Chapter Text
Rain lashed the Scottish countryside in silver sheets by the time she arrived in Feldcroft.
Her leather brogues were ruined already. Now thick with mud and soaked through at the seams, as she dragged her trunk up the hill with both hands clenched around the handle. The stone road had ended half a mile back where the Muggle stage coach refused to go any farther, the coachman muttering something about washed roads and bad weather before leaving her alone in the rain.
She cursed under her breath as the trunk snagged on another stone. A simple Levitation Charm would have solved everything in seconds, but the Ministry realtor had warned her repeatedly during the journey: there could still be Muggles lingering in the area. The Department of Wizarding Welfare and Housing would perform their final sweep next week, and until then she was expected to obey the International Statute to the letter.
No visible magic. No Apparating. No wand use outdoors. No exceptions.
So she climbed the hill the Muggle way, drenched to the bone and miserable for it. Cold rainwater slid beneath the collar of her coat. Wind bit through the wool and stung her cheeks raw. By the time she reached the crest of the hill, breathless and aching, she nearly regretted signing up for the Ministry's reclamation initiative at all.
Then she saw Feldcroft.
And stopped.
It did not look like a village. It looked like the corpse of one.
Ruined cottages sat sunken into the earth beneath blankets of overgrown ivy and wild grass. Collapsed roofs sagged inward like broken ribs. Stone walls jutted crookedly from the fog. The entire settlement appeared suspended in some strange state between abandonment and preservation, untouched by progress and forgotten by time itself.
Nothing moved. No smoke curled from chimneys. No birds perched on rooftops. No insects hummed in the grass. What remained was only fog, rain, and silence.
A strange unease crawled beneath her skin. The place felt wrong. Perhaps cursed, but not exactly; just hollow in a way she could not explain. As though something had already drained the life from it long ago.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the trunk handle.
The Ministry files had described Feldcroft as "vacant rural territory suitable for magical resettlement." They had neglected to mention that it felt buried and lost to time.
She swallowed and continued down the narrow path. Rain battered against her shoulders harder now, cold as needles against her skin. Fog coiled low around the ruined foundations of homes she passed. Some still had curtains hanging in shattered windows. One house had a child's rusted training broom half-swallowed by weeds near the porch.
She looked away quickly.
At last, through the mist, the cottage came into view.
It stood near the edge of the village apart from the others, stubbornly intact despite the years. Thick grey fieldstone walls supported a steep thatched roof darkened by rainwater. Wooden trims carved with old Celtic patterns framed the windows and doorway. A tall chimney rose from the right side of the house, narrowing slightly toward the top like a crooked finger. A wrecked ox-cart was strewn on the other side, reclaimed by the overgrown weeds and brambles.
It looked old, very old. And somehow, despite its condition, occupied. Warm amber light flickered faintly behind the front windows and vanished just as quickly. A trick of the eye, perhaps.
She slowed.
A tall man stood beneath the awning by the front door holding a black umbrella over one shoulder. He was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit and robes entirely unsuited for the countryside. Rain slid from the umbrella in steady streams. Golden blond hair, streaked faintly with silver, gleamed beneath the dim light.
"Ah," he said as she approached. "Good afternoon, Miss—" He spoke her surname smoothly. "Terrible weather for moving."
She stopped beside him, dripping rainwater onto the stone steps.
He tilted the umbrella slightly toward her. "May I?"
"No thank you, Mister Larson," she said, breathless. "I'm already soaked through. Bit pointless now."
A polite chuckle left him. "Then please," he corrected mildly, "call me Andrew."
He unlocked the front door with a brass key. Something about him unsettled her immediately. Not because he seemed suspicious, but because he seemed eager to leave. His eyes kept drifting toward the darkening sky. Toward the village behind her. He never fully stepped into the rain beyond the awning, as though reluctant to stand exposed after sunset.
She noticed he still wore leather gloves indoors. "There are no wards?" she asked as they crossed the threshold.
The cottage swallowed them in shadow and the scent of damp wood.
"Not the troublesome kind," Larson replied. "The Ministry Cursebreakers dismantled most of them years ago."
"Most?"
He paused, only briefly. "The remaining protections are blood wards," he said lightly. "Bound to the original owners. Useless now, I'm afraid. They've long since passed." Something in his tone made her glance at him. He had already looked away.
The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her steps as she entered farther into the cottage. The interior resembled a home abandoned halfway through living in it. Dust clung to shelves and furniture in thin grey layers. The air smelled of mildew, old smoke, and something faintly sour hidden beneath it all. Yet oddly enough, nothing appeared decayed enough for a place abandoned this long.
The hearth crackled suddenly to life beside them.
She startled, but Larson merely lowered his wand. "A private Floo network has been installed," he said, "you may use it however you need it."
Amber firelight spilled across the room, throwing long shadows against the stone walls. At the center sat a circular wooden table atop a faded fringed rug surrounded by farmhouse chairs, along with an an enormous tufted armchair upholstered in beige velvet, now worn pale at the edges. The chair dominated the room. It wasn't elegant or comfortable; it was simply imposing.
Larson rested one gloved hand against its backrest absently. She noticed the gesture immediately. Possessive almost. "The roof is enchanted," he remarked as she looked upward. "Storm-proofed. Structurally reinforced."
High overhead, wooden beams disappeared into shadow. A single iron brazier hung from chains in the center of the room.
"How old is this place?"
Larson shrugged lightly. "No surviving records. The last registered owner was an Auror and his family in the late nineteenth century."
"Auror?"
"Yes." He offered nothing further.
She wandered slowly around the cottage while he watched in silence.
The kitchenette occupied the right side of the home. Rough wooden shelves were built directly into the stone walls, lined with empty ceramic jars, rusted tin canisters, and sacks of dried herbs that had long since crumbled to dust. A heavy iron spit hung over the kitchen hearth blackened by age.
"Does this still work?" she asked.
"Some elbow grease would likely manage." His tone remained casual, though she noticed his attention drifting repeatedly toward the windows. Toward the rain and the growing dark.
Heavy rose-colored curtains with tassels divided the left side of the cottage from the main room. She pushed through them and immediately sneezed as dust exploded into the air.
"Bless you," Larson said at once.
"Sorry."
Behind the curtains lay the sleeping quarters. Two narrow wooden beds stood separated by more heavy curtains suspended from ceiling beams. She ran her hands through them, one mattress was proper horsehair and wool stuffing while the other was filled with old straw.
Odd, she thought.
More of the heavy curtains draped against a wall. Beside it, a dark writing desk rested against the far wall was littered with broken bottles and overturned vials. Beneath it sat a large copper bathing tub.
"No indoor plumbing?" she asked dryly.
"The en suite is behind the drapes," Larson said quickly. "A recent addition."
She pulled the curtain back. Behind it, a narrow door opened into a cramped room where pristine white tiles clashed with the warm, weathered wood of the old floors. Directly ahead sat a clawfoot tub opposite a porcelain toilet, both gleaming beneath an ornate black iron chandelier. It was absurdly out of place for the old cottage.
"Clever extension charms," she murmured. Larson nodded in agreement.
She stepped back into the main room, the floorboards creaking softly with each step. Dragging a finger across the table, she left a clean, pale scar in the grey accumulation. She stared at the residue coating her skin, then wiped it on her skirts. "Well," she muttered. "The cobwebs are the only things alive in here."
"Scourgify will serve you well."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to use magic here."
"Not publicly." He dusted one of the chairs with a white handkerchief with navy blue trim before sitting. "Inside your own home, you're perfectly free to do as you please."
Home.
The word sounded strange in this place.
She sat across from him at the circular table while rain battered against the windows.
Larson opened his satchel. "The Ministry's Department of Wizarding Welfare and Housing will conduct the final sweep next week," he explained. "If the area is confirmed clear of Muggle residents, Feldcroft will officially reopen for magical residency." He slid a stack of parchment toward her. "These are the provisional occupancy papers. Trial period lasts one week. If you remain satisfied afterward, ownership transfer will proceed."
She examined a page. "What's the indemnity waiver for?"
Larson smiled faintly. "Some of these older properties come with... complications."
She frowned and skimmed the clauses. "Hmmm," she hummed. "Property damage. Structural instability. Residual enchantments." Her eyes paused lower as she shuffled through pages. "Mental distress. Psychological deterioration. Sleep disturbances." She looked up immediately. "That seems excessive."
"Standard wording," Larson said smoothly.
"For what?"
He folded his gloved hands atop the table. "Old magical homes occasionally retain poltergeists or spirits. Some magical echoes, even." His smile widened slightly. "But I assure you, Miss—this cottage has no ghost."
Something cold prickled down her spine.
Outside, thunder rumbled low across the hills.
She signed the papers anyway. Larson collected them almost before the final stroke of ink dried, leaving behind a few pages of copies for herself. "Excellent." He stood quickly. "Then I shall leave you to settle in."
"So soon?"
"Unfortunately, the roads become difficult after dark." He was already fastening his satchel shut. Already reaching for the door. Already leaving.
She followed him toward the entrance while wind screamed through the chimney overhead.
"Will I see you next week?" she asked.
"Assuming you're still here." The words left him before he seemed to realize he had spoken them. "Feel free to make any necessary changes to make yourself comfortable, just nothing permanent for now."
A silence followed.
Then Larson smiled again. "Good evening, Miss."
And he disappeared into the rain with his umbrella. She stood at the doorway watching his figure vanish into fog and storm alike until the village swallowed him whole. Then she shut the door firmly and exhaled.
The cottage settled around her with a long creak.
"All right," she murmured into the silence. "Let's get to work." She shrugged off her wet coat and rolled her sleeves. Drying charms warmed her clothes instantly. She lit the hanging brazier with a quick Incendio and golden light bloomed overhead. Shadows recoiled across the walls.
The cottage looked marginally less dreadful afterward, only marginally though.
She dragged her trunk into the sleeping quarters and set about fixing the beds first. With a practiced flick of her wand, both frames fused together into a single sturdier structure. Hay stuffing transformed into proper cushioning beneath freshly transfigured linens.
The room grew colder. She paused. The firelight beyond the curtains flickered sharply once, then steadied. Her gaze drifted slowly toward the main room. Nothing there, just silence.
She continued unpacking. Books stacked themselves neatly atop shelves. Curtains cleaned beneath repeated Scourgify charms. Dust vanished from furniture in swirling grey clouds.
Hours passed unnoticed beneath the storm. By evening, the cottage finally resembled something livable. Exhausted, she collapsed into one of the wooden chairs and wiped sweat from her forehead. Her gaze wandered toward the enormous armchair by the table.
She disliked it immediately. It was too large and far too severe. The rest of the cottage felt modest and intimate while the chair sat like a throne planted in the center of the room. A father's chair, she thought distantly, the sort that demanded silence from everyone else in the room. Such an ugly thing.
She stood and pointed her wand. The velvet rippled beneath the transfiguration spell. Wood groaned softly as the armchair reshaped itself into a small settee upholstered in faded cream fabric wide enough for two people to sit comfortably before the fire.
The moment the spell finished, the entire cottage creaked—not naturally, and certainly not from the wind. A low sound traveled through the walls themselves.
She froze.
The brazier dimmed. A draft swept suddenly through the room though every window remained latched shut. The curtains behind her stirred faintly.
Then—
Three slow footsteps sounded overhead.
Her blood turned cold. She looked up sharply. There was no second floor. Silence followed, filled by nothing but the steady beat of rain and the distant roll of thunder. Her heartbeat thundered painfully in her ears.
After several long moments, she forced herself to breathe again. "Old house," she muttered weakly. But her fingers tightened around her wand.
Night had fully settled beyond the windows by the time she finished rearranging the furniture. The round table and chairs were pushed slightly forward to make room for the settee, which now sat in front of the hearth.
Satisfied with her work for the day, she changed out of her robes and into her sleep clothes— a thin, cotton, knee-length smock with ruffled hems and sleeves paired with a pale pink woolen house robe. She sat on the bed and pinned her hair back into place before setting it back with her night cap. With a contented sigh, she laid back and closed her eyes.
Her thoughts drifted aimlessly—from the haunting hills of Feldcroft, to the lonely years she spent wandering the halls of Hogwarts, and now to the strange fate that had led her into this old, decaying house. Somewhere between leaving her last position at a pureblood estate, unable to find proper job prospects, and the slow collapse of her dwindling finances, she had found herself swallowing her pride and applying for the Ministry's housing benefit. At the time, it had seemed like the only sensible choice. The small pouch of Galleons and Sickles hidden beneath her floorboards grew lighter with each passing week, and independence, she was beginning to realize, was far more expensive than freedom had first seemed.
I should go back.
The thought came suddenly, sharp and instinctive, before she forced it back down. No, she reminded herself quietly, gaze lingering on the worn floorboards beneath her feet. This was her home now—the old house with its creaking walls, cold drafts, and stubborn loneliness. Imperfect as it was, it belonged to her.
Wind rattled the glass panes violently. Rain hammered against the roof in relentless waves. Then—
A knock.
She jerked upright.
Another knock followed, slow and measured and not loud, but entirely claiming.
Every muscle in her body tightened. Nobody should have been here. Larson had left hours ago. The nearest occupied property was in another town away. Heart pounding violently, she stepped toward the door and positioned herself beside it rather than directly in front. Her wand slid into her palm silently.
"Who is it?" she called. The slight stammer betrayed her fear immediately.
For a moment, only rain answered.
Then a man's voice spoke through the wood, low and calm. Close enough that she could almost imagine him standing with his mouth near the crack of the door.
"You are in my home," he said.
•───୨୧───•
The voice beyond the door did not leave.
Rain battered against the cottage in violent waves while she stood frozen beside the entrance, wand clenched so tightly in her hand her knuckles ached.
"Let me in," the man repeated calmly through the wood.
A chill crept slowly down her spine. Every sensible instinct screamed at her not to open the door. She had knew of Muggles and their witch hunts, and all the nasty things they did to wizarding folk for sport. "Go away," she said firmly, though her voice emerged thinner than intended. "I'm warning you," she hesitated—"I know magic."
A low sound came from the other side. Not quite laughter. "I should hope so," the voice drawled. "You're in a wizarding village."
Her pulse skipped. "How did you get here?" she demanded. "There's nobody else in Feldcroft."
"Clearly there is."
She swallowed.
The brazier overhead crackled softly. Shadows danced across the walls behind her.
"I'm not opening this door."
A pause followed.
"I wasn't asking."
The latch rattled violently, causing her to jump backward with a startled gasp as her wand flew higher instinctively, while the locks strained and the metal groaned.
"No," she whispered under her breath, immediately casting a locking charm. "Colloportus!" The spell flashed silver over the handle. For one brief moment, silence returned. Then the door slowly creaked inward anyway.
Her stomach dropped. The lock slid open on its own, free of any spell or visible magic. It was just the slow, dreadful click of mechanisms yielding, as though they recognized the hand pressing against them.
The door burst wide. Wind roared into the cottage. The brazier extinguished instantly while the hearthfire died with a hiss. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
She stumbled backward with a sharp cry as freezing air swept around her ankles like grasping hands. Rainwater sprayed across the wooden floorboards. Thunder cracked overhead, illuminating the cottage in violent flashes of white.
And in the doorway stood a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Draped entirely in black. His imposing silhouette cut sharply against the lightning-streaked sky. A hood shadowed most of his face, though she could make out the outline of a sharp jaw beneath the darkness. Rain soaked through the heavy cloak hanging from his frame, droplets sliding from the hem onto the floorboards. The air inside the cottage seemed to chill, leaving a sharp, metallic tang hanging in the room.
He looked less like a traveler and more like something the storm itself had dragged to her door.
"Get out!" she snapped immediately, forcing strength into her voice. She thrust her wand toward him with one hand while the other clutched the front of her robes tighter against herself. "Leave this house at once!"
The man ignored her entirely. He stepped inside with slow, measured ease. The cottage creaked beneath his boots. He moved like he belonged there, like every inch of the house knew him.
She backed away instinctively as he passed her, catching the scent of rain and smoke and something colder beneath it. Not the rot of decay exactly, but like the sharp breath of winter.
The man glanced toward the hearth. Toward the newly transfigured settee. "I like what you did with the armchair," he remarked casually. He lowered himself onto the settee.
The hearth exploded back to life. Flames roared golden and bright.
She stared.
The fire had been dead moments ago. Yet now it burned stronger than before, casting long, writhing shadows against the stone walls. The cottage seemed to exhale around him.
"Never cared much for that ugly armchair," he continued lazily.
Who was this man? Her heart hammered painfully. And why did the house react to him? She swallowed hard and forced herself forward despite every instinct urging retreat. "You're trespassing," she hissed, stopping directly before him with her wand still aimed squarely at his chest.
At this distance, she realized just how large he truly was. Even seated, he seemed striking.
The stranger tilted his head slowly. "No," he said calmly. "You're trespassing." His voice carried a rough velvet quality to it—deep, amused, and unbearably calm. Then he reached up and lowered his hood.
Her breath caught.
Oh.
He was not what she expected. Neither old nor monstrous, and certainly not some ragged squatter hiding out in abandoned ruins, he looked perhaps only a few years older than herself. Rain-darkened brown hair curled in damp waves across his forehead. Freckles dusted his cheeks and nose, disappearing beneath the high collar of his drenched black shirt while faint streaks of silvery scars tracked across his temples and jaw. Long wet lashes framed eyes the color of polished chestnut wood, warm and sharp all at once.
Beautiful.
The realization struck her so suddenly it embarrassed her. She stared a moment too long. Heat crawled uncomfortably up her neck.
Merlin's sake, stop staring, she scolded herself.
The stranger noticed immediately. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he murmured. "At least one of us is pleased by the view."
Her eyes widened. "I—I am not—"
The smirk deepened. "You're pointing a wand at me, darling. Usually people decide whether they intend to hex me before staring at my mouth."
She flushed hotter. "I was not staring at your mouth!"
"No?" His brows lifted. "Pity."
"You're insufferable."
A low chuckle escaped him. The sound unsettled her almost as much as his sudden appearance had. It was warm. Human. Entirely at odds with the dreadful atmosphere clinging to the cottage. "You've got quite a temper for a girl squatting in another man's home."
"I am not a girl, I am a woman." She snapped immediately. "And I am not squatting."
"Mm." His gaze swept over her lazily. "Debatable."
Her jaw fell open. The nerve of him. "And," she continued furiously, "I am lawfully staying here." A slight omission perhaps considering the purchase was not yet finalized, she thought, but he did not need to know that.
The man's expression shifted, only ever so slightly. "What do you mean lawfully?"
"I mean," she said with forced confidence, "that I purchased this property through the Ministry."
"You did what?" The genuine disbelief in his voice startled her.
She immediately seized the opportunity. With a sharp flick of her wand, the stack of parchment flew from atop her trunk into her waiting hand. "I have documentation," she declared triumphantly.
The man reached for the papers at once. "Oh no you don't—"
She jerked backward. He caught the edge of the parchment anyway. The two of them struggled awkwardly for several seconds, tugging the papers back and forth while she attempted not to lose balance on the rug.
"You insolent little girl—"
"You broke into my house!"
"This is not your house!"
"I absolutely did buy your—"
Her heel caught the carpet. She pitched backward with a startled gasp. Strong hands seized her waist before she hit the floor. For one breathless moment she found herself pressed against him awkwardly, half sprawled across his lap.
Cold.
His hands were freezing cold. Not normal cold. Not rain-soaked cold. Dead cold. The shock of it made her inhale sharply. And in that exact moment, the bastard snatched the papers cleanly from her hand. Then promptly let her drop onto the rug.
"Ow!" She glared upward furiously while he unfolded the documents with entirely too much satisfaction.
Rain crackled softly against the windows. Thunder rolled low outside.
The stranger skimmed each page slowly, humming beneath his breath. Occasionally tutting and tsk-ing.
The audacity of the man. She scrambled upright and attempted to snatch them back, but he held them well above her reach without even looking at her.
"So, Miss—" he said her name smoothly, "you're a liar too."
"I am not!"
"You told me you owned the house."
"I will own it in a week."
"Ah." He nodded gravely. "A distinction of enormous legal importance."
She snatched the papers from him with an angry huff. "I'll be buying it soon enough."
"I'll see to it that you don't." The casual certainty in his voice made her bristle.
"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"
His eyes flicked slowly around the cottage. "You cannot seriously intend to stay in this miserable rotting cottage merely to spite me."
"I happen to like it here," she lied. Truthfully, she had started to regret her decision.
"You've been here less than a day."
"That's none of your concern."
"Unfortunately for you," he drawled, reclining farther into the settee, "everything that happens in this house concerns me."
She crossed her arms tightly. "The Ministry informed me this property has remained abandoned for decades. If you have issue with its status, you may file an appeal with the Wizengamot."
His expression darkened instantly.
"But until then," she continued stubbornly, "I am legally permitted to remain here." She pointed toward the door. "So if you don't leave immediately, I'll report you to the Ministry."
The effect was immediate. The amusement vanished from his face entirely. Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. "You will do no such thing."
The room trembled. Windows rattled violently in their frames. The shadows along the walls stretched unnaturally long. The temperature plunged. Yet anger pushed recklessness through her fear. "Watch me."
She turned sharply toward the hearth and snatched a handful of Floo powder from the mantle. She barely managed one step. The man grabbed her arm. Hard. A startled gasp escaped her as he spun her against the stone wall beside the fireplace. The impact knocked breath from her lungs. He towered over her instantly. Too close, far too close. One hand pinned her wrist beside her head while the other braced against the wall near her shoulder. The hood of his cloak had slipped back entirely now, allowing firelight to catch sharply against the angles of his face.
His breathing brushed cool against her forehead. Cool. Everything about him was cold. His skin against hers felt clammy beneath the sleeve of her robe. It wasn't feverish and it certainly did not feel like living warmth.
But her pulse raced anyway. Why in Merlin's name was her heart racing? Fear, she told herself immediately. Pure fear. Nothing else. She looked up unwillingly. Their faces were inches apart. Those terrible chesnut eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach tighten strangely.
And for the briefest instant, something in his expression shifted. Confusion perhaps. Or recognition. Then he released her abruptly as though touching her burned.
She stumbled forward, clutching her wrist instinctively. The cold lingered against her skin.
He stepped back several paces and dragged one hand through his damp hair.
Silence stretched between them. Rain hammered the roof overhead.
Finally, he sighed. "I'll stay the night," he announced.
Her head snapped upward. "What?"
"The storm won't ease before morning."
"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not."
He ignored her protest entirely.
"Don't worry, darling," he said dryly as he moved toward the shadows. "I've got my own room in this house."