The Sidelined Lord

July 21, 1993, 5:30 PM, Wizengamot Chamber

It had been a long day, Blackthorn thought as he pinched the bridge of his nose during the meeting. The weekly Wizengamot session had dragged on for hours, and the weight of it pressed against his temples like a vice. The chamber, with its high, vaulted ceiling and rows of stern wooden benches, seemed to close in around him, the air thick with the murmur of voices and the faint rustle of parchment.

Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting shadows that danced over the faces of the assembled wizards, some weary, some sharp-eyed, all cloaked in the heavy robes of their station. Blackthorn sat rigid, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, though the ache in his shoulders betrayed the toll the day had taken.

Regulations upon regulations had filled the agenda, each one debated with a fervor that bordered on tedious. The minutiae of magical law grated on him; hours spent arguing over the precise wording of a decree on Floo Network oversight, or the fines for misuse of Memory Charms.

His mind, sharp as it was, had begun to drift, pulled inexorably back to the gnawing shame that had haunted him for months. His son, his reckless, hot-headed son, had attacked Adam Clarke at Hogwarts, a brawl over some girl that had spiraled into a bloody, public spectacle. The whispers had followed Blackthorn ever since, slithering through the corridors of power like a venomous serpent: The Blackthorn heir, unhinged. The family name, tarnished.

He had worked tirelessly to repair the damage, to prove the Blackthorns were still a force of dignity and strength, but days like this made the burden feel heavier than ever.

He shifted in his seat, the polished wood creaking beneath him, and cast a glance around the chamber. Across the aisle, Lucius Malfoy sat with his usual air of smug composure, his silver-tipped cane resting against his knee. Beside him, Madam Bones adjusted her monocle, her stern gaze fixed on the speaker at the podium, an aide droning on about the latest amendment to the Werewolf Registry. Blackthorn’s lip twitched, though he suppressed the urge to sneer. These were his peers, yet he felt apart from them, isolated by the stain his son had left on their legacy.

The meeting had stretched past noon, through a brief recess where he’d barely touched the lukewarm tea offered, and now into the late afternoon. The break was over, signaled by the sharp rap of Minister Fudge’s gavel against the table at the chamber’s center.

Blackthorn straightened, forcing his focus back to the present as the murmur of conversation died down. His fingers tightened around the edge of his robe, the rich black fabric embroidered with the thorny sigil of his house— a reminder of the pride he fought to reclaim. The exhaustion was more than physical; it was a weariness of spirit, born from the endless dance of politics and the quieter, more personal battle he waged within himself.

He could still see his son’s defiant face, witnessing the disgrace up close. Adam Clarke— twelve years old, yet already a name that echoed through the wizarding world— had walked away from that fight clean as a whistle, while Blackthorn’s son had not. The boy’s rise, tangled in the chaos of Grindelwald’s campaign and the devastation of the League of Nine, only sharpened the sting.

The gavel sounded again, pulling him from his reverie. Fudge cleared his throat, his round face glistening faintly with sweat under the torchlight. The meeting was resuming, and Blackthorn braced himself for another round of interminable debate, knowing that every word spoken here was another chance to rebuild.

Or to falter.

Blackthorn sat back as Minister Fudge resumed the meeting, his voice cutting through the low hum of the Wizengamot chamber with its usual blend of pomp and uncertainty. The man fumbled with a stack of notes before gesturing to his aides, who stepped forward with an air of practiced efficiency. One of them, a wiry fellow with ink-stained fingers, began to speak of Ilvermorny’s preparations to build anew, his words clipped and precise.

The Americans, it seemed, were eager to establish a foothold once more, though the question of where hung in the air like a stubborn fog. Blackthorn’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching Fudge nod along as if he understood the stakes, though the Minister’s furrowed brow suggested otherwise.

The aide droned on, detailing how Ilvermorny’s leaders sought a site defensible yet distinct, a place to rebuild their pride after the chaos Grindelwald had wrought. Old Percival Greystone, his beard a tangled mess of silver, leaned forward from his bench and demanded to know why they weren’t simply using Hogwarts.

“It’s a fortress.” He barked, his gravelly tone cutting through the room. “Far sturdier than some slapdash building the Americans might cobble together. Why reinvent the wheel when it’s already spinning?”

The response came swiftly, a chorus of rebuttals rising like a gust of wind. Madam Bones adjusted her monocle and spoke first, her voice cool and measured.

“Hogwarts must remain its own entity, untainted by foreign influence.”

Another wizard, a stout man with a crimson robe, chimed in. “The Americans need their own space to recover, not to cling to our coattails.”

Blackthorn watched the exchange unfold, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his bench. He agreed, in principle— Hogwarts was a symbol, a bastion of British wizarding identity, and diluting it with Ilvermorny’s presence risked weakening that. Yet he said nothing, his silence a calculated choice. Let the others squabble; he would watch and wait for the right moment.

Madam Bones spoke again, her tone firm as she addressed the gathered assembly. “It’s imperative that Hogwarts maintains its distance from other institutions. We cannot risk muddying its legacy with foreign entanglement.”

Across the aisle, Lucius Malfoy tilted his head, his voice smooth as silk.

“Quite right, Madam Bones. And let’s not forget— the Americans must recover on their own terms. Integrating with wizarding Britain would only delay their departure. They need to go home, eventually.” His lips curled faintly, a smirk masquerading as agreement. Blackthorn’s jaw tightened; Malfoy’s posturing was as transparent as ever, but the sentiment rang true enough.

A younger wizard, barely out of his apprenticeship by the look of him, piped up from the back benches.

“But why not share resources? Hogwarts has the space, the defenses— why force Ilvermorny to start from scratch?” His earnestness drew a few murmurs of support, though they were quickly drowned out.

“Agreed.” Said Percival Greystone, slamming a gnarled hand on his bench. “The Americans have been our allies in the past— staunch ones in the Great War. Why shouldn’t we help them?”

His glare swept the room, daring anyone to contradict him.

Blackthorn continued to watch the exchange with a flicker of disdain. The Americans’ recovery mattered little to him, and yet he couldn’t ignore the practicalities unfolding here. The wizards pressed on, their voices overlapping as they hashed out the details of Ilvermorny’s temporary home.

“What about the land just beyond the Owlery?” Suggested an old woman in emerald robes, her quill hovering over a scroll. “It’s a few minutes’ walk from Hogwarts— close enough for alliance, far enough to keep them separate.”

Greystone grunted. “Defensible, I suppose. And it’s not so far that it would render them defenseless, in case further attacks came.”

“Agreed. It’s practical.” Blackthorn finally chimed in, drawing the gazes of the others. “The terrain’s manageable, and it sends the right message— cooperation without capitulation.”

“Mr. Blackthorn speaks true.” Said Madam Bones, her monocle glinting as she turned to him. “This is a fair compromise.”

Malfoy inclined his head. “As you say, it is indeed reasonable. Let them build there, and we’ll see how long their gratitude lasts.”

His tone dripped with skepticism, though he offered no further objection.

Fudge seized the opening, his voice brightening. “Excellent! Then it’s settled— the land near the Owlery it is. A few minutes’ walk, as you say. Now, onto the next matter…”

He trailed off, shuffling his papers as the room settled into grudging agreement.

Blackthorn leaned back, his fingers tracing the thorny sigil on his robe. The decision suited him well enough; Hogwarts’ sanctity preserved, the Americans kept at arm’s length. Though the pointless chatter grated on him, he needed to engage in it, to present himself as the reasonable, wise personage he’d been cultivating for decades, and that previous events did not affect him in the least. In his heart, he knew that most of this would be seen as pointless posturing, but it was all he could do for his family, for now. Their name still hung in the balance, and no amount of land near the Owlery would mend that.

Blackthorn’s gaze drifted across the Wizengamot chamber as the discussion turned to the land’s ownership, the voices around him rising in a tangle of speculation.

The decision to grant Ilvermorny a patch near the Owlery had barely settled when Percival Greystone leaned forward, his gravelly tone cutting through the din. “So, who claims it? The Ministry? One of our own? Or does it fall to Hogwarts— and by extension, the Headmaster?”

The title hung in the air, drawing a few sharp glances. Madam Bones adjusted her monocle, her voice steady. “Legally, it could be the Ministry’s. The land’s unclaimed, technically Crown property under wizarding jurisdiction. But practicality suggests a custodian— someone trusted.”

“Trusted by whom?” Lucius Malfoy drawled, twirling his cane idly. “The Ministry’s hardly in a position to oversee a foreign school’s every move. Perhaps an ally— a neutral party— would serve better.”

His eyes gleamed with calculation, though he offered no names.

Fudge fidgeted, his face glistening faintly. “Yes, well— Dumbledore’s our Chief Warlock. If it falls under Hogwarts’ purview, he’d be the natural choice, wouldn’t he?”

He glanced around, seeking affirmation, but the room remained tense.

Blackthorn’s fingers stilled on his robe, his mind sharpening. Dumbledore’s name carried weight— too much, perhaps. He watched as the old man rose from his seat, his silver beard catching the torchlight.

“If the Ministry deems it wise.” Dumbledore began, his voice calm and measured. “I’d be amenable to overseeing the land. Though I’d suggest another option.”

He paused, his blue eyes sweeping the chamber.

“Why not appoint a member of MACUSA’s remnants as its temporary owner? A gesture of goodwill, building ties with the Ministry while easing their transition.”

A murmur rippled through the benches. Madam Bones nodded slowly. “Clever. It keeps us at a distance while fostering alliance. I support it.”

A wizard in his seventies scowled, his beard bristling. “Handing land to the Americans? That’s a step too far. It should stay with us— Dumbledore or the Ministry, no one else.”

“Oh, come now, William.” The wiry woman in emerald robes interjected, her tone brisk. “It’s temporary. MACUSA’s hardly in a state to claim permanence. Dumbledore’s right— it’s diplomatic.”

“That’s Mr. Wardley, to you, Mrs. Finchley.”

Malfoy smirked, leaning back as he spoke, ignoring the byplay. “Diplomatic, yes. And conveniently hands-off for our Chief Warlock. How generous of him to suggest it.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, unruffled. “Power is a burden I’ve never sought, Mr. Malfoy. If the Ministry prefers I take it, I will. But friendship with our allies serves us all.”

“Indeed.” Many others murmured their assent.

Fudge nodded. “Then it’s settled. A MACUSA representative, temporary ownership— good idea, Dumbledore. We’ll sort the details later.”

Blackthorn resisted the urge to shake his head, a faint tension coiling in his chest. It never ceased to amaze him how Dumbledore sidestepped power like a man avoiding a hex, yet wielded influence all the same. The man’s humility— or its appearance, he supposed— grated on him, a stark contrast to Blackthorn’s own relentless drive to reclaim his family’s honor.

The Wizengamot meeting had stretched on, its momentum fraying as the discussion drifted from the Ilvermorny land dispute to a handful of trivial matters. Blackthorn sat stiffly, his patience thinning with each passing minute.

A droning voice from the front benches outlined new restrictions on broomstick imports, while another wizard pontificated about the proper labeling of potion ingredients. The air in the chamber grew stale, heavy with the scent of parchment and the faint tang of ink. At last, Minister Fudge clapped his hands together, his voice tinged with relief. “Well, that’s all for today, I think. Dismissed, everyone— safe travels!”

Blackthorn rose, smoothing the folds of his dark robe as the room erupted into a low buzz of movement. Wizards shuffled toward the exits, their robes swishing against the stone floor. He caught Lucius Malfoy’s eye as he approached the chamber’s arched doorway. Malfoy inclined his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “A productive day, wouldn’t you say, Blackthorn? Though I daresay the real work happens beyond these walls.”

“Productive for some.” Blackthorn replied, his tone dry. “For others, it’s merely a stage to rehearse their lines.”

Malfoy’s chuckle was soft, but there was an edge to it, a shared understanding of the game they played.

Blackthorn turned to Madam Bones next, her stern face softening slightly as she nodded in greeting.

“A pleasure as always, Amelia.” He said, his voice smooth. “Though I trust you’ll keep Greystone’s bluster in check next time.”

She raised an eyebrow, a rare hint of amusement flickering in her gaze. “Someone has to, lest he turn every meeting into a sermon. Take care, Blackthorn.”

He offered a curt nod, then made his way through the throng, exchanging brief words with a few others— a murmured promise of a future conversation with a hawk-faced ally, a veiled jab at Fudge’s indecision with another. Each exchange was a thread in the web he wove, a careful effort to shore up the Blackthorn name.

At the Floo Network hearths lining the Ministry atrium, he stepped into the nearest fireplace, the emerald flames licking at his boots. “Blackthorn Hall.” He intoned, tossing a pinch of powder into the grate. The world spun in a blur of green, the chatter of the Ministry fading into a distant hum.

Moments later, he emerged in his home’s grand foyer, the familiar scent of polished wood and old magic settling around him. He brushed ash from his shoulders and strode toward the solar, the day’s weight still clinging to him like damp cloth. The meeting had ended, but the work— his true work— never did.

Blackthorn crossed the threshold of his solar, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. The room was a sanctuary of sorts, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound tomes and the faint glow of enchanted sconces casting warm light across the space. He moved to the tall, arched window that dominated the far wall, his boots sinking into the thick rug as he gazed out at his grounds.

The sun hung low, a molten disc bleeding orange and gold across the rolling hills of his estate. Shadows stretched long and thin over the manicured lawns, and the distant silhouette of the Blackthorn woods loomed dark against the horizon. For a moment, the sight eased the knot in his chest, the day’s endless debates and veiled barbs slipping away like mist.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet wash over him. The Wizengamot’s squabbles, the sting of his son’s public shame— it all faded, if only briefly. The cool glass pressed against his fingertips as he rested a hand on the windowpane, the faint chill grounding him. Here, in this stolen pause, he could breathe, could pretend the weight of his family’s honor didn’t press down like a yoke. The sun dipped lower, its light catching on the dew that clung to the grass, and he allowed himself a rare, fleeting sense of peace.

It was not to last. A prickle of unease crept up his spine, sharp and insistent, like a whisper of magic gone awry. His eyes snapped open, scanning the room’s dim corners. The shadows seemed too still, too heavy.

Someone was there; he felt it, a presence lurking where the light didn’t reach. His hand slid to his wand, fingers closing around the familiar beech grip as he turned from the window. The solar, moments ago a refuge, now thrummed with silent menace. He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the corner near the bookshelf where the darkness pooled deepest. Whoever hid there had overstepped, and Blackthorn’s patience— already worn thin— teetered on the edge of breaking.

“Show yourself.” He warned, his wand already raised, the tip igniting with a sickly green glow. The beginnings of the Killing Curse pulsed there, its energy collecting in a tight, shimmering orb, casting eerie shadows across the room.

The air crackled with the spell’s raw power, a promise of death held in check only by his will. His eyes narrowed, fixed on the corner where the intruder hid, his heart steady despite the surge of adrenaline. He had not survived decades of political intrigue and family turmoil to be caught off guard in his own home.

The presence in the corner shifted, a ripple of movement breaking the silence. Then, with a faint shimmer like heat rising from stone, the Disillusionment Charm dissolved. A figure emerged from the gloom; it was a man cloaked in a dark, hooded robe, his face obscured by a mask of bone-white, its hollow eyes staring back at Blackthorn.

Death Eater.

The recognition hit him like a cold blade, and his grip on his wand tightened, though he lowered it a fraction, the green light dimming but not fading entirely. He kept it trained on the intruder, his stance unyielding, every muscle coiled for action.

The Death Eater stood motionless, hands visible at his sides, palms empty— a gesture of restraint, if not surrender. Blackthorn’s lip curled slightly, his mind racing. Grindelwald’s chaos had emboldened such vermin, but this one had dared to breach his sanctum.

He studied the masked figure, the dark robe swallowing the faint light, the mask a stark contrast to the shadows behind. Whoever this was, they had skill; enough to slip past his wards undetected. That alone warranted caution, if not respect. But Blackthorn had no patience for games, not after the day he’d endured, and certainly not with his family’s honor still bleeding from his son’s folly.

Blackthorn’s voice was low and edged with steel as he fixed the Death Eater with a piercing stare.

“Who are you, skulking in my home? Speak, and let your final words be worth my time.” His wand remained steady, the green light at its tip a muted threat, though his tone carried the weight of a man accustomed to answers.

The Death Eater inclined his head, a slow, deliberate bow that bordered on deference.

“Hear me out, Lord Blackthorn.” He said, his voice muffled slightly by the mask, yet smooth and measured. “I come not as a foe, but as an emissary.”

Blackthorn’s eyes narrowed, his grip on his wand unwavering.

“An emissary?” He repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Then tell me— what’s your purpose here, and why should I spare you?”

The Death Eater straightened, his masked face unreadable.

“I bring an offer of friendship.” He replied. “A hand extended from those who value strength and lineage— qualities you embody.”

“Friendship?” Blackthorn’s laugh was short and bitter. “A friend doesn’t slink through shadows and break into another’s home. If this is your notion of camaraderie, it’s a poor one.”

The Death Eater raised a placating hand, his voice calm. “Subterfuge is our shield, not our intent. The Ministry’s eyes are everywhere, their power swelling. We must remain unseen for as long as we can— surely you, of all men, understand the need for discretion.”

Blackthorn’s jaw tightened, the words striking a nerve. Discretion… he’d lived by it, weaving it into every alliance, every step to reclaim his family’s tarnished name after his son’s disgrace. He studied the Death Eater for a long moment, the masked figure standing resolute in the flickering light of the solar. The logic held, grudgingly, and the tension in his shoulders eased— just enough.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered his wand fully, the green light winking out like a snuffed candle. The air seemed to settle, though the wariness in his gaze remained.

The Death Eater dipped his head again. “My thanks, Lord Blackthorn. Your patience honors us.”

“Spare me the pointless flattery.” Blackthorn said curtly. “If you’ve something to say, get to it.” His tone was cold, but curiosity had taken root. He wanted to hear what this shadow-dweller offered, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

The Death Eater’s voice softened with gratitude as he stepped forward slightly, the mask’s hollow eyes glinting in the dim light.

“The Dark Lord is recruiting.” He said plainly. “He seeks those of influence and resolve. We wish to know if we have your support.”

Blackthorn’s expression hardened, though he kept his tone even.

“I’m not against an alliance in principle.” He replied, folding his arms across his chest. “But I’ll not risk my neck for phantoms lurking in the dark. The Ministry’s at its peak, bolstered by alliances with the other nations of the world— fragile from the betrayals, yes, but made stronger through the fires of conflict. And Grindelwald? He’s the real threat, tearing the world apart while you skulk in corners.”

The Death Eater nodded, conceding the point.

“All true.” He said, and Blackthorn could imagine the man likely looked like he was sucking on a lemon. “The Ministry’s strong, the nations recover, and Grindelwald’s shadow looms large. But we’re not idle. Our influence spreads— slowly, quietly— through the Ministry, through trade, even into Grindelwald’s ranks. We’re patient where he is reckless.”

Blackthorn absorbed this, his mind turning over the implications. The Death Eater’s words carried a calculated weight, hinting at a web far wider than he’d assumed. He paced a step, his boots silent on the rug, then stopped, fixing the man with a steady gaze. “And what do you want from me, then? To join your creeping scheme?”

“Not yet.” The Death Eater replied, his voice smooth. “Our alliance needn’t be public. For now, even non-interference would suffice. We approached you because of your… troubles. Your enmity with the Mudblood— Clarke— it’s no secret. His rise chafes you, as it does us. The offer stands, open-ended.”

The mention of Adam Clarke sent a flicker of heat through Blackthorn’s chest, the memory of his son’s bloody defeat stoking old embers. He clenched his jaw, saying nothing, letting the silence stretch. The Death Eater tilted his head, reading the pause, then spoke again. “May I take my leave, Lord Blackthorn?”

Blackthorn considered him a moment longer, weighing the risk against the quiet promise of leverage.

“Go.” He said at last, his voice clipped. “You’ve said your piece.”

The Death Eater bowed once more, a faint crack splitting the air as he Apparated, leaving the solar empty save for the echo of his departure. Blackthorn stood alone, the sunset’s last rays fading beyond the window, his mind alight with the choice now laid before him— a choice that could reshape his family’s fate, or bury it deeper still.

Blackthorn lingered in the solar, the faint crack of the Death Eater’s departure still ringing in his ears. The room felt larger now, emptier, the shadows lengthening as the last sliver of sunlight slipped below the horizon. He turned from the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and paced slowly toward the hearth, where a low fire crackled.

The Death Eater’s offer hung in the air like smoke— tempting, yet intangible. And yet, Blackthorn had also made overtures toward Clarke. The boy, for all his infuriating gall, could be useful, perhaps more so than these masked schemers.

He paused, staring into the flames, their dance mirroring the flicker of his thoughts. Adam Clarke… He was twelve years old, a self-made thorn in his side, yet a rising star amid Grindelwald’s chaos. The boy’s victory over his son had been a public wound, but Blackthorn had seen the potential beneath the Mudblood’s bravado. A quiet letter sent weeks ago, a subtle invitation to meet, had been his first step— testing the waters, gauging if the boy could be molded into an asset. Aligning with Dumbledore’s orbit, where Clarke now circled, might yield more than skulking with the Dark Lord’s lackeys. The old man’s influence was undeniable, a shield against the Ministry’s scrutiny and Grindelwald’s wrath alike.

Blackthorn’s businesses, timber trade, potion supply chains, enchanted artifacts… They were all above board, meticulously lawful. He’d built them that way, a bulwark against potential scandals, past or future.

Burying the hatchet with Clarke could polish that image further, turning a foe into a symbol of reconciliation. Petty revenge had already cost him dearly— his wife, cloistered in their estate, shunned by her old circles; his son, a pariah among his peers, his temper a mirror of Blackthorn’s own youth. He’d toiled alone to mend the family name, each Wizengamot vote and handshake a brick in that wall.

Pettiness had fractured them; perhaps pragmatism could rebuild.

Both paths beckoned.

The Death Eaters offered shadow and leverage, a chance to strike from the dark at those who’d wronged him— Clarke included. But Dumbledore’s camp promised stability, legitimacy, a way to rise above the mire. Blackthorn sank into the armchair by the fire, the leather creaking under his weight. He steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing as he weighed them.

A choice loomed, and he’d not make it lightly.

oooo

Same time

Adam Clarke

I’d made some headway in my research on my visions, and it felt like a small victory after weeks of dead ends. Sitting at the desk in my room, I’d scratched out five potential ritual sites on a crumpled piece of parchment— names like “The Hollow Veil” and “Skullspire Crag” Staring back at me in my own messy handwriting. Each one tied to the void, that wild, unmaking force that had turned my left eye milky white and flooded my head with glimpses of things I couldn’t always understand.

I rubbed at that eye now, the ache behind it a constant reminder of what I’d stumbled into. Even something as simple as narrowing down those sites had taken ages; nights spent hunched over dusty books from Sirius’s library, cross-referencing old maps with scribbled notes from my visions. The candle beside me flickered, wax dripping onto the table, and I realized how late it had gotten.

Time was slipping away, though. I didn’t have much left— not with Grindelwald out there, not with Snape breathing down my neck about the Resurrection Stone, not with the void whispering in my skull. I pushed the parchment aside, frustration bubbling up like a potion gone wrong. The visions were clearer now than they’d been months ago, after the tournament, but they still came in fragments— flashes of stone circles, shadowed figures, a portal splitting the sky. I’d seen enough to know those sites might hold answers, maybe even a way to keep my promise to Snape or stop whatever Grindelwald was planning next. But piecing it together alone? It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

I leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under me, and stared at the ceiling. I was stuck.

No. I needed help, and the realization hit me like a Bludger to the chest. I couldn’t keep fumbling through this alone— not with the clock ticking and the void’s visions piling up like unread letters. I shoved my chair back from the table, the scrape of wood against stone echoing in the quiet of Grimmauld Place.

My hands balled into fists as I paced, the frustration I’d been bottling up spilling over. I’d done too much— fought in the tournament, smashed Horcruxes, faced down acromantulas— and still, I was hitting walls. Who could I turn to? The list in my head was short, and the first name that popped up made my stomach twist.

Dumbledore. I’d helped him by providing information, and what did I get? Nothing.

Not a scrap of insight, not a hint about my visions or the void. I stopped pacing, glaring at the flickering candle like it was his fault. He didn’t take me seriously. To him, I was just a kid, some reckless twelve year old who’d stumbled into bigger shoes than he could fill. I’d seen it in his eyes. It stung, worse than any hex, because I’d earned better.

I kicked at the table leg, the dull thud satisfying for about a second before the weight settled back on me. If Dumbledore wouldn’t help, I was on my own— or close to it. The visions weren’t going away; they were getting sharper, more urgent, like the void was screaming for me to listen. I could feel it sometimes, a pull at the edge of my mind, cold and endless.

The only people who’d take my words to heart were the ones I’d bled with, the ones who’d seen me in the thick of it. I dropped into the chair again, the stillness wrapping around me like a cloak. My friends— Tony, Ron, Hermione, and Su— they were the first I thought of. They weren’t just friends; they were as good as family.

Tony, with his quick laugh and quicker wits. Ron and Hermione, always a pair, were able to go through problems like nobody’s business, their differences only serving to make them that much more effective. Su, quiet but fierce, was a force to reckon when one truly riled her. They’d seen me in action, knew I wasn’t spinning tales when I said the void was showing me things.

Then there were Harry, Sirius, and Remus. They’d believe me, not because I asked, but because they’d lived through enough to know the world didn’t play fair. I ran a hand through my hair, the weight of that trust settling in my chest.

And Snape— well, he was different. I didn’t want to think about him, but I had to. He knew the secret to my reincarnation, the void he’d brushed up against when we’d cracked the Gaunt Ring. He’d been there, his wand steady, his sneer barely hiding the hunger in his eyes when I’d pulled the Resurrection Stone free. We were too deep in now, tied by that promise I’d made— to find a way to bring Lily back. It wasn’t friendship, not even close, but it was something. He’d listen because he had to, because my visions might be the key to his ghost. I hated that I needed him, but I did. They all had their reasons, and I had mine— I just had to figure out how to pull them into this without losing what little grip I had left.

I needed to make a decision, and the longer I sat there, the heavier it felt. Should I tell my secret?

My eyes drifted to the corner of the table, where the unopened letter from the Blackthorn family sat like a forgotten hex. It’d been there for weeks, gathering dust in its fancy envelope. I’d checked it ages ago— ran every charm I knew to make sure it wasn’t cursed or rigged to blow up in my face. It was clean, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t trouble. Blackthorn Sr. didn’t strike me as the type to send holiday greetings, not after everything. I’d resolved to ignore it back then, figuring it was just more bad blood wrapped in parchment. Whatever he wanted, it couldn’t be good— not with his son’s proverbial knife at my throat in my memory, not with Absol’s attack still echoing in my head.

No. I would leave it alone, for now. I needed another way.

But I didn’t know where to go.