked around at what she’d done—the smashed table, the shattered glass, the dark, damp stains on the stone floor from the lake water—and all he could see was her face: wild, furious, and utterly heartbroken.

He’d never seen her like that. He’d never seen anyone possess that terrifying, consuming power.

A trembling hand brushed his arm. “Draco,” Pansy whispered, her eyes red and wide with lingering terror. “Who was that girl?”

He didn’t answer. His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.

“Draco?” she tried again, softer this time, reaching for him.

“Leave me alone, Pansy,” he said, the words sharp and cracked with pain.

She recoiled as if physically struck, her lips parting but no sound coming out. After a long moment of stunned silence, she turned and fled toward the girls’ dormitories, her footsteps retreating rapidly against the damp stone.

Draco was left completely alone. The air felt suffocatingly heavy. Slowly, mechanically, he bent down and began setting the overturned chairs upright, his movements stiff and robotic. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind only crushing dread and self-loathing.

He stared at the glint of shattered glass on the floor. In its fractured reflection, he could almost see her eyes again—burning with betrayal, face streaked with tears.

Draco’s throat tightened, a sudden, unfamiliar ache.

He had never hated himself more.

The world came back slowly—like surfacing through dense, murky water.

At first, there was only sound: the faint, maddeningly precise ticking of a clock, the rhythmic rustle of starched linen, and the distant, muffled hum of voices beyond the heavy curtain surrounding the metal-framed bed. The smell of antiseptic potions and something faintly sweet and herbal—burnt sugar and sage filled Persephone’s lungs.

She groaned softly, her throat dry and raw. Every muscle ached with the fatigue of a physical battle, and her skull pounded in slow, punishing pulses. When she attempted to move, a soft clink betrayed the glass vials of stabilizing potions sitting on the bedside table.

The Hospital Wing. The realization hit with the force of cold water. It wasn’t a nightmare; the destruction, the heartbreak, the rage—it was all devastatingly real.

She blinked against the bright, midday light that shone through the high arched windows, squinting at the familiar vaulted ceiling. There was movement from behind the curtain, and then her father appeared.

“Don’t get up,” he commanded, his voice unnaturally low and gravelly.

He didn’t speak right away—just stood there, black robes pooling around his polished boots, one hand resting heavily on the back of a chair as though it were the only thing keeping him from moving violently. The usual iron precision in his posture was gone; his hair hung messily around his pale, drawn face, and the lines between his brows were deep, carved by hours of consuming worry and cold fury.

Persephone swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “I—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply. The single word sliced the air like a blade.

A suffocating silence pressed between them. She slowly lowered herself back into the bed, trembling slightly at the palpable wave of controlled rage her father was emitting.

“Is… is anyone seriously hurt?” she finally managed to ask, her voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

Snape’s jaw tightened visibly. “No one was seriously injured. You, however, nearly concussed yourself when you fell. Madam Pomfrey insists you remain under observation at least until tomorrow, given you’ve been unconscious for almost thirteen hours.”

Thirteen hours. She gasped lightly, too drained to argue the point.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the ticking of the clock again. She could feel his stare burning into her, heavy and utterly unreadable. Finally, he spoke—quietly, dangerously calm.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened last night? The sheer magnitude of the magic you unleashed could have caused a structural collapse, flooding the entire Slytherin corridor. You could have killed the entire Slytherin House—and yourself.”

She winced, fresh tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Didn’t mean to?” His tone snapped like a whip. “You broke into Hogwarts via the Floo Network, launched an uncontrolled attack on two students, destroyed an entire common room, and exposed what you are capable of to half the Slytherin House! Are you wanting the Dark Lord to know what you’re capable of, Persephone?” The last part came out as a harsh, terrifying whisper.

She flinched as if struck. His tone carried the full, devastating weight of his terror and years of precarious double-dealing.

Snape rubbed his temples with a weary sigh, forcing himself to inhale slowly. When he spoke again, the words were quieter, though no less sharp. “You will not—ever—abuse your power like that again. Do you understand me?”

Persephone nodded mutely, unable to speak through the painful lump in her throat.

His eyes softened, just barely, for a fleeting second. He turned sharply toward the curtain, his duty suddenly reasserting itself.

“You will stay here until Madam Pomfrey clears you. When you are dismissed, we will discuss… consequences.”

“Dad—”

He paused at the curtain but didn’t turn around.

“I know what he did,” Snape said quietly, his voice a low, cold promise. “And believe me, Persephone… Draco Malfoy will not sleep easy after tonight.”

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until they disappeared behind the closing of a heavy door.

Persephone sighed, staring up at the stone ceiling as hot tears finally slipped down her temples. The room was still, but her mind was wide awake and spinning. The devastating realization of the betrayal, and the terrible magnitude of her magical breakdown, hurt more than ever.

She didn't have long to mourn her loss before the heavy door creaked open again. The soft sound of footsteps, unhurried yet certain, drew her attention from the folds of the white blanket.

Professor Dumbledore entered quietly, his sky-blue robes whispering against the stone floor. The winter sunlight streaming through the windows caught in his long silver beard and half-moon spectacles, casting a fractured, benevolent light across his face. The absolute serenity he carried with him was almost unbearable in contrast to the chaos and fresh pain still tangled in Persephone’s chest.

Seeing him—his kind eyes, his patient presence—made the guilt surge instantly like a tidal wave. Tears welled immediately.

“I—I’m so sorry, Professor,” Persephone choked out, her voice breaking on a sob. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, I—I just lost—”

Dumbledore raised a hand gently, the small motion quieting her more effectively than any silencing charm could have. His expression held no anger, only deep understanding—and something older, distant, and sorrowful behind his eyes.

“My dear girl,” he said softly, drawing up a chair beside her bed. “I know.”

“The betrayal of someone you love,” he continued, his tone calm and even, “is among life’s greatest punishments—and, if one chooses to survive it, often one of its most valuable lessons.”

For an instant, something powerful flickered behind his gaze—an echo of a heavy, ancient memory, so brief yet so heavy that Persephone felt it press faintly against the walls of her mind. Whatever it was, it was sealed firmly behind the mastery of his own Occlumency.

He offered a faint smile, the warmth of it tinged with melancholy. “I imagine you’ve discovered that grief and magic are a volatile combination. Your gifts, my dear, are extraordinary—but with great power comes great weight. Responsibility. Discipline.”

Persephone lowered her gaze, shame flooding her cheeks. “I lost control,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said kindly. “But even the most powerful and wisest witches and wizards lose themselves at times. You are not alone in that. The key is to learn to manage the storm, not deny its existence.”

He reached into the deep pocket of his robe and withdrew something small and dazzling—a delicate golden locket, its surface intricately engraved with faint runes that shimmered under the bedside lamplight. He held it out to her.

“For you,” he said with a smile. “Think of it as a late Christmas present.”

Persephone took it hesitantly, the metal warm against her palm. When she opened the locket, instead of a photograph, she found a swirling pool of liquid light—soft silver-blue, calm yet intensely alive, like starlight suspended in water.

“What… is it?” she asked in awe.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “A Pensieve,” he replied. “A rather personal one, you might say. I have quite the collection myself.” His chuckle was light, almost musical. “This one, however, is enchanted to carry the memories only you can access. Consider it a safe harbor for thoughts and emotions that grow too heavy to bear.”

She brushed her thumb over the liquid surface—it rippled gently but did not spill.

Dumbledore continued gently, “When your mind feels too full, or your emotions too sharp, you may draw a memory from your thoughts and place it here. You will not forget it, but it will no longer weigh upon you as a physical burden. It will become… a shadow, distant and quiet, instead of a storm.”

He showed her how—how to focus, how to draw the thread of memory from her temple, silvery and delicate as spun glass, and let it dissolve instantly into the waiting pool inside the locket.

When she tried it for the first time, concentrating on the agonizing image of Draco and Pansy, her breath caught. The oppressive weight she’d been carrying—the sickening betrayal, the hot shame, the destructive fury—eased instantly, as though someone had untied a massive knot inside her chest.

For the first time in what felt like months, she could truly breathe.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the relief making her voice tremble.

Dumbledore smiled, rising from his chair. “You need not thank me, Miss Prince. All I ask is that you remember: Control is not the absence of feeling, but the wisdom to know when and how to safely let go.”

He gave her a final, knowing nod before sweeping from the room.

Persephone clutched the warm locket to her chest. The storm inside her was quiet now, though she knew the path ahead was still fraught with consequences.

Chapter Text

By morning, Persephone felt lighter—slightly hollow, perhaps, but steady.

The Pensieve locket Dumbledore had given her now hung against her chest, layered with the small golden phoenix pendant, both warm against her skin, its weight a strange, tangible comfort. She’d spent most of the previous night methodically sorting through her memories, drawing out the heaviest ones—the agonizing heartbreak, the burning shame, the crushing pressure of her Occlumency and Legilimency practice—and tucking them safely away in its silvery depths. It didn’t erase the events, but it dulled the sharp edges enough for her to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Madam Pomfrey gave her a stern once-over that morning, prodding her head and checking her pupils before finally sighing in reluctant approval.

“You’re fit enough to leave, Miss Prince,” she said, her voice clipped with disapproval. “Go directly to Severus’s office. He’s expecting you.”

Persephone sighed, nodding obediently.

The moment she stepped out of the Hospital Wing, the old, familiar warmth of the humming magic beneath the stone walls greeted her. The castle was alive as ever—sunlight streaming through stained glass, portraits muttering to one another as they watched her pass. For a while, it felt almost peaceful. She even caught herself marveling at the intricate mosaics and tapestries she hadn’t truly looked at before.

When she ascended the steps near the Great Hall, the low roar of chatter and cutlery came from behind the large oak doors. Students who were making their way to breakfast stopped mid-conversation, their mouths hanging open. Almost immediately whispers hissed like released steam in her wake. Persephone didn’t need to read their mind to know what they were thinking:

She’s the one who beat up Malfoy?

That’s Snape’s daughter.

I heard she practically destroyed the Slytherin Common Room.

Her stomach twisted violently. She tugged frantically at the hem of her shirt—realizing too late that she was still wearing the same torn, doxy-bitten shirt from two nights ago, now tragically spattered with faint, reddish-brown stains. Draco’s blood.

The humiliation burned hotter than any curse. Persephone ducked her head, quickening her pace as the murmurs and stares trailed behind her like aggressive ghosts.

She was just about to reach the corridor that led to the dungeons when a familiar voice, full of relief, called out, “Persephone!”

She looked up to see Hermione and Harry rushing from the Great Hall, Ron trailing close behind looking openly amused. They caught up quickly, falling into step beside her as she tried desperately to ignore the gawking onlookers.

Hermione looked truly stricken, her eyes full with worry. Harry, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased.

“I knew it!” Harry said, his grin boyish and bright. “The second I heard Malfoy got his face caved in, I thought, that’s definitely Persephone.”

Despite herself, a weak, genuine laugh escaped her.

Harry leaned in. “Apparently he won’t even leave the Slytherin dorms. He’s claiming to be ill. That’s what I overheard at breakfast.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, swatting his arm. She turned to Persephone, her tone instantly softer. “I feel terrible—I never should have mentioned what I saw at the Yule Ball. This is all my fault, I didn't think—”

Persephone shook her head quickly. “It’s not your fault, Hermione. I’m glad you told me. My choices were entirely my own.”

“So it’s true, then?” Ron piped up, looking like he had heard the funniest joke of all time. “You actually destroyed the Slytherin Common Room?”

Persephone winced. “Yeah,” she muttered, "I... fucked up."

Ron let out a low whistle of awe. “Blimey. Wish I’d seen it.”

Hermione glared at him. They turned a final corner, and finally the pervasive noise of the castle faded behind them. The corridor leading to Snape’s office was empty and cool, the faint smell of cold stone and damp air immediately making her shiver. Persephone exhaled slowly, pressing her back against the wall for support.

Hermione’s expression softened back into worry. “Are you going to be okay, Persephone?” she asked gently, her brows drawn tight with genuine concern.

Persephone let out a short, humorless laugh, pushing the hair out of her face. “I don’t know. I’m about to find out if my dad’s decided to disown me before he kills me.”

They all turned to glance down the hall where the door to the Potions classroom loomed like a dark, waiting mouth.

Ron tilted his head, whispering loudly to Harry, “Still can’t believe Professor Snape even has a daughter.”

Hermione shot him a scowl sharp enough to cut glass but chose to ignore him. “He’s not going to disown you,” she said instead, turning back to Persephone.

Before Persephone could protest again, a deep, unmistakable voice sliced through the corridor.

“Persephone!”

The three Gryffindors jumped like startled cats.

Snape emerged from the shadows of the Potions classroom, black robes billowing behind him like storm clouds. His expression was a perfect, terrible mask—controlled, but his dark eyes burned with a quiet, simmering rage.

“Good luck,” Harry whispered quickly, before all three of them muttered rushed goodbyes and scurried off down the hall, wisely disappearing around the corner.

Persephone stayed rooted to the spot, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might echo off the stone walls. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, so she stared down at her scuffed shoes instead.

“I do not,” Snape began sharply, “recall giving you permission to loiter in the corridors to socialize.” His voice was low, each word measured and cutting. “When you’re instructed to come straight to my office, I expect precisely that.”

Persephone’s throat felt dry. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, nodding quickly.

Without another word, he seized her arm with a firm, inescapable grasp and led her down through the Potions classroom. His robes whispered against the flagstones as he guided her toward the private door at the back. He opened it with a silent flick of his wand, ushered her inside, and closed it with a quiet, final click that made the air feel instantly heavier.

“Sit.”

She obeyed instantly, lowering herself into the straight-backed wooden chair before his desk. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, twisting the frayed edge of her shirt as her father began to pace behind the desk in silence.

The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire in the corner and the measured scrape of his boots against the stone floor. Persephone could feel his anger—thick, suffocating, rolling off him like heat from a forge.

Finally, he stopped. With a heavy sigh, Snape ran a hand through his hair and sank into his chair with deliberate slowness. The wood creaked under his weight as he laced his fingers together, resting his elbows on the desk, and fixed her with a stare that could slice through steel.

Persephone couldn’t hold it. She dropped her eyes to her lap again, her fingers trembling.

She felt the faint, invasive pressure of his mind reaching for hers—an instinctive test, a father’s demand for truth. But her mental walls held strong. The heaviest of her memories were locked safely within her locket, and though she felt the faint brush of his Legilimency, it met a calm, solid barrier.

But even without touching her mind, she felt him—his emotions leaking through the cracks of his own control. Beneath the icy fury was something far worse: profound disappointment. And beneath that... stark, cold fear.

Fear of what she could become if she ever truly lost control again.

The silence stretched on until it felt unbearable. Finally, Snape leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose. His voice, when it came, was quiet—dangerously quiet.

“Honestly, I’ve never been so disappointed in my life.” He paused, letting the statement land. “Years, Persephone. We’ve spent years working on your control. I’ve told you countless times what could happen if you let your emotions get the best of you, and look what you chose to do. You didn’t even think. You didn’t even consider the lives you put in danger. Over some stupid boy.”

Persephone swallowed hard, but no words came. The truth—that her breakdown was about far more than Draco—tangled in her throat like barbed wire.

And across the desk, her father’s black eyes narrowed, sharp and cold as the edge of a knife, waiting for her defense.

“It won’t ever happen again—” Persephone whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You’re damn right it won’t ever happen again,” Snape snapped, cutting her off. His tone struck like a lash, each syllable sharp and precisely aimed.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice cracking with exhaustion and fear. “I really am.”

For a long moment, silence filled the room. Snape sat unmoving, staring at her. Then, with a quiet, controlled sigh, he straightened in his chair.

“You’re to return to Malfoy Manor,” he said flatly, stating it as a condition of her continued freedom.

Persephone opened her mouth to protest, but the look he gave her—a razor-sharp, warning glance—made her shrink instantly back into her seat.

“—and you will continue your studies,” he continued, his tone clipped, controlled, dangerous in its calm. “In addition, you will write a personal apology to every single Slytherin student. One full page each. Handwritten. Expressing your remorse for your recklessness and appalling lack of judgment.”

Persephone’s mouth fell open in shock. “That going to be so humiliating!”

Snape’s eyes flashed with cold triumph. “What is more humiliating, Persephone,” he said in that low, venomous tone that made her blood run cold, “is your hysterical behavior. I am granting you an opportunity to rebuild even a sliver of the dignity you destroyed.”

“But—”

“Leave.” The word struck like a door slamming shut. “Now.”

His voice was pure ice. Final.

Persephone rose on unsteady legs, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper to keep from saying something she’d regret. She crossed to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and tossed it into the emerald flames.

“Malfoy Manor,” she muttered. The fire roared to life, swallowing her whole.

She stumbled out of the hearth in the Malfoy Manor’s grand sitting room, brushing soot from her arms. Narcissa and Lucius were waiting—a terrifying, silent reception.

Lucius stood tall, his posture rigid, silver hair gleaming ominously under the chandelier’s light. His eyes were like cut glass—cold, assessing, and brimming with silent, dangerous fury. Narcissa, by contrast, looked stricken, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes filled with pity and immense strain.

“Persephone,” Narcissa said softly, her voice barely a thread.

Lucius’s voice cut through hers like a knife. “How dare you assault my son—”

Persephone couldn’t meet his gaze. “He deserved it,” she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible.

“Enough.” Narcissa stepped forward, placing a hand on her husbands chest, her expression strained but gentle. “Lucius, please.”

But Lucius was already turning away, his silence louder than any shouting. Narcissa gave Persephone a small, sorrowful look—the look of someone eternally torn between sympathy and loyalty.

That was the last real conversation Persephone had for the remainder of the winter holidays.

Her days immediately became punishment on parchment. Snape had promptly sent her the complete list of Slytherin students, each name a brand of shame. She sat at her desk from morning to night, writing apology after apology until her fingers ached and the tip of her quill was worn dull.

Each letter was a hollow, unemotional echo of remorse: I am sorry for my actions… I am sorry for the damage I caused… The words blurred together, meaningless, mechanical. But at least it kept her too busy to think—too busy to do anything foolish like open her journal.

Draco’s messages glowed brighter each day, burning through the leather binding like a heartbeat she couldn’t silence. She locked the journal in her trunk, buried beneath old clothes and heavy textbooks, and still the light leaked stubbornly through the seams.

But the owls were relentless.

At first, one came each morning. Then two. Then five. By the week’s end, her room was filled with the anxious rustle of feathers and soft, impatient hoots of a parliament of owls perched wherever they could find space, each leg bound with a letter written in Draco’s elegant, desperate scrawl.

Persephone didn’t read a single one.

She held the letters just long enough to untie the string, then tossed each one directly into the fire. The flames devoured them greedily, curling the parchment into ash before her eyes.

She told herself she felt absolutely nothing. That she hated him. That she would never, ever forgive him.

But sometimes, late at night, when the fire burned low and the Manor was silent, she could feel the faint hum of her locket against her chest—its light flickering softly, pulsing with the weight of the memories she had hoped to forget.

Chapter Text

It was impossible. Forgetting Draco was impossible.

No matter where Persephone went in the Manor, his ghost was there. His memory clung to every corridor like fine, bitter smoke—in the echoing library where they’d spent endless, hours finding comfort in each other’s company, in the grand sitting room where his confident laughter had once echoed over a game of wizard's chess, in the cold marble halls that still seemed to hum faintly with the resonance of his voice.

Even her bedroom wasn’t safe. The thick rug where they had once sprawled together, trading secrets and stories, his fingers intertwined with hers, still carried the faint ghost of his warmth. Her bed—her intended sanctuary—now felt profoundly haunted by the memory of him, of her head buried into his chest, listening to the steady, deceptive rhythm of his heartbeat.

When she looked into the mirror of her vanity, she sometimes swore she could see his tall, pale figure standing just behind her, his gray eyes soft and adoring. But when she whipped around, there was only empty space and her own hollow, haunted reflection staring back.

Each time a memory surfaced, Persephone forced herself to act before the ache could fully bloom. She reached for her locket and pulled the thought from her mind—the silvery strand of memory shimmering between her fingers like spun glass—and tucked it carefully into the swirling metallic depths of the pendant.

The locket grew heavier by the day. At first, she dismissed it as imagination, but soon she could feel its physical weight drag against her chest, as if every stolen kiss and every tender word was carving its own place in the metal and the magic.

Eventually, she had to make choices. There wasn’t room for everything.

Some memories—the small, quiet ones—were left behind to linger and ache, the ones too minor to justify the Pensieve's space yet too painful to completely forget. They became her background static, a constant, dull throb she had to learn to ignore.

Then came the purge. A cold, necessary ritual of destruction.

One by one, she gathered the physical remnants of him—the trinkets, the old letters, the fragments of what once felt like a forever promise. The black opal earrings he’d given her for her birthday, the silver Slytherin ring that had once gleamed proudly on her finger, the preserved, enchanted wildflowers that should have never wilted. She piled them into her wastebasket, each piece scraping against her hardening heart.

The old letters came next—folded parchment filled with sweet nothings that she had foolishly stuck in between the pages of her diary. She hesitated for only a second before throwing them into the fire. The flames turned the paper to ash, but the words seemed to echo in her mind long after they were gone.

Finally, she reached for the hardest thing to destroy—the journal.

The same enchanted journal that had once bound their hearts across distance and time, allowing their thoughts to cross miles of separation. It sat on her desk, still brightly glowing, desperate for her touch, a promise of conversation.

Persephone stared at it for a long while, her reflection wavering in the faint golden light. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Without another thought, she snatched it up and tossed that too into the licking, hungry flames. The magical glow flared one final, desperate time—a silent, agonizing scream—before the leather binding blackened, the ink dissolved, and the shared magic finally died.

Persephone watched until the last ember faded, leaving nothing but scorched pages and ash. Her breathing was shallow, but her resolve was absolute.

Hermione was a godsend. Her letters arrived faithfully, each one brimming with cool, gentle wisdom. Her words were a rational balm, reminding Persephone that distance was sometimes the kindest form of self-preservation.

Hermione wrote with that steady, logical reassurance that only she possessed—reminding Persephone that she was doing the right thing by cutting all contact with Draco, even if the severance hurt like hell. “Time,” Hermione wrote once, “has a way of showing us who deserves a place in our story.” Persephone had reread that line so many times that the ink had started to fade.

Harry’s letters came too, though his were an entirely different kind of comfort. His words were frantic, scribbled, full of nervous energy and occasional smudges of ink—but they immediately pulled Persephone’s mind outward. Harry had finally solved the riddle of the Golden Egg; now came the hard part: figuring out how to breathe underwater for the Second Task.

Persephone threw herself into the challenge as if the task were her own life on the line. It was a welcome, complex distraction from the empty ache in her chest—a problem she could solve when everything else felt unsalvageable.

She scoured the Malfoy family library—a vast, echoing labyrinth of dark shelves and forbidden volumes—searching desperately for any mention of water-breathing spells, potions, or forgotten charms. She tried every conventional method she could think of: complex Transfiguration, sophisticated Charmwork, even a few high-risk hybrid techniques. Nothing seemed to fit. Harry, ever hopeless with complex incantations, would never master them in time. Frustrated but determined, she delved deeper into the texts until at last she found it, Gillyweed.

A strange, innocuous-looking plant with transformative magic strong enough to let the consumer grow gills and temporary fins. It was ancient, and highly unstable, but it was absolutely perfect.

The discovery was a flash of pure victory.

She wrote to Harry immediately, her quill scratching feverishly against the parchment:

My Dad keeps a collection of rare magical flora in his private storage. You might find a bit of Gillyweed there—not that I’m suggesting you steal it, of course. But if you were to “borrow” some… well, no one would ever know. It's the only way, Harry.

When the owl finally left, she sat back and felt, for the first time in weeks, a sharp flicker of genuine, outward-focused satisfaction.

Days later, Harry’s reply came—hurried, exuberant, and dotted with triumphant splashes of ink:

It worked, Seph! I did it! Tied with Diggory for the Second Task! You saved my life. You're the best!

Persephone smiled—a real, unforced smile that reached her eyes. The feeling wasn't happiness, but it was solid, necessary proof: She was useful, and her knowledge mattered.

With Harry’s stunning success in the Second Task, Persephone finally felt the intense tightness in her chest ease. If her clumsy, noble friend could outwit dragons and merfolk, she had no doubt he’d find a way through the final, terrifying challenge. She allowed herself to feel a profound sense of pride—proud of Harry, proud of her own quiet, effective part in helping him, and proud that the raw ache inside her was finally dulling into something she could live with.

With the dramatic high of the Triwizard Tournament receding, the immediate pressure shifted. Hogwarts—and even the chilling silence of Malfoy Manor—was now buzzing with the frantic, universal talk of exams. Everyone seemed buried under piles of parchment and heavy spellbooks, and Persephone was no exception. Yet, unlike the nervous panic that once clouded her focus, she felt a cool, crystalline calm.

She was ready.

Her Occlumency had never been stronger; her mental walls were now solid, seamless steel. And her Legilimency, once unpredictable and raw, now felt sharp and precise, like a blade honed to perfection. The Pensieve locket had become her essential anchor, its warm, steady weight against her chest calming her thoughts whenever they threatened to scatter. With it, she could instantly silence the noise, shut out the invasive whispers, the foreign bouts of anger, and bar the haunting corridors and nightmares that had tormented her for so long.

Persephone was finally able to sleep soundly. No shadows, no dark voices, no decaying walls. Just quiet.

She woke refreshed each morning, and with every passing day, the deep hollowness that had once consumed her began to fill with light again.

By the time spring unfurled across the Manor grounds—sunlight spilling through her window, birds darting past the ivy-covered stone—Persephone almost didn’t recognize the person staring back in the mirror. She was eating again, laughing at small things, and smiling without having to fake it. The shattered pieces of her heart were finally shifting back into place, not healed, but forged anew.

Persephone had truly believed she was back to normal—healed, whole, and steady—until the day the world cracked open again.

It was a quiet afternoon in May, sunlight filtering in thin, golden slants through the library’s towering windows. Narcissa was seated across from her, graceful as always, reading aloud a passage on advanced medicinal potions for healing burns while Persephone took meticulous notes. Everything was ordinary, calm—until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

The feeling struck without warning.

A sharp, electric pulse of emotion—pure, blinding panic, rage, and terminal betrayal—not her own. It surged through her chest so violently that her grip on her quill tightened and the wood snapped in two with a dry crack. Ink splattered across her parchment like spilled blood.

Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably as her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat a painful, uneven thud that threatened to shatter her composure. For a terrifying moment, she couldn’t draw a single breath.

Persephone clutched desperately at her chest, her skin cold and damp, the sensation of something crawling just beneath her sternum—prickling, burning. It was as if someone had shrieked inside her mind and then gone abruptly, violently silent, leaving only the deafening, physical echo of their terror behind.

“Persephone?” Narcissa’s voice cut softly through the fog. There was an unusual edge of genuine alarm in her tone. “Are you quite alright, darling?”

Persephone blinked rapidly, her vision swimming as she tried to collect herself and manage the tremor that racked her limbs. “I—I don’t know,” she murmured, rubbing the spot just over her heart as though that could soothe it. “Something just happened. Something doesn't feel right.”

Narcissa rose gracefully from her chair, her elegant composure faltering for only a moment. “Perhaps it’s exhaustion. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard with your studies again.”

Persephone nodded weakly, though she knew in her bones it wasn't exhaustion. It felt deeper. Like a tragedy had just occurred.

That night, she sat at her desk beneath the flicker of candlelight and wrote to her father. Her handwriting trembled slightly as she tried to explain the wave of raw emotion she couldn’t place—the inexplicable pain, the cold dread, the absolute certainty that something major had gone wrong at Hogwarts.

Two days later, his reply came. Short, dismissive, and written with characteristic sharp handwriting:

You are allowing your emotions to overreach its limits again. Keep your Occlumency walls up at all times, and this will not trouble you further. There is nothing wrong, Persephone. Focus on your control.

She read it twice, then three times, searching frantically between the lines for something more—a hidden instruction, a coded warning. But there was only the same detached practicality, the calm authority that made him sound like a cold professor—not a worried father.

Persephone folded the letter carefully and set it aside. Snape's refusal to acknowledge the psychic breach made her feel utterly alone, but it did one crucial thing: It confirmed that the disturbance was real, and serious enough for him to lie about it.

Persephone tried desperately not to think about it—the strange, electric pulse that flared beneath her ribs—but the more she ignored it, the more persistent and agonizing it became.

She had her suspicions about what the prickling meant, but she refused to name it. Even entertaining the thought of the truth filled her with profound dread. Something deep inside her whispered that she absolutely didn’t want to know the source of that pain.

Her father’s letter had done little to soothe her. His cold reassurance had felt too polished, too deliberate—like a curtain drawn over something much larger and more terrifying. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized how much he wasn’t telling her.

Snape had always been guarded, but lately, the silence between them felt heavier—deliberate, suffocating. He was hiding something vital. She could feel it in the cold, measured tone of his last reply.

So Persephone did what she was told. She buried the deep unease beneath her strongest Occlumency walls and pretended not to notice when the prickling in her chest returned, sharper each time. Sometimes it would dull, fading until she almost believed it had gone completely. Then—without warning—it would flare again, searing through her heart like a desperate warning bell she couldn’t silence.

The feeling made her skin crawl. It was wrong—not hers, but someone else’s pain bleeding into her veins.

By the time May gave way to June, she was desperate for anything to distract her. She poured herself into her correspondence with Harry and Hermione, furiously trading notes on defensive spells and tactical charms he could use for the Third Task. Their letters filled her days and left her with less time to think about what she didn’t want to feel.

As the days grew longer and warmer, she turned all her focus to her end-of-year exams. The familiar rhythm of study soothed her, the crisp scent of parchment and ink grounding her mind in something she could control. When her final exam quill stopped scratching and the examiner dismissed her, Persephone exhaled in genuine relief.

But the relief didn't last. The very next day was Harry’s final, most dangerous task, and she felt more stressed than ever. When the day arrived, she wrote a swift, encouraging letter to Harry, hoping it would somehow reach him in time. She paced the floor in her room the entire day, battling her mounting anxiety for Harry while simultaneously trying to smother the persistent, unknown feeling of terrifying anticipation and nerves that clawed at her from within. The prickling sensation was back, intense and focused, signaling that the silence was about to break.

Chapter Text

Persephone sat at the long mahogany dining table, her fork idly prodding at a few roasted vegetables that had long since gone cold. The silver candlelight flickered against the polished wood, throwing tall, wavering shadows across the room. Narcissa and Lucius were speaking softly to one another at the other end of the table—low murmurs that rose and fell like a whispering tide—but Persephone barely heard a word.

Her stomach was a knot of raw nerves. Every breath felt shallow, tight. A sickly weight pressed at the base of her throat, as though she’d swallowed her own dread whole.

Something was wrong. She could feel it, physically.

The prickling sensation in her chest—that strange, electric pulse she’d tried so hard to ignore—had returned in full force. Only this time, it wasn’t fleeting. It coiled there, heavy and constant, like a frozen serpent, as if the air itself had thickened around her. Her hands trembled faintly on the table edge, her pulse thrumming in her ears like a loud, erratic drumbeat.

Across the table, Narcissa’s voice drifted toward her, gentle but distant. “Persephone, are you feeling unwell? You haven't touched your meal.”

Persephone blinked, realizing she had been staring blankly at her plate. “I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a small, brittle smile. Her voice came out thinner than she intended, strained by the pressure in her throat.

Lucius’s pale, silvery eyes flicked toward her briefly, sharp and assessing. He said nothing, simply returning to his conversation with his wife. She dropped her gaze quickly, clutching her linen napkin in her lap until her knuckles whitened.

The room felt suffocating. Every tick of the grandfather clock echoed like a relentless heartbeat, slow and merciless.

She couldn’t shake the feeling—that dreadful, looming sense that something truly terrible was unfolding miles away, beyond her reach.

She forced herself to take a slow, agonizing breath. Her thoughts clung desperately to Harry, who was currently in the middle of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. They had gone over so many spells and tactics the last few weeks that she was sure he would handle the maze without any problem, but she didn’t know why she was feeling such overwhelming, foreign anguish in her core. It felt like the psychic reverberation of someone else’s ultimate terror.

Persephone’s fork had long since stilled beside her untouched dinner. The clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of Lucius and Narcissa’s conversation faded to a distant, meaningless hum as a knot of pure dread tightened in her chest. Every instinct in her body screamed that something terrible, inevitable, was happening right now.

She reached for her goblet, her hand trembling slightly as she brought the cool silver to her lips. The first sip barely touched her tongue before the world lurched violently.

An explosion of agonizing sensation tore through her body—white-hot, electric, like lightning striking her from the inside out.

Persephone gasped, choking on the water as it spilled down her front. Her chair scraped back violently, the sound sharp enough to make Narcissa jump.

At the exact same instant, Lucius made a strangled, terrible sound. His hand shot instantly to his left forearm, his face draining of every last drop of color. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his sleeve, trembling violently. Narcissa froze mid-breath, her eyes darting wildly between her husband and Persephone.

The room was deathly still.

Persephone could barely move, paralyzed by the horrific sensation tearing through her chest—a suffocating flood of dark energy and twisted exhilaration that was utterly foreign. It was ancient, horrifyingly powerful, and singing with malice. Her gaze met Lucius’s across the table.

He didn’t need to say a word. The raw terror in his pale eyes, and the desperate clutch at his arm, said everything.

He was back.

Persephone felt him—felt his chilling presence, his dark, triumphant joy, his absolute rebirth. His power sang in her veins like poisoned fire.

Lucius surged to his feet so violently that his heavy dining chair toppled over, crashing against the floor. Narcissa gasped as he grabbed her, pressing a desperate, crushing kiss to her lips—the kind of kiss meant for last goodbyes.

Then, with a faint, sudden crack, he was gone.

The silence that followed Lucius’s departure was deafening, save for the ticking clock and Persephone's ragged gasps.

Narcissa stood trembling in her place, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. She turned to Persephone, her voice barely above a whisper, raw with fear and urgency.

“Go.”

The word trembled but carried the absolute, final weight of a command. Persephone didn’t hesitate. Her body moved before her mind caught up—out of the dining room, down the long corridor, the air thick with overwhelming fear. Everything around her blurred. The marble floors, the golden sconces, the portraits whispering faintly as she passed—all became fragments of a nightmare she had to escape.

She reached the sitting room, her pulse pounding in her ears like war drums. Her fingers shook violently as she reached for the jar of Floo Powder, and when she plunged her hand in, her grip utterly faltered. The heavy glass jar slipped from her trembling fingers, shattering across the hearth. Powder billowed like fine, emerald smoke around her feet.

She didn’t stop.

Scooping a handful of the scattered powder from the floor, she threw it into the fireplace. Emerald flames erupted, roaring to life.

“Hogwarts,” she choked, her voice trembling and raw. “Professor Snape’s office!”

The fire surged higher. Persephone cast one last frantic glance around the opulent, now tainted Manor before stepping blindly into the screaming green fire.

The spinning, nauseating pull of the Floo Network spat her out hard onto the cold, stone floor of her father’s office. The room was empty and dark, the silence absolute.

Persephone’s knees hit the floor, her hands bracing against the icy stone. She could barely breathe.

Everyone would be at the Quidditch Pitch, waiting for the conclusion of the Third Task by now. She gasped. The realization struck her like a physical blow, clarifying the terror that had just torn through her.

Harry.

Her pulse quickened, her mind spinning with dread as the horrifying, undeniable truth settled deep in her bones.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It had never been a coincidence.

Voldemort had returned—and Harry Potter was at the very center of it.

Persephone burst from her father’s office, her feet echoing like thunder through the empty dungeon corridors. Her heart hammered in her chest, wild and relentless. She didn’t know what she was running toward—only that she had to move, driven by the cold certainty of disaster.

The castle blurred around her in streaks of torchlight and shadow. Her lungs burned, every sharp breath cutting like a knife. She tore through the stone staircases.

The moment she shoved through the massive double doors leading outside, the cool night air hit her face, smelling of grass and distant smoke.

She didn’t stop.

Her shoes struck the dirt path with a steady, frantic rhythm as she sprinted down toward the Quidditch Pitch, where the giant stands glowed bright under the final enchantments of the Third Task. The collective roar of the crowd rolled across the open grounds—a deafening, unaware storm of voices.

Persephone shoved her way through the sea of spectators, ignoring the gasps and protests as she pushed forward toward the field boundary. Her eyes darted desperately through the blur of faces until—

Her father.

Snape stood at the edge of the pitch perimeter, his eyes locked on the maze entrance, his expression carved from stone.

“Dad!” she choked, grabbing his arm. His head snapped toward her, profound fear flashing in his dark eyes—fear, and something else. A flicker of awful, private relief that she was safe. He tightened his grip on her arm immediately, as though to anchor her to the spot.

“Persephone—” he began, his voice low and furious, but his words broke off when she suddenly arched forward with a wrenching gasp.

A wave of raw, scorching emotion slammed into her. Intense fury. Deep frustration. Bloodlust. It flooded through her like molten metal, searing every nerve. Her knees buckled, and she would have crumpled if Snape hadn’t caught her, his hand clamping around her shoulders. She could feel it—the vast, ancient power that had awoken—the twisted, dark joy that pulsed like a heartbeat from miles away.

And then, all at once, the pitch erupted in physical chaos.

“Dad—” Persephone tried to speak, but her voice came out strangled, trembling.

Snape turned sharply toward the field, his grip tightening on her shoulders, holding her upright. His eyes—cold, calculating—betrayed a definitive flicker of terror. He knew.

They both did.

A crackle of residual, displaced Apparition magic snapped through the air near the maze entrance. That’s when Persephone’s eyes finally landed on the center of the panic: two figures lay near the entrance of the maze.

One was Harry Potter. The other boy beside him was still, unnaturally pale under the moonlight. Harry was shaking violently, screaming, clutching desperately at the lifeless body as though he could will it back.

“He’s back!” Harry sobbed, his voice shredded with hysteria. “He’s back! Voldemort’s back!”

The words carried across the stunned, sudden silence of the thousands gathered, falling like a terrible curse. Cedric Diggory lay dead on the grass.

Dumbledore and several professors were already sprinting toward him, robes flying, wands drawn. The crowd surged forward, panicked shouts breaking out everywhere.

Persephone could only stare, her mind struggling to catch up with the horror her heart and her psychic link already knew. Voldemort had returned—and the world had just changed forever.

She turned toward her father. He looked truly afraid, his Occlumency barely holding. Neither of them spoke. Neither needed to.

The world had descended into catastrophic chaos.

Everywhere Persephone turned, there were screams—panicked, guttural, echoing across the Quidditch Pitch like a sudden storm of hysteria. Wizards and witches surged forward, shouting over one another. The stands rattled and groaned with movement as hundreds tried desperately to get closer to the tragedy or away from it entirely. The air itself seemed to vibrate with fear and agonizing confusion.

Persephone’s pulse pounded in her ears, a frantic, relentless drumbeat. Her father’s hand was a vice on her arm, his grip the only thing keeping her grounded. Even Snape looked unsteady—his eyes darting frantically between the crowd, the professors, and the mouth of the maze.

The dark presence she had felt earlier—the psychic residue of Voldemort's triumph—was now almost unbearable. It tore through her mental barriers, ripping at every defense she had built. Her body trembled violently as the surge of raw emotion coursed through her—triumph, rage, hunger. She clutched at her chest, gasping, as if the monstrous feeling inside her was trying to claw its way out.

“Persephone,” her father hissed under his breath, trying desperately to steady her. But his own legendary composure was cracking. He didn’t let go, even as her knees wobbled beneath her.

She looked up through the haze of panic. Near the center of the pitch, Dumbledore knelt beside a figure—Amos Diggory, whose wrenching sobs echoed across the field as he cradled his son’s lifeless body. The sight made Persephone’s throat tighten painfully.

“What’s going to happen?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Snape muttered, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore. “We wait for the Headmaster’s orders.”

The crowd pressed in closer now. Persephone’s gaze swept frantically through the chaos, past the professors shouting for calm and the Ministry officials trying to usher students back.

Then, suddenly, she realized who she didn’t see.

“Dad…” Her voice wavered, sharp with sudden urgency. “Where’s Harry?”

Snape’s head snapped toward her, his eyes cold and dark. “What?”

“He was there—by Cedric. He’s gone now,” she insisted, scanning the field again, panic overriding her psychic pain. “He’s not with Dumbledore.”

Snape’s expression darkened with immediate, terrible understanding. Without a word, he tightened his grip on her and physically pushed a path through the throng of people, forcing them toward the two figures at the center of the pitch: Dumbledore, who was speaking in low, grave tones with Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.

“Excuse me, Headmaster,” Snape interrupted sharply, ignoring the Minister entirely. “A word.”

Dumbledore turned, his eyes flicking from Snape to Persephone, and for a fleeting second, a shadow of terrible, shared understanding passed between the three of them.

“Did you send Potter off somewhere?” Snape demanded, skipping any pleasantries.

“No,” Dumbledore said immediately, his eyes already scanning the perimeter of the crowd. “I told him to stay here with me.”

“He’s gone,” Persephone said, her voice shaking but firm.

Even Dumbledore’s composed expression finally fractured. He looked out toward the entrance of the maze, his eyes narrowing sharply behind his half-moon spectacles. The distant wind carried faint screams and the rustle of panicked voices, but to Persephone, the entire world seemed to fall still, awaiting the final blow.

Harry Potter had vanished.

“Minerva!” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the chaos like a spell. “Severus, follow me.”

Snape’s hand immediately tightened around Persephone’s arm. His expression was a perfect shield of stone, his voice low and sharp.

“Persephone, you are to wait for me in my office. Do not leave."

She opened her mouth to protest—to tell him she needed to stay, to help, to know what happened to Harry—but one look from him silenced her. His dark eyes held no room for argument, only a frightening glint of unspoken urgency.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, the words bitter on her tongue.

Snape released her and turned to sprint after Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall as they tore toward the castle. Persephone trailed behind them for a few paces, her heart pounding, before she stopped at the base of the massive staircase. The sounds of hurried footsteps and raised, worried voices echoed above her, fading into the distance.

Alone now, she turned and began the long, silent descent into the dungeons.

The torches lining the walls flickered dimly, casting ghostly shadows that crawled across the cold stone. Each step felt heavier than the last. Her breath came out shallow, fogging in the chill air. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying desperately to hold back the violent trembling that had begun somewhere deep inside her chest.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Harry—his wide, terrified eyes, his shredded cries in the chaos. The image replayed endlessly in her mind, a traumatic loop she couldn't escape. And underneath it all, like a poison running through her veins, was the feeling.

When she finally reached her father’s office, she pushed the heavy door open with shaking hands and stumbled inside. The silence was unbearable. The room smelled faintly of parchment and bitter herbs, the fire in the grate long since burned down to embers.

Persephone sank into the large, leather chair behind her father’s desk—his chair—and buried her face in her arms.

The sensation hit her again, sharp and suffocating. A pure, raw pulse of fury so strong it made her gasp out loud. It wasn’t hers.

Voldemort’s rage was alive inside her like a foreign heartbeat, radiating from somewhere far beyond the castle walls. He was livid—enraged that Harry had escaped him and cheated death again. She could feel the Dark Lord's disappointment in the way her skin prickled, in the pounding of her heart that was absolutely not her own.

She pressed a trembling hand against her sternum, whispering under her breath, “Stop… please stop.”

But the connection didn't break. The terror was too overwhelming.

So she did the only thing she could: she forced herself to rebuild her Occlumency walls, one cold brick of sheer willpower at a time. She visualized them rising in her mind’s eye: tall, dark, impenetrable. Layer after layer until the screaming static of Voldemort’s presence began to fade to a distant, controllable hum.

When she finally caught her breath, she sat back in the chair, exhausted and shaking. The room felt colder than before.

Now that Voldemort had returned, everything had changed.

Persephone knew what it meant. It meant danger. It meant a life of agonizing lies and deadly secrets. It meant her father’s impossible double life was about to be tested in ways neither of them were remotely ready for.

And most of all—it meant she could never let her guard down again. Not for a single moment.

Because if the Dark Lord ever discovered that his rage, his triumph, and his ultimate failures could echo in her blood, he wouldn’t just see Snape’s daughter.

He would know she was connected to him.