#she wants to dress like theo paint her nails red like theo live with theo etc she turns to the house for connection when she feels theo is

[kendallroygf]

the dykery in the haunting of hill house book was so crazy and then in the 1963 movie they were like. why don’t we imply a budding romance between eleanor and this boring fucking man!!!

[gloves94]

To Be So Lonely [Draco Malfoy] 17

Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Draco Malfoy/OC Chapter warnings: Violence! Blood!

CHAPTER MASTERLIST MY MASTERLIST

Massive crowds where gathered in the campgrounds. Tents of all sizes, large and small, some several stories high others not, some with flagpoles bearing banners and flags of either Irish green or Bulgarian red. Lively music was being played and brooms whizzed above the heads of the Lestranges and the only Saintday as they walked by aweing at the sights.

The Quidditch World Cup was, alike most of the magical world, absolutely unbelievable. Drunks cheered in the streets with painted faces showing their team pride. Nel had wanted to paint her face Irish Green but Cloelia had slapped her hands away at the simple mentioning of it. Instead she had been cohered into wearing a clean face with dark gray formal dress that resembled a coat and seemed to reach right above her knees matched with a pair of pointy witch boots. Her guardian insisted proper attire would be essential if they were to be in the presence of the Minister of Magic himself Cornelius Fudge.

Elowen’s dark eyes scanned the crowd as she sought out any familiar trace of her friends. Tracey had said they would be by the Press tent. It took her some time to spot them not far from the entrance to the stadium.

“I’m going to go say hi to my friends,” she said to the Lestranges. Both shot her a disapproving look. “Want to come?” She asked Ellar with hopeful eyes and a broad smile.

“No,” he shot down coldly before walking into the stadium disinterested. She frowned a little at his cold response.

“Don’t be long,” Cloelia said before turning and following after her son.

Nel crossed a maze of people dodging drunks and loud cheering individuals until she reached the trio standing just outside of the tent. She tapped Theo’s shoulder and he turned around giving her a confused look.

It took him a moment to realize it was his friend tapping his shoulder and not a stranger. “Nel?” He asked eyes going wide at the realization.

The long shaggy bangs and choppy hair were gone. So were the oversized worn clothes she would wear. Before the group stood someone, who seemed to look like what polished young lady in sophisticated Pureblood Society would look like.

Tracey turned around and was less discrete about her shock.

“Holy smokes! What happened to you?” She asked in awe, still tackling her friend into a hug.

“What are you talking about?” The orphan responded cluelessly in the embrace. “I told you, I got adopted,” she simply shrugged.

“Seems like manners aren’t the only things the Lestrange have instilled in you,” Daphne butted eyeing the girl’s new fashion from head to toe. She herself was wearing something similar. Of course she knew about her adoption, it seemed like most individuals belonging to the same social circle as the Lestranges were well aware.

Nel still found it odd that Greengrass had been invited in her spot when she wrote to her friends saying she’d simply meet them at the game.

“Manners, schmanners. Who cares if your finger is up or down when you’re having a drink?” she said reaching from some green paint from Tracey’s face and smearing it on her cheek.

Theodore was about to say something when someone bumped into him from behind purposely making him briskly stumble forward.

“Oi!” Nel shouted loudly before shoving back the individual foully. “Watch it!” She threatened.

Blaise Zabini who was towering above them gaped at the girl who had just threatened him. “Saintday?” He asked in awe. The mark on her exposed face- impossible to confuse. It was her, but at the same time it wasn’t. She looked like the type of girl he would see at a Yule dinner with his family or in the company of Daphne Greengrass, which might make sense to him as to why the young witch was there.

“Move it along Zabini!” She snapped turning away from him.

The teen left.

“Classic Saintday,” Theodore said with a slight smirk. Like Zabini he seemed to have also grown a couple of inches over the summer. His curly hair longer, features sharper.

“Well,” Daphne added. “I think you look very nice Elowen,” she complimented brushing her perfect hair back over her shoulder. “We should go find out seats,” Tracey said almost gushing to walk into the massive arena. “Your seat shouldn’t be far from ours.”

The group nodded before making their way inside.

“Meet here afterwards?” Nel said to the group signaling to the spot in front of the Press tent. “Uh, perhaps not,” Daphne said in an uneasy voice. “My father wants me home right after the game.”

“Yeah, same here,” Theo added in the same quiet tone.

She flashed them both a confused look. Home? Why would they go home when the party was about to get started? She turned to look at Tracey with hopeful eyes.

“I’m going to take some pictures with my dad afterwards,” She explained. “Maybe next time?”

Nel soon reached the private viewing box where she would be sitting. She had to pass several security checks but was allowed through. She spotted her guardians across the large viewing box conversing with whom she assumed to be the Minister of Magic.

Ellar was standing by the rail his eyes lazily following some of the whizzing fireworks that were shot from one side of the pitch to the other. He looked so cool. Distracted by starring at the older teen she almost crashed into Lucius Malfoy. Maybe it wasn’t a surprise that he was here. Standing next to him was a woman with pointy face features whom Nel could only assume was his wife. Her appearance was eerily similar to his. Even strands of her dark hair (which at this point was mostly blonde) were colored in that same tone of platinum blonde. She couldn’t distinct if it was natural or not.

“Mr. Malfoy,” She nodded towards the man civilly.

Lucius was intimidatingly polite as he usually was to her. His grey eyes instantly starred at the moles that dotted her face. Something the man never seemed to miss. It was unnerving really the way he blatantly starred in such a rude manner. His grey eyes made her want to flinch under his stare. “Elowen Saintday,” He greeted. “Or should I address you as Lestrange now?” He looked down at her with much disdain. She had a feeling he knew of her unclaimed status and of course about her impromptu adoption over the summer holiday.

“Saintday will do,” She responded curtly.

The woman was staring at her just like Lucius was. Nel couldn’t help but feel self-conscious as her eyes raked from the headband on top of her head all the way down to the pointy tip of her boots. Even her fingertips and black nail polish weren’t exempt from her judgement. She was looking at Nel as if she was an insect. She couldn’t distinct if she was an insect to be squashed or ogled at.

“This is my wife Narcissa,” he introduced placing a hand on his wife’s lower back.

Narcissa wore a curious smile, one that edged higher at one corner of her mouth just like her sons usually did.

Nel instinctively extended a hand forward one which was left unshaken leaving her to awkwardly close it and lower it. “Charmed,” she simply responded. The teen nodded politely biting her tongue to prevent her from making a snarky comment. She wanted to seem cool and sophisticated, especially in front of Ellar.

“Pleasure is all mine,” She responded poshly, like she had been instructed to do countless of times by Cloelia.

“I understand you’re in my son Draco’s year. He has mentioned you once or twice.”

‘When I turned his head into a balloon? Or when I set him on fire at Hogsmeade?’ She wondered which of the two it could’ve been. No wonder the woman didn’t like her. The slightest of smug smirks tugging at the edges of Nel’s mouth.

From the other side of the sitting box a pair of ears caught his name. Draco Malfoy turned and saw Nel Saintday out of all people conversing with his parents. He swaggered towards them hoping his parents hadn’t taken the luxury of embarrassing him yet. She looked at him and seemed a little surprised by his massive growth spur, he was now almost as tall as is father, easily a head taller than her. Neat blond hair parted to the side and wearing a crisply ironed black suit. He hadn’t held back on the cologne either.

He didn’t comment on her appearance unlike the other Slytherins.

“Just once or twice,” He interrupted cooly composing himself at his mother’s slip. The edge of his mouth turning up just like his mother’s did.

“Draco,” She simply acknowledged him by name. Which was weird. She had never called him that before but if she called him Malfoy, she was afraid all three would turn to face her. Without another word she raised her brows at him, like he usually did to her, and brushed past him excusing herself. “So, that’s her,” Narcissa hummed more to herself, her eyes still glued to the back of the teen’s head.

Of course, she had heard her husband speak about Elowen Saintday more than more or twice. Draco had also written home about her more than once. Usually complaining about the unbearable witch that was so bloody good at charms and constantly made his head swell up like a balloon. Judging from the daggers he was shooting at the back of her head as she greeted Ellar Lestrange, she presumed she still had the ability to crawl under her son’s skin.

“The Girl Who Died?” She whispered to Lucius who in return gave her a silencing glare. Still with a sly smirk Narcissa turned to her son. “You never mentioned she was quite pretty Draco.”

That’s because she wasn’t. Draco didn’t know why he couldn’t tear his eyes away. That person was not Nel Saintday. That person shaking Cornelius Fudge’s hand nodding in agreement, slightly laughing at a bad joke the man said.

“What do you intend to do with your future Ms. Saintday?” “I’m keeping my options open,” She admitted. “I have been considering Curse Breaking as a career.”

Draco mused to himself as he eavesdropped. He would’ve never guessed that. His best guess would’ve been Dueling Master like Professor Flitwick.

She was now standing next to Ellar. Both leaning over the railing leaning forward to look at the Quidditch pitch. Smiling at each other and pointing at different fireworks and lights on the sky.

Well mannered. Posh. Well behaved. Hair neatly groomed for what appeared to be the first time in her life. His parents might have missed it, but Draco didn’t miss the smudged green paint on her face. He felt himself cringe when he saw that Lestrange wanker lick his thumb and wipe the paint away making her face turn red.

He wanted to push him off the balcony rail.

The French git left for a moment.

Nel was too busy gawking at the dancing leprechauns that were making it rain Irish gold over the people in the stands that she didn’t notice the youngest Malfoy creeping up on her side.

“You know I speak French too,” he said hands deep in his pockets. She turned to give him a funny look. “Fluently,” he added proudly.

“So?” She arched an eyebrow and couldn’t help but eye him oddly. So, he was bilingual and knew how to play the violin. Big deal. So what?

“It’s not impressive. That’s all I’m saying,” he sneered in the direction of the dark-haired boy, glaring daggers at his back as he helped himself to some beer.

“You sound jealous,” She smirked at him and he couldn’t help but scowl at her accusation. “Almost as if you want to be him,” she poked a second time.

“Why-,” He laughed mockingly. “Would I ever want to be that French git?”

She brought a hand to her chin and loudly hummed as if in deep in thought. “Let’s see,” she began. “He’s refined, actually polite, fun – and doesn’t need to be a pompous arse to be liked!” She slapped his chest with a paper pamphlet she was holding.

He grabbed the Quidditch pamphlet and threw it over his shoulder without any care. “Ever considering a career in stand-up comedy Saintday?” He laughed dryly. “At least I haven’t gotten expelled from Hogwarts.”

She finally turned to look at him. A surprised look on her face. He floundered in the moment knowing this would strike a nerve. “Expelled?” She asked for some clarification blinking twice.

“Oh?” He grinned pleased. This was always the best way to get her attention. Nel Saintday was like a dog with a bone when it came to unanswered questions and other mysteries; He knew she wouldn’t let go of until she had an answer. “He never mentioned he attended Hogwarts?” He pressed. Had he? She scanned her few thoughts and memories of Ellar. He had never mentioned he had attended Hogwarts, but why wouldn’t he? He had nothing to hide, right?

“You’re lying,” She narrowed her eyes in mistrust.

Ellar approached from behind sipping on a pint of beer despite being both underage and in the presence of the Ministry of Magic himself.

“Am I?” Draco leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. She looked at him with wariness. “Also,” He raised both of his brows innocently at her before leaning in closer to her ear. “Bulgaria is going to conquer. Krum’s got it in the bag,” he whispered before returning to his family.

She seethed glaring at the back of his blond head strongly fighting the urge to make it swell like a giant air balloon.

“What’d he want?” Ellar asked curiously as he sipped on his beer.

She let out a sharp snort and turned her attention to the starting game. “Nothing important,” she grumbled.

The crowd cheered loudly as five green and white figures flew through the air on brooms leaving behind a trail of emerald and white. A large glittering leprechaun appeared in the sky and. Began Irish dancing. Excitement was in the air. “Good evening!” The announced began. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to the final of the 422nd Quidditch World Cup. Let the match begin!”

xxxxx

The game was exhilarating. Nel who had never particularly enjoyed Quidditch had a blast. Being in the pitch was a completely different experience.

Everybody in the Ministry of Magic’s box was completely composed and boringly clapped whenever a point was scored. Nel on the other hand behaved as if she was in a chicken coop loudly cheering and passionately jumping with every point Ireland scored.  

At some point she heard Draco cheer, but he cleared his throat and composed himself pretending to be disinterested in the game.

She wished she had watched the game with Tracey and Theodore but overall Nel had a good time. By the end of it she was being aggressive over the Irish victory over Bulgaria.

Ellar seemed upset by Bulgaria’s loss. He almost spilled most of his drink on the poor people below the viewing box.

“That was really something!” She cheered matching the step of the older teen as they made their way out of the stadium. “Did you see how Krum and Lynch both dived for the snitch? For a moment there I really thought Lynch was going to beat him to it!”  

“1990 World Cup was better,” he griped with an irritated look on his striking features. She couldn’t tell if he was more annoyed or slightly buzzed from all the beers he’d had. There were a pair of Irish fans descending down the stairs above loudly cheering and chanting Ireland. They looked down at the snobbish people in the Minister’s box. “Irish pride!” They cheered loudly.

Carried away by the spirit Elowen cheered back just as enthusiastically

“Stop acting so ridiculous,” He shot her a silencing glare.

Ellar was… odd. One moment he was completely charming kissing her hand, making her laugh, wiping paint off from her face, slipping her some wine when his mother wasn’t looking. But other times he had emotional shifts like this in which he would completely shut down and shut her out. Nel piped down and grew silent. She wanted Ellar to fancy her. She wanted to make him laugh and wanted him to hold her hand and kiss it and bring her flowers for no reason like she had seen in some movies back at Wool’s.

“You got lucky Saintday,” She didn’t even turn to acknowledge Malfoy who was walking at her side ready to press all of her buttons. “What a game,” He said again sinking his hands into his pockets.

“I should’ve bet with you. Would’ve made a pretty galleon or two.” He let out a humorous huff, “Pocket change,” He answered pretentiously.

She rolled her eyes at his response. Classic Malfoy. “Who says we still can’t bet?” He challenged. “Oh yeah?” This piquet her interest. Nel was extremely cautious with her limited spending. The uncertainty of the future didn’t allow her to misspend even a single Sickle. But if she could swindle Malfoy out of some “pocket change” that would be ideal. “What do you want to bet on?” “How far that frog’s stick is up his arse?” He nudged in Ellar’s direction. She chortled slightly and hit his arm lightly laughing. He wasn’t wrong. “He’s just… bitter,” She excused his behavior shaking her head with a slight frown on her brow.

“Rumor is that Viktor Krum and the Durmstrang Institute will be on Hogwarts’ grounds this year because of the Triwizard Tournament. I bet you I can get him to sit with me in the Slytherin table.”

It was true. She had been hearing Cloelia and Ellar talk about the Triwizard Tournament which Hogwarts would be hosting this year. From what she had heard Durmstrang and Beauxbaton being the two other largest Magic Schools in Europe would also be participating in it. “Bet,” She agreed.

“Two galleons,” he stated the amount they would be gambling on. “Two galleons?” She coughed back incredulously at the amount. That was about the equivalent of ten pounds or ten dollars. “I thought this was pocket change for you Malfoy.”

“I don’t want to swindle you too bad when I win,” he added arrogantly. Already acting as if he had it in the bag. “Fine,” She muttered in agreement before lightly hitting his arm once again. He simpered faintly at the gesture.

They were about to reach the exit when Lucius Malfoy turned back and gave his son a commanding look to keep up. His black cane being raised as he led the way. “Unlike you, I have been invited to the Bulgarian Team’s tent. Personal invitation from Headmaster Igor Karkaroff himself,” he bragged self-importantly. Of course, he already had a head start on their bet. The sly bastard would be rubbing shoulders with Krum himself all evening. Nel wasn’t impressed by his invitation. Having sat through a painful viewing of the most exciting event of the year with a load of bores she figured the Bulgarians probably weren’t that fun either.

“You’re the worst.” She stated dully.

“See you at school,” He said dismissingly with a typical eyebrow raise before going after his family.

Outside of the stadium Ellar was still upset. He hadn’t said another word since he had snapped at Nel to stop acting childishly or ridiculously, she couldn’t remember what adjective he had used. Cloelia walked with her back straight, head held up high. She almost seemed like she was in a rush to get out of here.

The outside was even livelier and more than it had been earlier in the day. The Irish really had their spirit on cheering, toasting and drinking to their team. Vibrant green fireworks and light whizzes flew up into the night sky.

“Can we stay?” Nel asked excitedly still looking at her surroundings in awe almost like a child in a fair.

“Let’s get out of here,” Her guardian simply dismissed her request.

She frowned slightly and was about to beg Cloelia to stay for a little bit longer. “I’m going to take care of some stuff mother,” Ellar said ominously he was already walking away when Nel stepped in his way. “Can I go with you?” She asked excitedly twirling a strand of her brown hair in between her fingers. Knowing him he was probably going to party or find some of his Beauxbaton classmates and continue drinking.

He looked at her hard and seemed irritated. He sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders. “No,” he said without any hint emotion before moving her body back to where his mother was standing. Again, she frowned at this.

“Can I go with him? Please?” she asked his mother begging for any excuse to stay behind and party. After all, how often was one at the World Quidditch Cup? Even then it only happened every four years.

“Come on Elowen,” Cloelia said imperatively and turned away.

She had to go home but Ellar got to stay and party? It wasn’t fair. He looked so upset, he probably wouldn’t even enjoy it! She would!

With a sharp exhale and no choice, she followed after her guardian. Nel only gave a couple of steps when she heard two familiar voices. “Could it be?” “Is it really?”

She felt a tug on both of her shoulders and was spun only to see the Weasley twins looking at her excitedly. Both were wearing green Leprechaun hats and wore their clothes and faces painted in green and white in full Irish Team spirit.

“We almost didn’t recognize you!” George said. At least who she thought was George she sometimes had a hard time telling them apart.

“We said who’s that girl? Could it be?” Fred said walking around her. “No, Nel Saintday wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a dress in public,” He teased tugging at the fabric of her clothes. “Who are you here with?” The younger twin asked. “Any other snakes hiding in the tallgrass?” George joked.

She discretely glanced over her shoulder and saw that Cloelia had realized she wasn’t following and was looking around the crowd looking for her.

“No one,” She lied swiftly.

She had often heard Cloelia mocking the “Blood Traitor” Weasleys and laughing at how weak the Prewet family was. She certainly wouldn’t approve of their company and the Weasley’s probably wouldn’t get along with her new guardians.

“We’re about to head back to the tent and celebrate! Want to come?”

Without looking back she locked elbows with them and pulled them away before Cloelia could spot them. Both of them cheered loudly as they dived into the crowd. Vanishing just in time before her guardian could find her.

School started in a week what would be the worst punishment she could do to her during that time? The consequences would be worth it. She couldn’t help but laugh as she followed them back to the rest of their group.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, a man whom Nel presumed to be Weasley Sr. judging by his red hair and age and Ginny, their younger sister, were all waiting for the twins. Another man was with them and Hufflepuff’s gem, Cedric Diggory. There wasn’t a Hogwarts student that didn’t know his name or who he was. Hufflepuff’s Quidditch Team Captain, Seeker, Prefect and dashingly handsome also known as Prettyboy Diggory. The boy was practically perfect. He was the type of Prefect most girls prayed to run into in the school’s corridor’s at night.

“Nel?” She snapped out of her daydream when Harry caught her attention. “What are you doing here?” He asked his friend.

She greeted everyone cheerily. More cheerily and excited than anyone had probably ever seen her, almost giddy. “Why go home? Party is barely getting started right?” She said excitedly rambling over her words and ignoring Harry’s question.

Really – what was the worst thing that Cloelia could do to her? Part of her was also hoping to run into Ellar tonight. Maybe he’d be in better spirits then. Maybe the two could share a pint?

“You must be the Slytherin girl,” Mr. Weasley greeted her politely stretching his hand out. A stark contrast to the Malfoys she had met earlier in the day. “Pleasure is all mine Mr. Weasley,” She spoke to him with the same respect she had shown the Ministry of Magic himself. “Nel will do.”

Ron’s sister Ginny was actually really cool. Nel had never had a conversation with her before. Then again, most students tended to avoid her like the plague, seeing as she had been branded as Slytherin’s heir due to being possessed by Voldemort only two years ago. Even Granger was more bearable or maybe Elowen was just in an elated mood. Less hostile. More open to others.

The group was all celebrating inside of the Weasley’s small tent. The tent might have been small but inside it was warm and comforting decorated with used furniture and warm tones of red and orange. It was what Nel had always imagined being in the Gryffindor Common Room would be like.

They had all been so welcoming to her. She had never really felt quite at home like in this moment. She was jealous of the Weasley’s they had a caring father, and each other, more than a handful of brothers and sisters to rely and love. They were a real family.

Laughing and cheering could probably be heard from the outside as the twins mocked Ron over his obsession for the Bulgarian Seeker.

There were no tables that kicked you inside here, nobody that minded your manners, nobody watching your mouth or what went inside of it, how you sat, how you stood, how you fucking lived.

“There’s no one like Krum! He’s like a bird the way he rides the wind. He’s more than an athlete. He’s an artist!” Ron was standing on top of a chair literally preaching to the crowd about his devotion to the Seeker.

The twins were bumbling around him comically singing “KRUMMMM” Loudly. “Think you’re in love Ron?” Ginny teased tugging at her brother’s scarf. “Viktor I love you! Viktor I do!” George and Fred sang. Harry eventually joined. “Nel you’re crying,” Hermione pointed out. The Slytherin snapped out of her thoughts and looked down at her mug which held some warm apple cider only to see a stray tear land on it. “Oh, I didn’t realize,” She touched her wet face wiping away the few tears. “I just feel so at home,” She admitted sheepishly.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile a little. “I never did apologize for stunning you last year, did I?”

“When we’re apart my heart beats only for youuu!” The three males sang around a flustered Ron. Everybody in the tent laughed loudly, but not loud enough to lull over the sound of shouts from the outside.

“Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on,” Fred commented as he ceased to sing. “Stop! Stop it!” Mr. Weasley interrupted carefully listening. “It’s not the Irish. We’ve gotta get out of here. Now.”

The room growing silent as they listened to the outside screaming, but it wasn’t joyful it sounded more harrowing.

Jumping to their feet everybody crammed to get out of the tent only to enter a whirlwind of chaos.

Panicked people were running everywhere, left and or right with no sense of direction, stumbling over each other like savages. Horrifying, frightful screams echoed the fields. The air smelled like cinder and burning fire. As several tents were consumed by the flames. “Get back to the portkey everybody and stick together.” He instructed.

Dark figures in pointed hoods all wearing grim masks all holding flaming torches marches across the campsite chanting loud ominous noises. Destroying everything on sight with fire. Some had wands which levitated some individuals which were humiliatingly paraded across the camp.

Instantly the group took off running in one direction. Who were those people? Why wasn’t anybody doing anything about this?

Running away from the tent into safety Nel kept her eyes fixed on the back of Ron’s tall frame. Turning back, she realized that someone pushed into Harry.

“Harry!” She shouted stopping dead in her tracks. Heart caught in her throat. She looked around hoping and catch sight of the Gryffindor’s shaggy hair or red clothes.

Blurs of red and green flickered in her vision as she was violently pushed and eventually elbowed to the ground. Instinctively she covered her head with her hands and tucked in her knees into her body assuming a fetal position as she was trampled and stomped on.

She was alone. This was her fault. If she had only listened for once in her damned life. She highly doubted anybody was looking for her.

She should have listened to Cloelia. For the first time in her life she regretted not having listened to an adult. Painful tears slipped down her face as she was once again kicked in the stomach.

She was alone, laying on the ground, breathing heavily. Praying that the rush would be over. Her eyes were shut tightly. A whimper caught in her throat.

Elowen didn’t even realize when a hand reached for the front of her dress. Pulling her back up to her feet. Her eyes snapped open and she found herself paralyzed with fear as she came face to face with a mask of death. It was one of those wizards wearing a dark hood. The person was holding her up high so that her tiptoes barely grazed the muddy ground. Her breath strained as she looked down into the void eyes of the mask. Without another word the masked individual dropped her making her stumble back and once again fall on her behind. She couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Wonder in horrifying astonishment at the black hood that was standing before her.

No words were exchanged. If the person wanted to hurt, her it would’ve happened by now.

Not wanting to linger and find out if she was right or wrong, she ungracefully staggered on her feet and feeling sore and beaten she scampered the opposite way.

Her breathing was harsh, adrenaline pumping through her system as she kept on dodging people and continuously looking over her shoulder making sure that hood wasn’t following after her. Looking behind her she turned only to crash into something rigid and solid. She winced and held her head slightly dazed putting another hand on the flagpole she had just run into. Bringing a hand down she saw it was stained with blood.

Elowen was pressed up against the flagpole as masses of people ran by dodging her and the poll as they still escaped the campgrounds. Her eyes were wide with fear, mind turning over a proper spell that could save her.

“You? Merlin’s beard Saintday. Come on now!” Her head whipped back as she was pulled forward and back into the crowd with a strong momentum. A deathly tight grip on her wrist.

It could’ve been the devil himself and she would’ve followed him out of this hell.

“What are you doing here?” She shouted over the loud screaming again crashing into his back when he came to a sudden halt. He ignored her question and dodging desperate individuals led her out of the maze of burning tents.

The two Slytherins stumbled into another one of those dark hoods. Shrinking fearfully, she hid behind him holding on to his arm tightly.

The hood froze and looked past them.

“They won’t hurt us,” He said to her over his shoulder.

Malfoy was right. The hood seemed to move past them leaving them both unharmed. Taking an awry turn finally there seemed to be an open field in sight. Rushing towards it the two seemed to have made it out of the camp and into the plains.

Both were catching their breaths. Nel leaning her weight on her standing knees, a hand pressed against her bleeding brow.

Draco stood tall kept his eyes peeled for any sight of someone or something emerging from the crowds.

“You’re hurt,” he noted the bloody side of her face.

“What did you mean when you said they wouldn’t hurt us?”

How could he possibly know what those things were and the fact they would be spared from whatever evil intent they had planned.

“Let me see,” He stepped towards her, she stepped back almost tripping over her own feet. He caught her lower arm stabilizing her. “Let me see,” he commanded in a harsher tone, the grip on her lower arm tightening.  

She said nothing and whimpered as she lowered her hand. She could feel a cut of skin which had split right in the start of her eyebrow.

“There you are,” A third voice interrupted in a relieved tone.

Narcissa looked relieved as she apparated between the two teenagers. She didn’t give them a moment to explain herself before latching a hand into each of their shoulders and once again apparating away from the violent scene.

The next thing Nel knew was that everything went black; It was like when she apparated for the first time with Cloelia. She was pressed very hard from all directions as if being squeezed through a tube. The constricting feeling lasted for a moment before they appeared in the heart of a massive parlor room.

Narcissa let go of her and instantly turned grabbing her son’s face in her hands inspecting it for the slightest scratch or bruise. Feeling light-headed Nel leaned her weight on the arm of a sofa chair.

She took a minute to take in her surroundings. Polished dark wood floors, a massive and intricately carved fireplace made out of white marble, matching pillars holding up the high ceiling and a massive crystal chandelier hovering above them.

“Did they hurt you?” She was taken aback when she felt Narcissa’s hands on her face, brushing back her hair to better inspect her wound. Surprised by the gesture she took a solid moment to answer the witch. She figured she meant the dark hoods if anyone. “No,” She responded softly. “I ran into a flagpole.”

Nel saw the witch pull out her wand and point it at her.

“Scourgify,” She casted the charm which made the blood, mud and other grime vanish completely from the girl’s person. Again, pointing the wand, she raised it higher to her face. Nel winced slightly when it was inches away from her nose bracing herself for what may come. “Episkey.”

Her brow felt very hot and then very cold. Raising her hand to touch her forehead, the wound seemed to have magically closed.

The girl couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it was like to have a mother. To have somebody undevoted care and watch over you like that.

“I’ll send for Clo. She’s probably mortified,” Narcissa straightened up. Not a speck of dust was on her, her appearance composed despite the havoc they had just escaped. “Sit,” She commanded before exiting the room. Nel did without a question dropping on the dark colored sofa that was next to her.

“What were you doing out there by yourself?” Malfoy stood before her hands in pockets as he began his interrogation. Like his mother he looked completely unharmed.

“What were you doing out there by yourself? I thought you were supposed to be rubbing shoulders with Krum,” She said holding on to her healed brow which still stung.

Draco had in fact been in the Bulgarian Quidditch Team’s tent. He had even gotten a Quidditch jersey signed by Krum and all of the other players. Of course, he had known about the attack that was coming. Both him and his mother had seen his father preparing for it earlier in the week. Lucius never spoke directly to the family about his affairs as a Death Eater. It was dangerous considering the consequences if somebody pried into his son’s untrained mind. Draco assumed that his father felt having an alibi would be beneficial for the family in case anybody came pointing fingers. Losing his mother on the way out, however, had not been part of the plan. Neither had been seeing Nel Saintday bleeding from the head pressed up against a flagpole in the middle of a stampede.

“I was,” he answered sharply. “Got lost.” He explained casually.

Both were silent for a moment. She looked away from him avoiding his perturbing gaze.

“Merlin, you can be so daft Saintday,” he ran a hand through his hair combing it back. “What were you thinking? Who knows what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found you.”

She would’ve probably stayed attached to that flagpole with an open wound and would’ve waited for the stampede to be over. Overall, she would’ve been fine. There was no need to act upon his savior complex. Or at least that’s what she thought. Who knows maybe one of those hoods wouldn’t have been as merciful to her.

“What did you mean…” She pondered more out loud to herself. “When you said they wouldn’t hurt us?”

Draco swallowed thickly and turned away pretending to be suddenly invested in the fire that was cracking only a couple of feet away from them.

He was relieved when his mother reentered the room with Cloelia who was frantically walking towards here. Face pale, eyes wide with panic. “There you are!” She scolded angrily reaching for the girl’s arm digging her nails into the fabric of her sleeve. Nel winced bracing herself for whatever would come when she returned home.

“T-Thank you,” She stammered weakly thanking the Malfoys who probably didn’t even hear her. Clo spoke rapidly about who knows what. Everything happened in a blur. The goodbye, the apparition back in the house of Lestrange and the slap to the face. “I specifically told you not to stray, yet you deliberately disobeyed me! Because of that I will make sure you don’t move anymore. Salazar’s Beard, you don’t know what would happen to me- to my family if anything happened to you.”

Nel quaked fearfully when she looked down and saw a thorny vine begin to snake around her ankle and up her leg.

“You will not move.”

Back at Malfoy Manor, Draco still stood before the fire. His mother behind him waving her wand at some muddy spots of the ground that needed to be cleaned.

“Mother,” Draco broke the silence the two had shared since Cloelia Lestrange and Elowen Saintday had apparated away. “Yes dear?” Narcissa turned her attention to her only son. His eyes were focused on a particular spot on the ground.

He couldn’t help but think about the special attentions the Lestrange’s had with Nel Saintday. They wouldn’t have taken just anyone in. Much less someone speculated to be a half-blood or lesser than them, and if they did it certainly wouldn’t be out of the kindness of their hearts. The strange behavior his father always displayed when the girl was around never sat well with him. The fact his mother had actually bothered to heal her wounds and acknowledge her.

“Who is Elowen Saintday?”

[sirehren]

Pairing: Pansy x Percy

Length: 1.3k

Setting: 5 years after Hogwarts, the epilogue is not a thing.

Notes: So @provocative-envy doesn’t know who I am but I love love love her writing and her birthday celebrations just happened to coincide with me having some free time and a rare burst of inspiration and going through a Pansy x Percy phase so uh. This is for her. Happy birthday!

“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson, but I just don’t understand what it is you want me to do.”

Pansy sighed and inwardly lamented not wearing something more revealing. Her black, cowl-neck, batwing, 100% cashmere knit dress was very cozy and very expensive, but could not really be described as sexy. And that was a shame, because despite his boring tie and neatly-combed hair, this official seemed like he might have been... susceptible.

“Adjunct Weasley,” she began, leaning forward and glancing at the nameplate on his desk. “Percy –“

He stiffened slightly. She leaned back.

“Adjunct Weasley,” she amended. “As you have already noted, this request falls firmly within the purview of the Department for Muggle Relations. And, as you have also astutely pointed out, all of my paperwork is entirely in order. So why, Adjunct Weasley, do you suppose that I am in your office?”

He pursed his lips. “Because they didn’t give you what you wanted, I imagine.”

She inclined her head. “Very good. Go on.”

“If you could refrain from patronising me, Miss Parkinson, I may feel more inclined to be helpful,” he said drily.

“So you admit that you can help me?” Pansy leaned forward again, narrowing her eyes.

“I doubt it, to be honest.” He shrugged. “As part of the Minister’s cabinet, I’m a political attaché – I don’t approve or deny things the way the departmental administrators do. I schedule the Minister’s meetings, talk to the press, advise him on policy and filter requests from people trying to get his attention. People like you. But in any case, our political priorities have been fixed since the start of the year, and a mentorship-slash-scholarship programme for new Hogwarts graduates in muggle businesses may have merit in theory, but it doesn’t align with anything on our list. And, as a result, my job description forbids me from putting it on the Minister’s agenda.”

She saw her opening. “Ah, but I don’t want to be on his agenda,” she purred. “I want to be on yours.”

She gave him her most predatory grin, shifting her chair back minutely so that when she crossed her legs he was sure to see the few centimetres of thigh the movement revealed.

Sure enough, he tracked the motion with his eyes – but then he seemed to shake himself. 

“I remember you from school, you know,” he said.

Pansy blinked.

“You wouldn’t remember me, of course. I was a few years older, and nowhere near as memorable as my brothers,” he allowed himself a rueful smile, “but you were part of Malfoy’s circle, and I always kept an eye on him, especially once I was made Prefect. You cried, once, when you broke a nail in detention. I thought you were a brat.”

She shrugged awkwardly. “Quite a few people did.”

“You never struck me as caring about magic-muggle relations, to be blunt.” He coughed, his mouth quirking slightly upwards. “And you never would have struck me as the type to flirt with a Weasley, no matter what you thought you could get from it.”

Caught by surprise, she snorted a laugh and Adjunct Weasley smiled. “So I’m sure, seeing as you seem to think I’m a valuable contact, that you’ll forgive my curiosity as to why on earth you care now.”

Point made, he raised his eyebrows, waiting for her reaction. Pansy took the opportunity to study him, mentally comparing the man in front of her with the expectations she’d had when she’d learned the Adjunct to the Minister was a Weasley.

He was tall, narrowly built, but the perfect tailoring of his grey suit suggested that he was lean rather than skinny beneath it. He had the trademark red hair and freckles, of course, but his hair was short and the blue eyes behind his almost hipster-cool glasses were sharp. She’d come to this meeting expecting to argue, expecting to plead her change of heart and even cry if necessary. The Weasleys, in her experience, were smug, self-righteous and hot-tempered, but probably good enough to be won over if she spoke convincingly. This Weasley was serious, and reasonable, and – for some unfathomable reason – made her want to be honest with him, even if the honest story was objectively far less persuasive than the heartfelt confession she’d had planned.

Maybe it was just that he’d remembered her as something other than the bitch who’d tried to sell Potter out during the last battle. The picture he’d painted still wasn’t exactly positive, but... it was better than that.

“After the war, those of us who were on the wrong side but too young to go to Azkaban were sentenced to spend five years in the muggle world. No magic. No contact with magic. Did you know that?”

He shook his head.

“Most people don’t. They think we just ran away, I suppose. Anyway. Draco went to Oxford. Theo worked for a bank. Blaise went to Milan and... you know, I’m still not sure what he actually did there? High-end prostitution, or drug dealing, or contract killing probably,” Weasley made a choking noise, which she ignored, “he always did like the idea of organised crime. Anyway. I got a job in a boutique in Kensington. Was promoted to Assistant Manager within the year. Fashions are different, but ugly is ugly in any culture, you know?”

“Um... sure?”

“I learnt a lot, honestly. Enough to change my mind on a few key things. I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it, exactly, but it was... educational.”

“And now, what?” He frowned at her. “You want to share this life-changing experience with all the other sheltered young purebloods?”

“Not at all.” She grinned. “My five years are up, and I don’t plan on ever living in the muggle world again. I’ve rented a shopfront on Diagon and I want to open my own boutique within the year. I’ve got the funds to do it, but my name’s still mud - this is about publicity.”

“You want to be Pansy Parkinson, patron of that pioneering muggle-magical exchange scheme,” he supplied, “instead of Pansy Parkinson, the girl who tried to sell out Harry Potter.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He steepled his fingers, studying her over the top. Pansy fought the urge to fidget. There was something deeply unsettling – even attractive, but no she wasn’t going to let herself think that – about a perceptive Weasley. Especially one in such a well-tailored suit. She glanced at his shoes. Cognac leather brogues – conservative, but clearly expensive, and a perfect colour match for his belt. Shit. “Why don’t we discuss this further over a drink?”

“I – what?” Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Are you asking me out?”

“Of course not,” he said matter-of-factly, looking down and shuffling the papers on his desk in a businesslike way that didn’t entirely hide his smile. “But it’s standard practice for matters of – ah – sensitive political patronage to be discussed out of office. Optics, you know. If an attractive young woman spends too long at my desk, people might think I’m being unduly influenced.”

“Whereas going for a drink with a lobbyist is somehow so much more appropriate?”

“Ah,” he said holding up a finger. “An official meeting with a suggestive undercurrent is far more suspicious than a date with a political undercurrent. Don’t you think?”

“So we... pretend to go on a date, while actually discussing my proposal? Is that the game?”

“I couldn’t presume to guess at the preferred conversational topics of my drinking partner, but I imagine that projects of potential interest to the Minister could certainly feature, yes.”

“My dear Adjunct Weasley,” Pansy said, “I do believe you should have been in Slytherin.”

“Please,” he answered, rising to open the door for her. “If we’re going on a date, I think it’s only fair you call me Percy.”

And then, to her unending shock, he winked.

[lennoxfraser-blog]

THE ROYAL WOLF

Lennox apparated into the heart of London, boots landing quietly in an alley filled with bags of trash and shattered beer bottles. He felt the glass crunch beneath his feet and adjusted his coat around his chest, pulling it tighter – London by night, despite the approach of Spring, was bitterly cold. There was no light in the alley, leaving Lennox to adjust to the change of location by sound and feel, noticing only his steady exhales of steam and the sound of cars not too far off, creating a low hum.

It was always a risk apparating into the muggle half of the city; you never could be sure if someone would be lurking around, or if a homeless man would be curled up in a cardboard box and recording the whole thing. But Lennox was careful – had scouted the whole thing one night last year, lurking around through alleyways and backroads, looking for a sheltered place close enough to his real destination. He was three blocks away, and the alley was empty.

He started walking.

The bag on his shoulders was light and Lennox walked quickly, fighting off the cold with every step he took. Streetlights showed him the way, and beneath their orange glow, despite the weather, muggles flowed in every direction, creating disordered lines of pedestrian traffic. Most came or went from cafes or restaurants or bars, their doors thrown wide open and music spilling out. Lennox smelled hot chips and chicken; there was something sweet a little further down, like warm toffee or sickly chocolate. He watched a couple with their arms linked duck into an ice creamery that seemed to glow.

Other shops were shut, their rollers and bars pulled across glass display windows for the night, and Lennox caught a glimpse of his shadowed reflection hulking past. The hood on the jacket he wore was pulled up over his head, a coat layered over the top, and he looked like any other muggle boy walking the streets at night – a potential threat, maybe, but someone others should avoid. The wand slipped into the sleeve of his coat was mostly there for back up purposes, because even if trouble happened, Lennox would always use his fists first and wand second – no matter how much cramming Theo made him endure.

But it was his fists that he followed that night, walking the familiar three blocks through the muggle quarter of London and seamlessly walking through the wards that protected the wizarding half. Here, too, witches and wizards walked like the muggles from bars and restaurants, though the shops were opened later, candlelight pooling from windows and doors, bells chiming as people entered one establishment or the other.

There was a different vibe here that Lennox enjoyed more than when he’d visited Diagon Alley. This was less contained – less manufactured. It was a sprawl of shops and pubs, sprinkled with a few apartment blocks and nightclubs that played haunting, alluring music that Lennox was sure belonged to some kind of spell designed to bring patrons in. Everyone here was living one life or another – this, he realised, was what life after Hogwarts looked like for witches and wizards. The brightly painted shops of Diagon Alley were meant to give false hope to the students at school, but this? This was real, and Lennox would take the hard truth any day.

He slipped down a side alley and saw the glowing sign for the Royal Wolf, and suddenly his heart began thudding a little harder, adrenaline coursing through. An underground club in the belly of wizarding London, the Royal Wolf called to him stronger than the siren song of nightclubs back on the main street.

Pushing his hood off his head, Lennox dropped down the half dozen stone steps and slipped through the door.

It smelled of spilled, dry beer and stale sweat, but it was comforting to Lennox – it made his blood course just that little bit quicker, each scent tied to such vivid memories.

“Fraser.”

Lennox looked away from the centre of the club where he’d been staring to the witch in charge.

“Prim,” he said, glancing once more to the open space before heading toward her, noting her dark, blood red robes. “See you dressed for the occasion.”

She smiled, her pencilled eyebrows rising into high arches. “You know that blood sells,” she said with a diffident shrug. “Ready to spill tonight?”

Lennox nodded, shifting his backpack. “They here already?”

“Out back.”

He nodded again and moved to walk past her, but her long-fingered hands, tipped with black nails, caught his arm.

“I’m not sure why you were away so long,” Prim said, and up close, Lennox can see her black eyes, completely inked out like a starless sky, “but is it going to be a problem?”

“No.” Lennox met her gaze, steady. “There’s no problem.”

She doesn’t let go.

“I promise,” Lennox said, holding her stare. “I’m good.”

Prim released her grip, dark eyes raking over his face. “You put on a good show tonight, Fraser. I’ll be watching.”

Lennox gave her a stiff nod before stepping around her, heading for the double doors that led to the back of the club. There was a kitchen to the left, which was just beginning to fire up in preparation for the night ahead, where witches and wizards could order a variety of simple finger foods. But Lennox went right, pushing through another door and into the locker room.

“Look what we have here, lads,” came a deep, booming voice, and Lennox’s eyes darted to the assortment of wizards, half-breeds, and creatures that had assembled. “Fraser’s back.”

“Thought you’d pissed off for good after getting your ass handed to you,” said Digby, standing shirtless with his arms folded over his toned chest.

Lennox rolled his eyes and dropped his bag to the bench. “You wish, asshole.”

The others laughed, one punching Digby, another throwing a glove at him.

“Where were you, though? For real?” said Pollock, his upper lip twisting just a little, enough for Lennox to see the slightly elongated canine teeth.

“I have a life,” Lennox said, giving them nothing.

“Sounds like you were on the straight and narrow,” said Hyde, his deep voice bouncing off the locker room walls. If Lennox was tall, Hyde was at least part giant.

“Did you all take one too many blows to the head?” Lennox snapped. “No personal shit.”

There was some grumbling, but they broke up, going about their own rituals. Pollock looked Lennox up and down once more before heading to the punching bag hanging in the corner. Light on his toes, he started a series of circuits, the sound of his fists against the bag providing an even tempo.

“For real, though,” Hyde said when everyone else had dispersed. “If you were out, you should’ve stayed there, man.”

Lennox pulled off his coat, then his hoodie. “Not sure any of us are ever going to be out.” He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the pile. “Not sure half of us are even here for the money.”

Hyde’s face, an amalgamation of scars old and new, turned up into a grin, the stitched skin pulling his mouth and eyes in odd directions. “Now you’re getting it,” he said, and clapped a hand on Lennox’s shoulder, making his bones rattle.

When the big man was gone, Lennox stripped down to his pants and pulled on shorts, the material cool against his skin. His heart was thundering now, adrenaline and a spike of fear pumping his blood faster – it felt just like a quidditch match, when he was poised behind the door with the other members of his team. His vision and focus tunnelled until it was centred on just one thing: the task ahead.

Doing so meant cutting out everything about Lennox that occupied his mind regularly, but having done this more than a few times, he knew how. It was like walking down a quiet hallway and, glancing left and right into rooms, closing the doors.

He closed the door on his family – mother, father, Flora. And now, resting in Flora’s arms, Loren.

He closed the door on school – his friends, his dormmates, his teammates.

He closed the door on the future – his grandparents, the Ministry and Lowell Tegus, money and health and work.

And he closed the door on everything he wanted – love, a family of his own, to write. He locked that door and swallowed the key – had done so a while ago, but it was nice to look in every once a while, when no one else was watching. He didn’t look today.

What was left was something cold and hard, a boy with a dark pit turning inside of him with something dangerous at the bottom of it. His anger had always been there, a kind of shadow that Lennox could slip into when things got too rough – a default Lennox that he let take control when he didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes it scared him how it felt to let go and let the shadow take over – to fall backward into himself and swim out to find time had passed and his knuckles were bloody. It was like cutting the strings on everything that tethered him: nothing mattered when he was his shadow self, no emotions touched him unless he wanted them to. There was freedom in that, and Lennox couldn’t be scared of it – could never completely reject that part of himself.

With the doors sealed, Lennox focused back on the room and the others around him getting warmed up. The sounds from beyond the locker room showed signs of the crowd building – music played, glasses clinked, people talking with raised voices to be heard over the stereo.

Lennox went through his stretch routine, crossing one arm over chest and using the other behind his elbow to work the muscle of his bicep.

“Two sickles says Prim’s gonna fuck you nice and easy tonight.”

Lennox opened his eyes, staring across at Jones. “You think she’s gonna pair me up with you, then?”

Hyde’s booming laugh made the others join in.

“You wish, Fraser,” Jones said, but his sharpened teeth snapped the words. “You been out too long. You ain’t gonna waltz in here and take on Big H,” and he jerked his chin toward Hyde. “She gonna fuck you slow tonight. Let you off easy.”

“Prim ain’t ever fucked anyone slow, Jones,” Lennox drawled, releasing his arm and switching to the other, feeling the muscle burn. “She wouldn’t let anyone in if she planned to take it easy.”

Jones’ teeth flashed but he said nothing, continuing to tape up his hands, turning to talk to Digby.

Lennox caught Hyde’s eye, but they both knew Jones was partly right – Lennox had been out of it for a while. He might’ve thrown a few punches at school, but it was nothing like this; that was mindless and hormonal. This – this was something else.

When Prim came in, the music and noise came with her, flooding the room before she shut the door. Everyone paused what they were doing to await her opening words.

“I’m not interested in fair, and I’m definitely not interested in clean,” she said, face cold, black eyes roaming to everyone, pausing on them for a beat. “You want your money? You earn it. Blood, sweat, and tears, gentleman. Nothing less.”

Lennox rolled his neck and shut out everything, focusing on stretching his shoulders, his thighs. When his body felt loose enough, the cold beaten out, he took a place before the punching bag that Pollock had abandoned, jabbing at it with his eyes honed in on the bit of masking tape that had been stuck to the red leather, meant to be the target. He worked himself through drills, ignoring the sound of Prim’s voice magically enhanced out in the club, announcing the start of the night’s entertainment and reiterating the rules.

Bets can be placed all night, but once the bell rings to signal the start of a fight, bets will not be taken for that fight.

Odds are in flux and will be called to a halt within the last minute before a match.

Winners will be paid in full by the front desk upon a fight’s conclusion.

No refunds. No fights. And absolutely no complaints – a bet’s a bet.

“And we here at the Royal Wolf would like to thank you for your continuing patronage at Fight Night, the night where wands are forgotten and we do things the muggle way,” Prim said, to loud applause and hollering. “Let the night begin.”

By the time Lennox’s name was called, the locker room had changed and sweat had broken out on his brow. He dropped his hands, feeling his blood race, as he looked at who was left – Hyde sat in the back, pumping iron, and he nodded at Lennox as he passed. He spared a few moments to tape up his hands, the material covering his knuckles, shielding them from the worst of what was to come, before he sipped at his water.

“You ready, Fraser?” said Pollock, having to yell over the stomping from out in the club. “You and me, just like old times.”

Lennox wasn’t surprised that Prim had paired him with Pollock. They had history.

“Let’s just do it,” he said, and strode from the locker room, Pollock following behind.

The noise in the main part of the club was deafening, witches and wizards alike had crammed into the open space, forming a ring around the small, raised platform. Their faces were a blur as Lennox walked through the small aisle they’d formed for the fighters, ignoring the words they shouted or the hands that reached out to touch him. He closed the door on the senses that he didn’t need, ears ringing as he stepped under the rope around the platform. Pollock did the same, and Prim used her wand to raise the platform just slightly, elevating it enough that everyone in the club had a view.

And Lennox did, too. A 360 degree view of the club and the dark, blurry faces of those who had paid to come see him tonight. His heart was racing, betraying his nerves – he told himself he was ready to be back, that he could do this, and he was; that wasn’t a lie. But beneath that, just a layer deeper, was nervousness. And deeper still—

Excitement.

Lennox glanced away from the crowd, face a mask of calm, to look at Pollock. He was hyping the crowd, snarling and snapping, showing off his canine teeth, the only reminder that he was a halfbreed with werewolf heritage. That, and the extra hair that coated his body, thicker and darker than a human’s. Pollock had been a halfbreed from a human mother and werewolf father, left to grow up with a foster family and rely on himself from the age of thirteen when the werewolf traits became too hard to ignore.

And what they saw when they looked at Lennox was the story he’d fed them.

He wasn’t a school kid nearing graduation. He wasn’t a Ravenclaw, or a chaser, or the eldest son of a pureblood mother and muggle father. He didn’t have a sister or a newborn baby brother. He wasn’t any of those things – not here.

He was simply Fraser, a Scottish guy who was twenty-three and trying to make a living. Lennox told them he worked manual labour up in Edinburgh most of the time and had left Hogwarts at the end of his fifth year. No one questioned his story, and not only because of the no personal history rule.

Lennox was good.

Not the best, but he could hold his own against most of the regulars. He had a pretty face and good enough build that most people underestimated him, but he could take a hit better than most.

“It’s the way you change that keeps them watching you,” Prim had said after his first few visits. “After that first hit lands – that’s when it happens. That’s when you start earning your money, because that’s when you’re worth watching.”

Lennox wouldn’t know, because after that first hit, he gave everything to the shadow self.

His gaze flickered to Pollock, who was once more on his toes and waiting for the bell. Lennox gave his nod to Prim, and assumed his fighting stance, looking at Pollock from behind raised fists.

The bell rang a moment later.

The two of them had no intention of going easy – or wasting time. Lennox dodged Pollock’s first swing and jabbed with his own, knuckles awkwardly grazing Pollock’s cheekbone before the other man moved, the blow glancing off his face without doing any real damage. Lennox tunnelled further, eyes and breathing and heart narrowing in on what he had to do.

He and Pollock moved around each other. Pollock left, Lennox right. Pollock lunged, Lennox sidestepped.

Pollock struck blind, Lennox defending, and all the while, the crowd screamed – threats, suggestions, encouragement.

Lennox got distracted by a red-faced wizard in the front bellowing at him and took a punch to the temple from Pollock because of it. Head ringing, Lennox stumbled one step, two. His heart hammered, and he let go.

He just—

Let go.

He thought of what it was like being on the floor of the bathroom looking up at Solomon. What it felt like when every bit of pride and control had been taken away from him, desperation clawing up his throat and rendering him immobile.

He thought of what it felt like every time his grandmother had pushed him into that scalding water as a boy, the very memory still new and fresh with how often Lennox had left it alone, untouched. Forbidden. Unclean.

He thought of his mother lying in bed. He thought of picking Flora up from the floor where she’d passed out, high or drunk or both. He thought of holding Loren for the first time.

He thought of each of those moments and hurtled himself down the mental hallway full of closed and locked doors, racing forever on, headfirst and at break-neck speed.

The dark pit inside of him yawned open and Lennox fell backward, trusting the shadows to catch him.

And they did.

And then he was gone.

*

Lennox was being pulled back by Hyde, arms immobilised, vision swimming.

He saw blood. Pollock. Pale skin.

The faces of the crowd were blurred and awash with awe, excitement. Fear.

There was—so much blood.

“Enough, Fraser,” Hyde was saying, dragging him back. “That’s enough.”

Lennox let himself be pulled from the platform, arms heavy.

It had been enough.

*

He came back to himself properly when he was pushed under the spray of freezing cold water, Hyde standing there with his arms folded, watching Lennox. Lennox realised he was staring at the tile, letting the water bead on his eyelashes. Pulling his head from beneath the water, Lennox ran a hand over his face, pushing back his hair that was clinging to his forehead.

“You good?”

Lennox spat and watched the blood from his mouth circle the drain before disappearing. He nodded.

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch,” Hyde said, and when Lennox glanced away, Hyde was smiling. His lip was split.

“I do that?”

Hyde shook his head. “Got paired with Jet.”

Turning back to the water, Lennox bowed his head under the spray, letting the ice cold water beat against the top of his spine, slowly dragging him back into his own skin.

“Pollock?” he asked after a moment.

“Healer.”

Lennox brought his hand to his face, wiping his mouth before spitting again. He realised he couldn’t feel his fingers. His eyes dropped to his right hand, finding the knuckles split open, swollen and crusted over with drying blood. But the hand itself—

“Might want to see the Healer before you go,” Hyde said, watching him. “You were hitting bone, mate.”

His fingers moved when he thought hard about it. Lennox dropped it and used his left to push back his hair again, and when he was sure that his mind and body were his own, Lennox turned off the water.

Hyde handed him a towel.

“You know,” he said, “you’re just like us, kid.”

Lennox wiped his face and looked at Hyde, head ringing. He was too wrung out to ask why.

“I saw it in your face tonight. You love throwing a punch as much as you like taking one. No shame in it,” Hyde said, shrugging. “Couldn’t fight like you do if you didn’t.”

“Thanks.”

Hyde nodded once before he tapped Lennox’s bag with his foot. “Get dressed. Prim’s got your money.”

It was hard to stand with exhaustion weighing Lennox down, like his knees might give out at any moment. But it with his arms and shoulders that ached the most. Last year, when he’d been doing this twice a month, it had been bearable – he got used to the aches and pains, learned to adapt and grow stronger. The time between Lennox’s last fight and this one had made his body as soft as a punching bag, and he was starting to feel it now as the adrenaline wore off – as the shadow released its hold of his body.

Every place where Pollock had landed a hit felt like a growing pressure beneath the surface of his skin. He wasn’t sure what he’d see in the mirror but he looked anyway, walking across the tile as he scrubbed his dark hair with the towel.

The mirror revealed a body littered with bruises and cuts and, notably, a bite mark on his shoulder.

“Son of a bitch,” Lennox murmured, turning his neck and scowling at the place where Pollock had actually bitten him. The halfbreed wasn’t capable of turning him, but it looked deep enough to leave a scar.

The rest of his body was pockmarked with overlapping bruises and welts – his face was a mess, but both eyes functioned, and there was tender lump forming on his temple where the first hit had landed. Everything else was par for the course – scratches, contusions to the ribs, purple spots the size of tennis balls that would, with time, turn green and fade.

Lennox dressed quickly, still half-wet and conscious of the time.

The Healer was a squat man with spectacles and a generous bald spot. Lennox let him heal his face and hand but insisted everything else was fine, and thankfully the Healer had his own hands full with the night’s losers to let Lennox go without much argument. He was tight, aching, and exhausted, but he walked out of the Royal Wolf’s den – which was more than what Digby or Pollock would be doing.

Lennox couldn’t see Pollock, but he had to assume that he was alive. The thought of what he’d done in the ring – which had now been packed away and the blood cleaned from the floor – didn’t weigh on him. If Lennox hadn’t done it, Pollock would’ve.

“Fraser,” came Prim’s voice from the reception area, and he remembered what Hyde had said.

He walked into the small room which served as Prim’s office. Despite the fact that she made her living off of hosting muggle fight nights, her office was largely run by magic – objects suspended in midair, moving portraits, pots of herbs and magical plants growing by the tiny window, tendrils hanging low.

“You did well,” she said when Lennox entered, her wand on the desk in front of her, as well as a few coin purses. “How do you feel?”

Lennox shrugged, hiding the wince. “Fine, just like I said.”

No one could lie to Prim – she had to be at least eighty years old, but her face was sharp and lively. Those dark eyes missed nothing.

“Will you be back later this month?” she asked, picking up one of the coin purses, the metal inside clinking together.

“Yes.” Lennox adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “I’ll come back.”

She tossed him the purse. “Excellent. Next fight’s on the 28th. Don’t be late.”

Nodding, Lennox turned, pocketing the money.

“And Fraser?”

He paused, looking back.

Prim smiled. “Welcome back.”

*

Hogwarts was still and quiet, as though holding its breath when Lennox returned that night. He moved like a man who had nothing to hide, despite everything that laid beneath his clothes, and he walked back into the Ravenclaw dorm.

Everyone was asleep, and Lennox now turned silent, walking to his own unoccupied bed and changing swiftly, cursing under his breath when he accidentally aggravated one of the wounds. And it was only when he laid in bed, slipping beneath the covers and letting each and every one of his muscles go lax, that he returned to the hallway in his mind.

He walked down the path he’d run earlier, pace now languid and fluid, as though there was all the time in the world for it.

He opened the door to his future – his grandparents smiling at him, hopeful. The Ministry and the Minister himself, welcoming him. Money, health, work. The things Lennox couldn’t escape, and he left the door open.

He opened the door to school – his friends, his dormmates, his teammates. The people he couldn’t shut out, no matter how hard he tried. The people who saw him, flaws and all, and stayed. He left the door open.

He opened the door to his family – his mother, father, Flora. And there, resting in Flora’s arms, was Loren. The only people in the world that Lennox cared about more than his own life – the people who he did everything for. The reason he threw every punch, the reason he took every hit in return. He left the door open.

But he left closed – and locked – the one to the things he wanted, but he paused to look, just for a moment. Love, a family of his own, the potential to write for a living. Everything that could’ve been his but would never be; a million possibilities lived in that room, and Lennox never let himself go past the doorway. It would have to be enough to simply look.

He left that door shut and kept walking, feeling his shadow self tracing every step he took.