Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lost it to Trying

Chapter One

It took the Order of the Phoenix two weeks to find Severus Snape's dead body. Amora Buckley stood over the corpse of her former Potions teacher, gasping in a breath and sinking her nose between her thumb and her index finger. His skin had been drained of all colour, sunken into his bones, his hollow black eyes gazing into the void.

Amora had seen plenty of dead bodies— even what was left of her own mother's corpse– yet there was something about seeing Snape's which created her most inescapable feeling of hopelessness so far. Nothing about the way he was slumped in his armchair appeared peaceful, his wand in half near his boot-clad foot. This was the Order's biggest loss since Kingsley Shacklebolt last year.

"Fuck," Leon Holloway retched, lifting the dark jumper he wore up to his mouth and nose, covering it the best he could whilst pointing his wand towards Snape. The glow at the end cast shadows over his body, the only source of light in the cold flat. "Shit. I didn't think— I didn't think he'd actually be fucking dead."

Amora swallowed and then grinded her teeth in a jaw-clenching motion, pursing her lips together. She had not been expecting to find him dead, either. His radio-silence had been worrying to the Order, so much so they sent people to go and check on him, however, deep down, nobody was expecting to find Severus Snape dead. Snape was supposed to see the end of the war— he was supposed to help the Order win it.

"What do we do now?" Leon glanced across at Amora, face wrinkled with concern. "It feels wrong to just leave him here."

Amora sighed, pinching her nose tighter as she shifted forwards, as if hoping to see the faint rise and fall of Snape's chest.

"Send a Patronus to Moody or Lupin," Amora instructed firmly, "Maybe we could Portkey him to the medical ward. I know he's already gone, but..."

Neither could peel their eyes off of him. Amora wondered if Leon was thinking about how doomed they were too, or if that was something he would realise later on when he was tucked up in bed, when the reality that their only Double Agent was dead would truly sink in.

"Yeah." Leon cleared his throat. "Yeah– I'll do that now."

He stepped forwards and then froze. Amora's head snapped towards him, furrowing her brows at Leon's bulging eyes.

"I think I tripped a ward," Leon hissed frantically, "I can smell the magic—"

Amora's arm snapped out and their fingertips were just an inch from grazing when three loud cracks swallowed the room behind them. She threw her wand-holding arm over her head and whirled around, "Stupefy!" She spat.

Three Death Eaters clad in their black garments and skull-like masks shot similar attack spells towards Amora and Leon, who dodged the sprays of magic. Amora's spell hit the Death Eater on the left square in the chest, and he was sent flying backwards into one of Snape's mahogany bookshelves. He grunted loudly as wood cracked and books thumped around him, a world globe tumbling from the top shelf and plummeting on the side of his head.

Amora heard Leon growl beside her, a wolfish habit he had picked up even when the moon was not full, jets of red firing at the last remaining Death Eaters. The brunette woman only narrowly missed a spit of emerald green, her eyes widening as she rolled to the floor, taking cover behind the empty armchair.

A second went by before she was poking back around, grabbing the material for stability and springing her other arm straight. Then, confidently, "Avada Kedarvra!"

The one that had about to aim a spell at Leon was quickly on the floor, every inch of life draining his body. Amora never liked using the Killing Curse— they were taught only to use it as a last resort and never first— but with every Order member the Death Eaters murdered, it seemed to only get easier and easier to spit out. She was only thankful for the way their masks hid their faces. She would never want to see the life drain from their eyes. That might make it feel too real.

When the final Death Eater pointed his wand out, Leon cried a quick disarming spell, sending it flying, and then knocked the man out with a Stupefy. Amora sighed in relief, her chest heaving up and down as she quickly darted over.

"Okay, fuck the Patronus. Let's just leave," Amora proposed.

She reached into her thigh holster and grabbed the fabric-covered stone. Amora pulled out the forearm of the Death Eater, yanking off his black glove and spreading his fingers open. Pinching the cloth, she let the Portkey-disguised stone drop into the man's palm, and with a loud pop, the Death Eater had vanished from the middle of the room.

"What about that one?" She asked Leon who was grabbing the first Death Eater's wrist, pinching where his pulse should have been.

Leon shook his head. "Dead. Let's just get the fuck out of here now, before anymore decide to spawn in my close proximity."

Amora extended her hand. As soon as their fingers interlocked, she felt the pull behind her bellybutton and the world twisted into meandering shapes and blurred colours, the wooshing sound drowning in her ears until the former Hufflepuffs landed firmly in the entrance way of the main headquarters.

Lavender Brown glanced up from the book that she had been reading. She sat behind a desk, as if she was running a hotel rather than an army's base, her curls tied up into a messy knot, her glasses at the end of her nose and what must have been a Muggle lollypop between her lips.

She pulled it out and stood up, her wheely chair sliding backwards and smacking into the wall with a soft bang.

"Names," she ordered.

"Amora Elle Buckley."

"Leon Alexander Holloway."

"Code word?" Lavender pushed.

"Matchstick," both answered at once.

It changed everyday. Lavender not-so-subtly checked the pink sticky note on the side of her typewriter. She ignored the judgemental looks she was receiving from both Amora and Leon.

"Well?" Lavender pressed, finally loosening up slightly, folding her arms against the top shelf where piles of paperwork sat. "Is he... Has he... defected or something?"

Leon pursed his lips. "We need to talk to Moody first."

Lavender's face pulled into a deeper frown. Seamus Finnigan and Anthony Hopkins nodded at the two of them as they moved away from the main entrance doors to let Amora and Leon inside. Some paused their conversations to stare at Amora and Leon, studying them as if one of them would give away what had happened through facial expressions. Both attempted to keep as neutral as they possibly could. Amora gripped her wand tighter with her trembling hand.

"Oh, thank Merlin!"

Amora raised her eyebrows when Blaise Zabini threw his arms around Leon, squeezing him into a tight hug. Leon's eyes widened and he patted Blaise on the back somewhat unsurely, glancing at Amora as if she would be able to explain Blaise's actions for him. Amora wouldn't have known where to start.

"Err... y'alright, Blaise." Leon cleared his throat.

Blaise glared at them both now, large hand clamping on Amora's shoulder, squeezing. "Neither of you told us you'd be going on a mission!"

"It was hardly a mission," Leon scoffed, "We were merely doing a wellness check. Like fucking social services or something."

"We were only told last minute," Amora disclaimed.

"Well, how was he? Did he say why—"

"Buckley, Holloway." Alastor Moody's stern Irish accent boomed through the room, and now Amora was sure they really did have everybody's attention. "Inside."

His back was against his office door, and he pointed in for emphasis. Amora sent Blaise a tiny smile and did as she was instructed, Leon close behind. She was all too aware of Moody's eye following their movements whilst his other trained on the rest of room like a warning.

As soon as they were seated in the uncomfortable plastic chairs on the other side of Moody's desk, the door slammed shut and Lupin started pacing on the other side. His large hand massaged his jaw.

"Something's happened, hasn't it?" Lupin said regretfully, "We were alerted by the Interrogation Ward that you sent them a Death Eater."

Leon sighed heavily and looked at Amora. Neither wanted to say it. The two words that confirmed a change in the war. A true defeat, a loss of hope.

"Snape's dead."

Silence engulfed the room. It was as if the air had been knocked out of Lupin's lungs. He paused from pacing, and then he leaned down to place a hand on the desk, and then, as if his knees had buckled beneath his weight, he collapsed into the chair, his hand moving from his jaw to his mouth, pulling at his bottom teeth. His eyes were large and round.

Moody, too, had nothing to say for a moment. The click clack of his walking stick against the concrete flooring was oddly eerie, and Amora could not read the expression on Moody's face. She had no clue whether he was shocked or unsurprised, sad or not, panicking or calm.

"Well..." Moody pursed his lips, and looked around the room as if something would spark some inspiration. "Well."

She took his lack of words as everything she needed to know.

They were fucked.

A.B + D.M

During meal time, Moody stood at the front of the room and announced to what was left of the Order that Severus Snape was dead and they now had no upper hand in the war. Before, Moody relied on Snape heavily. The Double Agent was as loyal as he had been solemn, and far too many times had he saved the Order from stumbling into battles blind.

There was a somber feeling that night. The only times people saw Snape was when he was disappearing from Moody and Lupin's office, but there was a general understanding that tonight marked more than just the death of one man.

Pansy Parkinson pursed her lips as she looked at the cards she held in her hands. Amora sat behind her on the sofa, one hand running through Pansy's dark bob, the other holding the book she was reading. Across the coffee table, legs folded beneath him like a small child, Leon was smirking above his cards.

"You can't have higher than a Queen," Pansy huffed, "That is absolutely not possible. All of the Kings have been used up now."

"Do you even believe your own words, Parkinson?" Leon smirked slyly, and then, rather dramatically, a King was smacked down on top of Pansy's card.

Gasps surrounded the coffee table. Blaise buried his head in his hands, and even Theodore Nott was now glancing over the top of his book, nose wrinkled, brown eyes attempting to follow whatever had happened that had warranted such a reaction.

"It's over," Pansy's bottom lip wobbled. "I don't have an ace, and I definitely don't have a King."

"Pick up, Parkinson!" Leon hollered.

Pansy, who had only one card left in her hand, glared down at the stack of cards in the middle of the table that sat at about two inches tall. Leon held only three cards in his hands. In a fit of rage, her manicured hands were reaching forwards, grasping all of the cards and then throwing them directly at the shaggy-haired man.

"Hey!" Leon snapped, huffing as he grasped the raining cards. "If you weren't going to play properly, I would have played with somebody that actually takes this game seriously."

"The game is literally called Shithead," Theo remarked, raising a brow. "How could anybody take such a game seriously?"

Leon rolled his eyes and began to expertly shuffle the cards. "Finnigan bets proper money on it. Shithead can be deadly serious, Nott. You just haven't played me."

"I'm not the gambling type," Theo replied.

Amora smiled slightly, and grabbed her bookmark off of the arm of the sofa, tucking it neatly into the novel. She sat up, wincing at the cracks of her back, arms stretching high above her head.

"It's getting late," Pansy acknowledged, getting up from the floor. "I can't handle late nights anymore."

"You never could, you dragon," Blaise remarked, and only narrowly missed the pillow that Pansy launched his way.

Amora chuckled and grabbed the pillow, placing it back on the sofa neatly. The fireplace crackled and the small room was hot from the five bodies crammed inside of it. The rest of them seemed to be getting up to head to bed as well.

"Hopefully tomorrow Moody and Lupin have some good news," she sighed.

"I don't know what universe you think we are living in, but there will be no good news for us tomorrow, Amora," Blaise said matter-of-factly. "Without Snape... I don't know what the fuck we're supposed to do."

"We've survived without him before," Pansy said meekly, "Like when he had to throw suspicion off of himself a couple of years ago. Remember how he went AWOL for four months? We survived then."

"Most of us did," Theo said gravely.

Suddenly nobody was smiling. Amora felt cold, the bottoms of her eyes stinging as if the events of Phoenix Day had happened last week. After a solemn speech from Moody that morning, Amora had witnessed first-hand the safe haven for non-fighting families and Muggleborns turn into a mass grave. The Phoenix Buildings had been destroyed less than a week after their opening. Families murdered, Muggleborn children slaughtered, Pureblood and Halfblood children kidnapped to join the Dark Lord's programmes.

"Right," Pansy cleared her throat, and glanced at the floor. "I forgot it was then. I— I don't know what we'll do without him. I suppose they'll need a new Double Agent."

Amora pondered Pansy's words as she lay in bed that night. Staring up at the ceiling, she tried to count Hippogriffs, but they were flying out of sight and she could only picture Severus Snape dead in his armchair. She swallowed thickly, scared she would gag if she didn't regulate her breathing. She swore she could still smell the hot jaws of death dragging him away.

The only choice going forwards was a new Double Agent. Somebody that could spy on the Death Eaters and bring back helpful information to benefit the Order. Amora thought surely the only way it would work would be for Moody to convince a Death Eater to defect. Most likely, he would have to offer something very valuable in return. Even then, the Death Eater would have to rank high enough to access the sort of information that Snape was able to gather.

"Are you awake?"

Amora nearly didn't hear Pansy from where the other woman lay in the single bed on the other side of the small room. Amora nodded before she realised Pansy couldn't see her in the pitch blackness.

"Yeah," she whispered, "Why?"

"I just keep thinking about how we're losing," Pansy replied, her voice thick. "And how scary that is. We're losing at least one person a week at this point. Nobody wants to help anymore because we're fighting a losing battle."

Amora knew Pansy was right. The Order was dwindling each month. Whether it was due to mortality rates or a general lack of support, Amora was terrified to learn the ratio of Voldemort supporters compared to Order supporters. Worse yet, the ratio of His army and theirs.

Voldemort's army of Death Eaters made up every institution in the Wizarding World and came in the hundreds. Amora thought that the Order may have a hundred on a good day. People just weren't ready to sacrifice everything with the odds stacked against them.

Amora knew she had nothing left to lose. Neither did her friends. They sat among people much older than them at meetings and were given tasks that those with years of experience would be handed during a better-prepared war, but Moody was desperate, and everybody knew it.

"Yeah," Amora replied, "Yeah, I'm scared, too."

"People are only on You-Know-Who's side because they're scared," Pansy spat angrily, but her voice sounded croaky and wet. "And it's so stupid. If they'd just... if they'd just actually help us... Maybe we would get somewhere!"

This conversation happened most nights. The words hardly changed.

"I know," Amora murmured, "It's stupid."

Nobody said anything. Sleep found them hours later.

A.B + D.M

The Muggle world was an escape to many of the Order members. It was where dozens of families had fled when the war had broken out, putting their wands and Hogwarts memorabilia in boxes in the loft, turning away from the magic running through their veins. Amora couldn't quite blame them sometimes, considering the effects war often had on her and her friends. It was very rare she didn't wake up to Pansy screaming in her sleep or to her own sobs blaring in her ears.

Every now and again, when Amora wasn't sent on a mission, she would find herself in Muggle London. Most of the time, Leon accompanied her, and she liked that. He would always tell her what the shops were, and how everything worked, or what was considered socially acceptable and not.

Sometimes, Amora would go by herself. She liked roaming around all of the bookshops, and using her Muggle money to buy all sorts of Muggle sweeties that she found. Her favourite thing the Muggles had was called a 'pick'n'mix'. She grabbed a pink and white striped paper bag and filled it to the brim with sugared sweets and chocolate coated peanuts and jelly worms and all sorts.

Mostly, when alone in London, Amora enjoyed sitting in one of the parks and people-watching. She liked feeding the ducks at the river, or reading her book on a field among other people reading theirs, or having picnics, or kicking a ball about. Sometimes, if she happened to catch a glimpse of what she once had here, she had to Apparate back before her heart was in her throat.

"How you consume that much sugar is beyond me," Pansy shuddered as Amora finally left the sweetshop she'd disappeared in, looking very pleased with her bulging bag of sweets. "I think I would go into shock."

"I have a sweet tooth," Amora shrugged, and smiled as she pulled out a huge blue gummy dolphin— or was it supposed to be a shark? She ripped its head off first either way.

Pansy grimaced. "Anyways, I have no idea where Theo has wandered off to now. He keeps doing this!" She went on her toes to look around the crowds with a crumpled face. "It's so annoying. He knows I don't like it when we all split up like this!"

"It's okay." Amora reached out and squeezed her best friend's arm as comfortingly as she possibly could. "We're safe here."

"I just don't like it," Pansy said again, and then her eyes widened. "Theo! Over here, you idiot!"

Amora could hear the numerous apologies Theo was muttering to the people he weaved in and out of to get to Amora and Pansy. According to Leon, Muggles used the weekends to go shopping— the three Purebloods wished they had known this before they had set out to the tourist area of London on a Saturday at midday.

"I told you not to just walk off," Pansy snapped at him and shoved his arm. She cut off his apologies. "I really don't care what bookshop you decided to have a wank over this time. Let's just go back to the house. It's too busy for me."

"I just wanted to go to the Muggle—"

"No!" Pansy growled, "You lost your privilege of roaming freely when you wandered off."

Amora's eyes widened and Theo glared down at her. "Okay, mother," he snapped.

The brunette woman pursed her lips. "How about we find a quiet alley way and Apparate to headquarters?"

"Yes please," Pansy said quickly, and was marching ahead.

Theo huffed. "Who pissed in her CheeriOwls this morning?"

Amora sighed, struggling to keep up with Pansy's long strides, her eyes trained on her as to not lose the dark-haired woman amongst the Muggle crowds.

"She was just worried about you," Amora told him as gently as she could, though all she wanted to do was march up to Pansy and grab her best friend into a tight hug. "I think Pansy doesn't like the crowds. I think it makes her really anxious."

Theo was stunned for a moment, though he did not stop walking. He remained silent, but Amora could see the cogs turning. How could Pansy Parkinson be anxious over something so seemingly normal? She could see his furrowed brows, could tell how awful he was feeling.

Pansy found an alleyway filled with industrial bins and a couple parked cars. A huge rat ran straight past her feet, causing her to squeal. Theo grabbed her before she could crash into him.

"Pans, I'm sorry," Theo said immediately, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared," Pansy huffed, "It's just annoying and inconsiderate."

"That's Theo for you," Amora snickered, ignoring the man's glare.

"Then I apologise for being irritating and inconsiderate, Pansy," Theo said begrudgingly.

Pansy rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow. "Whatever." That was Pansy's way of forgiving him. "Let's just get out of here."

Theo grabbed both their hands, and they Apparated away from Muggle London. Lavender took their names and the secret codeword of the day, and they wandered inside of Headquarters. A rowdy game of Wizarding Chess was happening in the corner of the common room. Amora stuffed her mouth with a couple of Jelly Babies, dusting some of its fallen powered sugar from the black jumper she wore.

"Buckley." Moody's voice only ever seemed to ignite anxiety in Amora's chest. When he boomed your surname across a room, it hardly ever meant anything comforting. "See me in my office, please."

Pansy looked at her worriedly. "If they send you on a mission or something, let me know before you go."

"I will." Amora squeezed her hand, forced her paperbag of sweets into Theo's, and took off in the direction of the Order's designated leader.

Stepping into his office, the usual smell of spearmint was hostile and cold. Leon said it was the same sort of smell as his Muggle dentist— and he said lots of people hated them. Not only that, but the temperature was always so low, the lights too bright, and Moody's frown too prominent.

Amora sat in the chair and mentally prepared herself for the worst. He closed the door behind her. Lupin was nowhere to be seen which was worrying considering the balance he often provided against Moody's stormy tones and ruthless language. She pursed her lips, watching carefully as the man lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

"Has something happened?" She asked.

"Our interrogators have been questioning the Death Eater Holloway and yourself captured yesterday evening," Moody told her, "Name is Walden Macnair. Fought in the first Wizarding War, too. Was an Executioner for the Ministry of Magic. He's given us some answers about what happened to Severus Snape."

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. "I assumed they found out he was a Double Agent."

"You thought correctly," Moody said, "Somebody was suspicious. He was being investigated, supposedly they caught him leaving Phoenix Headquarters last month. Extracted his memories, found nothing considering what a skilled Legillimens he was, but supposedly Lucius Malfoy was particularly insistent on Snape aiding the Order. He hired private investigators. The Dark Lord saw to Snape's murder himself."

Amora swallowed thickly. "Shit."

"Shit indeed," Moody replied.

"Did you manage to get any more information out of Macnair?" She asked, "Anything about future missions or plans that they have—"

"I know that a private election has been happening amongst the Dark Lord's ranks. It seems the Dark Lord believes Thicknesse is no longer making the cut and they have elected a new Minister of Magic who will be announced by the end of the week."

Amora pursed her lips. "Do you know who?"

"Lucius Malfoy," Moody answered, and watched the way Amora's face scrunched up, her hands visibly clenching on top of her lap. "He had some powerful proposals, supposedly. Starting with Oathkeepers. A fancy name for spies among the ranks and in Wizarding society— gifted more benefits from the Dark Lord directly in return of spying on not only ordinary witches and wizards, but other Death Eaters, and reporting back suspicious activity."

Amora felt her heart drop. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "That's... That's not good. That will make it ten times harder to find a new Double Agent."

"We've been thinking that perhaps, rather than finding a Death Eater who may want to defect, it may be easier or smarter to send in an Order member. Somebody who may have a reason to want to join the Dark Lord's side."

Amora furrowed her brows and then went silent for a few moments. Her heartbeat was quicker than usual. She eyed Moody suspiciously.

"Why are you telling me this? Are you thinking of sending one of my friends?" Did he want her to butter up Theo, Blaise, or Pansy and persuade them to face their very own families?

"Not one of your friends." Moody shook his head.

The silence that followed told Amora everything she needed to know.

"Me." Not quite scared, nowhere near excited, either. Deflated, maybe. Then, in a whisper, "But why me?"

Moody sent her a knowing look. One that told her she was stupid for even asking. She knew she was too. She knew exactly why it was her.

"Because there is one Death Eater very high up in the the Dark Lord's ranks, Buckley— one that would never trust the Order, but might very well trust you."

...

hello hello hello!!! i hope everybody has enjoyed the very first chapter of lost it to trying! i am really pleased with it and i am so excited to start writing the rest of it!

thank you so so much for reading!

dyiansobrien

wc: 4.3k

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWO

Draco Malfoy was the first person Amora Buckley ever hated and the first person she had ever fallen in love with, too. What had started as an immediate rivalry on their very first day of school had very slowly blossomed into something more by their fourth year at Hogwarts.

It had been five years since Amora had last seen Draco Malfoy, and nearly eight since they had been locked in the library overnight with one another. Even at the age of twenty-one years old, Amora managed to picture that night perfectly in her head. She was sure she was missing some of the finer details, but the most important ones were there— the Slytherin jumper, the penguin reference that seemed to stick with them for the rest of their short-lived relationship, how they’d fallen asleep pressed against one another…

Amora pursed her lips as she shuffled through the bedroom she shared with Pansy. The brunette girl grabbed a little drawstring bag and glanced around as if Pansy would Apparate any second directly in front of her. She tipped the contents of the bag on top of her duvet cover.

Earrings and necklaces spilled out, the back of an earring rolling all the way across the floor and onto Pansy’s side of the small bedroom. She huffed, but parted her jewellery with her fingers. Gold shone through sentimental accessories, peaking out as if calling to her, and her fingers grabbed the back, lifting it up so she could inspect a golden badger. The tie pin Draco had gifted her.

She swiped her thumb over it, warming the metal, swallowing thickly. It had been maybe four years since Amora had sought it out just to have a look at it. She decided it was best she didn’t torture herself over the past. Some things Amora really couldn’t change, and so she had to look to the future— there was a war going on, and there was something she could do about that, at least.

Their first kiss had been on the Astronomy Tower after the Yule Ball. It sounded romantic, though it was anything but. She had gone with Blaise and he had gone with Pansy. They had spent the whole night either ignoring each other or bickering, and finally, after a long fight, he had pressed his lips to hers, and sealed their fate of a rebellious relationship— an act of defiance against both of their families.

It was a secret they had kept from everybody for months— or perhaps it was over a year, Amora struggled to remember the dates now. She didn’t forget how hard it had been to stop people finding out that two sides of a political war had fallen in love with one another. She’d never forget the lengths he went to to make sure he could keep her around for longer.

Amora squeezed the golden badger and shoved it back into the bag alongside everything else. She wasn’t sure why she still kept a hold of it when it did her no favours. Perhaps part of her felt as though the badger was proof of the beautiful relationship she had once had with Draco Malfoy— a reminder that once things had been perfect between the two of them, and she was not stupid or naive for trusting him.

She sat in breakfast later that early morning, huffing as she glanced down between her bowl of porridge and the empty honey jar tipped on its side further down the table, the last of its remnants creating a sticky mess on the counter.

“Unlucky,” Leon said, and shoved the sugar jar over.

There were gasps around the room and Pansy shrieked as the ceramic jar flew straight past the arms of the two girls, soaring onto the ground and shattering loudly. Leon winced, his spoonful of CheeriOwls pausing midway to his mouth.

“Fuck,” he huffed, and the spoon clattered back into his bowl, splashing milk. “Sorry, I forget how strong I am sometimes.”

“Humble, too,” Blaise muttered.

Pansy shook her arm where sugar had exploded all over her. “Fucking hell, Holloway. I look like the glitter monster has been sick all over me.”

“What is the glitter monster?”

“Fuck off and clean it up with you?” Pansy huffed, gesturing to the mess behind her.

Leon sighed and abandoned his cereal to do as he was told. Amora pursed her lips at the porridge and decided against anymore sweet additives, shoveling the pale mixture into her mouth with a small wince. Her tolerance of sweet thing had grown so big that it tasted disgusting.

She kept quiet as her friends continued to talk around her. Theo was saying something about the food rationing going down, whilst Blaise and Leon seemed to argue over who ate the most in their small group. Amora’s brain was wracked with other problems, such as the fact that she had been asked to become a Double Agent for the Order.

It was all she had thought about all night long. She tossed and she turned and she thought about how dangerous it would be, and how high the stakes were. To fail would be to die. Best case scenario, she would survive, but she would be living with the enemy.

Her heart melted when Pansy threw the crusted end of the bread at Blaise, the two of them jumping into some sort of altercation. Amora didn’t know how she would cope with not being able to see her best friends everyday. They were her family— the only people she could truly count on in this dark world.

Everything inside of her wanted to say no. She wanted to be selfish and protect herself— tell them to pick somebody else, she wasn’t going to sacrifice everything for something she may not see the outcome of.

However, a small part kept burning at the idea of aiding this war. She dreaded to think who would be chosen if she was to say no. Would Moody resort to one of her Slytherin friends? Would he really be tough enough to send them back to their families where they were bound to be punished and ridiculed?

Of course he would. This was a war and he didn’t care about feelings. That was exactly why he was asking her to go running off to Draco Malfoy.

Pansy snapped her fingers in front of Amora’s face. “You alright, Mora?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.”

“I could hear you tossing about,” Pansy agreed, “What’s happening in that brain of yours?”

“Just the whole Snape thing, really,” Amora said, “And I know they sent a few of us off because of that threat at one of our food suppliers, and they haven’t come back in two days. Sort of worrying.”

“Oh yeah,” Blaise furrowed his brows. “I forgot about that. The twins, Longbottom, and— who else?”

“Wood.”

“Oh yeah, the Gryffindor lot.”

“Right.”

All their heads turned to face the large tables the Gryffindors usually sat at. Old habits die hard, and even as adults in an army together, friendship groups remained quite stable. It was hard to mix— though nobody really fought with one another. Most of the older people did that.

Ginny Weasley sat there, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas with her. Lavender Brown was cuddling with one of the older boys, Amora couldn’t remember his name, and other Gryffindor alumni from other years scattered around on their own tables nearby. Despite only four people missing, it seemed very noticeable.

“I wondered why it was so quiet,” Leon said, “I didn’t realise the Weasley twins weren’t back yet.”

“Moody’s not said anything about it, and nobody else has been sent out to look for them. I’ll take that as a good sign,” Theo attempted to heal the concerned expressions sitting around their table.

“Nobody’s been sent off that we know of,” Pansy reminded him, “there’s lots Moody and Lupin don’t want us to know.”

There was a long pause. “It’s Finnigan’s birthday today,” Blaise said.

“So?”

“So,” he replied pointedly, “that means there might be a little get together. One that I am sure I can get us invited to.”

“How?” Amora asked.

Blaise’s brilliant idea was to gamble, of course. All he had to do was send Leon to the part of the common room the former Gryffindors were gathering in with a pack of cards and dare Seamus to a high stakes game of Shithead. Of course, Seamus had to accept.

Dean had a Muggle CD player that was playing old albums quietly. Lavender was passing around a couple bottles of Firewhisky, and a cake had been presented by Mrs Weasley, who had warned them all with a pointed finger not to get too drunk and rowdy.

There were a couple of common rooms inside the headquarters, and it seemed most others had headed off to others, giving them some privacy. Either that, or they were irritated by Leon’s constant loud bragging and mocking, or Seamus’ angry yells, and the way he’d throw his deck every now and again in whichever direction most convenient.

Amora looked down at the cake which was red with huge golden numbers making out “22”. It was hard to believe how old everybody was getting, but she saw that as a privilege with the more and more war she witnessed daily.

“This is nice,” Amora sighed, collapsing back onto the sofa in between Pansy and Theo. Nostalgic may hae been the most appropriate word for it.

Blaise was grabbing Leon’s shoulders, squeezing them and giving him the sort of peptalk a captain might give his team before a Quidditch game.

“He’s such a drama queen,” Pansy huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Blaise bet twenty Muggle pounds of his own money,” Theo replied, “So I think he’s stressed.”

“Leon never loses,” Amora dismissed him. “Blaise needn’t worry.”

She watched fondly as her fellow Hufflepuff spoke over the cards he was holding in his hands, smirking as he successfully attempted to get into Seamus’ head. Seamus’ face was bright red— everybody knew how much he hated losing. Amora couldn’t say she was surprised that Leon wasn’t cutting Seamus any slack despite the fact that it was his birthday.

“Hello, Pansy,” a sweet voice sounded as Luna Lovegood drifted over to the sofa a little while later, once Seamus had lost numerous rounds of Shithead. Luna leant her body on the arm of the couch, resting her arm behind Pansy’s head and smiling. “What a coincidence seeing you here. I didn’t think you were good friends with Seamus.”

Pansy smirked up at the blonde woman, resting a hand on Luna’s knee and giving it a squeeze. “You know me, Lovegood. If there’s Firewhisky, there is a high chance I am close by.”

Luna smiled. “Should I start leaving some Firewhisky in my bedroom, then?”

Amora choked on the drink she had been sipping at, spluttering and coughing as Theo smacked her on the back– not without a wide-eyed expression of his own written all over his face. It was the last thing she had been expecting to come out of oh-so-sweet-Lovegood’s mouth, especially with that airy, gentle tone she always used.

Pansy grinned, her tongue covering her teeth, but huffed and turned to look at Amora. “Would you stop hacking it up right in my ear? Puts me off.”

“S-Sor-ry!” Amora spluttered, finally feeling the tickle in the back of her throat calm down, punching her fist against her own chest in an attempt to ease the burn. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“That’s okay, Amora,” Luna said, “No need to apologise for things out of your control. Would you mind if I borrowed your friend?”

“You don’t have to ask them, Lovegood,” Pansy laughed and was immediately up and out of her seat, grasping Luna’s hand and pulling her up. “I’ll see you two tomorrow, then.”

Theo rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling ever so slightly. “Have fun, you two.”

Amora nudged him lightly with her elbow. “See you later.”

She watched them run off together, giggling and leaning on one another, Pansy’s hand sliding to the back of Luna’s jumper and grasping it. Amora smiled, shaking her head. She thought the two of them were sweet together, but Pansy had made it clear on numerous occasions that she did not want to get into a relationship with anybody in the midst of a raging war.

The Order had seen a lot of death. It affected them all— whether they were close to that person or not. Mostly because everytime a member would die, it was inevitable that you would be laying in bed that night, listening to their loved ones mourn until the early hours of the morning. The worst time was when it had happened to Theo. They had all really felt the pain then.

Yet still, the most unlikeliest of couples had emerged since the war had started. So much pain and anguish caused people to react in the funniest of ways. Many sought control by engaging in sexual activities with their former peers, others fell in love as if it was the last chance they would ever have to do so. Amora understood where Pansy was coming from. She didn’t think she would ever be able to put herself through that sort of heartbreak again.

“Blaise and Leon hang around each other quite a bit.”

Amora hummed as she snapped out of thought, jerking her head over at Theo who nursed some Firewhisky in a glass resting on his thigh. Her dark eyes darted over to the two boys mentioned— their card games long forgotten, but both sat off to the side with a beer each, chattering away, knees pulled up to their chests as they sat on the floor by the coffee table, in their own little world.

“They’re very similar,” Amora nodded, “So I suppose that makes sense.”

Theo exhaled through his nose in an amused breath. “Yeah, I suppose. Blaise was really worried about him the other day when you two went to go and check on Snape. I mean, he was worried about both of you, of course, but since Leon was bitten by Greyback, he’s been so…”

“Overprotective?” Amora suggested, “I know. I have noticed that, too, actually. It’s sweet.”

“Mhm,” Theo hummed, “I think he likes him. More than a friend.”

“Oh.” Amora perked up, shuffling upwards on the sofa, eyes wide. “Do you think so?”

“Yes,” Theo replied, “Blaise hasn’t said anything… I’m not even sure if he likes blokes— and I don’t know if he even realises he does either— if he even does— but… I don’t know. I just think, whether he realises it or not, Blaise has a thing for Leon.”

Amora thought about it for a long moment. She watched Blaise laugh and nudge Leon’s arm. Leon shook his head, dark hair falling in front of his eyes which he pushed away with a snicker of his own.

“You know, I think you’re onto something there, Detective Nott,” Amora said, “Maybe you should have a conversation with Blaise about it. So he knows he’s safe… coming out to you. If it’s true.”

Theo pursed his lips and glanced at Amora, leaning his head against the back of the sofa. “Yeah. I should. I will.”

Amora smiled softly and patted the hand he rested on his own knee. “Good. I wonder if Leon would ever fancy him back. I don’t know if he’s that way inclined either.”

The Nott man raised a brow at Amora. She pursed her lips.

“Is this another one of my completely-obvious moments?”

“At least you’re becoming more self-aware about them,” Theo teased.

Amora smiled and leaned back in her seat. It made her think about Kathy Redsoft, one of her best friends from the Hufflepuff house. She hadn’t seen Kathy since the war had broken out five years ago. Amora wasn’t sure whether Kathy was dead, if she fought with another resistance, or if perhaps she had converted to the Death Eaters’ cause for her own safety.

The last time Amora had seen Kathy was right before the war had broken out. They shared the same dormitory alongside the other sixth year Hufflepuff girls.

“See you in the morning,” Amora had said to her, just as they did every night since their first, but Amora awoke to explosions in the school— the Great Hall being obliterated above the Hufflepuff dormitories causing the ceiling to rattle abruptly— and then Sprout was attempting to evacuate them quickly, and, selfishly, all Amora cared about was finding Draco Malfoy.

She would never forgive herself. Especially when she found out that he had taken the Dark Mark. That it was Draco who had killed Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower that night and led Death Eaters into Hogwarts. That he had hidden this from her all year, as well as their other friends.

“Are you alright?” Theo gently nudged her, and she realised that he was taking the whiskey glass out from her fingertips. “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink for tonight.”

Amora swallowed thickly and rubbed her face with her hands, as if increasing blood flow to her face would make smiling a bit easier. Her muscles hurt from the frown they had been in, and yet it was hard to switch them the other way around— it felt more natural to purse her lips and furrow her brows.

“Maybe I have,” she said, “I might head back to my dormitory.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Theo said, “I’m knackered and I’d hate to interrupt whatever the hell Blaise and Leon are doing right now.”

Amora glanced back over at their friends. The two men were now doing some sort of handshake— or clapping game, Amora wasn’t sure. She chuckled quietly and waited for Theo to place both their glasses down on the side table before they took off in the direction of the dormitories.

It was comforting to walk in silence beside Theo, embracing the alcohol in her body and the fuzzy way that it made her feel, and to close her eyes for a moment as she walked the all too familiar path back to her home for the last five years. Headquarters wasn’t too bad, however, it was sterile and cold. This was probably to be expected when an undetectable extension charm had to be made quickly beneath 12 Grimmauld Place, where higher-up members of the Order resided in their free time.

“Thanks, Theo,” Amora said, as they stopped outside her door. “I’ll see you in the morning— Oh Merlin!”

She shrieked upon peeling the door open absentmindedly and coming across something that may just scar her for life. Pansy yelled her name furiously, and there was a mess of bed covers being yanked over herself and Luna, who immediately began to laugh.

Amora slammed the door shut hard. Her eyes were wide as they flickered to Theo’s face. He attempted to appear sympathetic and surprised, but then a snort escaped his nose and he was cackling. The dark-haired woman shoved him as he laughed even harder, his hand on her shoulder for balance.

“Y-Your face!” He howled, “Oh my Gods, that is potentially the funniest thing that has happened here. Ever.”

Amora scowled. “I feel violated.”

“Come on,” Theo laughed, “Come with me. You can camp in my dormitory until its over.”

“Pansy said lesbians never stop.” Amora’s face was white.

Theo crinkled his nose. “Blaise can top and tail with Leon then. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” Amora agreed, though the image of Pansy and Luna still burned in the back of her eyes and made her shudder.

Theo opened his door, just a few down from Amora and Pansy’s, and Amora moved in beneath his outstretched arm, catching a whiff of the Firewhisky and his cologne on him. She immediately flopped down onto Blaise’s bed.

“Everyone’s hooking up with one another!” Amora exclaimed, and shifted to look at Theo who had sat on the edge of his, looking at her. “Pans and Lovegood, Ginny’s back with Dean Thomas, I think even Lupin has a thing for Tonks. Now Blaise and Leon are probably going to be together in the next week or so!”

“Those two will pine for years, I know it,” Theo disclaimed.

Amora huffed. “I’m serious. I don’t know how everybody’s doing it!”

Theo pursed his lips and gave her a small, sympathetic look. “I know.”

“It’s really hard to indulge in… nice things like relationships or sex,” Amora murmured, “When I think about what’s going on outside these walls. And I think about how horrible it would be to get attached to another person and for it to all go wrong again.”

Theo nodded. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.” He was silent for a few moments. The only sound was his bedside clock ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

“Do you not think we deserve it, though?”

Amora furrowed her brows. “Hm?”

“I think people deserve a break from war,” Theo said, and his eyes burned into Blaise’s mattress rather than at Amora directly. “I think that people should have… have bits of happiness here and there. So it’s not all doom and gloom.”

Amora thought for a moment, sitting up as she did so, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her legs. “I agree,” she said, “I just don’t know how they all do it so easily.”

“Are you too scared to?” Theo furrowed his brows, and this time he did look her in the eye. “Is it because you’re worried that what happened… might happen again?”

Amora chuckled, scratching the back of her neck, trying to ignore the way her cheeks and ears were heating up. “I’m… I suppose I am scared of experiencing that same feeling again. Of having everything just ripped away and that… the sort of agony that I felt. I don’t want to feel it again.”

Theo’s head tilted to the side, and he pressed his lips in a thin line. “Can I try something?”

“What is it?”

Theo climbed off of his bed and over to Amora, his thigh pressed to hers, his hand holding her arm. Amora’s eyes were slightly wide, her lips parted in surprise, her heart hammering as his gaze flickered from her eyes to her mouth. She realised quickly what he meant.

Amora gave him a small nod. “Try it.”

Theo slowly moved in until his lips met Amora’s. For a moment, Amora felt like her heart was going to come out of her chest, and she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t have feelings for Theo, and she was nearly a hundred percent certain he had no romantic feelings for her, but it was such a surreal feeling to have somebody pressed up against her again, kissing her sweetly, a large hand tangling in the back of her dark hair.

Amora kissed him back, her eyes long fluttered shut, working out how similar and yet different Theo felt to past experiences. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but one face in particular kept jolting into her head. They tore away from one another.

“I—” Theo swallowed the lump in his throat, and Amora realised that his eyes had welled up with tears, threatening to spill over. He gave a bitter chuckle as he dried them with the back of his hands. “I don’t think I was ready for that, after all.”

Amora mirrored his expression, everything tugging in her chest in a painful and dull way. She grabbed him in a tight hug, squeezing him so tightly that for a moment he might think his pieces were coming back together.

“Fuck, Theo,” Amora muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, and pulled away from her grasp. “I wanted to. Just to know if I could move on. I mean…” His face scrunched up with his fists. “It’s been two fucking years! Two years, Amora, and I can’t even… I couldn’t have sex with somebody even if I really wanted to. Not without seeing her face.”

Amora frowned. “It’s okay, Theo. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s normal to mourn for a long time. You and Evangelina were together for years.”

He flinched at her name. Amora immediately wanted to blurt more apologies, knowing that her name was nearly as forbidden as Lord Voldemort’s, but she pinched her mouth shut, afraid it would make things even more awkward.

“But I deserve happiness,” Theo said, and his throat was croaky, his large hand running through his head of hair. “I deserve to move on.”

“You do,” Amora agreed and squeezed his hand. “In your own time. When you’re ready.”

“You deserve it, too,” Theo said, and Amora’s eyes widened a little. “He pulled a blind-one on all of us, Amora, and we all miss who we thought Draco was… but you’re the only one that still suffers for it.”

Amora shook her head, glancing down at her lap. “I… I have moved on. That was five years ago, Theo.” She laughed a little, in an ironic way. “I mean, that’s not to say I haven’t gained a few trust issues from it all, of course… But I have moved on from him. I don’t feel the same anymore. I just feel angry.”

Theo nodded. “I understand. I just think… you still punish yourself in a way. As if it was your fault he never told you. That you couldn’t help him, or stop him from doing what he did. I know for a fact that that when your cousin’s old friend— Fawley or whatever his name was— was flirting with you a few weeks ago that you liked it.”

“Uh!” Amora huffed, her cheeks glowing bright red as she glared at him. “No I did not. It was weird! He was Cedric’s best friend!”

“Oh, come on,” Theo laughed, “It was clear as day on your face that you fancied him back. I don’t believe that you didn’t let it go beyond flirting because he used to be friends with Cedric.”

Amora felt herself getting a bit angry, her nose scrunching. “I don’t appreciate you implying I still have feelings for him. I don’t, Theo. I honestly don’t anymore.”

“I know, I know,” Theo said, “I believe that. I really do. I just think that perhaps you won’t let people get close romantically because of him. And I think that’s a shame because I know you have so much love to give, Amora.”

Amora smiled timidly, though it didn’t really meet her eyes. “Thanks, Theo. Not entirely sure how I feel about you psychologically analysing me and my relationship with relationships, but thank you for looking out for me.”

“Of course,” Theo replied and squeezed her hand. “Take my bed, if you’d like. That way, when Blaise comes back, he won’t try and cuddle up to you in his drunken state.”

Amora laughed at the thought. “So you’ll be stealing his cuddles for me, then?”

Theo chuckled. “Sucks to be you.”

D.M + A.B

Two days later, Theodore Nott was banished from the Order of the Phoenix.

Amora only found out when she was strapped down to a chair and probed by the same Interrogators that usually had captured Death Eaters in the exact seat she sat in. Moody and Lupin stood in the corner of the room, arms folded, watching as she sobbed the same few words through tears.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m telling the truth.”

Occlumency was used against her. Amora was a great Occlumens— as most Order members were— but she did not bother putting up any boundaries. They delved into her friendship with Theo, from Hogwarts all the way up to the previous night where she had been sat with him and the rest of their friends, drinking hot tea and talking about the most random of things.

What do you know about the defection of Theodore Nott?

Did you know he has been communicating with Death Eaters for the last year?

Were you helping him deliver secret parcels to Death Eaters during days off in the Muggle world?

“It’s true,” the Interrogator eventually said, turning to face Moody and Lupin as the bands around her wrists and ankles vanished. “She did not know Nott was defected.”

Amora moved into the hallway, her body stiff. It didn’t feel like her own. She had to force every heavy step, remember to breathe, make herself turn and face her friends. A sobbing Pansy grabbed her in a hug.

“Did they say the same thing to you?” She heaved.

Amora nodded against her. “I can’t believe it.”

“It feels like Malfoy all over again,” Blaise said, and Amora stiffened, her mind going back to the conversation she’d had with Theo a few nights ago.

“He wouldn’t do this to us.” Amora shook her head. “Theo doesn’t believe in Pureblood supremacy.”

“That’s what we said last time—”

“Theo is not Draco,” Pansy sobbed, “He was helping the Order. It must be some sort of misunderstanding. Or he was being threatened. There has to be a logical reason for all of—”

“Mr Nott took full accountability for betraying the Order of the Phoenix,” Moody said from behind them, and the group of young adults whirled around, surprised. “We discovered he had been heading to one of their Headquarters regularly, unknown parcels in his possession. He admitted to aiding the Death Eaters.”

“No,” Pansy choked.

Blaise grabbed her shoulder. He squeezed Amora’s arm with his other hand. Even Leon looked as though he had seen a ghost, his face pale, eyes burning into the floor, flickering.

“Unfortunately yes, Miss Parkinson,” Moody said, “He said he acted alone, but we had to interview your group to be on the safe side, of course. Others will face interrogation, also.”

“What’s happened to him now?” Leon asked, brows furrowed. He sounded a bit numb, but was evidently the most stable between the group of friends. “Is he…”

“That is the most concerning part, Holloway. He’s escaped.”

“What?” Blaise sucked in a breath. “What do you mean that he escaped?”

“It means exactly what it means!” Moody growled, “Lupin was in the middle of restraining him— he was confessing before we had made it to the interrogation room— then he Apparated. Poof! Gone! He knew there would be Apparation Wards. He did it while he could still get away.”

That did sound quite guilty to Amora. She swiped at her tears and buried her face back in Pansy’s neck.

“This isn’t real,” she whispered, “This isn’t real.”

Pansy held her tighter. A painful pinch of reality. This was real.

Amora had seen this before. She knew the disbelief would soon replace itself with depression and then anger. So much anger. She didn’t think she was capable of any more of the stuff.

“If anybody sees Theodore Nott,” Moody growled, “It is immediate Killing Curse. Merlin knows what he is telling them right at this very second.”

Chapter Text

To say that Theodore Nott’s betrayal rattled the Order of the Phoenix would be the understatement of the year. People were looking at Amora’s friend group as if they were going to lift their sleeves and reveal a Dark Mark tattoo at any second. She wasn’t as oblivious as to be unaware of all of the whispers happening as soon as she entered a room. An odd sort of nostalgia followed those hushed voices and intense stares. She had been through this before. Never was she the centre of attention for good things during her time at Hogwarts. This was no different, except maybe the stakes were higher.

“Leon reckons you have a curse,” Blaise stated, planting himself down opposite Amora, immediately reaching for the box of cereal to the left of them.

Amora raised an eyebrow when Leon sat down beside Blaise, elbowing him roughly and shooting him a warning look. She stirred the coffee in front of her with wandless magic, her finger swirling circles above the steaming drink. It was all she could stomach that morning.

“And what curse would that be, Blaise?” She hoped he could detect her unimpressed tone as a dare.

“Every boy you kiss ends up following the Dark Lord,” Blaise snickered.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s fucking tasteless, you arsehole.” She stood up from her seat, rolled a teatowel with both hands and then smacked him around the head with it.

Blaise yelped and grabbed the side of his face. “Hey! Leon said it.”

“You two have shit for brains,” Pansy scowled, “You don’t say stuff like that. It’s fucking awful.”

Amora sighed heavily. “Yeah. It’s too soon.”

“It’s been a week,” Blaise said, “And if I don’t poke jokes, I think I’ll think about it too much.”

She knew what he meant. It was so easy to lay in bed each night and think about the last five years they had spent as Order members with Theo. To try and pinpoint the very moment he may have betrayed them all. Whether it was towards the start or the end, maybe somewhere in the middle. Had it been an easy choice? What was in it for him? Did Theo genuinely believe in blood supremacy? Had the signs been obvious? Who was he—

“Amora.” Pansy clicked her fingers in front of her face and the brunette shuddered, blinking back to life. “Don’t listen to those two. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“It was just a joke,” Leon grumbled.

Amora thought of Theo and saw Draco. She could hear both their laughs— entangled into one— and wondered how such a pure sound could come from somebody who was able to be so manipulative and secretive. She saw both their smiles and felt her heart clench. Theo’s forced departure from the Order was bringing up so many old feelings.

It was agonising. That pain in her chest, the palpitations that came every few minutes for weeks afterwards. The excuses she came up with in her head! After she had found out about Draco, she waited and waited and waited for him to show up with an excuse. It took her a year of Order meetings to realise he wasn’t going to walk through the door with Severus Snape. She wore her charmed necklace against her skin for two years and then accepted it would never warm again before throwing it away.

Draco wasn’t going to come back for her. It was real. He had no ulterior motive. He wanted to work for the Dark Lord. He had never been the person she thought he was. He could live without her.

Only when she accepted that was she able to stop mourning him. Mourning them. And most importantly, mourning the person she was when she had been with him.

With that experience under her belt, it was much easier to apply it to Theo. The sooner she accepted the facts, the sooner she would be able to move on again.

It was easier said than done.

“Meeting at half past twelve,” Luna said, squeezing Pansy’s shoulder, and then floated off to the next table of people to repeat the information, “Meeting at twelve-thirty.” and so on.

Amora felt a lump in her throat form, solid and sharp, filling her chest and squeezing her heart. Absentmindedly she stopped stirring her drink, her fingers clenching into a fist. Her friends burned looks into each other, a collection of furrowed brows and pursed lips. A mutual feeling of dread had settled upon their shoulders, sinking them onto the seats beneath them.

For a moment, nobody said anything, and then Leon sucked in a breath and deflated. “That’s never a good sign,” he said solemnly as if already mourning for whatever it was that was about to happen.

“It must be the group he sent away,” Amora realised quickly, and she felt queasy like she needed to rest her head on the table for a moment to stop it spinning and whirring. “The twins, Wood- Neville. For the food supplier job. It’s been ages since they were supposed to be back.”

“I think you’re probably right,” Blaise said uneasily, “I heard people talking about it yesterday. Delacour and her friends—”

“Why were you hanging around Delacour and her mates?” Leon said, scrunching his nose up.

“Is that really relevant?” Blaise shot him a look and spoke over Leon’s splutters. “Obviously she’s got that thing going on with Bill Weasley, who told her he hasn’t heard from his brothers, either. It’s been completely silent.”

Pansy sighed and pressed her hands to her face, spreading her fingers to her temples and rubbing hard circles.

“Okay. Let’s expect the worst then,” Pansy said and stabbed her fork into the bowl of fruit.

Amora struggled to concentrate for the next few hours. Leon went back to bed in an attempt to sleep his nerves away. They should be used to casualties being announced by now, but when those casualties were people you went to school with, there was always this secondary sort of grief that brought about panic and kicked things into perspective.

She sat in the library for hours, cross-legged on the floor of the tiny fiction section that they had— all donated from Order members’ personal libraries. She read Muggle and Wizarding books. Thriller, crime, romance, comedy, coming of age… Over the last five years, Amora had discovered some of the best and worst books she had ever read. She and Pansy had bets over which witch had brought Muggle books with shirtless, ripped men on the covers, all containing cringe-worthy titles such as “The Billionaire’s Wife”.

At first, Amora bet on Professor McGonagall. When Pansy thought it could be Molly Weasley, she had to agree. They spent countless evenings giggling over the covers and reading lines to one another when there was nothing else to do. The boys had even gotten involved before, after a few too many drinks at a birthday celebration. Leon had been worryingly good at playing the role of the innocent, shy young woman who wanted nothing to do with Pansy’s version of ripped, manipulative boss.

Dragging herself to the meeting hall was a chore. She found Pansy on the way, and the two filed into the room which used to get so full that people would have to stand around the walls but now could accommodate chairs for dozens more.

“Settle down, settle down,” Lupin demanded, and chattering became whispers which became nervous silence. Rows of faces stared up at him. “Thank you all for attending this meeting today. I’ll try to keep this as short as possible. It’s going to be quite heavy.”

Moody hobbled over, slamming his stick down next to Lupin. “As you all know, Snape was murdered by Death Eaters. As our only source of information, we relied on him heavily. We were forced to send a few of our own into a mission which had extremely high stakes.”

Amora looked around anxiously. She could see no heads of red hair from where she sat. Her suspicions were confirmed. The families had already been told.

“Without Snape, we had no choice but to send our people in mostly blind,” Lupin continued and pursed his lips for a moment. “The mission was unavoidable. If we had done nothing, our food suppliers would have been eradicated. Our people were successful. They saved us from starvation or disbandment due to lack of resources. However, I dread to inform you all that they were unsuccessful in returning to us safely.”

There were gasps around the room, some cries, and a few whispers, but to say that most of the hall had worked it out by now was an understatement. They were days late coming back by now, and close friends and family had probably already started their mourning a while back. Amora felt her heart fall all the same.

“Oliver Wood. Fred Weasley. George Weasley. Neville Longbottom,” Moody announced gruffly, and with every name, Amora felt worse and worse. Especially Neville, her first friend on the Hogwarts Express. The first person to show her kindness. “Do not forget their names. Say them out loud. Remember what they have done for us. Eat every meal— savour every bite, and never complain a-fucking-gain. They died for you to eat. For you to fight for the cause.”

“A minute of silence for our fallen, please,” Lupin said as if the room was not already drowning in it.

Every witch and wizard raised their wands in the air. Amora swallowed as she looked to the front and found Moody staring at one face in the crowd.

Hers.

D.M + A.B

“I think you’ve been acting strange recently.”

If Draco was surprised, he didn’t show it on his face. He stopped chopping the griffin’s claw he’d working on, and still did not look at the shorter girl beside him. Amora studied him as if she would catch him— watch his Adam’s apple bob in a gulp, his nose twitch, his shoulders tense…

Draco just hummed. “How come?”

“I’m not sure exactly which bits to pinpoint,” Amora said softly, stirring their potion anti-clockwise, glancing down at the dark purple simmering liquid. It was easier to look at that rather than his face. It felt like she could talk properly. Say what she meant.

“You could try,” Draco snorted slightly, and then started to dice the claw even smaller. “Then I’ll know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Amora said, and couldn’t help but reach a comforting hand out, squeezing his bicep through his dark robes. “I’m just slightly worried. You seem to be keeping to yourself a bit more this year. Pans, Blaise, and Theo have said the same thing.”

Draco sighed. “I’m just trying to pay more attention this year,” he replied, “Doing some extra homework and whatnot to get on the teachers’ good sides. What with my father being sent to Azkaban and all… it’s good for the family image if at least one of us is excelling at something.”

Draco lifted the wooden board and used his knife to scrape the griffin claw into the potion. “Three more stirs,” he said.

Amora did as he told her. After three gentle turns, she took out the large spoon and placed it in the decontaminator jar. Instantly, purple glitter evaporated from it, dispersing in the water and dissolving completely. She wiped her hands on the apron she wore before untying it from around her waist and rolling down her sleeves.

Draco was lifting their small cauldron to the other side of the classroom. He left it behind the label that had both their names on it. On the same shelf sat the cauldrons of other pairs in their class, some of which looked amazing, and others which were already going wrong.

“Now we need to leave it for ten days and then add some more griffin claw, then ten more stirs whilst on the heat,” Draco said, and ticked the worksheet beside their assignment. Sixth year Potions was such a chore.

Amora grabbed Draco’s hand as soon as he released the quill, pulling him around. She grabbed his face, fingertips reaching the soft lengths of his platinum-white hair, and then yanked him down to a kiss. One of his large hands planted on her shoulder, as if to steady himself from the surprise, and dug in as his lips moved against hers roughly.

She gasped when Draco’s other hand moved down towards her backside, giving it a small squeeze. Her nails grazed his neck, his entire body shivering, a thigh moving between her legs. Draco shoved her backwards against the cabinet, a mess of billowing robes and tangled mouths, hands everywhere, and then Amora was pushed too roughly and there was a loud crash and the gushing sound of liquid.

Amora yelped as they tore apart, dark eyes wide, her arms flying around Draco’s neck as he yanked her quickly off of the side. A warm liquid covered the back of her robes and had seeped into her uniform beneath it. She quickly pulled it off of her body. Draco grabbed it from her hands.

“Shit,” he said, “You have about ten seconds before that burns through your skin.”

“What!?” Amora screeched, but before she could start yanking her skirt down in the empty classroom, Draco was bending over, laughing. “What on earth? Help me!”

Amora faltered, cheeks warm, feeling utterly flustered as she watched the corners of his eyes crinkle, his lips turning up into a wide grin. His laugh was like hearing a song she hadn’t heard in years. A good one.

“That is a horrible joke,” Amora spat at him and shoved him with her elbow, though she couldn’t help the corners of her lips twitching, too. “Absolutely awful.”

“I couldn’t resist,” Draco grinned easily, and rested his hands on her hips, drawing her closer. “I mean, it would have burnt you, so that was stupid, but luckily it was Weasley and Potter’s potion.” he gestured to the name tag that now had nothing but a knocked-over cauldron on it. “They haven’t updated their healing potion in three weeks. The worst thing in it is dragon liver right now.”

“Nice,” Amora cringed, pinching the bottom of her skirt and grimacing. “I’m all soaked in dragon liver.”

“Here.” He shrugged off his robes and then placed them delicately on Amora’s shoulders.

She secretly inhaled the smell of his clothes. Peppermint. Aftershave. Fresh linen. Her heart fluttered as if she was just a girl with a stupid crush on him. This was her boyfriend of two years and she swore those butterflies would never be set free.

“Thanks,” she tried to sound as though she was still annoyed. “What do we do about their potion now?”

Draco glanced over at it and pulled his wand out. “Scourgify.”

The liquid cleaned itself up, and he manually grasped the small cauldron, pulling it back onto its stand. It was now empty. He hummed for a moment, deep in thought, and then his silver eyes twinkled the way they always did when he had something up his sleeve.

“How about…” He grinned, “We help Potter and Weaselbee out with their potion?”

Amora tried to resist the urge to smile. She knew it was wrong, but Merlin forbid they have a little bit of fun that year.

Into the ingredients cupboard, they disappeared.

...

How could she put herself through that again? How could she look Draco in the eyes again and pretend that she would do anything to hurt him as he hurt her? Like he hurt her friends. How could she see Theo whilst his betrayal was so fresh?

Amora paced back and forth in her bedroom. Most people had retreated to their own confide spaces after the meeting, some silently and some audibly processing the news, but Pansy had gone somewhere with Luna. No matter how much Pansy insisted she only liked Luna as a stress relief, Amora knew her best friend was only kidding herself.

It was silent aside from sobs coming down the hall, in one of the rooms. Amora banged her head against her small desk, keeping in there, closing her eyes, painfully slumping against the wood. She couldn’t believe that people her age had died— an entire group of people— and it could have potentially been prevented.

All she kept thinking about was Neville. His kindness, his bravery, his willingness to always do the right thing. He was dead. He was dead and somebody could have done something. Somebody could have helped him.

She could have. She could help others in the future. Selfishly, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with the Death Eaters that murdered people like Neville Longbottom. She didn’t want to associate herself with people who believed Purebloods were superior to everybody else. Nor did she want people to think she could ever possibly agree with the side that murdered innocent families— children!

It made her feel nauseous. She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Thought. Debated out loud. Even cried a little bit. She slept on it. By morning, she had her answer for Moody and Lupin.

D.M + A.B

The sterile office felt colder than ever. Amora wondered if it was supposed to be that way so you felt intimidated. So that Lupin and Moody appeared more in control, and more powerful. Perhaps so you would associate the room was the utmost importance— with nothing but business.

This was just business to them. She was a sacrifice that they were willing to make.

Neither of them smiled when she said they would do it. It made her more nervous. As if she had just signed away her life, which, she supposed she had for a while, if she made it out of this alive. It was for a good cause. She knew this. Amora knew that if she was going to die, she had always wanted it to be for something. Something noble like this.

“Thank you, Miss Buckley,” Moody said, “We think you have made the right choice. You’ll be a very valuable asset from now on.”

Asset. From now on.

“We’ll have to go over the plans,” Lupin nodded in agreement. “We won’t send you in without as much training and information as we can possibly give you. As long as you’re a quick learner, you should be on the field in the next… three weeks, I’d say.”

“Three weeks,” Amora breathed. “That’s— that’s nothing.”

“Times are hard, Miss Buckley,” Moody said gravely, narrowing his eyes at her. “We cannot afford any more casualties. The Order are dropping like flies. There’s talk of people wanting to leave due to our worsening conditions. So much sacrifice and death, little reward. Morale is at an all-time low. We could be wiped out within the year if we’re not careful.”

Amora swallowed that lump in her throat. The one that had been there for days now. She forced a nod, though her head felt as if it weighed a tonne and her neck was stiff.

“Right.” She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “I’m eager to learn it all. I want this to work.”

“Of course you do,” Moody said, “There are grave consequences for yourself if you fail. I’m sure you can read between the lines and realise that.”

Amora winced. “Yes. I’m not… I’m not stupid, Moody.”

Lupin sighed and sent a pointed look to the shorter man. “Buckley, we’re going to need you to learn Occlumency. I know you’ve already been trained in it, but you’ll need more. We have people who can help you with that. We’ll give you some books on dark magic, too. You’ll need to know some dark spells, most likely they will ask what you know— you’ll need to seem interested and know a thing or two.”

Amora nodded along. “Should I… Can I take notes or something? I don’t want to forget.”

Lupin chuckled a little. “No need for notes. We’ll take it day by day. You’ll be spending a lot of time with Moody and me from now on. We’ll go over the process the Death Eaters take when you need to prove your loyalty to them. They use a Pensive. We’ll have to create some fake memories for you. Some information… will have to be Obliviated, Miss Buckley. In case of worst case scenario, so the Order is not compromised.”

Amora froze. She thought of Pansy, Blaise, and Leon.

“Like what?”

“Locations of Order headquarters, important passwords, current plans and strategies we are taking, any secret magical defences we have…” Lupin listed, “Things like that.”

Amora furrowed her brows and thought for a moment. “But… How will I explain these gaps in my memory to them? The first thing they may ask me is what you are planning, and where the headquarters are. What do I say?”

“We’ll fabricate a memory for you, that they will see at your trial,” Moody said, “An entire spectacle in which we confront you, and Obliviate you before releasing you onto neutral territory– like we do with most of the Death Eaters we interrogate.”

All of the Death Eaters were released after interrogation to keep as much peace as possible, and all were Obliviated from the point of turning up on the mission they had been captured on. Most of these Death Eaters had memories inserted that felt real but were fake. For example, Moody often gave them wrong addresses for headquarters, or wrong details of attacks, so the Order could turn up and attack with the upper hand. Some were also given a new version of the Trace that Slughorn and Snape had co-developed, in which the Order were able to see where the Death Eaters went— until they realised that they were being tracked and managed to remove the Trace. Now, the Death Eaters knew to expect it— the first thing they often did after being captured was find somebody who could deactivate it for them. How they had learned to do it was beyond Amora. Despite their morals and values being completely stupid and irrational, she supposed they must have some smart wizards and witches among their ranks.

“Okay,” Amora said, “And how will they ever believe that I have defected? My mother was the Muggle Studies teacher— and they murdered her! Publicly, nevertheless. They know I would have seen it. They know I would be fucking furious.”

“You use just that,” Moody said, “You use your anger and you direct it elsewhere.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“When your mother was murdered, you had always blamed the Order deep down,” Lupin said, “That is what you will say. You will say the Order did not do everything they could to protect her. A part of you has resented them since. When you felt strong enough to read her work, you couldn’t believe she had put everything on the line to defend Muggleborns, especially when you were Purebloods. You thought it was stupid she would sacrifice herself for a cause that didn’t impact you. You realised—”

“I realised I share the same ideologies as Death Eaters,” Amora deadpanned, a bitter expression on her face.

She breathed in and thought of that day about five years ago now. The day her mother left her behind. Elle Buckley had been missing for weeks, then months. When the Ministry had finally been fully infiltrated by the Death Eaters, Voldemort celebrated with the public execution of many of his prisoners.

Garrick Ollivander.

Arthur Weasley.

Andromeda and Ted Tonks.

Madam Pomfrey.

Xenophilius Lovegood.

Hermione Granger.

Elle Buckley.

“We know it will be hard,” Lupin attempted to sympathise. “We know it is most likely the last thing you will want to say. We attempted to create other reasons— such as using your relationship with Draco Malfoy as an advantage point. We thought you could lean into that, but we’ve decided you would be at more of an advantage if people were not aware of your past connection.”

Amora furrowed her brows. “I have to hide it.”

She was good at that. She certainly had experience in it.

“Yes,” Moody said, “Malfoy will know, of course, but if he has any sense he’ll keep it to himself. He’ll want answers from you. You use that. Negotiate. But if others find out, they may try and keep the two of you apart— or they will keep a closer eye on you, or exploit it as a weakness. Either way, it’s not safe. You just need to blend in and keep your cover. The Dark Lord does not have a sympathetic bone for star-crossed lovers, Buckley. It will only heighten tensions.”

“Got it,” she muttered. She supposed it made sense. Besides, she didn’t want to play the part of the lovesick girl who was willing to change sides to be with a man she had not seen since she was seventeen. That would only make the situation harder.

“Great,” Lupin said, sliding some Muggle money across the desk. “Go and spend the day doing whatever you please. Tomorrow, come here straight after breakfast. You’ll start your training right away.”

Amora took the money and crumpled it in her palm. If rationed properly, she could take her friends out for a meal. And maybe she could pick up her last pick’n’mix for a while on the way back.

Chapter Text

 They didn’t let her say goodbye. Or at least she couldn’t remember them letting her say goodbye. She could hear sobs echoing in her eardrums if she concentrated hard, but she didn’t know if they had been hers or somebody else’s. If that had been ten minutes ago or if it had been ten hours ago. 

 They had left her nothing but the clothes on her back and her wand. Amora grabbed it out of her pocket, pressing her body against the wall of the building behind her as two drunken men stumbled past, cursing and leaning on one another, unrecognisable with their dark hoods pulled upwards. She exhaled as soon as they had disappeared, white whisps forming clouds. She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and looked around. 

 Diagon Alley was unrecognisable. Filled with dark magic, bleak colours, and Voldemort propaganda, it was no longer the place every witch and wizard had grown up loving. The only windows glowing light were the pubs dotted down the cobblestone street. It was not lively like it had been before the war.  There was no music, no laughter. If it was all happiness had been sucked from the earth and banned entirely. 

 Amora willed herself to push away from the wall. She was scared— terrified, even. If something went wrong, Amora did not know what to do. She thought as hard as she could, she tried to remember where to Apparate— where there was a headquarters, a friend’s house… However, there were huge gaps, blank slates, and pieces that couldn’t be put together in the puzzle. 

 “One… two… three.” 

Amora’s hands shoved herself off of the wall. She began to walk, straightened her back, and kept her chin high. There was a part she had to play. It was what she had been training for nonstop for nearly a month now. This was everything she had been anticipating. She was not Amora, Order member, part of the resistance, or a Pureblood traitor. She was Amora the Death Eater apologist, the Pureblood supremacist, the one who wanted revenge against a resilience that did not look out for people like her. 

 The new Amora moved over to the Leaky Cauldron and pushed open the door like a regular, strolling inside. She closed the door behind her quietly and immediately noticed she was different to everybody else inside. The pub was bustling with wizards of all ages upwards from seventeen, but not a single witch took space on a stool. The only lady stood behind the bar, tucked behind her husband, her pale face solemn as she dried glasses by hand. When her eyes landed on Amora, she paused, her mouth dropping open a little, and she nudged the large man beside her. 

  Amora tried not to flinch. She subtly gritted her teeth together on one side and forced her feet over to the bar. It was busy with men attempting to get a drink. She hardly had to look around to notice that most of them were drunk beyond proper comprehension, bleary-eyed and stumbling over words. It was a Tuesday night. Her first theory was that these men were coping with their anxieties over the war the only way they knew how— by drowning them. Amora had no sympathy for them.

 She wondered how many of the men in here were Death Eaters. How many of them had dressed up in their dark cloaks and masks and tried to kill her at some point or another? Had any of them killed her friends before? Neville? 

 “I’ve never seen you around here before.” 

 Amora glanced at the man who had taken a seat on the barstool next to her. He was older than her by a few years maybe. Sometimes it was hard to tell how old somebody might be because war made you look older than you were. She didn’t recognise him from school. He had dark hair, the iciest of eyes, and pale skin. Dark gloves covered the hand nursing a glass of Firewhisky, his lips pursing together as he turned his body to drink her in. 

 “It’s my first time,” Amora replied and looked him up and down also, her nose crinkling for a second. He wasn’t ugly— he was quite attractive— but she needed to be intimidating if she wanted to survive this world. 

 “Not very ladylike of you,” he replied and sipped his drink before placing it onto the bar top. “Though I don’t quite mind that. You’re a bit of a rebel, aren’t you? Coming out drinking.”

 “I haven’t had anything to drink yet ,” Amora hummed. 

 The man’s face lit up into a smirk and he was quickly snapping a gloved finger at the man behind the bar. “Two more Firewhisky’s.” He looked down at her. “What are you doing out here? Does your father know you’re out past curfew? Or husband?” 

 “I’m not married,” she told the man, “Nor do I have a father. I guess that makes me a free woman?”

 He whistled at her and barked a laugh. “Very good. I like that. My name’s Caspian. Yours?”

  The bartender put the glasses down before them and eyed Amora suspiciously. She guessed he had no problem serving her if somebody paid  for her. Either that, or he had summoned someone to come and get her and she would be taken in the next minute or so. Either way, it was what Amora wanted. She wanted the context of this new Wizarding World— not what propaganda said it was like, but what it truly was— and she needed to be taken in by the authorities to devote herself to the cause. 

 “Amora Buckley,” she told Caspian, and slid her hand into his, shaking it. “Thanks for the drink.”

 “Buckley sounds familiar,” he said, “Sacred Twenty-Eight?”

 “Of course,” Amora scoffed, “I need to ask you… Where are all of the women, Caspian?”

 Caspian laughed, but his face faltered upon realising her serious expression. “How do you not know?” 

 “I’ve been rogue,” Amora told him, “I like to do my own thing. I’ve been tempted to come back for some time now. I’ve realised my politics align much closer to that of the Dark Lord’s than the Order’s.”

 “Shit,” Caspian cursed, lowering his voice and moving closer to her. “Fuck. Really? You serious?”

 Amora nodded. “I’m waiting to be captured and taken in,” she told him, rolling her wrist to stir the ice in her drink, then taking a large gulp. “So I can start my new life here. Join the cause.”

 Caspian grabbed his drink, wide eyes not leaving hers, drinking and drinking until it was gone. He slammed it back onto the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

 “You’re brave,” he chuckled, though there was certainly a lack of humour there. “But welcome, I guess. I could take you to the BMA before someone summons them here and makes a scene if you’d like.”  

 Amora thought for a moment. “Can I ask you questions on the way?”

 “Yeah,” Caspian chuckled. “Why not?”

 “What’s with the lack of women, then?” Amora said, climbing off of the barstool, trying to ignore the stares burning into her. It had been a lot easier when she’d had her back turned to them. They weaved in and out of the crowds to head for the doors.

 “It’s part of the Purity and Preservation Act,” Caspian said, “No women allowed out past sundown. For your own safety, of course. I work for the Wizengamot, actually. I was a part of the legislative assembly that—” 

 As they reached the front doors, two large men shifted to stand in front of it, wands drawn and their grips tight. They wore hard looks, structures tense and spread so neither could even think of squirming around. Amora’s instinct was to reach for the wand she had in her pocket, but the last thing she needed to do was start a bar fight before handing herself over to the Bureau of Magical Allegiance. It would make her case a lot harder.

 “Not so fast,” the one with dark hair growled at her. “What’s a lady like you doing out so late, hm? Is your patriarch aware you’re roaming the streets and breaking—”

 “It’s Buckley!” Somebody shrieked, “From school. Amora Buckley.”

 Amora’s head whipped around, her heart freezing in her chest. She didn’t recognise the voice of Graham Montague, but when he stood right behind her, she recognised his face all too well. A Slytherin student a few years above, he’d asked Amora to the Yule Ball when she was fourteen and he was seventeen. He had a violent streak when it came to Quidditch games. Woman or not, everybody on the opposing team had to be made aware of his temper. 

 “My, my,” Montague snickered, and his hand grasped her face. Amora tried to wriggle out of his hold. He felt like he had the right to grab her.  He thought because he could that it was his right. “What a sight for sore eyes you are, Buckley.” He dug his fingers in and made her cry out. “Maybe I’d fuck you if you weren’t such a filthy fucking blood traitor. What the fuck are you doing here?” 

 You could have heard a pin drop. People watched as she squirmed in his grip. Another man came up behind her and stripped her of her wand, holding it away from her as if she stood a chance against a pub full of armed men. At least they weren’t underestimating her, she supposed.

 “I’m not a blood traitor,” Amora hissed, her hand reaching up to grab his wrist. “Let me go. Caspian here was taking me to the BMA. So I can officially declare myself.”

 “No need,” the bartender said, pushing through the crowd. “I’ve already called them. Let her go, Montague.”

  He magically bound Amora’s wrists behind her back, and Montague roughly released her, her cheek and jaw aching, stinging like his fingers were still digging in. 

 “Maybe I would fuck you then,” he laughed. There seemed to be roars of agreement, laughter everywhere, louder and louder, and Amora realised she had faced magical creatures with claws and sharp teeth and wizards with a million tricks up their wands, but never had she been as scared as she was there and then, surrounded by a hundred men, mocking the thought of raping her. 

 A hand smaller than the rest grasped her bicep and tugged her backwards. Amora’s head flicked around quickly, eyes wide and horrified, and she hated how they could see what their words were doing to her, but she immediately felt a sense of relief upon seeing the bartender’s wife. Her face was stern but her eyes didn’t quite match. At least she was a woman. 

 “You can wait in the back,” she said, pulling Amora away, calling over her shoulder, “Show is over gentlemen. Return home to your wives if you’re in the mood to fuck somebody. Otherwise, you have each other.”

 There were a few laughs, but most of the noise that Amora heard over her blood rushing in her ears contained those of protest and annoyance. Amora was sure the bartender was even cursed out and threatened by a few of them. She trembled as the lady took her through one of the doors, the noise immediately drowning out. She pushed Amora through a narrow corridor, scattered with shoe racks and coats and photo frames— the pub owners’ home, she realised.

 “Sit,” she ordered once they reached the kitchen. “You want some water?”

 Amora placed herself on the hardwood of one of the dining chairs. She nodded at the lady. Her dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and her bony hands were also slightly shaky as she whizzed around the small kitchen area, nearly knocking a glass over as she grabbed one straight off the dishrack. She turned the tap on and filled it nearly to the top with cold water. She held it out and huffed when she remembered Amora’s hands were tied behind her. 

 “Open your mouth then.”

 Amora did as she was told, her lips parting slightly, welcoming the cold water the lady carefully tipped in. She nodded when she was done, water beads dripping down her chin and dampening the top of her shirt. The lady put the glass down on the table and sighed. 

 “Bloody sods out there. Can’t keep their grimy hands to themselves. Even the ones with wives,” she spat. 

 “What is the preservation act?” Amora asked her, her fingers fiddling with the wooden grooves of the chair behind her. “That man— Caspian— he was saying that was why there are no women out. Why are you out?”

 The woman scoffed. “The Purity and Preservation Act. That’s been in place for about a year now. You better get used to it if you’re integrating here. Better find yourself a nice husband if you don’t have a daddy. Or I’ve heard of a few high-up men that have several wives. That might be easier. Less pressure on you, that way. Or go and work in the factories.” 

 Amora’s heart thumped loudly. As far as she remembered, Moody and Lupin had told her nothing about this act. They had said nothing about the sexism these women were facing— or that men had found a way to have complete and utter control, not only over Muggleborns but even their Pureblood and Halfblood women. 

 “I– I don’t understand,” Amora’s voice cracked. Send me back. Please. Someone send me back. “What is it exactly? What does it mean?”

 “It means women are protected by their patriarch. You must consult your patriarch before you go out of the house, and definitely, no going out past sundown or partaking in dangerous acts like drinking. They need to keep an eye on us. Make sure we aren’t getting into trouble,” the lady told her. “Pureblood and Halfblood women must be preserved. Without us, there are no children. No children, no future.” 

 The air was caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Amora’s eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape. There was none. They had her wand. Her hands weren’t free. She couldn’t remember where to Apparate. She had nobody here. She wanted to go home— whatever that was, she couldn’t remember. She had a feeling it involved Pansy. Amora wanted Pansy.

 “That’s…” Amora whispered, “That’s not protecting. That’s controlling.”

 The lady sneered in her face. “Still think this is what you want?”

 “Why are you allowed in the pub?” Amora asked her, “Are there loopholes?”

 “Why am I allowed out there?” She chuckled bitterly and grabbed a glass of wine that had been left on the table. Amora noticed the glass bin to the side was filled to the bin with identical bottles. “Because men don’t care to ‘protect’ you if you have no use to them—”

 Suddenly, there were four cracking sounds and the tiny kitchen was filled to the brim with people. The lady’s husband opened the door at the sound and sent his wife a look. She followed him out of the room like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Amora pursed her lips as she looked at the men in the dark cloaks. They did not wear masks, but Amora didn’t recognise any of the older men. 

 One reached out a gloved hand and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet. “State your name and your reason for being on the Dark Lord’s territory.”

 “My name is Amora Buckley,” she said as confidently as she could. “And I wish to declare myself at the BMA as a follower of the Dark Lord.”

 D.M + A.B

 Amora had no way of figuring out where exactly she was. The Bureau of Magical Allegiance could be in London or it could be somewhere in the middle of the country– she had no way of telling. She had been Apparated there, searched manually and with magic, and forced into what appeared to be the old Azkaban uniform. Amora knew that if Leon or Blaise had been there, they probably would have made some joke about the Death Eaters’ recycling at the very least. 

 It was scratchy and slightly too big for her, and the lack of shoes meant her feet were freezing on the marble flooring beneath her. The interior was grand, almost reminding Amora of the Gringotts bank. Huge pillars made of marble held up high ceilings, archways embedded with jewels twinkling and chandeliers hanging and glittering like mirror balls. The rooms were large and spacious, a few desks dotted around with wizards sitting behind them, pressing the keys on typewriters and reading piles of books. 

 Her hands had been chained in front of her now, which helped with her balance at least. Not that they allowed her to walk alone. A Death Eater had a hand on her shoulder at all times, roughly tugging her this way and that way. They forced her into a seat opposite the man at the end of the room. He was clearly the most important— the obnoxious hat on top of his head was a different colour to the other men’s, jet black rather than dark grey, and his desk sat at the very back of the room, directly in the centre. 

 “Name,” he droned without looking up at her. 

 “Amora Buckley, sir,” she said. Amora took a moment to read the gold plate on his desk. V. Mordain. 

 Slowly, he peeled his eyes from his work and looked at her. “Oh,” he pulled his glasses down his nose slightly. “You’re a spitting image of your mother.”

 Amora scrunched her nose and huffed. “I get that a lot.” 

 “You don’t sound too pleased, Miss Buckley,” Mordain replied, “Now… What business might a member of the Order of the Phoenix have at the Bureau of Magical Alliance?” 

 “ Former member,” Amora emphasised. She knew not to overdo it, though the ball of anxiety in her stomach was nearly forcing words out her mouth and putting twisted expressions on her face— like a lying child trying to prove to their parents they were sick. 

 Subtlety is key— Moody had said so himself. She remembered all of their lessons. I can always tell when somebody is lying to me. Spewing rubbish and pulling faces. Talking too much. Saying a whole lot of nothing. Make a point, let them read between the lines, Buckley. Don’t beg them to believe you. Not only is it unbelievable, but it makes you unlikeable. You won’t make anybody even want to believe you. 

   “Former member,” he hummed, “And when did you officially retire from the Order, Miss Buckley?”

 Amora furrowed her brows. “I… I can’t remember exactly.”

 Mordain sat up, blinking, staring at her expectantly. “You don’t remember.”

 “I think I was Obliviated,” Amora confirmed, “I… I don’t even remember the last thing I should remember. Just Order members barging into my room. Their faces are blurry. I don’t even recognise their voices. Then that’s it.” 

 “Right,” Mordain said, “Since you are claiming Obliviation has taken place and you are a former member of the Order, I will save us both some time and send you to the Ministry Verification Centre. I must take some personal details, but I assume you cannot remember them. Correct, Miss Buckley?”

 Amora frowned. “How am I supposed to know what I remember or don’t unless you ask me?”

 Mordain stared at her for a second longer and dabbed his lips with his tongue before glancing down at his sheets of paper. “Very well. Age and date of birth.”

 “Twenty-one. Second of August 1980.” 

 “Address?”

“I don’t have one. Not that I remember.”

 He scribbled something on his paper. His quill scratched at her brain. 

 “Next of kin?”

 Amora nearly laughed. “I think you know the answer to that one.”

 The man raised his eyebrows and read aloud as he wrote, “Mother deceased. Father?” 

 “Also deceased.”

 “Apologies for your loss, Miss Buckley.”

 This time, Amora did laugh. It came from a place of spite and hatred. She hoped it didn’t come across that way. “You don’t mean that,” she said.

 “It’s protocol,” he agreed and ticked another box on his paper. “Blood status?” 

 “Pureblood,” Amora said, “The Buckleys are in the Sacred 28, you know. As are the Diggorys— my mother’s side.” 

 “Congratulations,” Mordain said sarcastically, “Though the Buckleys are about as traitorous as the Weasleys. Now, that is all the information I will need from you at this point in your application process. My colleagues will take you to the verification facility. You’ve arrived at an awkward time. They are shut until the morning.”

 “Right,” Amora nodded, “Well, thank you, Mr Mordain. It was nice to meet you.”

 “Yes. Likewise, Miss Buckley. Best of luck with your application.” 

 If the rest of the process was like its first part, she guessed she would get by perfectly fine. 

D.M + A.B

 Amora felt she may have been wrong to feel slightly optimistic. She was not whirled into a basic room with privacy like Moody had told her she would be. Instead, Amora had been shoved into what appeared to be some sort of prison cell. With no window, she had three concrete walls and another one made of bars, a rickety single bed in the corner, and a toilet on the other side. Her blanket was so thin it was transparent and she had no pillow or other possessions inside. 

 She spent the night tossing and turning, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the creaks and groans of the bed beneath her weight. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, her eyes wet for one minute and then unfocused as she disassociated for hours on end, hardly blinking at the wall. The prison cell somehow reminded her of what she thought might be Order headquarters. She couldn’t quite remember the room she had stayed in. Still, the wailing sobs echoing down the hallway immediately gave her a sense of nostalgia that was undeniably related to a memory that had been taken from her. 

 Suddenly, the sound of metal rapping on bars jolted her upright. Amora realised that she must have fallen asleep for a moment or two, although she couldn’t recall the peacefulness of finding sleep, which frustrated her to a new level. She felt exhausted as she sat up, pushing her mop of hair out of her face, furrowing her brows at a man who stood outside in dark robes. 

 “Amora Buckley.” He huffed, “You’re the talk of the town. The Daily Prophet is dying to know what you are doing here.”

 “I’d love to know what I’m doing in this cell, too,” Amora replied as fiercely as she could. She hoped her voice did not waver and give her away. “After all, I thought I was trying to prove my allegiance to the Dark Lord’s cause— not handing myself over as a prisoner.”

 “The Warden does not take lightly to people who talk out of place, Miss Buckley,” the man warned her in a growl. “I suggest if you would like to keep your place in the line, then keep your mouth shut and just nod.”

 Amora furrowed her brows. “My place in line?”

 He scoffed a laugh. “You are eighty-three in the queue of people trying to prove yourself worthy. The Inquisitor of Allegiance is very clever, but he cannot make miracles happen. Currently, cases last anywhere between a day and three days. So if you are fortunate, you will be here for eighty-three days. If you are unlucky, you might be here for…” he thought for two seconds, “About two-hundred-and-fifty days. Which is how many months? I’ll let you figure that one out. You have enough time.”

 Amora’s lips parted, her face dropping, her heart sinking. There was no way on this earth she was going to be stuck in this cell for nearly three months at a minimum. She quickly tried to do the maths in her head. Two-hundred-and-fifty divided by thirty. Her brain was too jumbled, she had too many other thoughts. She glanced at the bed. At the toilet. She felt the aches in her back and her neck already. How cold this place was. 

 “But– but I was told that the process was lengthy but comfortable—”

 “Yes, for those who the Inquisitor believes . We do try to make those people as comfortable as possible. However, if the Inquisitor of Allegiance has reason to believe that you may have an ulterior motive, then you are sent here,” He said and glanced down at the papers in his hands. “As it says here, ‘Amora Buckley sent to Ministry Verification Centre at approximately 11:21 pm on the 4th of March 2002 due to suspicion of compromised integrity’.” 

 Suspicion of compromised integrity. 

 “Because I was an Order member,” Amora realised, “Does the fact that I was found guilty of defecting from the Order not mean anything?”

 “The Inquisitor of Allegiance decides whether you are guilty or not,” he replied, then he moved to the next cell and woke them up with the clanging of metal on metal. 

 Amora pursed her lips and moved back onto the bed. She curled herself into the corner of the walls, making herself as small as possible, cradling her legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes, her hair forming a protective curtain around herself. She felt weird not having her wand with her, and her magic side could practically feel the wards up. Even if she was good at wandless magic that wasn’t a basic levitation spell, she had a feeling there was no way of getting out of this one. 

 Besides, she wasn’t allowed to ‘get out of this one.’ Amora had nowhere to go, nobody to turn to. Too many people were relying on her now. She felt angry that relaying information to the Order would take so long. Two hundred and fifty days divided by thirty told her she may have up to eight months in this cell, waiting and waiting and waiting to be interrogated. 

 She was terrified that she might forget everything that she had been taught.  If time didn’t make her forget, perhaps the isolation and lack of enrichment would. This was most likely also a method of breaking them down. Amora attempted to mentally prepare herself for how hard this was bound to be. Occlumency might just be her best friend in here. If she could just mentally take herself somewhere else, then she would be able to survive the mental warfare. 

 Did Moody and Lupin know about the people who got sent away due to ‘suspicion of  compromised integrity?’ Was that something that they had kept from her? Were they aware that it would take this long? Even after the eight months was up, she would have to find Draco Malfoy again and try and get information from him. Amora didn’t know if any of this would even work. If this would all be worth it. 

 She took a deep breath and glanced up when a tray was shoved under the bars. Amora glared at the grey gruel sitting in a puddle and a piece of stale bread beside it. There was a metal cup of water and a wooden spoon. She crept over, sitting down beside it and pulling the tray onto her lap. She picked up the bread and knocked it three times against her tray. It echoed back. Amora poked at the puddle with her spoon and it spilt straight off, some of it going into her cup. She grimaced, holding it to her nose the best she could and sniffing. It was almost like porridge.  Amora couldn’t stomach it. Instead, she grabbed her water and gulped it down. Somehow, it managed to taste awful— like plastic and the metal of the cup containing it. 

  A sudden crashing sound made Amora flinch. Her tray fell off her lap, the porridge-like liquid spilling into the hallway beyond her bars. Her heart pounded, her ears pricking as she heard a woman begin to scream. She howled and sobbed in a way that Amora knew could only be down to magic. She stood up, wrapping her hands around the bars, pressing her face to it, desperately pushing as if she would be able to stick her head out of it. 

 “Please!” The woman begged through sobs. “I am not a blood traitor! I do not sympathise with those Mudbloods! I would never!”

 Amora could hardly make out a man’s voice over the lady’s noises. She knew he must have cursed her again because her screams grew even louder. They were so shrill that Amora moved back to her bed, horrified, nearly plugging her ears with her fingers. She wrung her hands anxiously and closed her eyes. 

 What had she gotten herself into?

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER FIVE 

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. That was how long Amora had been trapped in the tiny prison cell. No sunlight, no clocks, no routine other than mealtime and a shower every other day beneath cold water with a tiny bar of soap. 

 Her only way of keeping track of the days was the wooden spoons. 

 Every morning at breakfast, they were given gruel and bread with a wooden spoon. At dinner, they were given the same gruel and bread, but with a wooden fork. Spoons were for breakfast. Forks were for dinner. She had collected fourteen wooden spoons. Fourteen breakfasts. Fourteen mornings waking up in the cell. 

 Nobody had spoken to her since the first man who had visited, as if to take a register. She saw people walk by, and she heard voices, including both prisoners and Death Eaters, but nobody addressed her. Nobody had looked her in the eye or said her name. 

 Amora drew on the floor with one of her wooden spoons. If she pressed hard enough, it would scuff the concrete slightly and leave a white mark. She decided to make a tally in case they cleaned her spoons away one day. Fourteen lines. Fourteen days without talking to somebody. 

 When frustration began to reach its peak, which was very regular, Amora closed her eyes and practised Occlumency. There were memories that Lupin and Moody had materialised for the sake of her trial, ones that she was advised not to look at until prompted by the Allegiance Inquisitor. Otherwise, she risked her emotions getting involved and altering them, considering they had yet to be pulled from her head and put in a pensieve. 

 It was hard not to look. It felt like when she was a child and she would be on the beach with her cousin, Cedric, and the adults would tell them to not even think about going in the water because it was getting dark, but their parents weren’t watching them closely, and so it was so tempting to just dip their toes in the shallow end… 

 Amora tried to think about Cedric. It was safe to think about him rather than Pansy or Blaise or Leon. Cedric had died eight years ago now. He had no idea that Voldemort had come back, that there had been a raging war that had started with his death. Her memories with him were peaceful and beautiful. Cedric was her childhood. He represented the before .

 If Cedric were here, he would most likely tell her that she was insane for putting herself in so much danger. There was no way he would have let her agree to become a double agent for the Order. He would have been furious with Moody and Lupin for merely suggesting it. Amora smiled slightly at the thought, twiddling with the bottom of her hair. 

 “I have never seen a smile in this corridor before,” a man that Amora did not recognise stated, and Amora quickly realised that this must be the Warden of Allegiance. “Are you having a nervous breakdown, Miss Buckley?” 

 “No, sir,” Amora replied. Her voice was scratchy and it felt wrong to speak out loud. “I was just… thinking.” 

 “Thinking?” The Warden raised an eyebrow as he entered her room. Two men stood outside, wands drawn and ready. “I see. I must apologise for not getting around to you sooner, Miss Buckley.”

 Amora pursed her lips. She had a feeling they might do this with everybody. Leave them long enough to see what they do. Perhaps to see if they break down or manage to stay strong. 

 “I see you have kept yourself entertained,” he continued, eyeing her collection of wooden utensils. Amora nearly glared as he yanked out his wand and muttered, “ Scourgify .”

 It was almost as if she had jinxed it. His spell rubbed her tally from the wall, too. She could have screamed in frustration. Her fists clenched, her nails digging crescent moons into the palms of her hands, nearly hard enough to draw blood. 

 “Might you have any idea what place in the line I am now, sir?” Amora asked as politely as she possibly could. 

 “Seventy-five. We’ve had a slow couple of weeks,” he replied. 

 Don’t cry. Don’t cry. 

 “I- I was told each case lasted between a day or three,” her voice wavered. 

The Warden’s face curled, blue eyes beady, his wand now jabbing towards her. “The Inquisitor works as fast as he can, Buckley. Do I detect an attitude?” 

 “Not at all, sir,” Amora said, and she couldn’t help the way it came from gritted teeth, or how her nostrils flared.

 “Liar,” he spat, and Amora was backhanded across the face. 

 She gasped, feeling the ring he wore dig into her cheek, and immediate stinging pain mingling with the sharp numbness of his palm. Amora curled away from him, her back to the wall like an animal in a cage, holding her cheek. Her dark eyes shone, her lips trembling. 

 “I’m sure as a former Order member you have experience with the unforgiveables,” the Warden seethed, “Do not make me use them on you, Buckley. You’re fortunate I have somebody else to tend to.”

 As soon as he left, Amora pulled her trembling hand away and grimaced at the sight of blood. She touched the bit that hurt the most and winced, immediately pulling her crimson-coloured fingers away. 

 D.M + A.B 

“Wakey, wakey!” 

 Amora was startled awake. The blanket ripped off of her body and her hand immediately clung to the side of the mattress. Everything was bleary for a moment. The Warden was above her, his wand pointing at her face, a bright light shining from its end. She scrunched her eyes closed tightly. 

 What day was it? This wasn’t the routine! Yesterday was day twenty-nine. That means today is day thirty. One month. One month, seven to—

 “Look at her,” the Warden laughed, “Looks as scared as a mandrake out of its pot!” 

 Amora pushed herself up, trying to keep as far away from him as she possibly could, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her upright. She nearly tripped over her legs as she stumbled from the bed, knees practically buckling, but his grip on her squeezed even tighter and she forced herself up as she cried in pain. Her ribs still hurt from the Warden’s anger yesterday. 

 “The Inquisitor of Allegiance has requested to meet with you, Buckley.” 

 Everything stopped. For a split second, there was complete silence. Her head stopped working, her mouth opened and nothing came out. She blinked and then she blinked again. The Warden shook her by her arm and snapped her out of her dazed state. 

 “But– but you said that I was sixty-second in the queue yesterday,” Amora stammered, her heart racing, her hands suddenly awfully clammy. “I have another seven months at least at the pace that the Inquis—”

 “I’m sorry,” he barked a cruel laugh. “Do you not want to see the Inquisitor? There are a lot of people in this building simply dying to be moved up the queue.”

 “No, no.” Amora’s hands laced together like a prayer in their chains. “No, I would love to see the Inquisitor. I just– I wasn’t expecting—”

 “Neither were we,” he grumbled and started to yank her towards the cell door. “I wonder what sort of trouble you’ve managed to get yourself into this time, Buckley.”

 Amora’s heart skipped a beat, thinking this may not be a positive experience. There was a potential that they had been doing some digging whilst she had been locked up. Perhaps some sort of intel had let them know she had ulterior motives. She chewed her lips, an unpleasant fuzz fogging her brain as she took her first step out of the cell in thirty days. 

 The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She wriggled her toes and looked down the stretched-out corridor. When she had arrived it had been too dark to see its true size. Now, she saw a never-ending line of cells built next to each other, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw a slightly smaller stretch of corridor. 

 “Move,” the Warden hissed. 

 The Death Eaters who always accompanied the Warden shifted so one led the way and the other stood behind them, wands drawn as usual. Amora couldn’t help but glance at the people behind their bars, her heart sinking in her chest at the state of some of them. Most lay on their beds, eyes concentrated on some area of a wall, others stared straight back at her. 

 Her heart crumbled the further she walked. She was all too aware that the longer she walked, the longer those people had been in these cells. It was a real possibility that some of those at the front had been here for nearly a year. Amora looked at their tear-stained faces, their heads of matted hair, and their destroyed cells. 

 “It’s not fair!” A woman was at her bars, rattling them, screaming and crying. “It’s not fair! It’s my turn next! My turn to prove myself!” 

 “You think you had it bad,” the Warden nudged her through the door at the very end of the hall that the leading Death Eater had opened. “She’s been here for over a year. She keeps getting pushed back due to bad behaviour. Crucio .” 

 Amora flinched when the woman fell away from the bars, trembling on the ground, her screams growing even louder and more shrill– if that was possible. Once the door shut behind them, all the noise was blocked. There was complete silence for the first time in a whole month. She very nearly sighed in relief. 

 “Come on,” the Warden said, “The Inquisitor of Allegiance is a very busy man. He does not appreciate being kept waiting.” 

 Amora was led through meandering corridors, past office doors and other members of staff walking around. She was shocked to see women working for the first time through an open door. One was making drinks, and another was at a typewriter. The Death Eater grabbed the back of her head and steered it to face forward so her eyes were trained in front. 

 Eventually, they reached two large oak doors at the end of the hallway. One had a golden door knocker on it. The Warden moved forward and lifted it three times. It echoed down the corridor. Now the silence felt deafening. Amora wondered if they could hear her heart pounding. She was almost sure she could. 

 The door opened and a small man shifted to let them in, his head bowed at the Warden who immediately pushed through. Amora walked behind him and dared to look around the room. 

 She nearly winced at how eye-achingly white everything was— a complete contrast to the rest of the building. There was no natural sunlight, but everything was crisp and seemed to glow. The room was round and very minimalist— like something from the future. A sleek desk sat in the middle of the room, a pensieve to the side and shelves filled with books and potions. The books’ spines had been replaced with white alternatives and it reeked of chemicals and magic. 

 Behind the desk was a man. Despite the room, the man appeared like a drop of blood, adorned in crimson red only. His robes had silver accents on the sleeves, swirls that looked like runes, and rings on his fingers as he twirled his wand in them. 

 “Amora Buckley. Please, come in and take a seat.” The Inquisitor gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Warden, you may leave.”

 “Yes, Inquisitor,” the Warden bowed his head slightly before he left the room. 

 The short man who had opened the door for them followed him out and the door was shut again. Amora exhaled through her nose and made sure to sit up straight, which wasn’t difficult in the hard seat she’d been provided with. She folded her shackled hands on her lap and made sure to look the man in the eye confidently. 

 “You have quite the case, Miss Buckley,” the Inquisitor stated, glancing down at some papers on his desk. “I had no intentions of seeing you until you were rightfully next in the queue. My colleagues at the reception of the Bureau of Magical Allegiance had their doubts about you, as did I. However, do you have any idea who was just sat in the very seat you sit in? Merely minutes ago?”

 Amora furrowed her brows. “Who?”

 “Theodore Nott,” the Inquisitor replied and Amora felt her heart in her throat. “Were you unaware he was here, Miss Buckley? He’s been waiting two months for his meeting with me.” 

 “I– I had no idea,” Amora admitted, and she felt furious, absolutely angry that Theo had been cells away from her for the last month. 

 Yet, oddly, there was some weird, complicated part of her that felt comforted by the fact. Even if Theo wasn’t the Theo she had thought she’d known, it was almost nice to think that there was somebody she would recognise who had been nearby. She wished she had known. She had so many questions for him. Not that she would have been able to ask them. 

  “Well, interestingly, Miss Buckley, your case has caused a stir. The second Order member to turn up on our soil in the last two months. It comes across as a bit worrying, you understand? That perhaps the Order are attempting to spy on us,” the Inquisitor said, “The Daily Prophet has hardly left our grounds since Mr Nott appeared. Since your arrival… it seems numbers have increased.”

 Amora pursed her lips. “I see.”

 “Now, in the meeting I just held with Mr Nott, he was found to be a Faithful,” the Inquisitor said, “and that is curious to me because I saw you in his memories. The two of you appeared to be very close.”

 He must have been referencing the kiss they had shared. Amora would have felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment if she had not been forced to use the bathroom in an open space for the last month. She was nearly sure that there was little she would find humiliating now.

 “Nott says he trusts you,” the Inquisitor stated, “And he did not seem surprised at all that you were here.”

 “I suppose I have always shared my… controversial opinions with him,” Amora lied, “Perhaps I have always felt the closest with him because… deep down we must have both known we shared the same ideologies.” 

 “Interesting,” the Inquisitor said, “Rebel papers printed this, Miss Buckley.”

 He slid a newspaper over to her. The Quibbler. Luna had kept it running despite her father’s death at the start of the war. Mostly it was shared between the Order members, but they often attempted to get it out to other resistance groups and civilians attempting to live in peace. 

  AMORA BUCKLEY FOUND GUILTY: SECOND ORDER MEMBER DEFECTED THIS MONTH

   Amora raised her eyebrow at the photo. It was an image of her, but she did not recognise it in the slightest. She was smiling slightly at the camera, but there was an obvious disconnect in her eyes. It looked new. She had the scar she’d acquired over the last few years just across her jaw by her ear. They must have taken this memory of her posing for her very own front page away. 

 “It was hard,” Amora admitted, “After Theo left. Part of me felt like he was so brave and all I was doing was fighting for a cause that… I didn’t even really believe in anymore. I felt weak. I didn’t want to feel that way. If this war has taught me anything, Inquisitor, it is that life is far too short to not fight for what you believe in.”

 “And what is it that you believe in, Miss Buckley?”

 “I believe my mother was wrong,” Amora admitted, “It was not her fight to fight. She was selfish and she got herself killed to help…” Her face screwed up and her lip curled. “ Mudbloods. Blood traitors. Halfbreeds . Anybody she thought was too weak to fight for themselves. She pushed it on me at a young age, sir. She shipped me off to a Muggle primary school but had to pull me out because I hated it so much. I had no interest in that sort of thing, but I was Sorted to Hufflepuff, you see. I thought if I shared what I actually thought then my housemates would turn on me. I started to socialise with the Slytherins a bit more at the end. Theo. He always comforted me and told me the way I felt wasn’t wrong at all. That it was normal for a Pureblood like myself to feel… frustrated by our Wizarding World’s constant need to be… overly inclusive towards Mudbloods.” 

 The Inquisitor kept nodding at parts of her speech. She took that as a good sign. Even if everything coming out was absolute bullshit. 

 “Hufflepuffs do not regularly become dark wizards or witches, Miss Buckley.”  

 “Which is strange really,” Amora acknowledged, “Because Hufflepuffs are incredibly loyal. And they are patient and hardworking… Essentially, the most devoted soldiers, sir. Very passionate about the things they believe in.”

 “Would you describe yourself in those ways?”

 “I am very loyal to the cause,” Amora said firmly, “I will never give up fighting for what I believe in, sir. I would die trying.”

 The Inquisitor hummed. “Very noble of you, Miss Buckley. Now… you are claiming that you have come under the Obliviation spell.”

 “It’s the only explanation I can think of for all of the gaps in my memory, sir.”

 “The Order often sends our Death Eaters back to us with the memories gone or altered,” he agreed, “It is most likely that they have done the same thing to you, Miss Buckley. I need you to answer some questions the best that you possibly can. We will use some Occlumency soon, and the pensieve will come in handy, too.”

 He asked her a series of questions that lasted for what felt like hours. Questions were about her personal history and her loyalty to Voldemort’s cause, such as how she felt when the Dark Lord rose to power, and what she would sacrifice for the cause. There were moral and psychological traps, too. 

 “If you discovered a family member was working against the Dark Lord, what would you do?” 

  Her family had all been murdered by the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters. It was somewhat easy to lie about what she would do because there was no family member of hers left to feel bad about. 

 They tried to ask her about the Order. Who she had last spoken to and what it was like. Who else from the Order might she suspect disloyalty from? 

 Amora couldn’t remember. She tried her best to come up with something. She could only guess the last person she had spoken to had been Lupin or Moody, and she told him this. She told him she guessed that she had been interrogated and found guilty of betrayal. 

  The Inquisitor gave her hypothetical tests too, such as “If ordered to kill a traitor, would you?” to which Amora told him truthfully that she had used the killing curse before, and she wasn’t afraid to get her hands bloody for what she believed in. 

 “Why do you deserve to serve the Dark Lord, Miss Buckley?” 

 Amora didn’t hesitate. “I am a Pureblood, sir— a member of the Sacred 28. When she decided to publish those articles, my mother tarnished the Buckley name. I want to make things right again. The best way I can do that is through serving the Dark Lord. I want to feel proud of my surname again and restore the honour of being one of the few magical families left to have complete magical purity. That deserves to be celebrated, sir. I deserve to make the Buckley name a beacon of Pureblood excellence again.”

 She couldn’t quite tell from the Inquisitor’s passive expression, but the small nod he gave her was hopeful. Amora found herself relaxing slightly, which was surprising. Moody and Lupin had prepared her extremely well for the interrogation aspect. As he began to head over to the pensieve, all she could do was cross her fingers that their memory creations had worked. 

 Otherwise, she was dead.   

 “This might feel a little strange,” he told her. “Don’t flinch.”

 His wand pressed against her temple. Amora nearly shuddered at the pulling sensation that occurred against her skull and her skin. Light blue mists rolled out and into the end of the Inquisitor’s wand. It sucked the magic in like a hoover of sorts. He had her memories—some of her real ones, and her materialised ones. 

 “Now that I have your memories extracted, I’ll be able to review them in the pensieve,” the Inquisitor said, and her memories were pushed from his wand and into an empty vial with her name on it. 

 He tipped the vial into the shallow stone bowl, white and blue whisps dancing above it, the runes on its sides glowing faintly.  

 “Can…” Amora hesitated, “Could I possibly watch too, Inquisitor? I would like to see what I have forgotten.”

 The Inquisitor thought for a moment. “Come. I prefer to have people accompany me when I do not quite believe them. It’s sometimes… entertaining to catch them out when I see their memories. Although, I must say… if your memories are anything like your words, Miss Buckley, then I have no doubt you will make an excellent asset for the Dark Lord.”

 Amora made sure to smile. “I think that is possibly the best compliment I have ever received, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

 She stood from the seat and moved to stand on the other side of the pensieve to him. Amora hoped he couldn’t detect how nervous she was to see these memories. When he ducked his head into the mist, Amora copied him.

 She had never looked through a pensieve at memories before, whether they were her own or somebody else's. Amora had a slight understanding of how this worked— certain subjects had very briefly gone over it at school, and Lupin and Moody had told her that the Inquisitor would be able to watch her memories from a third-person perspective, like an outsider looking in, though unable to interact. 

 She was not prepared for how strange it felt to look at herself. Though this was a version of her which had never existed— it had been created by extremely talented and clever wizards with the sort of intricate magic that Amora would never understand. 

 The Inquisitor stood beside her and glanced around the room. Amora’s nose crinkled upon realising that she had no idea where she was. It was a grand room with a high ceiling, and large windows with closed drapes, and the fake Amora sat on the edge of a double bed. She was crying into her hands, her entire body trembling. 

 Amora tried as hard as she could, but she could not work out where she was for the life of her. Perhaps this was supposed to be the Order headquarters. Amora did not recognise it one bit— she thought that the prison cell had felt nostalgic, though she hadn’t been able to place her finger quite on way, but perhaps not. That must have been a weird memory from another time. 

 “Do you recognise this room?” The Inquisitor asked.

 Amora half-expected the other Amora to jump at his voice, but her soft weeps remained contained in her palms. She remembered nobody would hear or see them. 

 “No, not at all,” Amora said, furrowing her eyebrows. “I am assuming this was my room at the headquarters.”

 The door suddenly slammed open, and a familiar figure came bounding in. Amora was confused– immediately she recognised the faceless figure as Pansy. How could she not recognise her best friend? The dark outfits, the pale skin and that strut of a walk. However, Amora could not see Pansy’s face. It was as if it had been scratched out. 

 “Get out!” Amora seethed, ripping her hands away from her face to reveal swollen eyes and a pink nose and cheeks. “I told you to knock. I told all of you— and that means you too— to leave me the fuck alone!” 

  Amora’s heart clenched. This had never happened— surely. But it looked so real. 

  “Amora,” the girl sobbed, “I had to tell Moody what I saw. I couldn’t live with myself knowing what you said to me last week.”

 “I was drinking. Of course, I didn’t mean it!” Amora seethed and moved forward. “Why are you trying to ruin my life?”

 “Amora! You said that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if the Muggleborns were to be eradicated!” ‘Pansy’ choked, “That’s completely awful and so worrying.”

  Amora clenched her fingers. Her palms were wet. She chewed on her bottom lip as she watched the scene continue to unfold in front of her. 

  “I thought you might agree with me,” Amora hissed, lowering her voice. “I do apologise. I didn’t realise that the Order had brainwashed you to such a horrendous extent. Think for yourself for once. You’re a Pureblood, too…” There was a scratching sound that caused Amora to wince as the fake version of her said Pansy’s name. That had been erased, too. “We deserve more than rotting in bunkers and being sent on missions to kill our kind. If we wanted to, we could leave all of this behind and just… live how we’re supposed to. On top.”

 “What about the Muggleborns? All of the creatures the Death Eaters want to get rid of? The children, Amora!” 

 “The bloodshed is unnecessary,” Amora agreed with a simple nod, “But it wouldn’t happen if the Order would just stop trying to protect people who do not deserve to be protected. This world was not meant for them. It was meant for us. I want to take it.”

  The Inquisitor glanced at her. “Do you know who you might be talking to?”

 Amora shook her head, furrowed brows. “I… I can’t remember.”

 He nodded. “They’ve erased your memory of Order members. They knew we would look through your memories, Miss Buckley. They have most likely altered more than we both realise.”

 Amora swallowed the lump in her throat and tried not to panic at the thought. It was a good thing— it truly was very important that they protected Pansy and everybody else who fought for the Order. However, they were taking bits and pieces from her memories– more than they had told her that they would. She tried to picture Pansy Parkinson, and she could, but why could she not see her here in this memory? What sort of magic was this? 

 “Let’s move on to the next memory.”

 “How have you selected the memories?” Amora asked him carefully, “Is there a process when you extract them from me?”

 “My pensieve is very clever— it is almost as if it has a mind of its own,” the Inquisitor told her briefly as he began to head for the door that Pansy had come from. “It simply shows me what it feels I need to see.”

 Amora nodded in agreement. “That is very clever.”

 “Right. Next memory.”

 He pulled the door open and walked outside. Amora followed close behind, her eyes widening when they were led into not a hallway but another room. This time, Lupin was grasping Amora’s wrists and yanking them behind her, a pained expression on Amora’s face as she struggled to get away. Moody stood in front of her, a furious expression written across his face, his wand pointed right at her neck. He dug it in and she stopped wriggling. 

 “You were stupid to think your friends wouldn’t tell us!” Moody growled, “I didn’t want to believe it when —---- came forth and told us the words you had been spreading to the rest of the Order, but I have no choice but to believe it now! How dare you, Buckley!?” 

 Amora laughed cruelly in his face. “Oh, give it a rest, Moody. Are people not allowed to have opinions that don’t align with yours?”

 “If you want to have those opinions, in particular, Buckley, then you can have them somewhere else that is not here,” Lupin spat against her ear and tugged her arms so she whimpered in pain. “We don’t take lightly to traitors.”

 “Traitor,” Amora laughed, “You want to call me a traitor? The true traitors here are you two— and any other Pureblood still fighting for your cause blindly. I guarantee if you were to look in all of their heads then you would find that, deep down, they all believe they are superior. Even if you do not want to admit it, Lupin. Magic is might.” 

 “Magic is might,” the Inquisitor muttered in agreement. “I see you hold your own quite well, Miss Buckley. Even with two war criminals holding you hostage.”

 Amora pursed her lips. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. “I can’t say I disagree with anything that past-me is saying, sir.”

 “ If you believe that, then you can go and be with the Death Eaters, Buckley,” Moody growled, “We’ll see if you still like them when you are being held hostage in your home simply for being born a woman— or when you are pressured into carrying the heir of a man you do not love.”

  Amora gasped quietly. She hoped that the Inquisitor didn’t hear her, but he was heading towards the door now. It seemed he did not want to listen to whatever else Moody and Lupin had to say. Most likely because it was not in favour of the Dark Lord. 

 Her mind was racing. Moody and Lupin had forced that memory into her head. They had created it themselves. That meant they had known the dangers of sending a young woman into a mission like this. Her heart nearly stopped in her chest. They had admitted they sent her because of her past relationship with Draco, but now she realised a double meaning— did they expect her to pursue a relationship with him for the sake of keeping undercover? For him to become her ‘patriarch’? 

 Amora chewed her bottom lip. She supposed it was clever. They didn’t have many choices. Somebody was going to have to make a sacrifice, and they wanted it to be her. At first, she thought it was manipulative— they should have told her what they truly expected of her. She should have been filled in on everything. She thought that they should have sent a man in— somebody that may be able to make their way up in the ranks, somebody who would not fear being raped or beaten at any moment. 

 Perhaps they wanted somebody that nobody would suspect. They underestimated women here. Maybe her past relationship with Draco was exactly what they wanted from her. She was just a link to one of the highest-ranking Death Eaters. Who cares if she might have to have his children? Or if she may be punished and controlled by him for years? 

Amora shuddered. She was a small chess piece on a large board. A two of diamonds in a game of Shithead. 

 D.M + A.B

 Her verdict was supposed to come by noon. Amora sat in her cell, staring at the gruel and bread. She sipped at her water and glared. She dipped her spoon in it but did not attempt to eat it. This was going to be her last morning here. Either because they would execute her or she would be free. Well, as free as a woman could be in this world.  

 She spent the last two days thinking about the interrogation. It was unhealthy how much she thought about the ‘memories’ she had viewed in the pensieve. Amora had spent the nights exactly how she had spent her first and every one since then— tossing and turning and thinking. 

 What was real? What was not? Amora thought of Pansy and was scared to think that her voice felt like a distant memory. She couldn’t think of what her best friend smelled like or how she laughed. Did the Order take more from Amora than she had consented to? Did they expect her to give up absolutely everything for this information? Her life, her body, and her dignity?

 “Verdict day,” The Warden said as he entered her cell. “Are you excited, Buckley?”

 Amora glared at the man. “Thrilled, sir.”

 “Is that sarcasm?” He waited for her response which did not come. It was deathly quiet. 

 “You will not be sarcastic with me,” the Warden growled, and he grabbed her tray of food, throwing it at the wall so it smashed loudly. “You best hope your verdict is Faithful. Or else you may end up just like your dead mother. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

 Amora rolled her eyes. “My verdict will be Faithful. Don’t you worry about that, Warden.”

  The Warden huffed. “Get on your knees.”

 Her heart palpitated. “Pardon?”

 “On your fucking knees.”

 Amora swallowed at the wand being pointed at her. She slowly slid off the bed and winced at the concrete beneath her knees. She looked up at the man. 

 “Crucio.”

 It was better than what her darkest thought had provided her with, but still one of the most painful things Amora had ever experienced. She’d been Crucioed more times in the last month than she had been in her last five years as a member of the Order. Her skin was boiling, her blood too, and it felt like it was dancing to squeeze out of her pores, and bones rattling, her heart stabbing. Her screams echoed down the hall. Just another to add to the chorus. 

 “I believe she has had enough, don’t you, Warden?” The Inquisitor's voice came from behind the bars. The Warden jumped away from her in surprise and bowed his head. “There is no need to hear your verdict formally, Miss Buckley. We have had a very reputable Death Eater come in and demand your release.”

 Amora’s heart was pounding. Not only from the Crucio but his news. “Wh– What— Who?” She panted from the floor, pushing hair out of her face, wincing at the pain in her side. She held her ribs and tried to sit up. 

 “They wish to remain anonymous. Nevertheless, I was going to mark you down as a Faithful anyway, Miss Buckley,” the Inquisitor said, “Said Death Eater has made a peculiar request. You are to be sent to the factories, Miss Buckley.”

 “That’s peculiar?” Amora’s mind was racing. She wanted to know who this Death Eater was— she had a feeling— but she also wanted to know what would happen next to her. What did the factories mean?

 “Yes. Usually, ladies of your blood status are sent home to men they are related to or will have men offer to court them, but you will be sent to a factory to aid the war, Miss Buckley,” The Inquisitor said, “In fact, he has paid a quite deal for this, so please do not kick up a fuss. There were plenty of men offering to take you into their homes, Miss Buckley. I am sure you will be able to fulfil your duty as a wife and mother shortly. Do not fret about that.” 

 It had to be Draco Malfoy. There was no other explanation for this. No other Death Eater would go out of their way to pay for her to be sent to a factory rather than their own house. She pursed her lips, her heart still frantic. 

 What was Malfoy doing?

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER SIX 

  Once again, Amora had been sedated and taken somewhere else. Thaddeus Greaves, the Death Eater who had found himself in charge of running the Hogsmeade Cauldronworks, had given her a brand new uniform, and some sanitary items, and sent her into a dormitory. 

 The dark robes were comfier than the former Azkaban uniform she had worn for the last month. For the first time in a long time, Amora was able to properly clean herself with soap, a hair-cleaning potion and hot water. 

 She took a deep breath as the Death Eater following her around pushed open the door to one of many dormitories. Amora swallowed thickly and forced herself to step inside the large room. 

 It almost felt like her dormitory back at Hogwarts— except all life and personality had been sucked from it. It was void of too many personal belongings, bunkbeds all dressed with matching dark sheets, bedside tables containing lamps and— 

 Books! Amora had missed books. Or having something to do in general. Her fingers itched to feel the curve of one of their spines. 

 Girls around her age sat on the beds. Amora found it hard to look them in the eye, very briefly scanning all of them over, hyperfocused on the Death Eater placing his hand on her shoulder and shoving her towards an empty bed which had been perfectly made. 

 “This one is yours,” the Death Eater told her, “Get some sleep. You’ll start early in the morning like everybody else.”

 There was a lump in her throat that stopped her from replying. For a moment, she stayed in silence, the room around her doing the same. She made a small cough and placed her sanitary items down on the top of her bed, pursing her lips. 

 “Hello,” a voice came from above her. 

 A dark-skinned girl with curly locks and a gentle smile peered down from the bunk above Amora’s. She had kind eyes, but more startingly, a huge white scar which crossed from her forehead, past her nose, and to her chin, grooving over her lips. Not too uncommon during times like these. Amora herself had acquired a scar of her own— right on her jawline. 

 “Hi,” she replied, “I’m Amora. You?”

 “Morgaine.” Her voice was silk. “I’m your bunkmate, obviously. That’s Lenox over there, that’s Kathreen, Mindy’s that one, the girl with the shaved head is Ravenna—”

 “We can introduce ourselves, Morgaine,” Ravenna said pointedly and swerved her body so she stood in front of Amora, a smirk written across her features. “Ravenna Hallow. A pleasure to meet you, Amora . They don’t usually send such beautiful girls this way—”

 Amora’s eyes widened and she nearly choked. “Erm, thank you. I— I don’t really—”

 “She’s not gay,” a very familiar voice cut in, and Amora’s ears pricked, her heart skipping a beat. Susan Bones sat at the bottom of one of the bunks, picking at her nails.

 “Susan,” Amora swallowed, “It’s, erm, it’s nice to see you again.”

 “You two know each other?” Morgaine raised her brows. 

 “Yeah, we were housemates at Hogwarts,” Susan replied before Amora could part her lips. 

 Housemates was the word for it. Friends would be a large stretch. Amora could not remember the last time she had a civil conversation with the ginger-haired woman. Perhaps back in their fourth year of school, when they could just about tolerate each other. 

 “Oh, so you would know Kathy, then,” another girl– Mindy?- said. 

 Amora’s heart stopped. It panged, the image of a seventeen-year-old Kathy Redsoft burning behind her eyes like it often did. Blonde curls long and bouncy, cheeks rosy, lips always parted in a laugh. She smelt of vanilla and was warm like home. 

 The girl they pointed to did not look like Kathy Redsoft. 

 Amora dared her feet to move. They felt as though they were stuck to the floor. She forced one foot forward, and then the other. Slower than she would have liked, Amora stood at the bedside of her former housemate. All these years Amora had wondered about her. Now she didn’t have to.

 Kathy’s curls had been cut short, damp around her clammy, pale face, eyes twitching beneath reddened, veiny eyelids. Her collarbones jutted out just above the bedsheets, scarily pointy, almost as sunken as her cheekbones. 

 “What happened?” Amora faced Susan, terror home in her brown eyes. “What happened to her, Bones?”

 “She’s been Crucioed so many times she can hardly talk anymore,” Susan said glumly, casting a sympathetic look at the unconscious girl. “There’s a Death Eater here, Maddens— you should watch out for him, and he keeps making advances on her. She refuses him every time. Every time she gets worse and worse.”

 Amora could have gagged. She nearly reached out and brushed Kathy’s hair out of her face, an excuse to touch her and make sure this was real, but she did not want to disturb her rest. This may be the best Kathy has it— asleep. 

 Kathy suddenly twitched and her entire body jolted before she went back to withering underneath her bedcovers. Amora’s head snapped to Susan. 

 “She does that a lot,” Kathy’s bunkmate sighed from above them. “Just ignore it the best you can.”

 “Do they not give her pain medication?” Amora asked with furrowed brows. “Potions? Why isn’t she in a medical ward?”

 Susan barked a laugh. “Why on earth would they do that?”

 Amora opened her mouth but stopped. Susan’s words settled her over like an unwelcome shower. 

 “What are you doing here anyway?” Susan said, “Thought you were with the Order.”

 Amora scrunched her nose and headed back for her bed. She sat on the mattress, running a hand through her hair. Her brain was whirling at a thousand thoughts per minute. She didn’t know how to reply— she had not been expecting to see people she knew here. In a dormitory of about ten girls, what was the chance two would be former dormmates?

 “I left them,” Amora shrugged, “I was fed up with fighting for the losing side. Besides, I’m a Pureblood. I don’t know what I was doing over there in the first place.”

 Susan smirked slightly. “Hm.”

 “And you, Bones?” Amora spat, face red at the judgemental look she was receiving. “What’s brought you to the Dark Lord’s side?”

 “I’ve been here since day one,” Susan hissed at her, “Because I am a Pureblood and I will not die trying to save Mudbloods who only knew our world existed when they turned eleven.”

 Amora pursed her lips, studied Susan’s face, and did not see it falter. She saw the years of fear that made her eyes look older. Dark circles, fine lines, distant look. Amora glanced around the room at all of the girls and realised they all must be her age. She wondered how many of them were here because they genuinely believed in the cause and how many were merely trying to survive. 

 She couldn’t ask them. They would only give her the same response Amora would have to give them. There was no way of being certain of who was on anyone’s side. 

 “What brings you to the cauldronworks, Amora?” Morgaine asked in an attempt to break the tension that had thickened the air in the dormitory. 

 “I was sent here by the BMA,” she said to her, settling on her bottom bunk, her eyes continuously drifting over to a twitching Kathy. “I didn’t have a choice.”

 “Are you infertile, too?” Kathreen asked quietly, her hand instinctively moving to rub circles over her flat stomach. 

 “I- er, I don’t think so,” Amora said with a sympathetic edge. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but I think I’m fine.”

 “Oh,” Kathreen sighed, and lay down on her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. 

 “Loads of the men don’t court girls that can’t give them heirs,” Ravenna explained, “I don’t know how much you know about this… world. You do have the right to decline courting a man, of course. Most of the time, anyway— unless they’re high up or they’ve done something good for the army. Sometimes the Dark Lord offers to repay them however they wish. If they pick a girl, you might not have a choice.”

 Amora swallowed. Fear pricked her. She had made plenty of enemies in the Death Eaters. Even those who did not know her seemed to recognise the features of her mother. Lots wanted to hurt her because of her traitorous blood. 

 “But we all had the choice to come here or not,” Ravenna said, smiling slightly around at the girls in the room. “It’s a lot better than being out there under a man, I imagine. My father was killed three years ago and I didn’t want to marry, so I came here. It’s like a prison, but at least I’ve made friends and I get to sleep alone at night. That’s good enough for me.”

 Amora desperately wanted to exclaim how backwards the Dark Lord’s Britain was— to cry at how terrifying it was, and how painful it was that they underestimated women and girls so hugely. It was on the tip of her tongue. The urge to speak up. It was always there, she was sure it always would be, but she swallowed it with a furious expression and willed it to go away.

 “Do we have a choice whether you can leave or not?” 

 “That’s a bit harder,” Lenox spoke up, placing her book down on her lap, and scratching the side of her head. “You need to be courted. As long as a man wants you, it’s fine. Sometimes, men with wives take you in as maids or cooks or to help with their children. Merlin knows what actually goes on behind closed doors, though. That’s why we stick here. No men.”

 “Just the way I like it!” Ravenna laughed.

 Morgaine shoved her from where she had climbed down her bunk to sit beside the dark-haired girl.

 “Laverna, would you like to introduce yourself to Amora?” Ravenna asked pointedly. 

 Amora realised there was another girl at the end of the room. She sat at the top of the bunk in the corner, a long dark curtain of hair nearly hiding her whole face. She didn’t say anything but shoved herself further into her book, making a huffing sound. 

 “She’s been here for a couple of weeks. She’s a bit…” Ravenna lowered her voice, “Rude. Just ignore her.”

  Amora wasn’t sure what to say or who to look at. Her gaze just trailed over to Kathy. 

 “You should know,” Susan cleared her throat, and Amora thought Susan’s blue eyes may just have grown glassy. “That Kathy is probably beyond repair. They don’t even drag her out of bed to the factory anymore. If she even wakes up. Once she slept for two days straight. Sometimes I have to mush food into a drink and get her to sip at it like that.”

 Amora’s hand moved to her chest, hoping it would calm the pounding of her heart. It clenched into a fist, her jaw tightening. 

 “Fuck,” she whimpered, and she panicked when she felt herself breaking down for the first time since this had all started happening. 

 She scrambled to grab a ledge, fingers desperately trying to grip something, to stop herself from falling in, spiralling down, never to come back from the ordeal of crying in front of her new roommates, in a world where she was trying to be strong.

 “Amora,” Morgaine gasped, moving forward, hands inches away from holding her when Amora lurched backwards, her face curling. 

 “No!” Amora spat, “Don’t touch me. Did I say you could touch me?”

 Morgaine looked startled, stumbling back and keeping her hands up as if Amora was some sort of feral animal. She opened her mouth to apologise, but Amora glared harder, and started to Occclude, nearly sighing at the feeling of… nothing.

 It was washing away. All the anxiety— the hatred, the fear. Vanishing. Trickling out of her brain through a hole, drifting away, leaving her mellow and calm, her chest lighter, her bones floating. 

 “I apologise,” Amora said, “I would just rather be left alone. This has all been… quite overwhelming for me.”

 “I understand,” Morgaine nodded, “Sorry.”

 However, after that, everything seemed to go quiet. Amora placed all of her sanitary items and toiletries into the drawer beside her bed and moved into the bathroom to change into her pyjamas. As soon as the door shut, she could hear the instant whispering and bickering, her eyes shutting. 

 “She was always like that at Hogwarts,” Susan hissed, “She punched me in the face once. And a couple of our other housemates. Beware of her.”

 She rested her body against the door, hand on her heart, and prayed this would all mean something soon. 

 D.M + A.B 

 After two days at the Cauldronworks, Kathy was finally awake when the girls came back from work. It was there and then that Amora realised she was going to have to break some rules already. 

 Kathy did not seem to remember Amora. She did not utter a word and the expression was impassive on her face when Amora had sat on the edge of her bed and offered her a tin cup of water. She’d poured it carefully into Kathy’s mouth, nearly tearing up as it leaked down her chin and onto her nightie, patting Kathy’s matted curls. Kathy hardly moved, only when Susan took her into the showers to help her wash up and use the toilet. 

 One evening, Amora sat behind Kathy on the bed, like they used to when they were just girls growing up with one another and brushed her hair. It took ages to get all of the knots out of her curls, her heart sinking at the scabs on the back of Kathy’s head, no doubt from hitting it so often when under the Cruciatus Curse. 

 Kathy remained motionless, as she did most of the day every day, but drummed her fingers slowly on the bed beneath them when Amora brushed at the nape of her neck. Amora gasped quietly and started to smile. 

 “You always asked me to brush there,” Amora murmured, “Even when I said it was my turn for you to brush my hair, and my wrist was aching. You were so adamant about always having ten extra minutes.”

 Kathy said nothing. 

 “Do you remember when I used that spell to straighten your hair? How different you looked?” Amora chuckled, “I’ve always been envious of your curls, Kath. They’re so beautiful.”

 Nothing. 

 Amora glanced around the room. The other girls were reading, only books which had been approved by the Ministry Amora came to find, and chattering away to one another, like this was school, like they weren’t confined to the same few rooms day in and day out, forced to make the same potion a hundred times a day, aiding the side of a war which was killing innocent people. 

 “I will do something,” Amora whispered to Kathy. “I love you, Kath. I didn’t stop wondering about you. Neither did Leon or Pansy. I will do something.”

 Kathy made a small groaning sound. Her mouth opened, and a tiny noise came out. Amora squeezed Kathy’s shoulder and went back to work brushing her hair. 

 “P…” Kathy mumbled, “Pa…”

 Amora’s heart lurched. “Pansy?” 

 It took Kathy about fifteen seconds to nod as if her body wasn’t catching up with her brain. Amora smiled tearily, made sure nobody was looking, and wiped them away as fast as they came out. 

 Kathy was in there somewhere. 

 Amora brushed her hair every evening for three weeks. The days seemed to creep by slower and slower. Amora wondered if she would ever see the end of this. The same routine day in and day out was nearly as agonising as being trapped behind the prison cells at the verification centre. 

 She had been away from the Order for two months, and Amora was struggling to keep her thoughts neat. Occlumency seemed to do the trick, but her mind was understimulated here. It was hard to keep it strong when she made the same healing potion twenty times daily. She was sure she could do it with her eyes closed and no instructions by now. 

 There were days when she would not think about the Order one bit and that terrified Amora. She would think of Pansy, Blaise, and Leon and how much she missed them, but it was easy to forget why she was here sometimes and why she needed to keep on going. All she thought about was getting through each day and making sure Kathy was okay. 

 One evening, Amora realised, in a terrifying split second, that she could not picture Leon Holloway’s face. She lurched up in bed, surrounded by nothing but darkness, her heart thumping so hard she was scared it would come out of her throat, and then only settled when dark brows framed dark eyes, and she saw his longer brown hair and tan skin. 

 That was Leon. She remembered Leon’s face. How could she forget? Sleepiness and a lack of stimulation were not a good combination. 

 A few nights later, Kathy had woken the girls up because she was choking on her vomit. Amora had nearly screamed when she had pushed Lennox away to get closer to her old friend, turning her on her side, and smacking her on her back. Somebody was screaming for Death Eaters, who barged in immediately, and merely Scourgified her before letting her fall back asleep.

 “Why don’t they put her in a medical ward?” Amora asked them quietly during breakfast. “If she cannot even work. What use is she to them?”

 “Medical wards are for important people, to put it bluntly,” Kathreen said, “We are not important. We are easily replaceable. They keep her here because we look after her. Less labour for them.”

 “But… is death not better if they can’t do anything for her?” 

 Amora was shot with horrified looks. Some of them looked furious. A couple of them seemed like they may have thought it once or twice themselves. 

 “I don’t want her to die,” Amora hissed, “But I don’t want her to be in pain. I don’t want her to live like this.”

 Susan shrugged. “She has a uterus, Buckley. Which works. They keep her around in case she gets well enough to have one or two.”

 Amora shoved her toast away from her. “I feel sick.”

 “They won’t give her anything for the pain,” Morgaine said with a frown. “We’ve begged. We’ve tried everything.”

 “Have you ever…” Amora hesitated, “Taken her a healing potion from the factory?”

 Susan laughed loudly. “Seriously, Buckley? Are you joking me?”

 “No,” Amora spat, “Not at all. She’s in agony all of the time.”

 “Well, we know that,” Susan said, “But good fucking luck sneaking anything past the Death Eaters or the Oathkeepers. Do you realise why they pat us down after every shift? So we don’t steal their goods.”

 “We could try something,” Amora whispered, “Hatch some sort of plan to sneak a potion out. If it made her feel better for even ten minutes…”

 “That’s suicidal,” Susan scoffed, “A one-way ticket to end up just like her. Count me out.”

 “I’ll help.”

 Everybody was startled by the unfamiliar voice. Laverna edged closer from her spot at the end of the table, pushing her dark hair out of the way and pursing her lips apprehensively. 

 “I can cause a commotion when they’re checking us,” she said. “You can sneak it through.”

 “Suicide,” Susan hissed at her. 

 Amora’s lips only tugged upwards in a small smile. 

 D.M + A.B

 It took just over a week to figure out the finer details. Amora and Laverna had to wait until the youngest Oathkeeper the factory had was on duty. He had an eye for the girls— most likely fresh out of Hogwarts with a great lack of experience. He was clumsy and he stammered over his words sometimes. 

 He was the weakest of the lot. 

 The witches took their usual spaces behind their designated potion stations and got to work at their healing potions. Amora had two on the go at once. A difficult task, and tedious to hide from the Oathkeeper who roamed in and out of the girls. He seemed too distracted by Lennox to make as many rotations as other Oathkeepers did. He kept trying to talk to her, and Lennox didn’t mind the attention. 

 Once Amora had brewed her first successful potion of the day, she tucked the vial into her sleeve, securing it into the hairband around her wrist. For the rest of the nine hours, Amora kept her head down and worked quicker than ever to make the minimum ten potions required daily. 

 She pursed her lips, glancing continuously at the clock at the end of the room, massive and ticking, mocking her, her hands so clammy she kept nearly dropping her equipment. Amora glanced across the room at Laverna who sent her a small nod. 

 “Finish up on your last potion then line up at the door,” the Oathkeeper barked. 

 Amora wiped the sweat off of her forehead. She placed the vials into a tray and brought them to the table they always placed them on. A different Death Eater stood there. He solely turned up each evening to collect the potions and leave. Amora wasn’t worried about his presence. 

 She was, however, concerned when Laverna walked over with a tray with just one potion inside. It was deep red in colour and seemingly bursting to get out of its glass confinement. She put it down next to Amora’s and smirked. 

 “How is this for a distraction, Death Eater scum?” Laverna hissed at her.

 Amora’s eyes widened in horror. She felt as if she had fallen through ice, her entire body filling with such dread that she nearly couldn’t open her mouth. 

 Deadman’s Draught. It was as serious as it sounded. Rebellion members were notorious for using it. There was a time a few years ago when Deadman attacks were happening so often that it was not killing just Death Eaters, but innocent people– even Muggles. 

 Amora stumbled backwards, nearly falling flat on her backside, scrambling to get away as Laverna stabbed one of the knives they used from the potion stations through the neck of the Death Eater. The room filled with screams as the Death Eater choked and spluttered, falling backwards as crimson blood spurted everywhere, coating everything in its radius. 

 “What the fuck!” Lennox screamed a sob, backing away from Laverna who was quickly climbing onto the table. She kicked the healing potions off and held her draught high above her head. 

 “If you attack me, the vial drops and we all die,” Laverna growled at the Oathkeeper pointing his wand at her. 

 Amora’s heart was hammering. She edged to the back of the room. Even if she made it out of the door, the chain reaction that the potion created would not ensure her safety. Deadman’s Draught would produce shockwaves which would not stop until they stopped reacting with potions and other magical objects. The entire building was going to crumble. 

 There would be nothing left of the room she stood in and she supposed that must be Laverna’s objective. Take out the Death Eaters and destroy their entire supply of healing potions, including their warehouse. 

 “Snap your wand in half,” Laverna said, seething. “Now. Or I fucking drop it this second!”

 Amora shook as the Oathkeeper cursed and did as he was told. The sound of the wood snapping echoed inside the warehouse, alongside the whimpers and cries of witches. Amora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

 Two and a half months in, she had been subjected to nothing but torture and imprisonment, and now she was to be murdered by a rebellion member in a suicide attack. She desperately wanted to scream that she was not with the Death Eaters, she did not believe in blood supremacy, but she knew how much of a lie that would sound— and the distaste rebellion members often had for Order members. After all, there was a reason rebellion groups had formed. They disagreed with the way the Order handled things. 

 Some rebellion groups were a lot more violent. Some sent suicide bombers to places like this. 

 The irony. 

 “Amora, open the potion cupboards,” Laverna ordered, jerking her hand at the cabinets behind Amora. “Empty all of the potions.”

 Laverna planned on destroying every single one. Amora swallowed, opening the metal cabinet and yanking out every shelf. She tipped them upside down, watching each life-saving vial tumble out and smash to the floor at her feet, bubbling away. Only when she had emptied the first cabinet did Amora realise why Laverna had her getting rid of them. 

 It was made of dragonsteel. Impossible to destroy with magic, designed to protect its contents from any sort of attack or accident. She looked at the tight space inside and realised it was large enough for her to fit. 

 Amora clenched her jaw and prayed Merlin would forgive her for not helping the others. There was no possible way that she could help them. 

 “This is for the Muggleborns,” Laverna seethed, waving the potion in her hand, not missing the gasps and cries. “This is for the Muggles and the creatures senselessly murdered by your army. Because you have continued to make these healing potions that aid the side committing genocide! Some of you do not believe in the cause, and you are here because you are cowards— you don’t care about the outcome of this war so long as you survive. I want you to know that you are just as bad as they are. You have caused just as much damage as the ones who wear the masks and do the killings. Today marks a day in history, where I make things a little bit more right again. If you are here, you have chosen your side; you’ve made your bed, and now I will make you lay in it. The only way to cleanse the rot is to burn it out. For freedom!” 

 There were horrified screams as Laverna started to unscrew the potion. Amora did not hesitate to dive into the cabinet, her heart in her throat, her hands yanking as quickly as she could to grasp at the lock inside and pull both doors shut. Her body curled small, her trembling hands just pulling it in time as she heard the glass smash and the first explosion— screams and cries, and then another explosion, and another, and another, and another…

 Amora couldn’t help but scream. She buried her head in her arms and for the first time in a very long time, she screamed and she cried and she cursed the world she had been born into. Her head was ducked in her knees as explosions rattled on the cabinet, warming it and rattling it and nearly bursting her eardrums. 

 Amora cried and sobbed and the rattling did not stop for what felt like hours, but must have been minutes. Explosion after explosion sounded, slowly getting further and further away until it was in the distance, but she could still hear it. Amora was scared to open the cabinet door, even when she was sure the room would not experience another shockwave. The silence that followed the explosions was almost worse.

 Her heart stopped when she felt the potion bottle tucked in her sleeve slide down. She grabbed it and held it tight. She could not expose it to the air outside— it would immediately blow up in her face. 

 Amora popped off the top and drank the potion she had brewed for Kathy. Kathy who was now dead. Kathy, who had felt nothing but pain for months leading up to her last moments. 

 Amora chugged it and managed to taste the saltiness of her own tears, too. Oddly enough, this was the one moment that she had felt the most like herself in months. Nobody was around to accuse her of being a spy, she did not have to pretend that she sympathised with the Death Eaters. Everybody was dead. It was just her— and perhaps anybody else that had managed to think up an escape route at the last second.

 She closed her eyes and lay her head against the inside of the warm container. She supposed she would have to wait for somebody to come and find her. 

 Merlin knows what was going to happen to her after this. 

 ...

did somebody say something about a certain malfoy appearing in the next chapter????

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

Amora’s body felt as though it weighed a tonne. Her neck and her back hurt, but it was merely a dull ache compared to the stabbing in her chest and the swirling pools in her stomach. They threatened to rise up and up, out of her mouth. She kept her lips pursed and squeezed her eyes shut. It might have been hours she had been in the container, but it could have also been minutes. It felt like years.

 It was humiliating to admit to herself that, despite being sent on such a high-stakes mission, Amora was too scared to open the door and discover the aftermath of the suicide bombing. She had seen dozens of dead bodies— perhaps more than a hundred over the last five years— and her imagination conjured up the worst possible ones, replacing their faces with the girls outside. 

 Amora squeezed herself into the tiniest corner of the small container. Perhaps she could have fit one more person in with her. Maybe if one of them had sat on the other's lap and rested their head on the other’s shoulder. They could have made something work. She ran her hands through her hair and pulled, whimpering. 

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kathy. 

  Amora swallowed thickly and attempted to Occlude. Her barriers failed to build, crumbling as fast as she tried to place the bricks. It was no use. She was too emotional— too on edge. Her brain was scattered. It was as if her body wanted her to feel this. It felt as though this may be the punishment for not saving everybody else. 

 Her hand was placed against the metal lock, and she feebly pushed it open. It was caught against something. For a split second, she nearly screamed and gave the door a hard shove— physically deflating when it pushed whatever had been blocking it out of the way. She screwed her eyes shut when she felt the cold draft waft in, leaving goosebumps over her skin and whipping behind her sweaty neck. Amora counted to three in her head and crawled out of the tight space.

 Sunlight forced her eyes to squint. It was her first time seeing natural light in nearly three months. It streamed through the caved-in roof, wooden beams and plasterboards dangling from the parts that weren’t covering the floors, ready to fall any second. Debris covered every surface, the desks filled with potions and magical ingredients gone as if they had never been there in the first place. 

 Amora shivered in the cold, her arms wrapping around her body in a tight hug, nails digging into her flesh and leaving behind bloody crescent moons. She dug harder. Her eyes drifted around, terrified of seeing one of the girls, and yet almost hoping she would. She wasn’t sure there would be anything left of their bodies, even if she could see them below the piles of ash and remnants of the factory. The walls had caved, creating a huge open space and she could see into rooms they were not allowed in. There was nothing left of those either. 

 “Hello?” Amora called, her voice catching and shaking. “Is anybody there?”

 She was met with birds squawking nearby. She glanced back up at the hole in the roof, shielding her eyes with a hand, and saw crows sitting above, looking down at her. Amora listened out, swallowed by the silence that followed. Nobody called back to her. Not a single voice or human movement could be heard. 

 Amora pushed through the debris, standing on a board of wood, and wading through the bricks, until she made it to the gap in the wall. Her hands held on, immediately coated in red brick dust. She swallowed as she took her first step onto the grass outside. It was long, the frost of each blade tickling at her ankles. 

 The air was crisp. It bit at her cheeks, watered her eyes, and froze the tips of her fingers. Still, she found herself with her knees on the frosty ground, her hands covering her mouth, her head ducking again as she tried not to scream. All she wanted to do was to cry. Her throat hurt too badly from doing it before. 

 There were popping noises behind her, that familiar magical sound of Apparation, and Amora turned, almost numb to the erratic pounding in her chest. Her shaky hands steadied on her knees, and her eyes, tired from sobbing, widened at who she saw. 

 “Minister Malfoy— a survivor.”

 Among five Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy turned his head over his shoulder. His features were as sharp and pointed as the Daily Prophet captured them, his long ice hair neatly behind his back, a deep contrast to the black robes over his body. He held his cane in one hand, a hot drink in the other— as if he was merely stopping by. As if dozens of people had not just been brutally murdered.

His beady eyes burned into her, his entire face narrowing, and he stormed forward, stomping until he abruptly stopped directly in front of her. Amora was forced to crane her neck and look up at him.  

 “Former Order member Amora Buckley… lone survivor of a mass killing at the only Cauldronworks which supplies potions for the front line,” Minister Malfoy stated as if reading a headline. “Doesn’t sound too good, does it?”

 Amora opened her mouth. Only stammers came out. She willed her hands to stop shaking. 

 “I didn’t—” Amora cleared her throat. It was hoarse and painful. “I didn’t do anything.”

 “Then perhaps you could explain to me, Miss Buckley, why everybody is dead aside from you?” Minister Malfoy scrunched his nose at her. “You only arrived here a few weeks ago, correct?”

 “Yes, sir,” Amora said, “But I… It wasn’t me. It was a rebel. It was– it was Deadman’s Draught.”

 “An Order member?”

 “No!” Amora exclaimed, but then she thought for a moment. How could she possibly know if the woman had been an Order member when she had forgotten so many things without realising it? 

She furrowed her brows. “I don’t think she was, anyway. I don’t- I can’t remember. I just remember the Order was strictly against Deadman’s. I remember the rebel attacks a few years ago. Laverna— was her first name. It doesn’t ring a bell. I don’t– She didn’t recognise me. Or she didn’t say anything. Unless she was Obliviated, too– I can’t—” Embarrassingly, Amora felt her eyes grow hot with tears. “I don’t remember.”

 Minister Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Right. Dolohov, Rowle— take this one to the infirmary. Interview her whilst she’s being checked over.”

 “But, Minister, do you not think the girl could lie?” Dolohov offered timidly, edging forwards with a grimace, his eyes darting between Minister Malfoy and Amora. 

 “Look at her,” Minister Malfoy scoffed, “Her eyes are so swollen from crying that you’d think a potion exploded in her face. Besides, Buckley here is correct— Deadman’s Draught is not the Order’s style. Have somebody at the BMA grab Laverna Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is’s records and look into whichever rebellion group she may have come from.”

 “The Daily Prophet is going to arrive in a few minutes, Minister,” Another Death Eater said, “Do you want the girl in the photos?”

 “Hmm…” 

 “Minister,” a man pushed his glasses further up his nose from beside him. “For now, I advise you to keep the girl’s survival out of public knowledge. A media outcry about the Bureau of Magical Allegiance not being able to do its only job of keeping out rebels and traitors may cause you to receive some backlash. So early on in your run as Minister may prevent you from being reelected. If the rebel is dead, we can put all of the blame on her— and we no longer have a problem. I advise we focus on rebuilding our warehouses and asking everybody and anybody to contribute to the war effort from their homes. Allow them to perhaps ship their potions to the Ministry to aid the war. It makes it far easier for the public to digest, and suggests a positive action plan.”

  Minister Malfoy stood there for a moment, eyes narrowed as he nodded. “Yes. Yes, I quite agree. Excellent idea. Take the girl away now, Dolohov.”

 Amora watched as the man, who appeared to be an advisor of some sort, took Minister Malfoy’s hot drink and handed it to somebody else. He began to smooth down the elder Malfoy’s robes, ensuring he looked perfect for the camera due to turn up at any minute. 

 A hand under each of her arms painfully yanked her from the icy floor. Amora’s gaze burned into the collapsing building, her bottom lip trembling as she thought about Kathy. She would be just another name among the dozens killed in the suicide attack– if they even bothered to print the name of everybody murdered. Events like this often brushed ‘useless’ victims under the rug and created anti-Order propaganda, whether it had been them or not. 

 The Apparation left Amora nearly sick as she crumpled to a reception room floor. Her hands and knees were cold against it, her stomach churning, her head spinning. Apparation weakened her further, moulding her into a rag doll that the Death Eaters hoisted back up, paying no attention to the sweat covering her greying skin. 

 “Minister Malfoy has personally requested she be checked over immediately,” Dolohov said to the receptionist— a woman in her forties— whose eyes widened at Amora. She nodded quickly, standing up and coming around the other side of the desk. 

 Her hand delicately touched Amora’s shoulder, and she pressed the back of her hand to Amora’s forehead. Her frown of concern filled Amora with the same feeling she had when she would have dreams about her mother coming back. The idea of a mother taking care of her and looking after her. The suggestion of having her childhood back— if only for a moment. 

 “Oh, darling, you’re burning up,” the receptionist muttered, “You two can sit outside here, I will show her to a doctor.”

 “We are not letting this one out of our sight,” Rowle growled, his grip on her shoulder nearly making her wince. “Former Order member– this one. Not to be one hundred percent trusted.”

 “The BMA trusted her,” the lady said pointedly, raising a sharp eyebrow at him. 

 “We are to interview Buckley on what happened to her,” Dolohov spat, and there was a finality to his tone that had the receptionist shrinking back. “Must I inform Lestrange one his wives is talking back to Death Eaters? You are lucky he has allowed you to keep your job.”

 Mrs Lestrange— though from the look on her face, Amora felt wrong mentally referring to her as this— grimaced, shaking her head. She sighed heavily and straightened herself, smoothing her dark robes. Her crimson lips pursed together. 

 “Room two.”

 “That’s all we needed,” Rowle grumbled and Amora was shoved towards a narrow corridor filled with dozens of doors. 

 Dolohov forced open the door. Amora nearly tripped over her own two feet, glancing nervously around the doctor’s room. The doctor himself sat at his desk, sipping on a hot drink.

 “She survived Deadman’s Draught,” Dolohov said, “Minister Malfoy wishes for her to be looked over. You are sworn to secrecy, yes?”

 “I took a vow,” the doctor nodded, placing his mug on the counter and heading over to her with an unsure expression on his face. 

 “Good. We are going to ask her a few questions,” Dolohov drawled, sitting back on one of the chairs. 

 “Her name?” The doctor asked.

 “My name is Amora Buckley,” she replied, accepting his hand as he helped her to sit on the bed. “I’m twenty-one. Pureblood.”

 The doctor remained silent as he started to cast spells over her that would check her vitals. His wand released a shimmering translucent colour that seemed to absorb into her skin, runes appearing in the air that Amora could not quite decipher. The doctor seemed to be taking a mental note of them. 

 When Dolohov asked, Amora told him the entire story, though she left the part out where she intended to steal a healing potion for Kathy. Her voice shook, her hands trembling. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since the explosions. When Rowle told her it was two hours ago, Amora was moved to silence for a while. It felt like both days and minutes ago. She could not believe Kathy had been dead for less than two hours. That felt like an eternity already. 

 “There is nothing wrong with her,” the doctor announced, “She’s suffering no effects from the Deadman’s Draught. Hiding in a dragonsteel container was very clever. Her heart rate and blood pressure are quite high. I put that down to stress and trauma.”

 “Thank you, doctor,” Dolohov said, “Rowle, go and send a patronus to the Bureau of Magical Allegiance. Let them know we have a Pureblood lady in need of a place to stay.”

 Amora’s blood turned to ice. Cold hands gripped her and shook her awake. She realised very quickly that Kathy’s death had taken up so much of her thoughts, that she did not properly consider what might happen to her next. Amora had been mostly convinced that she would be accused of leading the attack. 

 She was faintly aware that Rowle had left the room and Dolohov was talking to the doctor about her, but everything sounded underwater. Amora struggled to swim to the surface. Weights tugged at her ankles and water started entering her lungs. 

 “Hey,” Dolohov snapped his fingers in front of her face, so furious-looking that it couldn’t have been the first time he’d attempted to get her attention. “Fucking breathe. The doctor said you are fine.”

 Amora’s hand rested on her chest above her heart. She swore she could feel it protruding past her ribcage. She tried to listen to Dolohov. Nothing was wrong with her— this was a part of her mission. If she was outside of the factory, she would be able to gather intel for the Order. 

 The Order. Her friends. For Lupin and Moody and—

 And who else? 

 Amora’s hand was on her throat in an instant, soothing the lump there, her eyes stinging with tears. The panic was beginning to externalise itself– she knew she would start crying if she did not find a way to mediate the feelings swirling in her chest and her stomach. 

 Pansy! That’s her name. Pansy. Pansy. Pansy. My best friend in the entire world. Pansy Par— Pansy. Pansy Parker… No, Pansy Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson with the dark hair and the pale skin. She’s equally as terrifying as she is amazing. Pansy. 

 Something was wrong with her memories. It was the same feeling as trying to remember the names of people you had not seen since you were a child. Where their name is on the tip of your tongue, or you can see a name but cannot put the face to it. She had never forgotten for so long before. It was never Pansy she forgot. 

 “Buckley!” Dolohov smacked her across the face. 

 Amora cried, holding a hand to her stinging cheek, wincing as the tears finally trickled down. The doctor did not bat an eye as she crumpled off of her seat and onto the floor. Rowle stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, lip curled. 

 “Calm the fuck down,” Dolohov hissed in her face. “You have nothing to worry about. You’ve already been snatched up.”

 Amora’s nose scrunched, her hand trembling as she wiped her tears, attempting to put on a brave face. “Snatched up?” She repeated. 

 Dolohov chuckled. “You must be special, Buckley. You are wanted by the High Commander.”

 D.M + A.B 

 Amora was all too aware of how dystopian the entire ordeal was. She was taken to the Refinement Ward at the Ministry of Magic, where a couple of younger witches worked on scrubbing her up for the High Commander. Not once did they look her in the eye as they washed her hair or cleansed her face. They did not have to ask her dress size before they were helping her into a dark green dress, modest and yet somehow flattering, bell sleeves thankfully comfortable. 

 She glanced at herself in a mirror and realised that they were attempting to make her look as magical as possible. Amora had never felt more like her mother, who often wore traditional witches' clothing, as she did now. Her dark hair tumbled down to near-enough her waist, shining and slightly wavy, and they had even charmed her cheeks to look slightly rosy. 

 “Do you know the High Commander’s real name?” Amora asked the girl working on Amora’s nails quietly when Rowle left the room for a bathroom break. 

 The girl did not look up at her. 

 “I won’t say anything,” Amora whispered, “I’m just… nervous. I’d like to be prepared. Is he old?”

 The girl’s gaze flickered up at her and then immediately back down to the nails. Each expert stroke of the small brush painted Amora’s nails the darkest shade of black. 

 “Is he horrible?” Amora whispered, “I mean, I assume he is considering the High Commander is in charge of the army. His attacks on the Order and…” she panicked for a moment, “Were well-thought-out and necessary, don’t get me wrong, and must have come from a place of careful consideration, but could be very… bloody. Does he have other wives? Do you know?”

 The girl gave Amora a frustrated look and jabbed her finger at her lips. Only then, as Amora studied the girl’s face carefully, did she see the gold shimmers at the corners of the girl’s mouth. Amora peered closer, her dark eyes widening, her face contorting into an expression of horror. 

 They were magical stitches. 

 “Oh Merlin,” Amora whispered, her heart sinking in her chest. “I am so sorry.”

 “Don’t be,” the older girl scoffed, lifting a piece of dark mesh in her hands, and examining it through the light pouring into the large window. She started to adjust it on the mannequin wearing another dress Amora would be given. “It’s her own doing.”

 Amora’s eyes flickered to the girl. She was frowning now, her brows furrowed to form a ‘v’, her hands trembling when she adjusted them over Amora’s. Still, her application was flawless. She had recovered quickly. 

 “What did she do?” Amora murmured. 

 “She broke the rules,” she replied bitterly, stabbing a pin through the mesh, connecting it to the top of the dress’s corset. “One must not speak ill of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is the reason we have freedom of speech. He may take it away from us just as easily, should we not be grateful for it.”

 Amora swallowed. “I see.”

 “In His Shadow, We Rise.” 

 She looked at Amora expectantly, her face contorting when, for a split second, the brunette girl was dumbfounded. 

 “In His Shadow, We Rise,” she repeated, and hoped that was the right thing to do. 

 When the girl nodded and proceeded with her work, Amora felt herself relax slightly. Her heart tugged at the silent tears strolling down the other girl’s cheeks. 

 D.M + A.B 

  The manor Dolohov and Rowle brought Amora to was as large as it was grand. Dozens of large windows with dark accents glowed back at her from the long driveway, the dark weather nearly making it seem warm and inviting. Amora wasn’t sure if it was four storeys high, or if she was going to walk into ceilings as tall as the ones at Hogwarts. It was gloomy and proud. 

 Whoever lived there had generational wealth. Most likely a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Amora thought of all of the old men who were a part of it. Their slimy hands were adorned with signet rings, ready to grope whatever they deemed theirs. If Amora had learned anything, she knew that when men were this rich, they believed everything belonged to them. 

 It would be a lie to say she was not feeling anxious. Nevertheless, her back was straight, her chin high, her chest out. She pretended she had a friend or a sister beside her– one that would tell her to remain calm and to not show whatever man living inside that manor an ounce of fear. Amora wished she did not have to do this alone. 

 Just like the gates down the stretch of driveway, the main doors opened by themselves, slowly and almost eerily. Amora did not breathe as a foyer was revealed, dimly lit with lanterns and oil lamps, clean and grand. She wandered in and could not help but crane her neck upwards, admiring the huge chandelier hanging directly above her. 

 “This is you,” Dolohov said. 

 Amora turned back to face them, almost anxious for them to leave despite their cruel nature and obvious dislike to her, because that would only mean somebody new would attempt to bully her into her place. However, they did not wait for her to say anything and within seconds they had Apparated out of the house. Only then did the front doors slowly slide shut, stopping the draft coming in. 

 Amora hugged her arms and looked around the foyer for more clues. There was not an ounce of personality anywhere. No flowers, no details on the rug below her, no photos, tapestries, portraits, crests. 

There were no feminine touches. Amora wondered if that meant the High Commander did not have another wife. The bartender’s wife had told her that it would be easier if they did. She supposed it meant less attention would be on her. Amora wondered if the High Commander had this entire house to himself or if he lived with anybody else. Not even a house elf had approached her yet. 

 Amora stood for about a minute before she wandered into the room directly next to the foyer. It was not separated by a door but a large archway. A fire crackled inside. It was a living room of sorts, though Amora’s eyes immediately caught the bookshelf on the wall right beside her. Her gaze flickered over the titles– all non-fiction much to her dismay– but her fingers traced the spines anyway. Not an inch of dust on any of them. 

 She delicately pulled one out, admiring the familiar weight in her hands, opening it and lifting her nose to it, inhaling the familiar scent of books. It felt as though she were in the library at Hogwarts, or in her dorm room, reading until the sun came up, passing out and dribbling into the pages. 

 Her heart stopped when she heard quiet footsteps approaching from behind. She was quick to place the book back in its rightful place but wasn’t quite stealthy enough. It missed its spot, clattering to the floor with an echoing bang. Amora winced, scrambling to grab it.

 “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

 Amora froze at the figure standing in the archway. He was tall, looming over her, cloaked in dark robes. The fireplace lit up his pale, pointed features, not enough to warm the white hair on his head. Silver burned into gold for the first time in five years. 

 His voice hit her like a hex. She nearly choked.

 “How predictable, Buckley,” Draco Malfoy said, his long fingers dancing across the frame of the archway he stood inside. “Already with your head in a book.”

 Amora’s lips parted, but nothing came out. How could he look the same and yet so different? His voice was deeper— no, darker. His chest was broad, his hands massive. His face had lost any youthfulness it once had, his hair slick back with far less oil than he’d used as a young boy. Some fell in front of his face.

 Draco reached down and grabbed the book off of the ground. He flipped it over to read the cover, raising an eyebrow at her before he put it back in its rightful place. 

 “I thought you didn’t like Ancient Runes,” Draco hummed. 

 Amora swallowed. She wasn’t sure if she was slightly relieved to see him or furious. Five years had gone by and her grudge against him had hardly diminished. Yet here he stood, talking to her as if the last time she had seen him, he hadn’t been crying when she had caught him in the act of letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts at the age of seventeen. As if he hadn’t completely betrayed her or stood in the background of the Daily Prophet’s coverage of her mother’s brutal death or lied about —

 “You’re quiet. That’s new,” Draco said, his tone mocking. “Cat got your tongue, Buckley?”

 The urge to swing for his jaw was undeniable. Her fists clenched, her nails digging in and temporarily bringing her back down to earth. She imagined staining his pale nose with crimson blood, or kicking him so hard in the crotch that he was a gasping and sobbing mess. Then she would ask him if he could have predicted that . 

 “What a surprise,” Amora replied drily, “It’s been a while.”

 Draco nodded. “Hm. It has. When I heard you’d defected, I hardly believed my ears. When I heard you’d gotten yourself blown up, I thought that sounded more like it— clumsy Buckley and all of that— and yet here you stand in my home— very much alive.”

 Amora shrugged, her glare burning daggers into him. “I’m not sixteen anymore. I wouldn’t consider myself clumsy.”

 Draco scoffed. “Oh. Were you merely practising your juggling skills with my books, then?”

 The dark-haired woman felt her skin grow hot. Her lip curled. She thought her nails may be drawing blood in her palms. All she wanted was to wipe the cocky smirk of his face. She stepped back when Draco moved forward, his face turning cold, features dark. 

 “I don’t know what you think you are doing here, Buckley, but this is not your world,” Draco hissed, “You do not belong here. I do not doubt that the uncontainable sense of heroism you have was fueled by volunteering to do some spy work for the Order, but the game is over. Apparate back now and I will have it seem you were killed in that explosion.”

 Amora tried to hide the slight surprise she felt. She wanted to accept his escape offer so badly. However, she had a duty. She had not come this far to back out now. 

 “I don’t know what you are talking about, Malfoy,” Amora replied darkly, “If you doubt my loyalty, send me back for the BMA to interrogate me again. I am sure once I am proven loyal a second time, a different man will host me in his home quite happily.”

 Draco’s jaw clenched. He huffed out a breath from his nose. His large hand moved upwards as if to run through his hair, but he stopped himself at the last second. 

 “Get yourself familiar with the house, then,” Draco replied, “Your room is the first door at the top of the stairs. If I catch you snooping through my belongings, I will not hesitate to put you in your place, Buckley. I do not take lightly to traitors.”

 Amora nearly both laughed and screamed at the irony. He was the traitor. 

 He stormed from the room, robes billowing behind him, a trail of his cologne filling her nose. Only when she heard the echo of a door slamming a few seconds later did she kick the armchair beside her as hard as she possibly could. And then, she collapsed into it, her hand on her pounding heart.

 Amora had found herself in the snake’s nest. Just where the Order wanted her. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first time Amora had laid eyes on Draco Malfoy, he was scowling back at her in complete disgust. She had been scrambling for a seat on the train, her heart racing out of her chest. If she could not find a friend to sit next to now, the eleven-year-old girl was sure she would not have one for the following seven years. Everybody would make their best friends and she would be forced to watch from the outside— all because she could not find one damn seat next to people her age. 

Fate would of course have her crash into her complete opposite. A platinum-haired, icey-eyed boy with a scrunched nose and fire on his cheeks. He had a harsh tongue and no patience. 

 Watch where you’re going, dimwit! 

 If Amora thought about it, she swore she could still hear his little voice ringing in her ears and feel the same panic in her chest that screamed, "Well done, Amora—you’ve not managed to make a single friend yet, but you have just made your first enemy." 

   For four years, Draco Malfoy seemed to continuously appear at the most convenient times to mock her and her friends or tease her and push her buttons until she snapped. He was the most awful person Amora had met, she was sure of it– until her friends let her down one day and he was the only one who was there for her at the hospital wing. Even if Madam Pomfrey did have to force him to hold her hand whilst she mended Amora’s bones. 

 He wasn’t so mysterious after that. His brooding expressions and sarcastic comments seemed to fade back into his tough exterior— she saw that gentleness he had when he handled his books during revision periods or the way his nose crinkled when he smiled at something one of his friends said. 

 When they had been trapped in the library together one night in their fourth year, Amora swore that the universe had something against her. He was the very last person in the entire school she wanted to spend hours upon hours locked in a room with— even if she had been forced to acknowledge Draco Malfoy had human qualities and was not a robot. 

 He gave her the jumper of his back— not without claiming it was to shut her complaining up, of course— and he let her fall asleep beside him so they would both stay warm. Something about penguins, Amora remembered. They huddled together to keep warm. 

 Their paths seemed intertwined from that moment on. He was everywhere she went and this time he wasn’t mocking everything she did. Malfoy came up with every excuse under the sun to be around Amora, despite his insistence that he wanted nothing to do with her.

 He kissed her on the Astronomy Tower. Asked her to be his girlfriend after a near-death experience on the ice lake. Gave her a family in the Slytherins when the Hufflepuffs turned on her. Broke her heart a few times here and there. Put it back together again each time. Made love to her on her sixteenth birthday in the fanciest hotel in Muggle London. Took the Dark Mark. Lied about it. Killed their headmaster so Death Eaters could take over the school. Spent the next five years giving her no explanation. 

 Amora shivered as soon as she pushed open the door to her room. The window was cracked open, the cold breeze blowing in and leaving goosebumps over her skin. She drifted over, swallowing as she shut it, the whistling wind immediately being blocked out. Her hands hugged her arms as she turned to face the rest of the room. 

 It was a room grander than Amora had ever had in her entire life, yet she had a feeling this may be one of the most basic ones at Malfoy Manor. The dark wooden floorboards and detailed oak panelling on the walls matched the rest of the house. Dark green drapes hung over the tall windows, though it was too dark to see anything outside aside from the rain lashing against the glass. It coordinated the covers of the huge oak wood canopy bed which was brimming with pillows and sat enticingly against the middle of the wall. 

 There was a fireplace with all sorts of trinkets on top, such as candles and lanterns, and a huge portrait of a snowy beach hanging above it. In one corner of the room was a thin oak desk, a lantern and an inkpot on top, and a chest of drawers in the corner on the opposite side of the fireplace. A trunk sat at the end of the bed beneath a cream Persian rug. 

 When Amora opened it, she found blankets and even more pillows. She turned around as she let the lid to the trunk fall shut, nearly gasping at the bookshelf against the other wall. It was filled to the brim with books of all sizes and colours. Her heart lept from her chest as she darted forward, examining the titles. 

 Fiction. Real, fictional books that would satisfy a craving she’d had for months now. Entertainment. An escape from this dreary existence she was currently living in. The chance to find characters that may remind her of…

 Of…

 Amora swallowed and thought hard, brows furrowed. Characters that might feel like a best friend or a sibling. They were all Wizarding novels— classics like The Enchanter’s Gambit and Wandwood Tales, and more modern novels such as The Forbidden Charm. Amora sucked in a breath when she saw her favourite of all time— Through the Looking Glass. 

 She yanked it from its shelf, gripping it tightly with both hands as if she were scared somebody would come and snatch it back off of her. She had not read this since her sixth year. She’d read it four times since Hermione Granger had recommended it to her in their third year. 

 The cover was not as bright as she remembered it. Flipping open the first couple of pages, Amora was surprised at how much she already remembered. She perched herself on the edge of the armchair beside the bookshelf, her nose practically embedded in the pages. She didn’t want to lean back— did not want to get too comfortable here. Just because she knew the man whose house it was, did not make him a friend. Amora knew she should not relax. 

 D.M + A.B

 Amora swore quietly when she woke up curled in a ball on the armchair, a blanket thrown over her that she did not remember grabbing. The book was half open on the arm, her back clicking as she straightened out. The curtains were closed, but she could see flickers of sun poking through the gaps of the heavy drapes. Birds were tweeting outside and water was trickling from a fountain that she had not heard the night before. 

 Her neck was sore, creaking with the floor as she stepped onto it. Amora nearly audibly gasped as ice struck up her feet. She felt it in her bones as she drifted over to the bed. For a moment, she contemplated climbing under the duvet, still clad in yesterday's clothes, and trying to find sleep again, but she could hear movement downstairs. 

 Malfoy. 

 Amora swallowed at the thought of her childhood sweetheart roaming freely between the rooms beneath her doing Merlin knows what. Plotting, scheming, commanding… Amora furrowed her brows and sat at the edge of the bed, trying desperately to remember a time when the Order had mentioned a High Commander. 

 No success. Either that had been wiped from her memories too, or Moody and Lupin had failed to tell her that Malfoy was not just a high-ranking Death Eater, but the one calling the shots at the front line. The one planning the attacks, overseeing the Dark Lord’s military success. 

 The amount of hatred she felt for him was unfathomable. Once upon a time, her teenage self had been so stupid as to sacrifice everything for him— including the respect of her mother and her peers. The only thing that stopped her from regretting their three-year romance happened to be the friends that she had left behind at the Order. Without him, there never would have been them— and they were everything to Amora. 

 She wanted to hurt him as much as she wanted to beg him to tell her why he had done this. Or better yet, how he could do it to her. How he could hold her and kiss her and tell her he was in love with her with a Dark Mark hidden beneath his school robes and murderous intentions. 

 Over the last five years, Amora had continuously debated the idea that Draco Malfoy may have never actually loved her. Perhaps she was merely a coverup— Merlin knows as a Malfoy he needed one. People thought he had changed— Amora especially— and that he did not believe a word his father spewed, and that worked in his favour of going unnoticed as he plotted Professor Dumbledore’s murder and built a Vanishing Cabinet that would allow the infiltration of Death Eaters. 

  Surely that would be the only logical explanation of his radio silence over the last five years. 

 Amora shook her head in an attempt to snap out of her thoughts. They did her no good. Pansy would scold her for thinking them. She would most likely dig her nails into Amora’s shoulders and shake her roughly until Amora was laughing and pleading with her to stop. Then, she would remind Amora of her self-worth, and they would talk about something else. Amora wondered if Pansy had ever failed to make her feel better. 

 Amora stood up from the bed and stood at her door. She chewed on her bottom lip, her hand resting in the air a few inches away from the handle. She glared at it and then, after the count of three, yanked it down and revealed the corridor. There was a lump in her throat as she wandered out, standing still for a moment and listening out for the noises she could hear earlier. 

 Her hands rested on the bannister of the staircase, but now Malfoy had grown silent. She wondered if he was still in the house. She certainly hoped not— then she would be able to explore the house a little more without fear of bumping into him. She glanced down the corridor and debated which door looked as though it was most likely to have a bathroom behind it. They were all the same, of course.

 Amora opened the one on the other side of the corridor. Another room like hers— identical aside from the lack of books on the shelves. This one had trophies and medals and crests. She shut it and tried the next one. 

 Bingo. 

 Emerald tiles gleamed back at her, a large round bath in the centre of the room. A table beside it had white towels neatly folded in top. When Amora touched them, they were warm. She hummed, clutching it in her palm, bringing it to her chest to warm her whole body up. There was a glass shower to the side and huge sinks with golden taps and glimmering round mirrors above them. It was perhaps the fanciest bathroom Amora had ever been in— high arched ceilings and expensive branded bottles sat on a tray by the sinks. 

 Immediately, Amora decided to draw herself a bath. She grabbed some of the oils and tipped them into the water, sighing when bubbles began to foam, twisting and forming soapy mountains that welcomed her happily. She reminded herself that this was not an act of relaxing or getting too comfortable here— it was an act of defiance. Yes, she was merely using up the Death Eater’s supplies and making a mockery of him by acting as if this was her own home now. 

 Besides, Amora could not remember the last time she’d had a bath. Even a majority of the showers she’d had over the last few years had been cold. She deserved this. 

 Once Amora had finished with her long bubble bath, she wrapped the warm towels around her body and secured one in her hair to stop water from dripping across the floor. She paused when she realised that she had forgotten to take a spare change of clothes or a robe with her, but she was nearly sure Malfoy wasn’t home. If he was, the manor was huge. It would be incredibly unlucky for her to bump into him on the landing. 

Her hand hesitated on the lock of the door yet again. Another mental countdown and she was pushing it open. Amora froze at the figure about to disappear through a door further down the corridor. Malfoy paused in the doorframe, his eyes raking down her towel-clad body before his lips pursed into a thin line and he slammed the door roughly. It rattled a picture frame hanging beside it. 

 Amora put a hand on her chest to calm down and hurried into her room to get changed for the day. Inside the wardrobe were dozens of dresses hanging up— all in dark colours such as blacks, greys, greens, navies, crimsons. She dried herself off and changed into one of the black ones, putting her shoes back on. The floors were freezing. She’d noticed Malfoy seemed to always wear his too— she could hear the click-clack of them as he headed back down the staircase. 

 Her hair was wet against the back of her dress and her neck. She cringed at the sensation and brushed it through with a hairbrush she’d found in a drawer of the desk. However, she did not have her wand with her to dry it. Unfortunately, that meant within the next few hours, it would still be damp underneath, and the rest would be frizzy. 

 Amora huffed and glanced herself over in the mirror. She looked pale these days. The charm that those girls from the refinement ward had made on her face was still in action. Despite how exhausted she felt, her face looked alive, at least. 

 She pushed open her bedroom door and grimaced. It was time to face the music. 

 Each step downstairs was painful. The creaks and groans had her heart-stopping. She felt like a child sneaking down in the middle of the night for a snack. She wasn’t sure why she was scared of him hearing her coming down the stairs— he would see her down there in the next couple of minutes. That was inevitable. They would have to bump into one another and talk again at some point. 

 Amora wandered into a room where she could hear the clinking of ceramic. She hesitated in the doorway upon finding a large dining hall. However, the seats were empty aside from one. Malfoy sat at the very end in a chair far more dramatic than the others, the Daily Prophet in one hand whilst his other jutted out, finger extended and creating circular motions to magically stir his tea. 

 “Good morning.”

 She nearly flinched at his voice. Amora swallowed, forced herself to repeat the words, and moved over towards him. The table took up the length of the entire room, so she decided to sit two seats away from him. Enough to keep some distance without having to raise her voice so he would hear her clearly. 

 Amora glanced at the paper he was reading, but as quick as her eyes flickered over, catching the moving image of Lucius Malfoy standing in front of a crumbled building on the cover, he’d folded it and thrown it across the table, far away from them. 

 “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

 Amora’s lips parted. She wanted to say no to him, but her stomach was nearly growling. The last meal she had must have been breakfast the day before. 

 “That would be nice,” Amora replied. 

 Malfoy’s lip quirked up into a slight smirk. “The kitchen’s two doors down.”

 Her hands clenched into fists above the table. When his gaze found them, she quickly lay her fingers flat and forced a smile. 

 “Perfect.” She stood from her seat, the chair scraping back in a way that made Malfoy wince. “Thank you, Malfoy.”

 Amora drifted back into the corridor and found the door he had been referencing. Pushing it open, she found a grand kitchen with windows so high that it was flooded with natural light, and so many plants around that it almost felt like the Hufflepuff common room. It was huge, an island in the centre with a fruit bowl on top. 

 She took a banana from it and split it open, taking a bite as she moved to the stove where the kettle sat. She flicked it on. Peculiarly, in her search through the cupboards for a mug for her tea, Amora discovered some dishes in the sink. A couple of small plates and a few forks. Only then did she realise how quiet it was. 

 The kettle whistling snapped her out of her thoughts. Finally, she found a mug, and grabbed a teabag from the jar left on the side, pouring herself a cup of steaming green tea. As she sipped, she glanced out the window, her sights nearly covered by the rose bush overgrowing over the window pane, begging to come inside and wrap its vines over the sink. 

 “I see you’ve managed it alright. Not burnt the house down yet.” 

 Amora glanced over her shoulder at Malfoy. She rolled her eyes and wondered if he would appear from thin air to make her jump continuously. She also couldn’t tell if the comment he’d made was a completely insensitive one about the bombing yesterday or due to the childish clumsiness she used to be known for as a preteen. Either way, she bit her tongue. If Malfoy had not completely changed, she knew her silence would irritate him more than anything else. 

 “Where are the house elves?” She changed the subject. 

 Malfoy raised a brow. “House elves.”   

“Yes,” Amora tried not to snap, aggressively squeezing the teabag against the ceramic. “You know, those little elves that act as cleaners, cooks, errand-runners etcetera, so highly privileged, rich wizards do not have to lift a finger.”

 Malfoy scoffed. “I know what a house elf is. I do not have any.”

 “You used to.” 

 There was the thickest silence yet. It felt as though this was the first time Amora was properly acknowledging that she had known Malfoy once upon a time, or that she still remembered bits about him. He straightened his back and glanced at her down his nose, his eyes sharp. 

 “Not anymore,” he replied hastily, “Will that be a problem? Did you not have to lift a finger at the Order?”

 Had there been house elves at the headquarters? None came to mind. Who had made their dinners for them? Had they been making them for themselves? 

 “Oh, right,” Malfoy scoffed, “Confidential information, is it? If you’re going to play the part of Death Eater sympathiser, you might need to stop protecting the Order, Buckley.”

 Amora’s face screwed up in anger. If Malfoy kept pushing her and questioning her motives, she thought she might begin to grow paranoid. Was she not doing enough? Was giving up her entire life and most memories from the last five years not good enough? 

 “As I said last night, Malfoy,” she spat, “I am not playing a part. I have no interest in helping the Order or protecting them. I do not care in the slightest about Moody or Lupin or– or anybody else that is a part of it. Is it so hard for you to believe that some people do not want to die protecting Mudbloods and Muggles?”

 Something flickered across his face. Amora did not know him well enough anymore to tell what it was. 

 “Of course,” Malfoy spoke, with a small shrug. “If that’s the case, I don’t blame you for joining the cause, Buckley. It’s useless, anyway— trying to protect them. The Order must realise it. Those Mudbloods will be eradicated in no time, so it will all be for nothing. They’ll just be rounded up and murdered for their war crimes. Idiots.” 

 Amora pursed her lips. “Something we can agree on, then.”

 She turned back to her tea and used the spoon to scoop out the teabag. “Where’s your bin?”

 “Just magic it away.” 

 Amora turned to him and glared furiously. “You know I do not have magic of my own.”

 “Wandless magic?”

 She could have slapped him merely for his ignorant suggestions. Malfoy still lived in a bubble. He may have a high-ranking role among the Death Eaters, but Amora was under the impression so far that Malfoy only knew what he wanted to know. Only understood what he wanted to understand. Just like his teenage self. Ignorant and self-absorbed. 

 “They suppress your magic,” Amora said, “At the factories and the BMA. You don’t just get that back straight away.”

 Malfoy looked at her passively. “In that case, whilst courting, ladies are allowed a wand of sorts.”

 “ Oo , are we?” She said sarcastically, “What does that mean? I want my wand back.”

 “You are allowed a training wand,” Malfoy replied, “When we marry, you will be given your wand back. The BMA holds them.”

 Amora felt her heart sink in her chest. She hoped her face was not giving away the absolute horror she felt. She blinked and tried to Occlude. She was terrified for not only herself by the hundreds, if not thousands, of other witches currently without their birth-given magic. Men were taking away everything from them. They wanted them as weak and powerless as possible. 

 “‘When?’” Amora murmured, and this time she met his eye, the sunken expression on her face taking over. “Don’t you mean ‘if?’”

 Malfoy’s jaw clenched slightly, she knew he was grinding his teeth. Something was on his mind. 

 “You have turned up in this world, Buckley, and for what reason I cannot quite seem to get out of you. You did not tell the BMA about our relationship— in fact, you hid it from them. I cannot work out why— they most likely would have sent you straight here, which is a lot better than with any other man wanting a young Pureblood girl—”

 “Maybe it’s not all about you,” Amora scoffed, “Ever considered that, Malfoy? Perhaps it’s reasonable that I wanted to start fresh.”

 “You should be thanking me , really,” Malfoy snapped, inching closer to her, brows furrowed. “If I weren’t the High Commander, you’d be in some other Death Eater’s home right now— probably raped already, looking after his other children, being a good, respectable Pureblood wife.” 

 Amora felt sick. “Oh, wow! Thank you so much for saving me from the world that you helped create, Malfoy!” 

 Malfoy’s lip curled. Her heart skipped a beat— he looked seventeen again. Angry at the world. Angry at her again. 

 “I will not lay a hand on you,” he seethed, “I will not rape you or suppress your magic or force you to do anything you do not want to do. But you will have to marry me eventually, Buckley. You’ll get your wand back and you are somewhat safe in this house. Sounds nearly a hundred times better than other women have it.”

 “And what’s in it for you?” Amora chuckled with a scathing look. “There has to be a reason that you’re doing all of this. Do you not have other Pureblood women lining up at your door, begging to wed the High Commander?”

 “I have my reasons,” he said, and there was a finality to his tone as he straightened his jacket, composing himself finally. “I will get you your training wand in the meantime, Buckley.” 

 Amora blinked at him. She wanted to keep fighting— why was he just walking away? Her heart was pounding, her hands itching for a fight, words on the tip of her tongue that she would love to insult him with. Her eyes darted around, landing on the mug beside her filled with green tea. She angrily grabbed it and threw it at the wall by the door he was leaving from. 

 Malfoy paused but did not flinch nor glance over his shoulder at her. “Clean that up, Buckley. A tantrum will not get you anywhere.”

 Amora dug her nails into her hands so hard her fingernails caked with blood.

...

NOT PROOFREAD

not my favourite chapter I have ever written, but it's so fun writing draco/amora again. i am so excited for you to see draco's character and his actions become more explained, and for their relationship to start improving again!!

updates may take a bit longer from now on, which I really do apologise for, but I am working on an original novel! it's my absolute dream to become a published author-- even if that's self-published-- so I'm trying to work on books that aren't fanfictions (even if writing fanfiction is my favourite thing ever)! the book I'm writing is a sapphic fantasy, and the love interest is literally my interpretation of pansy's character from training wheels/lost it to trying, so I am really excited about that!

thank you guys for reading, I hope that you enjoyed <3 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER NINE

 Amora felt her body deflate when Malfoy left the house about an hour after their argument. She had stayed in the kitchen, burning holes into the mess she had created until she was on her hands and knees, picking up the ceramic shards and using a cloth to wipe the green tea.

 She put all the rubbish on the side— after fifteen minutes of searching, she concluded that Malfoy did not have a bin. She supposed he’d have to magic it away when he came home.

 The grandfather clock in the foyer read 10:23 am. If Amora was lucky, Malfoy might stay out for the rest of the day and then she would have plenty of time to look around his house.

 She could not stop thinking about what he had said about marriage. Amora wondered just how traditional and conservative the Dark Lord’s Britain was. Were people still allowed to date casually? They called it courting now— which she knew upper-class people often still said, but the girls at the factory had not all been from rich backgrounds. Perhaps they had reverted to a time where the men were allowed to ‘court’ all the women they liked, while said women were supposed to look for marriage. 

 Amora supposed marriage was protection. If she married Malfoy, she would be allowed her wand back and other men might respect her more.

 She shook her head and wandered back into the dining room. Malfoy’s mug and plate were still in his original spot. Was he expecting her to clean up after him? Amora frowned at the lack of newspaper on the table. He had gotten rid of it. 

 First, she would investigate the right side of the house. Aside from the rooms Amora had already discovered, she stumbled upon a huge pantry with little to nothing inside it and another sitting room. She found a study of sorts, but it had been emptied. Dust sheets had been thrown over a sofa chair in the corner of the room, but everything else had been left to grow old. The desk was void of any books. Inside the drawers, Amora found some quills, blank parchment, and a photo frame. There was no photo inside. 

 A massive conservatory stood at the back of the house with more seating inside. As soon as she opened the door, Amora gasped at the cool air that hit her. She shut the door again and made a mental note to grab some warm clothes before she went to discover the conservatory and the garden. From what she could see through the window, it was nothing interesting. 

 There were a couple of doors which were locked. It only made Amora more curious— she needed to know what Draco didn’t want her to see. Behind those doors was probably what the Order wanted her to tell them about. She doubted he left valuable information just lying around the unlocked rooms of the manor. 

 Amora went back to the foyer so she could explore the left side of the house. Two towering oaks doors led to a huge room, most likely built for hosting guests. A grand piano was in the corner on a small platform and there was a huge space for people to dance and mingle. Gold accents glittered the room and dramatic green drapes were thrown over huge windows. 

 Amora yanked one open to let some light into the huge room. She coughed immediately as disturbed dust formed clouds in the air, thickening on her lungs, and causing her to hunch over and turn away for a moment. She blinked it out of her eyes, crinkling her nose. 

 “Merlin,” Amora muttered with a grimace. How long had it been since the Malfoys had hosted a party?

 “Finally!” A shrill voice shrieked, “Finally that wretched boy has— Who on earth are you!? 

 Amora whirled around, her hand freezing from where it had been rubbing her nose, her eyes landing on a portrait of a blonde woman. Her hair was up in a curled updo, her dark eyes glaring, an emerald necklace glittering on her bony collar. 

 “I’m…” Amora furrowed her brows, heading closer to the huge portrait so she could see the lady clearer. “My name is Amora.

 “Your last name, you dim witch,” the portrait directly next to her hissed. “Who on earth cares for first names? As if they mean anything?”

 Amora jumped, eyes narrowing on the man beside the lady. His hair was icey, his eyes silver, his skin nearly translucent. A Malfoy through and through. He looked like Lucius and Draco, but old. 

 “Buckley,” she spat, “Though I don’t see what a couple of portraits could possibly do with that information.”

 “A Pureblood, a Pureblood!” 

 Amora heard distant cheers further down the large hall. The light shining through the window cast shadows on other portraits. Amora caught glimpses of pale skin and white hair. 

 “Not a very respectable one with an attitude like that,” the man spat, and he made sure to turn his head, jutting his chin at her. “I cannot believe a Pureblood lady would speak to me in such a way in my own home!”

 “You’re a portrait.” Amora rolled her eyes. “This is not your home anymore.” 

 “How dare you!” The lady screeched, “Do you have any idea who you are talking to? The legacy my husband holds?!”

 “Well, his legacy cannot be that great if I don’t even know of him, can it?” Amora replied simply. 

 “That’s Abraxas Malfoy to you!” The portrait seethed, “In my day, I did all I could to preserve our great Pureblood culture. I stopped that Mudblood at the Ministry becoming Minister! I saved the Wizarding World from being subject to insanity! From being controlled by dirty-blooded, undeserving magic-stealers!”

 Amora pursed her lips. “Oh, I see. That may be why I have never heard of you. You must understand, the year is 2002 in case you didn’t know, and Muggleborns are everywhere, sir. In fact, I believe the ratio was five Muggleborns to each Pureblood wizard in the most recent school year at Hogwarts, Mr Malfoy. I believe more than half of the Wizengamot are Muggleborn these days!” 

 Amora could hardly hide her smile when every portrait in the hall began to cry and shriek. It seemed that dramatic reactions ran strong in the Malfoy bloodline. Abraxas Malfoy began to smash the cane he had been holding against his chair, pacing back and forth out of frame. 

 “Anyway,” Amora whistled, “I’ll leave you to your moping.”

 Nobody seemed to hear her over their panicked yells. Amora moved over to the curtain she had opened. 

 “I might just close this,” she said, and let the drapes fall back shut. 

 The curtain swayed, sunlight dancing back and forth across the portrait wall for a moment, until the soft darkness took back over. The portraits did not stop. Once she left and shut the door behind her, all sound was drowned out. 

 Only then did she let herself giggle for a moment.

 D.M + A.B

  There was a library. 

 Amora knew Draco’s family had a library— he had told her all about it once upon a time— but that had been pushed to the back of her head with many of her other memories surrounding Malfoy. When she pushed open the door, she only had to take a whiff of the room to know what she would find on the other side. 

 Hundreds– no, thousands– of books. A small staircase swirled upwards onto a second platform of novels, a balcony looking over the bottom floor. She swallowed, touched the nearest shelf as if to test that this was real, and studied everything with her eyes. Persian rugs, oak, stained glass windows, high ceilings, leather sofas, candle lighting. 

 Amora was sure she had never been so jealous in her entire life. She could never afford all of the books she wanted and yet Malfoy had every Wizarding novel ever published a door down from his bathroom.

 She climbed the staircase, her breath hitching at more books. Not a single wall was not taken up by heavy bookshelves, brimming with books, all in the Dewey Decimal system. She stroked her hand across the fantasy section. She was sure she would read every single one once she got the chance. 

 Her eyes landed on a door between two shelves. Her eyebrows rose, interest sparked, and she tried the handle. It only rattled back. 

 “What?” She muttered and tried harder. 

 He had locked it. What could be behind this door? A study perhaps? Dark books? 

 Amora swallowed at the thought. Maybe that room was a restricted section of sorts that contained books riddled with dark magic and held ideas of torture methods for Muggleborns and traitors. 

 That was the only logical reason she could think of. 

 She moved back down the staircase, over to the sofa. On the coffee table in front, there was an empty whiskey glass and a book. Amora picked it up, furrowing her brows at the cover. A dragon. She vaguely recalled seeing this cover before. 

 Amora placed it carefully back down, and when she placed her hands on the sofa to push herself back up, was surprised to feel something brush her arm. In the crack of the sofa, between the arm and the bottom cushion, was a rolled-up paper. 

 She carefully pulled out the Daily Prophet, her eyes widening at the front page. It was dated back two and a half months ago. The Inquisitor had shown her The Quibbler’s version, but she had yet to see this one. The photograph they had taken of her upon arrival at the Bureau of Magical Allegience had been used as the cover image. She truly looked like an Azkaban prisoner. 

   THE ORDER LOSES AGAIN: BUCKLEY PLEDGES TO THE DARK LORD 

By Rita Skeeter 

 AMORA BUCKLEY, DAUGHTER of former Muggle Studies professor, Elle Buckley, has appeared on Dark territory overnight at the London pub, The Leaky Cauldron. All eyes are on Buckley as she willingly enters the Bureau of Magical Allegiance to prove her loyalty to our Dark Lord. Witnesses at the Leaky Cauldron have claimed Buckley insisted on turning herself in and talking to Death Eaters at the bar of the pub. 

 This is the second Order member to defect in a month. Just weeks ago, Theodore Nott Junior (age 22), was sighted also submitting himself to the BMA. His verdict is still unknown, and will likely be revealed in the coming weeks. Speculation suggests Nott Jr will be seen as a Faithful, due to his family’s history of extreme devotion and loyalty to our Dark Lord. Nott Sr has been sighted entering and exiting the BMA on several occasions. Whilst he refuses to speak with the Daily Prophet, insiders have said he is fighting for the release of his only son. 

 Buckley’s verdict is extremely unpredictable at this time. As a Pureblood and a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, there is a high likelihood that she has been able to combat the propaganda being spread by the Order, as well as their brainwashing. 

 After all, this is the second Order member to defect in a month. Could this merely be a coincidence or are Pureblooded members of the Order finally seeing the light? 

 Some are doubtful of Buckley’s authenticity due to her mother, who was none other than Professor Elle Buckley, former Muggle Studies teacher and traitor to the Sacred 28. She is most known for her article wishing for the mass killing of Pureblood families, as well as her public execution on the Dark Lord’s Purge Day, in which other traitors were also executed. 

 Could it be that Amora Buckley has completely different opinions from her traitorous mother? Or perhaps the Order are scheming a plan in which Buckley and Nott are merely pawns. 

 After the death of the Unfaithful Severus Snape only months ago—

  Amora rolled the paper back up and shoved it into the crease of the sofa where she had found it. She bit on her bottom lip and then touched it, pulling her fingers back to look at the blood she had drawn from chewing her skin. The metallic taste seeped into her tastebuds

 It was difficult to read for some reason. It was a blur of sleepless nights and the warden’s taunts, or slop for breakfast and dinner, suicide bombings, and a brain-dead, abused, tortured Kathy. It felt so unfair that Amora had been forced to forget the Order, but would most likely never forget these things.

 Her fingers traced over the scarring on her hand. I must not talk back. The first one she ever had. It was nearly humorous what a scandal it had been at the time, her fifth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher forcing Amora to carve her lines into her hand every day for a week. Professor Umbridge was a dot on the list of horrible things in this world now.

 Amora traced the scar running down her jaw. She could see Leon on top of her, his teeth bared, an animalistic look in his eyes as he attempted to hurt her. People were grabbing him off, someone was suggesting they use the killing curse. She felt the hot liquid trickle down her skin as Lupin finally managed to grasp the teenage boy, demanding to know why Leon had been keeping his lycanthropy a secret. 

 Her body would wear the evidence of his first full moon for the rest of her life. She didn’t mind— Leon was terrified– he’d told nobody Greyback had bitten him in battle the week prior, not even her. Leon felt awful every time he saw the jagged white line. Pansy insisted it made her look cool. Blaise and Theo had eagerly agreed. 

 Before she could allow her mind to wander to every scrape and bruise decorating her delicate skin, a door slamming downstairs caught her attention. Immediately, she straightened up, shoving the paper deeper into the sofa’s crease and rushing to one of the bookshelves. 

 She grabbed five random ones, piled them on the floor and then chucked herself on the floor, crossing her legs. She struggled to pull her long skirt out from her folded limbs. She didn’t mind the dresses, they were quite pretty, but they certainly were not practical. Perhaps that was the point. 

 When Malfoy entered through the door a moment later, Amora’s nose was buried in a book about mermen and mermaids. He cleared his throat. Amora pretended to be surprised by his presence. 

 “I wondered how long it would take you to find this place,” Malfoy said, glancing around the room as if taking it in himself. “What do you think?

 He stood a few feet away, raising an eyebrow at her. In his hand was a brown paper bag. She eyed it hopefully. 

 “It’s alright,” Amora hummed. 

 “Alright?” Malfoy scoffed and for a moment he looked like he might bite, but he simply rolled his eyes and perched himself on the arm of the sofa. “Is it not up to your standards, Buckley?”

 “I haven’t had much time in here, really,” Amora replied. 

 “Exploring?”

 “Yes,” Amora said, “And talking to your lovely grandparents. They’re so welcoming.”

 Amora saw what could have been a hint of amusement on Malfoy’s face. It was as if he was trying not to smirk, but managed to distract himself by the bag in his hand. He lifted it.

 “I have a gift of sorts,” Malfoy scoffed, “Happy birthday.”

 Amora rolled her eyes but leaned forward to accept the back from him. She peered inside and saw the familiar long rectangular box. She pulled it out. Usually, wand boxes would have been branded with Ollivander’s stamp, but these had a Dark Mark on the front and Gregorovitch’s name beneath it. Amora supposed anybody could be bought for the right price.

 She pulled open the box and swallowed. A wand, dark brown and only slightly springy, about 9 ¾ inches— just like her own one. Had he remembered? She narrowed her eyes at Malfoy who watched her expectantly. 

 “Well? Give it a go,” he huffed. 

 “Does it have the killing curse on it?” Amora grumbled under her breath.

 Malfoy muttered something of his own that Amora could not make out. She ignored him and grasped the wand, rolling it between her fingers and her palm, getting used to the feeling of the wood against her skin. Her actual wand felt as though it moulded to suit the grooves of her palm and sit perfectly between her fingers. It was made for her. This one felt completely foreign and wrong.

 “Rowan wood,” Malfoy said.

 Amora huffed a breath of amusement through her nose. So he did remember. She didn’t know if she should be flattered or not.

 “Core?”

 “All training wands have dragon heartstrings— they’re the easiest to learn with,” Malfoy replied, leaning back as if waiting for her to snap. 

 “I don’t need to learn!” Amora did indeed bite, “I am a great witch— I have wiped out four Death Eaters by myself before! This is complete—”

 Malfoy’s large hand grasped her thrashing arm, squeezing her wrist and narrowing his eyes at her. Amora glared up at him, attempting to free herself from his grasp. He only squeezed tighter. 

 “Careful, Buckley,” Malfoy hissed, “You almost sound proud.

 Amora’s heart skipped a beat when she realised what she had said. This time, she pulled so hard she freed herself, soothing her throbbing wrist with her other hand. 

 “This is a mockery,” Amora grumbled, glaring at the wand she had dropped on the floor. “A complete insult to women.”

 “You wanted to be here,” Malfoy snapped, “You begged to be here.”

  Nobody told me! She wanted to scream. Nobody told me I would lose everything that makes me Amora! My family, my magic and my freedom. 

   Amora swallowed thickly. The words went down, burying themselves somewhere down in her chest– or the pit of her stomach, she couldn’t tell. 

 “It is a privilege to be here,” she muttered, “Much better than with the Order. Fighting for the losing side.”

 Malfoy scoffed. Amora tried to Occlude so the stabbing in her chest would ease. It wasn’t so heavy now. She stared back at him as if she could not be broken. At least that is how she hoped she came across. She had a feeling Malfoy was seeing right through her. 

 “And why is it, Buckley, that I cannot quite believe everything you are saying?” Malfoy hummed.

 Amora did not have the chance to defend herself before Malfoy added, “Might it be because I am the one that taught you how to lie?”

 Amora said nothing as Malfoy turned on his heel and left her alone in the library. 

 D.M + A.B 

    When afternoon bled into the evening, Amora realised she had yet to move from the library or pick up her new wand. She glared at it from where she was curled up on the sofa, buried in a book she couldn’t focus on. Rows of words were bleeding into the next and after a few pages, she realised she had not internalised a single sentence she’d read.

 Amora missed Pansy. Whether she liked it or not, being around Malfoy reminded her of her Hogwarts years. Her friendship with Pansy had been built off of Malfoy’s dickish behaviour. Pansy was the first to know about them. Pansy always told Amora exactly how it was and was the only person who had never let her down.  

 If they were at Hogwarts, no doubt Amora would be storming through the Slytherin common room— not for Malfoy, but for Pansy. Instead, Amora sat in the cold library and settled on memories of her best friend. Merlin, she missed her. Amora wondered what Pansy was doing. 

 “I made dinner.”

 Amora flinched. Malfoy was in the doorway again, still dressed in his black robes. 

 “I’m—”

 “You do not have to eat with me, but I have made you dinner,” Malfoy cut her off sharply. “So do not say you are not hungry— I know that is not true. I’ll leave it in the kitchen. Either join me in the dining hall or eat elsewhere. I don’t care.”

 He left the door to the library wide open. Amora listened to his footsteps retreat down the stairs and thought for a moment about what she would do. Sitting with Malfoy meant she would be able to ask him more questions, but it would also mean sitting with Malfoy . She still could not stand the sight of him for too long. Besides, every conversation they have had so far has ended in at least one of them yelling or storming away in a fit of rage. 

 Amora moved downstairs and into the kitchen. A warming charm must have been cast on her plate of food, for it was still steaming on the countertop. A knife and fork were placed neatly beside it. Salmon and vegetables and new potatoes.  She hated that it looked nice.

 “Fancy twat,” she grumbled beneath her breath. 

 She grabbed the knife and fork in one hand and the plate in the other and paused as she walked past the dining room. She could hear the sound of a knife and fork against a plate and then paper shuffle. Amora contemplated for so long that Malfoy cleared his throat from inside. 

 “I can hear you,” he said. 

 Amora rolled her eyes and entered the room. He sat in the large chair at the end again, eating alone. She tried to catch a glimpse of the papers next to him, but as soon as she placed her plate down two seats away, he clicked his fingers and they disappeared. 

 “Will you hide your work from me when we are married?” Amora asked him sarcastically, “Or will I get the privilege of your trust once I have a wedding band on my finger?”

 Malfoy huffed. “Trust is a strong word.”

 “Tell me about it,” Amora replied irritably— she could not help the way her voice rose and her tone sharpened. 

 How dare he talk to her about trust!

 “How has your first day been?”

 “Boring,” Amora replied and stabbed at one of the small potatoes, eating it off of her fork.   “I do apologise,” Malfoy muttered, “Is the personal library in your bedroom not enough for you?”

 “No.” 

 “How about the huge one on the second floor? Not enough books for you, Buckley?”

 “No.” Her mouth was full. Malfoy cringed— he’d always hated it when she did that. 

 “You’re insufferable,” Malfoy announced finally, “I don’t know why I said you could eat with me.”

 Amora huffed air through her nose and continued to cut up her food. So many witty comments were flying through her head– all of which would result in either a long conversation about their relationship or an angry fight. She was too hungry to argue.

 They ate in silence for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t necessarily awkward– Amora had too much on her mind to pay attention to the fact that there was no flowing chatter. She was more focused on how insane the last twenty-four hours had been. Yesterday, she was narrowly avoiding being blown up— today, she was eating dinner with her ex-boyfriend who she supposed she was sort of engaged to now. 

 “I’ll be working in my study this evening.” Malfoy scraped his chair back as he stood. “Do your best not to interrupt me, please.”

 “I’ll try really hard,” Amora agreed sarcastically. 

 “Goodnight, Buckley,” Malfoy muttered through gritted teeth and then he was gone. 

 Amora finished up the last of her meal in peace and then took her plate to the kitchen. She washed it in the sink and placed it on the rack, and then stood and wondered, what now? 

She figured she might as well figure out what a training wand could do. It had been years since she had handled one and Amora had become accustomed to having every spell at the tip of her fingers. She knew they were limited– childproofed so children weren’t blowing things up or murdering people. 

 Amora found her wand on the floor of the library and glanced up the staircase at the door between the bookshelves. She rolled her eyes at her own curiosity and headed onto the second floor, glancing around as if Malfoy would pop out of the shadows at any moment, and then, under her breath, whispered, “ Alohomora .”

 Her magic made the lock wriggle, but the door did not open. She huffed and tried again. Perhaps her magic wasn’t used to the wand yet. It still did not open. Training wands must not allow door-opening spells. Amora decided to go back to her room to try out some more.

Light glowed beneath one of the doors on her way across the corridor. It was the door Malfoy had been disappearing into that morning, which had been locked when she’d gone exploring earlier that day. It must be his study. 

 Good to know.

  Amora sat in the centre of the huge bed, studying the wand in her hand more closely than she had before. She traced her fingers over its grooves in an attempt to get familiar with it. Her old wand had a unicorn hair core— making it incredibly loyal to her. 

 “ Wingardium Leviosa .” 

 The book on the chair across the room levitated easily. Amora drifted it towards the bookshelf and placed it in the gap. It slotted in perfectly. She was glad to find the supressers hadn’t impacted her concentration— she could still perfect basic magic. 

  “Accio book.” It flew back over to her. 

 “ Colloportus .” Her door would not lock itself. 

 “ Evanasco .” The towel she had used this morning vanished. 

 “ Scourgify .” The mud on the bottom of the shoes she had worn the day before swiped away.

 She thought for a moment. “ Expecto Patronum .”

 Her heart was in her throat, waiting for the familiar blue and white whisps to swirl from the tip of the wand, but nothing came. She felt like a very important piece of magic had been stripped away from her— her only form of communication with anybody from the Order. She could have let them know that she was alright.

 Was she alright?

 It felt as though she was on the verge of a mental breakdown. When she sat back and truly thought about the last couple of days, Amora felt like she could Incendio the entire manor to the ground. It was hard to believe Malfoy was only a few doors down, perhaps plotting another strategy to kill one of her friends, all the magic in the world available to him, and she was nothing but a captured damsel in distress crying into her hands.

 Amora had cried more over the last couple of months than she had since the war blossomed. This felt different— she couldn’t breathe.

 Amora heaved, her hand on her chest as she pushed herself up off of the bed. She paced the room, a hand over her mouth in an attempt to swallow the panic. It terrified Amora that she could not keep her tears silent. She felt like a small child, nearly suffocating from their sadness. She grabbed her wand from the bed. 

 “M- M–” Amora coughed on a sob, “ Muffliato .” 

 There was no feeling of magic in the air— no faint buzzing sound in the background. Another spell she could not use, her privacy yet again ripped away. She slid down the other side of the bed, pulling her knees to her chest, crying into them. 

 “Please, Merlin.” She clasped her hands in front of her and tilted her head to the ceiling, salty tears itching her cheeks and her jaw on the way down. “Please Merlin help me. Tell me what I should do.”

 Amora cried until she had nothing left. 

//

not proof read

Chapter Text

TRAINING WHEELS

CHAPTER TEN 

  When Amora stirred the next morning, it was because she could hear loud thumps and banging. The walls and the floor reverbed, and for a moment she thought she was dreaming before she heard the noise again and felt it in her bones. Amora’s eyes widened, her heart lurching in her chest. She was up in seconds, yanking her training wand off her bedside table.

 It felt like shards of ice were stabbing into her feet as she raced down the wooden staircase, jumping around the corner with her wand held high, her words dying in the back of her throat when she realised it was just Malfoy.

 There were no intruders, he was not being attacked, and nobody was hurt. 

 Malfoy stood in the dining room, his chest heaving with pants as he glared at her. He reached up and ran a hand through his platinum hair, pushing back the fallen strands. He looked so put together and yet so dishevelled at the same time. 

 A voice in the back of Amora’s head reminded her that her favourite novels would describe this as “handsomely dishevelled” but Amora told that voice to fuck off because even if Draco Malfoy was attractive, he was still the biggest liar and arsehole going.

 Amora’s wide brown eyes glanced around at the broken furniture surrounding Malfoy. He had flung some of the chairs around— one of which had gone into the china cabinet. The mirror above the fireplace was now in shards on the floor alongside an oil lamp.

 “What happened?” Amora gasped.

 Malfoy only glared harder and Amora realised he was not looking at her face. Her head shot down to her body and she winced upon remembering that in her momentary panic, Amora had raced down the stairs in the night dress the girls had given her. Luckily, it was not too revealing, but she felt more naked than when Malfoy had caught her in her towel the morning before.

 Amora’s hands shot up to cover her chest. “I thought something happened,” she muttered bitterly, “I didn’t have time to change.”

 “If something was happening, do you really think it’s clever to run straight into the room with nothing but a training wand?” Malfoy spat.

 Amora rolled her eyes. “I forgot this stupid thing does absolutely nothing. Besides, are you actually mad at me for investigating a noise?”

 “I’m mad at you for a lot of reasons,” Malfoy said, “Being stupid is up there.”

 “Are you joking me?” Amora laughed.

 “What if I were a Death Eater?” He moved closer to her. “What if when you ran into this room with a wand that does fuck all, I heard you coming? You would have been shot down by the killing curse before you could step through the door.”

 Malfoy glared at her from inches away. Amora hoped her expression was just as fierce.

 “You are a Death Eater,” she stabbed, “Did you forget? Or are you trying to insinuate that you’re not one of the bad ones? Because that’s a load of rubbish considering the fact that you—”

 “That was not what I was insinuating at all,” Malfoy flashed her a grin, “On the contrary, Buckley, why the fuck do you think I’m one of the Dark Lord’s favourites? How do you think I single-handedly rebuilt the Malfoy name and got my father the role of Minister of Magic?” 

 “I don’t have to think,” Amora hissed, “I know how you did it. I’ve helped the people you hurt, I’ve—”

 “You’re welcome,” Malfoy cut her off and headed towards the door, running his hand through his hair again from where it was trying to flop back in his eyes. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? That you’re so grateful for everything I’ve done for our side?”

 Amora’s glare was scathing. 

 “You need to get your anger under control,” Malfoy growled, “Remember which side you’re on. And for fuck’s sake— go and put some clothes on, Buckley.”

 Amora covered her chest with her hands again, although Malfoy had already left her alone in the destroyed dining room. 

 D.M + A.B

 Amora huffed when she reentered the room an hour later to find Malfoy had left it a mess. She heard him leave through the front door whilst she was changing in her bedroom, and so she felt free to roam the house. Not that she was finding anything useful. Malfoy seemed to have every important room locked up and most likely warded. He did not trust her one bit. 

 Amora figured she might as well get used to using her magic again. She felt so out of practice that using the levitation spell to magic the chairs upright was nearly difficult. She could feel the weight of them where she knew she shouldn’t. 

 “ Evanesco .” Amora pointed her wand at the broken mirror. 

 The shards disappeared. She grabbed the oil lamp and put it on the table, huffing when she realised it had dripped everywhere. Amora went to magic it away when her eyes landed on a newspaper beneath the table. She looked around before getting on her hands and knees to grab it. 

 There was a moving image of Amora when she had been sent to the factory, another of Minister Malfoy outside the burnt building, and a third of Draco Malfoy leaving the Ministry what must have been the day before. 

    MALFOY NAME UNDER FIRE AFTER BUCKLEY SURVIVES RESISTANCE ATTACK

By Rita Skeeter 

  After Tuesday’s suicide attack at the Cauldronworks by an unnamed resistance member, the Daily Prophet was informed by Minister Malfoy that there were no survivors.  It is still unknown whether or not The Order of the Phoenix were behind the event. Bodies were unidentifiable, however, by yesterday the Ministry was able to obtain all names of Death Eaters and workers killed in this inhumane attack.

 Despite Amora Buckley, former Order member and newly restored member of the Sacred 28, being a name among the 72 published in yesterday’s obituary, it seems she is actually the sole survivor of the Cauldronworks attack. She had been at the factory for two months as a Healing Potion Maker. 

 Oathkeepers reported Death Eaters taking Buckley into St Mungo’s Hospital the day of the attack. They reported overhearing Minister Malfoy’s instruction to “have Buckley seen to immediately”. The Ministry has refused to comment on the survival of Amora Buckley and their original statement at this time. 

 Insiders have since speculated that the anonymous Death Eater who requested Amora Buckley’s presence at the Cauldronworks two months ago was none other than High Commander of the Dark Forces, Draco Malfoy. This is due to Buckley’s new living arrangements– those being at the original Malfoy Manor, with the High Commander himself. 

 The motives behind this are unknown, however, the story has caused an uproar in the wizarding community. High Commander Malfoy has yet to court a respectable Pureblood lady, claiming to the Daily Prophet that his priorities lie with aiding our Dark Lord— but was the presence of Pureblood Amora Buckley too much to resist? 

 Many are wondering why the High Commander would wish to settle with somebody as controversial as Buckley, or why she was sent to the factory in the first place. After his father, Minister Malfoy, slipped up reporting the attack’s deaths, people found the situation slightly suspicious. 

 Is he keeping her around to make sure she is not the true Cauldronworks attacker? Perhaps the former Order member is being watched closely by our High Commander?  Or… is there a possibility that the High Commander has a soft spot for Buckley and is finally ready to settle down?  I, for one, hope that the Malfoy heir has finally found true love! 

 Keep a look out for the next edition of the Daily Prophet, where hopefully the Malfoy men will attempt to clear their name and reveal their affiliation with Amora Buckley. 

  Amora slowly put the paper back down on the table. It was a lot to process. It explained why Malfoy had been so furious, flinging furniture like he had. She wondered what sort of trouble his father would be in for lying about survivors– though she did wonder how he had been planning on covering it up. 

 She rubbed her forehead and sunk into the chair next to her. Malfoy had not settled down yet, which she knew of course, but she was shocked to find Daphne Greengrass had yet to try and get into his pants. Merlin knows she tried to a couple of times when they were at Hogwarts. 

 Whenever Amora wondered what Malfoy had been doing over the last five years (as much as she tried not to), she always pictured him living with his parents, dating Daphne Greengrass, perhaps in control of an aspect of the Ministry, keeping out of the front line. She did not picture him so lonely. 

 Amora decided she needed a distraction. She did not want to think about Malfoy more than she had to. It just made her angry. She still wanted to hurt him, beg him for answers, and make him feel awful for what he did to her and her friends. Amora hated Malfoy. She hated him so fucking much.

 She made a green tea, grabbed some fruit, and took it to the library. Maybe a fictional boyfriend would stop her from thinking about her ex one. 

 D.M + A.B

  “I made dinner.”

 Amora jumped, glancing over her shoulder from where she was sprawled across the sofa. Malfoy looked exhausted. She sat up, feeling the cracks in her neck and back, and glanced at the clock—seven o’clock.

 “I didn’t realise the time,” she said. 

 Was she expected to make dinner for him? She felt an internal panic for a moment before she had to convince herself that she did not owe him a meal. She did not owe Malfoy anything. 

 “It’s fine,” Malfoy said, “I’ll be eating in my study.”

 Amora’s eyes widened as he turned to leave. “Wait– I— I wanted to eat with you. I wanted to ask you about the article The Daily Prophet—”

 Malfoy scoffed, huffing a breath through his nose. “You mean you would like to interrogate me? After the day I have just had, no thank you. I’m eating and then going to bed.”

  He turned on his heel again. Amora rolled her eyes and headed down the stairs into the kitchen. She sighed at the sight of more salmon and vegetables. 

 D.M + A.B

 For the next three days, Malfoy left the house early, Amora read all day, and when he returned, he made the same dinner before retreating to his office, and then his bedroom. Each night, Amora fought the urge to cry herself to sleep, for every day she did not have information about the Order felt like a day wasted.

  By day five, Amora was not only bored senseless but desperate to know what was happening outside the manor walls. However, it might be an exaggeration to claim she even knew what was happening in the room over. That might be a good place to start. 

 The grandfather clock in the foyer read five o’clock. Amora had worked out that Malfoy always returned to the manor around six-ish, and so she made her way to the kitchen. She was lucky she had experience cooking for her friends at headquarters. Mostly, it was pasta dishes or other cheap meals that were easy to bulk-create. Leon’s appetite had been massive since being bitten by Greyback, so Amora always knew to make more than she originally thought she should. 

 Malfoy did not have the largest range of foods in his pantry. The meats had been charmed to stay fresh and cold in the corner— lots of fish and red meat, and he had a fair share of green vegetables. Amora furrowed her eyebrows and lifted a head of broccoli, wondering how on earth she was going to make something impressive enough for Malfoy to loosen up and talk to her.

 “How was your day, Malfoy?” Amora hummed in practice as she used her wand to grate cheese with one hand, the other stirring pasta into salted water. “No, he will know something is up then…” 

 She sighed heavily, scrunching her nose at the sound of the grandfather clock chiming that the hour was up. Amora worked quickly, straining her pasta and chucking it into the sauce she had made from scratch, scrambling to get everything into one pan. 

 Eventually, once she had found two bowls, Amora dished everything up as neatly as she could (her friends had never cared for the presentation of her food, so long as they had plenty of it), and placed it on the dining table. Amora cast a warming charm over the bowls and sat up straight, clasping her hands and tapping her foot anxiously. Her eyes burned into the ticking clock. 

 It reached seven o’clock and Amora was feeling completely discouraged. She huffed to herself and realised she would have to try again tomorrow. Her self-restraint was wearing thin, she was too hungry to hold off from eating any longer. Just as she picked up the fork to stab it into a piece of broccoli, the sound of the door opening made her heart leap. 

 “Something smells good,” a familiar voice murmured. 

 Amora’s ears pricked and her brows furrowed. That voice…

 Two figures stepped into the dining room. Malfoy and… Theodore Nott. 

 Malfoy’s eyebrows raised at the food set out at the table, but Amora could hardly tear her eyes from Theo. He had cut his hair, his curls missing and consequently causing him to appear slightly older.

  Beneath the table, Amora’s nails were stabbing her palms, her teeth gritting so hard in her mouth she was worried they might break. Her gaze flickered from Malfoy to Theo, from Theo to Malfoy. Two people she had considered family, both of which had betrayed her. 

 There they stood, free men, and there she sat, at the table with the food she had made, in a dress that was not functional to cook in, a prisoner of the man she had once loved. If her wand was not limited, the clothes on their backs may have been on fire by now. 

 It was there and then that Amora recalled Theo had vouched for her at the Bureau of Magical Allegiance.  She assumed he had panicked upon finding out another Order member had defected, perhaps thinking it made him look suspicious, and so he covered for her. Maybe the last shred of human decency he may have had felt bad for betraying her. Or, there could be another reason. Either way, he may have unknowingly saved Amora’s life. 

 “You made dinner,” Malfoy said.

 Amora nearly laughed, but she refrained. She had a role to play, after all. 

 “Theo.” She pushed her chair backwards, standing up and wringing her hands together, forcing a smile. “It’s been so long!”

 Theo swallowed. “Amora.”

 “Merlin, how have you been?” Amora urged, “Please, I have some food leftover if you would like some. You could join Malfoy and I for dinner.”

 “Theo was just collecting something. He does not plan on staying,” Malfoy interjected. 

 “But– but–” Amora scrambled, “I wanted to thank you for defending me at the BMA. I was hoping that we could talk, Theo?”

 “Not today,” Malfoy said firmly. 

 “I wasn’t asking you,” Amora snapped at him and Theo’s eyes widened, face jerking over to Malfoy whose expression was unmoving. He was unphased by her comments at this point. “I was talking to Theo.”

 “Malfoy’s right, Amora,” Theo replied, “I’m only here to pick up something. We should talk another time.”

 Amora wanted to hurt him maybe as much as she wanted to hurt Malfoy on a daily basis. She could practically feel Pansy weeping into her side moments after they had all been interrogated for Theo’s betrayal. She saw the look on Blaise’s face— like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and stomped on. 

 “Fine.” Her voice was meeker than she would have liked, her gaze flickering back to her food. 

 Suddenly, she wasn’t hungry. The two men disappeared upstairs and came down less than two minutes later. Amora attempted to sit up straighter in her chair, craning her neck to try and see into the foyer, perhaps steal a glance at whatever Malfoy had given Theo. The front door slammed shut and everything was still for a moment before Malfoy entered the room. 

 “You made dinner,” he repeated as if Theo had never entered the room. 

 Amora scrunched her nose and shrugged. “Yeah, I…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I just thought I would.”

 Malfoy took his regular seat at the end of the table. Amora realised now that it looked more like a throne than a seat. She wondered if it had been Lucius’ chair when Draco was growing up. He picked up his fork, swirled the pasta around it and ate it quickly. Amora watched him for a moment, but she was no longer slightly nervous whether he would like it or not— she could not stop thinking about Theo. 

 “This is quite del—”

 “Why was Nott here?” Amora cut him off, shooting him a look. “What were you lending him?”

 Malfoy barked a laugh. “Nice try. That’s Death Eater business.”

 “Is Nott a Death Eater now?”

 “He is.” Malfoy continued to eat. 

 Amora wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was as if another piece of her heart had been chipped away. She lost a bit of the same sort of hope she clung to when Malfoy had first betrayed them. Every piece of evidence he had deferred hurt more than the last, until eventually, the wound was so battered that it went numb. 

 “Well, what if I became a Death Eater? Would it be my business then?” Amora asked, and she was sure Malfoy nearly choked on his food. 

 He looked at her as if she had grown another head. He began to laugh. 

 “Women don’t tend to be Death Eaters, Buckley. That sort of goes against the entire preservation act, you know,” Malfoy said, “It’s too dangerous.”

 Amora rolled her eyes. “What about female Death Eaters from the first war? Your aunt— Bellatrix Lestrange— she was on the front line, she was a proud servant of the Dark Lord—”

 “Bellatrix is content with her promotion of Overseer of Compliance,” Malfoy said, “She does her rounds at households, makes sure that everything is running as the Dark Lord intends it to, and punishes those who are breaking our laws. She is essentially in charge of the Oathkeepers. She has more power than she did during the first war.”

 So women did have some ways of rising to power. Though, Amora guessed maybe this was a special circumstance considering Bellatrix had always been high up in the Pureblood ranks. 

 Amora pushed her pasta around with her fork. “When will you see Theo again?”

 Malfoy huffed, “I’m fed up with the Nott discourse. Enough.”

 “Okay, can we talk about the article from the other day, then? The one speculating why you took me in? Or why you sent me to the factory, which we actually haven’t spoken about yet?” Amora urged. 

 “I knew you wouldn’t have made dinner for no reason,” Malfoy groaned. 

 “I deserve to know what’s happening around me!” Amora exclaimed, “I deserve to know why I was sent there for months, why I am here now, and what your intentions are.”

 “We can talk about that another time,” Malfoy said, “And you know what my intentions are–”

 “Is it so the media stop reporting your lack of relationship?”

 Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what they have to say about my love life— or lack of it. That’s just Rita Skeeter, the old hag. Most other writers have better things to write about– such as my career and war efforts. Somehow, she’s always the one that manages to make the front page.”

 “The people are invested, obviously,” Amora huffed, and started to eat her food as she calmed down a little, Theo’s face fading from her head. “What are you going to say about it?”

 “I was planning on talking to you about that actually. I’m going to announce our courtship in two days,” Malfoy said, “My father’s holding a press conference about the Cauldronworks bombing the same day, it’s—”

 Amora rolled her eyes. “I see. You’re using it as a distraction so your father’s controversy is swept under the rug.” 

 Malfoy merely shrugged. “We’ll see which story Skeeter finds the most interesting. We’ll have to make a public appearance the day of. You don’t have to talk— though I know you love to do that.” 

 Amora huffed, her nose in the air, as she shoved more food into her mouth. It felt so good to have something other than steamed fish and steamed vegetables—or the slop that the factories and the BMA would feed her. This felt warm and cosy; it felt like being with her friends. 

 “Are you going to mention our relationship at Hogwarts?” Amora asked carefully after a moment, watching the way his brow rose. 

 “I will have to,” Malfoy replied, “It’s a wonder that somebody like Montague hasn’t come forward yapping to the press about it already. They’ll ask if we ever spoke at Hogwarts, that’s guaranteed. As irrelevant as I think it is to bring up something that happened over five years ago now, I am sure it will end up being the focus of the entire article.”

 “You mean the whole paper,” Amora said, “You’re going for shock factor, aren’t you? So your father—”

 “There’s no point in lying or hiding anything, Buckley,” Malfoy promised sternly, “There are Oathkeepers everywhere. Once you step outside this manor, nothing you say is private anymore. The eyes always find a way of seeing. My father’s fuckup is evidence enough. Even the most powerful cannot hide.”

 Amora felt an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hoped that he was just trying to scare her into conforming. There was no way that nothing was private. There must be other secret rebels down every other road, secretly working underneath the noses of the Death Eaters, aiding the resistance in some way or another. 

 “That was lovely, thank you,” Malfoy announced as he pushed the bowl away from him. 

 It was empty, much to Amora’s silent satisfaction. She gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded at him as she finished the last of hers. Her brows furrowed in annoyance when she realised he was watching her. When she finally finished, which she scrambled to do quicker to put an end to his eyes on her, she pushed her bowl away, too. 

 “I used to make it all of the time,” Amora replied, “I always got one of them to do the veggies while I did the rest— we did it the Muggle way. Just for something to do.”

 Malfoy raised his brows, the corner of his lips nearly tugging upward. “I cannot possibly imagine Zabini chopping up broccoli or zesting a lemon.”

 Amora’s nose scrunched. “Zabini? Who—” She heard a boy talking, and then saw a bright smile, and the sort of laugh that was contagious. “He’s the one—” She thought for another moment. Blaise Zabini. “Oh! Oh, well you would be surprised, actually— Blaise complained the least out of the lot.”

 The look on Malfoy’s face was somehow both neutral and yet calculating. His silver eyes pierced into her, his lips pursing for a moment. He did not look amused in the slightest over her forgetfulness, almost as if he was concerned by it. 

 “Did you forget who Zabini was, Buckley?” Malfoy asked carefully. 

 Amora was nearly startled by his question. Forgetting had almost become normal over the last few months. What never stopped scaring her was the things she didn’t know she was forgetting. The names and faces of Pansy, Blaise, and Leon always came back to her, but she was terrified there had been other friends in her group, people she had loved that she wouldn’t blink at the name of. 

 “For a moment,” Amora murmured, “Just for a moment.” 

 Malfoy was silent.

 “They Obliviated you,” he realised.

 Amora’s brows knitted together. “You didn’t know? The Daily Prophet didn’t say?”

 “No, they didn’t. I mean, I suppose I should have realised since that’s what they do, but Nott wasn’t—” Malfoy replied distantly. 

 “Theo escaped. I was caught.”

 “What do you remember?”

 “I already told the BMA.” Amora rolled her eyes. “I’m not being interrogated again.”

 “I’m not interrogating you,” Malfoy spat through gritted teeth, “I just was asking—”

 “The Order wiped my memory of them. I only remember Pansy, Blaise, and Leon— but sometimes I forget them,” Amora murmured, “I guess they didn’t do a good enough job.”

 Amora wished she could tell him, or just somebody, that this was not how it was supposed to be. Lupin and Moody had promised she’d remember her friends. They said they’d strip her memory of plans, passwords, and locations… Something must have gone wrong, or they had lied. Either way, her brain continued to grow foggier all the time. Sometimes, Amora would remember something about Pansy and realise that she hadn’t thought of her best friend in over a day. 

 Malfoy seemed deep in thought. “Interesting.”

 Amora huffed, “How so?”

 “Well, how are you supposed to report back to the Order if you have forgotten everything?” Malfoy drawled, raising his glass to his mouth and sipping. 

 The brunette woman laughed. “Well exactly,” she replied, hastily grabbing the bowls, standing up and stacking everything. She swiped his half-full drink out of his hand and added it to her pile. “I have nobody to report back to, Malfoy. It’s frustrating with all of the top-secret information I have been collecting while you’re away.” 

 As she took their plates out of the room, Amora swore she saw the hint of an amused smile on Malfoy’s face. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

 Amora huffed for what must have been the fifteenth time that morning as she flipped the page of her book, eyes darting over words, her brain not processing them. Her neck and her lower back hurt from sitting around all day, her eyes exhausted from being trained on pages, and her chest heavy with the anxiety of no progress.

 She wondered what Moody and Lupin were doing. Whether they were anxiously awaiting a message from her, or if they would send her one first. She wondered if they were reading the Daily Prophet and keeping tabs on her. She racked her brain, but for her life, Amora could not figure out if she needed to find a way to communicate with them or if they would send somebody to her. 

 “Buckley.” Malfoy stood in the library doorway, dressed in his black outing robes. He did not usually seek her out before he went to work. “I’m heading off. I have granted you access to Hogsmeade through the Floo. You need to pick out a dress for our outing tomorrow.”

 Amora raised an eyebrow. “Are you paying?” 

 Draco scoffed. “I alerted Madam Opal that you will be arriving at some point today— it’s covered.” 

 Amora hummed to herself and feigned disinterest, forcing her eyes back to the book, silently dismissing Malfoy. He hung around for only a moment longer before she heard him mutter a few things under his breath, and then he Disapparated away. 

 She grinned to herself a little, throwing the book onto the coffee table and darting across the corridor to her bedroom. Getting dressed did not feel like a routine, nor was it painstakingly boring. She pulled on one of the nicest dresses the girls had given her, and some comfy boots underneath that would defend her feet against the unevenness of Hogsmeade’s cobblestone pavements. 

 Amora was sixteen the last time she had stepped foot inside Hogsmeade. Part of her was anxious to see how much it had changed under Voldemort’s reign, but the larger part of her was thrilled at the thought of being out of the manor. The stuffy air, cold floors, and bleak colours were beginning to drive her insane— there was only so much walking around one could do before they had seen everything there was to see. 

 That was until Malfoy hopefully would leave a door unlocked one day, and then she might find something to make the intense cabin fever worth it. 

 Glancing at herself in the mirror, Amora hardly recognised the reflection staring back at her. For a moment, she stopped, studying the depth of her cheekbones and the sharpness of her jaw, wondering at what point during the war she had lost her teenage weight. Her hair had lost its shine and her hips had grown wider, her clothing accentuating the narrowness of her waist, a reminder that she was a woman now— even if she still felt like a terrified child sometimes. 

 Amora dismissed her sentimental wallowing— Merlin knows that was one thing she would not lose of her teenage self, no matter how much she often wanted to— and headed for the fireplace in the main living room. In a ceramic jar decorated with runes meant for protection during travelling, Amora sifted out a handful of sparkling green floo powder. 

 It had been years since she had Flooed anywhere. She had a feeling today would be nostalgic in many senses— it was the first time she could roam somewhat freely in the town beside her old school. It was the same town where Amora grew up having snowball fights with her friends, shopping with Pansy, and having Butterbeer dates with Malfoy. 

 Amora dismissed the last thought with a cringe on her face, stepped into the fireplace, and without hesitation, announced, “Hogsmeade!” Before throwing the powder down. 

 Amora blinked and reopened her eyes in the square. It was quieter than it used to be with not so many people roaming around, but it felt extremely familiar at first glance. Amora stepped away from the Floo Point, her heart hammering in her chest as she craned her head to glance around, sucking in a breath at all of the shops that had stayed the same, and all those that hadn’t.

 “Honeydukes.” Amora’s mouth fell open and she couldn’t help but surge towards it.

 The door jingled when she opened it and Amora immediately noticed a lack of customers. There was a lady in the corner with a small child picking out some lollipops and a couple of men who must have been in their early twenties by the fudge stand. 

 The aroma that hit her felt like Pansy buying Amora enough sweets to last her until their next Hogsmeade trip, or Leon buying chocolates that he would demolish in one sitting without giving so much as one to anybody around him. Echoes of laughter and chattering faded from her ears; the reality now was that children did not come flooding to Hogsmeade anymore. 

 “You’re Amora Buckley,” the shopkeeper, Mr Flume, said, smiling widely at her, chucking a striped tea towel over his shoulder and moving from behind the counter. His wife was nowhere to be seen— they had always run the shop together before . “I saw you in the newspaper the other day, you survived the attack.”

 Amora swallowed. “I, er, yes, I did.”

 “I see you are living with the High Commander now,” Mr Flume mentioned, “Narcissa Malfoy was a frequent customer of mine for many years. She always bought her son sweet treats from my store to send to him.”

 Amora did not know what to say. She did not know what she was allowed to say.   

 “Are you shopping for the High Commander now?” 

 “I am, actually,” Amora nodded, “Although I must admit, he did not ask me to come to Honeydukes today. I just couldn’t help myself. I used to come here all of the time when I was at Hogwarts.”

 “Yes…” Mr Flume squinted at her. “Yes, I think I remember you. You liked the sugared butterfly wings.”

 Amora immediately felt the burst of sweetness in her mouth. She could hear the crunch in her ears, and feel the stickiness on her molar teeth. She had forgotten all about her favourite sweet treat. 

 “Here,” Mr Flume smiled and walked around the counter to grasp a tin of butterfly wings. “Have them. Pick anything you or the High Commander may like. On the house.”

 Amora gasped. “I couldn’t— I can ask Malf— the High Commander to pay you. Trust me, Mr Flume, he would not be going without.”

 “I’m sure,” Mr Flume laughed and patted her shoulder. “Tell him it is a gift from me. After all, he contributes so much to the war effort. Such a good, brave young man.”

 Amora’s stomach dropped, but her tight smile hardly faltered. She sent him a weary nod and laughed in a way that she hoped did not sound forced. It was almost easy to forget that Mr Flume had chosen this side of the war. She wished it didn’t hit her like bricks, she wished it wasn’t so hard to keep a straight face when all Amora wanted to do was knock some sense into him. 

 “Of course, Mr Flume,” Amora agreed instead, “He’s such a hard worker.”

 She did not feel as bad anymore as she grabbed a basket and began to fill it up. Two tins of sugared butterfly wings, plenty of saltwater taffy, some chocolate wands, a tub of jelly slugs… Her teeth ached at the thought already. 

 Her hand paused over the toffees. On the rare occasion that Malfoy bought himself something from Honeydukes whilst their group visited on a Hogsmeade weekend, he always picked the toffees. He would give her one and then smack at the hands of anybody else who attempted to take one. 

 Amora grabbed a box and put it in the basket before taking it to be bagged up. 

 “Such a sweet tooth you have,” Mr Flume said as he bagged up her treats. “Ah, toffees. Mr Malfoy’s favourite. A spectacular choice, Miss Buckley.”

 Amora hummed with a small smile. “They will keep him quiet, I suppose.”

 Mr Flume laughed. “You are funny, Miss Buckley. Please, feel free to stop in anytime you wish.”

 “Thank you, Mr Flume,” Amora nodded, “I will see you soon.”

 “In His Shadow, We Rise.”

 Amora was immediate. “In His Shadow, We Rise.”

  Next on the agenda was Madam Opal’s dress shop. A quaint store towards the end of the square, which still looked the same as it did before the war, except the dresses in the window were exclusively dark shades and variations of black. Amora pursed her lips and pushed the door open. It was empty aside from an older woman humming to herself behind the counter, the smell of perfume wafting up Amora’s nose. 

 She swallowed, glancing around, eyes blinking at all of the dresses. The only time Amora had entered Madam Opal’s dress was before the Yule Ball— she had come with Kathy and Hermione, both of whom were no longer on this earth. Amora felt cold at the thought. Parts of them were still here— she could see them gushing over dresses and their dates. 

 “Miss Buckley,” Madam Opal smiled gently, swiftly moving from behind the counter and extending her hand for Amora to shake. “The High Commander let me know that you would be arriving. I hear that you have a public appearance to make tomorrow and you require a dress.”

 “Apparently that is the case,” Amora chuckled, “I’m not exactly sure what’s going to be appropriate or not. I might need a lot of your help.”

 “That is what I’m here for, of course.” Madam Opal waved her hand dismissively. “I feel like I remember you, darling. Why is that?”

 Madam Opal started to pour champagne into a flute glass, right to the top and then passed it to her. Amora took it with a grateful smile. This must be how the upper class were treated. She took a small sip— it was crisp and cold but made Amora’s belly feel warm. 

 “I bought a dress from you for the Yule Ball, Madam Opal,” Amora replied, “It was in my fourth year of Hogwarts which must have been— Merlin, about eight years ago now.”

 Madam Opal shook her head. “Time flies, darling! It gets scarier the older you get. Do you still have your dress?”

 “No, Madam Opal.” Amora cleared her throat somewhat awkwardly. “I’m a former Order member and we could not keep most of our belongings when we initially fled. As much as I loved my dress—”

 “Which one was it?” She didn’t so much as flinch at the mention of The Order. 

 “It was like this muted blush colour, and it had stars on it,” Amora explained, “The sleeves were this amazing mesh material—”

 “I know the exact one,” Madam Opal sighed with a smile, “Unfortunately, all of my dresses are one of a kind, but that dress was special to me. I stitched each star by hand– no magic. It took me hours. I had it by the counter, did I not? I loved to stare at it all day.”

 Amora grinned, “Yes, it was here,” she gestured in the area they stood. “It was so beautiful.”

 Madam Opal hummed and then went quiet for a moment. “I think I know exactly what you would like for your appearance tomorrow.”

 D.M + A.B 

 “It’s darker, it’s mature, it’s everything!” Madam Opal gushed, “Nobody will question whether or not you are worthy of the High Commander, they will question if he is worthy enough of you!”

 Amora giggled. “You’re too kind, Madam Opal. Thank you so much for your help.”

 “It’s nothing,” Madam Opal huffed, moving behind the counter. “I’ll give you a receipt for it— not that I expect to ever see it returned here. It was made for you, darling.”

 “Thank you, again,” Amora beamed, and then perhaps dangerously added, “It was nice to talk to another woman, Madam Opal.”

 Madam Opal’s eyes flickered. “I know,” she murmured and reached across the counter to pat Amora’s hand. “I know, darling. Come here.”

 She moved back around the counter and grabbed Amora into a hug. Amora melted into it, it felt motherly and made her feel young and protected. 

 “In His Shadow, We Resist.”

 Amora felt her heart skip a beat. It was as if a bucket of cold water had been chucked over her. She stumbled out of the hug, her eyes wide and her mouth nearly falling open. Madam Opal watched her wearily. Amora’s heart was pounding— Malfoy told her there were Oathkeepers everywhere. What if she was one?

 “You do not need to say anything, Miss Buckley,” Madam Opal murmured, “I know somebody who isn’t a believer when I see one. A lot of the ladies that come to my shop are sick of this.”

 Amora swallowed harshly. “I have no clue what you are talking about, Madam Opal.”

 She had a mission to complete; she couldn’t do it if she was caught out by a dressmaker. 

 “I see,” Madam Opal said disappointedly, “Well I have no idea what you are talking about either, Miss Buckley. You must have heard me wrong.”

 “I must have,” Amora agreed. 

 Madam Opal grabbed something from behind the desk. “I think this clip would suit the dress perfectly, Miss Buckley. If you pinned your front pieces back, you would look incredibly elegant.”

 “Thank you,” Amora accepted it, glancing down at the silver crescent moon. 

 “Whether you believe in the Dark Lord’s cause or not, every woman deserves protection, Miss Buckley,” Madam Opal said, “And if the High Commander attempts to beat or rape you, a prick of that clip will have him unconscious and Obliviated in moments.” 

 “Malfoy doesn’t— he wouldn’t—”

 “Usually, they don’t at first,” Madam Opal agreed, “Just keep the clip. Everybody knows of the High Commander’s temper. I fear for you, Miss Buckley. You have a soft soul.”

 “Don’t fear for me, Madam Opal,” Amora told her sternly.

 “Feel free to visit me anytime,” Madam Opal’s voice was perkier as she drifted back behind the counter, smoothing her hands over a mesh material she had been stitching on. “If you miss talking to other women, Miss Buckley, then I know a few that might love to talk to you.”

 Amora’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

 “Goodbye, Madam Opal. In His Shadow, We Rise.”

 “In His Shadow, We Rise, Miss Buckley.”

 D.M + A.B 

 Amora could not stop thinking about Madam Opal’s words for the rest of the day. She hung her dress on the front of her wardrobe, still concealed in its protective bag, and stared at it, her eyes burning at the lady’s name on the front. 

 Amora was scared to ask her what exactly she had meant by resisting, though she had a very strong feeling she knew. She was scared it was a hoax, that perhaps Malfoy had paid Opal off to try and get Amora to confess she was a double agent. Maybe Madam Opal was an Oathkeeper. 

 What if Madam Opal hadn’t been setting her up? What if there was a secret resistance of women who disagreed with Voldemort? Who had conformed to avoid rape and torture and murder? 

 Amora felt a crinkle in her pocket and pulled out the receipt Madam Opal had given her. Her eyes bulged at the Galleons at the bottom. Her Yule Ball dress had cost nowhere near the amount of this one— in fact, nothing Amora had ever owned had cost as much as this dress. 

 The most curious part of the receipt, however, was that it was not Draco Malfoy’s name printed below, but Lucius Malfoy’s name instead. Her brows furrowed, her lips parting. The heir himself stood in the doorway just as she held it up. 

 “Did you find a —”

 “Does your father still pay for everything?” Amora asked him, “Do you not have access to your own vault or something?”

 There was a few moments of silence. Malfoy blinked, his sharp features scrunching in confusion. He stepped into her bedroom. 

  “Excuse me, Buckley? What does it matter to you?” 

 “It’s just—” She suddenly realised it was not her place to ask. “It doesn’t matter, I was just wondering because of this receipt.”

 Malfoy snatched it from her hand. Amora shuddered when his finger very slightly skimmed the edge of her nail, the scent of his cologne stronger from how close he was to her now. She watched his silver eyes dart over the receipt. 

 “I didn’t realise he never closed the tab,” Malfoy shrugged, and scrunched the receipt, shoving it deep into the pocket of his robes. “Opal should have asked me for my billing address when I wrote to her.”

  “Why would he have closed it?” 

 Malfoy’s eyes glinted. His face was hard. “Why do you think?” He spat.

 “I don’t—” Amora blinked, furrowing her brows. Her stomach dropped. “Is she…” 

 Malfoy laughed bitterly. “For fuck sake, Buckley! Are you seriously about to ask me what everybody already fucking knows?”

 So Narcissa Malfoy had died then. Amora racked her head for a memory, a newspaper clipping, a voice over the radio, an announcement from Moody… There was nothing. Either she had forgotten or she had never known. 

 “I don’t–” Amora shook her head. “I can’t remember anything about your mother being in the papers, I didn’t realise—”

 “My mother is none of your business,” Malfoy growled at her, “If you didn’t know, now you do. And don’t fucking mention it again.”

 Amora wasn’t sure she had seen him lose his cool exterior so badly yet. She moved back nervously, the back of her eyes hot, and she swore she would die if she felt any tears well in her eyes.

 She knew how he felt. For at least a couple of years afterwards, it felt as though there was a ticking bomb inside her chest, right where her heart should be, and it could blow at the slightest mention of her dead mother. Amora missed that woman terribly, more than she could her absent father, but, if she remembered correctly, Malfoy had been even closer to his mother than she had hers. 

 There were a few moments of silence. Malfoy’s chest heaved. Amora looked anywhere but his face. She thought about what Madam Opal had said about Malfoy losing his temper. 

 “I found a dress,” her voice was barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realise how much it cost.”

 Malfoy’s lips pursed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, slightly calmer now, and ran a hand through his white hair. “We’ll need to run through a few things for tomorrow. I’ll make some dinner.” 

 D.M + A.B

  Dinner was a quiet affair, with each enjoying a lamb shank, some creamy mashed potato, asparagus on the side, and a seat apart as always. Amora was pleasantly surprised by Malfoy’s culinary skills this time around. For a brief moment, part of her wondered if Malfoy kept the house elves at his private beck and call for times like these.

 “It’s important that tomorrow, no matter what sort of questions the press shoots at you, you must keep calm,” Malfoy said, pushing his plate away and dabbing the side of his mouth with his serviette. “Don’t give me that look, Buckley. We both know what you can be like.”

 “What is that supposed to–”

 “We both know what that means.” Malfoy raised a brow. “I recall several instances during school where you turned up to classes with bruised knuckles.”

 Amora scrunched her face up. “ Several ? When? There was only one time when Leon upset me.” 

 Malfoy stilled. “You honestly do not remember?”

  She laughed a little. “Remember punching people at school? No, I—” It was as if the names were on the tip of her tongue all of a sudden. “Oh my gosh! I remember. Bones and Smith.” 

 “I think there might have been a couple more,” Malfoy shrugged and added quickly, “Why are you forgetting things that happened at Hogwarts? Shouldn’t The Order have removed your memories of them ?”

 Amora thought for a second. “Perhaps I just forgot naturally. I don’t think there’s much else I don’t remember. Time is a curse.”

 “So is Obliviation,” Malfoy murmured, “That’s beside the point though. They might ask you questions about the Order. You just need to answer as if they are the BMA themselves.”

 “I know what to say,” Amora said, I trained for over a month for this. “I just want to know what to expect. Is it a press conference of sorts?”

 Malfoy’s hands clasped together above the table, slender fingers hooking together. “Not exactly. We’ll make an appearance outside the Ministry for my father’s speech. We will stop and talk to the Daily Prophet.”

 Amora hummed. “What is your father going to say, by the way?” She asked, “I mean, what was he expecting telling everybody that nobody had survived the attack? Did people not know I had been sent to the factory?”

 “Well, I assume he will tell the press that it was to prevent fear-mongering, or that he had no idea himself. I’m not sure what his point is going to be. You were documented, there was an obituary with your name on it,” Malfoy replied, “I’m curious about his angle.”

 “So you have no idea either?”

 “None at all,” Malfoy shrugged, “I’m sure his publicity team will have come up with something to sway the press. Anyway, we don’t have to worry about whatever he says. He’s there to handle the politics, we’re there to—”

 “Distract?” 

 “Precisely,” Malfoy nodded, “Now you are getting the hang of it.” 

 Amora cupped her hands around her mug of green tea to keep her hands warm. Despite the April weather warming the grounds, she couldn’t help but wince every time her bare feet hit the floorboards of her bedroom, or gasp when she would walk past an open window. No matter how much she bundled herself up at night with the extra blankets, she couldn’t quite manage to warm up. 

 “Can I ask what it is that you do as High Commander?” Amora asked, “You know, other than continuously save your father’s reputation, of course.”

   “Why?”

 “Curious.”

 “Curiosity killed the cat, Buckley.”

 “Yes well, satisfaction brought it back, Malfoy ,” Amora stabbed.  

 “Earn my trust,” Malfoy replied, standing up from the table. “Maybe then I will keep you in the know.” 

 He grabbed both their bowls and left the room. Amora glared daggers into the back of his platinum head, imagining the sharpest knife sticking through the centre of his broad shoulders. After all, that was what he had done to her before he had the nerve to mention trust. Amora wondered if he knew the meaning of the word. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER TWELVE

 Despite his grumbling complaints over the last fifteen minutes, when Amora finally did descend the staircase, Malfoy was at a loss for words. 

 His hand tightened on the wooden ball at the end of the bannister as his silver eyes drank her in, agonisingly slow as if he was taking his sweet time. Amora scrunched her nose and stopped at the last few steps, placing a hand on her hip. 

 “If you wouldn’t mind moving.” 

 Malfoy lifted his hand from the bannister, his arm no longer blocking her in. Amora felt his gaze like hot magic on her bare shoulders and neck. The navy of her dress was so dark it nearly appeared black, silver stars of all sizes expertly placed across it. It hugged her silhouette but splayed out into an elegant skirt, exposing more than half of her back. Mesh star-speckled gloves covered her arms, ending where her dress began. The dress’s neckline was respectful and the most flattering thing Amora had ever worn.  

 Amora brushed some of her hair behind her, feeling the unfamiliar stiffness of the crescent moon clip at the back. Madam Opal had made Amora a little nervous. Her training wand would not help her in a fight, after all. She had a feeling her presence might be controversial. 

 “Right, well, we should leave,” Malfoy cleared his throat and averted his eyes. 

 His arm was held straight out, hovering in the air and it took a moment for Amora to realise what he wanted her to do. She hesitated before placing her hand on top of his, her skin nearly burning at the all-too-familiar iciness of his body temperature, but then there was a violent pull behind her belly button, and Malfoy’s skin on hers was long forgotten. 

 Amora felt like she could be sick for a moment before she landed hard on the ground. She grabbed Malfoy’s arm, blinking quickly to rid the dark spots evading her vision. Malfoy glanced down at her, huffing a breath through his nose. 

 “Straighten up, Buckley,” he ordered quietly, “We have a show to put on.”

 They were in an office just smaller than the headmaster’s at Hogwarts, adorned with oak and emerald furnishings, containing everything a usual office would have— a desk, a chair, and some bookshelves. It was void of all personal touches. The walls held no portraits and on the desk sat no picture frames. Still, Amora knew instantly that this one belonged to Malfoy.

 “You work here?” Amora asked him. 

 “I do,” he said, “I just need to grab a couple of things before we go to the hall for the Minister’s speech.” 

 Malfoy manoeuvred over to the desk and tapped his wand against one of the drawers so that it slid open. Amora huffed a breath through her nose as she watched him rifle through papers. It made perfect sense that Malfoy would have wards on all of his things, even at his workplace.

 “What are you looking for?” Amora edged over to a table off to the side of the room. 

 Her dark eyes stole glimpses of photographs dotted over a model of what appeared to be a model village or town. Names were sprawled in Malfoy’s cursive up and down the model, images of people Amora recognised either crossed out with a red marker or left blank.

 Her heart stopped. Pansy. 

 “What is this?” Amora demanded. She was painfully aware of the way her voice wavered. 

 “A recreation of an Order territory,” Malfoy replied, shutting the drawer he had been rummaging in and heading over, looming behind her. 

 “I mean, what is it for?”

 “What do you think it’s for?” Malfoy scoffed, “It’s a model village used for strategising and planning. Did the Order not have them?”

 “No, they did, I just—” Amora’s heart was stuttering as hard as it was thumping. “Pansy’s on here.”

 “Yes, Parkinson happens to be stationed at this territory currently,” Malfoy acknowledged, “Why would that matter to you, Buckley?”

 “She’s my…” Amora shook her head and turned to face him defiantly. “She was our friend, Malfoy. Even if she doesn’t agree with us now, even if she’s fighting with them… Pansy was our friend.”

 Malfoy watched her sternly. “There are no feelings in war.”

 Was he serious? 

 “On the contrary, Malfoy, I think feelings are what cause wars,” Amora replied, “Psychopathic men too proud for their own good who cannot stand the thought of not getting their way. And they will let everybody else kill themselves over it to sit on a throne of their fucking bodies.”

 “Careful,” he spat. “ Careful , Buckley.”

 Amora wasn’t sure why he kept letting her off the hook each time she came close to slipping up. He should be threatening her, torturing her for information, or handing her off to somebody who would. Where was this temper that Madam Opal had been referencing?

 “Parkinson chose her bed, she must lie in it now.” Malfoy straightened up. “As we all must. In His Shadow We Rise, and all that.”

 “Please,” Amora whispered, grabbing the sleeve of his blazer before he could fully turn away from her. She grabbed his forearm, keeping him in place. He looked down at her hand on him, and then at her face. He appeared unimpressed. “Not her. Not them. Please, Malfoy.”

 Malfoy roughly yanked his arm backwards. “What makes you think you are so fucking special, hm? You think because we had a thing at Hogwarts you’re somehow different to me? Buckley, let me get one thing through to you and you better listen clearly because I do not repeat myself. I do not cancel entire plans for the sake of one person, or a few people. Parkinson is somebody I knew during secondary school. That is all.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair and laughed, “For fuck sake, Buckley. I wouldn’t so much as flinch if it were your name there.” 

 Amora’s heart did a strange thing in her chest. It was an all too familiar sensation, the same collapsing feeling it had gone through with every betrayal she had suffered through life so far. She chewed on her bottom lip and studied his passive expression. Everything was panging. All she wanted to do was ask him what she had done to make him hate her so much, what Pansy had done. 

 Malfoy took her silence as a segway to head over to the door. He cast her a look. “Brave face, Buckley.” 

 Amora took a deep breath and followed him out of the door. She tried to ignore the rising panic in her chest at the photograph of Pansy on Malfoy’s map, her mind coming up with all sorts of attacks he could be planning. Hammering heart aside, she walked next to Malfoy and put on a brave face, straightening her back and shoulders, gracing each Death Eater they passed with a small, confident smile.

 “High Commander,” A man greeted at a set of large doors, shaking Malfoy’s hand, though the icy-haired man was quick to retract. “Please, come this way.”

 “I can find my seat just fine, Pettigrew.”

 Amora furrowed her brows. She wondered why that name sounded so familiar to her, her face studying the short man in front of them but only drawing blanks. His hair was wirey and patchy, long and curly in places, his thick eyebrows overgrowing in the same fashion, his pale skin blotchy and speckled with moles and other marks. He had wide sunken eyes and scabby hands with long fingernails, which he seemed to tuck towards his chest, resembling that of a rat or a mouse, especially with the oversized front teeth poking his thin, bottom lip. 

 Malfoy placed a large hand on the small of Amora’s back and guided her into the hall. It was filled with what must be around a hundred people— all men, aside from a few— and all seated and chattering quietly, dressed in dark robes. There were small gasps as the couple entered, eyes training on them as if Voldemort himself had arrived. 

 It felt like back at Hogwarts, when people had found out she and Malfoy were in a relationship, and they had entered the Great Hall together for breakfast the next morning. She wasn’t sure how anything could ever top the anxiety of that entrance, and yet here she was, feeling a hundred times more intimidated— and with much higher stakes this time. 

 Malfoy gently pushed her to the front aisle of seats and leaned towards her ear. “Sit next to Bellatrix.”

 Amora pursed her crimson-painted lips, nearly faltering as her eyes trained on the witch who was already watching her right back, hungry eyes darting over Amora as if she was something to sink her teeth into. Amora squeezed her fingers into fists momentarily and took the empty seat beside the Lestrange woman. Malfoy sat beside her. On his left was a much older man.

 “Amora Buckley,” Bellatrix grinned, her tongue running across her teeth. She stuck a hand out and twirled a finger around a lock of Amora’s hair. “Even more beautiful than the papers photograph you.” She ran the backs of her fingers down Amora’s upper arm. “The purest of blood pumps beneath this skin, and your clever little head must have realised that, mustn’t it?” She tapped Amora’s temple with a long nail next. 

 “Bellatrix—” 

 “Unfortunately it took me a few years to gain the courage to do the right thing, but I am here now, Overseer Lestrange,” Amora replied, sending the woman a smile that just about reached her eyes. “And it is a pleasure to be sat with you, might I add, considering… your contribution to the war effort.”

 Bellatrix shrieked a laugh that echoed the hall. “Oh, I like her, Draco!” His aunt said, tucking Amora’s hair behind her shoulders. 

 “It’s starting,” someone hissed nearby, and there were hushed whispers and clicks and flashes of cameras. 

 Lucius Malfoy entered the stage from the left side, walking confidently over to the podium at the centre of the stage. His hair had been tied back, his sharp features strong and stern as he looked over the crowd without as much as a twitch. 

 “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Minister Malfoy greeted them, placing some parchment down on the podium, straightening his shoulders and gazing across all of them. His eyes met Amora’s for a split second. “I would like to take a moment to thank you all for attending today’s conference, which I understand will be a particularly important one.”

  Amora realised quickly that the entire conference was not to be based around his lie about the attack, but was the same weekly question time the Minister always used to do before the war. It took place every Thursday. The Order used to listen to them through the radio for the first few months, but it seemed the Death Eaters realised they had found access to their channel, and question times became private affairs. Their only way of finding out anything politics-related was through the papers. 

 Amora assumed the room was filled with high-ranking Death Eaters and politicians only. The rest of the world would only get the story that the Daily Prophet decided to publish. Nobody would get the uncut, raw version— that right had also been taken.

 “I will take questions shortly, but firstly I have a reminder from the Dark Lord, who is, of course, busy with his own duties this lovely Thursday afternoon. Anybody in possession of house elves must register them. You have until this Sunday before Overseer Lestrange begins to make her rounds. Those found in possession of illegal house elves will be punished accordingly,” Minister Malfoy said. “If your house elf is unable to create potions for whatever reason, they must still be registered. We need all the help we can get to aid our army on the front lines.” 

 There was a moment of silence as Lucius Malfoy shuffled his parchment and cleared his throat. Every few seconds, there are a couple of flashes and clicks of cameras. He didn’t appear phased by them. 

 “Now,” he muttered, and his voice was slightly darker than before. “I will take questions.”

 Immediately, the silent crowd was replaced by an uproar of frantic people, hands shooting up, bodies out of seats, and voices battling to be heard over the others. Malfoy sighed from next to Amora. She glanced at him momentarily and he did not appear impressed at the slightest, eyes lazily trained on his father. 

 “Silence,” Minister Malfoy boomed, bashing his stick down on the ground next to him, expelling such a loud bang that Amora gasped, the entire room immediately obeying. “One at a time. By hand.”

 The sound of hands whooshing through the air rushed past her ears. A man to the side of the stage picked a journalist at the back. Amora could not see him but heard him as clear as day as his chair scraped back. 

 “Minister Malfoy, you have recently been all over the press for your controversy surrounding the Cauldronworks attack. You told the Daily Prophet that there were no survivors, but since have confirmed that Amora Buckley is alive. Why did you lie?” 

 Minister Malfoy gave a smile that was both slightly charming and unsettling. “Thank you for your question. The survival of Miss Buckley was completely unexpected to me. As a servant of the Dark Lord, trusted to lead you under his shadow, I am ashamed to admit that I was deceived by my leading advisor, and given misleading information that was, of course, spread to the public.”

 Amora’s lips parted, her eyes narrowing. She blinked and then blinked again, and Minister Malfoy was still there on the stage, spewing complete lies. 

 “My leading advisor informed me that there were no survivors, and investigations have proven he Imperiused Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov, two of our most trusted and highest ranking Death Eaters, to take Miss Buckley to St Mungo’s to be checked over,” Minister Malfoy replied, only taking his eyes briefly off the crowd to read from his parchment. 

 Amora could not believe what she was hearing. People were muttering around her. 

 “The advisor in question, Nathaniel Eaglet, has since been interrogated,” Minister Malfoy said firmly, “And I regret to inform you all that Eaglet’s intentions with Miss Buckley were not pure. It seems we have had a spy among our ranks, an Order sympathiser, planted by Phoenix members themselves who intended to use Buckley’s survival to torture her for leaving the Order of the Phoenix. That traitor being, of course, Eaglet himself.”

 There were gasps around the room. Bellatrix was practically hissing through her teeth next to Amora. She could see the way the woman’s hands were twitching as if itching for her wand, desperate to strike something down. Amora tried to steal a glance at Malfoy. He appeared unphased by his father’s lies. 

 “Silence,” he boomed again, and his request was followed. “Yes? You. Rockwell.”

 “High Commander Malfoy had accepted Buckley into his home only hours after the attack. Why were you not informed of Miss Buckley’s presence in your son’s home?” Rockwell, Amora presumed, called.

 It felt incredibly strange to hear everybody using her name as if she weren’t in the room. Miss Buckley began to feel like a character she had yet to meet. 

 “An excellent question also, Mr Rockwell. Thank you, I am eager to clear this up considering the amount of conspiracies surrounding the High Commander and me working together to cover the survival of Miss Buckley. This was not the case at all, I can assure you. The High Commander informed me of the survival of Miss Buckley only after the story was printed in the Daily Prophet. Of course, I was adamant about making this public knowledge as soon as possible, however, we decided to use it as an advantage point to avoid confirmation bias and floods of media outlets. It gave us the perfect amount of time to interview Miss Buckley about the Cauldronworks attack and to make sure, as a former Order member, she had nothing to do with it. We had to be positive she was not working with Eaglet.” 

 “And the outcome?”

 Amora also wanted to know. 

 “Miss Buckley is innocent; she has been under the watch of the High Commander over the last week and exhibited no signs of working against us,” Minister Malfoy confirmed, “I can confirm that the issue has been dealt with. You are all in safe hands. The rebellion member did us a favour ridding our world of her filthy, traitorous blood and those who aided the… the censorship of the truth are to be dealt with effectively.”

 “How so, Minister Malfoy?”

 “I am glad you asked.” 

 On cue, a man with a burlap bag tied over his head was shoved onto the stage. The Death Eater behind him kicked the man in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees with a painful bang. The man fell forward, his hands bound behind his back, and unable to catch himself, faceplanted the ground. He only groaned quietly. Amora wasn’t sure if she only heard him because of her front-row seat. 

 Bellatrix was practically buzzing in her chair, fingers rubbing together in anticipation, her tongue licking her teeth again as if she would start drooling any moment. Meanwhile, Amora felt sick to her stomach. They yanked the bag off the man and grabbed the back of his dark hair, hauling him upright.

 It was the same advisor Amora had seen with Minister Malfoy. Nathaniel Eaglet. He was missing his glasses, his hair pointing in every direction but also matted with blood, crimson liquid caked under his nose and swollen into his fat lip. He was unrecognisable. He had been beaten to a pulp. He was shaking so much that Amora could hear the chains around his wrists rattling and clanging together. 

 The cameras were flashing nonstop. 

 Amora was horrified to see her mother’s face. Elle Buckley crumpled on a stage, just like this one, beaten past recognition, crying and pleading for mercy, Ollivander’s dead body nearby, others restrained and lined up at the back of the stage, waiting for their turn. Hermione, Madam Pomfrey, Mr Weasley… 

 Her heart was racing so hard she thought it might shoot up her throat and spill over her lap. Her hands scrunched, nails digging so hard the pain shot down her arms, but it was not enough to distract her from what was about to happen on the stage in front of her. 

 She had a front-row seat to watch an innocent man die. It felt like it was her fault. If she had never survived, he wouldn’t be about to die. 

 Amora couldn’t help but think of all the other lies Minister Malfoy could have come up with. He could have told the truth, even– which was that one of his advisors had given him poor advice. Amora supposed that he did not want to look weak, or like he followed blindly, and in a room full of bloodthirsty psychopaths like Bellatrix, seeing a ‘traitor’ murdered was probably a satisfying answer enough. 

 The Daily Prophet definitely had a headline for the morning. 

 “Malfoy—” 

 “Shut it,” Malfoy hissed back at her, cutting her whisper off, his silver eyes burning. “Don’t even think about playing the fucking hero.”

 Amora swallowed the lump in her throat. She wished there was something she could do. 

 “Nathaniel Eaglet,” Minister Malfoy stepped around the podium to stand beside him. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

 The man stuttered. His teeth were black with blood. Some were missing. “Please, have mercy, Minister. I am— I’m—”

 “High Commander?”

 Amora tried her best to hide the absolute horror she felt when Minister Malfoy summoned his son to the stage. Malfoy stood up as if he had been expecting it and wordlessly headed up the steps onto the stage. He loomed behind Eaglet. 

  Malfoy jabbed his wand into the back of Eaglet’s head. Eyes scrunched tight, Eaglet gritted his teeth and shook harder than ever, sobbing loudly. 

 “Avada Kedavra,” Malfoy muttered. 

 Eaglet collapsed to the ground. Dead. Cameras flashed. 

 Amora’s unblinking eyes flickered from Eaglet’s body to Malfoy. His silver eyes burned straight back. 

 D.M + A.B

 Amora wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to make a public appearance with the man who had just murdered somebody in front of her. She kept trying to remind herself that he did not exactly have a choice when summoned by the Minister, but she wondered if that mattered. She wondered if he carried out all executions. 

 After another half an hour of listening to Minister Malfoy drone on about other political matters, Amora was more than eager to get some fresh air. For the rest of question time, it had been impossible to look away from the corpse still lying warm to the side of the Minister. A reminder to anybody who wanted to ask further questions about the matter. 

 “Come,” Malfoy said, his hand pushing her back gently again. “It’s time.”

 He walked by her side through the corridors, back straight, eyes trained ahead, seemingly unphased by the public execution that had just occurred. The entire way up the lift, she did not so much as look at him. Amora smoothed down her skirt when the lift came to a stop on the main floor. She took a deep breath.

 The lift doors opened and immediately Amora was blinded by flashing lights. She was startled when a hand snaked down her arm to grab hers, her heart skipping a beat or two at the familiar palm pressing to hers, and the long fingers that intertwined with her shorter ones. She couldn’t help but glance up at him in surprise, but Malfoy surged forward, heading right for the press where the exit to the Ministry was. 

 “High Commander Malfoy! High Commander! Over here, over here!” 

 “High Commander!” 

 “Mr Malfoy, sir!”

 Amora swallowed and built up the barriers in her mind to stop her nerves physically showing. She grasped Malfoy’s hand tighter, unintentionally squeezing. It nearly did not phase her when she felt three squeezes back. Instantly, she was back in Hogwarts, when three squeezes meant three words they could not say. She doubted he remembered what it had meant. Most likely it was an act of habit. Amora wasn’t sure why that made her feel so funny.

 As planned, Malfoy headed straight over to Rita Skeeter. She was the only reporter not begging for his attention, standing there looking like he did when Amora had seen her in their fourth year. Blonde hair tied into a bun, red lipstick, glasses, and an annoying smirk. A notepad was levitating beside her head, a charmed quill ready to put ink to paper. 

 “I am Rita Skeeter with the Daily Prophet, but of course, you already know that,” Skeeter grinned, and Amora forced a smile back, even if it was the last thing she felt like doing. “I must say, Miss Buckley, you tidy up very nicely.” 

 “She does, doesn’t she?” Malfoy hummed before Amora could thank the lady, and then took a step back as if to admire her.

 Amora’s smile widened and she patted Malfoy on his chest. “Oh, hush, you.” 

 Rita Skeeter’s eyes lit up and the quill began to scribble furiously. 

 “Miss Buckley, how have you found your transition from the Cauldronworks to Malfoy Manor?” Skeeter asked her eagerly.

 Amora chuckled, “It’s miles better, of course. My process at the BMA was a long and hard one. I’ve just been eager to settle again. To feel safe.”

 “Would you say you feel safe with High Commander Malfoy?”

 “Oh, of course,” Amora smiled, “The life I have acquired over the last week is the very same one I have been dreaming of for years now. It feels amazing to break free from the Order and to be here with High Commander Malfoy.”

 “Well, we can see in his eyes just how much he cares for you, Miss Buckley. You must feel extremely special. High Commander, what is it about Amora Buckley that had you reaching out to court her? Especially when the public has always noted your lack of a partner.”

 “I do not wish to come across as a lovesick puppy, Skeeter, but I suppose deep down I had been waiting for Amora to come back to me.” 

  Amora . He said her first name. Amora . It rolled off his tongue so easily as if he said it every day. As if it meant nothing to call her by her first name. 

 Skeeter gasped so loudly it hurt her ears. “Am I sensing the two of you knew one another during your school days?”

 “That’s correct,” Malfoy replied, “Amora and I were together for a while before the war happened. Deep down I had always had a feeling she would return to me someday.” 

 He said her name again. 

 “Two star-crossed lovers have found their way back to one another!” Skeeter cried, “Write that down, write that down. What made you split? How long has it been?”

 “My mother, Elle Buckley, she was… to put it simply, obsessive over Muggles. I was brainwashed like plenty of other Purebloods who joined the Order. At school, the High Commander was the one who convinced me how…” Amora thought for a moment. “How important it is to remember that magic is might. Only I was sixteen and I followed my friends blindly. I was just scared to go against my mother.” 

 “It’s so brave that you’re restoring yet another family to the Sacred 28!” Skeeter gushed, “High Commander, what was it like knowing that your first love was being brainwashed by the Order of the Phoenix? Was that hard for you?”

 Malfoy cleared his throat. “Incredibly hard. But, despite my relief Amora has found the courage to follow the Dark Lord, I, of course, have had a duty to fill as High Commander. My work came above all.”

 “And does it still? Now that you have been reunited?” 

 “In His Shadow, We Rise. The Dark Lord always comes first,” Malfoy replied instantly, “But I am pleased that I will be able to fulfil my Pureblood duty of marrying within my ranks and producing pure heirs, of course.”

 Amora nearly choked at that. She pursed her lips and forced herself to nod and smile along. 

 “Do I sense an engagement on the horizon, High Commander?” Skeeter squealed. 

 Malfoy hummed. “I am nothing if not traditional.” 

 “Well, I would like to be the first to congratulate the two of you,” Skeeter grinned and glanced over her parchment and quill to check it was still writing. “I look forward to all future news.”

 “Thank you,” Amora murmured as Malfoy gave her a small nod. 

 “High Commander, please, what did you think of Eaglet’s betrayal? How does that impact any plans knowing we have had spies in our midst?” A reporter grabbed Malfoy’s attention. 

 Amora hung around beside him, but her eyes were narrowing on a hooded figure standing slightly away from all of the flashing cameras and rowdy voices. People were desperately trying to get her attention while they photographed her, but Amora did not want to answer any questions whilst Malfoy was not there. She did not want anything to be twisted. 

 A hand grabbed her shoulder, causing her to whirl around. A reporter stood there, a camera directly in her face and a microphone to their lips. Amora worriedly glanced at Malfoy, but he was distracted by yet another interviewer bombarding him with questions. 

 “What is the High Commander like behind closed doors?” The man asked, “Have you had the privilege of meeting the Dark Lord yet?”

 Amora weaved past him, her hand leaving Malfoy’s. She twisted in and out of the reporters moving in, seconds later colliding with somebody. Her lips opened to absentmindedly apologise, desperately seeking a way out of the crowd, but the person grabbed her wrist where her mesh sleeve had ridden, keeping her in place. Amora gasped, glaring, and realised it was the person hidden by their cloak from before. 

 Her hand reached up behind her as if she was going to grab the clip from her hair and stab him with it in front of everybody. She faltered, breath hitching when she realised it was a woman beneath the cloak. 

 “In His Shadow, We Resist,” she whispered, pressing her thumb particularly hard against Amora’s skin. 

 The woman darted away, heading for the lifts, her dark cloak billowing behind her. Amora watched after her just as she heard Malfoy below that he would be taking no more questions. His footsteps were pounding behind her, his large hand clamping on her shoulder. 

 “Let’s go,” he hissed. 

 Amora did not care whatever had pissed him off. She was too busy thinking about the woman. Her arm still throbbed from her grasp. Amora glanced down at it as Malfoy began to pull her towards the Floo network. Ink had been stamped onto her skin. 

 RISE ABOVE THE ASH  

  34b Hogsmeade Square

  Amora’s eyes widened as it disappeared before her eyes. 

 The Order had found her. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Somebody was screaming. 

 Amora’s entire body lurched up, skin drenched in a thin layer of sweat and brown eyes bulging in the dark as they darted around for the culprit screaming bloody murder. Her hand was on her heart, her legs kicking off her covers, and only then did she realise that her throat felt raw and her cheeks were wet with salty tears. She choked on the scream dying in her throat, spluttering as a sob racked through her entire body. She felt it through to her bones. 

 A bang echoed in the room as the door smacked against the wall, a figure flying through in milliseconds. Light flooded every oil lamp and candle in the room, the chandelier above lightly so bright that she was squinting away from it. 

 Malfoy’s pale chest heaved, his wand pointed in front of him, ready to attack, his jaw clenching as he checked the room not once but twice. He ran a hand through his tousled hair when he realised nobody else was there, inching closer to her. 

 “What happened?” He demanded, “Why were you screaming like that?”

 Amora desperately attempted to catch her breath. “I–” She swiped the tears away as quickly as they kept flooding down her face. “It was just a bad dream. I’m— it’s fine. It was just a bad dream.”

 Malfoy furrowed his brows, pursing his lips together. “Do you have nightmares often?”

 Amora’s shaky hand pushed her own hair out of her face. She wiped her wet fingers on her duvet. 

 “I used to,” Amora admitted, “Not so much anymore.”

  He hesitated. “What do you dream of?” 

 Amora tried not to cry again. “My mother.”

 She dreamt of her mother being tortured. She dreamt of her being murdered. She saw her pleading for her life. She saw Malfoy doing it. She saw Voldemort doing it. She did it once. Amora died for her once. Her mother survived a few times. Sometimes, she was okay— sometimes nothing bad happened to her. Somehow, Amora thought those ones were the most horrible. It made waking up the true nightmare. 

 Malfoy scratched the back of his neck. She knew he had no clue what to say to her. He didn’t want to comfort her, that much was clear, but she thought maybe he didn’t know how to leave either. 

 “You can go now. Put a silencing charm on my room if you’d like,” Amora said, rubbing her eyes dry. 

 Malfoy swallowed. “I…” He hesitated and then shook his head. “I’ll brew some Dreamless Sleeping potions.”

 “Thank you.”

 Only then did Amora recognise the fact that Malfoy was shirtless in her room. In fact, the only thing he wore was a pair of black boxers. His pale skin glowed in the light of the room, once clear and perfect, now embellished with battle scars. Strikes of white and silver covered his chest from Harry Potter’s attack on him in the sixth year. Most, Amora did not recognise. There was a particularly large gash on his side that looked like it had once ran deep. 

 The look he gave her was nearly sympathetic as he left. He had scars too. 

 D.M + A.B

 Amora had her usual bubble bath and dressed herself in another dress. She crept down the staircase slowly, walking past the dining room to head into the kitchen when her nose detected the most delicious, sweet smell. It was all too familiar, like a warm hug from her mother, or like having a hot shower after a rainy Care of Magical Creatures lesson. 

 She took a couple of steps backwards. Her eyebrows jumped up her forehead. In his usual seat, Malfoy sat with a plate of buttered toast and a cup of tea, and next to him, two places down of course, was a steaming bowl of something and another tea. 

 “It’s for you,” Malfoy said, his nose buried deep in a newspaper. 

 Amora entered the dining room, her mouth watering at the sight of a bowl of porridge. She could see that it had been dowsed in honey, bananas chopped and chucked on top. Then there was her usual green tea which she had really been enjoying over the last week or so. 

“Congratulations, Buckley. You made the front page.”

 Amora’s gaze flickered to the paper as she sat. Malfoy slid it over to her. 

   STAR-CROSSED LOVERS: HIGH COMMANDER AND AMORA BUCKLEY HAVE A HISTORY 

 Below, a moving image of herself and Malfoy exiting the left and heading towards the photographers it slapped on the page. Their hands are joined, his usual stoic expresson written across his face, and her lips are nearly gracing a smile, but not quite. It felt weird to see the two of them photographed together— almost nostalgic in a way. 

 Even further down the front page, there was a small column on the left that read: MINISTER MALFOY PUBLICLY EXECUTES TRAITOR FOR CAULDRONWORKS’ DEATH TOLL LIE (see page 2) 

  “Your plan worked,” Amora said, “Somehow the fact that you had a girlfriend at Hogwarts is more significant news than you murdering someone in a room full of people.” 

 Malfoy huffed a breath through his nose. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

 Amora grabbed her spoon and stirred in her porridge a little bit. She struggled to recall the last time she’d had a good bowl of hot porridge. She wasn’t quite sure about how she felt about Malfoy making it for her. She poked it as if it was poisoned. 

 “You didn’t eat last night,” Malfoy acknowledged, “I thought you might want something hearty this morning.”

 Amora raised a brow. “Yes, well, I couldn’t really stomach anything last night. Unfortunately.”

 Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’ve murdered people before, have you not, Buckley? The Order are not completely innocent.”

 “I murdered people trying to murder me,” Amora replied, “I looked after myself.”

  And my friends. 

 “You’ll get used to it,” Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. “You have to if you want to stay in this world.”

 “And if I’m so insane I cannot stomach watching innocent people be publicly executed?” Amora snapped, “Then what? I don’t think that makes me less of a supporter. I just can think for myself—”

 “Nathaniel Eaglet has two wives, one of which only left Hogwarts last July. She is already pregnant. His other wife is a Pureblood woman who had been with a Mudblood. He had him publicly executed in front of her and then claimed her as his own,” Malfoy said, “He’s taken away their complete right to magic and access to outside— just because he can.”

 Amora breathed out, eyes wide. Horror strangled her. 

 Malfoy grabbed his cup of tea and rose it to his lips. “He is not an innocent man, Buckley. Nobody I have ever personally murdered has been innocent.”

 “Dumbledore,” Amora blurted a whisper, watching Malfoy’s forehead crease at the name, as if he could remember that night as clear as she could. 

 “Trafficked children into an army,” Malfoy pointed, “And convinced Potter he was the chosen one destined to end an entire war, but obviously gave him no help to do so, because Potter is still missing, and the Dark Lord still reigns Britain. I could list more if you’d like.” 

 Amora sucked on her bottom lip. “No. No, I get it. You feel justified killing the people you kill.”

 “As you felt justified killing the people you did,” Malfoy agreed, “Which, I cannot imagine, by the way.”

 “Death Eaters shoot to kill,” Amora said, and then scoffed, “Sorry, you’d know that. You command them. I don’t know why I’m reminding you. And the people you’re telling them to kill are quite innocent actually.” 

 Malfoy was quiet for a few moments. He sipped his tea. Amora took a spoonful of her porridge, feeling her whole mouth warm at the familiar flavour. She hated how much she loved it. 

 “Is the amount of honey correct?”

 Amora blinked. “Yes. It’s fine. I like the bananas. It’d be nice with some chocolate chips melted in, too.”

 Malfoy’s entire face crinkled. “Chocolate for breakfast?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what sort of Mudbloods you were sharing recipes with at the Order, but chocolate is not for breakfast.” 

 She was getting rather good at not flinching at his casual use of the word ‘Mudblood’. After all, she was learning to use it herself now. She needed to adapt, especially for when people other than Malfoy were around. They might not let her off the hook as much as he did. 

 “It’s good,” Amora shook her head. “You’d like it.”

 It felt oddly intimate to suggest so. Malfoy seemed to silently agree because he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and did not reply. It was unspoken that they knew things about each other that others did not. Once upon a time, there was nothing Amora didn’t know about Malfoy– or so she had thought at the time. 

 “Why do I need something hearty anyway?” Amora asked, going in for what must have been her fourth spoonful. “Are we doing something today?”

 “Well, before we get engaged, it’s law to make sure you’re… working properly,” Malfoy muttered, “For their records, and so we can wed.”

 Fear prickled Amora. “You mean to find out if I am fertile or not?”

 “Exactly.” 

 “And what if I am not?”

 “Then it will be decided that you are better suited to a Halfblood man, or you can work in some sort of factory or shop if you want to,” Malfoy said. 

 There was an uncomfortable, heavy feeling at the pit of her stomach. It weighed her to her chair. Her hand darted up to smooth a small knot at the end of her hair, running it between her index and middle finger. Being more immersed in this world for just over a week now had only taught Amora that she was better off at Malfoy Manor. He must have seen the nerves eating at each feature on her face. 

 “I am sure you’ll be fine,” Malfoy somewhat comforted her, “We’ll be leaving in half an hour, so make sure you’re ready.”

 Fuck. Shit. Fuck. 

 D.M + A.B

 Amora’s eyes burned into the street sign. 

  HOGSMEADE SQUARE

  She had been here hundreds of times and visited every shop at least once, and yet the only number she could remember was 1 because that was the Hog’s Head pub at the very start of the square. She needed to know where 34b was. It made sense that it was a flat above a shop, and so as she walked down the cobblestone pavement with Malfoy, her neck was craned upwards, looking in each window for any sort of sign from the Order. 

 “Here we are.”

 Malfoy pulled open the door to a small doctor’s office. The smell of polished wood and disinfectant invaded her nostrils. It might have been a nice smell if she wasn’t terrified of her verdict. She was sure she would be fine, but there was this feeling that wouldn’t go away. She didn’t want children— not anytime during this war, at least— but to stay with Malfoy might be the difference between dying and surviving. 

 “High Commander,” a man in his sixties reached forward to shake Malfoy’s hand as soon as the door shut behind them. “Such a privilege to finally have you come through my doors. I am so excited to hopefully deliver you some amazing news.”

 “Doctor Silverling,” Malfoy gave him a curt nod. “This is Miss Buckley, the lady I am courting. She’s yet to be checked over.”

 Doctor Silverling only then turned his face to her. He scanned her up and down and then gave her a tight lipped smile and a nod. 

 “Very well, Miss Buckley, seeing as the High Commander is most likely so busy, we wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, would we? How about you come forward right away? I will have my best doctor see to you,” Silverling suggested, though he watched Malfoy, silently asking for his permission. 

 “How long does it take?” Malfoy demanded. 

 “Oh, it should only be fifteen minutes or so, as long as Miss Buckley is all up to shape,” Silverling answered, “She is in safe hands here for you to wait, or—”

 “I need to make a visit just down the square,” Malfoy interrupted, “I’ll be back before fifteen minutes is over.” He glanced at Amora, lips parting, but then turned his back and headed back out of the door, the bell charming behind him. 

 “Come right this way, Miss Buckley,” Silverling began to head towards the back of the clinic where a couple of women were sitting on chairs against a wall. 

 One was reading a Witch Weekly magazine, which did not look at all how they used to, and the other sat there chewing her nails anxiously. Amora did not recognise them at all but they must have been around her age. Silverling pulled open the door to one of the several rooms down the corridor, revealing a normal doctor’s office. 

 A girl, who couldn’t have been any older than sixteen, sat on the end of the bed, her eyes red and puffy as if she had been crying. She straightened up when she realised that it was no longer just her and the doctor in the room. Amora’s heart sank. 

 “Oh dear, bad news?” Silverling asked, though his voice was drained from any ounce of sympathy it could have possessed. He did not even look at the girl as he began to scribble on a clipboard. 

 “Quite the opposite, actually,” the other doctor shook his head. “She’s fertile and all good to go.”

 They made her sound like a breeding dog. 

 Amora swallowed and glanced back over at the girl. She felt awful for staring but could not seem to take her eyes off her. Her face was still home to adolescent puppy fat, her hair pulled back into two plaits in the same way Amora used to do hers as a child. She wanted to grab her, hug her, and reassure her that the war could not go on forever, but an icy feeling down her spine reminded her that even a year was too long for most of these young girls. Something needed to happen now to save them all, and that was impossible. 

 “Right, Miss Buckthorn, let’s discharge you, shall we? Your professor should be back any moment,” Silverling said, “This is Miss Buckley. She’s courting the High Commander. Do your best to look after her.”

 Amora’s gaze followed the girl out of the room, all the way up until the door shut behind her and Silverling. She shifted uncomfortably and she turned to face the doctor. He was probably about thirty, with white robes contrasting his dark skin, and a nametag that read “Doctor Catts”. 

 “Miss Buckley, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please take a seat on the bed, don’t worry about your shoes, I’ll just be doing some magical examinations on your uterus today,” Doctor Catts said, “I’ll run through your vitals and make sure that everything is up to scratch, and then I can send you on your way back home. This should be very straightforward so long as nothing seems to come up.”

 Amora swallowed, sat on the bed, and then forced herself to lie down in front of the stranger. It felt vulnerable, even if she did not have to remove any items of clothing. The pin in the back of her hair jabbed painfully against her skull and the leather material of the examination bed.  

 “Have you ever been pregnant before, Miss Buckley?” Doctor Catts asked as he began to wave his wand over her stomach, drawing runes with his wand the same way Amora had sometimes seen Madam Pomfrey do during complex healing spells. 

 Amora shook her head. “No.” It came out as more of a pathetic croak. 

 Doctor Catts gave her a seemingly sympathetic look. “I know it’s scary, but please try to calm your nerves. If your heart rate and blood pressure skyrockets, it makes measuring your vitals nearly impossible.”

 “It’s hard.” Amora scrunched her hands up. “I’m just… nervous I will be unable to fulfil my one duty.” 

 “I completely understand.”

 No, you fucking don’t.

“Sexually active?” He asked. 

 Amora nearly choked. “No, doctor.”

 “You’re twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, so you should be in peak health, only I see you are suffering from iron deficiency. Have you been experiencing dizzy spells and fatigue? Or headaches?”

 “Sometimes I feel a bit lightheaded, and I suppose that makes sense as to why I feel so cold most of the time,” Amora murmured and touched her fingers to her palm as if to remind her how icy they felt in the middle of April. 

 “I’ll make High Commander Malfoy aware you are in need of more iron in your diet. Some more sunlight, too— you have a lack of vitamin D also,” Doctor Catts scribbled on his notes. “Everything else looks about right. Now I’m going to examine your uterus to make sure you will be able to produce heirs.” 

 Amora felt the pang in her chest and the weight in her stomach. Her body felt warm when Doctor Catts pushed magic through her, a swirling feeling nearly causing her to lurch up and gag. She grabbed the edge of the examination bed and closed her eyes. She could hear her own heartbeat through her ears. 

 “Congratulations, Miss Buckley,” Doctor Catts smiled and all magical sensation stopped. “You are fertile and your uterus is as healthy as the average woman your age.”

 “Perfect,” her smile did not reach her eyes. 

 She was just thankful that she was with Malfoy and not some other Death Eater. Malfoy, who did not even want to touch her unless a camera was clicking at them. Malfoy, who told her he would kill her without hesitation for the sake of aiding his side of the war. There would be no Malfoy heirs anytime soon. The clip digging behind her reminded her of that. 

 When Doctor Catts escorted her back out into the waiting room, Malfoy stood there waiting, his lips in a thin line as he watched her walk over. She stopped beside him and looked up at the doctor. She felt like a child who was not trusted to relay information on herself. 

 “Miss Buckley is indeed fertile, High Commander, so nothing to worry about there. Her health is in mostly good shape aside from some iron deficiency anemia which will need to be corrected when you plan on producing an heir. More iron in her diet will make her body stronger, and she has a lack of vitamin D. All things are easily changeable so not to worry too much.”

 “Thank you, Doctor…” Malfoy peered at his name badge. “Catts.” Then at her. “Come on. We need to get home.”

 Amora furrowed her eyebrows as they left the clinic. She realised that he was holding a package in his hand, wrapped in brown parcel paper. She glanced up and down the square and then back at him. 

 “Can we not stay a little bit longer?” She asked, “The doctor did say that I could do with some more sunshine.”

 Malfoy rolled his silver eyes. “How did I know that you would milk that?” He muttered, “He also said that it only needed to be corrected when you wanted to be pregnant.” Malfoy leaned closer as they walked through the square, gritting his teeth. “And I don’t think either of us would like that very much, would we?”

 Amora’s nose crinkled. “Not at all.”

D.M + A.B

 Amora managed to convince Malfoy to let her top up on some more sweets from Honeydukes, but Mr Flumes spent so long talking Malfoy’s ear off that by the time they had left the shop, Malfoy was finished with any sort of socialising and took them straight back home. 

 She huffed as she landed on her feet, her stomach twisting at the Apparation pull. Malfoy took no recovery time, instead heading straight for the staircase.

 “I will be in my office!” He called, already halfway up the stairs. 

 It felt oddly domesticated. Amora didn’t like it. She had to remind herself not to get too comfortable with Malfoy. 

 Besides, she was more interested in whatever the package he had been holding was and where on earth 34B Hogsmeade Square was. Amora went to the library upstairs and quietly opened the door, heading over to the nonfiction section on the far wall. She scanned every spine for a book about Hogsmeade, or maps, or even better— maps of Hogsmeade. 

  Hogsmeade: A History by Bathilda Bagshot 

  Amora jumped. After ten minutes of looking, she found what might be her closest bet. Yanking the book from its home, she smoothed down the spine which was embroidered beautifully with an outline of the Hogsmeade town. She recognised what must have been the Three Broomsticks and Ollivanders. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t Ollivander’s wand shop anymore. 

 She opened to the contents page and could have laughed at how easy this was going to be. 

 Page 4. Maps of Hogsmeade 

 Amora flipped over as fast as her fingers would go, moving past each map until she got to the most current one in the book. It was dated back to 1976, making it thirty-six years old, and definitely outdated. She supposed that wouldn’t matter so long as the shop was still the same to this day, or hopefully, she would know what it had been updated to. 

 The shops and buildings were not labelled on the maps by numbers which made it a little more difficult, but Amora counted the Hog’s Head as number one, which would make either Honeydukes or Madam Puddifoot’s number two, depending on which side of the road the even numbers were. She counted up the road until she got to what should be thirty-four. 

 If it was the right side of the square then that made it Brood and Peck, on the left side of the road, Spintwitches and Sporting Needs. 

 Amora sat back, her eyebrows furrowed. It seemed so unlikely that number thirty-four would be either of those shops. Perhaps the Order had chosen it because it did seem so random. 

 Amora drummed her fingers against her knee, rolling her head back onto the back of the sofa, closing her eyes and humming as if it would bring ideas forward. She jumped slightly when one sprung to mind, grabbing the book from the ground and lifting it onto her lap. 

 “One, two, three, four…” Amora counted clockwise from the Hog’s Head around the square, rather than jumping from one side of the street to the next. 

 When her finger landed on Madam Opal’s dress shop, Amora knew that felt more like it.

  D.M + A.B

 That Monday, Amora woke up earlier than usual, had her bath, got dressed, and made her way down to the kitchen to get started on breakfast. She rummaged through the pantry and found some oats, poured them onto the stove with some hot milk, and started on chopping the bananas. Amora found the chocolate frog that she had bought from Hogsmeade on Saturday, chucking it into a separate pot and watching it melt.

 She drizzled the chocolate over the porridge and bananas, grabbed his usual breakfast tea, and moved into the dining room, placing it in front of his usual seat. Seconds later, Malfoy’s footsteps creaked down the staircase and she couldn’t help but smile at the perfect timing. She had gotten so used to Malfoy’s routine that she was almost sure she knew exactly what room he was in at all times. 

 “What do you want?” Malfoy groaned as he entered the dining room. 

 Amora raised an eyebrow. “What could you possibly mean by that s—”

  He huffed as he grabbed his chair out and sat down anyway. “Well, I was wondering if I might be able to potentially leave the house today?” She asked, “I was thinking of going to Madam Opal’s. She told me she would help me learn how to do styles with my hair if I ever popped in. And I’m getting really bored hanging around with nothing—”

 “If you were bored, you could find something to clean. Or cook something,” Malfoy replied. 

 Amora screwed her face up. “Do I look like a housewife to you?” Then she immediately pointed her finger at him. “Do not answer that, Malfoy.”

 “There’s chocolate in my breakfast.” He had already found his next thing to complain about. 

 Amora rolled her eyes before springing back to life. “Can we make a deal? If you like it you will let me go to Hogsmeade for a while. If you don’t, I’ll stay here and won’t complain again.”

 She would not make promises of cleaning anything. Not for Malfoy. 

 He shoved a spoon into his bowl. “Deal, Buckley.”

 Malfoy lifted it to his nose and sniffed, and if Malfoy was anything like his teenage self, the way his bottom lip sucked in slightly was in anticipation— he liked the smell. She tried not to smile too early, but she could see the dread on his face, and then watched him take his first bite and blink at her. 

 It was silent until he had two more spoonfuls. 

 “Well?” She pressed, “Do I have to wait until you’ve finished the entire bowl for your verdict?” 

 “It’s… good,” Malfoy admitted defeat. “Why is that good? It’s not right. It’s not healthy. Breakfast should be healthy.” 

 It was like catching a glimpse of a fourteen-year-old Malfoy, one that would rant against Blaise about the oddest of things at the Slytherin dining table. It almost made Amora laugh. 

 “It’s fine to have a treat every now and again,” Amora dismissed him, “Besides, you’ve only got the chocolate frog’s leg. It’s not like it’s the whole thing.” 

 Malfoy shrugged and ate some more. “I have rules if you go out to Hogsmeade alone. Rules I should have given you last time. But now you’ve been all over the press, and people will recognise you better. People might ask you questions.”

 “Don’t worry,” Amora said, “I won’t answer any questions about you. I know  how to handle myself.”

 “I know,” Malfoy agreed, “I know you can handle yourself and say all of the right things, but you only have a training wand. That is what concerns me.”

 It concerns him? 

 “Men can be vicious.”

 “You are a man.”

 Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

 “You always try to separate yourself from other men. Always try to differentiate yourself from other Death Eaters. As if you cannot be vicious and is if you do not lead an army of Death Eaters,” Amora pointed.

 “Do you want to go to Hogsmeade?”

 “It’s a pet peeve.”

 “I apologise,” Malfoy snapped sarcastically, “We Death Eater men can be vicious, Buckley. Your training wand won’t save you—”

 “I am trained in combat, from my time at the Order,” Amora said. 

 “And you remember all of that?”

 “If I have forgotten bits of it then I wouldn’t remember because I have forgotten.”

 Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are being awfully irritating this morning. You know what? I will be glad for some peace.” He had another mouthful of his porridge. “But before you leave I will give you a Portkey stone.”

  “A Portkey stone?”

 “Stole the idea from the Order,” Malfoy said, and memories came flooding back in an instant of using the stones to Apparate to headquarters and hospital wings, or sending captured Death Eaters to the Interrogators. 

 Amora nodded. 

“The stone I give you will send you right back into the foyer. I’m in meetings all day, but it will alert me you’ve used it so don’t use it unless it’s urgent,” Malfoy elaborated, “That being said… you have a role to play as a woman, Buckley. I don’t make you play it whilst you’re at the manor, but…”

 “I know,” Amora gave him a look. “I can’t punch men that look at me wrong or make sexist remarks. I understand.”

 “I can only defend your behaviour to a certain point.” Malfoy climbed from his chair. “Keep a low profile and you’ll never have to answer to Bellatrix or my father.”

 Malfoy disappeared and came back with the stone wrapped in cloth. Amora pocketed it where she could easily access it. She had the clip in the back of her hair again. 

  Malfoy said, “I’m too busy to deal with preventable issues. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 Amora scoffed. “You have a funny way of telling me to keep safe, Malfoy.”

 He rolled his silver eyes and moved towards the front doors.

  “Stay safe, Buckley.” 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The bell rang above Amora’s head as she stepped inside Madam Opal’s dress shop. The familiar smell of perfume and fresh cotton infiltrated her nose. Her stomach turned, tugging at her heart in a way that had her chest panging. She cleared her throat and sure enough, the woman was popping up from behind a clothing rack seconds later, a roll of tape measure around her neck like a scarf, a pair of scissors in one hand, her glasses perched on the end of her straight nose. She pushed them up, her eyes bulging at the sight of Amora.

“Miss Buckley! What can I do for you?” Madam Opal hooked the scissors into one of the many pockets home on her belt. “Oh, I saw you in the papers, darling. You looked absolutely gorgeous. I hope you don’t mind, I’m using some of your photos to advertise the shop.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Amora murmured, rubbing her arm. “Actually, Madam Opal, I was hoping you could redirect me to…” She hesitated. If she had this all wrong, everything was over. “To 34B.”

Madam Opal stilled for a moment. “I knew it was you,” she whispered, moving closer. “They said to expect somebody. When the things about Nott Jr came out, I wasn’t sure if it was you or him, especially considering the way you reacted to me last time. You have an amazing poker face, darling, but I had a gut feeling. I knew you were here to help us.”

She could have cried. Perhaps that feeling in which she had been seeing Madam Opal as a sort of maternal figure had been a deep-rooted feeling of trust. Maybe all along she had known Madam Opal was going to help her. The feeling hadn’t come because Madam Opal was an older, gentle lady, but because she was with the resistance.

Amora’s lips parted in disbelief. “Do you work for…” It felt terrifying to say their name, to put it out into the universe. If either of them were caught talking about this, they would be made an example of by High Commander Malfoy himself.

“I help where I can,” Madam Opal murmured, “Come. Upstairs. Who knows you are here?”

“Malfoy. He knows. I told him I was here for… fashion tips. Hair stuff. That sort of thing.”

“And he believed you?”

“Well, he let me come here,” Amora shrugged, her heart hammering as Madam Opal led her through racks of dresses towards the back of the store. “He didn’t suggest he was suspicious.”

“It’s probably best you do not lie,” Madam Opal agreed, “Tracking spells are not uncommon in this day and age. Besides, if he decides to check you are where you say you are, it will be fairly easy to pretend I have been helping you with other things.”

They moved past the counter and Madam Opal opened a door, leading them up a narrow meandering staircase. Amora touched the walls on her way up, feeling as though she might topple backwards or miss her footing if she failed to concentrate for even a moment. It creaked beneath their weight, all the way up into a small corridor upstairs.

“I don’t think Malfoy’s the type,” Amora told her, “I don’t think he’d ever storm in to try and catch me in a lie.”

Madam Opal raised a thin brow. “Amora, darling, tell me you do not believe that the High Commander thinks you are any different to him than everybody else he has hurt? Please do not be so naive. Have you heard of Stockholm syndrome, darling?”

There was a heat in her chest and her stomach. Her brows furrowed.

Was she offended by Madam Opal’s words?

She was right, after all— Amora should not believe she was any different. Malfoy had explicitly told her she wasn’t. Her cheeks felt warm and she absentmindedly touched them, feeling her eyes burn into the wall.

“Amora?” Madam Opal clicked her fingers in front of her face.

“No, you’re probably right.” Momentarily, Amora did not look away from the wall until she forced herself to snap out of her daze. Her eyes still felt fuzzy. “I shouldn’t be so naive. That’s what made me end up with him back in Hogwarts in the first place.”

“I read about that,” Madam Opal nodded. “Is it true? Or just for the papers?”

“True,” Amora fidgeted. “But we were seventeen back then. Immature. And I had no idea he had taken the Dark Mark. If I had ever found out—”

“Do not dwell on what ifs or if onlys!” Madam Opal instructed and forced open a jammy door, the wood scraping swollen floorboards beneath it.

Amora realised then that the upstairs of the dress shop was nowhere near as luxurious. There were boxes everywhere and old mannequins, and the door which was open down the corridor revealed what appeared to be a sewing room. It was a lot more organised than the corridor they stood talking in.

The door Madam Opal invited Amora into looked like it used to be somebody’s living room. Empty bookcases collected dust in the corner, sofas with sheets over the top crammed into a corner, and at the back of the room, there was a fireplace that looked like it had been recently burnt out.

“Do you know why I was told to come here?” Amora asked her.

“Just stay put,” Madam Pomfrey said, “I will be downstairs in the shop. I’ll send a Patronus in the meantime.”

“Aren’t you staying?” Amora asked her, rubbing her fingers together in an attempt to smooth the rising panic.

Madam Pomfrey stepped out of the room and started to pull the door shut. “I am not permitted to listen. I’ll be downstairs.”

Amora swallowed when the door was yanked roughly against the risen floor. It slammed shut, leaving Amora alone in the silent room. Part of her was terrified that this had been a huge setup. Perhaps Malfoy was testing her loyalty, or maybe Madam Pomfrey was indeed an Oathkeeper.

Something felt right about it, though. She clung to that feeling with both hands, nails digging in, muscles screaming. She had to. It had been months since anybody from the Order had reached out and she was terrified that if this wasn’t real, nothing ever would be, and she would be stuck here. A housewife. A prisoner. Stripped of her magic and sentenced to an eternity pushing out Pureblood babies and keeping a manor clean.

She sat on one of the rickety chairs by the fireplace and tapped her leg. Amora was excited to talk to whoever would call her through the Floo network. It was most likely that either Lupin or Moody would be the one to communicate with her. She hoped it would be Lupin, she had always liked him the most, except over the last couple of months she was wondering how well she knew him considering the lack of information he had given her.

A pop came from behind her. She sniffed, the scent of burning magic filling her nose.

“Ah, fuck sake!”

Amora whirled in her seat, her eyes bulging out of their sockets at the sight of Leon Holloway. He cradled his arm, a wince on his face, his teeth gritted. Amora surged forward, gasping when a wand was stuck directly at her face. She stopped abruptly, gritting her teeth.

“Leon!”

“What did you have every morning for breakfast at Hogwarts?”

“Porridge with a fuck ton of honey,” Amora replied immediately, nearly breathless, and then furrowed her eyebrows at him, “What year did we join the DA?”

“I don’t remember, I was too high for my last few years of Hogwarts,” Leon scoffed at her, and immediately, she jumped into his arms.

Much to her horror, Amora felt tears leak rapidly from her eyes, immediately dampening the button-up shirt that Leon was wearing. He squeezed her closer, both their hearts hammering in their chests. He smelt so familiar, like home, and, in a way, hugging Leon felt like hugging Blaise and Pansy, too. She yanked away from him, holding him at only arms length, and wiped her face quickly, sniffling.

“I didn’t think they would send you,” Amora said, blinking away the last of her high emotions. “I thought it would be Moody or Lupin or someone like that.”

Leon shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t send anybody too important up over here. It’s too high risk. If it goes wrong, they can live without me.”

Amora grimaced, “That’s horrible.”

“One of the reasons they sent you,” Leon replied matter-of-factly, shaking his head.

“How is Pansy? And Blaise?”

“They’re both fine. And thank Merlin you’re okay, Amora. We’ve all been so worried about you. Especially since that rebellion attack a few weeks ago. What the fuck was that?”

“Someone called…” Amora tried to pull the name from her head, but she could only see the girl's face. “I can’t remember her name. I didn’t even know which rebellion group she had been a part of. One second everything was fine and the next she was blowing the place up. Susan Bones was there, and–”

“Kath.”

Amora’s heart sank.

Before the Slytherins, there had been Amora, Leon, and Kathy. There had been warm evenings on the field, drinking lemonade and gossiping, and cold nights tucked in the Hufflepuff dormitory, cosied up by the fire, revising for whatever exam they had the next day.

She always forgot that before Pansy and Kathy, there had been Leon and Kathy. Their whirlwind romance had gone on for just over a year and there was a time they were madly in love with one another. Amora recalled revision sessions in which she was trying not to gag at their kissing and cuddling, and the Yule Ball, where they first got together.

She realised there and then that Leon looked older than when she had left him.

“Fuck.” Amora yanked him into another hug. “If it puts your mind at ease, she was sick. Really sick, and I’m not sure she would have ever recovered. She’s at peace now, Leon. It was so quick that she wouldn’t have known anything about it, either.”

Leon nodded. “I’m… I’m just trying to look on the positive side. You’re okay. At least you seem okay. Are you?”

Amora smiled slightly at his concern. “I’m fine. I’m in a much better position than most girls here, Leon. Malfoy is treating me fine. He doesn’t make me… do housewife things or anything like that.”

“Are most of the girls made to be housewives?” Leon’s brows furrowed.

She wetted her lips and nodded. “It’s backwards here, Leon. Moody and Lupin hardly prepared me for it. Or at least I can’t remember them telling me just how bad it was. I know we knew that they were upholding their… conservative values, but…” Her eyes welled up.

“Amora?”

“They’ve taken our magic!” She wept, and Leon’s eyes widened in alarm. “Women are not able to leave the house without the permission of their patriarch, we can’t have jobs without permission, men can have multiple wives, not to mention these wives are as young as sixteen! Girls are being treated like breeding stock. If we can’t have children, we don’t work properly, and we’re useless, essentially–”

“Calm down, calm down.” Leon held her, glancing around the room. “Have you done the silencing charm?”

“I can’t.” Amora shook her head. “I’ve got a training wand, I have as much magic as a nine-year-old is allowed.”

Leon whipped out his own wand. “Muffliato. There. You can’t be too sure.” He stroked her hair. “Let me talk to Moody. I’ll tell them it’s too dangerous for you here.”

Amora pushed him off of her gently. “No. No, if you do that, all of this was for nothing, and the women and the girls here will continue to suffer, Leon. I can’t leave them to suffer. They don’t have the choice to just leave. And-- and I have no idea what memories they’ve taken,” Amora stressed, “At first I thought it was just locations and plans and things like that, like they had told me, but I’m forgetting the most random things… Events and people and things that happened at Hogwarts that I should probably still remember.”

Leon’s face creased with concern. “I can ask them,” he said, “I don’t have long here, by the way. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you next. Or if it will be me. We might have to switch who comes to see you.”

Amora felt her heart leap. She hoped it would rotate between Leon, Pansy, and Blaise, but she supposed that might be a longshot.

“If you don’t have long, I suppose I should tell you everything I know, which really isn’t a lot.”

She began to tell Leon about everything as concisely as she possibly could. She struggled to keep her tongue from running away on tangents, the urge to badmouth her host nearly bigger than her morals. If Leon was suddenly whisked away, she wanted him to know all about the model village she had seen in Malfoy’s office, which had Pansy on it, though she had no idea about dates or precise locations…

Amora told him all about the press conference and what had actually happened at it, the true events of the Cauldronworks bombing, and how Lucius had lied about it. She let him know Malfoy was onto her, but he wasn’t handing her in, and how there was something in it for him, but she wasn’t sure yet.

“I can’t believe you’ve seen Theo.” Leon said, “Have you seen him since?”

“No, I haven’t,” Amora replied, “I really want to, though. As soon as I do, I’m asking to talk to him in private again. I don’t believe he’s covered for me for no reason at the BMA. There has to be a reason. I think maybe it’s related to Malfoy getting something out of marrying me.” She sounded unsure. “But I have no idea. I just don’t know why they’d both essentially help me out.”

There was a long silence as Leon thought. “Do you reckon the parcel Malfoy was talking about was from Theo?”

Amora furrowed her eyebrows.

Leon continued, “Well, you said Theo only came to Malfoy Manor to pick something up. Moody said to us that Theo had been caught delivering packages to Death Eaters. Maybe it was Malfoy he had always been delivering to. Maybe they’re still passing stuff onto one another.”

Amora’s face jumped. “Yesterday he picked up a parcel from Hogsmeade. He disappeared into his office with it after. Maybe you’re right. Though I have no clue what it could be or why they have to keep it so secret. You’d think they would give parcels to one another whilst at the ministry, right? Not before and after.”

“Are you suggesting that they’re doing something they shouldn’t be?”

Amora stilled. She supposed that was what she was implying.

“I don’t know what,” she murmured and glared out of the window. “Malfoy is essentially the ministry’s professional assassin and he seems pretty fucking proud of it.”

“Maybe Malfoy and Theo are planning on gaining higher power?”

Amora thought hard and felt the edges of her brain split. It might make sense, unless they were being trusted with things even Death Eaters working at the ministry couldn’t know. What reason would they have to try and take over the Dark Lord? Malfoy was in a prime position, his father was the only thing lower than Voldemort himself. She shook her head.

“Pass everything I’ve told you onto Moody and Lupin. See what they say. They might have the missing puzzle pieces. Sometimes I’m worried if I think about these things too much that my head will explode,” Amora said and gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’ve been reading a lot,” she added when she saw the frown on his face. “Malfoy gives me access to his library. I think I’m sorted for the next few years. Hopefully, this shit doesn’t last longer than that.”

Leon forced a smile, bitterness shining through its cracks. He tilted his head at her, pursing his lips.

“I’ll get you out of here if it goes on too long,” Leon swore.

His large hand wrapped around hers and squeezed. Amora felt her eyes welling with hot tears. She shook her head and sniffed, turning her face away from him.

“It’s okay if you want to cry,” he whispered.

“I can’t cry,” Amora said, “I have to pretend I’m okay with everything that goes on here.”

Leon gave her a look that she detested. His mouth screwed in the corner, his dark eyes soft. She shoved his arm and rolled her eyes, scoffing.

“Don’t,” she warned him, “Honestly, Leon. I signed up for this.”

Leon only huffed through his nose. “Well, let me know when you get down to your last five books. I’ll come and get you.”

Her heart thudded at the realisation that he had to leave. Reality kicked in and the idea of not seeing Leon for perhaps another few months made her want to cling to him and beg him to stay in this world with her.

“Can you tell Pansy and Blaise how much I miss them?” Amora asked, “And tell Pans that I’m okay. I mean, I am, but don’t tell her about the shit going on. I don’t want her to worry. Don’t tell her how Kathy had been before.”

Leon gave her a nod. “You have my word. Keep yourself safe, Amora.”

Amora hugged him one last time and savoured every moment of it. She inhaled his familiar scent, bathed in the heat of his body, and melted under the kind touch of another human being. Before he had even pulled away she missed him.

“I love you, Leon,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“I love you too, Mora.”

D.M + A.B

Seeing a woman being tugged by the arm down the square was a further reminder of the amount of freedom Malfoy was giving her. Nobody batted an eye when he had yelled, craning his neck down at her level, face even redder than hers when she quickly became a blubbering mess right outside what used to be Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, now a simple men’s robes shop.

Every atom that made up her being screamed for justice; she wanted to whip out her training wand and have a miracle happen, to save the girl didn’t even attempt to ask those passing by for help. The passive expressions of the bystanders gave her a sinking feeling, some men even watched and did not bother to be discreet about it. Amora flinched when she heard the sound of a palm smacking skin from behind her.

Her entire body froze and she forced herself to Floo away.

Malfoy Manor welcomed her with all of its oak and dark hues. The foyer smelt like the pages of an old book and it took her a second to realise that rumbled male voices were coming from deep within the house. Amora stayed as still as possible, her ears straining to catch any particularly loud words.

She placed the bag that Madam Opal had given her as a cover-up on the table and shrugged off the robes she had been wearing over her dress. Amora crept up the stairs, attempting to be as silent as possible, and the voices grew even louder.

“You’re being irrational!”

“Am I?” Malfoy scoffed, “You’re the one that has barged into my house and proceeded to tell me how to live my life. If all you have come here to do is dictate me, then you should see yourself out.”

“Draco,” The voice was so familiar; Amora thought it might be his father. “If you see my advice as dictating then I really do not know what to say to you anymore. It’s the proper thing to do, you know that. Your mother would have organised it, however, I am sure I can arrange for her event handlers to put something together—”

It was Minister Malfoy. Amora’s hands felt slightly clammy realising he was only down the corridor; the public execution he so proudly presented a few days ago only proved how unpredictable he was. Lucius Malfoy was the definition of all bark and no bite once upon a time. Perhaps he still was, only this time he had his son do all his dirty work.

“I am not having an engagement party, Father,” Malfoy hissed, “There is no point!”

Engagement party? The line between Amora’s eyebrows formed a zigzag and she dared to inch slightly closer, hovering by her bedroom door as a safety net.

“No point?” Minister Malfoy laughed, “You’d be the first Malfoy in centuries to not show off with an engagement party. It’s a symbol of wealth! It’s tradition, it’s– it’s—”

“Completely unnecessary,” Malfoy remarked with a scoff. “In case you haven’t noticed, Father, there is a war going on. Silly engagement ceremonies are the least of peoples’ problems. Much less mine. If you can’t tell from the state of my office, I’m completely up to here with issues over stretching my men thin.”

Amora took a mental note of that. If they had problems stretching their army too wide, then the Order could use that to their advantage. Plan several attacks on the same day, dozens of threats… An issue might be that Order members were becoming sparse, though they weren’t fighting half as much as the Death Eaters.

“Our army is far bigger than the Order’s—”

“It isn’t just the fucking Order, Father!” Malfoy barked a mocking laugh. “It’s every fucking rebellion group working against us. When you stack them all together, there is more of them than us. The Dark Lord has me sending more and more men on the lookout for Potter every month and coming up with nothing. And who is it who suffers when Potter isn’t found? The tosser hasn’t been sighted in years. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s died in a ditch somewhere from a good old-fashioned Muggle disease.”

“Well, if you ask me, an engagement party amidst a war is the perfect portrayal of aristocracy!” Minister Malfoy disagreed, “It’s the chance to show everybody how untouchable the Malfoys are—”

“There’s no point—”

“- How traditional we are during a war attempting to uphold tradition—”

“We’re getting married too soon for an entire engagement party,” Malfoy blurted.

Amora nearly choked. This was news to her. Her entire body tingled at the thought, fizzing in her chest and stomach. Memories seemed to come back of her sixteen-year-old self fantasising about becoming Amora Malfoy, fawning over the idea of some grand ceremony on a beach, Pansy as her maid of honour, their friends sat front row in the audience. The amount of times she had mentally rewritten her vows for him.

“Your wedding is soon?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said confidently, “Why wait?”

Amora tried to guess what their faces looked like. If the Minister’s was anything like hers, then it might be a mixture of both horror and confusion. Minister Malfoy was silent for a few moments.

“Well, I suppose that is even better than an engagement party. Though I think people may be shocked. You have only been courting—”

“We courted at Hogwarts,” Malfoy cut him off, “We know each other. I don’t understand waiting.”

Minister Malfoy hummed, “Well—”

“We’re having a small wedding.”

“A Malfoy or a Black having a small wedding?” Minister Malfoy laughed, “Do you know what your mother would say?”

“Mother is probably tossing in her grave over other choices we make, Father, not whether or not I choose to invite fifteen instead of a hundred pe–”

The floorboard beneath her creaked. Amora winced and didn’t move an inch until she heard boots in the office. Then, she straightened up and reached for her bedroom door handle. Malfoy stood in the doorway, his silver eyes burning into her briefly.

“Amora.”

Her stomach flipped between the nerves of being caught and her first name escaping his lips. Somehow it sounded so wrong but right at the same time, like hearing a song you hadn’t heard in years, and it’s not quite as good as you remembered it to be.

“I’m sorry,” Amora cleared her throat. “I’m back from Hogsmeade. I’ll be in my room.”

She twisted the handle as Minister Malfoy left the office. He loomed beside Malfoy, his lips twisting into his hollow cheeks, eyes more sinister than pleased. She pursed her lips and forced herself to give him a small nod.

“Minister Malfoy,” she acknowledged.

“Miss Buckley,” he said, “Feel free to call me Lucius. You are marrying my son, after all.”

Amora forced an even tighter smile. “Lucius, then. It’s nice to see you.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” Lucius moved forward, but Malfoy stepped in front of him.

“Father, we were discussing—”

“I just wanted to see the ring, son,” Lucius said, “If it’s anything like the one I gave your mother then I can only imagine how grand it is.”

Lucius’ hand gently grasped Amora’s left arm and lifted it, and she let him. All their eyes fell on her bare hand, void of any piece of jewellery, let alone an engagement piece. She swallowed, brown eyes flickering up to Malfoy. He sucked his cheeks in and silver rolled, his hand touching his forehead and scooping his fallen hair back off from his face.

“Father, I haven’t gotten around to that yet,” Malfoy said, “Just as I told Rita Skeeter. I am occupied with the war. Marriage comes second.”

Lucius huffed and released Amora’s arm. She cradled it to her chest subconsciously, as if she had scalded it on the kettle. He blinked at his son. Amora felt as if she had stepped into something she shouldn’t be witnessing. Even as a teenager, she had never seen Malfoy deal with his father personally. He talked about him a lot, especially about how much he detested him towards the end of their relationship, and even now she couldn’t tell what sort of relationship the two had.

“No ring, separate rooms,” Lucius tutted, “Let’s hope your Aunt Bellatrix doesn’t decide to play a visit. It could raise… red flags.”

Amora swallowed anxiously, her eyes darting back to Malfoy. He briefly sent her a look.

“I’m the High Commander,” Malfoy huffed, “Aunt Bellatrix needn’t come checking up on me.”

“If the Dark Lord deems it necessary, she will. Bellatrix could check up on me if he demanded it,” Lucius’ tone was grave and only worsened Amora’s anxiety. “I am not entirely sure how true your relationship is. If I am concerned, others will be, too.”

“I’m marrying Amora, Father.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “It doesn’t get much more real than that.”

“Do you love my son?”

Amora nearly flinched at the question. Her eyes moved between the father and son. Malfoy looked at her with a sort of urgency, obviously expectant that she would lie sufficiently enough to get rid of Lucius.

“More than life itself,” Amora murmured and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in a calming motion.

Malfoy pursed his lips.

“As lovely as one might be, we don’t need a ring to signify the promise between us,” Amora continued hesitantly, “I just love him. And I trust him.”

She tried to spew more words. She thought of all of the words she would have said when they were younger. There were thousands. She loved everything about him. Her lips wouldn’t move. She looked at the man in front of her, the older version of the boy she had once thought the world of. She did not recognise this Draco Malfoy.

Her lips wouldn’t move. Especially with him staring at her like that.

“Very well,” Lucius cleared his throat. “Well, I’d like to formally congratulate the two of you. Draco, if you need help with arranging your wedding, get in touch with me. I’ll contact your mother’s event planners.”

“Yes, Father. Let me show you to the door.”

“No need,” Lucius declined, “I’ll Floo from your office.”

Malfoy disappeared for a few moments with his father, back into Malfoy’s office. Amora stayed in the corridor for a moment or two until she heard the whooshing sound of magic and saw the room light up an emerald green. Malfoy stepped into the hallway and stared at her passively. She wished she could know what he was thinking sometimes.

“How was your day with Madam Opal?”

Amora deflected, “We’re getting married soon, hm?”

Malfoy shrugged. “You want your wand back, don’t you? You’re welcome.”

Amora stilled. “If you’re telling me you’re marrying me so I can have my wand sooner, then I don’t believe that. I still have no idea what’s in it for you.”

“And that part is none of your business, Buckley,” Malfoy replied, “I’ll get you a ring,” he said as if she had asked him for clothes or food. “And I’ll organise some sort of ceremony for in a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” She spluttered.

“A couple of weeks,” he confirmed.

“Well then I suppose I’ll need to get into contact with Madam Opal about a dress,” Amora replied, “You could have let me know sooner. Would have saved me another trip.”

“Oh, I do apologise for the inconvenience,” Malfoy said.

“Apology accepted,” Amora said and watched his eye twitch ever so slightly in a way that reminded her so much of his younger self.

“You irritate me to no end, Buckley.”

She only laughed as she disappeared into her bedroom.

The sound had Malfoy standing in the corridor for a little longer than he should have. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was only evident that Malfoy was going out of his way to avoid Amora three days later.

She hadn’t minded their lack of speech; it gave her plenty of time to think about the conversation he’d been having with his father in his office. For some reason, the wedding talk brought back so many feelings and memories for Amora.

Most likely because she never thought her wedding would be like this. She’d always pictured a quaint ceremony, beautiful flowers, loved ones in the crowd, a beautiful dress, and maybe Blaise had learned how to officiate weddings. Pansy would be waiting for the party to start after, and get furious if Leon teased her for tearing up. Theo would give the sort of best man’s speech that people would gush over years later.

Draco was going to be the one she married. Not Malfoy, but Draco, because they were separate in her head somehow. They would place gold bands on each other's ring fingers and unite with a kiss that Blaise couldn’t help making some sort of witty remark about.

She had never been one to dwell on weddings as a child. Not until she fell in love with Draco.

The irony was that she would be marrying a version of him. Sixteen-year-old Amora would be ecstatic to hear of their engagement. She would be sick to her stomach by the reality of it all.

Over the last three days, food would be on the table with a heating charm when she wandered downstairs, other times she’d save him some, but other than shortly passing each other by once or twice, Amora did not see Malfoy. She had assumed he was busy with work considering how stressed he’d sounded talking to his father, until on the third night, he stumbled into the house reeking of firewhisky, silver eyes embroidered red, and nearly stumbled into a bookshelf.

Amora gasped, glancing up from her book as he loomed in the library doorway. She pulled her legs up from where they’d been stretched out on the leather sofa, immediately placing her book down.

“Malfoy?”

He snorted at that, and his whole face lit up into a grin that could only be described as mocking, his silver eyes rolling and an abrupt bark of laughter following.

“Malfoy!” He repeated, then he pointed at her. “Buckley.”

Amora’s face screwed up. “You’re drunk.”

He stumbled over, nearly staggering face-first into the oak floorboards.

“You’re plastered,” she corrected herself and began climbing off the sofa.

Her first instinct was to help him sit down and tell him he needed water and food to soak the alcohol up, but her itching hands remained tight by her sides. Malfoy did not deserve her help.

Malfoy lingered on the arm of the sofa her feet had been by, running a hand through his messy hair and sighing. It looked like he had done it so much that most of the gel had come out of it. He looked more youthful this way. Somehow, it made it harder to look at him.

“So?” Malfoy sniffed, “Are you jealous of all of the freedom I have? That I can go out and get as drunk as I wish?”

Amora’s face scrunched up. “If you’ve come in here to brag, Malfoy, then leave me alone. I’m not in the mood. I’ve been having a peaceful evening.”

Malfoy huffed when Amora forced her attention back to her book, though she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts. Why would Malfoy go out and get so drunk that his words were slurred and he could hardly walk? Something bad must have happened.

“Aren't you ever bored of reading?” Malfoy pressed.

Amora glared. “We can’t all have all that freedom you have, remember?” She spat, “We can’t all go out on a random weeknight and get drunk.”

“I was helping Theo,” Malfoy huffed.

Amora shot him a look of disbelief. “Right. So you and Theo got plastered together. What’s the difference?”

“His Father died,” Malfoy said.

There was a moment of silence.

Amora’s features creased. “Theo’s dad died?”

“That’s what I said,” Malfoy said, “Nott Sr was caught in the crossfire. Taken hostage by a rebellion group. Probably the fucking Order.”

Amora felt her heart pang for a moment. Not for Nott Sr, who was a terrible person, or for the Theo she knew now, but for the Theo she had known only months ago. The one had become one of her best friends in the entire world.

He didn’t exactly love his father, nor did he get love from him, but Amora knew the feeling of not knowing how to mourn all too well. It was a hollow feeling. It almost felt like you were mourning the fact that you couldn’t make yourself fully mourn. Almost jealous of the people who could wholeheartedly break at the loss of their father.

Perhaps Malfoy hadn’t been ignoring her. Maybe he had been comforting Theo this whole time.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, “tell him I’m sorry for his loss.”

“We all know you wouldn’t mean it,” Malfoy laughed and then he chucked himself onto the sofa next to her. “He was a fucking awful excuse of a man anyway. Always treated Theo like shit.”

Amora swallowed and stayed silent.

“Good riddance to him!”

Amora frowned. “Right.”

“Let me show you something.”

She furrowed her brows and slowly turned to look at him. Malfoy was already lifting his body from the sofa and extending his hand to her.

“Thanks,” she muttered and lifted herself, ignoring the outstretched hand.

“So offensive, Buckley!” Malfoy laughed, and despite his sarcasm-drenched tone, Amora could see the joy in the crinkles of his eyes— she could feel how amused he was in the air. “So offensive! Most ladies would die for me to offer them my hand, don’t you know? At least that’s what Skeeter says. And yet, here I am offering it to a woman who won’t even take it. Ironic.”

Amora rolled her eyes. “Dramatic as ever, Malfoy.”

“I take after my father,” he drawled bitterly.

She decided to keep her mouth shut rather than rub salt in the wound. After all, she was nearly certain Malfoy was about to show her something that he otherwise wouldn’t whilst sober.

“Where are we going?” Amora asked, eyeing him warily as they headed down the staircase.

He nearly toppled forward, his hands grazing the bannister and the wall to catch his footing. For a moment, it looked like he was going to go down head first and she saw a flash of a girl she had found crumpled at the bottom of a staircase once. Her neck was at an odd angle, black eyes wide open, her wand discarded a few feet away, the Death Eaters’ mark hovered above the building. They had been too late. Amora felt her heart nearly come out of her throat.

“Dra—” Amora’s gasp was shrill, nearly falling herself as she dove to grab him, her hands tightening on the back of his shirt, though he had since straightened up. “Malfoy!”

Malfoy turned and glanced at her, a strange look in his eyes. He blinked as she pulled her hands away.

Amora’s face was still screwed up. “You fucking scared me!” She shoved his shoulder. “Just get down the stairs. One at a time!”

Malfoy scoffed, his nose scrunching. “Scared, Buckley? What were you scared of? That I’d trip down a few stairs?”

Amora glared at him furiously. “Don’t even. It’s a natural reaction when somebody nearly hurts themself.”

When they made it into the foyer, Malfoy paused. “So I’m not special, then?”

“You might be if you weren’t such a fucking idiot.”

She immediately regretted saying it. It was too close to home; it meant more than what was going on around them right now.

“Oh!” Malfoy’s laugh was condescending and mocking and reminded her of the way he would tease Harry Potter or another student at school. “Oh, what’s got your knickers in a twist, Buckley? Why are you so angry all of a sudden?”

Why was she so angry?

Because he had scared her, she supposed. And she knew it had been over nothing. If he’d taken the shortfall down the stairs, he would have been fine of course, but she completely lost her calm demeanour as soon as he nearly hurt himself, and that pissed her off to no end.

The way he laughed at her over it did not help the situation. She wanted to invite him back up the stairs so she could shove him down them again– just to prove she didn’t care.

But she did. Some tiny part of her that had been reminiscing cared about a tiny part of him still buried somewhere beneath his machine-like demeanour.

“You!” Amora seethed, “You have me angry because you’re being so rude.”

“I’m being rude—”

“Yes!” Amora huffed, “You are. You’ve interrupted my reading so you could brag about being able to live a somewhat fucking normal life and now you’re just being irritating. I can’t deal with you right now.”

Malfoy stared at her for a few moments. “You look like her.”

The brunette felt her frown lines melt, her lashes fanning her vision as she blinked at him. Her mouth parted so she could breathe.

“What?”

“You look like my Amora.”

Amora’s breath hitched. “Excuse… Excuse me?”

“I see glimpses of her,” Malfoy said and then swallowed like there was a lump in his throat, his eyes studying her face, memorising her features. “I see her when you read. The crease between your eyebrows. I saw her when you laughed the other day.”

The floor looked closer than ever, her legs weightless beneath her as she pursed her lips. She adjusted her weight, the wood creaking, blaring in her ears, nearly as loud as the blood rushing through her.

“Don’t,” she warned him quietly. “You don’t get to say things like that. You are the last person that gets to say shit like that.”

His jaw clenched, his teeth gritted. “I’m not allowed to say how I feel? Isn’t that what you were always trying to make me do at Hogwarts?”

All of the air left her lungs. The audacity of his words was sending hot waves through her, her nails digging into her palms so roughly they stung.

“I don’t care how you feel,” Amora stabbed, “I don’t care if it makes you cry yourself to sleep at night. News flash, Malfoy— you did this. I didn’t. You chose to become a Death Eater.”

Malfoy’s face curled with rage. “You followed close behind.” He waved his hand pointedly towards her. “Didn’t you?”

Amora could have stammered a weak response. Instead, she kept her mouth shut and tried to process all of the jumbled thoughts whirling around and around her brain, like water down a plughole. She took a deep breath and exhaled.

“My viewpoint on politics has changed, but my view on war hasn’t. Neither side is guiltless. Unnecessary blood has been shed. I disagree with that. I disagree with the public execution of my classmates, or their parents, of my fucking Mum,” Amora choked towards the end and, much to her horror, felt her eyes become hot and watery. “I may follow the Dark Lord now, but I do not follow him blindly.”

Malfoy stared at her for a few moments. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his jaw shifted. His hair had fallen in front of his face slightly again, but he didn’t move it this time. His silver eyes were burning into her as if reading her soul, and she wanted to cover herself up and hide.

“Your mother…” Malfoy began and then seemed to hesitate, a half-wince written across his expression. “I was there.”

Amora took a deep breath. “I figured you might be.”

Tears were falling. She didn’t lift her hands to wipe them away. It would draw more attention to them. In a way, it felt like if she didn’t acknowledge them, Malfoy might not notice the fat drops of water running down her pale skin.

“She begged them not to hurt you,” Malfoy grimaced.

The look on his face was almost like he was reliving it. His skin was nearly translucent.

Amora choked. “Stop it. Don’t. I don’t want to hear this. That was five fucking years ago. I don’t need to know anymore.”

“You don’t want to know?”

“I used to,” Amora snarled and finally wiped her wet skin to feel more in control. It didn’t work, they were already welling up again. “I used to wake up every single night imagining how it had felt for her. I wanted to know how they found her from the safehouse– if she had put up a fight. I would have died to know her last thoughts or her words, or if she had been thinking of me.”

“What changed?” Malfoy frowned, “Why don’t–”

“I found peace in it,” Amora hissed at him. “At least she doesn’t have to live through this shit show.”

Malfoy went silent after that. His eyes were still bleary, and he sucked his cheeks in so that they were hollowed out. He glanced up at the ceiling and then dropped backwards into the armchair, huffing, rubbing his hand across his face.

“You should go to bed.”

Amora laughed, glaring at him incredulously. “Are you joking? You force me to come down here, talk about my mother, and now you’re sending me to bed?”

Malfoy didn’t so much as take the hand away from his face to look at her. He groaned at her protest.

“Just go, Buckley,” he spat more forcefully.

“You can’t make me—”

“I can make you do anything I please!” Malfoy boomed suddenly, and he was out of his chair, in her face, his sharp features so pointed and red. “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do! If I say go to bed, you go to fucking bed, Buckley!”

Amora blinked, her eyes suddenly dry. She pursed her lips as he stumbled backwards, sinking into his seat, shifting his jaw.

“Go,” he muttered weakly.

“Fuck. You,” she spat and took off in the direction of the stairs.

Amora didn’t care if he heard her heave sobs like a child, her heart aching, her chest so tight that she felt like she needed to rip all of her clothes off and stand under cold water just to reset. She couldn’t breathe, she wanted to strangle him, make him feel this tightness. This sort of agony. She wanted him to be in her shoes. No control. No life.

Amora stormed into the library and slammed the door as hard as she possibly could. She went to go for her training wand, her heart pausing when she realised, next to it, on the sofa, was Malfoy’s wand.

D.M + A.B

An hour.

Two hours.

Malfoy had not come back for his wand.

Amora swallowed as she stared down at the wand in her hands. Using a wizard or witch’s wand without their permission was wrong on every level. She wondered what sort of punishment witches received for using a wizard’s wand in the Dark Lord’s Britain. Were they let off with a warning? Did it depend on their blood status? Did they have even more privileges stripped from them?

She remembered the girl from the Ministry who’d had her mouth stitched for talking negatively about the Dark Lord. Her speech had been taken away for merely saying the wrong words. She had a feeling using somebody else’s magic may have a similar level or worse consequences.

However, everything over the last few months had been a risk. Moody and Lupin sent her here knowing that being caught would cost her life, and not being caught would cost her livelihood. There were worse things she had done— bigger things she could be punished for.

It felt nearly familiar in her hands. The dark, smooth hawthorn wood in her hands was as heavy as it had been any other time she’d handled it whilst they were together. She could see it in his hand during classes, she saw him—

His Patronus.

She wasn’t sure why it hit her like a ton of bricks remembering his dragon swirling around over their heads. Sprawled on the sofa of the empty Hufflepuff common room, proud Slytherin Draco Malfoy has her matching Patronus, and she taught him how to cast it. Their dragons seemed happy to fly around each other, and his grin had been contagious.

He’d dampened the mood by telling her that Voldemort would be staying in his house over the summer. That had been a Valentine’s Day if she remembered correctly.

Amora swallowed and gripped the handle of the wand. She hadn’t heard him come back upstairs, but it was best to check. She wasn’t entirely sure how Malfoy would react if he found out she had used his wand.

The brunette reminded herself that the wand may not even work for her. He had not given it to her, nor had she won it, so it may not be compatible with her magic. She hoped with everything she had that it would be.

The staircase creaked under her weight. She froze.

Waited.

Silence.

She kept going. Down and down the stairs, Amora made it to the foyer where she had last left Malfoy and furrowed her brows when she realised he had fallen asleep in the armchair. The side table had become home to an empty glass and a half-empty bottle of firewhisky which was so close to the edge she couldn’t help but tuck it closer onto the table, holding her breath all the while. If he somehow knocked it then he’d wake up and might catch her.

Amora went to turn away and head up the stairs, but Malfoy made a sort of huffing noise, his face pulling into a deeper frown than it already had been in, his hand twitching where it hung over the side of the sofa arm.

It made her pause for a moment and look at him. His wand tucked up her sleeve, and she felt nearly sorry for the asleep version of Malfoy who looked younger. Even in his sleep he looked stressed about something, though. She wondered if he was dreaming, and if he was, what sort of dreams he had. Did he have nightmares of all of the horrors of war like everybody else? Or was he immune to such things, being the one to instigate a lot of it, after all?

It occurred to her that she had a wand in her hand, and the High Commander was passed out wasted, defenceless, in front of her. All she would have to do was lift the wand and utter those two magic words, and he would never be able to command the army again.

They’d replace him by the next morning. Perhaps with somebody worse.

Besides, even if Amora said, “Avada Kedavra” with every ounce of anger she had towards him behind it, she wasn’t sure anything would happen. You have to truly mean it to cast such a dark spell and as much as he swore she hated him, there was something. Maybe it was her younger self still defending his younger self, just like she always did before.

She cast one last look at his face. Pale. Sharp. Handsome. Irritating. Then she turned and went back up the stairs, as quietly as a mouse.

Two doors in particular came to mind. Malfoy’s office and that door up in the library. Sometimes, when a book was going through a particularly boring patch, Amora would find herself staring at the door, wondering what on earth was behind it. More books? Things to do with his mother, perhaps? Dark objects? Another office?

She decided to go to the office first. It most likely had more important things in there, considering the amount of time Malfoy spent locked away behind that door. She moved along the landing and paused outside of it, exhaling shakily.

His wand slid out of her sleeve and into her hand easily. She grasped it like it was her own and hoped for the best.

“Alohamora.”

The lock audibly shifted. She felt her magic. Her heart thumped so hard it was concerning, but it felt like the least of her worries— she had unlocked his office. And she had his wand— she wouldn’t trip the wards. It would think she was him. Perfect.

Pulling the handle down felt like it took years, the door slowly creaking open and revealing a dark room.

“Lumos,” she whispered.

Dim lighting filled the room, candles and lamps illuminating the room a glowing orange colour. She chewed her bottom lip, brown eyes glancing around, taking everything in as quickly as her brain could process it. Bookshelves, model villages, maps on the walls, cabinets, and a grand desk with a large leather chair behind it. It was a mess, sprawled pages and objects everywhere, ink stains beneath the large ink pot in the corner.

The rest of the room was tidy. It smelled like the library, maybe smokier somehow. On one of the cabinets was a package, all in brown parcel paper, but Amora’s eyes darted to a picture frame.

It was Malfoy and his mother. Narcissa Malfoy. Amora had never met her, but there was this sort of familiarity to her. Perhaps because Malfoy certainly did get some of his features from her. She was pale and sharp, but with dark brown eyes and her hair was black, with a white underneath that she beautifully pinned back. She was striking.

Malfoy was young in the photo. Maybe around eleven years old— it looked like it was probably taken right before he went off to Hogwarts. They were in a garden of sorts, rose bushes behind them. Malfoy was smiling but rolling his eyes, and the photo looped to show Narcissa laughing and shaking her head at him.

She fought the urge to reach out and look at it closer. Everything needed to be in the exact place she found it.

Something else on top of the cabinet caught her eye. The handwriting on the parcel looked so familiar that she grabbed it and inspected it closer.

Leon’s words stuck with her and his theory about Theo and Malfoy working together on something or Malfoy gathering packages that Theo had been delivering whilst he was in the Order.

It must be Theo’s handwriting. That must be why it looked so familiar. All of those times she had borrowed his books— the way he had annotated the pages in a way she had always been envious of because if Amora annotated like him, she would never have finished a book. His rushed cursive.

D Malfoy.

— Important

What was so important that Theo couldn’t send the parcel through an owl as everybody else did? She pursed her lips and peeled back the top of the package. It was slightly opened. Malfoy had cut it with a knife. She slipped it out, holding a book in her hands.

Eunice Murray: Montrose Magpies’ Greatest Seeker

Her mouth fell open. For a moment, she couldn’t believe it— this was what they had been sharing. Amora flicked through the pages and sure enough it was the autobiography of the late Montrose Magpie Seeker.

There was a note taped to the back.

A signed copy to add to your collection.

Theo.

Amora felt a sense of satisfaction that her sleuthing was correct— the parcel was from Theo— but her eyebrows tugged together and she was more than irritated. She went to the front page and looked for the signature. Maybe that was significant.

Some games are won with strategy, others with endurance; always keep your eyes on the Snitch.

E.M

The Snitch? Was she the Snitch? Was Theo telling Malfoy to keep an eye on her? Did they suspect somebody else wasn’t faithful to the Dark Lord? Amora racked her brain and flipped through the first few pages, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Theo said that Malfoy had a collection of these, though. Amora glanced at his bookshelf. She put the book back in its packaging as carefully as she could and moved over. More autobiographies. Bathilda Bagshot, Celestina Warbeck… All people Amora thought Malfoy couldn’t care less about. Some Quidditch players, some musicians, writers, poets…

She yanked out one of them– Sheides Black. A master at potions. Again, taped to the back was a note from Theo.

Thought this was an interesting read. Everything’s well here.

His inked writing was fading slightly. It must be old. She flipped to the front page and, sure enough, it had been signed.

Cunning over strength, knowledge over blind loyalty.

S.B

She studied it and grabbed another book. It was also signed, although Amora now believed Theo was writing fake autographs. Jasper Dodge’s autobiography had similar scribbled writing.

The difference between power and ruin is knowing when to stop. Some don’t know when to stop.

J.D

Amora double-checked the front cover of Dodge’s book. He had been an Astrologer— that hardly warranted such a grave warning.

If the signatures weren’t signatures, maybe the autobiographies weren’t autobiographies. Amora had a strong feeling these books had been simply charmed.

What were they really?

She tapped the book three times, five times, ten times with the wand, but Theo and Malfoy must have a spell they both understood to see the real objects Theo had been sending over. She groaned in frustration and put it back, but made a mental note of all of the autographs she had read.

Amora moved over to the desk. She was deathly aware of Malfoy sleeping downstairs, and how he could wake at any moment and catch her snooping through his things, or realise that he was missing his wand. She grabbed the letter that he had been writing, but not yet finished, his quill still placed next to it.

As I previously stated, I do not have any house elves to declare. If you would like to send the Overseer of Compliance to check for house elves, I welcome her over to my house. In the meantime, I ask you to stop sending me these letters.

I let go of my three house elves on the 17th of April 2002. Please contact the Ministry for further information on this. They will have the reference information– I do not keep such things lying around my home.

The date rang a bell.

It was the day of the Cauldronworks’ bombing. Malfoy had happened to give away his house elves on the very same day. Amora knew it meant something— it had to. He had always had house elves growing up, and she’d found it strange when he’d told her he didn’t have them anymore.

Her head was filled with so many questions that her skull ached trying to keep her brain inside. Amora placed the note back down and put the quill back on top of it. Her eyes darted across the mess of pages over the rest of his desk—

“Fuck sake!”

Amora jumped out of her skin. She nearly toppled backwards but grabbed his chair at the last second, steadying herself. Her head snapped in the direction of the door, a sickness taking over her body, her feet frozen to the floor for a moment or two. Footsteps were echoing downstairs.

Amora darted out of the room and silently shut the door behind her.

“Colloportus.” The door locked itself.

“Buckley!”

Amora swiftly snuck into her room and edged into the doorway. She mocked blinking sleep away, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Malfoy?”

He came up the stairs, still woozy on his feet. His hair was a mess, the top buttons of his shirt undone and untucked from his trousers.

“Buckley— my wand. Have you seen my wand?”

Amora shook her head. “No. Why would I have seen your wand?”

He grumbled something under his breath as he continued down the corridor and she dared to lean forward, slipping it in the back pocket of his trousers.

“Are you serious, Malfoy?” Amora snapped, “It’s in your back pocket!”

Malfoy whirled back around, his hands feeling behind him, grasping the wand and pulling it out. He looked confused for a moment, huffing, glaring, and rolling his eyes.

“Whatever, Buckley.”

Amora watched him stumble into a room a few doors down. His bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him, so Amora closed hers and thanked Merlin he was still too drunk to notice she was in her day clothes.

She moved to her bookshelf and found a random book and a quill from one of the drawers at her desk.

Fake autographs.

Always watch the Snitch. Learn when to stop taking power. Some don’t know when to stop. Knowledge over blind loyalty

House elves. April 17.

She would not forget— even if she had no idea what it all meant. She shoved the book back into its spot. Two could play at his game, she supposed.

..

this chapter was fun to write! i hope you enjoyed reading it!! <33

i am so so so happy to start mission get draco and amora to admit they care about each other--- its baby steps but its still happening!!

also if you follow my instagram @alishaiswriting , i'm posting sneak peaks of chapters on my ig story and i might do some polls and stuff to see what you guys are liking from this and what you want to see more of in the future! that sort of thing :) 

thanks so much for reading <33

dyiansobrien 

w/c: 4.8k 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The girl with the blonde hair was familiar.

Amora stared at her, too intensely to come across as casual. Her hair had been pulled back into a bun so tight that you could see the grooves of the woman's skull and the diamond earrings that dangled and flashed from her ears. She wore minimal makeup but was beautiful and must have been about the same age as Amora.

Amora cleared her throat. "Malfoy's not here. He left early this morning."

She subconsciously touched her cheekbones whilst she admired the girl's structure. Whose were sharper?

She dropped her hand and mentally scolded herself for such a stupid thought. What was worse was what it represented. Frustration that Malfoy most likely had some sort of relationship with this beautiful girl. Amora had trust issues and intimacy problems— Malfoy must have gotten by just fine.

"Firstly, he is here, he opened the Floo for me, and second, I don't care because I'm not here for Malfoy," the girl scoffed, "I'm here for you. It seems our patriarchs agreed it would be beneficial for me to accompany you to your dress appointment at Madam Opal's today."

Amora's eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry? What appointment?"

"For your wedding dress," the girl huffed pointedly. "Merlin, Buckley, you didn't get brighter with age, did you?"

"Do I..." Amora hesitated. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The girl laughed, a shrill cackle of a sound, and then shot Amora a look of insensitive disbelief when she realised the shorter brunette was not even cracking a smile in return.

"I'm Daphne!" The girl snapped, "My last name was Greengrass. From school."

Daphne looked thoroughly irritated now— her stiff bun moving with her forehead as her eyebrows slanted over her eyes. Amora thought long and hard but couldn't recall a Daphne Greengrass.

"I'm assuming we didn't talk?"

Daphne snorted. "Did the Order take away all your memories?"

"So we did talk."

Fuck. How could she forget entire people now? Faces and names, maybe— but she had no recollection of this girl. She felt like she was desperately clinging to the pieces of her memory she had left these days.

"Hardly. Never anything too riveting, Buckley, don't you worry about that," Daphne replied and glanced at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, opening her mouth and wiping her pearly teeth with her finger. "Don't fret. I don't want to be here as much as you most likely don't want me here. We don't have to talk."

Amora shrugged her shoulders as she reached to grab her clip from her dresser table. She wrapped up her hair quickly and stabbed it in, feeling the sharp dig at the back of her skull that reassured her she was safe.

"I wouldn't mind talking," Amora admitted. "Don't you get bored of talking to men all day long?"

"I have a sister," Daphne replied and began to head down the stairs. "Astoria— remember her? Our husbands are friends, so we see each other most days."

Amora thought for a moment. "She was a couple of years below me at school."

"Below us," Daphne corrected her sharply, "I was in the same year group as you. I was a Slytherin. Anyway, Astoria's pregnant, actually. It's a girl. She's due in a couple of months."

Merlin, help that baby girl. Amora wasn't sure a sentence so terrifying had been uttered the entire time she had been here. The thought of bringing children into this world made her feel sick—- the idea that they would be socialised to believe that this was normal, carted off to Hogwarts where gender roles and blood purity status were being reinforced once again, and then married as soon as they were old enough, or got their first periods.

"How lovely," Amora replied instead and forced a smile. "What is her husband like?"

"Flint? He went to school with us, too. A few years above. Typical Slytherin man, really," Daphne giggled slightly and then lowered her voice. "Flint and I used to have a thing at Hogwarts. Sometimes, I wonder if he still might prefer me to my sister. Bless her. But I was snatched up by Montague, of course. How could I say no? He's got such a way with words."

Amora tried to hide the expression on her face but feared she was failing miserably. She faced the floor as they moved down the staircase, deciding not to reply to Daphne's smug brag.

Amora heard Malfoy's low murmur as they turned into the dining room. Malfoy sat at the head of the table and to his side was Montague himself. The brunette froze, her eyes widening on him, his narrowing on her like a cat locking on its prey. Malfoy glanced between the two of them and then stood up.

"Well, I trust you take good care of my fianceé, Mrs Montague," Malfoy said, a firmness to his tone.

Amora glared at him. If something were to happen, they both knew it would be her looking out for Daphne. Not the other way around. Daphne had married and slept her way through this war— Amora had fought it. He knew what he was doing, saying stupid things like that. He was pushing her buttons like a third-year Draco Malfoy.

"We'll be here, Daphne," Montague said, then he looked at her and nodded in acknowledgement. "Buckley."

Amora cleared her throat and nodded at him. He was a pig. He'd grabbed her in the pub before she'd been taken to the BMA— he was her introduction to what the men in this world were really like. If Daphne truly believed that Montague had a way with his words, then Amora mustn't be keeping up with the new romance trends.

"Gray, perhaps I could have some money to buy a dress of my own?" Daphne batted her lashes and moved closer, smiling at him and rubbing his strong arm. "You can't honestly expect me to watch Buckley have all of the fun!" She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear, and Montague audibly groaned as if they were the only two in the room.

Amora's horrified face sat open on display, her widened eyes finding Malfoy without much thought. Malfoy glanced at her with an instinctual grimace of his own, arms folded across his chest, his lip twitching before he coughed a laugh. He smacked his chest when Daphne and Montague turned to face him.

Amora bit back a smile of her own. It was the same feeling Blaise or Leon often gave her in the middle of classes at Hogwarts when they whispered crude things about the professor in her ear, and she was forced to contain her laugh behind a mouth full of air and a red face.

Montague smacked Daphne's behind and she jumped, giggling at him. Her demeanour changed when her eyes fell back on Amora.

"Come on, Buckley, let's go to Madam Opal's."

"Stay out of trouble," Montague called.

Daphne giggled at him and blew him a kiss.

Malfoy watched Amora all the way to the Floo. She couldn't help but think it was strange, and she was honestly offended that he was sending her to Hogsmeade with unwanted company this time. It was particularly annoying because she had information she wanted to give the Order. She needed to tell Madam Opal to contact them for her.

Daphne went first. Amora stood in the fireplace and stared at Malfoy, who had not brought up his drunken state the other night, almost as if it had never happened. The way he had become even more quiet around her told her that perhaps he did remember a few of the things he had said to her. She wasn't all too sure, and there was no way she was going to ask him. That was a recipe for embarrassment, not to mention completely unnecessary.

Because why did it matter if Malfoy still remanised about their relationship during Hogwarts? Why should Amora think about that sort of thing? More fool him, really, is what Pansy would have said, and Amora would have nodded and agreed but stayed up all night anyway, tossing and turning, killing herself over working him out.

Again, why did she care?

Amora shook her head as if ridding it of all unhelpful thoughts of Draco Malfoy and stared the silver-eyed man down again.

"Please, if you'd like to say goodbye to one another, don't let me stop you," Montague laughed, then added suggestively, "Personally, I'd love to see Buckley lighten up a little..."

She visibly grimaced.

"Oh, come on, Buckley," Montague scoffed. "There's a reason you had Malfoy and Potter arguing over you during our school years. Are you really that good?"

Amora held her chin higher. "If you're that bored that you'd like to watch me peck the High Commander on the lips, Montague, then perhaps you need to get back into Quidditch or something. It's good to stay busy."

Malfoy's lips quirked upwards, and Montague grew enraged. "How dare—"

Amora threw the Floo powder down, muttered, "Hogsmeade," and disappeared.

D.M + A.B

"Ugh, do you think this one makes my waistline look thicker? Be honest, Buckley, I can handle it, you know."

Amora huffed, turning away from where Madam Opal was adjusting the skirt of the dress she was trying on. Daphne stood in a mirror, a beautiful azure dress on that made her waist look tiny— and she knew it. She turned to the side in the mirror, smoothing her hand over the silk, examining herself from over her shoulder, eyes raking every curve and jutting bone.

"No, you look lovely," Amora said, and then looked at Madam Opal again, who was looking back up at her with an irritated expression, her glasses nearly falling off the edge of her nose, a pair of sharp scissors expertly between her teeth. "What do you think of this wedding dress?" She said for the amusement of the dress designer.

"Hmm. It's nice," Daphne said absentmindedly, and Madam Opal tried not to smile too widely around the metal in her mouth.

"Is this what you imagined as a little girl?" Madam Opal asked, threading the final pin through the bottom so Amora could walk without tripping over the gown.

Amora looked at the girl in the mirror. Dark hair tumbling over white satin. She looked beautiful. It was probably her dream dress, yet she couldn't feel less enthusiastic about the ordeal because she was so desperate to speak to somebody from the Order and give them the puzzle pieces she had found.

"It's so beautiful," Amora said. "It's exactly what I imagined."

"But you are not smiling," Madam Opal said, raising a thin brow and tapping the handle end of the scissors against Amora's arm. "I have not seen your eyes widen once. You have not gasped. You have not cried."

Amora's eyes drifted to Daphne who was looking at another dress on a rack, too immersed in her own world of retail therapy and fashion to hear Madam Opal.

"Not a friend?" Madam Opal whispered.

"I don't think so," Amora murmured back and made herself look busy adjusting the neckline. "I can't trust her."

"I see." Her voice was hardly above a whisper, her eyes not leaving the waistline of Amora's dress as she adjusted it. "I can get rid of her." She turned to Daphne before Amora could even reply. "Mrs Montague, would you like to see the dresses that I keep in the back? I have a particularly flattering mermaid sort of dress that would look stunning at Miss Buckley's wedding."

Daphne glanced over her shoulder at that. She didn't hesitate before she was swiping her hair back over her shoulder, waddling after Madam Opal towards the back of the shop. The dress was so tight against her that she struggled to keep up with Opal's long strides.

Madam Opal returned about a minute later. "Hurry, Amora. What do you need?"

"I gathered some information," Amora rushed. "It's not much, but the Order might know what it means. I need to talk to one of them. Do you think you could rearrange a meeting? Call one of them out and maybe tell Malfoy you need me for some more altering tomorrow?"

Madam Opal nodded quickly. "I'll see what I can do. I do not have direct contact with any Order members. I tell someone else who tells them."

Amora's brows furrowed. "Who do you contact?"

She felt stupid for realising only then that, of course, Madam Opal knew others who were a part of the resistance. It couldn't be just Madam Opal brave enough to rebel.

"I can't say."

"What?"

"If you were ever questioned and they interrogated you and had Legillimacy used against you, then they would be discovered," Madam Opal said, "and that would be catastrophic for communication between this world and the Order's. Me? I am replaceable. I am just a simple dressmaker."

Amora felt a lump in her throat. "You are not replaceable, Madam Opal."

The woman's eyes widened, and she smiled, swatting Amora gently. "Oh, stop it, darling. You're going to make me cry. I can't work if my vision is blurry!"

Amora giggled.

"Madam Opal!" Daphne burst back through the back door. "Do you not have anything like this but in blue? Blue is my colour; yellow just washes me out."

"I'll go and help Mrs Montague," Madam Opal said, "When I get back, Miss Buckley, we are finding a dress that will bring you to tears!"

D.M + A.B

"What's it like having all of your magic?" Amora asked as she stared out of the window at all of the people passing by, stirring her iced drink with a wooden stirrer whilst Daphne used her wand and read the Daily Prophet, which had been left on their table.

Daphne raised an eyebrow at her. "You act as though you haven't had your magic for years, Buckley. It's only been a couple of months. Think yourself lucky Malfoy wants to marry you so quickly. Some of the uglier girls aren't having such luck."

Amora grimaced at Daphne's answer. "No, I was just... just wondering. Like, what did it feel like to get your magic back once you married Montague?"

Daphne stopped stirring and smiled softly to herself. "It was like..." Her voice was gentle. "It felt like gaining a limb back. Like a huge piece of me had been missing, and suddenly I was whole again."

Amora hesitated. "Do you ever wonder if it's fair that women have their magic taken until marriage?"

"Careful, Buckley," Daphne hissed and glanced around the cafe to make sure that nobody was listening to them.

Everybody was minding their own business. A few businessmen sat in the corner talking over their drinks, a couple were seated a few tables away, and the staff were either wiping tables or serving the short line of customers at the front.

"I mean, Pureblood women," Amora said, "It is our birthright, after all."

Daphne pursed her lips at Amora. Her eyes weren't as harsh as they had been.

"Lots of women ruin it for everyone," Daphne explained. "They try to rebel with their magic, not to mention that magic is dangerous, Buckley. I mean, for goodness sake, imagine if a spell backfired and left you infertile! Then what?"

Amora wanted to ask how often that happened. She also wanted to say that, if that was likely, then men were at just as high of a risk. Besides, when Daphne said women rebel, she meant they resist the advances of horrible, dangerous men. It's a tactic to control them. It's a way of getting women to see marriage as a reward.

Daphne was clever. Amora wasn't sure if she knew the truth and ignored it or if she had been brainwashed and was oblivious.

"I suppose you're right," Amora cleared her throat. "I've never thought of it that way before. Thank you, Daphne."

Daphne sent Amora a tight-lipped smile. "You know, I was surprised when I saw you had handed yourself into the BMA. But I figured it was because of your relationship with Malfoy."

Amora shrugged. "I suppose my feelings for Malfoy may have helped me open my eyes more. It feels good to finally be surrounded by other Purebloods— to know I'm doing the right thing, you know?"

"Of course!" Daphne exclaimed, taking a sip of her drink. "You know, it was difficult at first, but it made me realise that if you are patient enough, if you are dedicated enough, you will be rewarded. I have a Pureblood husband, I am going to have Pureblood children someday who will go to a respectable school and continue our legacy. It's all going to be so worth it."

They sounded like the Purebloods Amora's mother used to teach everybody about during Muggle Studies. It was terrifying to hear that people genuinely thought like this— that for the majority, being on the Dark Lord's side wasn't a survival tactic; it was exactly what they wanted.

"We're making history, Buckley," Daphne promised her. "We're restoring magic. We're giving it back to the people it belongs to."

"You're passionate."

"I am," she gloated. "Graham has helped me through all of the tough parts. It's amazing how much all of this has brought me peace and comfort— I can see my future ahead of me, and I am so excited."

Amora's fists clenched beneath the table. She saw flashes of war. Of dead children in their beds, entire buildings on fire, the Dark Mark above family homes and the flats of innocent civilians.

Daphne's nails were perfect. Not a strand of hair was out of place, and Amora had never seen anybody with such perfectly placed freckles. Amora had scars across her body, and sometimes, when she slept on her left side, her ribs screamed at her from the time she had nearly been blown up and then healed poorly by Blaise.

Daphne had no idea.

D.M + A.B

"Montague is a pig," Amora blurted as soon as he Disapparated with Daphne once they had returned to the manor— not without glaring at Amora from her previous comment, though.

"An influential pig," Malfoy agreed. "Unfortunately, he is in my father's cabinet, so I am forced to work with him from time to time."

"They'll put anybody in charge, won't they?" Amora muttered bitterly. "I have no idea why any woman would want to go within a thirty-foot radius of that man, but he was all Daphne banged on about— that or what she was going to wear to our wedding, which, by the way, why is she coming? She told me we didn't get along at Hogwarts."

The smirking expression on Malfoy's face slowly but surely faded into one of uncertainty. He furrowed his brows at her.

"You don't remember Greengrass," Malfoy realised. "At all."
"No!" Amora scoffed. "Should I of?"

"But she wasn't a member of the Order and never has been. So why have you forgotten her? She has nothing to do with all of that..." Malfoy muttered, and Amora was unsure if he was talking to her or himself.

"I don't know!" Amora replied irritably. "I thought I might get a say in invites. Or dates— because she also told me it is two weeks today! Which you did not tell me at all!"

Malfoy dismissed her with a wave of his hand and began to head for the staircase, his face still creased. Amora followed after him quickly.

"Malfoy, answer me!" She demanded, "Why aren't you telling me anything and why are—"

"Do you think I have much of say in this?" Malfoy whirled around to face her, his nose scrunched. "Unless you'd have liked us to sit down and plan out the flowers we'd have or the music or what flavour cake we'd be having— which I figured you would rather not— then stop complaining and leave it to the wedding planners I let my father hire. They planned my parents' wedding. It should be fine."

She blinked. He stared at her for a few seconds longer and then turned on his heel and went up the stairs.

Images of them sat at the table, magazines like Witch Weekly and Witchy Weddings sprawled out in front of them. Malfoy was letting her plan her dream wedding— no budget, of course– and was merely there to nod his head and agree with her. She silently compromised with him— the cake a classic vanilla, no stupid cake toppers, and he didn't have to have a flower in his breast pocket. He would secretly organise for yellow roses to be sent to her on the morning of— not because they signify friendship, but because she loves the colour yellow.

"What if I had wanted to plan it?" Amora yelled up after him, marching as fast as she could. "Why don't you ever ask me these things? Why do you think you know me so well?"

Malfoy paused from where he'd been about to unlock his office door. He closed his eyes for a moment, collected himself, and then faced her. She could tell he was a ticking bomb, moments away from being pushed too far.

"You seriously would have liked to sit with me, Buckley, and plan out a wedding as if we are in love with one another?" Malfoy said gravely. "You think it would be appropriate? Or normal? I can't think of anything more awkward— of anything more warped and insane."

"I can," Amora scoffed at him. "A few things, actually. Such as the wedding itself."

"You're just pushing me for no reason," Malfoy muttered. "You don't even want to plan it. You think it's just as stupid as I do. If you want me to keep you updated then fine, I will."

"Thank you!" Amora exclaimed. "That's all I want. To be treated like a human for even a split second."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and pushed the door open, slamming it behind him. Amora kicked his door for extra measure.

D.M + A.B

"I think I'll head to Madam Opal's today."

Malfoy glanced up from his newspaper. He scrunched it shut upon realising that she was standing in the doorway, though her face burned into his frowning reading expression rather than the paper itself. When he zapped it away, she wished she had caught sight of the headline. It was obviously something important.

"Oh, will you?"

Amora huffed. "Please, may I go to Madam Opal's today?"

"You were there two days ago."

"And? I have a wedding dress to get, Malfoy. I couldn't find one I liked, so I'm having one made," Amora replied. "I'll need to keep checking up on it. Madam Opal said she was ordering some materials for me to look at today."

Malfoy exhaled through his nose. "Very well. Shall we go, then?"

He stood up and grabbed his robes from the back of his chair, swiping them through the air so they landed on his shoulders, and he pulled them on.

Amora's entire face pulled. "What? That's bad luck!"

"On what planet would our wedding have any good luck, Buckley?" Malfoy tested. "I don't think we need to follow all of those stupid traditions."

"Some things are private anyway. I don't want you looking at me whilst I am getting measured and things," Amora replied. "You let me go alone before."

"Yes, well, I've changed my mind about that," Malfoy said, "And if you don't want me to come, then I can ask Montague if his wife would like to go with you. I'm sure she'd love to."
Amora rolled her eyes. Anything was better than Malfoy coming along.

When Astoria Flint, neé Greengrass, arrived at the house around half an hour later, Amora felt her eyes widen. Her dark hair was a contrast to her sister's, but she was still beautiful with her huge blue eyes and sharp features. She was so small, but her baby bump was massive. The dress she wore only accentuated it, her manicured hands caressing as she smiled softly at Amora.

"I don't think we ever spoke during Hogwarts, but Daphne's my sister," Astoria greeted her gently. "She asked me if I could go with you today."

Amora smiled back ever so slightly. "Part of me is surprised, but the other part of me isn't. I don't think she likes me very much."

She laughed. "Daph doesn't really like many people, so don't you worry about her. I think the only company she ever truly enjoys is her own. Bless her."

Bless her, is not how Amora would put it.

Astoria turned out to be far better company than her older sister. She was soft in every way, which reminded her in a stabbing way of Kathy, and she never stopped smiling. It was hard not to like her.

"I don't really have any names planned," Astoria said as she smoothed over her baby bump, sat in a chair facing Amora as she stood in the small podium, her arms stretched out as Madam Opal measured around her biceps. "I really like your name, you know. It's too bad you have it."

Amora laughed. "My mother named me the day I was born. She said she wanted to call me Love, but it was too corny— and Amore, the Italian word for it, was too classy supposedly... And Amora was just right. I heard that speech every birthday from her."

Astoria smiled sympathetically. "It must be horrible. Losing your mother. I can't imagine it."

Amora went to agree but swallowed thickly and shook her head. "I suppose she wasn't a very good person. She wanted to eradicate Purebloods. Taught Muggle Studies."

"I remember Professor Buckley," Astoria beamed. "I took Muggle Studies during my third year, right before she left. She was so..." She shook her head. "I don't know. She made me want to know more."

Amora nearly choked. Astoria almost sounded like she didn't hate Amora's mother— which was a first. It was refreshing to hear somebody talk about her positively, and it almost brought her to tears. She despised the fact that Astoria felt confident enough to speak well of her, but Amora couldn't.

"Muggle Studies is completely different now, from what I hear," Madam Opal mentioned. "Forgive me for interrupting. My granddaughter goes to Hogwarts— she's in her second year."

Astoria nodded. "The war started when I was in my fourth year. After that, Professor Carrow took over. Alecto Carrow. We stopped learning about Muggle history and artefacts. It became more so... Defence Against Muggles class, if you will."

The thought of somebody else in her mother's classroom made Amora's skin crawl. The idea of Alecto Carrow in her mother's bedchambers, sleeping in the same bed she did every year since she graduated from Hogwarts herself. The photos of Amora and her father gone from her desk, replaced with Merlin knows what.

"I don't like the Carrows," Madam Opal admitted, sticking pins through the fabric around Amora's arms, never taking her eyes away for even a second. "Amycus Carrow's taken over from Severus Snape after he was found to be a spy for the Order. My granddaughter says they've banned Quidditch for girls entirely. It was one of the only classes she actually enjoyed."

"Oh, what a shame," Astoria huffed. "I was hoping my one would take after her father. He was captain of the Slytherin team during his time at Hogwarts."

Amora hated how nonchalant Astoria reacted to this news. Amora felt her blood boiling, so hot and so loud that she clenched her hands together. She wished she could be as calm and collected. It was a miracle Amora managed to remain silent.

Astoria continued to talk about her hopes for her baby— how she looked forward to dressing her up in cute clothes and going for long walks around Hogsmeade with her. Amora noticed that Astoria never mentioned what would happen to her baby when she turned eleven and could attend Hogwarts, or anything after that for that matter.

"I want to have loads," Astoria admitted. "I'm only eighteen now, so I have plenty of time! Growing up, I always wanted three boys and two girls. I don't know why. And I want them to all have similar-sounding names because I just think that's so sweet."

Amora could hardly concentrate after a certain point. She just wanted a moment alone with Madam Opal to ask if she had managed to contact the Order. She knew that she was being impatient, but it was all Amora thought about. Last night, she'd had a nightmare that Madam Opal had been murdered for helping the Order. Then Leon had appeared and told her they had to lay low for a few months. She'd woken up in a panic.

"How about you, Amora?" Astoria asked, admiring the work of Madam Opal. "Have you and Malfoy discussed how many you two would like?"

Amora swallowed and forced a smile. "We haven't recently, but we spoke about it before at Hogwarts."

Astoria squealed and clapped her hands together, an image of pure delight. "That is probably the sweetest thing I have ever heard in my entire life! The fact that he's waited for you all of these years! And that you came back to him!" She made a loud exhaling sound and held her heart. "Oh, I would die to be a part of something so romantic!"

The brunette woman chuckled. "Oh, thank you. We spoke about having one. Though I wouldn't mind maybe having two. I was close to my cousin growing up— it's nice for children to have company."

"Definitely. I don't know what I would have done without Daph," Astoria agreed, but her tone trailed off, and her eyes widened when the door to the shop opened, the bell ringing and a man standing there. "Marcus!" She jumped up and grabbed his arm, giving him a swift kiss on the lips. "What are you doing here? I thought you had work until late."

"I did until Montague informed me that you had stepped in for your sister to come here with Malfoy's fianceé," Flint replied and shot Amora a short nod. "I told you how I feel about you leaving the house when you're so pregnant."

"I'm fine," Astoria rolled her eyes. "Curfew doesn't start for another four hours."

"Well, it's not fine with me," Marcus said firmly. "Come. I'll take you back home. Buckley, would you like us to take you back?"

"I need to finish up here," Amora said, gesturing with one hand to the mess of fabrics chucked over her body, held together by makeshift pins. "Don't worry about me. I'll go home as soon as this is finished."

"Very well," Marcus agreed, and then looked at his wife. "Come on, Astoria."

Astoria smiled at Amora, and reached forward to grab her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

"It was lovely to meet you properly," she said. "I hope the rest of your wedding planning goes smoothly. I can't wait to go."

Amora grinned back at her. "Thank you, Astoria. I think you're one the of the kindest people I have ever met."

Astoria's cheeks darkened. "Oh, hush, you. See you later, Madam Opal."

"Goodbye, Mrs Flint!" Madam Opal's voice was muffled from the scissors in her mouth again, her head buried in the fabrics pooling around Amora's feet, her hand briefly sticking out to wave goodbye at an odd angle.

As soon as Astoria left with her husband, Amora reached down and tapped Madam Opal who glanced up at her.

"Have you managed to contact anybody?" She whispered, despite the fact that they were now the only two in the entire shop.

"I haven't," Madam Opal said. "Usually they come to me. I'll let you know as soon as I do get a hold of them, don't you worry."

It was killing Amora not knowing who the mystery person was.

As soon as Madam Opal hit a point where she was ready to stop, she helped Amora out of the materials and Amora changed back into her regular clothes. It felt good to not have the scratchy fabrics up against her anymore, or angled pins grazing her skin and making her flinch.

Madam Opal gave her a few chocolates she kept in a jar on her desk for clients, and Amora was on her way. The afternoon sun was starting to get hotter as each day passed and the nights were becoming shorter. Amora liked it this way, however, she missed summer nights. The curfew meant she couldn't be out after dark even if Malfoy let her— unless it was an emergency, of course.

There was nothing better than getting drunk in the Three Broomsticks and wandering around Hogsmeade with her tipsy friends on a hot summer night, laughing and taking silly photos on Theo's camera in front of shop windows. Amora smiled as she passed what used to be Ollivander's. She remembered when Blaise had managed to break his wand because he forgot it was in his pocket during Qudditch. Ollivander had been so furious— none of them could stop giggling as he got told off by the old wandmaker. Blaise had been so embarrassed.

"Miss Buckley!"

There were several loud gasps and suddenly cameras were flashing.

Amora flinched, lifting a hand over her face when she realised that she was being swarmed by a dozen reporters. Amora began to march as quickly as she could towards the Floo, however, a man was doing a good job of blocking the way.

"Miss Buckley, if you could please tell us the reaction of the High Commander given the most recent, devastating news?" A man prodded at her.

Amora went to crinkle her nose but cut herself off halfway through. She needed to react the same way she thought Malfoy might, and he was anything but a natural charmer where needs be.

"I'm sorry," Amora said. "I am not sure what you are talking about. If you wouldn't mind, I need to return home to my fiancè."

"Miss Buckley, news came out over night that Minister Malfoy is missing!" Another reporter explained loudly, his camera so close to her face that Amora stepped on somebody's foot to get back. "His office and his home were ransacked and he's left no message to the public. What does the High Commander know about this? When was the last time he saw his father?"

"Did you have a close relationship to the Minister of Magic?"

"Do you know what happened to the Minister?"

"Do you think Minister Malfoy has ran away on his own accord or he has been taken, Miss Buckley?"

"Now, now, everybody," a very familiar voice cut in and Amora's stomach flipped— in a good way or not, she wasn't sure. "Please step away from the lady. It's rude to make somebody feel uncomfortable."

The reporters seemed to back away at Theo's words, but not without shoving questions at him also. People then were shouting questions about the Order at the two of them.

"Did you confide in each other before you both left the Order? Was it a plan that you made together?"

"What message do you have for resistance members thinking of joining the Dark Lord?"

"In His Shadow, We Rise," Theo muttered, his hand on Amora's back as he guided her the last few feet towards the Floo.

He shoved the powder in Amora's hands, and she noticed he kept some in his. Amora threw it down and called out for Malfoy Manor, and the flashes of cameras and Theo's concerned face faded away.

When she landed back in the fireplace at Malfoy's home, she had only seconds to get out before Theo joined her.

He smiled nervously at her. "It's nice to finally see you again, Amora."

She swung for his face and sent him falling backwards, clutching his nose. Theo grimaced, wiping the crimson liquid on the back of his hand and examining it for a moment before looking back up at her. He smiled again despite his bloody face.

"I suppose I deserved that."

"You deserve a lot more than that!" Amora seethed at him. "You're lucky I don't kick you in your fucking balls right now, Nott. Would you like to sit down and have a chat now, or is that not convenient for you?"

Theo gritted his teeth and used the edge of the table to yank himself up. "Would you at least get me a tissue first?"

"Conjure one. I'm not your mother."

Theo grumbled underneath his breath but pulled out his wand anyway. Amora glared at his side profile. He transfigured a handkerchief that he took to his nose, dabbing it tenderly.

"Now sit," Amora ordered. "And talk."

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Theo sniffled as he dabbed his nose, pulling his handkerchief away and finding it covered in blood. He huffed to himself and lifted it back to his face, shooting Amora a look of displeasure. She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Theo replied. “I defected from the Order to become a Death Eater. What else is there to add?”

“Maybe you could start by telling me why you felt the need to hide your feelings from us all?” Amora stabbed. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t have confided in one of us— or why you made it worse by saying everything you did at… at…” Amora huffed. “Whose party was it?”

“My memory was wiped,” Theo said.

“No, it wasn’t!” Amora hissed. “I can’t remember lots, but I do remember Moody or Lupin specifically saying that they hadn’t had the chance to Obliviate you— that if we saw you, we had to kill you immediately.”

Theo pursed his lips.

“So why are you lying about being Obliviated?” Amora pressed. “There is no reason for that unless you don’t want to tell the Death Eaters about the Order. Why haven’t you told them where the headquarters are or given the name of every member?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Well, nothing’s happened yet, has it?” Amora said. “Nothing’s been reported in the news, anyway.”

“You can’t always trust the news,” Theo said dismissively, wiping the last of his blood and using his wand to make the cloth disappear. “Your memory must be wrong, Amora. I have the same thing— gaps, made-up things. I can’t remember what’s real or a dream sometimes.”

“No,” Amora glared. “No, I distinctly remember that part because I remember how terrified I felt.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just scared because I made it out and you hadn’t yet?” Theo asked her.

Amora furrowed her brows.

“We talked about getting out, leaving the Order behind. I remember that part. That’s why I helped you out at the BMA. When they told me you had defected, I was glad you finally got out of there,” Theo sighed. “I just felt awful because I knew that Moody and Lupin would have seen my memories when they Obliviated me– they would have seen us talking. Probably why they came for you next.”

Amora was silent. “That’s—” She couldn’t argue with him; it would expose how she had really got here. Though Theo’s words were sending surges of panic through her. Amora couldn’t work out if Theo believed his own words or if he was trying to get her to believe them.

“They must have altered your memory,” Theo said. “The Obliviation they did on me wasn’t completely effective— that’s why I can remember such huge chunks, just like you can, from what it looks like. But I can’t remember certain things.”

Amora leaned forward and hissed in a whisper, “You and I both know we never conversed about leaving the Order together. We both lied to the BMA. I want to know why you did it.”

Theo’s face didn’t alter for even a split second.

“You must be remembering wrong, Amora,” he replied and then stood up from his seat. “If you don’t mind, I need to find Draco. We have business.”

Amora grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Theo… I’m not fucking stupid. Something’s going on. You’re trying to get me to… to think things happened when they didn’t. For whatever reason, you want me to believe we talked, and I don’t know why—”

“We did,” Theo hissed back. “We talked. A lot. And we confided in each other. Bonded over it, even. We egged each other on— we learnt about the Dark Lord’s agenda together. How can you forget this? The reason you are here?”

Amora scrunched her face. “Bullshit,” she hissed. “If you’ve been Obliviated too, then how come we should trust your memory over mine? You said yourself you don’t know what’s real or not.”

“Because my version of events is the one that keeps us both safe.” Theo gritted his teeth. “So I’m more inclined to believe my memories over yours.”

Amora wanted to shake him by the shoulders and get the entire truth out of him. Why was he helping her? Was it because they had been friends, or was it something more significant than that? She just didn’t understand.

Was Theo working with the Order, too?

Asking him was a risk she was not willing to take until she figured out more about him. If he was working with the Order, was he a Double Agent, or did he have a different role in this war? Had she known and forgotten? Had she known and been forced to forget? Or had she never known?

The urge to scream was overwhelming.

Theo was clever in a silent way. He was more humble than Malfoy had been and he needn’t manipulate people the same way Malfoy had to so that he could get his way. People liked Theo; they respected him— he was easy to get along with. Cross him, however, and you might learn he was like a snake— disguised to his prey, quick, silent, unsuspecting. A true Slytherin through and through.

The familiar creaking of the stairs caused both their heads to snap towards the doorframe, where Malfoy appeared moments later. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in a couple of days, despite it being perfect this morning when Amora had last seen him. He hollowed his cheeks, silver eyes piercing between Amora and Theo.

“You know what?” Amora murmured, turning to Theo with an over exaggerated smile. “I think I do remember that conversation now, actually. It seems to be coming back to me now that you’ve mentioned it.”

Theo gave her a short nod. “I am glad I could be of assistance.”

He took a step forward towards Malfoy— his escape route.

Amora grabbed him again, but this time, her hand slid from the sleeve of his suit to the palm of his hand, her fingers curling into his in a way that had both Theo and Malfoy staring. She drew herself closer, batted her eyelashes in the same way that she used to convince Malfoy to do what she wanted.

“I think I’m remembering more than just a few conversations, though,” Amora admitted softly and pulled her eyebrows together, nodding. “Yes, I think… I remember that kiss we shared. A few nights before you left the Order.”

Theo cleared his throat, his bulging green eyes glancing between Amora and Malfoy rapidly. Malfoy’s head rose, his chin pointed, his eyes stonier and burning right back into Theo.

Now, Amora resisted the urge to snicker.

“I think–” Theo swallowed, glaring when he glimpsed back at her. “You must have that wrong, Amora. It must have been somebody else.”

Amora shook her head insistently. “No, no. You were right about us having conversations, I remember that part now— I’ll admit that. I was wrong there. But this… Theo, it’s all come back to me so clearly. You asked if you could do something, and you kissed me! We were in your room. Oh, I remember whose party it was now! It was Finnigan’s! We excused ourselves, and we—”

“Right, Amora, you can stop now,” Theo huffed. “Stop it—”

“Nott,” Malfoy cut in sharply. “What the fuck are you doing here anyway?”

Their heads snapped back to Malfoy. Even though the goal was to embarrass Theo in front of Malfoy, and perhaps even get him in trouble, she had forgotten he was there in her momentary blissed state over the panicked expression on Theo’s face.

The expression on Malfoy’s face was entirely different. His mouth had tightened, his eyes narrowed and stone cold. If looks could kill, Theo would have been six feet under.

“Buckley needed help,” Theo grumbled under his breath, rolling her eyes. “Should have just left her to the press.”

“The press cornered you? Where was Astoria Flint?” Malfoy’s gaze flickered to her.

“Her husband whisked her away. I was going to make my own way back to the Floo. Theo didn’t have to help me.” Then, under her breath, but so the two men could still hear her, she added, “Must have just used it as an excuse to come and talk to me.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “That’s not the truth, and you know it—”

“I’m engaged now, Nott. It’s not appropriate. Whatever we had is over,” Amora mocked him.

“Enough,” Malfoy barked. “Nott, come with me to my office. I needed you anyway.”

Theo’s body sagged in relief, though apprehension pulled his lips into a permanent frown.

Amora huffed. “Can you at least tell me what’s happening with your father first? You know, the entire reason I was bombarded?”

Malfoy’s face didn’t budge.

“He’s missing,” Theo answered after a few moments of silence. “Nobody knows what’s happened to Mr Malfoy.”

Amora’s eyes flickered towards Malfoy. He seemed unphased by the information. She wondered whether he was Occluding or not. How had he reacted when he had found out? It was hard to decipher the relationship between the father and son. Even when Amora was with Malfoy it seemed like he wasn’t sure what he thought of Lucius Malfoy either.

Back then, she had speculated that maybe he loved him out of obligation. Perhaps out of fear. Blind loyalty. Maybe because the only way Malfoy was loved by anybody other than his mother was when he was doing good by the Malfoy name. It was conditional. Political. Cold.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amora said anyway, watching him carefully. “I hope they find him soon.”

“I’m sure they will,” Malfoy replied, and in an instant, he was back out of the door, the staircase creaking under his weight, and Theo was right behind him.

D.M + A.B

Sleeping Draught was very common to come by. During a war, it was essential. Often, soldiers and their leaders were plagued with the sort of nightmares that would drive the most logical person insane. Grown men wake up soaked in sweat and tears, drowned out by their own screams.

Amora assumed Malfoy must be no different. She checked every kitchen cupboard for potion vials. She walked through every room in the house (including the ballroom, which meant plugging her ears to ignore the portraits of Malfoy’s awful ancestors), searched every drawer, every shelf, every basket, and came back to her spot in the kitchen with an empty vial, an old edition of Witch Weekly, and, perhaps most interestingly, a key that she had no idea where it lead to.

It was a long shot and she had known that. Malfoy was careful and particular. He wouldn’t just leave a potion lying around. She hoped she’d find one he didn’t know existed, but it seemed Malfoy had emptied everything that could have been at all useful to her.

Amora went through the pantry and took out the bottle of Firewhisky Malfoy stored in there. She popped the top off and gave it a whiff, grimacing.

Immediately, she was back in the field for Malfoy’s seventeenth birthday— the last one they had celebrated together. Drunk at the end of the school field, Blaise was giving her a piggyback ride and Pansy had somehow gotten Malfoy to dance with her.

Then they were running from somebody. Amora couldn’t remember who, but she knew they were laughing the whole way down to the greenhouses. One of them threw up. Amora threw up, too. Malfoy started seeming off after that. She remembered arguing with him over his mood, and he accused her of ruining his birthday. She had cried, and he had held her. They’d both apologised.

Amora shook the memories from her head. Her initial reaction was to wonder why she couldn’t forget stupid things like that— or Malfoy in general— but the larger part of her knew she wanted to remember. It had been the calm before the storm. The best few years of her life had been spent running around with her Slytherin friends.

Even when her life felt like it was crashing around her— the Hufflepuffs excluding her, harsh looks and petty remarks from other houses— nothing amounted to this. Somehow, the bad got worse.

Amora chucked Firewhisky in the soup she had made. She let half the bottle tip in and then a bit more. Once she was satisfied, she leaned forward and filled the rest of the bottle up with water, returning it to its rightful place in the cupboard. The entire kitchen reeked of alcohol.

Amora pulled out her training wand. No, women were not allowed to lock their own doors. No, women could not Apparate or use the Muffliato spell to have private conversations. However, what Amora had learned from hours of testing spells, was that women had access to spells that made cooking and cleaning easier— such as Scourgify, for example.

Another example included a flavour enhancing one— Aromoculus. Extremely useful for Pureblood women who were not taught the Muggle way of cooking. Helpful for correcting ruined dishes.

Perfect for hiding the taste and smell of an ingredient.

It didn’t work as easy as casting a spell and the Firewhisky would be disguised. Rather, she grabbed every other ingredient for her soup and enhanced it and enhanced it and enhanced it until, eventually, the aroma of chicken stock was so strong her stomach was grumbling for the poisoned soup.

She lifted it to her mouth and tasted less than a spoonful. The masses of Firewhisky had been successfully concealed.

Perfect!

When the grandfather clock in the main foyer rang out that it was seven o’clock, Amora heard footsteps retreating the stairs, and Malfoy hovered in the kitchen's doorway.

“Oh, hi,” Amora greeted. “I thought I would cook today. Go into the dining room, I’ll take the dishes through.”

“Do you want me to take any cutlery?” Malfoy asked, and it was nearly a dagger through the heart at how domesticated it felt when he reached past her, careful for his front to not touch her back, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cupboard.

He flicked his wand out and the glasses hovered under the tap, filling with water.

“Erm,” Amora was at a loss for words for a moment. “Yes. Sure. Thank you.”
He grabbed the soup spoons from the drawer nearby, holding them in the groove between his finger and his thumb, wedged against on the glasses that he took into the dining room.

Amora followed, levitating the hot bowls of soup, and was careful to remember to put Malfoy’s at his respected seat at the table.

“When did Theo leave?” Amora asked casually as she pulled out her chair and sat down.

“About an hour ago.”

He sat in the grand chair at the end of the table and took a long sip of his water. Amora mirrored him and tried not to stare at his food too much. She was slightly paranoid about feeling guilty, so she brought a spoonful of soup to her lips.

Malfoy absentmindedly did the same. Then went for another. And another.

“So… I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” Amora said, stirring her soup around, staring at the chicken and sweetcorn bobbing up at her. “If you don’t mind.”

Malfoy hummed. “Depends.”

He didn’t seem surprised. Amora took note that perhaps every time she cooked him dinner, he expected that she was up to something. She realised she might need to throw a random meal in now and again, just to keep him off her trail.

“Why do you have no house elves?” She asked him and watched as he continuously sipped at his soup, his eyebrows furrowing. “I just was thinking about how you were telling me about yours once when we were at Hogwarts. I know you said you didn’t have them anymore, but I was wondering why.”

Malfoy paused. “We had seven. After my mother died, one of them died from heartbreak. Father took four of them when he left to live in the Minister’s House. I only had two left anyway.”

Only, Amora thought.

“Well, what did you do with the two of them?”

“I ended up letting my father have them recently,” Malfoy replied.

“Why?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and huffed. “Why is everything ‘why’ with you? Why can’t you just nod along?”

“I was just curious, that’s all.”

Malfoy drank more of his soup. More. More.

Amora finished a few minutes after he did. He rolled his neck back, cracking it, and stood up from the chair. She studied him carefully.

“I’ll be in my office.”

Amora pushed down the urge to grab him and plead for him to stay put for a while. If the alcohol kicked in when he was behind the locked door of his office, then the plan would have been for nothing.

“What did you and Nott talk about?”

Malfoy barked a laugh. “Nice try. Why do you care?”

“Just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

Amora raised an eyebrow. “Yes, and as we have previously established, Malfoy, satisfaction brings the cat back.”

“Not if the cat sticks its nose where it doesn’t belong and winds up dead.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not necessarily one of mine,” Malfoy warned.

“So whatever you and Nott were talking about is extremely secret?” Amora pressed, following him to the kitchen where he placed his empty bowl in the sink. “Are you sure you weren’t talking about how Nott kissed me?”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “Not right now, Buckley.” He tried to shove past her.

“Does that bother you?” Amora pushed him. “That Theo and I have snogged?”

Malfoy grabbed her upper arm. “Buckley, if you don’t shut the fuck up—” He licked his bottom lip. “I’ll make you.”

Amora rolled her eyes at him and yanked her arm free from his grip. “He was a really good kisser.”

She wasn’t sure why she was riling him up past the necessary point. She just had to make him stay downstairs long enough, so she figured a small argument would be perfect. Judging by the look on her face, she was taking the argument past “small”.

“Yeah?” He muttered.

“Mhm,” Amora replied. “Best kiss I’ve ever had, I reckon.”

“Oh, how wonderful for you,” Malfoy spat back. “I am so glad.”

“I wonder what might have happened between us if Theo hadn’t been forced out of the Order so soon…” Amora teased and then sighed dramatically. “I guess some things I’ll have to use my imagination for.”

The glasses they had been drinking from shattered in the sink, and one of the lanterns burst— sending shards and oil everywhere. Amora’s eyes turned into circles, her head whipping between the mess and Malfoy, who was clenching his fists so hard she could see the veins running up his arms.

“Don’t, Buckley.” His voice was slightly weaker now, and Amora wondered if she had heard correctly— had he slurred her surname ever so slightly?

“I’m sorry,” Amora murmured into the silence. “I took that too far.”

Malfoy nodded. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You can kiss whomever you like. Or you could— before.”

Amora felt like she was on fire. Words were on the tip of her tongue, dying to leave and live in Malfoys’ ears. Her lips moved before her brain could catch up.

“Theo is the only person I kissed before,” Amora admitted and studied his face, looking for any sort of sign of how the news made him feel.

His eyebrow quirked up slightly. His eyes softened.

“Unless I’ve forgotten,” Amora laughed mockingly, shaking her head. “But I don’t think I have.”

There was a long silence in which the only noise that filled the air were their steady breaths. It felt peaceful to be inches away, silver mingling with copper, breathing in the same air and not finding a problem with it for once.

“You…” Malfoy shook his head. “I haven’t either. Just for the record.”

Her heart did a strange thing in her chest. It felt a bit like relief, but it couldn’t be. It must have been the surprise— Malfoy was handsome and powerful and rich, and he’d not even kissed a girl for the last five years.

Amora swore the alcohol must be taking effect for him to tell her. She studied him carefully. He was swallowing more often. He took a deep breath, and his hand met his head.

“Fuck. I think I’m coming down with something,” he muttered, blinking.

Oh, the classic drinking so much that you don’t realise you’re drunk until you stand up and the room is suddenly spinning and the nearest bathroom is too far to make it in time. They had all been there one too many times at school.

Malfoy took a step forward, towards the door, but stumbled slightly. Amora caught his arm, steadying his larger frame. He turned, his face paler than usual. Almost green.

“What did you do, Buckley?”

Amora reached behind her and plucked the crescent clip from her hair. It tumbled down around her shoulders, distracting Malfoy for a second, and then she pricked him in the back of his neck with it.

“Sorry, Malfoy.”

Malfoy rubbed the back of his neck, stunned, and withdrew his fingers to check them. When he saw no blood, he tried again, but there was still nothing.

“You’ll just forget this ever happened,” Amora told him as she carefully helped his crumbling body lay across the kitchen floor. “Don’t worry. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

D.M + A.B

Amora hadn’t planned on having to Obliviate Malfoy’s short-term memory, but she thought he’d have fallen asleep in his chair or been oblivious that it was her doing long enough to potentially get some information from him.

Once she acquired his wand, she hardly spared him a second thought.

Her first instinct was to head into the office again and see what else she could find. She wondered if Malfoy had information about his father in there or if he was as clueless as everybody else. She wouldn’t be entirely surprised if there was something else going on. It was a feeling that she had in the pit of her stomach.

Mostly, Amora was desperate to unlock the door in the library. She was dying to know what sort of things were so secret that they had to be locked away. Especially when Amora had spent so much time in that library and had not once seen Malfoy disappear behind the door. Between boring pages, Amora glared at the door, her imagination running wild.

Logically, Amora knew where she should go.

Malfoy’s bedroom smelt like him. His aftershave was musky and clean, perhaps slightly minty. The aroma of books hung faintly in the air, which made sense, considering the huge bookcase he owned. Amora moved towards it, raising her eyebrows at the titles. He had all of these in the library. They were second copies. Fictional and nonfictional. Amora picked one up and flipped through it. There was nothing unusual about the book.

“Accio Sleeping Draught,” she whispered.

Malfoy’s wand worked a charm for her— quite literally. Amora nearly snorted at her own joke but kept her voice down and watched as his bedside drawer slid open and a vial whizzed over, landing in her hand. She quickly pocketed it and moved to the drawer.

He had a couple of vials in there, but Amora didn’t want to take too many in case he grew suspicious. Besides, Amora was going to blame her stolen sleeping draught for the reason he had memory loss this evening.

You did say that you were going to head to bed. Maybe it was the sleeping draught. I’ve heard it makes people sleepwalk.

She nodded to herself. Plausible enough. If he had anything else to argue about, then she was sure she could come up with something on the spot. Something told her that Malfoy would take her word for it. He challenged her, but she knew he was clever— she’d be dead if there wasn’t a reason he wanted her alive.

Amora slid the drawer shut, her eyes narrowing on a slip of paper next to his lamp. There was half a glass of water, too, and an empty vial, most likely from the evening before. It was irritatingly human of him to not always be perfectly tidy. She put the empty vial she had found earlier down so perhaps he’d think he’d had a strong dose of two.

She grabbed the letter. Theo’s handwriting— there was no doubt about it.

Draco,

I went to Hogsmeade today and bought some Firewhisky. If you’re free, you should stop by. I’m not used to this sort of thing like you are. I’m hoping this bottle will burn enough to forget for a bit, or at least put me to sleep.

Theo.

Amora read the short letter twice more before putting it back where she found it, her eyebrows knitted, lips pursed. Drumming her finger on her thigh, she thought back to the time Malfoy had stumbled into the library, so drunk he could barely stand, and told her he had been with Theo.

It was likely that this letter aligned with those events, and Malfoy had told her that they were drinking because Theo’s dad had died.

I’m not used to this sort of thing like you are.

Amora’s brain strained against her skull, her heart thudding with the realisation of what it might mean— denial clawing for any other explanation.

Did Malfoy and Theo murder Nott Sr, or have something to do with his disappearance?

Malfoy had become somewhat of an assassin for the Dark Lord. Theo had lost his mother when he was younger, so surely he wasn’t referencing death in general. They had all become accustomed to death. That was the cost of war. No, what Theo must be referring to is murder. Something most people never get used to. Something the Order only ever used as a last resort.

It was then that the sudden realisation that both of their fathers had disappeared in a week hit her. It was like a blow to her chest, and she quickly moved across the bed to get to his other bedside table.

Pulling the drawer open, she found a couple of books and a small wooden box with runes on the outside. She picked the box up, but the golden latch had been magically sealed closed. Amora pulled Malfoy’s wand out and muttered, “Alohamora.”

The lock clicked open and all it took was pushing her thumb gently against the latch for the heavy lid to tip backwards. Amora furrowed her eyebrows at the belongings inside.

Blank papers about four to six inches large and a chain that had been broken in half. Amora lifted it, squinting her eyes. It didn’t look expensive, nor did it have any jewels or pendants or other decorative accents on it. She felt it between her thumb and her finger and then placed it back in the box, grabbing the blank papers.

They looked about the size of photographs and had the same glossy finish that Muggle ones did, but there was nothing on them. The edges were worn and slightly bent.

She grasped the wand again.

“Revelio.”

How had she forgotten the spell the other day when she had suspected that the autobiographies were something else entirely? What if one day she forgot a defence spell and something really had happened? How often would she make such careless mistakes?

She silently scolded herself, shoved down the anxiety her forgetfulness was spreading inside her, and watched as the blank pages began to bleed colour. Her breath hitched, anticipation bubbling, until, finally, she was staring at a photograph. However, this one was not moving— it was a Muggle photograph.

Why on earth would Malfoy own Muggle photos?

It only took her a second or two longer to realise that the photo was of her. She held some sort of camera and was pointing it out of frame, a wide grin on her face that had her nose and eyes crinkling. She gasped, her finger tracing the image. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled like this. Malfoy was probably the last person to know her this way.

Their trip to London. It all came flooding back. Her sixteenth birthday— the sightseeing, the sun on her shoulders, the grand hotel, their first night together. It had been the best day of her entire life.

Amora flipped to the next photo. She was walking slightly ahead of him, or maybe he was hanging behind to take the photo, she couldn’t remember, but Big Ben was up ahead, and the sky was so blue, and everything looked perfect.

Amora skipped to the next one, which was just a photo of a garden they had walked past. A river, a small field, a bench, pigeons, Muggles, a squirrel… that sort of thing.

Why did he still have all of these photos? And why were they hidden in his bedside drawer?

There was a loud thump downstairs.

Was he awake already? The serum in the hairpin must not last very long. Amora swore to herself. This was not part of the plan. She had hardly found anything that useful. Nothing solid.

Amora muttered the concealment charm and shoved everything back into the box. She slammed his drawer shut, made sure she still had the Sleeping Draught, and left his wand on the bedside table. She yanked his bedsheets down and ruffled his pillow.

Amora swiftly exited Malfoy’s bedroom, shutting the door as silently as she could, and headed down the stairs. Malfoy was in the kitchen, his hair messy, his eyes drowsy.

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered, and his speech was still slurred ever so slightly. “Why the fuck did I just wake up on the kitchen floor?”

Amora stared at him for a few moments and drank him in. He was all sharp edges and ice skin, but at the same time, his drowsy silver eyes and pouted lips felt warm, like a hug from somebody familiar, in an irritatingly nostalgic way.

She hated the guilt pooling in her stomach. She wanted to claw at it, drag it all out and toss it to the side and never look back— just like he did. Just as he had taken one look at her sleeping in his arms and still left to let Death Eaters into their school. Just like how he had promised they had no secrets and proceeded to keep her in the dark for an entire year.

“You must have been sleepwalking,” Amora murmured, casting her eyes elsewhere as she filled a glass with water and passed it over to him.

He gulped it down quickly. “Fuck sake.”

“Do you usually sleepwalk?”

Malfoy’s tongue moved to wet his dry lips, and he filled the glass with more water. “When I have too much Sleeping Draught. The whole… my father going missing thing. I must have been unable to shut my brain off.”

“You must have taken a lot.”

“Yeah, must have.”

Amora watched him. His long fingers wrapped around the glass, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he finished the last of his water. He slammed it down onto the kitchen countertop with a gasp for air. He wiped away excess water from his bottom lip.

“What time is it?” He nearly tripped over taking a step backwards.

The alcohol was still taking its toll on him. 

“It’s nine o’clock,” Amora replied. “It’s early. You said something about going to your office before you went up. Didn’t even know you’d gone to sleep."

Malfoy shrugged. “Sounds about right. Oh, yeah, fuck. I have stuff to do.”

“Why don’t you just head to sleep?” Amora said gently. “You clearly need the rest.”

Malfoy pulled a face. “Why do you care suddenly?”

Amora felt her own expression mirror his. A sudden rage bloomed in her chest because he was right. Why did she care?

“Fine, don’t get rest,” Amora snapped. “See if I care. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Malfoy chuckled, rubbing his hands with his face. “Just unusual these days. For you to say things like that.”

Amora rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, I’m not going to just be nice to you, am I?”

“You were,” Malfoy said and he slid down the counter, sitting on the floor. “At Hogwarts, I mean. We argued a lot, but you were still one of the only people who were nice to me. Even though you didn’t like me. You were still… kind.”

Amora swallowed and thought about when they had been trapped in the library with one another. It was hard to remember these days, but she remembered thinking that perhaps she could kill him with kindness.

“I was a pushover,” Amora replied, and she found herself sitting down opposite him, her knees tucked up to her chest. “What was your excuse for being nice to me?”

“Nice to you?” Malfoy scoffed and shook his head. “I was horrible.”

“I think I remember a certain somebody giving me the jumper off his back. Bringing me my book after the whole Whomping Willow thing. I would say that’s pretty kind,” Amora said matter-of-factly.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Maybe you rubbed off on me, then.”

Amora chuckled quietly. “Right. Now, how about I take you upstairs to your room? So you don’t die tumbling backwards down the stairs.”

“That would be quite an embarrassing way to go,” Malfoy admitted.

Amora climbed to her feet and stretched her hand out for him to take. Malfoy grunted, his hands slotting with hers. A warm feeling spread through her, and she wanted to let go immediately. She didn’t have to, though— Malfoy seemed to realise what he was doing and tore his hands away, glancing down at them like they were on fire for a second, and then he was up on his own.

Amora cleared her throat. “Come on, then. You go in front.”

“I don’t need to be walked to bed,” he growled.

Amora rolled her eyes. “You can’t even walk without falling over.”

“Yes I can—?” Malfoy was cut off when Amora stuck her foot out and trod on the back of his heel, sending him toppling onto the first couple of steps. He caught himself and turned to glare at her, though the malice behind his eyes was little to none.

“It doesn’t look like you can,” Amora howled with laughter.

The sound was contagious. Malfoy attempted to keep a stern face but was visibly cracking. Sun poured through ice, and he swatted her helping hands away, climbing up.

“You did that!” He accused.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Amora laughed.

Malfoy snorted through his nose but immediately looked shocked by it and shook his head. “Stop laughing.”

“It’s hard to when you look so offended,” Amora admitted. “Go up the stairs, and I won’t have to look at your sad face.”

Silver eyes rolled, but he did as he was told. Amora followed him until they got to the top of the stairs.

She stopped outside her bedroom door, her smile sort of fading, and watched as Malfoy moved to his bedroom a few doors down. His hand went to the handle, and he paused, glancing at her.

“It’s strange. I feel sort of drunk,” Malfoy admitted, but the look in his eye didn’t suggest confusion. “But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? I’ve not had anything to drink.”

Amora pursed her lips. “The side effects of Sleeping Draught are strange."

Malfoy only hummed back. “Goodnight, Buckley.”

“Night, Malfoy.”

Amora entered her bedroom and held her hand over her pounding heart, breathing in deep breaths to calm down her racing thoughts. She needed to be more careful. 

...

not proof read

this is not my favourite chapter ive ever written but i hope that you guys enjoyed it :) thanks for being patient with the update!

also just to clarify amora drugging malfoy with alcohol is supposed to be lazy detective skills. amora's working with the limited tools she has and her thought process is becoming a bit jumbled. also deep down she definitely knows malfoy is ignoring any tiny slip up she makes lmao. 

dyiansobrien 

w/c: 5.9k 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The wedding was rapidly approaching, which was most likely why Amora felt permanently on edge. There had been rumours in the papers that they would postpone the date until Minister Malfoy was found; however, Malfoy himself was adamant that this was what his father wanted, and he wasn't changing it.

It was tedious to comprehend. There was hardly anything to do to distract her from the shadow looming over her, whereas Malfoy poured everything he had into his work. He was gone more than he was home, and when he was home, it felt like he wasn't really there at all. His silver eyes wandered, his fingers tapped on oak surfaces, and sometimes she caught him humming absentmindedly.

Her nerves were devil's snare, wrapping around her legs first and forcing her to stay in place. It seemed to prop a mirror up in front of her so that she could watch it climb her limbs, tighten around her stomach and her chest, snake in twirls around her arms and bound her hands together, until it covered her mouth and her eyes and then, finally, her nose. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see. She couldn't think straight.

Once upon a time, there was a teenage girl who went to sleep every night dreaming about the day her surname would change to match that of her lover. She dreamt of seaside homes and shared libraries—cats on laps and chores with music. She dreamt of being held and holding, of being loved and loving.

Amora's eyes burned into the bag containing her wedding dress, which hung from the wardrobe in her bedroom. Madam Opal had sent it to her, which had left her feeling worse. She'd hoped she would have been able to go and collect it, but with Minister Malfoy's disappearance came stricter rules for women's safety— or at least Amora's.

She had hardly heard the creaks of the staircase before a figure stopped outside her open door. Malfoy glanced between her and the dress.

"Is it not everything you hoped for?"

Amora scoffed a bitter laugh and was mortified when her eyes immediately grew hot and started to swell with fat tears. She strained her eyes to stop them from falling, glancing away from Malfoy and back at the dress.

"It's..." Amora struggled to think of the words. "It's the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. But it doesn't make me happy."

Malfoy quirked a brow. "Twenty thousand Galleons and it doesn't make you happy?"

Amora very nearly winced at the reminder of the cost. Malfoy hadn't so much as looked up at her when she had him sign the check for it. He swiped his signature over the line and slid it back over to her, and that was that. She hadn't even been sure if he had checked the amount.

"Money isn't everything," Amora said. "Material objects aren't everything."

"What is?"

Amora glanced over at him and half-smiled. "That's a sort of deep question, don't you think?"

He shoved his hands into his pockets and studied her face. "Well? What is everything?"

Amora thought for a moment. "Peace. Freedom. To be with the people you love and know they are safe."

Malfoy was silent.

"What is everything to you?" Amora asked him.

He cleared his throat. "I..." Malfoy shook his head. "I'm not sure. I've not thought about it."

"Well, what makes you happy?"

Malfoy went silent again.

"Nothing."

Amora's heart sank. "Nothing?"

"I have no constant in my life that makes me happy," Malfoy admitted. "I feel satisfaction from my work. I laugh at Theo's jokes sometimes. There's... nothing I own that makes me smile."

Amora couldn't imagine words less sad.

"Malfoy, I..." Amora shook her head. "No, that's not right. You must have— Well, what about..." Her face brightened. "Hopes. Your hopes, Malfoy. I don't have peace, freedom, or any of that stuff either. But that's what everything would be to me. That's what I wish I could have. What would you want?"

Malfoy was silent yet again. He burned his gaze into her and pursed his lips. She swallowed.

"There has to be something," she murmured.

"What I want, I could never have," Malfoy said quietly. "There is no point in dwelling on it. It does me no favours."

"But—"

"I should get going," Malfoy cut her off, a sharp edge to his tone. "I'll leave you to it."

Amora stood from the bed. "Wait. I—" She cleared her throat and watched him still in the doorway, expectant. "I just... I need something to do. I can't sit around reading and moping all day long. Can't I help you with—"

"You don't need anything to do with my work," Malfoy replied immediately. "You'll do more than moping around after that."

"We could talk—"

"You want to talk to me?" Malfoy laughed bitterly.

Amora could feel the change in the air. It was so thick that the corset of her dress felt tighter than ever. She rubbed her pointer finger and thumb together to ground herself.

"It's better than doing nothing all day," Amora replied glumly. "Besides, if we are marrying one another in a few days, then perhaps we should be capable of talking to each other for longer than five minutes without blowing up at one another."

"Marriage doesn't mean what you're thinking it does." Malfoy gritted his teeth. "It doesn't mean sitting in the living room every evening with tea, talking about our day, or owning pets together, or sharing a bedroom. It doesn't even mean I will trust you, Buckley."

"Will you always call me Buckley? Will you say, 'I do, Buckley' at the altar?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her. "Obviously not at the altar."

"Are you scared to say my name?" Amora pressed, edging closer to him, her brown eyes narrowed. "Do you not like it or something?"

Malfoy barked an arrogant laugh and lifted his chin higher. "Scared, Buckley? I'm not scared of your stupid name."

Amora's chest ignited with fury. Her teeth gritted.

"Say it then," she spat.

"What?"

"Say my stupid name."

Silence. Then, he turned on his heel.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not saying your name like a dog in training," he hissed at her. "Find something to do. I don't care what."

He turned his back on her, and she saw red.

"On the contrary, I think you're ridiculous, Malfoy!" Amora bellowed, and picked up the nearest object to her— a flimsy book— throwing it at his back.

Malfoy turned like a flash of lightning, his glare nearly pure evil, contorted in a way that Amora had never seen directed at her before.

"Did you just throw a fucking book at me, Buckley?"

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Pick it up."

"No."

"Pick. It. Up."

"I'll just throw it at you again."

"You're childish and immature," Malfoy growled. "It's a wonder I ever actually liked you at school."

Resentment blocked her throat, grew in her chest, and became hot in her fingertips. Suddenly, she was seven years old again, and she couldn't control her anger. Her mother and father tried to calm her down while jars flew off the kitchen shelves, and her cousin clamped his hands over his head to protect himself.

"Liked is the understatement of the year," Amora quipped. "You were fucking smitten for me."

Malfoy grimaced and ran a hand through his silver hair. It wasn't a big enough reaction.
"I'd bet anything that you still are."

Malfoy laughed. "You're a fool. An idiotic, self-obsessed, ignorant fool, Buckley."

Amora growled, "You always talk so confidently because you think you're the one in control. You lost that control the second I walked through your front door, and you know it."

"Wrong."

"Right. You occlude anytime things get personal. You turn the other cheek when I say something that I could get my mouth sewn together for. You cook me dinner and give me more freedom than any other woman I've met so far. Is that all for nothing?"

You keep photographs of me in your bedside drawer from a date we went on when we were sixteen.

Malfoy was positively furious. His hands trembled with rage, and he sniffed, lifting his nose higher. The vein in his forehead twitched. He was going to explode. His anger only added fuel to Amora's fire. The audacity of his feelings rubbed hers the wrong way.

"You are nothing special," Malfoy hissed, moving closer. "So help me, Buckley, you better shut up before I end up doing or saying something I will truly regret. If you want me to prove that you mean nothing to me, then fine, I will. I'll report you to the BMA for what you are. A fucking spy for the Order."

Her blood ran cold. Never had he said those words aloud before. Her curled lip trembled ever so slightly. She glanced him up and down, hard.

"I don't work for the fucking Order."

"Then why did the Order change locations after you saw the model village in my office? The one with Pansy Parkinson on it?"

Amora cleared her throat and shrugged. "It must have been a coincidence. That, or you have a traitor among your midst. However, that traitor isn't me, Malfoy. Now stop trying to change the subject."

"A huge coincidence considering you were the only person to see the fake model village in my office," Malfoy pointed out.

So he had set her up. Amora slowly blinked at him. He knew putting Pansy there was like throwing chum to the sharks, or ferrets at a Hippogriff. He knew she would do everything in her power to make sure that it didn't happen. She had fallen for it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Amora snapped. "How could I have spoken to anybody from the Order, seriously? You're insane."

"I'm insane?" He jabbed a finger at his chest and laughed. "Buckley, you sacrificed yourself for the side that does not give a shit about their army—"

"The Dark Lord doesn't either," Amora seethed. "So let's stop pretending that both sides have perfect morals that all align. I left the Order. I did not want to put up with that bullshit anymore. I talked to Theo. Theo and I were going to leave together. We talked."

"You believe that?"

Amora jerked her head to look at him, baffled. "That is what Theo told me, and that's what I remember."

Though it felt off.

"Eventually you're going to lie to yourself so much that your fucked up memory will believe the gaps you've created for yourself," Draco growled quietly. "If you're not careful, you're going to cause irreversible damage. You're going to lose yourself."

"What do I have to lose?" Amora breathed.

Malfoy's jaw tensed.

"I lost everything," Amora whispered to him. "When you—" Her voice cracked, and she could have kicked herself. "When you did what you did, you left us all behind, picking up the pieces. Maybe I glued parts back together wrong. I'm not the person you remember me to be, Malfoy."

Stinging silence. It felt like being smacked across the cheek or having the wind knocked out of your chest. Malfoy looked anywhere but at her for a second. When silver did finally meet copper, he closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a moment, exhaling a long breath.

"Are you sure you want to go there?"

She could have clawed the lump out of her throat. She settled for scratching it as if to ease that ache. Ugly red and white stripes were left behind, irritated, and she glared at him, her nose curling.

Her pride and her ego battled with her curiosity. She wanted to ask him the hundreds of questions she had agonised over for the last five years, but she also wanted to punch him around the face and call it a night, to not give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing how much pain he had caused her.

Rage boiled and bubbled. Looking into his eyes, she felt like she was sixteen again. The furious teenager who wanted to both hurt him and take him back. The one who had the saviour complex, who blamed herself, who thought if she ever saw him again, maybe there was a part of her that would grab him and kiss him and try to change him.

"Are you scared to?" She asked him, numb.

"Why do you keep asking me if I am scared?" Malfoy spat irritably. "I am not scared of you, Buckley. I'm not scared of what happened."

"Why did you become a Death Eater?"

More uncomfortable silence. Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. He pulled out the stool from beneath her wooden vanity desk and sat on it.

"I didn't have a choice at the time," Malfoy answered, and Amora was nearly surprised by the calmness in his voice and the willingness to communicate with her. He could have just as easily told her it was none of her business and stormed from the bedroom.

"The Dark Lord was staying here over the summer before sixth year started. He told me that I had to join before the school year or he'd kill my mother and me to prove a point to my father. He was still in Azkaban at the time, for the whole Ministry thing with Potter. The Dark Lord was furious with him. I accepted the Dark Mark the day after your sixteenth birthday. I kept it to myself. Carried out my tasks over the school year. I figured the less people I got involved, the easier everything would be."

Amora's stomach turned. She felt old at twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, imagining a sixteen-year-old Draco Malfoy holding out his forearm, wincing at the branding forced upon him, all to keep his family safe. She felt a tug in her chest somewhere. Maybe because sixteen felt so long ago. When you are sixteen, you think you know everything, and at twenty-one, it's as if you suddenly realise you know nothing at all, and you never did.

"Did he tell you to kill Dumbledore?"

Malfoy gave a short nod. "I had two tasks. Assassinate Dumbledore and rebuild a Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement."

Recognition flashed in her eyes. "That's where you always were."

He smirked, but amusement didn't reach silver. "That's where I always was," he confirmed.

"Did you ever want to tell me?" Amora asked him. "Or did you use me as a cover-up towards the end?"

The silence was deafening. Part of her wished she'd never asked. The cogs were turning in his brain as he picked and chose what he would say next. Malfoy was calculating and cunning. She knew to take his words with a pinch of salt. He'd manipulated her once before. He could do it again if he wanted to.

"Every day."

Amora's head snapped towards him, and she blinked rapidly. Had she heard him correctly? He wouldn't look at her. She couldn't tell by his face.

"And you weren't a cover-up," Malfoy scoffed. "If anything, you being around made everything so much more difficult for me. I'm fully aware I should have cut things off when I first got the mark, but I was selfish. Sixteen. Hormonal and too emotional. Stupid. So I kept you around until it was physically impossible."

Relief tangled with doubt and made her head spin and her chest tight. If Malfoy was telling the truth about their sixth year, should she be pleased? Should the years of insecurities his actions had gifted her vanish? Should she feel better about herself? More valued?

Part of her wasn't sure why she felt worse about the situation, but the sensible part of her brain told her it was because it had made things less black and white. He was a bit greyer now. A boy who was protecting himself and his mother, holding onto his girlfriend desperately, now changed into a lonely, motherless man so wrapped up in a war he had lost any decent part of himself.

"Well, when did you stop loving me?" Amora asked. "When did you move on?"

"Stupid question," he spat.

"Answer it. I'd like to know when you went from... from feeling such an intense urge to be around me all of the time, from loving me with everything you fucking had, to despising me and... and acting like I did something to you."

Malfoy stood from the stool. "Not everything is about you, Buckley."

"Stop trying to make me feel small or selfish– or whatever it is that you're currently projecting," Amora scolded. "I'm– fuck, Malfoy, I'm begging you to just—" She shook her head. "You changed. I can't believe that when I am looking at you, you're... you're..."

"I'm what?" He seethed.

His eyebrows were tugged down into a harsh glare as he dared her to finish her sentence.
"You were him. You were my Draco."

Malfoy's lips parted, and his eyes widened. He swallowed and seemed to compose himself as quickly as he had previously faltered. It briefly occurred to her that this was the first time Amora had said his name. She remembered how startling it had been to hear hers pass his lips for the first time in so many years.

"Listen, Buckley," he said, calmer than he had been since they'd started the conversation. "I can't talk to you about this. None of it matters. We'll marry, we'll coexist, we'll move on. Forget Hogwarts. Forget who I was when I was a teenager. None of that matters anymore. Even if it did, it can't."

Amora burned daggers into the floor. She picked at the skin around one of her fingernails. So many retorts whirled through her brain. There were still a hundred things she wanted to say to him, so many questions left unasked and unanswered.

"At the risk of sounding completely pathetic, why does it not matter?" Amora swallowed. "Does it not matter in general? Or does it not matter to you?"

"How about this?" Malfoy took a step closer. "I'll answer a question if you answer one. Does that sound fair?"

Amora sat back on the bed, drawing her legs into a crisscross position. She eyed him cautiously.

"What sort of questions? Give me an example."

"You tell me what you'd like to know, then I'll meet your match."

Amora thought hard. Her teeth pinched her cheeks inwards, her eyes slightly narrowed as she scanned his face for answers that would not appear without a price. She wondered how bold she was allowed to be. However, she had a feeling that she could get away with murder with Malfoy. She wasn't sure how that made her feel exactly, but she knew she was grateful for it. She wouldn't have made it this far without his lenient attitude towards her.

"I would like to know what role Theo has in all of this," Amora dared and watched the way his right eyebrow rose ever so slightly.

Malfoy thought for a few moments himself. His fingers scratched his chin for a second, and he gave her a short nod.

"Then I would like to know who is helping you contact the Order," Malfoy proposed and watched as her mouth dropped open.

"How is that—"

"That is exactly fair," he cut her off as if he knew her well enough to know exactly what she was about to say, and the annoying part was that he did. "I'll tell you every inch of Theo's involvement with me and his split from the Order. I'll even tell you what those secret parcels are that I can tell you are so fascinated by. But in return, you'll have to tell me who in Hogsmeade is helping you reach Moody or Lupin."

Amora's heart was in her throat for the millionth time during their conversation. She shook her head at him.

"Not possible," she said. "I'm not in contact with the Order. Nor do I particularly want to be."

Malfoy laughed. "You can stop with that bullshit, Buckley. I'm not going to kill them, but there are certain things I don't particularly appreciate you whispering through the fence."

Amora crinkled her nose. "You need to come up with a different question. I physically cannot answer that one."

"How about this?" Malfoy leered closer to her. His breath fanned her skin, and the perfect lock of hair fell loose from his slick back, narrowly skimming his nose as a handsome smirk took over his pointed features. She wanted to shove him away.

"I can make this game even more fun," he said. "We can get Veritaserum involved— how about that? A swig each."

"What's your game here?" Amora huffed at him, folding her arms against her chest. "Why would you take truth serum when you know I could ask you absolutely anything and you'd be forced to tell the truth?"

Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. "There would be rules in regards to question answering. You weren't planning on lying to me if I gave you the answers you wanted, were you? That's not fair at all."

Amora glared and shook her head. "I don't like that idea."

"Then no Veritaserum," he said simply.

"No Veristaserum," she agreed. "But you change your question to one I can actually answer."

"Well, I suppose I could say names? People who I think are helping you?" Malfoy said. "Is that easier for you?"

"No," Amora growled. "Stop it."

"Is it one of the fertility doctors? One of them had been caught before exchanging information for a price. I wouldn't be surprised," Malfoy quipped. "Could it be—"

"I want to change my question," Amora interrupted him. "You can match it."

"Go on."

"What was..." Amora thought. "Did your parents know about us when we were at Hogwarts?"

Malfoy's forehead crinkled. "You already know this."

She gave him a look. "No, I don't— Oh." She realised rather quickly that she must have known, but she had forgotten. "You can answer anyway. I suppose you get a free one, then."

"You met my mother."

Amora stilled and tilted her head at him with a frown. "I don't remember that," she said softly.

Malfoy watched her with a grimace on his face, as if her presence both pained and irritated him. She wasn't sure if he pitied her or if he thought she was completely stupid.

"The three of us had lunch at the Three Broomsticks during our sixth year," Malfoy answered. "She..." he hesitated. "She really liked you."

Amora's heart thudded. "Woah, I..." She had no idea what to say. "I just...What about your father?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Nothing."

He still seemed quite quiet from the mention of his late mother. It was as if all adrenaline and anger and cockiness had been drained from him, and stood deflated in the middle of her room was a hollow Malfoy.

"Well, what's your question then?" She asked, stretching her back in an attempt to ease the tension that had blanketed them both.

"You get to ask another one," Malfoy said.

"But–"

"You already knew that," he pointed out. "I'm not going to make you answer questions in return for information you've forgotten."

Amora felt some sort of swell in her stomach at his decency.

"Okay... Why did you send me to the factory and then make me come here?" Amora asked him.

Malfoy thought. "Then I'd like to know how you think you would have reacted to me being a Death Eater— if I'd told you in the sixth year."

"Deal."

"I sent you to the factory because I wasn't ready for you to come here yet," Malfoy answered. "I had to lock doors, conceal important information... That sort of thing."

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. "But that doesn't take as long as I was at the factory for."
He shrugged as if it were simple. "I wasn't ready to see you."

"So why did you want me to come to your house in the first place, then? You could have let somebody else have me, but you didn't."

He inhaled. "I couldn't."

"You couldn't?"

"You're straying from the original question," Malfoy quipped. "Answer mine."

"The answer is that I don't know," Amora replied. "I suppose it would depend on how far along you told me or how... remorseful you seemed. I would have been extremely upset, but I suppose I would have been glad you told me. Of course, I would have told somebody. I would have had to."

"So Hufflepuff," he managed a smirk.

Amora rolled her eyes at him. "It's been hard living with the fact that I didn't know. Members of the Order accused Pansy, Blaise, Theo, and me of being spies for months. We had to go through interrogation procedures. It was... pretty traumatising."

"They thought you all knew?"

"Especially me," Amora laughed bitterly. "How could I not know? We knew everything about each other. It was the one thing I didn't know, apparently."

"Did they hurt you because of it?"

"I can't..." She shook her head. "I don't remember anymore. That part is all foggy."

Malfoy looked mildly concerned for a moment. "Do you think your memory is getting worse?"

"I'd say so," she said. "It's hard to tell. I don't know what I remember and what I'm forgetting. What I do know is that I went a whole week without thinking about Pansy. And when I do remember her, she's more... more of a feeling than a face that has a body and a voice."

Malfoy remained quiet.

Amora raised a brow. "Is that one of your questions? Do I get to ask you one?"

"Go on then," he huffed with an eye roll.

"Did you ever look for my name in the papers?" She asked. "When there had been bad attacks on the Order? Did you ever check to see if I had died?"

"I didn't have to."

Amora's face scrunched up. "What does that mean?"

Malfoy began to head for the bedroom door. "That answer is worth a lot more than one about your memory loss. Now, I have work to get to. If you'd like something to do, the greenhouse at the end of the garden needs tending to. There are ingredients for certain potions in there that I can't have spoiling."

Amora nearly leapt from the bed. "You're– You want me to handle that?"

"Hufflepuffs are decent at Herbology, aren't they?"

Amora nearly smiled as he left.

D.M + A.B

The next morning, Amora was awake with the birds. With four days left until the wedding, she was growing restless, her sleep broken, her mind jumbled more so than usual. She didn't necessarily mind this morning– the mornings were bright this May time, and today, when she stepped out in her lightest dress, it felt like her skin was burning.

It was gorgeous.

She slipped the sleeves down and turned in a circle, her face pointed to the sky. Her eyes had to shut at the sheer brightness of it— and at such an early time, too. Amora sighed happily.

Her bare feet were careful not to tread on the overgrowing rose bushes on either side of the pavement. She knew she'd need to wash her feet before she reentered the manor, but it was worth it. Amora drifted all the way to the greenhouses and popped the door open.

It was the only area of the garden that had been kept together. She checked on the plants she had watered the night before. The venomous tentacula seemed to be thriving again from where it had begun to wilt the afternoon before. She remembered specifically how Professor Sprout had gushed over the expense of the plant. Malfoy had as much as Hogwarts' greenhouse did.

"Here," she fed it the dried doxies that Malfoy kept in a jar on one of the shelves.
The plant was greedy to take as much of it in as possible. Amora fed the rest of them and was then glad to get out of the sweltering heat of the glass shed.

Her plan had been to go and make Malfoy breakfast to see if he was interested in some more questions and answers, but instead, Amora stopped at a bench near the back porch and sat down. She pulled her dress down past her collarbones and hiked her dress up her legs in a very unladylike fashion.

"Something about the warm weather just makes everything feel so much better, doesn't it?"

Amora jumped at the voice. Malfoy stood there, his hands in his pockets, somehow already dressed for the day and seemingly unbothered by the bright sun beating down over them. Amora was quick to kick her dress back down her legs and yank her top over her shoulders.

"Shit," she cursed. "Sorry."

Malfoy quirked a brow. "Don't worry about it," he said, and sat down next to her on the bench, running his hand along the metal of its arm, which extended into a silver snake, its jaw open and its fangs protruding and large. "My mother used to do the exact same thing whenever my father wasn't home. I never understood why she didn't just... whack a pair of shorts on and sit in the sun if that's what she wanted to do."

Amora quirked a smile at the mention of his mother. The lady whom she had apparently met, and who had supposedly liked Amora. She wished she could remember.

"I would if I owned a pair of shorts," Amora said.

Malfoy hummed.

"I thought you didn't like the warm weather."

"Hm?" He seemed distracted, his own eyes shut as his face tilted to the sky.

"Well, you always said you liked the snow," Amora explained. "Watching it. Not being in it."

Malfoy glanced at her. "I did say that. The thing I said earlier– that was something you said to me once."

"Oh, I see."

"Do you remember?" Malfoy asked and then hesitated before he added, "It was during our OWL exams. We were all revising at the end of the field. You made Theo a daisy-chain-crown-thing, and you said that very sentence— or something very similar, I'm sure. I made a point of disagreeing with you, but I said it later when we saw your mother, just for brownie points. You thought it was funny."

"It rings a bell," Amora said and suddenly produced her brightest smile yet as she laughed. "I think I do remember, actually. Umbridge had just passed that ridiculous rule— boys and girls to be six inches apart."

Malfoy's face lit up in recognition. "That's right. Merlin, that woman was awful."

"She was!" Amora agreed. "I wish I could forget that stupid laugh of hers. I think it's safe to say she's left a permanent mark on me."

She lifted her hand thoughtfully. I must not talk back.

"She's dead," Malfoy said. "If that's any consolation."

Amora arched a brow. "How?"

"A rebel attack a couple of years ago."

"Hm."

"Do you fancy a green tea or something?" Amora asked. "We could drink it out here."

Malfoy considered it for a moment. "That might be nice."

"Okay, wait here."

She headed into the kitchen and flicked her wand at the kettle and then at the cupboard that contained the mugs. Amora felt in a better mood than usual, the sun pouring through the windows and the backdoor wide open, inviting the sounds of the birds and the smell of the plants.

A squawking sound filled her ears as she finished pouring boiling water into the teapot. She stirred the tea leaves and went to pick up the Daily Prophet, which the owl had left right on the backdoor mat.

"Buckley—"

Malfoy's urgent call was drowned out in her ears as her eyes darted over the bold writing covering the front page. It stilled in her hands.

MINISTER MALFOY FOUND DEAD

She gasped, the paper falling from her hand, her hand smacking over her mouth. Malfoy stood in the doorway, his eyes dropping down at it. He seemed to only take a second before his head snapped back up to her.

"Malfoy," Amora swallowed. "Oh, Merlin."

Malfoy hesitated.

Her hand reached out to touch his arm. He looked at it.

"Are you okay?"

Malfoy was deadly silent.

"You are," Amora murmured, realisation settling across her, and she withdrew her hand. "Did you... Did you already know?"

His silver eyes sparkled with what could only be described as amusement. His crinkled forehead ceased.

"What makes you say that?"

"You just..." Amora murmured, her voice getting caught in her throat. "You didn't seem too worried about his disappearance. Did you think this would be the outcome?"

"I did."

"And you don't seem upset."

"I'm not."

There was a long silence.

"Go on, Buckley. Say whatever you're thinking."

You have something to do with it. Just like you had something to do with Nott Sr's death.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

He laughed. "No, you're not. Get those green teas poured, will you? You don't want to overbrew them." He returned to the garden and called, "And for Merlin's sake, chuck those little pyjamas on if you want to sunbathe. I'm not going to report you."

Amora released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

-
Thanks so much to the amazing the_9th_horcrux  for proofreading this chapter!!

And thanks for reading and being patient with the update! Hope you enjoyed it <33

Dyiansobrien

W/c: 5.4k (this book has now reached 88k and draco and amora have yet to kiss)

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amora hesitated before she sat down two chairs away from Malfoy, popping the bowl of chicken and grilled vegetables in front of him. He glanced up from the paper that he had only just started to read, his eyes meeting hers, where he sent her a short nod.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Amora sipped at the homemade lemonade she had spent an hour struggling to make earlier that afternoon.

“Would you like some of this?” She asked him. “There’s more.”

Malfoy shook his head and returned his head to the paper. “I’ve got my own drink, thank you.”
Amora’s gaze flickered back to the large glass of firewhisky he was nursing in his spare hand. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip so long that it would have come back up Amora’s throat, had it been her.

“Would you like some?”

Amora’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. No, thanks.”

“Oh, come on, Buckley. Are you seriously going to make me mourn alone?”

“Women aren’t supposed to drink,” Amora said carefully.

Malfoy chuckled. “Stupid rule.” He leaned forward and poured some of his glass into her lemonade. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

She wasn’t sure how to react to him. Amora couldn’t work out what was going on in his head— he must care about his father’s death, even if it was a little bit, because he was letting his guard down and drinking in front of her. She didn’t know if she should offer him comforting words or if he wanted to ignore the topic everybody in the wizarding world was talking about.

Amora took a sip of her new cocktail. “It’s quite nice actually,” she hummed. “Try.”

She pushed her glass along the table, and Malfoy lifted it and took a sip.

“It’s nice,” Malfoy acknowledged. “Too sweet for me.”

They ate in silence. It wasn’t particularly awkward, nor was it extremely comfortable. Amora rubbed her warm arm, slightly pink from being in the sun all day.

“What do you think?” Malfoy said suddenly, and the Daily Prophet slid towards her, stopping perfectly next to her empty dinner bowl. “Do you think I’m up for the job?”

Amora carefully picked up the newspaper and began to read.

MINISTER MALFOY FOUND DEAD

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, the most current Minister of Magic and personal electee of the Dark Lord himself, was found deceased late last night on a Muggle beach in Hampshire.

The late Minister Malfoy was a noble Pureblooded man, an influential member of the Sacred 28, and served the Dark Lord in both the First and Second Wizarding Wars. His leadership was widely respected within the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

Initial reports confirm that the Avada Kedavra curse was Lucius Malfoy’s cause of death. There were additional signs of struggle, suggesting this was a violent and targeted attack. Traces of magic left at the scene suggest Lucius Malfoy faced off against more than one attacker during his final moments. Aurors and Ministry sources state that the scene is eerily similar to the death of Theodore Nott Senior. The theory that this is yet another targeted attack by the Order of the Phoenix is under intensive investigation.

Suspicion has naturally fallen on rebel groups, in particular the Order of the Phoenix. Recent attacks from rebel groups have caused implications surrounding the potion supply and the death of multiple key workers. However, whispers of treachery have circulated, though this theory has been firmly shut down and explicitly denied by the Ministry.

In response to the tragedy, Minister Malfoy will receive a private burial, and Quidditch games have been cancelled for the rest of the week out of respect.

The late Minister’s son, High Commander Malfoy, has yet to release a public statement about his father’s death. It is unclear if the High Commander’s wedding will still take place on Friday.

The Dark Lord is expected to attend the funeral, though the location and time are currently classified.

It is unknown if the Dark Lord will personally elect his next Minister of Magic. Sources suggest the High Commander may offer himself for the promotion to take his father’s place. Advisors suggest High Commander Malfoy is too young for such huge responsibilities.

In His Shadow, We Rise.

Amora took a deep breath and put the paper down. “That’s a lot to take in,” she admitted.

She noted that in the couple of minutes that it had taken her to read and process the short article, Malfoy had nearly finished his hefty glass of firewhisky.

“I’m too young, apparently,” Malfoy said, and then shrugged as if he couldn’t blame them. “I suppose a nearly twenty-two-year-old shouldn’t be the face of our politics. Even if the Dark Lord is the one actually running the show. Of course, High Commander must be some stupid title they just give children, right? You can trust someone this young with an army– that’s a good amount of responsibility. Nobody cares what you do as long as you blow a few of the enemies up every now and again. Easiest job ever, I reckon.”

His sarcastic grumbles were cut off by his glass lifting to his lips. He swigged the rest of his firewhisky and then slammed it back down on the table. Amora wasn’t sure why this was the main takeaway from the article, but Malfoy seemed thoroughly pissed about it. At least he wasn’t angry at her for the first time in a while.

“So they think whoever… killed your father was the same person who killed Theo’s father?” Amora attempted to change the subject, sending him a soft frown.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Well, it’s always got something to do with the Order, hasn’t it?” Malfoy said, and he stood, heading to the cabinet where there were more bottles of alcohol.

“The Order doesn’t really… carry out assassinations,” Amora said. “If I’m remembering correctly.”

He sat back down and poured himself some more. A wave of his wand, and there was more ice in his drink.

“Anybody losing badly enough will change their tactic when they realise they’re backed into a corner,” Malfoy told her.

“The Order have pretty strong morals.”

Malfoy bellowed a laugh that nearly hurt Amora’s eardrums. She watched him stretch back in his chair, his chest expanding, and he smacked a hand on himself like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“Buckley,” Malfoy said quietly, more serious now. “If the price was right, anybody would do anything.”

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. “Well, I beg to differ.”

“You switched sides.”

He was infuriating.

“Fine,” she snapped and took a swig of her firewhisky-lemonade. It burned going down her throat, hot like a dragon's breath, and she wondered how on earth Malfoy wasn’t on the floor in a coma.

He must drink more often than she realised.

“If it wasn’t the Order, who do you think it was?” Malfoy asked her.

Amora stared back at him, her lips pursing into a thin straight line.

“Who knows?” Amora swirled her drink again. “Perhaps a new rebel group. The Ministry said it’s definitely not anybody working on the inside, but who are they to say that?”

Malfoy eyed her, the corners of his lips nearly lifting.

“You seem all too amused by all of this,” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Your father just died, you know.”

“I know,” Malfoy nodded. “Trust me, I know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy scrunched his nose. “Don’t agonise over it.”

There was more steady silence. She pushed a stray square of pepper around her bowl, which she had been too full to finish.

“I, erm, I did something today,” Amora said. “Whilst you were working in your office.”

“That’s good.”

“Can I show you?”

“Is it a murder trap?”

“No!” Amora scolded. “Come on.”

She led the way down to the kitchen, ignoring all of the pots and pans that had yet to be cleaned. Malfoy’s brow rose at what looked like an explosion of sauce splashed up against one side of the kitchen tiles. He kept his mouth shut and followed her out of the back door.

Immediately, Malfoy paused. His grip around his whisky glass tightened, and he swallowed as if it hurt. Amora waited anxiously for him to say something.

The garden had been completely transformed. This morning it had been a dangerous, overgrowing hazard, and this evening, as gold and red poured itself over the field, you could now see past the fence, it looked how she imagined it did before.

Magic had been her best friend, and whilst she had been back and forth in the library learning all sorts of new herbology spells that she probably should have known back in fifth year, she had managed to finish everything you could see from the back door.

The pathways and the patio were clean, the rosebushes were cut back and once again had flowers growing there, the greenhouse washed, the grass trimmed, the fountain restored and working, the bench nearly brand new again.

“Buckley…” Malfoy looked around and met her eye again, true disbelief written across his features.

She immediately grew shy, which she promised herself she wouldn’t.

“It looks…” He cleared his throat. “It looks good.”

Amora smiled slightly. She knew it meant more to him than that— one thing she could remember about Narcissa was that she loved gardening and plants; whether it was out of her boredom or to make Malfoy feel better, she had decided to restore the Malfoy woman’s previously treasured garden.

“Why do you do nice things?”

“Let me get more lemonade—”

Amora stopped at his bluntness. She turned her head over her shoulder as he watched her wearily.

“What do you mean, Malfoy?”

“You have always been like this,” he said, edging closer towards her. “You were nice to me at school. You were nice to all of those… insane, horrible fucking people at school. You helped them even when they treated you like shit. Even when I told you not to— it’s like you couldn’t help it. And now, we’re five years into a fucking war, one that has treated you like… one that should have been your breaking point— and I have been- I have been bad to you– again. I have been… and you… You do this.”

Amora carefully watched him. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” his voice broke.

Amora’s heart clenched at the sound.

“No, of course I am not angry with you for this,” Malfoy said. “How could—why would I be?”

“You’re angry with me for plenty of reasons I don’t know about,” Amora replied softly. “Besides, you should call me a pushover or something. That’s what I am, aren’t I?”

“No,” Malfoy breathed and shook his head. “No, you’re—” He paused. “You’re just–you’re what everybody should be.”

Amora scoffed and whacked him lightly. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Malfoy. But I will take the compliment. I’d like to start coexisting with you.”

Malfoy sent her a strange look.

“You said yesterday— we’ll be married, we’ll coexist. I’m tired of arguing. None of this is going to go away if we keep insulting each other like we did in third year.” 

“Simpler times.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Do you remember when—” They both began in unison, only to turn and face each other in alarm over their symmetry.

Amora laughed whilst Malfoy’s lips quirked up and he shook his head, swigging his drink.

“Sorry, you go.” Amora took a sip of her own.

“No, no, you go,” Malfoy insisted.

Amora pushed her hair behind her ears and smiled, closing her eyes as she drank in the last of the sun for a few moments, and faced him.

“Do you remember in fifth or sixth year– we built that snowman,” Amora said. “And you named it Pansy to annoy her, and we all ended up having a snowball fight?”

Malfoy huffed a breath of amusement through his nose. “She was rather angry. Good thing you renamed it.”

“I did?”

“Scorpion or something.”

“Scorpius!” Amora remembered. “Like the constellation. I was keeping the Malfoy tradition.”

“Ah, that’s right.” Malfoy wore a teasing grin. “You had obviously been planning our future children. Eager.”

Amora laughed a little but felt her smile wobble and fade. “I took an Astronomy book from the library. Scorpius was the one I thought you might like the most.”

“Were there more?” His tone was a bit meeker now— he too must have realised how strange the conversation sounded years later.

“I…” Amora furrowed her brows. “I love Aries.”

“Aries?”

“Hm.” Amora nodded. “I thought it was beautiful for a girl, and it sounds… almost God-like for a boy.”

“It does sound quite strong. Aries Malfoy,” Malfoy tested.

There was a short silence.

“This conversation is weird.” Amora scratched the back of her neck. “Maybe we should try to avoid those types of conversations. Things about Hogwarts. Our… relationship.”

“Do we have anything else in common?” Malfoy asked.

Amora found herself glaring at him a little. They did have other things in common, like reading, but they enjoyed different genres. They loved their friends, but they weren’t here anymore.

Amora realised they worked because they were so different. They bounced off of each other that way, and they were never bored. The one thing they had the most in common was their intense feelings for each other— an understanding of the agonising pain of being apart and the heart-stopping feeling of even a glimpse of one another after a long day.

It was not healthy to think about such things. It almost made her miss him.

“I suppose we were sort of… pushed together,” Amora said.

“We weren’t pushed together,” Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “If anything, nobody wanted us together.”

“I mean in the sense that we had all the same classes, the whole library thing… it was circumstance,” Amora said.

He scoffed. “That implies we could have fallen for anybody we had been locked in that library with.”

“Do you think differently?”

He rolled his silver eyes.

“What?”

“Another stupid question.”

Amora shoved him. “You keep saying that when you don’t want to answer a question.”

“We shouldn’t ask or answer questions like that. It’s not… appropriate.”

“We are quite literally getting married in a couple of days.”

“And yet we are still on a surname basis with one another.”

Amora’s mouth ran before her brain. “We have literally had sex.”

Malfoy choked on his drink.

Amora smacked her hand over her mouth and felt her cheeks go red.

“Sorry! I wasn’t thinking.”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, it’s— It’s true. I suppose it’s… even more odd in some ways that we ignore all of this.”

“There’s a line,” Amora said. “I don’t know where it is. I don’t know what’s on either side of it.”

“Neither do I.”

“Do you feel…” Amora hesitated, but knowing Malfoy was chugging back alcohol like water made her feel like she could talk to him— he was looser and seemed to remember how to smile when he’d had some firewhisky. “Do you feel weird about getting married? Or do you see this as purely transactional? Like business? Like you do with… All the other things you get up to.”

“I try to,” Malfoy said and settled on the same bench they had been on that morning. “But it’s different. I do know it’s different.”

She was glad that she wouldn’t be the only one standing at the altar in her wedding outfit, thinking about how insane it all was. Malfoy saw the irony and the horror in all of this, too.

It briefly crossed her mind that perhaps they had been some sort of warped version of Romeo and Juliet after all. The thought made her huff a breath of amusement, and she rolled her dark eyes. She had been so dramatic as a sixteen-year-old, comparing them to one of the greatest pieces of Muggle literature of all time. She hadn’t known what tragedy was.

Malfoy glanced at her from the side as she collapsed onto the bench beside him.

“Do you feel like a prisoner, too?” Amora asked him.

Malfoy was silent for a while.

“Stupid question?” She guessed.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

It seemed like he was attempting to coexist with her, too, after their conversation yesterday. Whilst she had been gardening, she had been thinking about Lucius Malfoy a lot, or more so, how his son was handling his death, and she briefly felt a pang of panic that his death would set their progress back— that Malfoy would grow angry again, and depressed, and take it all out on her.

She felt selfish for thinking that way. If Malfoy wanted to be angry while he mourned, he should be allowed to. When her mother had died, Amora had lashed out at everybody around her. She was insufferable for weeks on end. It was only when Luna briefly bonded with her over the death of her father, which happened at the same time as Amora’s mother's, that she realised she couldn’t stay angry forever.

She watched the steady sun stop beating, hues of gold now, still so bright that she squinted looking directly into the horizon. Looking across at Malfoy, she realised that he was golden. His silvery eyes were somehow specked blue, his white hair drenched in honey, his skin pearly like the moon.

He looked beautiful.

She knew that was a dangerous thought. It made her stomach flip and her hands grow clammy around the glass. She quickly downed the last of her whisky lemonade and looked back at the sleepy sun.

“I think I know what everything is.”

Amora turned to face him, her eyebrows furrowed. She remembered the question she had asked him just the day before. How sad she had felt when he didn’t have an answer.

She tilted her head to the side. “What is it?”

“It’s… It’s being in a prison, or being stuck, and having– having something… good enough that makes it feel as if you’re not just surviving. Like you’re… You’re actually living for something. It’s enough for me.”

Amora swallowed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Malfoy, but… how have you been going on this long if you haven’t been living for anything?”

“The same way you have been going on, the same way any of us have,” Malfoy said. “Holding out for the future.”

“Right.”

Amora felt a sinking rock in the pit of her stomach— a horrible reminder that she and Malfoy were holding out for two completely different futures. It got confusing pretending that she wanted the same thing as him; she wanted to argue with him or beg him to see her side, like she did once before at Hogwarts.

“Can I ask a big question?” Amora dared.

Malfoy hesitated, almost as if he could feel the weight that her words held. He swallowed briefly, his cheeks hollowing as he nodded.

“Is the future you want… exactly the same as the Dark Lord’s plans? You can answer yes or no if it’s too much.”

“Then I’d like to know the same thing.”

“Fine. Your answer?”

“My ideal future isn’t the same as the Dark Lord’s.”

Amora hoped she wasn’t being too hopeful when she felt a hot spark in her chest. She thought about Leon’s words, considering the idea that Malfoy and Theo were up to some sort of alternative plot and wondered if, by some miracle, it was true and they were working against the Dark Lord.

He must have seen the way her face brightened because he scoffed slightly and shook his head, clearly amused.

“What are you thinking?”

“You’d call it a stupid question.”

Malfoy smirked. “Saving your breath, then. Now answer my question.”

“My answer is the same as yours,” Amora said quietly.

They watched each other. Almost as if begging the other person to just break. It felt suffocating. Amora was oblivious at the best of times, but she swore she wasn’t this oblivious, which promptly made her question if she was being delusional or if Malfoy was trying to catch her out.

But the look on her face… it was the same one you’d get when you realise both you and your friend know the same secret, but you don’t want to be the first person to say something. It made no sense to her— why wouldn’t he just say something? If he really was against the Dark Lord, why could he not tell her? When he was obviously so sure that there wasn’t something right about her, too? He had already stated his suspicions about her continued affiliation with the Order a couple of times. He was the one who had to remind her what side she was pretending to be on.

“Are you…” Amora hesitated in a whisper. “Is Theo…”

“It’s getting chilly out here,” Malfoy noted. “Do you want to have another drink with me inside?”
He gestured to her empty glass. She glanced down at it and he grabbed it from her hand, standing up from the bench. Wordlessly, Amora followed close behind him. His suggestion felt more like a gentle command.

She stood against the counter and watched him pour more of her lemonade into her glass and top it up with more firewhisky. He had a steady hand, his rings clinking against the glass. He wore less than he did at Hogwarts, she realised.

“Do you drink often?”

“Not that often.”

“Just because you’re mourning, then?” Amora asked.

Malfoy laughed and handed her her drink. “If you’d like to call it that. Perhaps we should call this our engagement party.”

Amora feigned looking around the room. “It’s quite the turnout. I never thought I’d have a party as extravagant as this one.”

Malfoy’s grin was boyish. “Oh, only the best for you.”

Words like that falling from his lips were like smelling the perfume you wore on your first date. It was hearing your mother’s laugh after not seeing her for far too long. It was your best friend surprising you with a gift that represented and captured you so perfectly that you felt like you had been truly seen.

She swatted him as if it would scare off the butterflies. She cursed him for them. She cursed herself, too. There was a fourteen-year-old girl in there somewhere laughing and telling her to just give in, it’s unavoidable.

Pansy Parkinson was somewhere telling her she was just drunk, and she only felt this way because it had been far too long since she had gotten laid. For now, Amora brushed Pansy off. She’d apologise later. It was easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

“Well, you know what is a shame?”

“And what might that be?”

Amora sighed dramatically. “My fiancé has yet to get me a ring.”

So for now, she would play along.

She lifted her hand and showed him her bare fingers. Malfoy’s eyes nearly bulged, and he snorted into his drink.

“Oh shit,” he said. “You might need that for the wedding.”

“I might!” Amora snickered. “How did you forget?”

“You clearly forgot as well– you didn’t mention it!”

“Nobody’s asked to see the rock you must have bought me.” Amora walked after him as he went up the stairs.

He stopped outside his bedroom door. Amora hung back and truly felt the distance between them.

“Come on, then. Or wait in the hallway. Doesn’t bother me.”

He pushed the door open and waited for Amora to catch it. She hung in the doorframe as he moved over to the desk in his bedroom. Amora glanced around and found nothing had been moved, but it was tidier. There wasn’t a thing out of place and nothing worth mentioning on display. It was clear he kept everything notable in his office.

He found what he was looking for and snapped the drawer shut again, heading back over.

“I was expecting bedsheets with dragons on them. I’m disappointed.”

“They’re in the wash,” Malfoy replied, and opened the small black box he was holding. “Come back next week.”

“Is that an invite?” She joked.

Malfoy snickered softly and gestured to the box in his hand. Amora’s gaze flickered down to it, and she felt her heart stop. The band was dainty and golden, two small marquis peridot stones on either side of a white gemstone. It glittered even under the dim light of the corridor.

“That’s moonstone,” Malfoy pointed at it.

Amora swallowed. “Your birthstone.”

“Yeah.”

Amora tried to brush off the thickness in the air and held out her finger.

“You don’t expect me to put it on myself, do you?” Amora raised an eyebrow. “My, my, Malfoy. You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I apologise. It’s my first time getting engaged.” He lifted the ring out of the box and carefully placed it on Amora’s extended ring finger.

She smiled at it and glanced back up at him. “It will do, I suppose.”

“Oh, it will do, will it?” Malfoy laughed.

“I imagined something a bit bigger, I’ve heard the Malfoy name comes with a lot of money,” Amora mocked and headed into the library where she collapsed onto the sofa.. “That’s why I am here, after all.”

Malfoy put a hand over his chest, where his heart was, falling beside her. “You wound me, Buckley.”

“This will make it better.” She handed him his glass back.

Malfoy swigged at his firewhisky. Amora cringed.

“I don’t know how you drink it neat,” Amora said. “It makes my tummy go funny.”

Malfoy shrugged. “It’s nice. I like the burn.”

“Edgy,” Amora murmured and narrowly avoided his elbow as he moved to whack her. “Sorry, sorry.”

“The music isn’t really my thing,” Malfoy said as he leaned back on the sofa.

Amora hummed. “Yeah, I’m not sure who picked the band out.”

“Shall I pay for them to leave early?”

Amora smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “What will we fill the silence with? Our guests will all leave us.”

Malfoy thought for a moment. “Blaise is good with the speaker charm on his wand.”

Amora laughed and threw her head back against the sofa. It spun for a few moments, and she realised the heaviness of her drink was truly starting to affect her. She had become even more of a lightweight.

“He won’t do it for free, you know.”

“Luckily, I’m a Malfoy, and we have loads of money,” he mimicked her voice and tone from before.

“Well, I’m due to be a Malfoy soon,” Amora said. “Will that make me rich?”

“As rich as I am.”

“Really?” Her pitch went up a few octaves.

Malfoy chuckled. “You already essentially are. I pay for everything.”

Amora shrugged. “Very true, very true.”

“Is that your pile of books?”

Amora’s eyes drifted over to the stacks that went higher than her waist. “Oh, yeah, those are the ones I’ve read so far.”

“That was quick,” Malfoy said and stood, drifting over, sifting through them. He nodded at a few but then snorted and held up one that had Amora’s cheeks burning. “A Potion for His Love?”

“Malfoy!” Amora bellowed and dove forwards, swiping for it out of his hands. “No!”

“The Alchemist’s Affair?”

“Seriously, Malfoy!”

He couldn’t stop laughing, holding her arm's length as he read the titles that had her burning with embarrassment.

“Sometimes, when you’re that bored, you do read things you never normally would!” Amora huffed as she managed to get one off of him, but he was already onto the next. “It’s an easy read.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Malfoy laughed and opened one. “Oh, Merlin. ‘He ran his tongue across my—’”

“Draco!” Amora screeched, and her hand smacked over his mouth, finally.

Malfoy’s eyes widened, inches apart from her, and her eyes matched his once she realised what she had called him. It felt odd, like she had ruined the entire joke. His breath against her hand reminded her that she was still keeping him quiet, and she pulled away.

“Say it again.”

Amora inhaled shakily. “Draco,” she whispered.

Why was she indulging this? She was certain she was a bit less drunk than him.

He took a deep breath, his whole chest moving with him.

“Amora,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Draco.”

Malfoy grabbed Amora, his hands desperate and tight, yanking her so close to him that their chests pressed together. Their panting breaths mingled, the tension so rife that it hurt, and Amora wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or not. Maybe it was the alcohol, but her thighs felt like they were on fire and pressing them together seemed to only make it worse. He smelled so good and he was so close, so handsome and so forbidden that in a weird way it made it better.

“I want to kiss you.” Malfoy’s voice trembled. “But I know I can’t.”

“I don’t know why you can’t, but I can,” Amora said, and she leaned upwards on her toes and cupped the back of his head, her fingers tangling with his white hair to yank his mouth down onto hers.

Malfoy groaned against her instantly. It was open-mouthed and messy, like two starved animals, a blur of hands on bodies and in hair, and on faces, touching and feeling and caressing and grabbing.

His lips felt like a home, drenched in the bittersweet taste of Firewhisky; she swore she could taste her lemonade too, and it made the perfect mixture she’d been indulging in all evening. He tasted warm and familiar. He was good. It felt so good.

The ache between her thighs only worsened, and she shoved her knee against his thigh, back towards the sofa. Malfoy took the hint— he always knew exactly what she needed– and stepped backwards, once, twice, three times, before his legs hit the sofa and he collapsed back into it.

Her lips didn’t leave him for a moment, her hands roaming his broad shoulders, as if trying to memorise everything she had lost. Malfoy’s large hands grabbed her waist tightly, as if scared she would be taken away, and he parted his legs to make space for her knee as she knelt over him.

“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy mumbled against her lips as she pressed into him, his head tilted up at an angle, her dainty fingers holding him there, forcing him to look up at her. “Ma chérie.”

Amora groaned. She didn’t need to know what on earth he had just said to her to find it indescribably hot. Her fingers tightened on his jaw, and she leaned back down, closing their short gap again, and she sat herself down on his lap, his thigh tensing beneath her.

“Is this how much you missed me?” Amora breathed and pressed herself closer, nearly closing her eyes at the groan she earned in response.

Malfoy's hand swirled down her thigh, his grip bruising. She wanted him to hold her everywhere just like that.

“I can show you how much I’ve missed you.” Malfoy’s voice was scratchy and dark. “Fuck, Amora, let me show you.”

She bit on her bottom lip to fight the grin, but it was already spreading with each inch he traced on her skin.

How was he igniting something she didn’t know had survived his betrayal five years ago? Had it really been living beneath all of her guilt and her shame? It hadn’t felt right when she kissed Theo, and finding other men attractive during her time at the Order only made her feel sick and uncomfortable. She thought there was something wrong with her. Was it possible that her heart only appreciated his words, his face, and his touch?

“Show me,” Amora whispered, and like clockwork, he grabbed her and hoisted her off his lap.

She landed on the sofa, the skirt of her dress tangling between both their legs, her heart pounding as he buried his face in her neck, his body the perfect weight over hers. Amora whined softly when he sucked at her delicate skin, kissing the softest spot beneath her ear, her breaths laboured against him, her fingers itching to touch.

“Draco,” she groaned.

He groaned back as if it were a competition. So close to her ear, it felt like she drowned in the back of his throat, the vibrations going straight through her. She rubbed her thighs together and bucked her hips upwards.

One of his hands pushed her down by her hip bone, planting her gently against the sofa, and he continued to kiss down to the exposed part of her chest. Amora’s hand gripped the back of his hair, tugging in a way he had liked at Hogwarts. She lifted her leg against him, providing the sort of friction that had him gasping.

Suddenly, Malfoy ripped away from her, his lips halting mid-kiss. His head jerked upwards, eyes wide, like an animal being preyed upon. He was listening out for something. Amora gasped but remained quiet, watching him wearily, her hand over her chest to steady her pounding heart.

“Draco?” She whispered.

His gaze flickered to her. “I’m being summoned.”

Her stomach lurched. “What?”

He winced as he climbed off her. “The Dark Lord needs me.”

“That’s not— But—” Amora scrambled to straighten her dress as she stood up from the sofa, following him out of the library door. “For a meeting? Or a mission? What’s going—”

He whirled around midway down the corridor, and Amora nearly ran into his chest. His hair was a mess.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said. “And I won’t know until I get there. It could be anything. Just… stay put, stay calm.”

“You’re still drunk!” Amora stressed. “You can’t just–”

“I’ll have a Bezoar,” Malfoy said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Amora grabbed him by his shirt before he could leave again.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she huffed, and grabbed the back of his neck to drag him into a brief kiss. “Don’t… don’t die or anything. That would inconvenience me greatly.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow and smiled ever so slightly. “And I’d never want to inconvenience you.”

“Good then.”

“Good.”

“Okay, good luck.” She was unsure what to say exactly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and reached for the back of her head, kissing her firmly once more. Then, he squeezed her hand three times, and he was gone. 

...

 i hope you enjoyed it! draco and amora have officially kissed and properly called each other by their first names at just over 90k words in. this was one of my favourite chapters i have ever written! 

another special thanks to ma chérie @the_9th_horcrux for proofreading this chapter. also for helping me plot bits out, hyping me up, and being my evil sidekick!! and helping me with my very, very limited french! 

thanks so much for reading! 

dyiansobrien 

w/c: 5.5k 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY

Amora wasn’t sure if it was the corset or the nerves, but she couldn’t breathe. She thought the girl behind her must be tightening her dress until she felt the brush against her neck and realised the girl was fixing her hair. It was her own doing, denying her lungs their right.

Looking at herself in the mirror only made her feel more uneasy. However, it was unavoidable— when the girls had turned up from Merlin knows where, they transformed her bedroom into a dressing room, and huge mirrors faced her, forcing her to see herself from every angle.

It was a baking hot day. She’d showered, and one of the girls kept bringing her icy water, but her skin still felt clammy, and she swore the dress only retained heat. At least it wasn’t black.

Amora was drowning in white, her billowing skirt so long that the girls had to navigate their way around her so as not to step on her satin gown.

“You look beautiful, Miss,” one of the girls murmured as she rubbed lotion carefully onto Amora’s exposed back.

Her voice was stuck for a moment. “Thank you,” she said, but her heart was spiking as her hands nervously played with the mesh-like material.

Madam Opal had done an amazing job. The details were all so delicate, her lacy corset dispersing into the skirt, fading down the train, sparkling white against white. Perhaps the best part about it was how light and airy it felt on her, with thin straps and a neckline which was, of course, modest enough for a Pureblood wedding.

The girls draped her mesh bridal cape over her shoulders, the white sinking to keep her back open, and it cascaded just past the train of her dress, wispy, light, and elegant. It flowed down her arms and moved with her.

“Wow.”

Amora jumped, her head snapping over her shoulder. The girl behind her huffed from where she was working relentlessly to stop Amora’s perfect waves shifting out of place in their half-up, half-down style.

Theo stood in the open doorway, smiling as he glanced at Amora up and down. She felt the lump in her throat get bigger.

“Would you three mind giving me a quick five-minute break?” Amora looked at the girl in front of her who was filing her nails. “Sorry. I’m getting overwhelmed.”

The girl doing her hair tutted, but the other two nodded and smiled politely. They filed out of the room as if rehearsed, and the last girl shut the door behind her. The silence was welcomed. It felt like the buzzing in her head had stopped.

“Oh, Merlin, Theo. This is— I can’t believe this is happening,” Amora panicked. “How is this happening?”

“Stay calm, okay?” Theo said gently and moved forward so that he could squeeze her hand. “This is about survival. Keep that in mind.”

“It’s too much.” Amora tugged at the strap of her dress as if to relieve her skin of at least one stimulation. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Amora.” Theo’s voice rose, his tone grave and warning. “You can’t say things like that.”

She melted her face into her hands. “I don’t know anybody out there! It’s full of Pureblood supremacists and ministry officials and—”

“You’re already slipping up,” Theo snapped. “Stop panicking. If the wrong person hears you—”

“I didn’t say anything!” Amora hissed at him.

“You did, you said you’re nervous of being in a room full of Pureblood supremacists— you’re supposed to be one!”

“Theo.” Amora fanned her watering eyes. “If you keep on at me, I will lose it. You’re terrible at keeping secrets. I’ve had you sussed out since the second I saw you here. Your stupid parcels and fake autobiographies—”

“Keep your voice down!” Theo scolded and glanced around the room as if somebody was hiding. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“I am serious.”

“Amora, it’s going to be fine—”

“It will be fine? Why should I believe that? You always lie to me,” Amora growled at him. “You lied to me when we were members of the Order, and you lied to me the other week when you kept insisting we both planned to defect together. You know my memory is bad— you know what that sort of thing could do to me.”

Theo’s face melted into one of sympathy. He sighed heavily and yanked his hand out of his pocket, running his fingers across his mouth. He grimaced.

“I’ll be one face in the crowd that you know,” Theo said. “And Malfoy will be next to you the entire evening.”

“Oh, will he? That’s great. I was getting worried he might not turn up, considering I haven’t seen him in three days,” Amora retorted.

She felt like a ghost roaming the empty corridors of Malfoy Manor. The silence had been stifling, a constant reminder that there was no angry muttering from the room over, or footsteps, or doors shutting, or tea brewing. It was just Amora by herself, agonising over the wedding coming up, her groom-to-be off for days on end, potentially hurt, maybe hurting others.

She heard him return home in the very early hours of the morning. He Apparated in, she heard him crashing in the kitchen. For a moment, she thought about running down to him, but Amora remained frozen on the other side of her bedroom door, listening to his footsteps come creaking up the stairs. She stood there, anxious, her heart pounding out of her chest, waiting for him to open the bedroom door and… Merlin, she didn’t know what she wanted. A kiss? Reassurance? A debrief on whatever he had been doing for the last few days?

Nevertheless, Malfoy went straight past Amora’s room and into his own.

Amora felt stupid for thinking things would be different after their drunken encounter. She was furious with herself for craving his attention again. It must be the loneliness– she had become dependent on him again. He had, somehow, become her safe space here. That concerned her.

“He couldn’t help having to leave,” Theo pointed out.

Amora sighed and pressed her fingers against her temples. “I know, I know. I’ve just been… on the brink of a nervous breakdown for the last two weeks. It’s all bubbling up.”
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not alone,” Theo hesitated. “I think Draco’s nervous, too. Though he’d never admit it.”

Amora swallowed that lump in her throat. “I want to see him.”

“Is that not bad luck?” Theo furrowed his dark eyebrows.

“I don’t– I don’t care about silly superstitions,” Amora blurted, and she went to run a hand through her hair, but caught herself at the last second in fear of the girl getting even more frustrated with her. “I need to know what the plan is. I need to run through everything and make sure that—”

“Have you ever been to a wedding before, Amora?” Theo asked.

Amora swallowed. “There– there was Bill and Fleur’s wedding a couple of years ago, don’t you remember?”

“That wasn’t a proper wedding,” Theo dismissed. “I mean a wedding with an actual officiator, not Horace Slughorn, whose had a few too many butterbeers.”

“I don’t think so,” Amora shook her head. “Not that I can remember. But I just want to know– I just– I want to see him first.”

He huffed. “Look. Do you want some of this?” Theo dug into his trouser pocket and produced a tiny potion vial. “I keep some on me because I, er, I tend to get some really bad panic attacks these days. I think today you might need it more than I do.”

Amora accepted the vial sloshing with blue liquid. “Calming Draught?”

“Calming Draught,” Theo confirmed as she flicked the glass top off. “Take half now, half in a few hours if you need more.”

The aroma of lavender and peppermint filled her nose and instantly soothed her. She gave Theo a look of gratitude and tipped the potion back. Theo’s hands wrapped around hers as he hoisted it back from her, sending her an alarmed look.

“I said half now, half later!” Theo cried.

“There’s still a quarter of it,” Amora huffed. “What’s the harm? I really need this. I can feel it kicking in already, Merlin.”

Her entire body sagged, and her brain felt foggy, yet everything seemed clearer. She was loose. Amora looked at herself in the mirror and smiled softly.

“Oh, this is great,” she sighed blissfully. “Thank you, Theo.”

Theo looked at her anxiously and took the vial back. “When you want more, find me. I don’t know if I completely trust you with it anymore. I don’t want you so calm you’re falling asleep before you can say ‘I do.’”

Amora waved a dismissive hand. “What will be, will be, Theo. Everything happens for a reason.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay. I should probably go. I think they want us seated soon.”

Amora reached out to grasp his hand, and she squeezed it. “This feels so much like this– this one time that I tried some of Leon’s Muggle herbs.”

Theo’s face nearly lit with a smile. “Oh?”

“Mhm. I wish they were all coming. Like old times,” Amora said. “Oh, Merlin. Pansy would die over this dress, wouldn’t she?”

Theo did smile this time. “She would. You look beautiful, Amora.”

Amora giggled. “Thanks, Theo. I’ll see you out there, I suppose.”

“I’ll see you.”

As soon as he opened the door and let himself out, the three girls came straight back in, as if they had been standing there, silent and waiting, which maybe they had, and got back to work as if it were part of a dance routine.

Amora relaxed as the girl doing her hair began to brush her curls out, the smell of lavender still wafting under her nose.

D.M + A.B

Malfoy was on the other side of the door, waiting for her, and so were about two hundred people Amora had never met before. She inhaled as someone fixed the hair framing her face, and Jupiter Jeanne, the witch who had organised their wedding, and Malfoy’s parents muttered something that had her charmed quill ticking a levitating notebook.

So much for a small wedding.

“Darling, where is your father?” She said absentmindedly as she reorganised the bouquet somebody had handed to her. It was pretty— dried pink roses, baby breaths, and other bits of greenery and haretail that bulked it out.

“He’s dead,” Amora said, and shot the woman a quizzical look. “Why?”

Madam Jeanne’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. The bouquet was whacked into the chest of the person closest to her, and she surged forward.

“What?” She bellowed, her French accent shrill and echoing in the foyer. She glanced at her assistant. “How did I not know this?!”

“I-I left a note that Miss Buckley may not have a chaperone down the aisle, Madam Jeanne, that we needed to ask around, but—”

“Erm,” Amora awkwardly interjected. “I don’t mind walking down alone.”

Madam Jeanne blanched; she looked as though she could pass out. “Well, who will give you away?”

“I will give myself away,” Amora said softly.

Madam Jeanne shook her head quickly. “No, no, no. That will not go down well. Not at all! No, no, no. What male relatives do you have?”

Has this woman kept Amora in mind at all when she had planned the wedding? It seemed as if she did not know a thing about Amora’s circumstances.

“I have one. He is not here,” Amora said plainly. “I can walk myself, honestly.”

“No!” Madam Jeanne huffed. “Male… acquaintances?”

Amora hesitated, “Theodore Nott.”

“Get him,” Jupiter hissed at her assistant. “But do not make a scene. He’s seated front row.” She turned to Amora as he slipped away. “You should have told me this!”

As soon as Madam Jeanne turned away, Amora rolled her eyes. She watched the huge set of oak doors and pursed her lips. Any moment now, they would open, and she was going to walk down the length of the ballroom, where she would marry her secondary school boyfriend.

She wondered if he was watching the door, too– maybe thinking the same thoughts. Never in her life had she been more thankful for Theo; his calming draught was working wonders. Anytime a particularly stressful thought sparked, it was as if a flood of tranquillity spilt over her. It made her feel good.

Madam Jeanne’s assistant returned about a minute later with Theo.

“I’m not giving you any more!” Theo hissed at her quietly, his face pulled into an anxious frown. “If it’s wearing off already, maybe you’re just not compatible with it, because I brew that very strong, and—”

“Mr Nott, we will need you to walk down the aisle with Miss Buckley,” Madam Jeanne said quickly. “Merci.”

She didn’t give Theo the chance to protest but moved on to the next person.

Theo furrowed her brows. “Who was supposed to walk you down the aisle?”

“My dead father, apparently,” Amora snickered.

Theo snorted, shaking his head. “That would be a true miracle.”

“I said I would walk myself.” Amora crinkled her nose. “Apparently, that wouldn’t go down well.”

“I imagine not,” Theo said.

“Are you not Malfoy’s best man, or whatever the name is? Man of Honour?”

Theo scoffed. “No. That’s a tradition that sort of bled through from Muggleborns, which came from Muggles. So no. Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Amora repeated. “But giving the woman away– that tradition is fine?”

“Of course. It’s misogynistic– why would we get rid of that?” Theo grinned at her.

Amora smiled back. He was teasing her, joking around. She’d had this witty sort of banter with Malfoy the other night, but it had been months since she had laughed with a friend. She pursed her lips.

“Okay, okay, we’re starting. Are you ready?” Madam Jeanne was in front of her again. She didn’t wait for Amora’s response before she yanked Theo’s arm up. “Hold that here. Miss Buckley, loop your arm through. Careful with your dress. Mr Nott, if you step on her train, I can assure you, the aftermath will not be pretty.”

Theo nodded. “Noted.”

He sucked in his cheek as Amora crossed her arm through his. Jupiter reached forward and adjusted the mesh cape, then pushed Amora’s hair back behind her shoulders for the hundredth time that hour, and forced a smile.

“They’re ready for you,” Madam Jeanne breathed. “And now you are ready to get married.”

Amora forced a smile back. “Thank you.”

Madam Jeanne stepped backwards, swooping out of the line of vision of the hall, and nodded at the wizard who was pointing his wand at the doors.

As soon as he did, the oak doors slowly pushed open, and it was show time. A sea of people stood up, faces she did not recognise, and a few that she did. The first thing she noticed was that everybody wore shades of black, as if this was a funeral, and people were not smiling and crying like they did at Bill and Fleur’s makeshift wedding.

Violins from the live band played softly, a song Amora didn’t recognise and didn’t care to dwell on, because her eyes landed on the man at the end of the aisle, and her heart was in her throat again.

Draco Malfoy stood as tall and proud as the day she met him on the Hogwarts Express. He looked as arrogant, too; his exterior never failed to portray his social class and his wealth, and of course, his wedding day was no exception. His hair was perfectly slicked back, and the black suit he wore fit every one of his edges.

His lips parted when their eyes met from across the hall, and he visibly inhaled, his entire chest puffing for a moment. Amora smiled shakily— she wasn’t sure if it was to comfort him or herself. Lavender consumed her again, and she took one step forward.

Her grip tightened on her bouquet as Theo guided her down the aisle. It felt strange seeing faces that she had seen in the papers before— Death Eaters, Ministry officials, everyone in between. The further down she walked, the more important people seemed to be. Amora even saw the Inquisitor from the BMA, sitting a few seats away from Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband.

She focused her attention back on Malfoy. The lavender became less intense as the potion stopped fizzing so much inside of her. It seemed that looking at him was almost like a natural calming draught. She knew he must be nervous, too. He must feel just as strange.

The closer he got, the more breathtaking he seemed. Amora felt her stomach swirl as she drank in every inch of his being. She couldn’t name a single flaw. It almost made her angry.

Once they reached the end of the aisle, Theo paused and took the bouquet from Amora. He gave her one last nervous smile of his own and took the empty seat in the first row. It seemed Malfoy must have had some sort of say on the wedding.

Amora walked up the three steps to him, smiling when she reached the mark she was due to stop at. She was all too aware of cameras clicking towards the back. She should have known there would be press for the ceremony, but the thought had completely escaped her.

“You may all sit,” the officiator, a Wizengamot representative, ordered, and the rows of people did as they were told, the sound of chairs creaking and clothes shuffling filling Amora’s ears as the band faded out. “Thank you all for joining us today. It’s with great honour that I have been asked to officiate the wedding of High Commander Draco Malfoy and Amora Buckley.”

Lavender. Peppermint. Aftershave.

He watched her carefully.

“It is truly a privilege to magically bind two Pureblood souls. During a time that is unpredictable and incredibly difficult for all of us, it is important to hold events like these— ceremonies that show how nobility, honour, and faith shine through even the darkest of times. In front of you all today as my witnesses, I will wed two members of the Sacred 28. A truly remarkable and inspiring day for us all.”

Amora found it amusing that words like ‘love’, ‘trust’, and ‘respect’ had yet to be used. She made a note to look out for them, though she had a strange feeling she would not hear them today.

“High Commander Malfoy, if you will.” The officiate gestured towards the man to the side who was holding an oak case.

Malfoy stepped to the side as the small man flipped the box open by its golden lock. Amora attempted to look as though she knew exactly what was happening. She wasn’t completely oblivious about Pureblood weddings– she’s read countless amounts of wizarding romance fiction before— but so far it was proving different to her novels.

Amora swallowed when Malfoy turned back around and revealed, delicately placed in both of his hands, her wand. His silver eyes flickered from it and up to her eyes, scanning her face, as he met her back in the middle, holding it between them.

“Amora Buckley, I place your wand in your hand as I place my trust in your soul. With this wand, I return your magic, your honour, and your place at my side. From this day forth, your power is bound to mine, our fates intertwined,” Malfoy spoke, his voice level and sincere, and Amora envied the way he could speak as if they didn’t have hundreds of eyes on them– as if he wasn’t saying the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“You may take your wand,” the officiator nodded.

If she had been anywhere but the altar, Amora might have glared at the man. Of course she could take her wand– it was hers. It should have never left her side. But yes, thank you, Mr Officiator, Sir, for granting me my own wand back. It means the world.

Amora reached forward, her fingers tingling, and she nearly gasped as they wrapped around the rowan wood, sparks of magic zapping through her and warming through her entire body. She clutched it in her hand again and, for the first time in a long time, Amora felt like herself.

This was no training wand— this was hers. She could cast any spell with it. The sudden rush of power made her think so many macabre thoughts. She could blow the roof off the hall and kill every influential wizard in the Dark Lord’s army. They were all here– apart from the bastard himself, whom Amora had yet to meet.

“High Commander Malfoy, your wand,” the officiator instructed, and Malfoy was handed his. “Please, join your left hands, and with your right, touch wands.”

Reaching out and holding Malfoy’s hand felt nearly as warm as touching her wand again. The smell of lavender was so strong in her nose now that she wondered if anybody else could smell it. The potion was working its hardest to keep her stable at a minimum. She dreaded to think what she would have been like without it.

His fingers intertwined with hers, her engagement ring clinking with the couple he had left on his hand. Her gaze flickered from his eyes to their wands as they drew together, finally touching.

Her lips parted as she watched the engraved leaves that grew up the side of her wand light up gold, magic swirling in tendrils around their wands and down their arms, engulfing them.

She could feel it in her chest.

“Now, High Commander Malfoy and Miss Buckley will swear their vows to each other and the cause. They will swear by the purity of their blood and promise to continue our pure race. They will bind their fates in, not only one another, but in service and strength for our Dark Lord.”

Amora could have shuddered at his words. It felt less like a wedding and more like a promise to the Dark Lord’s regime. Her skin was crawling, but she hoped she looked as unfazed as Malfoy did.

“High Commander Malfoy, if you will.”

Malfoy glanced above her head, where the words were charmed for him. In the height of her emotions over the last few weeks, Amora had forgotten she would have to say vows. Jupiter had already warned her she would just be reading, that there was no need to come up with a speech herself. She must have felt the relief and then promptly forgotten about it, focusing on her next biggest problem.

“Before the eyes of everybody here today, I vow to take you under my protection, to shield you with my magic, and to lead you with my name. I pledge my loyalty to the Pureblood we both have, and to the future that we will forge with it.” Malfoy’s voice was strong and secure. His hand tightened around hers. “With both my wand and my word, I claim you, Amora Buckley, as my wife, and in claiming you as such, I vow to strengthen our house and our purpose.”

Her stomach flipped. His wife. In the next couple of minutes, Amora was going to be Malfoy’s wife. Weeks of anxiety seemed to be catching up. She inhaled the lavender, welcomed the peppermint, and eased as the pad of Malfoy’s thumb pressed against hers.

“Thank you, High Commander Malfoy. Miss Buckley, your vows are ready,” the officiator said.

Behind Malfoy’s head, and she guessed nobody else would be able to see them, were charmed words— a script she now had to read. Amora cleared her throat and held her head higher.

“Before the eyes of everybody here today, I vow to stand beside you in loyalty and duty,” Amora spoke, and the potion was starting to make her feel so calm that she reminded herself to perk up a little, straightening her shoulders and adjusting her grip on Malfoy’s hand tightly. “I offer my magic to your hand, my voice to your cause, and my life to our future. With both my wand and my word, I accept you, Draco Malfoy, as my husband, and in accepting you as such, I vow to honour your name and the future you shape.”

She felt sick with rage. Her script was a handover of her rights. It was the final thing they needed so they could say she knew exactly what she was getting herself into. Amora thought of all of the newly weds in the crowd and wondered how the fuck they had justified such a speech. How they had looked their husbands in the eye and spewed the most cult-like, misogynistic, terrifying thing Amora had ever had to say in her entire life.

“Now, please place your rings on each other’s fingers. Let this be symbolic of the bond you now share and the promise you have made today,” the officiator commanded.

A man held out a pillow where two wedding bands sat. Amora took the thicker one from her side, whilst Malfoy took the other. She held her hand out, poking her ring finger out, and Malfoy held it carefully as he slid it onto her. He then copied her actions, and Amora felt strange gliding the ring down his finger.

Especially when they had first started dating during Hogwarts, Amora had spent a lot of time playing with the rings on Malfoy’s fingers. She had found it therapeutic in a way, a calming act that allowed her to admire and touch him without him becoming overwhelmed by the positive attention. It didn’t panic him, it had soothed him, a soft way of introducing Malfoy to a life of affection.

Malfoy’s lips were pursed into a thin line, silver eyes boring into her. His thumb dug deeper into her hand and drew her back down to earth. The officiator was talking again.

“-Are intertwined. Thus, your magic is sealed. I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now affirm your unity before the eyes of the cause.”

The officiator took a step back, plucking their wands from them, and Malfoy moved closer to her. Amora was still hearing those words on repeat— husband and wife, husband and wife— when he held her arm, his other resting on her waist, and leaned forwards, his lips pressing against hers.

There were claps and cheers from the audience as the band picked up again. The violins felt more dramatic in the back of Amora’s head, nearly drowning out the clapping of strangers, and she kissed Malfoy back for a short moment, her hands clinging to him before she let go.

His face hovered in front of hers, and she couldn’t read him. It made her feel worse, terrible even, and she realised he was Occluding when she forced a strained smile at him, only for him to nod back at her.

Malfoy’s hand slid down to hers, intertwining their fingers, but it felt mechanical, like a routine, and he began to guide her down the stairs. He was careful not to step on her train, shifting around her dress, waiting patiently as she carefully made it to the bottom.

Amora forced a smile as they moved down the parted sea of people. Astoria stood at the edge of the aisle and grabbed Amora’s arm as they moved through.

“That was beautiful, Amora,” Astoria sniffled, tears streaming down her face. “Congratulations.”

The only way Amora would understand the crying was if Astoria was experiencing post-traumatic stress, in which Amora’s speech was enough to make any new wife feel terrified. But no, Astoria was grinning from ear to ear, a hand on her huge baby bump, her husband draping his arm across her shoulders.

Malfoy pulled Amora out of the door, where Madam Jeanne was immediately on her, adjusting her dress again.

“Your cape moved!” Madam Jeanne snarled. “You are lucky I was able to very subtly levitate it from back here! I told you to keep an eye on it.” She glanced at her assistant. “Fille stupide. Son sang est peut-être pur, mais ses manières ne le sont pas.”

There was a flick of magic, and Madam Jeanne’s hands were forced off Amora. Their heads snapped over to Malfoy, whose lip was curled.

“Respectfully, Jeanne, if you put your hands on or talk to my wife like that again, I promise you will regret it,” Malfoy spat. “How fucking dare you?”

Amora’s mouth nearly fell open, and Madam Jeanne’s did. Her stomach twisted and felt light. Her hands tingled.

“Now leave us be,” Malfoy snapped, and faced the rest of the room, who stood in shock. “Now!”

“High Commander Malfoy,” Madam Jeanne cleared her throat and eyed him. “We already arranged for the room next door to accommodate the two of you, so you could talk after the wedding, whilst we move your guests to the garden for your celebratory party.”

“This is our house—” His face was growing redder, and Amora had a feeling there were layers to his anger.

She grabbed his hand with both of hers, squeezing. “Draco,” her voice was gentle, but her warning panged enough to flicker his gaze from the wedding planner to her. “Let’s go.”

Malfoy inhaled a deep breath. She crossed her fingers with his and led him the opposite way to the prepared room, even as Madam Jeanne huffed and muttered angrily behind them.

“What did she say?” Amora asked as she led him up the staircase, her dress about fifteen steps behind her.

Malfoy’s teeth gritted. “Nothing that made sense. Where are we going?”

Amora found the library door and whacked it open. “Well, I don’t want to see whatever love shack they’ve conjured up in that old office, do you? I’d rather sit up here.”

She paused, furrowing her eyebrows. “Something’s different in here.”

Malfoy’s gaze flickered up the stairs, and she realised immediately that the door had disappeared behind another shelf of books.

“Safety precautions,” Malfoy muttered.

She wondered what was in there that he was so scared of people finding. Amora wanted to know so badly.

“We can’t hide up here forever,” Malfoy said, huffing as he moved over to the library window, glancing down. “They’re going into the garden already. People are going to want to talk to us. The Daily Prophet will want an interview.”

“It’s our wedding day,” Amora pointed out. “Can we run away? Just escape?”

Malfoy hummed in amusement. “If only it were that easy.”

There was a long silence. Amora wanted to sit on the sofa, but she worried about what Madam Jeanne might say if she wandered back down with a creased dress.

“So…” Amora sighed. “We just got married.”

“We did,” Malfoy said. “How much Calming Draught have you doused yourself with?”

Amora snorted. “Is it that obvious?”

“You tasted like pure peppermint and lavender. Nearly burnt my lips off.”

She laughed a little. “I’ve had more than the recommended dosage. I needed it. That was… that was intense.”

Malfoy nodded in agreement. “Well… You did well.”

Amora breathed in, shaky, like she could finally relax a little. If Malfoy thought she had done a decent job, she must have. Malfoy wasn’t one to protect people’s feelings; he liked to serve the cold, hard truth just as it came.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Amora murmured, and wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head. “Last night, I didn’t even know if you’d be back in time— if all of this would even happen. Just over twelve hours later, and… Well, I suppose I’m a Malfoy now.”

Malfoy’s tongue wetted his bottom lip, his eyes flickering over at her. He drank her in and gave her a short nod.

He hesitated for a moment. “And what a beautiful Malfoy you make.”

The wind was knocked from her chest. She felt her cheeks blaze red and prayed that the makeup the girls had put on her covered it efficiently enough to hide the effect his words, unfortunately, had on her.

“I was worried about you,” Amora blurted, running on the adrenaline of Malfoy’s risky confession.

She might as well take advantage of his slight vulnerability— it seemed he would be occluding all day. She didn’t blame him; she was talented at Occlumency, but Calming Draught prevented all slips, and she wasn’t sure how she had gone this long without it. Malfoy didn’t seem to slip. If he did, he was amazing at handling it.

Malfoy hummed at her, his lips forming a tight line. “You shouldn’t worry about me,” he told her.

Amora shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t help it. Was there a fight? Was it…”

“The Order?” Malfoy finished for her sharply. “No. No, it wasn’t. It was a rebel group we hadn’t ever come across before. Either they’ve been hiding, or they’re new. They started an attack on some of the army on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. They were outnumbered, so I had to acquire some reinforcements and stay to help. The village needed to be evacuated.”

Amora swallowed. “Oh, Merlin. What was the loss?”

“For which side?”

“Both.”

“We lost about ten men. They retreated after two days. Got backed into a corner and were outnumbered,” Malfoy answered. “I’m not sure how many of them died.”

“In the Order, we had to fill out plenty of paperwork every time we took a life,” Amora said.

It was an odd memory that came flooding back, one of her filling out her first form after her first murder, and she’d handed the practically waterlogged pages to McGonagall, who had promptly sighed and taken her into a hug. The guilt faded as the war raged on. Amora saw what the Death Eaters did to innocent people. On her third life, she didn’t shed a tear.

“Theo said,” Malfoy replied, and Amora frowned.

“Do you fight?” Amora asked. “Or do you just call the shots?”

“It would be hypocritical for me not to fight when needed,” Malfoy answered. “But mostly I work from my office.”

Amora hummed. “Did you fight in this one?”

Malfoy nodded. “No more questions,” he changed the subject. “If we don’t head down soon, they’ll come up— and I don’t really fancy strangers on my first floor.”

“Oh no, we can’t have strangers on the first floor,” Amora mimicked his accent, and he promptly swatted her arm with a snide smile.

“Oh, shut it, Buckley,” he huffed teasingly.

Neither had realised what he had called her until a few moments later. His lips formed a tight line, sort of curved upwards.

“I suppose I’ll need to find a new name for you,” Malfoy said.

Amora rolled her eyes. “Well, we can’t both call each other Malfoy– that will get far too confusing. How about we ease into our first names for now?”

He straightened, eyeing her cautiously. “I suppose it makes sense. After all…” Malfoy hesitated. “What’s in a name?”

Amora’s heart stopped. He remembered. There was a burning sensation everywhere. This meant everything.

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Amora murmured.

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Amora Malfoy.”

Amora sucked in a breath. “Do you think that sounds sweet?”

“‘So Romeo would, where he not Romeo call’d, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title,’” Malfoy stated and then looked at her seriously.

Amora’s cheeks were warm again. “You still remember it.”
“Of course,” Malfoy murmured, stepping closer. “It’s… It’s good. For Muggle literature.”

“I thought I was the only one that remembered,” Amora whispered.

“You weren’t.”

A breath of amusement came from her nose, and she shook her head at him. “Maybe we’re not… entirely different to the way we were back then.”

Amora’s breath caught in her throat as his large hand found her waist, resting there, squeezing gently. He pulled her closer to him, their noses brushing as he ducked down, breaths mingling. Her heart was about to collapse.

She saw library aisles and lunches under shady trees. Potion classrooms and sneaking into the Slytherin common room. The astronomy tower on a warm summer night, a hidden cove on a winter’s one. That was all so long ago now.

Malfoy’s gaze flickered across her. “I think we are, but… certain things never seem to change. Even if they should.”

“Maybe we hang in the stars.”
Malfoy’s eyes lit up. “Star-crossed.” He pinched the earring hanging from her ear, a delicate star on the end of a gold chain. “I don’t believe in fate.”

He defies the stars. So ironic.

“What do you believe in?” Amora murmured.

He smoothed the skin on her jaw, where her scar was. Malfoy didn’t utter a word but leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers. It felt like library aisles and secret meetings. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

Chapter Twenty-One

Amora breathed in and felt air mingle with the lavender in her system. Thanks to a second dosage from Theo, she was ready to take on the post-wedding celebration. The live band played music, nothing interesting, and servants moved around with trays of alcohol, which were only served to the men.

She played with the hem of her sleeve when Draco was pulled into another conversation with an older Ministry official. Each told her she was beautiful and raked their eyes up and down her figure, before returning their full attention to Draco, as if she was merely an accessory he should be proud of.

She clung to his arm, her eyes drifting around the group of people. Some stayed in couples, but mostly, people grouped off according to their own gender, with women forming circles and men sitting around tables with drinks in their hands.

“Mrs Malfoy,” a voice chirped behind her, and Amora whirled around.

Her lips tugged upwards as Astoria moved over, beautiful in a light green, frilly dress. She’d tugged her white gloves off and had them tucked in the crook of her arm, her hair pinned back off her face.

Amora moved away from Malfoy, who eyed her for a second before returning his attention to the men.

“It’s so strange to hear that,” Amora admitted and forced a laugh. “When does it start to feel normal?”

Astoria batted a hand. “I have yet to find out! You spend all your time at Hogwarts hearing your surname repeated over and over— Greengrass, Greengrass, Greengrass— because that’s all anybody calls you, because your surname matters, and it dictates how everybody should treat you, so you take pride in it. Then, all of a sudden, your name changes. Now I’m just Mrs Flint.”

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. Astoria’s words ran deep within her, sent a shudder through her, and made her think deeper than Astoria had perhaps intended for her words to lie.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said.

Astoria smiled slightly. “I don’t hear that often!” She said, and then laughed.

Amora’s returned smile was one of pity. It was sad. Shameful.

“Astoria.” Daphne appeared beside them, grabbing her young sister’s arm. “Come. Aggie Travers found out she is pregnant. I told her that you could give her some advice.”

The gasp that left Astoria’s lips nearly hurt Amora’s ears. She grabbed Amora’s hands and squeezed, sending her a smile.

“I’m sorry. I’ll come and see you again soon. I must go and congratulate Aggie! She’s been trying for months!” Astoria said, and Daphne promptly whisked her away without so much as a glance at Amora.

The sisters joined a group of ladies where an eruption of squeals took place, and Astoria was grabbing the lady who must be Aggie Travers into a huge hug, separated only by the huge bump Astoria carried. Amora squeezed her hands together.

She glanced around the party. It was strange— Fleur hadn’t been left alone at hers. Yet, here Amora stood, the most expensive dress and the newest story, and people were apprehensive to approach her. It was like she didn’t exist.

Malfoy was still wrapped up in his conversation, though his silver eyes darted between her and the old man, like he was itching to come over. Theo was nowhere to be seen, and Madam Opal hadn’t turned up to the wedding. Amora wasn’t sure if she had ever been formally invited— after all, she had never seen the invitations or the guest list.

The table in the corner, embellished with platters of cheese and fruits and pickled vegetables and meats and flowers, seemed like a good enough distraction. She headed over and grabbed a grape from its vine, popping it directly into her mouth and glancing around.

Despite the calming draught, her appetite was nonexistent. She didn’t feel safe around all of these people. She knew better than to relax and treat this like a real party.

“I must say, you do look absolutely beautiful, Buckley,” Montague’s voice cut through her like pins.

She winced and nearly crushed her second grape between her fingers. Turning, she found Daphne’s husband stood with a glass of champagne in one hand, his other in the pocket of the traditional robes he wore.

Amora raised an eyebrow. “It’s Malfoy, but thank you.” She ate her grape. “Your wife is over there, by the way.”

She nodded her head in the direction of Daphne and the other women. Montague didn’t glance over, he took the opportunity of her eyes being occupied to rake his over her body.

Amora folded her arms across her chest.

“I know where my wife is,” Montague said. “I don’t need to be told.”
Amora hummed. “Okay. Well, I think I'd best go and find my husband—”

“Is your husband so strict that he doesn’t allow you to talk with other men?” Montague asked.

“I can talk with whom I like,” Amora replied sharply.

Montague huffed a breath of amusement. “It’s incredible how you have changed from that little Hufflepuff into this fiery woman. A rose with all its thorns, if you will.”

Amora moved away from him, her eyes trained on Theo, who had now reentered the gazebo they stood beneath. Montague grabbed her arm and tugged her back, his lips pressed against her ear in a slimy way that nearly made her cry out.

“I do love a challenge, Amora,” Montague whispered. “The chase is the best part.”

“Montague,” Draco’s sharp voice cut sharply and deeply, making Amora sag with relief.

The man released her arm, and Amora practically stumbled into Draco’s chest, itching to get away. She held his arm, glaring ever so slightly.

“Malfoy,” Montague greeted easily.

“If you touch my wife again, I’ll cut your hands off,” Draco replied just as simply, and moved around Montague to grab a vine of red grapes. “And it’s High Commander Malfoy to you.”

Montague frowned. “It’s not personal, Malfoy, nothing against you—”

Draco’s hand touched the small of Amora’s back, his skin both cooling and burning her bare skin, and he gently guided her away. Amora swallowed and glanced up at him. His jaw twitched, clenched and sharp; his eyes were stony, glaring ahead.

“Thanks,” Amora mumbled.

“Don’t thank me,” Draco murmured, and they stopped at the edge of the gazebo, the hot May sun beating down on them.

He handed her the bunch of grapes. Amora grinned.

“Wedding present,” he said, and she laughed.

“I feel awful, I didn’t get you anything,” Amora teased, and ate another grape.

Draco hummed. “You can make it up to me later.”

Amora felt her heart thud in her chest and her whole body burn hotter. Her smile turned nervous. What was he insinuating?

“By dancing with me,” Draco quipped, and raised an eyebrow at her. “Why? What were you thinking, Buckley? My, my, get your head out of the gutter.”
Amora tutted and whacked his arm. “Oh, shut it. And we agreed on first names.”

“Old habits die hard, I suppose,” Draco said. “You’ll dance with me later, Amora. For the grapes.”

Her eyes rolled, but her lips couldn’t help tugging upward. “Deal.”

D.M + A.B

Amora spent most of her own party tucked away at a table with Theo, watching Draco get whisked around by numerous men, forced to converse about the war and political matters. Every now and again, somebody would approach her, mostly other women, and Amora herself was forced to agree how beautiful the wedding was, and tell them she was not sure when she and Draco would have children, but she was very, very excited.

“Who’s that?” Amora asked quietly and pointed over at a man shrouded in dark robes.

He had been keeping to himself for most of the day, nursing glasses of firewhisky, though no matter how many times a new one turned up in his hand, it didn’t seem to affect him. His eyes scanned the crowds of people, where he was often pulled into conversation.

Theo’s nose turned up. “Do you mean Cassius Warrington?”

“Is he the one sitting alone? On the second table on that side?”

Theo glanced at her. “Yes. Amora, he was a few years above us at school. Do you not remember him?”

Amora huffed and folded her arms on her lap. “I suppose not.”

“Maybe because you were a Hufflepuff and he was a Slytherin. He was Captain of the Quidditch team for about three years?”

Amora shook her head. “Still doesn’t ring a bell. Why does he look so…”

“So standoffish?” Theo offered and lowered his voice as he moved closer. “He’s a right dick, that’s why. He butts heads with Draco all of the time. He’s only here because he’s high up.”
“What does he do?”

“He’s Head of Experimental Magic and Defence,” Theo replied, “Essentially, he leads a team of people who come up with new dark curses, or adapt old ones. He’s proposed new hexes or potions or whatever else to Draco in the past, really inhumane, disgusting stuff, and Draco has always declined, but Warrington actually had the balls to take it all the way up to the Dark Lord a couple of years ago. Now, in a sense, Warrington has a bit of power over Draco. Draco hates it.”

Amora’s lip curled as she looked at him. “I could tell he was…” Amora murmured and shook her head. “He’s terrifying to look at.”

“He hates him even more now, too,” Theo added, “Warrington has put himself forward to be elected as the new Minister of Magic. People have been making polls, even though it doesn’t mean anything, and they liked him— they think he’s ruthless enough to get the job done. I think some people aren’t clever enough to realise the Minister of Magic is hardly in control. He’s a vessel for the Dark Lord— he has no real power.”

Amora thought for a few moments. “Nobody’s talking to him, though.”

“Everyone is scared of him. Even more scared than they are of Draco.”

Amora felt her heart thud unevenly when Warrington’s gaze lifted to meet hers. She averted her eyes immediately, nodding at Theo as if he had said something worth agreeing with.

Suddenly, Draco appeared in front of them. He looked displeased, his eyes narrowing between the two of them, his nose turned up.

“It appears people find it odd that the two former members of the Order are congregating in the corner,” Draco quipped. “Whipping up some evil plan, are you two?”

Theo scoffed. “Yeah, mate, just waiting for the signal. Don’t mind us.”

Draco rolled his eyes but looked slightly amused. “I’m stealing you now,” he said to her. “You owe me a dance, and then I reckon we can wrap this awful thing up.”

Amora sent him a look despite the smile threatening to spill across her face. She stood from the seat, adjusting her dress. Theo pulled some of her skirt that had been tucked by his chair out, and Draco held his hand out to her.

She stilled.

The Yule Ball 1994. Her heart had stopped when Draco had wandered over to her and offered her a dance. He feigned confidence and arrogance, but she saw right through him. She remembered the way he erupted when she chose to help Hermione instead, as if it was personal, as if he had revealed his truest self to her and she had rejected every inch of goodness he was capable of.

Amora slid her hand into his. They’d held hands today more than they had in the last five years, and Amora felt as though she was fourteen again, like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush on the most handsome boy at school.

Draco led her to the area under the gazebo where other couples were dancing. He stood in the middle and helped her compose herself, and then his hands found her waist, and her arms wrapped up to his neck, their bodies pressed together, their faces inches away. They began to sway.

“You know,” Amora cleared her throat. “If I were forced to live with any man and marry him, then I’m glad it was you.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “Romantic.”

Amora smiled slightly. “I can’t work out if it is or not,” she admitted quietly. “I’m not sure what we’re doing right now.”

It crossed her mind a few times that she wasn’t sure how she felt about Draco. She cared about what happened to him, and she liked the way it made her feel when he kissed her or looked after her, but she wasn’t sure if that was because she had been so starved of affection over the last few months, or if perhaps she was desperately looking for who he had been before.

It wasn’t love— it couldn’t be love— she still had her reservations about him. He had still done so many bad things. He was still the High Commander of the Dark Lord’s army.

Perhaps it was his lack of enthusiasm over the Dark Lord’s regime that had hooked her back in. Maybe it was learning he had been forced to take the dark mark as a teenager, or maybe it was that he and Theo were definitely plotting something, and the optimist inside her held onto an idea that it was a different type of revolution.

Draco inhaled, his entire body moving with it. “We’re surviving.”

Amora wondered if that was ironic— Draco, high up, saying he was surviving, under a system that benefited him, but the permanent circles beneath his eyes made her bite her tongue.

“It’s not just a sex thing, is it?” Amora murmured.

She would not let him use her body. After everything, it would make her hate herself more; she was sure of it.

Draco scoffed and quirked an eyebrow upwards. “Have we had sex recently?”

“No, but I’m just making sure that’s not what you think is happening here,” Amora said, her cheeks heating up. “I’m not that way inclined.”

“Neither am I,” Draco said as he spun her and then pulled her closer to him. “I don’t want to talk about my feelings. Not right now. But… I– I suppose I have a soft spot for you. Maybe because of school.”

Amora laughed and rolled her eyes. “I’m not the same as I was at school.”
“You’re not,” Draco agreed.

“I wouldn’t have survived if I stayed the same,” Amora mumbled. “But you’re not the same either.”

“I’d be worried if we both were,” he said.

Amora’s eyes glanced around, and only then did she realise that most eyes were on them. In fact, the other couples had dispersed, leaving just the two of them in their own little world. She hadn’t even noticed.

Amora rested her head on his shoulder, her cheeks burning. She took a moment to collect herself. It was nerve-wracking being the centre of attention— even worse when everybody there analysed you for different reasons.

“Are you going to run for Minister of Magic?” Amora asked.

“You don’t really run anymore,” Draco replied. “You don’t campaign unless you want the Dark Lord to notice you. He picks. Nobody else gets a say.”

“Do you want to be Minister of Magic, then?” She rephrased.

“It’s fake power,” Draco said. “Of course, it’s easier to take your ideas to the Dark Lord, but you couldn’t possibly pass anything without his consent.”

She desperately wanted to ask him what sort of things he’d want to pass that the Dark Lord would never approve of, but now wasn’t appropriate— not with all of these people watching them.

“Why do you ask?”

“Theo said Cassius Warrington is after Minister. He says you don’t really get along,” Amora replied. “It just made me wonder.”

Draco huffed. “If he becomes Minister, I think I’ll off myself.”

Amora swatted his chest. Perhaps too roughly, because there were a few gasps among their newfound audience. Amora watched wives’ heads snap in the direction of their husbands, as if to see how they’d react.

Draco grabbed her hand in the air. She thought he was going to squeeze it or tell her off, something to make a point in front of all of these people. Her heart stopped, but rather than discipline her, he intertwined their fingers and twirled her again.

She just about melted.

D.M + A.B

“Oh my gosh,” Amora groaned, sighing in relief as she yanked her last shoe off.

Her foot was red, and her toes felt crooked. She massaged them, glancing up at Draco, who was ridding himself of his suit jacket. She gave him a pursed-lipped smile when their eyes met.

“I don’t wear heels,” she disclaimed.

Draco chuckled and loosened his tie. “I recall.”

She shrugged off her bridal cape, her back cracking in the process. Amora hummed, running her hands down her bare arms.

“I’ll be having a lovely bubble bath tonight,” she said. “I think I’ve earned it.”

Draco didn’t say anything but slipped his own shoe off. He pulled his wand out of his pocket, and both their shoes vanished, most likely to their own wardrobes. Amora wasn’t sure when he got so good at nonverbal spells, but it was extremely impressive. He’d also done it wandlessly before, when Madam Jeanne had been horrible to her after the wedding ceremony.

“Here.” Draco pulled a second wand out of his pocket– hers. “You might want this back.”

Amora grinned and could have jumped up and down on the spot as she took it from him. She smoothed it through her palm, ran her fingers over its grooves.

“Try something.”

Amora glanced up at him. “Like what?”

“Something you couldn’t do with that training wand of yours.”

Amora thought for a few moments. So many things flashed through her head— generic spells she had been dying to use. Alohamora, Colloportus, Muffliato…

“With my wand back, can I apparate again?” She thought aloud.

Draco hesitated. “You can, but as soon as you apparate somewhere, the Ministry is alerted.”

“Is that just for women?”

“What do you think?”

Amora rolled her eyes. “Do they track the spells I use with my wand?”

He shook his head. “There’s no way of doing that. Unless, of course, you were taken in— then they can see your spell history, but that was already a thing, as you know.”
Amora hummed. “Well, isn’t this overwhelming?” She said sarcastically. “I have the world at my fingertips. What to do…”
“Go and have your bath. The world will be waiting for you when you need it,” Draco chuckled and hung his jacket in the wardrobe by the door.

Amora grinned. “When you put it like that,” she said, and turned on her heel. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She raced up the stairs, nearly tripping over her dress several times. Amora headed straight to the bathroom to run the water. She grabbed all of the bath salts and the bubbles on the side and chucked them in the bathtub, inhaling the smell of jasmine and lavender, this time not from a calming draught potion.

She reached around to pull her dress off, pausing when she realised she could not reach all of the intricate lace pieces and buttons. Amora cursed to herself, and tried again, and again, and again.

As far as she knew, there was no spell that would get the dress off without either making it disappear or ruining it. She considered it for a few long moments, sat on the chair in the corner of the room, hiking her dress up and down and left and right, her hair a mess, and sweat forming on the back of her neck.

She huffed, becoming a blur of white clothes and dark hair, flustered and embarrassed, the image of dread.

She couldn’t hurt Madam Opal in such a way.

Amora pursed her lips and paced for at least another ten minutes. She pinched her fingers together, racked her brain for something, anything, and then decided to bite the bullet.

There was no way of changing her mind after she opened the bathroom door, finding Draco on the landing, about to open his bedroom door. His head craned over his shoulder when he heard her. He held a glass of firewhisky in one hand, his tie undone but chucked over his neck.

Amora hesitated, lingering in the doorway, and she wished that the calming draught hadn’t worn off the hour before. She could really do with some courage.

“I, erm— I could, errr…” Amora’s face was bright red. “I could do with a hand getting this unbuttoned at the back.”

For a moment, Draco also appeared flustered, a cough escaping his lips, his silver eyes widening. He smacked his fist over his chest and flickered between her dress and her face, as if trying to truly read her.

“I–” Draco hesitated, and then he stepped forward. “Are you sure?”

Amora chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t know how else I’ll get out. It took about three people to put it on me. I don’t fancy bathing in it.”

He crinkled his nose. “No, no, well I suppose— I suppose that would be incredibly…” He drifted off, as if unable to finish his own sentence, placing his firewhisky on the nearest cabinet. “Turn around.”

His tone was softer than Amora thought it might be. Maybe she expected him to be irritated by her question, or perhaps she thought he would tease her relentlessly, and she’d never hear the end of it.

Amora did as she was told, and Draco used his leg to swiftly move the skirt of her dress out of his way so he could stand close behind her. Cold fingers on her neck made her breath hitch, her lips parting, waiting and waiting, and he pushed her hair from her back over her shoulder. The feeling of his hand in her hair, even if for only a second, nearly made her shiver.

She felt him stiffen.

“Amora,” Draco said. “The top half is… backless. You’d like me to undo the bottom half?”

Amora nearly chuckled despite her nerves. “Yes, I know what my dress looks like. I can’t get the bottom part. It’s all buttons and loops, and they’re so small. I can’t reach behind and fiddle.”

Draco hummed. “Just checking,” he muttered quietly.

She could feel the ghost of his hands on her bare skin as he began to work the buttons at the bottom of her dress. The fine pieces of threads were coming undone from her waist, and she already felt like she could breathe better. For a few moments, Amora wasn’t thinking about how mortifying the entire thing was, but how nice it felt to feel like she was in her own skin again.

She groaned, and Draco paused.

“Don’t.” It was so quiet and yet hard that Amora nearly didn’t hear him, but she had, and she knew he was serious.

Her face felt hot. “Sorry,” Amora murmured. “Just feels good— like taking your hair down from a ponytail.”

“I can’t relate to that, I’m afraid,” Draco said, and continued his work. “This button is tricky. Should I cut it with magic?”

Amora gasped. “Madam Opal would kill me!”

She could practically feel him rolling his eyes. “How would she notice one teeny, tiny button missing?”

“That woman knows her dresses back to front. This one took her weeks– day and night,” Amora explained, and thought about the woman that she hadn’t seen in such a long time. She missed her company. “Besides, you can’t just cut a dress worth twenty thousand Galleons.”

“You definitely can,” Draco muttered, but he didn’t take out his wand to perform any spells and worked a little harder, until a minute later, he got the button undone. “There. Do you think you can wriggle out now?”

Amora cupped her chest as and shifted her hips, feeling the dress spill downwards. She hugged it closer to her and turned to face Draco, nodding.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Draco swallowed, his gaze flickering down at her, and then he looked behind her, at her bath.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Enjoy your excessive bubble bath.”

“It’s hardly excessive. I have no candles, no prosecco.”

“Would you like all of those things?”

Amora rolled her eyes. “Are you offering?”

“I don’t know about prosecco, but I have a bottle of champagne my mother kept for a special occasion,” Draco said and scratched the back of his neck. “A wedding is quite special, isn’t it?”

Amora’s eyes bulged, and she gasped. “I won’t drink your mother’s special champagne in the bath! That’s not special.”

“Think of it as another wedding gift,” he shrugged playfully. “I detest the taste of champagne.”

Amora furrowed her brows. “You don’t think your mother would be upset if she found out you just opened her champagne for me?”

Draco laughed. “Amora, she loved you.”

Amora’s frown only deepened. She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. “No, no. It feels wrong. I can’t— I can’t remember that.”

Draco faltered slightly, his amused smile fading. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not—” Amora said. “It’s terrifying! I’m— I’m terrified that one day I’m going to wake up, and I won’t remember my own mother. Or– or I’ll forget my childhood altogether, Cedric, and my time at Hogwarts. Our friends. How to use magic. My own name.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. He gripped her hand to stop it from swinging around.

“That won’t happen,” he swore.

Amora grimaced. “You don’t know that. How could you possibly know?”

Draco didn’t say anything.

She scoffed, “Exactly.”

“I can’t let it happen,” Draco seethed, and Amora was overstruck by how emotional he looked. “I’ll reverse this. Before it gets worse, okay? I won’t let you lose yourself.”

Amora swallowed. Draco had this way of making her feel so indescribably safe. It was terrifying how easily she could melt into him, how much he felt like home. His words felt like a prayer to her. She hung onto every single one of them. She wanted to believe them so badly.

She reached up, grabbed his face with one hand, her other keeping her dress in place, and she pulled him into a kiss. Draco kissed her back hungrily, and he tasted faintly of firewhisky, the intoxicating flavour lingering on her lips and passing back to him.

His tongue dabbed at her lips, and she opened her mouth, inviting him closer. She tilted her head as he sucked on her bottom lip, his top teeth clamping down and dragging in a way that made her whimper.

Draco’s hand reached for hers, the one keeping her dignity intact, and he tugged it very, very gently. Amora pulled away, her dark eyes a pool of lust and shyness, but one look at his swollen lips and tousled hair, and she released her dress.

He reconnected their mouths, like she was a lifeline and he was dying, like she was the last bit of air on earth. Draco was hungry, he was eager, his hands helping her dress with its slow descent to the ground, pooling around her feet.

Amora felt her breath hitch. She stood in nothing but her underwear in front of him— a lacy white pair the girls had given her so it wouldn’t show beneath the dress– and he was fully clothed in his shirt and slacks. She felt so, so vulnerable.

He pressed her against him, his hand scrunching the back of her hair, his lips moving, tugging, pulling, and working. Amora gasped as he pulled her head back and devoured her neck next, sucking and kissing the spot beneath her ear that always had her seeing stars as a teenager. Some things didn’t change, and some things Draco clearly didn’t forget.

His hand caressed her bare waist, his leg slipping between her thighs, teasing, and she gripped him hard, and if she had less dignity, she would have begged him there and then to just fucking do something.

“Amora,” he rasped, his forehead falling against hers, his eyes raking over her body. “You— You’re perfect.”

Amora gasped, her head tilting back, allowing him full access to her neck as he devoured her. She clawed at his shirt-clad back, then shaky fingers reached around to desperately get the buttons undone.

Draco hummed against her mouth, pressing her against the wall, a picture frame rattling near her head, and used one hand to try and help her with his buttons, the other pinning her waist where he wanted her.

Amora lost patience, huffing as she tugged hard at the last few buttons. They flew across the corridor, pattering and rolling away, long gone, and now Draco stood, his chest heaving, and more importantly, on display.

He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Nothing about Draco was weak. He was broad and strong, with soft and yet defined muscles, and his hands were huge as he cupped her face, lips eagerly attacking hers.

“Off,” Amora muttered and tugged again. “Off,” she repeated when he ignored her.

Draco stilled. Amora kissed his collarbone, where one of his scars started. They were white, even more than his skin, and looked like lightning strikes. They looked bigger at Hogwarts— somehow, he had grown into them.

“I’ve seen them before,” Amora murmured, and caressed the one by his hip bone, the one that used to hurt him sometimes when he lay on it at night. “And you’re perfect, too.”

Draco’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He watched her carefully, suddenly a shell of the man he had been a few moments ago.

“It’s not those scars, I know you’ve seen them,” Draco said.

Amora furrowed her brows, but it dawned on her the second she went to say something else. Her breath caught midair, and she eyed his sleeve. The one time he’d been shirtless and come storming into her room after her nightmare, it had been too dark for her to see it.

His dark mark.

Amora pursed her lips. “Draco…” She swallowed. “I’ve seen war. I know what you’ve done. A symbol is a symbol. I’ve seen it before.”

Draco tugged his shirt off. “Probably not like this,” his voice was weak, broken.

Amora’s breath hitched at the numerous scars decorating his dark mark. It was dark and violent on his beautiful skin, not to mention covered in pink and white jagged lines going in all sorts of directions.

She felt sick to her stomach.

“I did it when I was at school,” Draco disclaimed. “I haven’t in years. But it’s something I’m ashamed of. I don’t know why I bothered to mutilate my body, I was stupid and dramatic. Now I carry a constant reminder of how— of how weak I was, how I couldn’t even handle—”
Amora pressed her hand to his mouth. He looked at her face for the first time since he had revealed his scars. He swallowed at the water in her dark eyes. His hand touched her arm, and she lowered it.

“If you had told me— If I had known you were doing this to yourself—”

“It wasn’t about you,” Draco said, and Amora frowned.

“No, yes, sorry. Sorry,” she grew flustered, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to make it about myself— I just— I feel awful. You shouldn’t feel weak. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your– your scars. Any of them.”

Draco hummed.

Amora grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. “Don’t argue with me, Malfoy,” she scolded gently. “I know what I am talking about. I always do.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his lips were nearly smirking. Amora ran her hands up and down his biceps. She squeezed and watched him glance down at himself, at her, admiring him, at them.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

Something in his eyes changed. He whirled her around to face the bathroom.

“In the bath,” he said behind her ear. “Let me get the champagne.”

D.M + A.B

Amora laughed and did as she was told, looking away from Draco as he stripped off his black briefs and looped his leg over the bathtub, disappearing beneath the bubbles. She looked back at him in time to accept the champagne flute he was handing out to her, her grin contagious– even he was laughing.

This was the last sort of bath Amora had expected to be having half an hour ago, but she was excited, and everything felt so alive for the first time in a very long time.

“This may be the most romantic thing we have ever done,” Amora acknowledged.

“Second most romantic thing after getting married,” Draco pointed out.

Amora quirked an eyebrow. “I think this does trump it.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Your hair’s going curly,” Draco said, and he reached forward, hot bubbles whooshing against Amora’s chest, his fingers wrapping around the tiny curls by her ears.

Amora huffed. “It’s the heat of the bath. My hair is so short there, it just—” she whirled a finger around it. “It’s really annoying. I can’t get it to stop.”

“I like it,” Draco murmured, and he sipped his champagne. His eyes lit up, and he hummed, drinking some more, and then he smiled easily. “Mother was right. It is delicious.”

Amora tried some of her own. It tasted like both citrus and floral, perhaps more on the pear side, and Amora decided that Draco was right— his mother did have good taste in her alcohol.

“Look at the name on the bottle, Draco.”

He glanced over at it, sitting on the stool.

Cuvée d’Amor

“It’s got my name in it,” she grinned.

Draco stilled. He stared at it longer. Then, he broke into a breathy laugh, his smile beaming, and he reached across the mountain of bubbles to kiss her again.

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

May seemed to rush by, which made a great change from the rest of the time Amora had spent at Malfoy Manor so far. She had fashioned a shorter summer dress from some of her other dresses and stitched the excess material into shorts and tops. Time went faster when she gardened the Muggle way, spending most of her days in the flower beds or tending to magical herbs in the greenhouse.

Amora dusted the dirt from her knees when she heard a noise from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the back of her shorts to Scourgify later. She smiled when she saw Draco had returned from work, his back to her as he grabbed a glass of water and chugged the entire thing. 

“Hi,” Amora said, “Those lavender sprigs I put out last night actually did work to stop the flitterby moths from eating the chomping cabbages. I’m going to grow some lavender towards the back of the garden, but I don’t actually know much about growing lavender, so I’ll have to find a book.”

Amora watched uneasily as Draco’s hands clenched the edge of the countertop, his wedding band glinting in the light. 

“I made meringue for pudding. I’ve picked lots of fruit from the garden, so we can have that with it. So maybe it’s more of a pavlova— but is it a pavlova if the fruit is served on the side? I’m not sure what qualifies as a pavlova, and what is simply a meringue with fruit. Or if there’s more of a difference, I don’t know…”

She cleared her throat as he tapped his finger down, the metal making a clinging sound. Her hand reached forward to touch his arm, but her nerves pulled her backwards and kept her feet grounded where they were. 

“I’m sorry,” she hesitated. “I should have asked how your day at work has been.”

Draco sighed heavily, his head hanging lower, and then he turned to face her. His eyes were cast downwards, and he looked rough— his skin drained and his hair messy. Amora swallowed and dabbed her lips with her tongue. 

“Did something happen?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

Everything had been going so well for the last couple of weeks. Their routine had been great. They’d eat breakfast together, Draco would even kiss her before he left for work, and Amora would spend her day in the sun, or reading, or sewing, or even writing poetry. Then she’d cook or bake or make a new drink. They’d try it when he got home from work, and then, for the rest of their evening, they would either talk, or read together, or sit in the garden, and Amora was always under the impression that he liked pretending this was normal, and he liked not talking about work.

 Sometimes, they would even kiss, and once they nearly made it to Amora’s bedroom, but they had tripped snogging up the stairs, and ended up laughing into one another so hard that Amora had cried.

“Have you not read the Daily Prophet today?” Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Amora’s face creased, and she shook her head. “No. Not today. What was in it?” 

“Well, Rita Skeeter wrote a rather informative article about modest hairstyles that will keep you cool this summer,” Draco said, dripping with his usual sarcasm, and Amora felt a rip in her stomach, in which she realised the honeymoon period may be over. “A new restaurant has opened in Hogsmeade. Completely Pureblood owned, you’ll be pleased to know.”

Amora scowled slightly. “Okay, can you get to the point, please?”

“The new Minister of Magic has been elected,” Draco said, and Amora’s eyes nearly bulged out of her eye sockets. “And it’s none other than that arsehole Warrington.”

Amora thought for a second and gasped. “Theo told me he’s in charge of inventing new dark spells.”

“He is sick,” Draco spat. “That man once created a spell that makes your bones twist inside your body. Eventually, your ribcage will twist in on your lungs and puncture them. You’ll choke on your own blood and feel the entire thing– if you don’t faint from the pain first.”

Amora subconsciously touched her side and winced. “That’s… That’s horrible.”

“He has no mercy,” Draco swore. “He is as ruthless as the Dark Lord himself. And he has the creativity to pair with it.” 

Amora felt ice in her blood. Her hands were nearly shaking, her heart racing. “But– But you said that the Minister of Magic has no real power. You told me that. So did Theo, I think. So, nothing too bad could happen, could it? Things will stay the same?”

It was ironic and terrifying to think it could get worse from here— that Amora could one day look back and think how easy she had it. She knew it was possible; it seemed to happen to her all of the time. Every time she thought it couldn’t get worse, it always did. 

Draco sighed heavily and rubbed his hand across his face. “I don’t know. They don’t have power over everything, but they have direct contact with the Dark Lord. Their opinion matters. The Dark Lord knows a lot, but he can’t see everything. Warrington’s corrupt. Nothing is off the table.”
Heat rose behind her eyes. She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. She cast her eyes to the floor rather than Draco’s frowning face. It was easier.

“He doesn’t like you, does he?” 

Draco swallowed. “He thinks I’m weak. He thinks the spells my army uses are too tame. That we are too forgiving, too merciful. The interrogation sector at the ministry loves him.”

Amora chewed her bottom lip. “But— your army is not merciful.” And suddenly, blood was rushing to her head. “You—  Murder is not merciful. I have nearly had my face blown up by Death Eaters. All I could taste was blood, and I couldn’t see. I nearly went blind–”

“Amora—” He listened to her words grow faster, her body language more frantic. 

She cut him off, “When Leon was dragged off by werewolves, and—  and— he would never have survived if Blaise and I hadn’t found him.” Amora choked. “And I will never—  I— I will never forget seeing my best friend’s insides lying next to him on the pavement. And he was conscious . He was asking me what was happening— he— he—”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, and he yanked Amora close to him, his large hand shielding the back of her head, muffling her sobs against his robes. 

Amora pushed away from him. “No, no, I don’t want a hug,” she sniffled and wiped her face with her shaky fingers. “All of that is awful. It’s horrible. Watching my friends not return from a mission was gut-wrenching, and listening to their families scream themselves to sleep was worse. But— but it’s not even that. It’s not even the soldiers dying that gets to me, we signed up for that, it was— it was the– the murder of innocent people. Children in safe houses. It was— it was finding them, and matching names to faces, but not– not even being able to—”

She couldn’t breathe. Amora couldn’t believe it. It was the closest she had come to breaking down completely in front of him, and she had been triggered so quickly by the idea of somebody more brutal coming into power. Her skin was crawling, having been touched by the man who had led it all. She wanted to get away from him suddenly. 

Amora smacked her closed fist against her forehead. “How could I fucking forget?” She seethed through gritted teeth. “How could I just forget that you’re the one who— That you have killed so many fucking—”

“I have never ordered attacks against civilians,” Draco warned loudly, his eyes piercing and deadly serious. “I have never ordered my army to kill children. Never.”

Amora swallowed the lump in her throat. “Who did it then? You’re the High fucking Commander!”

She had just been cooking for him! Every single day, she baked for him, tidied up after herself, kept his mother’s garden tidy, and harvested ingredients for his potions! Had she forgotten who he was? Had her brain started to forget? Was she forgetting? Was she—

“The Dark Lord can intervene whenever he wishes!” Draco snapped. “He could turn around and lead my army into a battle against a million Order members— I’d have to be prepared in the hour. I can’t just— I can’t refuse.”

“Because he would kill you?” Amora huffed. “Do you not think— Don’t you think that your life maybe doesn’t equate to the lives of dozens of children and their families?”

Draco moved forward, red with rage. “If I refused, he would kill me and just turn to the next person to do it. And Warrington wouldn’t try to make it as quick as possible— he’d torture, he’d paint the town with the bloodshed. And the information I have— the things they would find if they ever killed me— is worth everything. Everything .” 

Amora pushed his chest. “What information?”

“You know I hate myself more and more every day?” Draco seethed, and she watched his nose curl so much that she wondered if it was a way of keeping the tears at bay. His voice sounded thick. “I can’t sleep knowing what I have okayed. I am responsible for the murder of so many fucking people. My hands will never be clean for as long as I live. I know that. I know that, alright?”

Millions of thoughts were flashing through her head. Does being conscious, being self-aware, mean exemption from blame? Should it make her feel more sorry for him? Her morals and her feelings felt like they were at a constant battle when it came to Draco Malfoy, and she despised the way this side made her feel. Her hands felt bloody, too. 

Draco touched the heels of his palms to his eyes and cursed. “Fuck. Fuck sake. Amora, leave me be.”

Amora huffed, though her frown was weary. “Don’t tell me to—”

“Just go!” He demanded and waved his hand. 

She caught a glimpse of his red eyes and only glared harder. “Why did you do it!?” Amora yelled at him. “Why did you let yourself get promoted, why did you take on such a big fucking role in aiding this stupid fucking war if it’s killing you so much!?”

“Stop—”
“You’ve done it to yourself!” Amora seethed, and she wasn’t sure if she was more angry at him or herself, and if it was because he actually made her feel sorry for him, and because she was angry for all of the people he’d hurt. “You did— you ruined it— you— you—”

Suddenly, his jaw was so tight, and he looked like he could burst. “Stop!” He yelled, “Shut up!”

“Have you ever seen the aftermath?” Amora’s voice broke. “That’s one thing I don’t think I’ll ever forget. The hospital wings. The orphanages. Have you ever had to hold a baby and console it while your friends covered the bodies of their parents?”

Draco slammed a fist down on the countertop so hard that it rattled the entire kitchen and made Amora visibly flinch. He was breathing hard, his back facing away from her, and he sucked in a large breath, remaining still for a few moments. 

“War is not personal,” his voice was eerily calm, and Amora could have cursed at him— he was Occluding. That was part of his script. “I have never created a plan that involved children. Never targeted those remaining neutral. Never. When I have been forced to send my people to… to eliminate Muggleborns, I have tried— I have—” He swallowed. “You would never understand. You don’t understand me.”

“The information you have,” Amora croaked. “Does it save people?”

Draco closed his eyes. “It will save more people than I have ever hurt.”

Amora’s lips wobbled. “Draco, are you… Have you defected?”

His face turned severe in a split second. “Never ask me that,” he spat. “Never.”

“I want to understand!” Amora pulled at her hair. “Because nothing seems to make sense! I don’t understand why you’re the High Commander, why you assassinate people and lead an army, but you don’t agree with the Dark Lord’s entire regime, and— and you seem to let people get away with things that could get them killed—”

“Just you—”
“You are complicated in more ways than I can remember,” Amora said, “I can’t keep up. You just admitted you want to save people. Which people?”

“I want to end the war,” Draco said sternly. “ That is why I do what I do. You get nowhere quickly if you aren’t at the top.”

Amora swallowed. “What are you planning? Why—”

“Amora, enough,” Draco’s voice was hoarse as he grabbed his glass and refilled his water. “It has been insightful speaking with you this evening. I’ll be in my office preparing for my meeting with Warrington tomorrow.”

“I can help you come up with questions,” Amora said, “I have loads you could ask him about.”

Draco scoffed lightly. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Amora’s lips wobbled. She touched them, and she wasn’t sure if it was to stop them or just hide that it was uncontrollable. She felt her eyes welling with tears, the lump in her throat massive now. 

“Fuck!” Amora cried, and she slammed her hand down on the counter, wincing at the impact and letting it sting all the way up to her eyes. 

She was terrified and confused and hurt. Everything seemed to ache.

D.M + A.B

Light filtered through the glass-stained windows of the library, burning Amora’s face as she flickered to life. A thin blanket that she had not been using the night before was draped over her body, and her heart dropped at the reminder of the previous night’s conversation. The clock read that Draco must have gone to work an hour ago.

Amora pulled herself off the sofa and washed her creaky bones in a warm bath. As soon as she was rejuvenated, she had her green tea, tended to her plants, and stared at the meringues and fruit she’d prepared the day before. Amora turned her back and sat on the outside bench with her notebook and quill. 

His silver is steel now 

I remember them being pools I wanted to swim in once 

Now I’m scared to drown because 

I think there are monsters down there 

Ready to tug me beneath the surface 

I was born in oceans and pools and water

I am used to jumping over waves,

Breathing in mouthfuls of salt,

and stepping on sharp stones,

I always went back in because

It was always worth the beauty 

In the end 

She huffed. It wasn’t her best work, but it was tricky, and she liked the challenge. Talking about Shakespeare had made her think about sonnets and scripts, it had inspired her to try something new, something that meant something to her.

Amora sighed, flipped the little notebook closed, and ran her thumb over its dark leather. She sat back and watched butterflies circle some of the nearby shrubs. A golden one flew right by her, fluttering by her hands as she lifted them, and then drifting back to its rabble. 

Amora grimaced when she realised how alike her life had become to that of some sort of Muggle princess story. She had read Beauty and the Beast, and Snow White, and she had always been glad she had her magic—magic was freedom, after all—but now it was controlled, and here she sat, in a man’s manor, nothing but a housewife. 

It was not like she could just open the doors to Draco’s bedroom or his office; she needed his wand so that his wards would not be alerted. She was stuck. Well and truly stuck. 

Amora moved back into the house. Made some more tea. Stared out of the window while she drank it. Wondered when she had forgotten why she was here. Tried to remember what she was fighting for— who she was fighting for. 

The next few days were the exact same. 

Draco hardly spoke to her. He looked exhausted. Amora began to read the Daily Prophet every time he went to work— he didn’t bother vanishing them away anymore. 

On day one, a picture of Warrington and the Dark Lord was on the front page. The Dark Lord had created a statement ensuring his trust in Warrington and that they would be working closely together. Amora had stared at the photo of Voldemort for maybe fifteen minutes, horrified, wondering how he had become even more reptilian over the years, his eyes glowing red, his nose merely two slits on his face, his hands huge and spindly as they shook Warrington’s. 

On day two, Warrington did another interview directly with the Daily Prophet, in which he promised he would work closely with the Dark Lord to combat ongoing issues. Amora knew what that meant—stricter laws, no leniency, and most likely corruption for those at the top. 

Day three: Warrington announced that when leaving their homes, women must have signed permission from their patriarch on them at all times. Anybody had the right to check them. If a woman were caught outside “illegally”, there were different punishment levels based on the offence level. Amora shuddered at “magical branding”. 

“This is not to punish you, ladies,” Warrington said, “This is necessary to ensure the protection of your bodies, of your blood. Without you, there would be no children, and our society would crumble. We need to keep you safe. You are vital in the Dark Lord’s plan. Please, see this for what it is— protection.”

Amora read the article and felt sick to her stomach. She’d stabbed her fork right through the moving image of him that morning, and Draco eyed her cautiously when he got home, as if ready for her to blow up on him, but this time she was the first to disappear upstairs without a word. 

By day four, Warrington announced that rounds by the Overseer of Compliance, Bellatrix Lestrange, and her Vowkeepers would become much more regular. Anything Muggle was going to be destroyed. Anybody hiding Muggle “propaganda” would be publicly punished. He demonstrated by murdering a wizard who had been found with Muggle technology in his home— and there was no need for a simple Avada Kedavra, Warrington had forced a potion down the man’s throat, one that made his eyes bleed and his skin melt until he was a puddle. 

Amora threw the paper in the bin and curled up in the library that day, her eyes burning into the floorboards, her plants and her tea long forgotten, the feeling of dread making a home in the pit of her stomach. 

Draco found her there when he arrived home from work. He crouched down in front of her and tapped her arm. 

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer than it had been all week. 

Amora blinked at him. “This is horrible,” her voice was scratchy from being silent all day. “Why did he make that man— how could you do that to some—”

“I know,” Draco breathed, and scratched the back of his neck as he sat down in front of her, folding his legs. “He— er, once he tried to get me to give them to the army— he found a way to turn it to a gas, like Deadman’s Draught sort of thing— did a demonstration for me on a traitor. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for weeks. I had a few nightmares, even. The Dark Lord never approved it, he was too busy, but I always claim it’s a waste of money and time and resources brewing potions like that, that Avada Kedavara is more effective, and it’s what the army knows best—”

Amora scrunched her face. “That man is a psychopath.”

Draco’s silver eyes flickered all over her face. He hesitated. “I need your help.”

She appeared faintly surprised, glancing at him with interest. “With what?”

The very last thing Amora had expected Draco to do was lead her up the library staircase and produce a key from the pocket of his black trousers. Amora swallowed when he glanced at her, noting the uncertainty on her face, and pushed the key into the lock.

“Magic key,” Draco said. “No amount of spells could get this door down.”

“What’s in there?” Amora breathed.

Draco barked a short laugh. “You will find out in literal seconds, Amora.”

His lips forming the shapes that created her name still made her freeze for a moment. She still felt that odd pang in her chest, even if they had kissed, and cuddled, and bathed together. It still felt like intimacy’s rawest form in the strangest way. 

He pushed the door open, and the aroma of book dust nearly knocked her backwards. It was so strong it made her nose crinkle, an involuntary gasp passing through her as she stepped inside, finding a small room outlined with bookshelves.

“Books,” Amora said, and then she furrowed her eyebrows and looked at him. “ Books . A secret door that opens with a magic key, and it’s hiding more books? Does your office even have a magic key?”

She already knew it didn’t.

“They’re—”

“Muggle books,” Amora gasped once her eyes settled on a row of Jane Austen books. “You— Why do you have Muggle books? Why are you hiding them?”
Amora drifted over and plucked a Charles Dickens novel very carefully from its space on the shelf. She flipped it over, noticed that no dust sat on it, and realised they must be charmed just like all of the other books to stay preserved.

“I’ve never even seen half of these,” Amora murmured. “I wanted to read these so badly, but I could never afford books on the money the Order could give us for treats. The Order had a library— it was people’s personal books they’d managed to take with them, and some from charity shops and those little public library box things Muggles have sometimes. They were mostly all wizarding ones. Some of the Muggle ones were really silly. Pansy and I–” Amora laughed and shook her head. “And everybody else, we’d reenact scenes. I think it was Blaise who used to do a really good male protagonist. Or Leon. Either way, it was—” she laughed again. “It was hilarious.”

Draco’s lips formed a thin smile. “Maybe I should have let you up here sooner.”

“Why now?” Amora asked, and then it dawned on her, and her face dropped. “Oh. Oh, God.”

“They won’t be erased completely,” Draco said. “They live on for the Muggles. They could never get rid of it all.”

Amora’s heart lurched, and she shook her head. “To ban literature is to ban expression and freedom and culture. This is art. It tells stories about— about people we could never meet.”

“I locked this all away when the war broke out,” Draco said, and skimmed his fingers along the spines of the books. All in perfect condition. “My mother liked Muggle literature. Plenty of these are first editions. They’re worth a lot to Muggles. Father would buy her entire collections for birthdays and anniversaries. He thought it was a stupid hobby, but he liked having rare things. Liked owning things that are worth a lot.”

Amora frowned softly. She put the book back where it had come from. “Could we just donate it all?”

“I can’t risk it,” Draco shook his head, and Amora could detect the disappointment from where she stood. “I’d rather do that, but I won’t be made into a puddle on a stage because I wouldn’t burn a few books.”

Amora’s heart sank, but she knew what he was saying. She skimmed more, glanced up at the tallest shelf, and tried to read all of the titles. 

“Have you read lots of them?” Amora asked after a moment or two. 

Draco hummed. “Less than I would have liked. Muggle literature isn’t my favourite. I don’t… I don’t always get the references.” He seemed embarrassed to admit the last part.

Amora gave him a half smile. “Neither do I. I do now more than ever— going into Muggle London sometimes and everything, but I’d just ask Kathy or my mother. Kath used to get so irritated with me when I’d ask her things like what a remote control was when she was nearly asleep.”

Draco’s nose scrunched. “And what exactly is a… remote… control?”

Amora frowned, too. “It’s got something to do with tellies. You remember that box I had in my living room when you came over on my birthday? That was a telly. And I told you how it doesn’t even work— it was never powered— but mother liked having it. Well, Muggles do this thing called ‘plugging it in’ to some sort of hole in the wall, and it gives them ‘power’ to see moving images. A remote control can change what moving images they see.”

Draco was silent for a few moments. “Were those what those huge moving signs in London were? In that square? With all the different moving images?”

“They must have been. Giant tellies,” Amora hummed and thought to herself. “I’ve never actually seen one working before.”

“Curious,” Draco shrugged. “Anyway, I liked some of the older books more. They don’t seem to have as much Muggle technology, it’s easier to follow. I think the more time goes on, the more different we’ve become.”

Amora nodded. “I know what you mean.” Then she glanced around. “How did you get away with having all of these books before? When did they first make the ban on Muggle things?”

“My parents lived here,” Draco said, “Bellatrix did her rounds, but she only spent her slot here talking to my mother, of course. She never came back to check on us. Why would she think we’d have anything Muggle-related here? Or that we’re breaking any of the laws and rules?”

Amora supposed that made sense. “Even now? After your father went away to live in the Minister’s House?”

“I am my Auntie Bella’s darling nephew, so of course not,” Draco smirked teasingly. “But on an honest note, I am High Commander. I’m not part of her rounds. If she’s ever turned up, it’s been announced. I’ve been able to transfigure things like I did on our wedding day.”

“But with Warrington as Minister, you’re not exempt,” Amora finished for him and then inhaled a deep breath. “So, where do we start? How do you want to do it?”

Draco sighed. “I think I might just Incendio the entire thing. The room’s built like a safe of sorts. Nothing can get in, nothing can get out.”

Amora raised an eyebrow. “Dragonsteel.”

“Exactly,” Draco said. “I thought you might want to see it all before it’s gone forever. I could tell it was killing you not knowing what was behind the door.”

“Hmpff,” she laughed and rolled her eyes. “You could have told me sooner. I would have started here.”

She pulled out The Tempest, then raked her finger across Hamlet, Twelfth Night, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and King Lear. Her heart panged. Romeo and Juliet. And then, next to it, Romeo and Juliet again. She knelt on the floor to grab it. 

“Why do you have two copies?” Amora asked him softly.

His silver eyes bulged, an image of true shock, and he darted forward, tearing the second one from her hands and squeezing it. Draco almost looked worried.

“I forgot this was in here,” he said, and he grimaced. “The rest of it can all go.”

“What’s so important about that copy in particular?” 

Draco looked like somebody had twisted something inside of him. “You don’t remember.” It wasn’t a question. 

Amora deflated. “What did I forget?”

He shook his head and tucked the book into his robes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” Amora argued and climbed to her feet. “What is it that I forgot?”
“Honestly—”

“It does!” Amora knew what he was going to say before he finished his sentence. “I am guessing from the way you’re hiding it that you plan on not getting rid of it. Are you seriously going to risk your life over a Shakespeare play? I know it had meaning to us back—”

“You got me this for my sixteenth birthday,” Draco snapped. “And… And—”

“Can I see?” Amora asked softly when she realised he was getting too flustered to speak. 

Draco blinked but took the book back out and hesitated, passing it over to her. Amora smoothed it in her hands. It was thin and well-loved, certain pages bulging. Amora flipped open the first page. 

To my Draco, 

Happy Sixteenth. 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 

My love as deep. 

Yours, 

Amora x

She swallowed at the ink she’d written. Tucked in the second page, a photo. She wore his Slytherin jumper, and she was laughing at something he was saying from behind the camera. Her gaze daredn’t flicker from it, in case eye contact made him embarrassed enough to take it all away from her.

Amora turned to the prologue, her heart in her mouth when she realised parts were highlighted and annotated. He’d underlined parts, put question marks next to points, come back later with a different ink and crossed it out when he worked out what it meant. 

She chewed on her bottom lip, another photo wedged halfway between Act 1, Scene 5. This is where they fell in love. There was a photo of both of them. He was glancing down at her, and she was beaming up at him. They were at the Three Broomsticks, and one of their friends must have taken the photo. It looped around to show his lips tugging up into an easy smile, like she was the only person in the room that existed to him. 

A teardrop smacked right in the middle of it. Amora gasped and used her thumb to wipe it away, shaking her head at him. 

“I’m sorry,” she panicked. 

Draco looked overcome with emotion, too. “I have to get rid of it anyway. You’ll be hurt, too, if they find it in this house. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Can I read it tonight?” She whispered. 

He hesitated and then gave her a faint nod. “Burn it after.”

Amora looked down at it. “Don’t you want to read it one last time?”
His smile was mostly forced. “I think I have the entire thing memorised by now.”

Amora wasn’t sure what to say. 

D.M + A.B

Violent delights have violent ends.  

Draco had written that at the back of the book. Friar Laurence had said it to Romeo at some point, and it must have resonated deeply with Draco.

I defy you, stars. 

He blamed fate. He blamed himself. He was angry. It was clear he had come back to this after the war had kicked off. Amora wondered when the last time he had written in it was. Everything seemed so pessimistic. 

Amora pulled out the five photos he had tucked inside the book. She also found a note she had written to him, agreeing to meet him on the Astronomy Tower, and a daisy, wilted and pressed between the last few pages. She had no idea how sentimental he was. 

Amora found a book in her room and put the daisy inside it. Then, she crept into the garden that night and sat on the edge of the fountain to Incendio it. When she was left with nothing but ashes, she grimaced and Scourgified it all away. There was officially nothing left of Draco’s copy of Romeo and Juliet. 

Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick to her stomach. Reading through his annotations felt like reading it through his eyes. She swore that she could feel everything. It almost felt like she could see him sitting at his desk, his eyes darting across every word, drinking it in, sitting back and wondering what on earth Shakespeare was trying to say at times. 

She liked his annotations. It felt as though she was meeting Draco in another world. It felt like a taste of the one that she had fallen in love with. 

Amora turned back to the manor, ready to head to bed and hopefully get some sleep, when she noticed a light on the bottom floor was still on. She was quiet as she crept through the house, pushing the door to one of the rooms open, finding Draco with potions and books and ingredients surrounding him at a desk. If she remembered correctly, this used to be an empty room. 

“What are you doing?” She asked him softly. 

Draco’s eyes darted up at her, and he closed his notebook slowly. “Why are you awake? It’s nearly four in the morning.”

“I was reading,” Amora said knowingly. “It was insightful.”

“Hm,” he mumbled. “Good.”

She perched on the edge of the desk, looking down at him in his seat. “You’re potion-making.”

“Yes.”

“Anything that I can help with?”

“You were almost disastrous at potions,” Draco laughed. “I was the one who always had to pair up with you so you’d pass. Even then, I hardly trusted you to chop things right.”

“Hey!” Amora scolded and swatted his arm. “That’s not kind. Besides, I made about fifteen healing potions a day at the Cauldronworks. I got quite good at it.” 

Draco sent her a look. “I’m trying to invent a potion, so I don’t think you can help me there.”

“What are you trying to invent?”

“That’s for me to know.”

Amora rolled her eyes. “Top secret Death Eater stuff?”

Draco snorted. “No. I just don’t feel like explaining myself to you.”

His attention was on her entirely now. Amora pursed her lips and tapped her foot against his leg. 

“Why do you still have that book? And all of the photographs inside it?” Her voice was barely above a low murmur. 

Draco watched her carefully. “Because it’s important to me.”

She nearly gasped at his honesty and openness. It had been the last thing she was expecting. Maybe he was so tired and sleep-deprived that he hardly realised what he was saying. 

“When I first got here, you told me I was nothing special,” Amora whispered. “You said if anything happened to me, you wouldn’t flinch. I thought you had left me in the past.”
Draco contemplated her words for a few moments and ran a hand through his hair. That stupid strand she loved so much fell back in front of his forehead. 

“I lied.”

Amora’s hands trembled on her lap. “So you didn’t mean it after all?”
“Amora,” Draco swallowed. “If something happened to you, I wouldn’t sleep until you had justice. I will… I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

Amora ignored the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. She put aside the implications of his words. 

“You won’t tell me your secrets,” Amora whispered. 

“I won’t put you in harm's way,” Draco pointed out. “There’s a difference.”
“Tell me one thing,” Amora pleaded with him. “Tell me that you and I are on the same team.”

“In the long run,” he whispered back, and stood up, towering over her. He placed his hands on her hips. 

“What does that mean?”

“I promise you will find out,” Draco’s eyes pleaded with her. “Just please, don’t interfere. Don’t ask too many questions.”

“What if I can be helpful?” She felt like every other woman on the Dark Lord’s side. 

“You are keeping me sane,” Draco nearly chuckled, and his hands were in her hair, soothing and relaxing her. “And when I need your help, I ask. Like I did today.”

“I like it when you include me,” Amora murmured. “I feel like I’m losing my own sanity here.”

“Then take a break from your routine tomorrow. I’ll get you some money, open the Floo. You should go to Hogsmeade, talk to Madam Opal, get yourself a nice drink, do some shopping,” Draco said. “I’ll ask Flint if he’ll give Greengrass permission to go.”

Amora rolled her eyes. 

“You know what I mean,” he said. 

“Don’t ask,” she said. “I like Astoria, but I think it’d be nice to wander around alone for a bit. She talks too much about pregnancy and Marcus Flint for my liking.”

Draco snorted. “Fine. Be up early. I’ll have your portkey stone ready, and I’ll sign one of those slips for you to take.”

Amora chuckled and kissed his cheek. “Oh, my darling husband, thank you so, so much for allowing me to take a step off our property. That makes me feel so safe and loved.”

Draco’s smile was bitter but amused. “Anything for you, my darling wife.”

Amora went to bed to try and get a few hours of shut-eye before her trip to Hogsmeade in the morning. It took her a while to go to sleep, her head plagued with thoughts about Romeo and Juliet, Warrington’s potion, the other Muggle books, Draco’s potions, everything he had said to her, and Madam Opal. She tossed and she turned. 

She blamed the uneasy feeling on the emotional turmoil that day had been. Amora hoped her gut wasn’t trying to tell her anything.

Chapter Text

 LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Your portkey stone, the shopping list, your slips— and you have your wand, don’t you?”

Amora sent Draco a pointed look, lowering her eyebrows at him. She waved it around, a couple of sparks shooting from the top, and then shoved it away.

He gave a nod. “And you remember how the portkey works? You keep it in the cloth unless you need it. It will send you right back here, and I’ll be alerted.”

Amora sighed but couldn’t help but raise her brow and smile. “Of course I remember. Don’t worry.”

Draco looked conflicted for a few moments. She wondered if he doubted her. Which part, she wasn’t sure. Did he think her memory was short-term or something? Was he doubtful that she could look after herself if something happened? Or did he suspect she was up to something suspicious?

He sucked his bottom lip for a moment before exhaling, and then attempted to make his body appear looser. He grabbed her upper arm, squeezing it, lingering in her eyes.

Amora rolled hers and grabbed the inside of his robes, yanking him down to her height, pressing her mouth against his. Draco was quick to hold her other arm, as if stabilising himself, his eyes flickering shut as he kissed her back, hard. Amora pulled away and sent him a small grin.

“Have a good day at work,” Amora murmured, and wiped his bottom lip with her thumb where some of her lipstick had collected. “I’m off to play a good housewife now. Maybe I’ll pick out some sweets for my breadwinning husband with the money he has so kindly given me.”
Draco rolled his silver eyes at her. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Amora laughed wholeheartedly and did not miss how it startled him, his surprise melting into what appeared to be adoration. She’d be stupid to miss how he was obviously proud of himself, or perhaps just happy to hear her laugh.

She pinched his cheek. “See you later, Malfoy.”

Amora grabbed the Floo powder from the ceramic jar atop the fireplace. Draco watched her with twinkling eyes. Amora could have hyperventilated. She remained calm.

“See you soon, Malfoy,” he replied gently, and Amora grinned one more time before she threw her Floo powder down and transported to Hogsmeade.

D.M + A.B

The familiar sickness she often felt using the Floo faded after a few moments. Amora’s lips pursed together as she studied her surroundings. She stepped out of the way of the Floo, brushing her dress skirt down, ridding it of any crinkles that may have formed during her travels.

Hogsmeade was nearly empty, aside from a few old witches and wizards milling around. Amora saw a couple of women window shopping and some businessmen walking around, clearly on their way to work.

She swallowed and straightened her posture. Draco had asked her if she could pick up a few herbs from The Potion Cupboard, and she knew she wanted to go to Honeydukes and fill up a bag or two. At the top of her list of things was to find Madam Opal. It had been far too long since Amora had seen her.

The Potion Cupboard was closest, so Amora decided to go there first. It was almost tucked away in the row of shops, its dark purple paint peeling, the shop’s sign faded and unclear. The window was fogged out, but Amora could see greenery pushing up against it— she recognised a baneberry bush from its red pearls, and beside it, a belladonna plant— dark purple spheres gleaming in the dim light of the window, beautiful pink flowers growing outwards. Both plants were deadly if consumed.

Amora pushed open the old door. It groaned, the bell ringing out, and a short man glanced up from behind the counter. He yanked his glasses further down his nose and scowled at her. He was surrounded by shelves of plants and jars and vials and cauldrons, and other equipment. He even had some ready-made potions behind his counter.

“Your slip.”

She was nearly taken aback, but she quickly scrambled to grab it from her little bag, which had an extension charm on it. Amora pulled out the slip that Draco had signed, as if he were her parent and it was her third year at Hogwarts, and passed it to the man. He read it thoroughly and then looked at her.

“Mrs Malfoy,” he cleared his throat, and handed her papers back. “What can I do for you?”

Amora held her chin higher. “I have some ingredients I need.”

“Did the High Commander write you a list?”

Amora could have scowled. “I need bitterroot.”

Her eyes drifted over to the magenta lotus-like flowers growing low in some pots. Wordlessly, she moved over and then pointed at the largest one.

“That one will do,” she said.

The shopkeeper moved to stand beside her. “The bitterroot plant is very good for healing potions. It’s the main ingredient in a lot of bruise-healing potions.”

“I know,” she said. “I want the largest one.”

She had only known since last week, when she happened to stumble upon the flower during some Herbology research, but this shopkeeper needn’t know that.

“I also require squill bulbs. Three of them,” she said, and the man was quick to pluck them out of a large jar that sat nearby, popping them into a brown paper bag. “Germander, and valerian root.”

The man moved around effortlessly. He must have known the shop like the back of his hand, climbing up moving ladders, grabbing boxes, filling jars.

“Lovage,” Amora said.

The shopkeeper’s eyebrow rose, but he plucked some of the mint-like plants and put them into another bag.

“How curious,” he said.

“What?”

“You are purchasing lots of ingredients for healing potions,” the shopkeeper said, and handed her the bagged plant. “However, lovage is known for confusing consumers. It’s the main ingredient in the Befuddlement Draught!”

That was curious. Amora wondered what Draco was up to. She almost wanted to ask him again, but she was a little worried he would stop involving her in things like this.

Amora pursed her lips. “One more thing,” she ignored him. “You might not have any. I know it’s rare. Do you have any Wiggentree products? Seeds, roots, leaves, anything of that sort.”

She half-worried it was just a black market sort of thing now, but Draco had sent her to ask for it, and she was certain he wouldn’t put her in harm's way. Legend said that if a user was touching a Wiggentree, they were protected from dark creatures and magic.

The shopkeeper eyed her suspiciously. “It’s not common anymore, considering the acceptance of dark magic,” he said, but moved around the counter and dug beneath it, bringing out a vial of glowing seeds. “How much money did the High Commander give you?”

Amora clenched her jaw. “Enough, I’m sure.”

“For this vial, two thousand galleons.”

Her eyes nearly bulged. Her breath caught in her throat. What on earth did Draco need Wiggentree parts this badly for?

“Now, is that the price you offer anybody, or just the ones you know have money?” Amora huffed at him and folded her arms across her chest.

“Are you trying to barter with me?”

“I think you’re trying to rip me off,” Amora said matter-of-factly. “And my husband doesn’t take too kindly to those who attempt to take advantage of me.”

The shopkeeper scowled at her. “One-eighty.”

“One thousand.”

“One-fifty, and I won’t mention that High Commander Malfoy is purchasing a lot of suspicious ingredients,” the shopkeeper huffed.

Amora raised an eyebrow. “One-twenty and I won’t tell anybody you are growing hemlock right next to your gillyweed.” His face dropped while she smiled mischievously. “Cross-contamination should be taken seriously, especially in establishments like yours.”

Pride swelled in her chest as she left the shop with her ingredients. The door closed behind her, leaving an irritated shopkeeper behind. Hot May air smacked her in the face, the sweltering heatwave making her tug at the sleeve of her dress, as if to relieve her skin of its entrapment.

Despite being so desperate to leave the house, Amora almost looked forward to heading back and stripping down into her shorts and light tops. It was unusual for Hogsmeade to be so hot during May. She decided she would go to Honeydukes last, in case all of the chocolate she planned on buying melted in her bag.

She almost had a spring in her step when she made her way over to Madam Opal’s, her stomach swirling as she pushed the door open and welcomed herself inside. The familiar aroma of fabric and lavender went up her nose, and Madam Opal’s voice called out from one of the back rooms.

“One second!” She called, and ceramic clinked before her hurried heels pitter-pattered across the wooden floorboards.

Her beaming smile melted into an expression of affection when her eyes landed on Amora in the doorway. Immediately, Madam Opal tutted and opened her arms, hurrying over to grab her into a brief hug.

“My darling,” she said, and then held her at arm's length, pinching Amora’s jaw. “It’s been over a month since I last saw you.”

Amora rubbed Madam Opal’s arm. “Everything’s been slightly chaotic. What with the wedding, and–”

“Oh, yes!” Madam Opal squeezed her. “How did that go?”

Amora shrugged her shoulders. “Well, actually. Not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Though I was practically drowning in Calming Draught.”

Madam Opal laughed and shook her head, and then her face lit up into an even brighter smile. She gasped so loudly that it made Amora jump. The brunette woman flinched but quickly realised Opal was excited, not scared, and then she grabbed Amora, yanking her in the direction she had come from.

“I have something to show you!” Madam Opal said. “I wanted to contact you, but I couldn’t risk anybody finding my letters. We’d both… Well, you know. I received a letter from The Order. One that I think will interest you greatly.”

Her dark eyes grew, and everything buzzed at the idea of good news from the Order. Amora was more than happy to follow behind Madam Opal, heading to the back of the shop and then up the staircase. She moved into her office, shoving a huge pile of folded fabrics to one side and pulling out an envelope with a lump inside it.

Madam Opal passed it to Amora, chewing on her bottom lip to suppress the grin fighting to take over her face. She almost resembled a teenager or a child, overexcited and unable to contain any of it.

Amora felt nauseous, palms clammy as she peeled the opened seal of the envelope, pulling out a folded piece of parchment and a small velvet drawstring bag with a weight inside it. Instantly, Amora was reminded of portkeys. Unfolding the letter, Amora gasped so hard she nearly choked, her eyes welling with tears immediately.

Pansy’s handwriting.

Dear Madam Opal,

I hope this letter finds you well.

My name is Pansy, and I work for the Order. I’ve charmed it to self-destruct in the hands of anybody with ill intention. Feel free to burn this as soon as you’ve read it.

I heard that you have been in contact with the Order and that you helped my friend Leon visit Amora a couple of months ago. We’ve all been desperate to contact her again, but the Order is spending time and resources on other areas, and I fear they’ve sent Amora off and practically forgotten about her. I ask about her every day, and I’m brushed off. I’m forced to read about her life in the papers. I have hardly slept since Warrington became Minister.

I’ve sent a reverse portkey of sorts. If you press down on it, I will be summoned. Please give it to Amora as soon as you see her. If you unward your property, I can Apparate to her. I just need to see her.

Kind regards,

Pansy Parkinson

“Oh, sweetheart,” Madam Opal gasped, her hands rubbing over Amora’s back and her arms as she wept.

Her shaky hands wiped away the tears cascading down her cheeks, leaving trails behind. Amora tried to calm down so she could open the drawstring bag quicker, her heart in her throat as she dropped it into her palm. It was a hair clip— something easily disguisable.

“I’ll lower the wards and give you two some privacy,” Madam Opal whispered, and she kissed Amora on top of her head before squeezing her shoulders and leaving.

Amora’s eyes clenched shut. She opened them to stare in disbelief at the hairpin in her open hand, her stomach flipping at the idea of Pansy having touched it somewhat recently. She couldn’t believe how close she felt to the ebony-haired girl. She’d needed this for months now.

Her hand closed in a tight fist around it. It stabbed her skin and warmed, and Amora breathed in and out, in and out, glancing around the small office and waiting for that familiar popping sound that followed Apparition.

CRACK!

Amora’s legs wobbled beneath her, her hand reaching to hold the desk behind her. She dropped the pin, her mouth falling with it, her heart beating so hard that she was worried she’d go into cardiac arrest.

Pansy Parkinson stood by the door, exactly how Amora remembered her— short black hair, pale skin, twinkling green eyes— and dressed head to toe in black. Her lips parted as she inhaled sharply, and then Pansy burst into tears and surged forward, grabbing Amora into one of the tightest hugs she’d ever had the privilege of experiencing.

“Oh Merlin!” Pansy sobbed into Amora’s neck, and the familiarity of her voice was all it took before Amora was also choking, sniffling and spouting all sorts of nonsense, grabbing onto Pansy for dear life.

She smelled like vanilla and smoke. Home.

“I missed you,” Amora sobbed, shaking her head. “I missed you so fucking much. I’ve needed you so badly.”

“I’ve been killing myself worrying about you,” Pansy heaved, brushing Amora’s hair out of her face, cupping her cheek, examining every inch of her. “This doesn’t even feel real. I can’t believe you’re just standing in front of me right now.”

“This was the last thing I was expecting to happen today,” Amora admitted, and both girls began to make a noise that sounded like a combination of sobbing and laughing.

Pansy’s hands were trembling worse than Amora’s, her slender fingers swiping away Amora’s tears, holding her face. Pansy kissed Amora’s cheeks and her forehead and then tugged her close again. She exhaled shakily.

“You’re here,” Pansy whimpered. “Thank Merlin that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” Amora whispered hoarsely. “I’m here.”

Madam Opal brought them both cold drinks and another chair so they could sit and talk to one another. Pansy didn’t take her eye off of Amora for a second, as if scared that she’d blink and everything would disappear. Amora knew the feeling all too well.

“I saw in the papers that you and Malfoy got married,” Pansy said. “How did that happen?”

“Women are treated differently over here, Pans,” Amora said regretfully. “The Pureblood men get first picks of the women. We’re like baby machines. Or we can go to the factories. Contribute the war effort.”

“Leon told me about the explosion at the factory,” Pansy nodded. “I can’t believe it. About Kathy.”

Amora’s eyes widened. Pansy’s lip trembled, but she didn’t cry. Amora imagined she had nothing left to get out of her system. She was most likely exhausted from grieving.

“I know,” Amora murmured. “She truly is in a better place now, though.”

“At least she was never married off,” Pansy said, and then winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Amora said. “I’m best off with Draco, I think. He treats me very well.”

Pansy blanched. “He does?”

“Yes,” Amora replied nervously. “He does. It was really difficult at first, but I think we’ve broken through all of that now. We actually get along with each other.”

Pansy looked slightly horrified. “Amora…” Her tone was drenched with sympathy. “Don’t fall for it.”

Amora was quiet.

“Malfoy betrayed you once, twice, three times— he can do it again,” Pansy said. “I know you’re probably feeling conflicted because he’s feeding and watering you, and he’s probably nicer to you than most men are to their wives, but Leon told me about this thing called Stockholm syndrome, and—“

Amora laughed. “I appreciate the concern, Pans, but I’m not in love with him. Nor am I blind to everything he’s ever done. Or the things he still might do. What I have learned is that nothing is as black and white as it seems.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pansy asked apprehensively.

The brunette woman hesitated. “I think… I think that Theo and Draco are up to something. Leon and I spoke about it last time. I think… I think they’re working against the Dark Lord, not for him.”

Pansy’s face looked pale. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Amora replied. “But don’t tell anyone. Moody and Lupin, I mean. There’s obviously a reason Theo never told them what he was up to. I don’t want to ruin whatever it is they have planned.”

“And you’re sure it’s in favour of us?”

“I would bet my life on it, Pans,” Amora said sincerely.

“But Amora, Malfoy is manipulative, he—”

“Pansy,” Amora warned. “I don’t know how much time you have here, but I don’t want to spend it arguing over Draco. I want to know about you and Blaise and Leon, and everybody else.”

Pansy sighed, a pained expression written across her face. Amora could tell it was taking everything inside her not to say anything. Amora leaned forward and grazed her finger along a scar trailing out from the top of Pansy’s shirt. It was pink and white and jagged.

“Is this new?” She asked.

Pansy touched it absentmindedly. “It happened a week after you left. I was escaping some Death Eaters, and I panicked when I was getting away. Splinched myself badly.”

Amora winced. “Ouch. Has it healed well?"

Pansy nodded. “Oh, yes, just fine. Any scars on you I should know about?”

Amora thought and then chuckled. “I think this is the longest I’ve gone without getting injured, you know.”

“Lucky!” Pansy said. “Married life agrees with you, then?”

Amora snickered and shook her head. “I’ve started gardening like an old lady.”

“Oh, Merlin, you haven’t!” Pansy cringed.

“It’s therapeutic,” Amora shrugged her shoulders.

“You know, sometimes I wonder why you agreed to this mission knowing you’d be cooped up most of the time,” Pansy said. “I think that might be why Moody doesn’t send us to get information from you. At least, that’s all I can think of. But I don’t know what the whole point of any of this was if they’re not going to bother communicating.”

Amora sighed heavily. “Well, I didn’t know I’d be cooped up the whole time.”

Pansy rose a brow. “You thought Malfoy might take you to work with him?”

Amora rolled her brown eyes. “No, I thought that I’d join the ranks, build alliances, work my way up, that sort of thing. I always wonder why they didn’t just send Blaise or somebody. Women have nothing here. Nothing.”

Pansy swallowed. “Why did you think you’d be able to join them?”

Amora cocked her head to the side. “Well, when I was sent off to spy, I was given the impression that I wouldn’t be a housewife. I knew they were sexist, but not like this. And it just gets worse.”

Pansy’s frown lines deepened. She was silent for a few moments before she leaned across and grasped Amora’s arm, rubbing it gently. Amora felt her stomach drop.

“What is it?” She asked.

Dread made a home inside her. Or rather, it welcomed itself home. It visited often these days.

“Amora, we’ve always known that the Dark Lord subjects women to this sort of thing.” Her voice was barely above a murmur, so careful, as if treading on eggshells, her green eyes studying Amora’s face as if looking for the first signs of cracks.

Amora was silent for a long while.

“Amora?”

Her lips pursed. “Pansy, what do you mean?”

“Oh Merlin!” Pansy’s eyes were teary again, and she ran a hand straight through the middle of her short hair, sending it in every direction towards the back of her head. “Amora, no. Don’t say that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Amora’s voice was urgent. “Pansy, what do you mean?” She repeated.

Pansy’s hands covered her face. “You’ve forgotten.”

“What did I forget?” Amora snapped. She felt like an animal trapped inside a cage, backed into the corner, and she was ready to lash out from the amount of anxiety being inflicted upon her. She had no idea what was going on, and the implications were terrifying.

“We all knew what it was like,” Pansy sniffled. “I told you so many times. Leon and Blaise told you so many times. I begged and begged and begged you not to do this.”

Amora shook her head frantically. “I-I don’t remember. I can’t remember. Why— Why would they take those memories away from me?”

She stood from her chair and paced the tiny room, her hands entangling in her hair, creating knots that she pulled at, twisting and wincing, but not enough of a distraction from the panic seizing her entire being, holding her captive inside her own body.

“You think they took them from you?” Pansy was up now, too.

Amora faced Pansy. “They’ve taken so much!” Amora began to cry again, but this time it was for all of the wrong reasons. “I don’t know if they meant— if they meant to take as much as they did, but my brain— it’s like things are slipping, and I forget people, and faces, and moments, and I… There’s so much I’m scared I’ve forgotten that I don’t even realise, and then this! This! You’re telling me I knew and I still signed up for this? I don’t believe that.”

Tears leaked down Pansy’s cheeks. “Oh, Merlin. Oh my gosh. Come here.”

She yanked Amora into a bone-crushing hug. Amora tucked her face into her best friend’s neck, dampening it and the collar of Pansy’s shirt. She gripped on for dear life, trembling and sobbing, panicking and heaving for air. Pansy hushed her, smoothing her hand down her hair, trying to keep her own cries to a minimum.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Pansy cooed.

“I’m so scared!” Amora cried. “I don’t want to do this anymore! I want to go— I want to go home with you. I want my normal brain back.”

“It’s okay,” Pansy’s voice cracked. “You’re— It’s going to be fine.”

She wept so loudly that she hardly noticed the Patronus come bounding into the room— a large rabbit, which stopped in its wispy blue flames in front of the two girls, causing them to stumble apart.

“They’re coming!” Madam Opal’s echo of a voice hissed. “Get Pansy out!”

She felt like she had been dunked in the freezing ocean. Terror rattled through her.

“The Apparition wards are up,” Amora swallowed. “We need to get you to the Floo.”

Pansy panicked, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. There were booming voices downstairs, a man that Amora couldn’t pinpoint from sound alone, and she rushed across the landing, the floorboards creaking below their weight. Amora winced.

“Stop!” Madam Opal’s voice howled downstairs. “Confundus!”

“Go!” Amora hissed and grabbed the ceramic jar from the top of the fireplace, shoving powder into Pansy’s open hand.

Some slipped through her fingers, sifting onto the floor. Pansy was crying hard again, shaking her head.

“Come with me,” she pleaded.

“I can’t leave Madam Opal,” Amora whimpered. “I’m so sorry, Pans.”

“I love you,” Pansy rushed out and grabbed Amora’s face with her free hand. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” Amora sniffled, and squeezed Pansy’s arm.

She felt Pansy’s nails drag away until she was standing in the fireplace. The footsteps were pounding up the staircase now. Amora didn’t have time to wait for Pansy to leave; she rushed over to the door and held her wand up. Her eyes landed on a pair of scissors beside a sewing kit— huge, silver, and sharp. They were quickly pocketed.

She heard the crack of the Floo network behind her and could have cried at the relief she felt. However, she still didn’t know if Madam Opal was okay or not. If the men were up here, she could only assume her spell hadn’t worked, and attacking them would only have serious consequences.

A familiar face stood on the other end of her wand a second later. A woman hovered behind, her wand also drawn. They both looked extremely similar, pale and pudgy, severe and cold.

“What are you doing, Mrs Malfoy?” The man muttered. “Lower your wand or the consequences will be dire.”

Amora swallowed and did as she was told. Immediately, the woman moved past the man to grab her by the arms, pinning them behind her as the man took her wand. Amora cried at the feeling of her bones and muscles being stretched against her will, nearly shaking in the grip of the woman she didn’t know.

“Do you want me to search her, Amycus?”

“No need,” Amycus scoffed. “I knew something fishy was going on. Opal’s been working for the Order for months, now we have the proof— the Dark Lord will reward us greatly.”

Amora sniffled. “It’s– You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The woman’s grip tightened into a bruising hold. “Shut your filthy mouth up, blood traitor!”

Amora winced.

“I have nothing to do with the Order! Madam Opal knows nothing about the Order—”

“Shut your mouth!” Amycus growled, and his hand whipped out to smack Amora across the mouth.

She gasped when her lip split, a searing pain nearly making her gag, the horrible sensation of hot blood trickling down her chin and her chest making her shudder.

“Alecto, let’s take her to the High Commander first,” Amycus smirked. “I think he deserves to know what sort of filth he married.”

“What if he tries to take the credit?”

“There are two of us, and one of him,” Amycus said. “Give me a moment. I’ll portkey Opal’s body to our house.”

He disappeared back down the staircase. Amora’s brain took a moment to catch up.

“Body,” she blurted.

“Good luck reaching the Order now,” Alecto hissed against her ear.

Amora would have cried again if she had anything left inside her. Her lips parted when Alecto grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back.

“Stupid old bitch. She’ll make a delicious treat for the Dark Lord’s snake,” Alecto whispered. “Just like your mother.”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“It was a personal pleasure of mine to deliver your mother’s body to Nagini,” Alecto said smugly. “Amycus and I are particularly interested in torture and dark arts. We thoroughly enjoyed preparing your mother for the Dark Lord’s day of purge.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Alecto laughed. “Were you there? Were you there when we beat her, hung her up, let the Dark Lord have his way with her, and then chucked her in the snake’s den for—”

Amora’s elbow swung around before she could begin to think rationally. Alecto cried out when Amora met her mouth, shattering her front teeth, blood flying immediately on impact. 

Alecto scrambled to find the wand that she had lost, a commotion happening downstairs as Amycus came bounding back up, just in time to see Amora’s hands yank out the fabric scissors and plunge them into his sister’s chest. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It felt like nails were being pressed against her skull, being bashed deeper in with a blunt object, wriggling to stab at the most sensitive points of her brain, and her mouth was dry, caked in blood when she pressed her lips together. Amora blinked and then cried out.

"That might sting a little." Amycus was anything but sympathetic, and she couldn't quite blame him.
If her memory served her correctly, then she had just murdered his sister.

She tried to lift her head, but it weighed a ton, her hand shakily lifting from the cold floor. She was half sure there was blood on the side of her head— it felt warm and her hair was wet.

"I've sent a Patronus," Amycus said. "And when the High Commander replies, I cannot wait to show him who you are."

Amora whimpered, blinded by her agony, and clenched her eyes shut. There was then an arm tugging beneath her, and Amora cried when he hoisted her up against him, like some sort of ragdoll.

"Come on, Mrs Malfoy. Your husband has permitted us to enter his wards," Amycus sneered.

Amora felt the pull behind her belly button and screamed. Everything whirled as if somebody had tipped the world upside down on her, or as if she was caught in a wave, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling, and then she landed on the rocks, her back smacking a floor, her head reverberating, her body curling in a fetal position as she cried out a dry sob.

Everything was blurry.

Then, there was a CRACK!

"High Commander Malf—"

"What the fuck!?" Draco bellowed, his voice trembling with rage. "What the fuck did you do to her!?"

"Malf–" Amycus was cut off by a loud bang, and the sound of several portraits falling off the wall, clattering across the floorboards.

Freezing hands touched her burning face, and an immense relief flooded through her. Tears leaked through her shut eyes.

"Fuck, Amora," Draco hissed shakily. "Your head. There's— there's blood all over you."

Amora strained to open her dark eyes. He hovered inches over her, his hair a complete mess, his face strained. His thumb wiped at the blood on her lip, and then he was yanking his wand from the floor right next to him, hovering it over her.

"Scourgify," he pointed at her face.

Amora's head still felt wet. She tilted herself to the side slightly, so he could see that there was blood flowing in her hair. Draco seemed to understand what she was doing perfectly, his hands gently guiding her head into a more comfortable position, his silver eyes glaring.

"Amora," he whispered, and his wand was by her wound. "Episkey."

She groaned at the sensation of her head clearing. It still ached tremendously, wobbling with the aftermath of the trauma. She reached out and grasped his wrist.

"Amycus," she muttered.

"He's out cold," Draco spat through gritted teeth. "I'll deal with him in a moment. I'm more concerned with you at this moment in time."

Despite everything, she welcomed the comforting sensation of relief, like arms wrapping around her and holding her together.

"Does it hurt anywhere else?" Draco asked, and he touched her wrist where bruises painted her skin shades of yellow and green. "What's all of this blood?"

Amora blinked and flickered her gaze towards her dress. Once a cream colour, it was now soaked dark crimson, splattering up the corset. She gritted her teeth.

"It's not mine," she whispered.

Draco brushed her hair with his hand and glanced behind him. Amora realised that Amycus had been slammed into the wall, his unconscious figure slumped on the floor. They were in the foyer.

"His?"

She shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip. "His sister's."

Draco's mouth parted, and he ran a hand over his jaw.

"Okay," he said, but it didn't sound okay, and he gave her a nod. "Okay, did anybody see? Where did it happen?"

Amora whimpered as she took his hand to pull herself into a sitting position. He touched her back when she wobbled. The room spun for a moment, and there were four Dracos, then two, and then one— his face the image of concern.

"Madam Opal's," Amora said. "Nobody saw. It was just us."

"Did Opal see?"

Amora's lip curled. "They killed her."

A look crossed Draco's face— she thought it might be understanding, but then figured it was realisation. "She was the one contacting the Order for you."

Amora's heart stopped for a moment. "No."

He ignored her. "So you weren't caught by anyone? What did he do with their bodies?"

Amora scrambled against him, trying to stand to her feet. Draco's hands gripped her upper arms, and he attempted to lower her back down.

"Don't rush yourself," he snapped. "You're hurt."

"You've healed me," Amora protested.

"I haven't healed all of your bruises. I'll need creams for that. And I bet your head still hurts, even if it's not bleeding anymore— doesn't it?"

Amora glared at him. "Just—just let me get up—"

"No," Draco growled. "You need to stay—"

There was a groan across the room. Amora's head snapped in the direction of Amycus, watching as the wizard rubbed his head, blinking around the room. Draco was quick to cast an Expelliarmus, two wands flying over into his open palm. He looked them over once and handed Amora's back to her.

"High Commander," Amycus grumbled, his back leaning against the wall. "Your wife– she's not who she appears to be."

Amora's hand fell in front of her, stopping her from collapsing back against the floor. "Draco, don't listen to him. He's trying to get me killed for what I did—"

Amycus scrambled off of the floor, so Amora copied him, albeit a little less quickly. Draco cast her a harsh look over his shoulder, his wand pointed at Amycus.

"She murdered Alecto, High Commander. A high-ranking Death Eater. I caught her at Madam Opal's dress shop— I believe she was conspiring with members of the Order of the Phoenix," Amycus explained, his face red, spit flying from his mouth.

"Draco, he's lying— I was having tea with Madam Opal—"

"Don't you dare!" Amycus bellowed. "How dare you commit murder against another Pureblood! How dare you lie to your patriarch about it! Do you know what happens to misbehaving bitches like you, Buckley? You're put in your place by men like me." He flashed a dirty grin. "The High Commander will replace you with a Pureblood woman who is actually respectable, and you will be used as nothing but the uterus that you—"

"Crucio."

Amora cried out at the blinding light of magic, flinching before Amycus' screams filled the room. His agony echoed in all corners of the manor, his body withering on the ground, screams fighting sobs to be the loudest heard.

"Draco," Amora croaked.

Draco's face was stern, his hand effortlessly casting the spell that only true anger or darkness could conjure. He watched Amycus like somebody might spectate an interaction between two other people. This was easy for him. Amora wondered if he might even enjoy it.

Draco only stopped when Amycus' howls were no longer satisfying. Amycus slumped, panting and covered in sweat, crying silently. Draco loomed over him, and then abruptly kicked him in the side with his black booted foot. Amycus hardly made a noise.

"Draco—"

He ignored her to lift Amycus' head by the collar of his shirt. His face was close to the other man's, his teeth gritted in genuine disgust.

"You should have never even thought about touching her," Draco seethed. "If I were stupid enough to let you live after all of this, I can assure you, you wouldn't be able to 'put any woman in her place' ever again, Carrow."

"Please!" Amycus wheezed, his hand reaching out. "Please!"

Draco's hand wrapped around Amycus' neck and he moved his arm so quickly that Amora nearly missed it. There was a terrible snapping sound that rung in her ears, and then everything was quite aside from Draco's uneven breaths. She watched Amycus go entirely limp.
Draco took a moment and then glanced at her.

"He was lying," Amora blurted, and then took a step forward, dizziness reaching the corners of her vision. Her feet caught one another, her body stumbling into him. He grasped her, holding her tight, their chests pressed against one another. "I don't know what he was talking about, Draco."

"Amora, I think it's time we stop lying to each other," Draco said, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "I know you're here as a double agent for the Order."

Amora huffed, shaking her head rapidly. "Draco, no!"

"I'm not going to hand you in for it, Amora!" Draco growled at her. "For fuck sake, if I was going to do that, I would have marched down to the BMA the day I found out you were there and demanded they never release you. You don't believe in any of this shit— you have a heart of pure fucking gold, Amora. You might have changed, but that hasn't," he said, and he jabbed his finger against her chest.

Amora swallowed. Panic was trying to drag her back down. Her hands were shaking so badly that even Draco noticed.

"Why aren't you going to turn me in, then?" Amora said hoarsely. "If you've known this whole time, why haven't you said anything?"

"Because Amora–" He looked genuinely conflicted for a few moments, a war going on in his brain, perhaps nerves sparkling behind his eyes. "I'm the reason you're here."

D.M + A.B

"Holy shit, Amora!"

Amora's head turned to face Theo. Her eyes were rimmed red, her trembling hands slathered in Bruisewort balm. Draco promised if she rubbed it off by moving to help, he would get angry about it. She sniffled at him and glanced away, her eyes burning into the wooden floor.

"Are you okay?" He moved to touch her, but Amora flinched back.

"No," Amora croaked.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Theo, for fuck sake, just get over here and help me like I fucking asked you to!" Draco spat, running a hand through his hair as he dropped Amycus' body back on the ground.

Theo grimaced. "What do you want me to do? It sounds like you've got the plan all made up in your head already."

"I need you to stay here with Amora whilst I apparate him back to Opal's," Draco said. "I don't want her to be alone right now."

Amora glared at her hands, her face wobbling. She wasn't even trusted to be alone. She had caused this gigantic mess, and she couldn't even clean it up. Her head was filled with Madam Opal and Pansy, thankful that the latter of the two made it out just in time, and mourning the woman who had been an anchor to her for the last few months.

She was perhaps the least deserving person Amora knew of this fate. She'd died trying to protect Amora.
A hand grasped her face and she gasped back to life, dark eyes widening on Draco as he bent down in front of her.

"Theo's staying with you, alright?" Draco said, and his voice softened as tears spilled over, soaking her eyelashes. "I'm going to cover this up, don't you worry. Hey, stop crying, darling."

Amora's frown pulled down wider, more wobbly. She just wanted to throw her arms around him and beg for him to stay. She also wanted to shake his shoulders and demand an explanation for the bomb he dropped moments ago. He refused to explain the entire story until she was healed and the Carrows had been dealt with.

Amora wished he hadn't said anything. Her brain was going a hundred miles an hour, and it ached. The potions he'd given her were starting to kick in, a light, floaty feeling spreading through her brain instead.

"Okay," Amora whispered.

"Okay?" The corner of Draco's lips quirked up into a faint smile. "You're going to stay here and keep safe for me, hm?"

Amora swatted his shoulder half-heartedly. "I'm not moving, if that's what you mean. I think I've had enough outdoors for today."

Draco scoffed at her attempt of lightening the situation, though even Amora couldn't lift her voice or brighten her eyes. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and sent Theo a stern look. Amora only glanced back up when she heard the CRACK! of apparition yet again, and then Draco and Amycus' bodies were gone.

Amora realised Theo had disappeared too, and a moment later, heard some crashes. Her heart was in her throat, her brain saying, "no, no, no, no, not again" and then Theo cursed loudly and entered the room, a cup of tea in his hands, his arms dripping hot water.

He sent her a wavering smile. "Sorry. I'll clean it up. Mine's gone all over the floor."

He placed the tea next to her on the table and wiped his hands down the backs of his trousers. He left and Amora heard the sounds of cleaning magic, and then he was back again with a glass of water this time. He took a seat beside Amora, pursing his lips.

"Would you rather not talk about it?" Theo asked.

Amora rubbed her head. "It depends what you can tell me about it."

Theo furrowed his eyebrows. "I've been at home, reading a book about—"

"Draco told me that he's the reason I'm here," Amora cut him off, her voice scratching and catching. "He won't tell me what he means by that, but I feel like I'd be more than stupid to believe that you have nothing to do with it, too."

Theo's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

"Aha," Amora said lacklusterly. "I thought so. Do you care to tell me what's going on?"

Theo had never looked so uncomfortable in his life— except maybe besides the time that Amora told Draco that Theo had kissed her. Perhaps he had looked more scared that time.

"If Draco's not told you yet, I shouldn't," Theo replied. "You should hear this from him."

"Is it going to hurt me?"

Theo hesitated. "It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether... you'd rather be hurt by Draco or the Order."

Amora glared. "What does that even mean, Theo?"

"I shouldn't–"

"It's not fair!" Amora insisted.

"Draco will tell you, I'm sure," Theo said.

"I shouldn't have to wait!" She could feel her blood boiling, her skin hot, her head fuzzy.

"Well, I'm not going to be the one—"

"It's not fair!" She repeated, and she grabbed her mug of tea and threw it against the wall. It shattered into large ceramic pieces, hot tea splashing the wallpaper and dripping on the floorboards.

"Hey!" Theo yelled.

"No, no, no!" Amora said, her head falling into her lap, her dried hands scrunching into her hair. "No!"

"Amora..." He calmed down, and stood from his seat to hover around her. "I know you're feeling stressed out—"

"No, you don't know how this feels!" Amora hissed at him. "You don't know what it's like to wake up as a woman in this world. You don't know what it's like to have no choice in what happens to you, to find out that maybe the choices you made before weren't even yours, and— and that the Order wiped my memories of the way women are treated here, and Madam Opal is gone, and I miss my friends and I miss having all of my memories and my own thoughts and—" She began to cry loudly. "I hate everything. What is the point anymore, Theo? There's no point in any of this."

She slipped from the edge of her chair, curling herself into a ball on the floor, weeping into her knees. The water would not stop falling for her eyes, despite it feeling like it was all she had done over the last few hours. They felt sore and tired, and yet she didn't have to blink for the rivers to flow. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to sob like this.

Hands hesitated to touch her, the smell of clean laundry and cologne filling her nose, her stomach twisting when Theo wrapped his strong arms around her, tucking her into him, like some sort of shield from the rest of the world.

Amora wanted to resist the comfort he was providing. She should be kicking him off and yelling at him until he told her the truth, but giving in felt so much better, and Amora leaned her head on his shoulder, right by his neck, and cried into his shirt. He rubbed up and down her back soothingly.

"I don't know what it's like," Theo agreed quietly. "I'm sorry, Amora."

Amora wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry for yelling," she said after a few minutes.

"I don't blame you," Theo scoffed. "Merlin, Amora, I think you're the strongest person I know."

"I feel like the weakest."

"You're not."

Amora lingered on his words. She contemplated them for a while.

"There are women being raped every single day, Theo," Amora rubbed her face and looked at him. "They're carrying their rapists babies. They're raising their children to repeat the cycle. People remaining neutral aren't even safe from being murdered in their own beds. Babies dead, or orphaned at best. Rebel groups are fighting on empty stomachs and losing nearly every time."

Theo's jaw clenched, but he nodded in agreement. "That's all horrible. It's all disgusting. But it doesn't take away from your experience, Amora. You've been that Order member before. You've been hurt by the men here, you've—"

"I have it easy," Amora dismissed him, and straightened her back, as if she should listen and agree with her own words. "It could be so much worse."

"You have so much pressure on you," Theo whispered. "You've lost so much— your family, your memories."

"Please don't try to make me feel better about having a breakdown," Amora said to him. "I know what you're trying to do. Thank you. But I just need to... I need to get over myself."

Theo rolled his eyes. "Don't say that. I still think you're brave, Amora."

Amora slipped away from him and stood to her feet. "I'm going to have a bath– get all of this shit off of me," she said.

Theo scrambled up.

"You can stay down here, Theo," Amora said, raised brow. "I'm not going to drown myself in the bathtub. That wouldn't be a very heroic way to go."

"Yeah, please don't," Theo shot her an uneasy smile. "Draco would murder me, then I'd have to find you in the afterlife and give you an earful for getting me killed."

Amora chuckled quietly. "Okay. You owe me, then."

D.M + A.B

She must have been in the bath for a couple of hours. Theo knocked a couple of times, just to make sure she was still okay, but he let her soak in the bubbles, her quiet sanctuary momentarily distracting her from the busyness of her brain. Amora wondered what Draco was doing, whether he was okay or not, and if this was an easy 'cover up', or if she had truly fucked them over.
If she had, Amora would leave now. She would hold her hands up and hand herself in. She would never let Draco take the blame for her— she didn't want him to. She hoped he wasn't doing anything stupid or reckless.

Her body was scrubbed clean of any caked blood, her bruises fading nicely back to her sunkissed skin, her head clearing from the hot steam of the water. Amora closed her eyes, sinking her body. Water was level with her ears, her mouth submerged, and she imagined she was in the sea— swimming, jumping waves, floating, bird watching.

Amora hadn't been in the sea in over five years, closer to six. Not since her sixteenth birthday with Draco. It had always been her comfort place; a distraction from everything, a place where she could go and feel like nothing mattered.

She took a deep breath and let her head go under the water. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears, the sound of her body adjusting at the bottom of the bathtub, and she was warm everywhere, her hair floating upwards, as if being brushed by the water, a sensation she yearned for dearly.

Amora stayed under for as long as she could before she came up gasping for a breath. It wasn't as long as she used to be able to hold her breath for— back when she was a frequent swimmer.

Amora stepped out of the bath, wrapping a towel around her body and charming her hair dry. She opened the door, her eyes widening when she found Draco sat on the floor across the corridor, his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs. His head shot up when he heard her, and he climbed to his feet.

"Where's Theo?" Amora asked.

"He left about twenty minutes ago," Draco said, and he followed her into her bedroom, hovering in the doorway as she sat on the edge of her bed, her hands tight around her towel. "Sorry. Do you want me to give you a minute?"

"No," she said. "Just tell me. Nothing you haven't seen before, anyway."

"I don't know if this is the sort of conversation you'd like to have in a towel," Draco said pointedly, folding his arms across his chest.

Amora sighed and stood up. She moved to her underwear drawer and pulled a pair out, then one of her night tops from the one next to it. Draco had averted his gaze when she glanced over her shoulder at him, his back turned on her.

"Are you done yet?" He asked.

Amora snorted softly. "Give me a second."

She pulled on her clothes and then moved back over to the bed, folding her legs in a criss cross fashion. Draco turned around when he heard the sound of the mattress shifting, offering her a pursed lipped smile. He moved further into the room.

"The situation with the Carrows has been sorted," Draco said, and cleared his throat.

"How so?"

"I've made them disappear. Their bodies, I mean. They'll probably think it was the same people who were going around killing high ranking Death Eaters a couple months ago. They can't even figure that one out– I doubt they'll put anymore effort into finding those as useless as the Carrows," Draco huffed. "Cleaned up Opal's shop. Locked up. It looks like nothing happened."
Amora chewed on her bottom lip. "What about her?"

Amora whispered. "Madam Opal?"

"I made her body disappear too," Draco said, quieter this time. "I'm sorry."

"You did what you had to do," Amora murmured, glancing at her feet, rubbing her heel as if it was a distraction.

"I found this."

Amora gasped when a piece of parchment was pushed into her hands. It was Pansy's letter. She swallowed, and then glanced at him wearily.

"It didn't self-destruct on you," Amora said matter-0f-factly. "You don't have ill intent?"

Draco shook his head. "No. No, of course not."

There was a long silence.

"I don't even know what to ask you first," she chuckled humourlessly. "I have so many questions."

"Well, what sticks out the most?"

"What did you mean earlier?" Amora asked. "When you told me that you were the reason that I'm here."

Draco sighed, pursing his lips for a moment as he contemplated his next words. Amora could practically see the cogs turning in his brain. She exhaled loudly, trying to keep her breathing calm, jittery with the anticipation of Draco's explanation.

"You won't like it," Draco said honestly. "I always knew if you found out that you wouldn't like it. That maybe you wouldn't like me after all of this. That's fine. I fully expected us to never work past what happened— I never thought you'd worry about my wellbeing ever again, or kiss me when I left for work, or call me by my first name. You've already exceeded all of my expectations."

As hard as it was, Amora stayed silent.

"The war's tipping in favour of the Dark Lord," Draco said. "Every day I'm forced to make choices I don't want to. I know I'm hurting people— but I'm terrified one day I'll hurt somebody I've sworn to protect. The last five years have been... a mental warzone as much as a physical one. I can't sleep. I could hardly eat at one point. My nightmares are so bad my own house elves turned on me."

Amora furrowed her eyebrows.

"I made it my mission to become High Commander. Father wanted me more in the political sector, but as soon as the opportunity struck, I proved to the Dark Lord that I could step up and lead his army. I could make important choices. I could give us the advantage point. I used my title to give myself more power. Practically become the Ministry's personal assassin. Weaved my way into all sorts of areas— helped my father become appointed Minister— I was getting away with everything."

"What were you getting away with?" Amora's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I've been doing my own work. I'll tell you more about that in a minute—"

"Work against the Dark Lord?"

Draco paused. "Yes."

Amora felt her heart thud unevenly. "For the Order?"

He shook his head. "I'm separate. A part of my own party, if you will."

"With Theo," Amora breathed.

Draco smirked slightly. "Yes, with Theo, of course."

"Who else?"

Draco ignored her. "I was able to build an alliance with the Dark Lord whilst also undermining him. He told my father things that my father would tell me, other Ministry officials thought they were bragging by telling me certain pieces of information, even Bellatrix would slip up every now and again and give me a puzzle piece."

"What is it?"

"The Dark Lord's in bad health," Draco said, and watched as Amora's mouth fell open, her eyes widening. "Don't get it twisted... He's still... immortal."

The glimmer of hope fizzled out. She felt more dejected than she had before. She wished he had led with that.

"And that's what Theo and I have been working on, I suppose," Draco said.

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. "His immortality? How can you work on that?"

"It's a long, complicated thing," Draco said. "And I will tell you everything we know so far, but I need to tell you why you're here first."

"I know why I'm here," Amora objected. "Moody and Lupin needed a spy on the inside. I volunteered myself."

Draco tilted his head to the side at her and she wondered what he was thinking. He exhaled through his nose and rubbed his face.

"I asked them to ask you."

There was a long silence where Amora thought perhaps she had heard him wrong. Her throat felt tight suddenly, so she swallowed, but it didn't rid the claustrophobic feeling of her skin being too tight, her bones too heavy.

"What?" It was all she could muster.

"I made a deal with them," Draco breathed.

"What was the deal?" Her voice was flat and hard.

"It was you for an upperhand in the war," Draco murmured and did not miss the way her nose scrunched up.

"It was me?" Amora gritted her teeth. "You mean this?" She gestured around her. "You made a deal with the Order so I could sit around in your house all day, doing what? So you could send me to a factory? So you could put me in more danger than I was there?"

"Amora," Draco exhaled. "I had to. You don't understand— I had to."

"You're right, Draco!" Amora exclaimed, and ran a hand through the top of her hair. "I don't understand. Why would you want me here? In exchange for what? I volunteered myself! Why would they— why would they ship me off for a man? How could they— that's not how the Order operate! We don't exchange lives!"

His tongue wetted his lips. "I offered them a lot," he admitted.

"What did you offer them?" Amora seethed, pacing in front of him now, her heart a jumbled mess inside her chest. "What was I worth to them, hm?"

"I managed to call off a second attack on their food supplier," Draco said, watching her carefully. "I told them we knew where one of their safe houses were, gave them the chance to move everybody safely before we raided it. Made them aware of a couple of attacks we had planned so they had the upperhand."

Amora nearly choked on her disgust.

Draco hesitated. "I killed my father. Helped Nott murder his. Killed Yaxley."

Hearing her suspicions confirmed felt less satisfying than she thought she would. So many truths were being planted on her that she was struggling to pick out what was extremely significant and what was just... significant. Amora was sure when she went to bed later it would all hit her suddenly.

Amora chewed on her bottom lip. "I knew you had."

Draco quirked an eyebrow at her lack of reaction. "That was the deal. Eradicate three high ranking Death Eaters. You can't do much better than the Minister of Magic, I reckon— unless I got to the Dark Lord himself."

"So you gave the Order the upperhand for a while in exchange for me," Amora said. "But that doesn't answer my question. What do you want with me?"

Draco was silent for a few moments.

"Hello?" Amora said irritably.

Draco huffed loudly. "For you to be safe," he snapped. "You're safer here. I can concentrate when you're here."
Amora shook her head. "No, that's not right. Because you hated me when I got here. You've only started being nice to me over the last month or two."

Draco's mouth was screwed up, his silver eyes ticking. He looked angry, as if she was inconveniencing him. She wondered if he was overwhelmed by all of the talk surrounding feelings and emotions– if this was too much for him.

"I never hated you!" Draco huffed. "Why the fuck would I ever hate you, Amora? What did you ever do to me? I was the one that made your life hell— not the other way around."

"You seemed very adamant that you didn't like me when I got here!" Amora growled. "In fact, you sent me to the fucking factories!"

"I wasn't ready for you!" Draco said, exasperated. "I had to get rid of my house elves, they're loyal to the Dark Lord! I had to conceal everything here, I needed to make sure nothing could hurt you—"

"That worked out well!" Amora grinned falsely. "Especially when I was nearly blown up!"

"Don't!" He pointed a finger at her. "Don't even. You— You have no idea what it did to me when I heard there were no survivors. You have no fucking idea!"

Amora shook her head. "What are you doing, Draco? What are you trying to imply right now?"

"That I did all of this because I need you here, with me!" Draco said. "It's always been about you!"

Amora felt her heart leap in her chest despite herself.
"You left me!" Amora cried. "You didn't contact me for over five years! You led an army against mine!"

"I knew about your whereabouts all the fucking time," Draco breathed. "Every mission, every injury, every success— I knew what you were doing the whole time."

Amora opened her mouth, slightly enraged and also confused, and then it dawned on her and she scowled.

"Theo!" She realised. "You had Theo spying on me!? Has he always been helping you!?"

"Theo let me know you were okay," Draco nodded. "But Theo and I have gotten so close to cracking the Dark Lord's illness over the last year or so. I needed him here with me, so we could work it out easier. We're so close, Amora. I couldn't take him and leave you there— where you're losing. I couldn't."

Amora was stunned into silence. She blinked and thought of everytime Theo had disappeared. They had grown so close over the past five years in particular, and she was terrified it had all been one sided— was Theo only so curious in her wellbeing because he was relaying on all of the information to Draco?

There was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. It felt like nausea, but she knew it was betrayal and violation in disguise. The bitter taste was so familiar by this point that Amora wondered if she was ever going to learn her lesson.

Was she too forgiving? Too stupid? Too gullible?

"Amora?" Draco murmured after a few moments.

"You're a bastard," Amora swallowed. "Moody and Lupin are horrible. You all tricked me. You all made me think this had been my choice this whole time."

"Amor–"

"It was never my choice," Amora gritted her teeth. "Of course it wasn't. Why would I pick this?"

"Please, Am–"

"Did you tell them to wipe my memories of what it was truly like here?" Amora glared at him, and she felt like she needed to sit down.

Draco glared right back. "Never!" He spat. "I told them to only take what they needed. Passwords, locations, things like that."

Amora closed her eyes and planted her hands over her face. "That backfired."

"I'm working on a potion," Draco said, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I'm going to, well, invent one. One that cures memory loss like yours."

Amora's fingers rubbed above her eye sockets, massaging her temples.

"I can't believe this."

"Let me tell you about the work Theo and I have been doing," Draco said. "You'll see what I mean, I'm sure. We're in the final parts of war now, Amora, I can feel it. I needed you here. I needed Theo."

Amora blinked. "It should have been my choice."

"You would have said no," Draco said, exasperated. "You haven't spoken to me in over five years."

Amora jaw clenched, her face hardening. "It should have been my choice," she repeated, and then moved for her bedroom door, slamming it behind her so hard that the walls rattled.

...
Oh my gosh!! I'm so sorry about the delay with this chapter, as previously mentioned I've been abroad and I didn't realise Turkey doesn't let you log into wattpad, so I've had to wait until I landed back in the UK. and my flight was delayed on the way back (and 12 hours before I left, which meant 16 hours awake on a hard floor in Gatwick airport ugh) but I am officially back and excited to start writing again.

Sorry if the formatting is a bit wrong on this, wattpads being annoying and won't let me do centre/do italics etc.

anyway, this chapter is dedicated to the lovely sarah!!! happy birthday lovely, im so sorry it's so late but i hope the drama makes up for it hahah

thanks for reading <33

dyiansobrien
w/c: 5.7k

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Amora wouldn’t even look at him. 

It felt like when she had first arrived at his house, their moments together filled with silence and averted gazes, except this time she wouldn’t even eat a few seats down from him— she made a habit of retreating to her bedroom. 

Draco grunted when he watched her figure pass the dining room door. This evening wasn’t where she would put her plate down by his. He drummed his fingers against the oak table beneath him and flung his head back when he heard her footsteps ascend the staircase. 

Four days of silent treatment. He was almost sure she was putting concealment charms around her bedroom so he couldn’t hear her. Usually, when he walked past to head downstairs, he’d listen to shuffling and floorboards creaking as she got herself ready, but there had been nothing. Draco was sure that if he tested the door lock, he’d find it had been magically locked, too.

Half of him understood, and the other couldn’t believe that he was the villain now. His urge to keep her close had been an act of self-sabotage in the end, and he’d spent the last few nights wide awake, contemplating whether or not Amora might hate him more than she ever had before.

He rubbed his hands against his face and inhaled. It felt like there was no relief. He needed an explanation for the lack of Death Eaters stationed at Hogsmeade. According to Minister Warrington, if there had been more, one of them might have seen what had happened to Madam Opal and the Carrow twins. His army was already stretched thin. Of course, the issue was raised with the Dark Lord. 

Draco rubbed his back next and winced. His fingers trembled as they clutched his mug, lifting it to his lips. The tea scalded his lips and tongue, and he placed the mug back down on the table, grimacing. It wasn’t worth the burn— he wasn’t sure where he was going wrong or if it was just a placebo, but Amora always managed to brew his tea perfectly. She always added the perfect amount of milk, left the tea bag in long enough, and didn’t squeeze it too much. He’d gotten too used to having somebody look after him again. 

His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it, pushing his mug away and heading up the stairs. Draco was slower than usual towards the top of the staircase, but everything was silent. He headed into his office and shut the door behind him, sinking into his chair and staring at the wall for a few minutes. 

He forced his hand to inch forward and grab his quill. Draco scribbled out a couple of letters— one to Warrington to say he was removing Death Eaters from the Ministry to station them at Hogsmeade, and to ask him if Aurors had discovered what had happened yet. 

His second letter was to Theo, who was concerned about Amora’s lack of reaction. He had offered to come over, but Draco was sure that was the last thing she needed. He wasn’t sure how Amora would feel, seeing Draco and Theo together right now— he could only guess that words would be screamed and objects would be thrown. 

It was best to let this all blow over. He’d let her come to him when she was ready. She just needed time to cool off. 

Draco leaned back in his chair, his eyes flickering shut. Just for a few moments. Just for a few…

  “I think it’s an absolutely brilliant idea, High Commander Malfoy,” Yaxley congratulated him, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “Too many house elves are being wasted— I mean, that’s what the reintroduction of the housewife is for, is it not?” 

“Then again,” Rosier imposed. “House elves can do things women cannot. Quicker, too. My wife always finds a way to cock things up.”
Draco sniffed as Selwyn began to howl with laughter. “That’s why you get another one— a younger one, Rosier. They’re making the girls take homemaking classes at Hogwarts now, don’t you know?”

“Ever thought of getting into the political sector, like your old man?” Yaxley asked him, pulling Draco away from the rowdy men who clinked champagne flutes and laughed. “You’ve certainly got the brains and the speech for it. A true Malfoy. Except… You have this quality your father can’t seem to master.”

“And what might that be, Yaxley?” Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Yaxley hummed. “Bravery, I think. Confidence.”

“He’s got a pair of nuts, unlike old Lucius,” Rosier snickered, chucking an arm over Draco’s shoulders. 

“Might I remind you all that you are speaking of my father,” Draco said sharply. “And whilst I thank you for your compliments, I do not appreciate the mockery of our Minister of Magic. The Dark Lord would never appoint somebody unworthy.”

Rosier scoffed. 

“Do you doubt our Dark Lord, Rosier?” Draco spat daringly. 

Suddenly, all cockiness seemed to vanish, being replaced with a sort of sheepishness that looked ridiculous on such a large man. 

“No, no, of course not,” Rosier said quietly. “In His Shadow, We Rise.”

A couple of the other men muttered the words back weakly. 

“We’ll make it public in the Daily Prophet tomorrow that all wizards are required to register their house elves,” Yaxley said, changing the subject. “And it will be mandatory for anyone with more than two house elves to donate them to the cause.”

“Warrington will make use of them, I’m sure,” Rosier said, and there were dark chuckles from all angles. 

Draco exhaled through his nose and turned away. “I’ll be donating all my house elves,” he said, not to anybody in particular. “The sooner we get this war over and done with, the better. If you men think you only need one— or if your wives are doing a good enough job— maybe you’ll consider doing the same.”
Rosier arched a brow. “You don’t even have a wife, High Commander. Who will do your work for you?”

“You’re a busy man,” Selwyn added— just to butter him up. 

Draco scrunched his nose. “I think I’ll have to start looking around.”

Faces perked up in interest, and Draco didn’t miss the looks exchanged. For the last five years, the other men had thought he was ridiculous for not snatching up a young, beautiful Pureblood girl and making her his wife. He was too dedicated to the cause, he said, he didn’t need the distraction of a wife. Or three, as Lestrange suggested he have. 

“You’re looking?” Selwyn said. “Well, my daughter, my youngest— she’s graduating from Hogwarts next year. She’s beautiful, respectful. She’ll be looking for a Pureblood husband. Perhaps you’ll consider her?”

“If she’s got her father’s nose, I wouldn’t even think about it, High Commander,” Yaxley snickered, earning more laughter from the group. “Who has your eye then, Malfoy? No, seriously. Go on.”

Flashes of a teenage girl. Dark, tumbling hair, the sweetest smile he had ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, and eyes so brown that it felt like you were melting in them, so kind, so forgiving, and so loving. She smells sweet— like honey and vanilla, and when he hugs her, his chin resting on her head, he can smell the berries in her shampoo, and feel the softness of her body, those curves that felt like they were made purely for his hands to fit in, her hands scrambling to hold the back of his robes, to hold him just as close. She’s home. 

She’s just a memory. 

Tucked away somewhere at the manor was the paper that had him stumbling for a seat— the one that announced she had arrived at the BMA. Moody had sent her weeks too early. 

He remembered the way his hands immediately began to shake, his breathing uneven, and in the privacy of his kitchen, his house elves tending to other matters, Draco lifted his hand to his mouth and, much to his horror, felt his eyes grow hot. 

On the front page, staring back at the camera, dressed in the Bureau of Magical Allegiance uniform, was Amora . She wasn’t a teenager anymore; she was a woman. 

Her cheekbones were much more severe. Her eyes seemed dead now. Her lips were slightly chapped, her skin pale as if it had not seen the sun in months, and her hair was not as shiny. 

But holy fuck— as the photo of her moved, Amora’s lips pursing as the flash surrounded her, he wondered if other people felt the breath knock out of their lungs, too. He knew she wasn’t trying to be attractive, that she was obviously just incapable of being anything except that; however, he felt his heart lurch in a way that it only ever did when he stared at those photographs on his bad nights.

“Malfoy.” Yaxley clicked his fingers in front of his face. “Fuck, is she that gorgeous?”

Draco rolled his silver eyes and cleared his throat. He hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. 

“It’s none of your business,” he said. 

“She must be, then,” Rosier muttered quietly.

At the speed of lightning, the door to the office slammed open so hard that it hit the wall, leaving a dent that Draco would have to magic away. He rolled his eyes for the hundredth time that afternoon and sneered at the man, younger than him, who stood in the doorway, slightly breathless. He was a nobody— a half-blood from a good family that had managed to get him an apprenticeship at the Ministry straight out of Hogwarts. Yaxley had taken him under his department as yet another assistant.

“Mr– Mr Yaxley,” he panicked, eyes bulging as he glanced around the room at everybody standing staring back at him. “I’m– I’m sorry for barging in on your meeting, and for your wall, High Commander Malfoy,” he winced and touched the damaged plaster. “But I have huge news you need to know right away, Mr Yaxley.”

“If I need to know it right away, then why didn’t you spit it out before you rambled your useless apologies, Fisher?” Yaxley snapped through gritted teeth. 

“Right.” Fisher’s face grew red-hot. “Right, sorry, Mr Yaxley. It’s— there’s been a terrorist attack, a rebel group has released a Deadman’s Draught. A suicide attack— terrorist attack— yes.”

“Is that not more Malfoy’s department?” Rosier raised a brow. “What will Magical Enforcement do now?”

“Well, I’ll have to send some Aurors out to investigate, of course,” Yaxley said. “Where did it happen? How many casualties?”

Draco huffed. “Deadman’s Draught, Rosier. Whatever’s done is done. Nobody would survive that,” he scoffed. “Even the rebels. Yaxley, I’ll send out some men to aid your Aurors in finding any nearby rebel groups. Chances are they’re lurking further away from the aftermath for confirmation.”

“Yes, good idea,” Yaxley said. “You lucky prick, Malfoy. You can just sit back all afternoon, now.”

“Unless they’re planning an ambush,” Draco said. 

“Doubt it,” Selwyn said casually. “Suicide bombers do it for the political side more than the combat side. Nobody will ever even know the bastard’s name— he’ll have blown himself up beyond recognition.”

Fisher winced in the doorway.

“Right,” Yaxley huffed heavily. “I should get going. Rosier, if I can get this wrapped up by tonight, I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks for drinks like we said about.”

“Well, sir…” Fisher squeaked.

“Oh, fuck, don’t tell me it was Hogsmeade that got blown to smithereens?” Rosier grimaced.

“No, sir,” Fisher breathed, shaking his head. “I just— I’m not sure if you’ll wrap it up by this evening, sir. The impact has been significant. They attacked the potion factory, sir. All our army’s potion supplies are gone.”

“Fuck sake, the Cauldronworks?”

“Yes, sir. There’s nothing left of it. It’s all gone.”

Draco could only hear a loud buzzing in his ears. His blood was ice, the floor moving beneath his feet, and the corners of his vision were spotting. 

No. No. No. 

He apparated away wordlessly. 

His knees smacked the floor of the foyer at Malfoy Manor. Draco gritted his teeth, his head tilting back, his fists clenched as hot tears immediately welled in his eyes. A silent yell escaped his mouth, and then there was a loud howl, like a wolf would at the moon.

Draco shook as he leaned forward, almost like he was praying, his forehead nearly touching the floor, and he slammed his fists down so hard on the oak floor that he felt it reverberate all the way down his arms. 

He felt it in his chest. His heart was breaking. He had never felt it so raw before. It had broken a dozen times. He’d watched Amora go a hundred times. He put his mother to rest a few years ago. This felt like that.

Except it was his fault. He sent her there. He sentenced her. He got her to come to this world, and he banished her to the factory, where she most likely spent her last few months in hell. 

He killed her. It was his fault. 

Draco looked down at his hands. They were red, streaming with crimson blood. The thick liquid coated his rings, trickled down his wrists, and taunted him. It was hers. Amora’s blood. 

Amora. Amora. Amora. 

“Fuck!” Draco howled, and he grabbed the closest thing to him— some old lamp his mother had liked— and he slammed it through the air so it smashed against the wall. 

It did nothing to fuel the desperation Draco was experiencing. He was itching to hurt whoever was responsible, and that was him. It was him. He did this.

“Master Draco,” Mippy gasped. “What’s happened, Master Draco? Can Mippy do anything in aid of—”
“Get away from me, Mippy,” Draco growled, his face screwed up as if he had been beaten, the corners of his mouth tugging down so hard they trembled. “All of you— leave. Now. That’s an order.”

“Of course, Master Draco. Mippy will be gathering the rest of—”

“I don’t care!” Draco boomed. “Go!”
There was a squeal from the house elf, and then she apparated away, leaving nothing but the smoky smell of magic behind. Draco’s breathing was heavy as he hunched over on the floor, his heart slamming against its cage so hard that he thought he might go into cardiac arrest. 

He wouldn’t try to stop it. 

Maybe then he’d find her in the afterlife, and he’d be able to beg on his knees for her forgiveness. Maybe she’d let him hold her there.

He hauled himself to his feet, shaky and nauseous. Draco stumbled up the stairs, chucked himself into his office. His trembling hands grabbed his firewhisky, and he drank from the bottle, the ball in his throat bobbing as he inhaled the burning liquid, relishing in the agony it built in his chest, hoping that in the coming minutes, it might make him forget this terrible nightmare. 

Draco slammed the bottle on the desk, dark liquid sloshing around. It stained the top of his white shirt as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His mind was whirling at a hundred miles an hour. He wondered if he should message Theo, but he wanted to be alone.

Draco held his head in his hands. There was a fist around his heart, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing, and he just wanted it to all go away. His skin was crawling with thousands of tiny, infestating creatures.

Never had he felt such guilt.

“It’s my fault,” he croaked.

His hands were nearly blurry from shaking so hard, rings clanking against the oak as he yanked open the drawer at the bottom of his desk. He grasped a box, one of the few he has stashed in his private quarters, and hesitated for a moment before he allowed himself to indulge.

A wonky crochet penguin. Notes she had sent him that he’d never thought to throw away. 

 hello perfect boyfriend whom I love so so so much,

 please could I quickly copy your homework so 

 snape doesn’t completely murder me???? I fell 

 asleep reading!!  Did I mention you’re so 

 handsome and perfect? 

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his thumb against her swirly cursive handwriting. He found himself, perhaps pathetically, thinking about her writing the note, panicked and discreetly, as Snape started the beginning of their lesson, sat beside Pansy, a few rows away. Years had passed since then, but once, her quill and her pen and her hands had touched this parchment. He held history in his hands.

There was nothing left of Amora aside from these notes and some old photos. He had nothing. 

Nothing to live for. 

Draco slammed his fists down and screamed again.

He lurched awake to frantic pounding on the other side of his office door. It took him a second for his body to unfreeze in his chair, his legs wobbling when he heard Amora’s voice, and he yanked the door open, his silver eyes wide, his hands finding her arms. 

Her face was as white as a sheet of paper, and she scrambled to grasp the sleeves of his robes.

“What happened?” He bellowed, glancing around her in the corridor for any signs of disarray. Everything looked as usual. 

“You!” Amora cried, and shoved him backwards when she realised he was also unharmed. “I could hear you screaming bloody murder! I thought something had happened.”
Draco went still for a moment. “I– I was screaming?”

“Yes! What the fuck happened?”

“I had a nightmare.” A very realistic nightmare, which was actually a memory, that was so incredibly intense, he swore he had dreamt everything he had even been thinking and feeling at the time. 

His chest was still heaving. Amora’s face turned slightly sympathetic despite herself.

She swallowed and nodded. “Ran out of Dreamless Sleep?”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Draco said.

There was a long silence. Discomfort was painted across all of Amora’s features, and she scratched her arm, pursing her lips. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Amora cleared her throat.

He found himself grasping for her forearm before she could get away from him. Amora’s lips curled, and she tugged herself out of his hands as if he had burned her.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?” Draco snapped.

He hadn’t meant to get so angry— but the look on her face, like she didn’t recognise him, made him want to be sick. He despised the feeling of guilt. 

“I’m not ready to talk to you yet,” Amora spat. “If ever.”

“If ever?” Draco barked a laugh. “Okay, so what do you plan on doing, Amora? Running back to the Order?”

“I’m not needed here!” Amora glared at him, and her eyes looked glassy from where he was standing, but nothing slipped. “I might as well go back and fight.”

Draco sneered at her. “You realise you are safer in this manor than anywhere else?”

“I don’t care if I’m safer here,” Amora huffed. “I’m nothing but a housewife here. When I’m with the Order, I’m somebody. I do something.”

“You were a pawn,” Draco found himself snapping before he could think.

Amora’s face shifted, but he could tell it wasn’t a new thought that had gone through her head. Knowing her, Amora had thought about it a lot.

“You’re an arsehole,” Amora seethed. 

Looking at her face properly now, really taking it in, Draco realised that the circles beneath Amora’s eyes were darker than they had been a week ago. She didn’t look well.

“I was selfish,” Draco agreed. “And I am still selfish. I’ll never deny that.”

“It’s not fair that you expect me to give up everything to be by your side— for your peace of mind,” Amora told him firmly. “That’s not fucking fair. I had a life. I had a family there. I had a purpose, and structure, and nobody looked at me differently because I was a woman.”

Draco smoothed his hand over his face. “I didn’t bring you here to ruin your life.”

“But that’s what happened!”

“Amora, for fuck sake, the war is ending!” Draco laughed drily. “It’s nearly fucking over! And— and I need you with me. To help me. So I know you’re safe. Because— because maybe fucking selfishly, Amora, I want you to know that— that—”
Amora shot him a scathing look. “What?”
“I have worked hard to reach this point,” Draco said. “I wanted you to know I am not the person you thought I was.”

“Because you don’t believe in blood supremacy?”

“Because I fund a revolution, Amora!” Draco hissed, lowering himself to her level, moving forward as if somebody was listening to them. “I have done my research, I have taken the risks, I have sacrificed everything. Everything! I’m at the finishing point and fuck it– fuck me– if the reason I wake up every single morning and want this stupid fucking war to end in the first place, is at arm’s reach away— and I finally have the opportunity to maybe see her, and show her and tell her— and tell her that–”

“Spit it out!” Amora was breathing hard, her eyebrows tugged into a frown.

“That I never stopped being deeply, utterly, terrifyingly in love with you,” Draco breathed out shakily, and he didn’t miss the way Amora’s eyes visibly widened, her lips parting. “That I have only survived this long because I want to see you survive the end of this war. Whether it’s with me or not. I can cope if you don’t want to be with me. I just—” He was breathless, aching. “You deserve to see the end. You deserve a happy, fulfilling life.”

There was a long, heavy silence. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Amora admitted.

Draco felt his chest tear into two. He had done this to her before. He wondered if she even remembered— if this was as ironic to her as it was to him. At least he had loved her back. At least he had just been scared. 

Amora looked at him, and she probably saw a monster. He wouldn’t blame her if she felt nothing but resentment towards him. 

He debated between vulnerability and Occlumency. His heart thudded painfully, his legs hurting, and his fingers twitching to hurry back into the office and slam the door behind him. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he swallowed. “For the record, I am sorry for everything I’ve put you through. But I don’t regret this.”

Amora chewed on her bottom lip. “Maybe you could start by explaining to me what it is exactly that you and Theo have found?”

Draco hesitated for a split second before he took a step back, opening the office door wider and stepping to the side so she could move past him. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Please, come in,” Draco said.

She did.

D.M + A.B

Amora’s head was spinning with hundreds of different thoughts and facts and stories, and realisations. She’d peeled the skin from her bottom lip from chewing it so hard all evening, the metallic taste dissolving on her taste buds. She tossed and turned in her bed.

The duvet was too hot, the blankets too cold. Her pillow was so soft she sank to the mattress, and putting her head on her arm didn’t seem to help very much. 

Eventually, Amora sat up and moved over to the window, pulling the curtain open so that she could look out. It was nearly a full moon, the sky so clear that she could see hundreds of stars twinkling back at her. She found the Big Dipper immediately.

Harry Potter was under that same sky. He was still fighting.

For years, the Order had not known if Harry was dead or alive, fighting or hiding, but Draco Malfoy had known the entire time. Draco had been helping Harry. For whatever reason, Harry had trusted Draco more than the Order.

Horcrux hunting, Draco had said, and then he’d had to explain to her very carefully what a horcrux actually was. It’s what all the books Theo had been delivering to Draco had been about. Theo’s family had an extensive collection of books about dark magic in their library, which included ones that had been banned after the first war. Horcruxes were a dark magic she’d never heard of, in which witches and wizards could hide fragments of their soul inside them to achieve immortality. It was why no amount of curses or hexes seemed to take the Dark Lord down. 

He had seven of them. Well, as of now, he had three. Nagini, who was the Dark Lord’s snake, the Slytherin locket, and Harry himself. 

“How does that work?” Amora whispered grimly. “If Harry himself is a Horcrux? How did you even work that out?”

Draco pursed his lips into a thin line. “It works out exactly as you’d think. Potter will eventually have to sacrifice himself. And it was Severus Snape– he told Potter himself, I’m not sure when. Dumbledore always knew.”
Amora thought about Draco’s words with a tugging frown. Harry was so incredibly brave. She wondered how he hadn’t given up yet, knowing he’d never get to enjoy the aftermath of the war. She wasn’t sure how she would ever handle being in Harry’s shoes. 

“Do you have a plan? With Nagini and the Slytherin locket?” Amora had asked him. “You said the Dark Lord keeps the snake with him at all times, and that the Dark Lord himself is well hidden.”

“Nagini will be the last one we try to destroy,” Draco said. “If we killed her prematurely, the Slytherin locket may never see the light of day. Potter said he went on a hunt with Dumbledore the night I– the night I had to kill him. For the Slytherin locket. It was a fake– the Dark Lord’s not completely stupid. He sets traps.”

Amora swallowed. “But he is self-obsessed. He’s too proud of himself. I mean, the Hufflepuff Cup, a diadem, a ring… He would never place parts of his soul in everyday objects that would be easy to lose.”

“What are you suggesting?” Draco furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Everything has significance. I’m assuming the hiding places do, too. He’s too proud to bury it in the woods somewhere,” Amora snorted, though there was no humour behind it as she shook her head. “Do you think he might wear the locket?”

Draco shook his head. “Already thought he might wear it. But you’re onto something with significant hiding places. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody else is wearing it for him.”

“What does it look like?”

Draco pulled out a history book detailing the life of Salazar Slytherin. He flipped to the part that had a bit of scrap parchment sticking from the top and thrust the book into her hands. 

On a silver chain was an octagon-shaped locket, the same colour as an old map or a tiger-eye stone, dark runes surrounding a green snake curled up in the middle of it. Amora shook her head. She had never seen it before.

Amora took a breath and moved backwards, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her anger had simmered since a few hours ago. Her hands had stopped trembling with rage, her heart heavy.

Draco had been telling the truth that he was close to ending the war. She almost felt privileged that she was in on this secret; that she could play an even bigger role in helping people now. 

She wished that when he had brought her here, he had just been honest with her. That he had started with the horcruxes and Harry, rather than all of the acting and playing their roles. She understood why he couldn’t say anything, but it didn’t take away from the frustration or feeling out of control.

Her memories were still slipping as a consequence. Madam Opal was dead. 

Draco must have spent the last five years calculating every single move. He must have been so careful not to expose Harry— to find the horcruxes, to help Harry find some of his own, to work out how to destroy them and to still play the role of the Dark Lord’s army leader.

She chewed her lip again when she thought of the screams she’d heard coming from his office. The bile that had risen to her throat, the way she nearly couldn’t open her bedroom door because her hands were already shaking too much. The only time she heard screams like that was when death announcements came rolling in after missions. Mothers mourning their children, sisters crying for their brothers, lovers who would sleep alone for the first time that night…

He had screamed her name. She was sure he was under attack— so desperate that he was asking for her help— but he was just dreaming, and he was dreaming of her . 

Theo used to scream for Evangeline. Amora wasn’t sure she would ever forget what that sounded like.

Amora’s stomach swirled. She touched it as if it would make all of the jittery feelings around her body calm, but then she was picturing him downing his sleep potion before bed every night, and she felt pangs of sympathy.

Draco didn’t need to help Harry. He would benefit from the Dark Lord’s world more than most people would. He could live a relatively easy life if he wanted to. Instead, he had permanent dark shadows beneath his silver eyes.

Deeply, utterly, terrifyingly in love with you. 

Amora clenched her eyes shut at his intruding voice. Why did it sound so familiar? Where had she heard it before? 

She inhaled and smelled book dust and Draco’s school robes. Her mouth parted, and she was in the library, and they were both young, teary-eyed and desperate, clinging onto the little bits of love they could find in such a dark time. She remembered glimpses of a speech.

I’m scared to give you my heart. I’m scared you’ll break it. But you’ve had my heart for a long time now, anyway. I’ve fallen in love with the way you laugh. You taste like honey. Something about daisies. You’re my complete opposite, and you complete me. 

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She chewed on her thumb. She ached for him. Her heart yearned for Draco. Her brain told her to stay put, that this was war, and war was no time for love and relationships, and yet Amora thought, if Draco died tomorrow, she’d mourn keeping her mouth shut for the rest of her life.

She jumped from the bed, the floorboards creaking beneath her, and dressed in nothing but her nightdress, rushed down the corridor, her bare feet padding against the carpet. Amora reached Draco’s bedroom door and tapped it quickly, hoping he would answer while she was still flushed with bravery and adrenaline.

About ten seconds went by before his bedroom door opened, dim light revealing the pale, bare chest of Draco, covered in white lightning strikes, and she quickly looked up, her breath catching at his soft hair, recently washed and left to dry, slightly messy from being pressed into his pillow, and his tired eyes, so soft and earnest. 

“Wha—” The hand rubbing his eyes quickly reached to grab her as she jumped into his arms, brows shooting up in surprise as Amora pressed her mouth against his, wrapping her legs around his waist, squeezing him as close to her as she possibly could. 

Draco hummed in surprise but immediately melted into her, his hands supporting her waist. He walked backwards and kicked his bedroom door shut. Amora tugged at his hair, her lips lapping over his, and she swore she would die if he kept massaging his thumb against her skin like that, like she was something to be worshipped. 

He moved her down onto his bed, hovering over her, his knee finding a place between her legs where he could kiss her properly, his hands pinning hers above her head, their fingers intertwining and holding on tight . 

“Fuck, Amora,” Draco groaned when she lifted her hips to meet his. “What are you doing? Are you trying to kill me, ma chérie ?” 

Amora whimpered into his shoulder. She swore he was the one trying to kill her when he spoke French like that. He knew how much it made those butterflies soar. 

“I-I—” Amora breathed as he rocked on her, hitching at the feeling of his arousal. “Draco, I–” She swallowed. “I wanted to tell you that…” 

He stopped what he was doing, and she nearly whined, but his hand was brushing the hair out of her face, his own filled with a combination of curiosity and concern. 

“Amora?”

She could feel her face growing hot. She was sure there was a blush over her cheeks, and she wanted the ground to swallow her whole now that she had his attention so close to her. He was intimidating sometimes.

“What did you want to tell me?” His voice was barely above a murmur, stroking her cheek now. 

He looked so fond of her that she could have cried. She felt like she was bursting at the seams. 

“I think…” Amora exhaled. “I– That I love you.”

“You think?” Draco whispered, an eyebrow quirked up.

“No, I–” Amora squirmed. “I’m sure. I know. I know I love you. That I’m— that I would be crushed if anything ever happened to you. I know that I admire you, and I want to be with you. I want– I love you, and it scares me.”

“Why are you scared?” He breathed, though he appeared elated by her news. 

“I’m scared you’ll have to do something you don’t want to do, and I can’t justify it. I hate watching you lose yourself. I’m scared of you getting hurt, or of you not being pardoned after the war for whatever reason,” Amora rambled. “I’m terrified that it’s not going to work out how I want it to. That we won’t have a happy ending.”

Draco hesitated before he firmly planted his lips on hers. “I will look after you. You look after me. That’s all we can do.”

Amora grasped the side of his face and ran her thumb over his cheekbone. It was so sharp, and it was his . It felt surreal, like something out of a dream. 

“I waited for you to contact me for two years,” Amora whispered, and she nearly immediately regretted it when his face fell, her lips moving on autopilot. “I hoped every day you’d walk through the doors, or you’d send me some sort of message.”

Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t contact me,” Amora murmured. “I understand that now. I wish I had known this whole time.”

“You would have given yourself a heart attack every other day,” Draco scoffed fondly. 

She shook her head with a small smile. “I kept the badger,” she admitted.

“The necklace?” He asked.

Amora sighed. “No. I’m sorry. I threw it away one night. I was drunk. Sick of waiting for it to heat up. I had to move on.”

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I have mine. Here, actually.”

He moved to his bedside drawer and rummaged for a moment before he produced the broken chain that Amora had seen in his drawer when she’d come up looking. She felt red-hot guilt swarm her. 

“That’s a broken chain,” she said anyway. “What happened to it?”

“I was also drunk,” he said, amusedly. “The ring is here.” He wiggled his pinkie finger. 

Amora grabbed his hand and inspected it. “That’s not my birthstone ring.”

“Revelio,” Draco murmured, and his wandless magic never ceased to impress her, but she was quickly entranced by something else— the bulky silver metal on his smallest finger quickly transformed into a smaller one with a peridot stone. It was her one. 

Amora felt her chest grow tight. “You never took it off?”

“Never.”

Amora swatted his arm. “You’re a sappy softie, Draco.”

“Don’t cry about it.”

Amora rolled her eyes and sniffled. “I feel like– I feel bad.”

“I don’t care if you got rid of yours,” Draco dismissed her. “It’s fine, really—”

“I feel bad because I’ve seen that chain before!” Amora confessed, and she was unable to look him in the eye for a moment, despite their faces being inches apart. “I— If we’re on the chapter of complete honesty, then you need to know that I thought I was doing the Order a favour by snooping through your belongings once or twice.”

Draco’s entire face contorted into a look of confusion, and then relaxed. “Oh. You mean the time that you drugged my drink?”

“I didn’t drug your drink!” Amora gasped. 

“Then why did I wake up with a raging hangover?” He said pointedly. 

Amora smiled timidly. “Technically, it was your soup. And I prefer the term spiking.” 

Draco sent her a pointed look. “I knew you’d done something.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Amora wondered. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Anything worth finding, you wouldn’t have gotten to before I woke up.”

“I found all your fake autobiographies,” Amora said. “I knew they weren’t real.”

“But you couldn’t get them to reveal themselves to you,” Draco said pointedly. “It took me months to master those sorts of spells.”

“What do you do with it all when Bellatrix visits?”

“I’ve not had to worry about her snooping before,” Draco said. “I’ve already started getting rid of things. Transporting it to Potter. Destroying whatever I don’t really need anymore.”

“And you’re sure you’re safe?” Amora worried.

“Of course,” he pinched her frown line. “What else did you find?”

Amora thought for a few moments, and then there was this sinking feeling of dread. She swallowed and thought harder, then she shook her head.

“Letters about a house elf, I think?” Amora murmured anxiously. “That’s all I can remember. I don’t know.”
Draco’s face quickly creased with concern. His mocking anger and amusement faded, and he took her into his arms, relishing in the feeling of her smaller body against his, her head on his chest. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered, and he nearly gasped at the hot tears he felt against him. “I’m working on a potion, Amora. Theo is, too. He has access to book materials I can’t even get hold of.” 

Amora nodded against him, sniffling. “It’s scary,” she said. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered and rubbed her back. 

Amora choked on a sob. “Sorry,” she apologised for the abruptness of it all. “I’ve not been held like this in… I don’t know. I’ve needed this for years.”

Draco squeezed her harder, as if that would mend all of her broken pieces back together. 

thank you to lori for proofreading!! 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Amora.”

Her eyes flickered open, bleary with sleep, a small groan leaving her lips. For a moment, nothing felt out of the ordinary until she realised the pillow she was on wasn’t hers, and everything smelled like Draco. Amora sprang to life, startled into a sitting position and nearly knocking the drinks out of Draco’s hands.

She pouted when she realised that he was already dressed for work, his hair styled back, an amused expression written on his face as he lifted the drink higher from her, and then placed it on the bedside table.

“I thought I might wake you and let you know that I’m leaving,” Draco said, and rubbed her shoulder when she groaned tiredly, leaning against his body.

“Do you have to?” She asked.

Draco chuckled quietly. “Yes, unfortunately. Warrington is rather insistent on working with me to make security tighter just about everywhere after the Carrows.”

Amora furrowed her eyebrows. “Carrows?” She muttered and grabbed the steaming mug of tea, bringing it to her lips. “What happened to them?”

Draco stilled for a moment. He adjusted his robes. “They were killed. I’ll tell you more about it later. I need to leave.”

Her brain was still slightly foggy from sleep, but she nodded and touched his face when he leaned down to kiss her lips gently. Amora pulled away.

“Morning breath,” she muttered and flopped back onto Draco’s bed.

Draco chuckled. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“You’re supposed to tell me that I don’t have morning breath, that I always smell minty,” Amora whined into the pillow.

Draco rolled his eyes, fighting the corners of his lips, which were threatening to tug upwards.

“And you say I’m dramatic.”

He squeezed her arm and told her to have a good day. When she heard him leave, Amora sighed happily into his pillow, tugging it closer to her and not-so-secretly inhaling the scent of his hair.

D.M + A.M

Two days later, Draco came home to find an entire feast spread across the dining table. He found Amora in the garden with Theo, the pair of them sat by the water fountain, where Amora had pulled up the long skirt of her dress and placed her feet inside the cool water.

“Oh, hi,” Amora greeted him, and she began to pull her legs over, but Draco planted his hand on her shoulder, grounding her, and pecked the side of her forehead.

“You don’t need to move,” Draco said. “It looks like you and Theo have made quite the spread.”

Theo snorted. “I cut the fruits and vegetables.”

“And you did a good job,” Amora sent him a look. “It was a joint effort.”

Draco was relieved that the news he had given her a week ago hadn’t impacted the friendship between Amora and Theo. When Theo had requested access to Malfoy Manor, Draco had been apprehensive, but Amora had been in a steady mood since the other night, and he knew they needed to talk sooner rather than later.

“Well, it looks great,” Draco said, and ran a hand through Amora’s hair absentmindedly.

Theo grinned. “Where’s my kiss?” He asked and then faced Amora. “The second wife never gets enough attention.”

Amora arched a brow and laughed, shaking her head. “Aw, Theo. You poor thing.” She ruffled his hair and then stood up, her wet feet leaving prints on the concrete floor.

Draco could tell that when they hadn’t been in the kitchen, they had been in the sun all day. Amora’s nose and shoulders were home to a few more freckles, and the thorn bushes growing near the house had been cut back. Theo’s hands were decorated with cuts, which nearly made him laugh— Amora had found a way to punish him somehow.

“Well, let’s go in,” Amora said, and her feet were dry by the time she reached the kitchen door.

She started to wash her hands at the sink as Draco reached for a couple of glasses.

“Would either of you like a drink?” He asked.

“Oh, go on, then,” Theo agreed. “Amora made lemonade earlier— it’s amazing.”

Amora gasped and nodded, moving into the pantry where she pulled out the pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade. The pitcher was so cold it dripped condensation, and Draco thought nothing sounded better on such a hot June day.

“It’s nice to have this when the weather’s so great,” Amora beamed, and made her way to the dining room. “It will probably be chucking it down in the next couple of days. All grey again.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Theo said, and he took a seat at the table, down the end where they had strategically placed all of the food on colourful plates and patterned platters.

Draco hummed at all of the cheeses and fruits, the breads and the dips, the crackers and the vegetables, the pots of different types of honey Amora had experimented with, and an array of other colourful things.

“This is exactly what you need on such a hot day,” Amora said matter-of-factly. “I had Theo go to Hogsmeade and get cheese from the farmer’s market. And the meats are from the butcher’s.”

“Ah, so you’ve had him running all the errands?”

Amora grinned. “He has to earn his stay.”

Draco smiled and began to grab some cheese and crackers.

Twenty minutes later, Amora sipped at the last of her lemonade, holding her belly as if she were pregnant, a groan escaping her lips when she tipped her head back.

“I should have stopped five crackers ago,” Amora admitted.

Theo and Draco both chuckled. He was stuffed, too, pushing his plate to the side and pulling his drink to his lips. His fingers were sticky with the chilli honey Amora had made, his favourite, and he wasn’t sure he’d had such a perfect evening in a while.

He looked at the empty seats and thought of a couple of ways it would have been even better.

“So,” Theo said, and wiped his hands on a serviette. “Are you going to Draco’s birthday party tomorrow?”

Amora furrowed her eyebrows and glanced at Draco. “Birthday party?”
Draco groaned, shaking his head and sending Theo a piercing glare. “I wasn’t going to go,” he told Amora. “Or, I’d show up for an hour, say hello to everybody, and then come straight back here. I wasn’t planning on mingling.”

“Did you tell me about it?” Amora asked and then added worriedly, “Did I forget?”

Draco reached to the side to grasp her hand and squeeze it. “No, darling, you didn’t forget. I didn’t mention the party. I just— it’s been the last thing on my mind, I was hoping to just come home and have a quiet evening, in all honesty.”

Amora nodded wearily, and a moment later she said, “Maybe we should go.”

“What?”

“Well, I know the Dark Lord won’t make an appearance, so no Nagini, but we need to find the locket,” Amora reminded him. “And I was thinking about it last night. I wondered if perhaps a woman could be wearing it, considering it’s jewellery, and I could attempt to mingle— maybe look around.”

Both men were silent. Draco felt a burst of dread in his chest. He didn’t want Amora to be involved— he knew she was a damn good witch, but she was out of practice, and he would never forgive himself if she got hurt now. They were so close to the end.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Theo said, glancing at Draco. “I suppose we should make the most of events like these. They don’t happen very often.”

Draco glanced between them apprehensively. “Okay,” he agreed. “Alright. We’ll go for a few hours, see if we can find anything out.”

“Will the person with the locket know they’re carrying a Horcrux?” Amora asked.

Draco considered for a few seconds. “I think nobody knows about the Horcruxes. I believe the most they’ll know is it’s of great importance to the Dark Lord.”

“Wouldn’t they keep it in some sort of jewellery box, then?” Theo suggested.

“This is the best idea we have right now, regardless.”

D.M + A.M

Theo left a few hours later, the hot June evening providing the perfect chance for Draco and Amora to sit out at the bistro table in the garden, two glasses and a bottle of wine between them. There was a slight warm breeze that ruffled Amora’s hair, and she could smell her shampoo and suncream for a moment, a blissful sigh escaping her lips.

“All you need now is to get a pool,” Amora smiled teasingly at him, everything beautifully heavy from the alcohol, her fingers fuzzy as they traced the coolness of her glass.

“Oh, do I?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Or better yet,” Amora said, “You could find a way to move your manor onto a beach. Preferably one with sand.”

“I hate sand,” Draco replied.

Amora shrugged. “Well, I don’t.”

“And it’s all about you, is it?” He laughed, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the warmth.

He didn’t look like he’d spent about ten hours at the Ministry today— he seemed so relaxed now, well-fed, tipsy, smily. Amora wished she could take a photograph of him in this moment and keep it forever. This was the Draco that so many people didn’t get to see; the one that she had found a home in beneath his cold exterior.

“It should be,” Amora replied playfully.

Draco’s silver eyes didn’t stray from hers for even a second as he lifted his glass and downed the rest of his wine. He wiped a droplet from the corner of his mouth and sucked it from the side of his thumb.

“It should,” he agreed, and then he pushed his chair back slightly and widened his legs, patting his thigh.

Amora’s eyes narrowed, her heart leaping inside her chest, and she waited for him to repeat the action a second time before she realised he meant it. Plucking the neck of her glass, Amora stood from her seat and moved a few steps onto Draco’s lap, shifting for a moment to find comfort on his left thigh, draping her legs across his right one. His arm wrapped around her waist tightly, his other hand stroking her leg.

“So, where would you like to move to when the war wraps up?” Draco asked her casually. “You’d like a house on the beach?”

Amora’s face was oddly warm, and she had to fight the urge to giggle as if she were a teenager again. She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip of the cold beverage, its sweet crispness melting on her tongue.

“I’d love a house on the beach,” Amora answered.

“In this country?”

Amora went to laugh, and then realised the seriousness of his tone. It had taken her so long to get used to the way Draco talked about doing things as if money wasn’t an object, and five years without it, she was back to adjusting again.

“Yes,” Amora said. “Somewhere quaint and nice.”

“Quaint,” Draco said, as if it were the first time he had heard that word and he was testing it on his tongue. “Like your family home?”
Amora stilled. Her stomach did a flip that her chest tried to replicate. Suddenly, she took up too much space. Amora became the weight of her emotional baggage; like a sponge that had soaked all of the water, and she needed wringing out, but instead, she floated there, at the surface, so heavy and rigid that she thought in a moment, Draco might ask her to get off his lap.

She saw glimpses of cacti lining a windowsill, books with yellow pages, Muggle artefacts displayed like trophies, her father’s owlet training tools abandoned by the back door. Amora could hear the crashing of the waves, smell the salt in the air, the squawking of seagulls, the noise of someone walking across the pebbles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her neck, his arm tightening around her. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” Amora murmured. “They’re all happy memories.”

She tilted her head so that it lay on his collarbone. He stroked her hair absentmindedly, glancing across the garden.

“I’d love to visit again one day,” Amora murmured. “If it’s still there.”

“I’m sure it is,” Draco mumbled back. “And we can. We will.”

Amora sipped more of her wine and inhaled the summer evening smell. She shifted so her back was against him, his arms curled around her front now, his hands interlocked but hugging her close. He kissed the back of her neck and then her shoulder. Amora shivered.

Amora gasped when she heard the grandfather clock distantly chime inside the house. She pounced from his lap and spun to face him, her glass dismissed on the table, her fingers threading through his and dragging him to his feet.

“Happy Birthday, Draco!” Amora gushed, and she wrapped her arms around him to yank him down into a kiss.

Draco was quick to respond, his lips feverishly overlapping hers, his grip on her hips so tight it nearly hurt. He was warm and tasted like the apples from the wine they had drunk, a breath of content coming from his nose and brushing Amora’s cheek in a way that had her heart soaring because it was just so human.

“I love you,” Amora told him when she broke away, placing her forehead against his. “I really do.”

Draco snickered quietly. “Good. I love you.”

“Come on,” Amora beckoned him through the open door of the kitchen, which he managed to close right before she quickly dragged him away. “Let me give you your present.”

Draco’s face scrunched up when she tugged him up the stairs. “You got me a present?”

“Yes, I’ve had plenty of time on my hands to get creative,” Amora said and led him into her bedroom. “Sit on the bed,” she demanded.

Draco grinned cockily and put his arms behind him so he could lean back and watch her. Amora felt a flash go over her, her heart squeezing at the reminder of just how gorgeous her boyf— husband?- was.

She reached the trunk at the end of her bed and pulled off the blanket that she had hidden his gift beneath. Amora didn’t think Draco would snoop through any of her belongings, but she would be heartbroken if he had found it prematurely.

“Close your eyes,” she called out.

“Okay.”

Amora checked that he had actually obeyed, and then she stood from the floor and brought the present over to him. She placed it in his hands and exhaled an anxious breath.

“Open.”

His silver eyes flickered, brows tugging together as he examined the weight in his hands. Draco ripped off the delicate tissue paper Amora had wrapped it in very carefully, and his lips parted at what was inside.

A hardback book about the same thickness as his thumb lay there, carefully bound with golden stitching, and a balcony shrouded by rose bushes had been painted small in the centre, so expertly that Draco nearly gushed there and then over Amora’s talent that she didn’t even bother to brag about. If it were he who could pick up a paintbrush or a pencil and create such magic, he was sure everybody would know about it.

Draco was careful to open the first page of the book, his eyes bulging. “Amora— what is this?” He whispered.

To Draco,

Happy 22nd Birthday.

Still as boundless as the sea,

And just as deep. Always.

Yours,

Amora x

His breath hitched.

She grinned toothily and sat on the bed beside him. “I would say that’s a book written by a Pureblood witch who has had no Muggle influence whatsoever,” she replied to him. “What would you say this is?”

Draco shot her a look. “The most intricate and insane thing anybody has ever done for me.”

Amora giggled. “They can’t detect something that a Muggle has never even touched, right?”

“No, they can’t,” Draco breathed, flipping through it carefully. “You wrote out every page– you made these illustrations?”

“Yes,” Amora said sheepishly, her cheeks warm. “I, erm, I used Occlumency.”

Draco shifted, a frown deepening on his face. “What do you mean?”

“To remember,” Amora explained to him. “There was no way I could possibly remember every single line. I had the idea when you showed me your copy of Romeo and Juliet— the one I got you for your birthday. I knew then that I wanted to give it back to you, I just wasn’t sure how. I thought maybe if I read it all out loud, I could store it away, like the Order taught us to do if we were ever taken hostage and interrogated, and then… bring it back out when I was rewriting it down. It took ages— and I had a few huge headaches— but… yeah. Here it is.”

Draco was stunned, his lips not quite meeting each other again, his fingers skimming over a sketch she had created of the balcony scene, flowers ebbing and flowing around the text she’d so carefully calligraphed, like tendrils coming from the plants each balcony was home to.

“You’re such a clever witch,” he whispered, and glanced at her rosy face, his heart swelling. “Thank you, Amora.”

Amora swallowed, a timid smile wavering across her features. “You’re welcome,” her voice was quiet. “I’m glad you like it. When I was rewriting it out,” she breathed, and swallowed a lump in her throat. “I found this quote, and I remember you highlighted it. You liked it.”

Draco’s nose crinkled. “And which quote might that be, ma chérie? I highlighted quite a few.”

Amora felt her heart hesitate, and she lightly whacked him. “Don’t call me that,” she mumbled defiantly.

“You like it,” Draco teased with a grin, and he pinched her cheek, only to be swatted away yet again. “Are you getting shy?”

“Stop!” Amora whined, and she pouted at him.

Draco huffed, smiling with a mixture of amusement and content, shaking his head at her. “I’m sorry. I’ll never call you nicknames ever again.”

“I didn’t say that!” Amora complained. “Stop twisting my words.”

“You don’t like it when I speak French, then?”

“Draco!” She was fully aware that her whining made her sound fifteen rather than twenty-one, but she was already embarrassed and vulnerable as it was, and Draco seemed to feed on it— like some sort of succubus for discomfort. “Please.”

“Oh,” Draco said knowingly, glowing with delight. “Could it be that you like it when I call you French nicknames a little too much, hm?”

Amora grasped his hand before it could touch her exposed thigh. “Just because it’s your birthday, does not mean you are exempt from being shunned from my bedroom and receiving silent treatment.”

Draco smirked at her. “Okay. I’ve been told.”

There was a silence.

“Continue with your quote,” he ordered gently.

Amora rolled her eyes. “No,” she huffed. “I don’t want to anymore. You’ve put me off.”

“No,” Draco whined now. “Come on. Don’t be like that, Amora. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Amora raised an eyebrow. “Right. You say that you’re sorry, and no doubt you will mock me with your silly French words again in the future.”

“Silly French words?” Draco repeated. “Do you mean terms of endearment?”

“I’m just nervous!” Amora cried and hugged her middle section, and Draco quickly backed down when he detected a hint of seriousness in her tone. “I don’t want you to make me feel even more nervous— and I do when you call me pet names. It makes me all flustered, and I can’t concentrate on what I was going to tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said more sincerely, and he reached forward to grasp her hand in his larger one. “I’ll stop. I only like to tease you because I like making you blush.”

Amora pinched her lips together and then exhaled dramatically. “Yes, well…”

“You were saying,” Draco pressed as silence fell upon them. “About one of the quotes I highlighted.”

“Yes, yes,” Amora cleared her throat, but her cheeks blazed. “Juliet says, ‘And when he shall die, Take him and cut him out into the little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.’”

Draco listened to her intently, his eyes trained on her cupboard as her words sank in, and then he nodded. “Yes. I liked that one.”

“How did you interpret it?” Amora whispered.

“I liked the running theme of stars being fate,” Draco murmured. “And stars always reminded me of you. Your Yule Ball dress. I remember the feeling when I first saw you— like the air had been knocked out of my lungs, and I knew the library incident was fate. For the first time, I knew something had happened for a reason— I never really believed in that stuff before. And I remember thinking, if you’d dance with me or give me a kiss, it would be worth defying the fate my father was trying to press me into.”

Amora swallowed. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“And the war was starting to rage on. You hated me,” Draco furrowed his eyebrows. “I was reading it again. I thought, if something happens to you, death would never look so enticing. I’d need to join you. Cut you up and turn you into stars— my fate to follow.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. She batted him off when he reached out to touch her, chuckling quietly and sticking a finger beneath each eye, carefully catching a tear before it hit her cheek.

“Oh my gosh, Draco,” Amora giggled with a sniffle. “You mean all of that?”

“I did when I was seventeen, and I mean it even more now,” Draco whispered, smoothing her hair from her face. “Why did you like that quote?”

Amora shook her head. “Merlin, it doesn’t matter!” She breathed, and she rested a hand on his jaw, leaning in to meet his mouth.

Draco groaned against her, vibrations sending a fuzzy sensation through Amora’s skin. He gripped her waist, long fingers squeezing the flesh on her hips. He pulled, and Amora took the hint, lifting herself onto her knees, swinging one leg over his lap so that she straddled him. His head leaned up to keep their lips attached, his jaw so sharp and straining, her fingers tracing every pointed edge, wishing she could squeeze and kiss every inch of him. Amora gripped his hair, tugging, and he groaned, moving from her lips to pant into the air when she shifted herself on his lap, coming into contact with something hard.

Amora took the opportunity to kiss down his jaw and his neck, Draco’s hands finding her backside where he squeezed, eliciting a breath from Amora when she began to suck on the sweet spot right by his ear. Draco’s sounds were low and quiet, his hands roaming, gripping her thighs. His thumbs drew circles, inching to the bottom of the summer dress that had ridden up to her waist. He pulled it upwards. Amora took the hint and leaned back from him, adjusting her arms to slip the dress off her completely.

“Fuck,” Draco moaned, and his hands pinched at her waist before he could stop himself, then he dropped backwards on the mattress so he could drink all of her in on his lap. “Holy fuck, Amora.”

Amora pursed her lips as she grinned despite the pulsing flashes in her chest. She glanced down at the lingerie she had transfigured yesterday— black and sheer, leaving hardly anything to the imagination— and then back at Draco, who looked on the verge of unconsciousness. He chewed on his bottom lip, his large hand coming back up to squeeze her leg again.

“Do you like it?” Amora whispered, leaning over him, her breasts brushing his clothed chest for a moment, nearly making her shiver.

“You have a serious problem of making understatements, Amora,” Draco breathed, shaking his head. “I have never been so turned on in my fucking life.”

She giggled to herself, thoroughly pleased, and reached for the bottom of his shirt, tugging it upwards. Draco lifted himself so it could slip past his waist, and then he tugged it off, throwing it somewhere across the room.

“Is this all for me?” Draco breathed as her hands found his chest, smoothing across his muscles, drinking him in.

Amora kissed his sternum and then looked up at him. “I had a whole joke planned,” Amora murmured, peppering her lips up his shoulders. “About the quote I mentioned earlier– how the Elizabethans used ‘die’ as a euphemism for an orgasm.” Draco’s face is as shocked as it is amused, and he chuckles. “That there’s a debate over what it really means. And how I thought—” She gasped when his hand cupped her bra. “It was ironic that your name is Draco. You already are a constellation. Something like that.”

“That makes my interpretation look truly sappy,” Draco murmured.

Amora shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly make an orgasm joke after you said all of that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Draco shook his head. “About the euphemism.” He leaned up and kissed her neck, Amora’s breath hitching. “You are so, so clever.”

Amora sighed when he sucked at her collarbones, his hands playing with the straps of her bra. Suddenly, one of his fingers gently pinched on a nipple poking through her sheer bra, and she gasped against him, the ache between her thighs throbbing harder than before. She squeezed them together, unintentionally shifting on Draco’s lap and making him moan quietly.

“So beautiful, too,” Draco murmured, and he held onto her as he flipped them over, Draco positioned between her legs, holding her knees up, her face flushed.

Amora leaned down to grasp his hand when it started to work its way towards her lower region.

“Draco,” she breathed. “I’m supposed to please you. At least first. It’s your birthday.”

Draco scoffed and appeared genuinely offended. “Amora, I have not slept with you in five years— do you think I care whether today is my birthday or not? Besides,” he disappeared onto his knees in front of the bed, and then she was tugged to the edge of the bed, a loud gasp filling the room. “This is my favourite part.”

His fingers hooked into her pants, and Amora exhaled a nervous breath, lifting her hips so he could pull them down, leaving her exposed to the air and his silver eyes. She desperately wanted to put her hands there, to shield herself from eyes that hadn’t seen her in half a decade, but Draco groaned and grasped her hands as soon as they made the gesture to do so.

“You need to cooperate with me, Amora,” Draco said firmly. “Don’t cover yourself. None of that.”

“Okay,” her voice was hitched, anticipating his cold hands or his warm tongue.

The anticipation built and built, crashing when fingers smoothed down her thighs, parting her legs slightly. She felt his face between her legs, his cheeks brushing her as he kissed her skin, pecking and sucking, all the way up to the place she needed him the most.

“You’re so beautiful,” Draco mumbled. “So fucking pretty.”

Amora held onto the sheets beneath her, bracing herself for the tongue that flicked out to smooth over her clit— so gently she nearly didn’t feel it. He pressed kisses against her, fingers experimentally swiping through her slit, gathering the arousal pooling and dragging it up. Amora whined, her eyes clenching shut.

Draco’s mouth smothered her clit then, sucking it in while his tongue flicked up down. She could have cried at the relief of being touched by someone who wasn’t herself (and even better that it was the man she had always physically craved, despite whatever she thought about his morals). Amora’s hand reached down and grasped his hair, pulling in a way that made him groan into her. The vibrations sent sparks up her spine and down to her toes.

“Fuck!” Amora whimpered in an almost exasperated tone, her back arching from the bed as his tongue swirled circles around her, around and around and around, then to the side, flicking, his teeth joining in to gently graze her, his mouth pursing together to pull and tug.

“Oh my, fuck!” Amora breathed. “Oh, Draco!”

One of his strong arms snapped up the bed, his hand landing on her stomach, pressing her down into the bed. Amora scrambled for both hands to grab, one holding his wrist, the other on his fingers, squeezing every time he moved his tongue in a particularly good way, waves of pleasure ebbing and flowing, growing so consistent that she knew the end was near.

His other arm wrapped around one of her thighs when it began to tremble too much. Amora turned her head to the side, glancing down at him, whimpering at the blond hair and the thick biceps that were keeping her in place.

“I’m so close,” Amora whined, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Fuck. Fuck, Draco. Please.”

She half-expected him to pull away from her there and then, to say that she could finish later, like he sometimes did when they were teenagers, but Draco only nodded his head against her. He didn’t come up for a breath, nor to tease her, but stayed concentrated on the effort he was putting in.

He sucked her clit into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it— the action that’d had her moaning the loudest earlier— and he hit the right spot immediately. Amora tumbled over the edge, a string of curse words and broken sentences falling past her mouth, his name the loudest word of them all, her hands squeezing his so hard that she worried she would hurt him, but only for a split second. It felt too good to care about anything else.

Amora whined when it was over, her chest heaving up and down, her legs shaking with adrenaline. She shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the stickiness between her thighs and the wet patch she sat in. Draco took the hint and moved forward, lapping up some of the arousal from around her legs. He sucked his fingers into his mouth for a second, and then flashed her a grin as he stood up.

He climbed over her, one leg between hers, a whimper leaving her mouth when his black trousers met her sensitive part. He pressed it against her anyway, smiling slightly when she tossed her head to the side, panting, clearly unsure what to do with herself and all of the feelings she was experiencing.

“How was that?” Draco murmured.

Amora brushed some of her hair out of her face and grinned. “Otherworldly.”

“Otherworldly,” he repeated. “I like that.”

He leaned down and kissed her. Amora could taste herself among the wine on his breath, and Draco seemed to realise that because he kissed her even harder, pressing his tongue into her mouth, overlapping his with hers. Amora pressed herself up against him, and then quickly realised she had yet to actually touch an intimate part of his, and her hand was sliding between their bodies.

“Your trousers–” Amora complained, shifting so he could kiss her neck instead of her lips. “They need to come off.”

“Oh, do they?” Draco grinned, amused, and shifted his hips so he could reach his hand down, helping her with the stubborn button. Amora pulled down his zipper and lifted her legs, pressing her feet to the waistband of his trousers, pushing them down, taking his pants with them.

He watched her bite her lip, her gaze flickering up to him, her cheeks rosy. Draco climbed onto his knees and got rid of his clothes entirely, reaching forward to finally unclasp her bra. Amora sat up, and he hissed when her warm hand found his cock.

“Fuck,” Draco grunted.

Amora smiled at him, working her hand up and down, meeting his mouth in the middle. He kissed her hard, leaning back over her body, his hands taking the bed sheets as she ran her thumb over his tip, pulling her hand up and down, up and down.

“Do you want my mouth?” Amora whispered, kissing his collarbone.

“Of course I fucking do,” Draco nearly laughed, choking on his breathless moans. “But more than anything, I just want to be inside of you.”

She smiled into his hot skin, grasped his cock and teased it against her wetness. Draco nearly lost it there and then. He fought the urge to take over, to grab her and bury himself inside of her, to take and take and take.

“Amora,” he warned. “How do you want me?”

Amora raised an eyebrow at him. “How do you want me, birthday boy?” She leaned up to his ear. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m quite flexible.”

Draco groaned. “Trust me,” he said. “I remember.”

She nearly grinned, but then he was grabbing her and flipping her over, his large hands pulling her waist up so her ass pressed to his front. He shivered at the feeling of her skin on his, so close to finally getting what they both wanted.

Amora reached forward, her back consequently arching further, and Draco gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t moan pathetically. He realised she was reaching for her wand.

“What are you doing?” He rasped, squeezing the fat of her backside.

“Contraceptive spell, love,” Amora replied softly.

Draco’s heart stammered at the nickname. “Let me do it,” he shook his head when he realised what she had said.

Draco reached for the wand discarded on the bedside table and cast the spell for her. Amora felt a shiver of magic and then glanced over her shoulder at him, pressing herself further against him.

“Please,” she muttered.

Draco’s hand smoothed down her spine, grasping at her shoulder. His other hand guided his cock to her core, swiping himself through her arousal, his chest nearly heaving with anticipation. He nudged at her clit, eliciting a loud drawn-out moan from the woman kneeling in front of him.

“Ready?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Please, just—” Amora’s voice broke. “Please.”

She felt him enter her, slowly, both their moans low and quiet. Draco stayed still for a few moments, less than half of him inside, and then he saw Amora’s frame relax, and he shifted his hips forward, easing the rest of his length inside of her warmth.

“Fuck,” Draco moaned, his fingertips digging into her flesh. “Oh, fuck, Amora.”

Amora whimpered at the feeling of him inside of her, the full feeling that she had nearly forgotten— one that felt as painful and pleasurable as she remembered. It stung, her body desperately trying to accommodate the intrusion, because Merlin did she want it— she wanted him, in his most primal state, she wanted all of him on her, inside her. Everywhere.

“Draco!” Amora gasped when he pulled out slightly just to shove back in.

He did it again, hitting deeper than before, a squeal coming from her mouth. She scrambled to put her hand over her lips, her eyes clenching shut as her face heated up. Everything was on fire. She realised this probably wasn’t the best first position after five years of nothing— he was hitting parts of her she didn’t know existed, so deep it hurt, his hips smacking against her in a way that promised it would get better soon.

“Fuck, Amora,” Draco panted, his hands threading through the back of her long hair, gently pulling. “You feel so good.”

Amora whined into her hand, her eyes incapable of opening, her face now smushed into the mattress. It took nearly half a minute before the pain subsided, his cock slipping in and out of her so easily, the filthy sounds of arousal and skin making contact with skin making her feel weightless.

Then, Draco’s fingers made contact with her clit and her whine was so loud and long that she worried she’d put him off. He grunted behind her, her name falling past his lips, and he pulled out of her, and suddenly she missed his warmth and the full feeling.

He turned her so she was on her back, his mouth hovering over hers, eyes mingling. “Is this okay?” He checked.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as he guided his cock back to her entrance. “More than okay,” Amora promised him.

He pushed back in until he bottomed out, his head falling into the space between her neck and her shoulder. Amora’s fingers raked up and down his back, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. One of his hands rubbed circles on her clit, the other in her hair from where he used his forearm to prop himself over her, careful not to crush her with his weight.

Her mouth fell open, pants rolling from her mouth, momentarily stunned by the man rocking above her, her hands smoothing his scars, gripping at his shoulders as he muttered curse words, a crease between his brows as he gave her everything he had. His thumb rolled over her in a way that had her hips involuntarily snapping upwards, thrusting him harder inside, catching Draco off guard and making him moan loudly against her ear.

“Do that again,” he strained.

Amora held onto him and thrust her hips to try and meet him halfway, both gasping, her head rolling back. He attacked her neck momentarily, breaking away to moan vibrations on her skin. She wanted to drown in the sounds he made for her.

She glanced down between them, groaning when she saw the way he was disappearing inside of her. Draco looked down, as if wanting to be in on whatever she had seen, and he cursed loudly, dropping his head onto her chest where he promptly sucked at the top of her breast to keep his sounds to a minimum. Amora wasn’t sure she remembered him being as vocal when they were younger.

“It’s so good,” Amora breathed, tipping her head back. “I could come again.”

“Yeah?” Draco breathed, his head craning up to her, his hips shoving even harder against her, her thighs aching in the best way possible.

“Yeah,” Amora nodded quickly, her eyes scrunched into his chest. “Like that. Oh gosh, oh fuck— shit!”

Draco moaned with her as she tipped over the edge for the second time that evening. Her stomach tightened, everything pulsating, and she clung to him like he was her lifeline, terrified that if she didn’t hold on hard, then he might disappear, and this would all go away. She was well aware she was being loud, a tiny part of her worried too loud, but Draco’s tight jaw and lust-clouded eyes suggested otherwise.

Amora breathed in and out hard as she came down, her hands gently grazing his sides, holding him into her weakly, mouthing his name, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Come on, ma chérie,” Draco murmured. “I’m nearly there.”

She swallowed at the nickname and sucked lightly on the bottom of his neck, her nails raking down his biceps now as he rocked in and out of her overstimulated body. Amora lifted her hips to meet him again, using all of the strength she had left to please him.

“So good,” Amora mumbled blissfully. “You make me feel so fucking good, Draco.”

She was almost sure he whimpered at that— his hips stuttering for a second, and then he shoved into her so hard she moved up the bed. Her gasp ached her throat, her arms clinging to him as Draco pounded harder.

“Fuck!” Amora squealed. “Draco!”

He clenched his eyes shut.

“You’re so—” Amora grasped his face, her trembling hands struggling not to accidentally poke him in the eyes as he rocked her up and down. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Draco captured her mouth, kissing her hard, his tongue slipping against hers. His hand found her jaw, keeping her head in place.

“You’re everything,” Draco rasped, kissing the side of her face. “You are everything.”

Amora clenched around him, and he cried out her name. She gasped at the sound, like music to her ears, and she did it again, just to hear him whimper, a vulnerable and beautiful noise, and then she could tell he was there.

“Fuck.” Draco’s voice rose, sudden and disbelieving. “Oh, fuck,” he melted into the feeling, and Amora felt his warmth spread inside of her, her mouth falling open, her dark eyes studying every movement in his face, relishing of the feeling of his fingertips digging into her soft flesh. “Amora. My Gods, Amora.”

She buried her face into his shoulder, breathing him in. She welcomed his sweaty hug as he held her tight to him, slipping out of her, breathing heavily into her hair. Amora lifted her leg over his torso, breathing nearly just as hard, her hand hugging his narrow hips.

He closed his eyes when she pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. “That was perfect,” he said, his throat scratchy.

Amora giggled tiredly. “I must say— I appreciate all of this.” She gestured to his strong arms and broad shoulders.

“Oh, yeah?” Draco hummed, amused. “I couldn’t tell.”

She swatted him pathetically. Her fingers barely brushed his skin.

“I love this,” he attempted to heal her embarrassment, pinching at her hips. “More to hold.”

“Squeeze the life out of, you mean,” Amora replied, rubbing her skin. “I’m going to have bruises. I can tell.”

“Oh, my sweet darling,” Draco mumbled, running his hand through her hair. “How about I run a bath for us? I’ll get some more of the wine— we can add bubbles.”

Amora considered it for a few moments. “I should be running you a bath and getting you wine.”

“Let me take care of you.” Draco kissed her collarbone. “Your lack of protest against any affection I decide to show today can be my other present.”

Amora laughed. “Right. If you insist.”

“That means I can call you whatever I’d like,” Draco said as he climbed to his feet, rubbing her leg as she sat up, wrapping her arms around her chest loosely.

She raised an eyebrow at that. “You mean that French thing you say.”

“You honestly don’t understand what it means?” Draco asked.

Amora looked at him incredulously. “I’ve never learned French.”

“Your name is practically French, Amora,” he deadpanned, tilting his head at her. “Come on.”

“We didn’t all get language tutors growing up, Malfoy,” Amora huffed back. “Come on, let’s get some wine.”

Amora pulled on one of her night gowns, jumping when Draco smacked her backside as she walked past him. He dressed in his pants and followed her down the stairs, watching as she retrieved a bottle of wine from the pantry, charmed to stay cool.

He grasped two glasses from one of the taller cabinets and placed them down on the countertop in front of her. Draco wrapped his arms around Amora, resting his chin on her head as she carefully poured them a rather large glass each.

“It means darling,” he murmured.

Amora hummed in question.

“Ma chérie,” Draco said quietly. “It means ‘my darling.’”

She felt her heart stutter in her chest. “Oh.” She smiled to herself. “I like that.”

Amora raised her glass to her lips and stepped back so he’d release her, handing him his glass.

“Let’s run a bath,” Amora said, swiping her hand through his messy hair. “Since it’s your birthday, I suppose I’ll let you use some more of your French compliments on me.”

Draco’s grin was toothy as he let her grab his hand and lead the way up the stairs of the manor. “Oh, I am a very lucky man.”

“You are!” Amora teased back over her shoulder.

And Merlin did he fucking mean it. 

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Where is the party being hosted?"

Draco followed the sound of her voice and nearly choked on the whisky-lemonade he had been sipping. Amora stood in the kitchen doorway, fixing her earring, her lips apprehensively pursed into a line as she waited for him to reply.

Draco placed his drink on the bistro table and stood up, clearing his throat and adjusting the collar of his shirt. She was certainly worth the wait— an image of pure beauty, her dark hair pushed behind her shoulders, not a strand out of place, and she wore a dress that did wonders for all of her curves.

He wanted to comment about having to bat off the lines of men who would be queuing up for a chance with her— something witty and worth a small laugh and a kiss— but a second thought made his lips clamp shut. It wouldn't land as lighthearted as he intended it to.

"You look beautiful." Draco's voice was hardly above a murmur as she finished with her earring, her hands smoothing out the green layers of her dress.

Amora smiled as he met her in the door frame, his hands finding her waist. She panged one of his suspenders, letting it whack him back on his chest.

"Thank you, Malfoy, but I asked where we were going for your grand birthday party," she said pointedly, and led him back into the house. "Is it at the Ministry or something?"

"The Minister's House," Draco replied.

Amora raised an eyebrow at him. "Right," she deadpanned. "So Warrington's? The same man who hates you and terrifies everybody? He's the one hosting your birthday?"

"He has to," Draco shrugged, fixing himself in the mirror. "It's tradition at the Ministry. You're high up enough, you get a party. Helps people blow some steam off, and it's a chance for ladies to mingle, so they like it, too."

Amora narrowed her eyes but didn't say anything.

"I don't know if Warrington actually lives at the Minister's House— he might still be living in his own," Draco said, and grabbed his wand from the counter. "He doesn't give much away."

"Even less than you?" Amora gaped.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes. I look like a Hufflepuff next to him."

That earned him a smack to the arm and a fierce glare with no real malice behind it.

"Did I say there was anything wrong with being a Hufflepuff?" Draco bit back, and Amora just sent him another pointed look. "I'll have you know, my Hogwarts sweetheart was one."

"Oh, was she?" Amora humoured him.

Draco nodded. "She was indeed," he said. "People often thought because she was quite short and a Hufflepuff that they could mess with her. Little did they know, she packed a mean punch."

Amora giggled at that. "Oh, well, I'll have to meet her at some point. She seems like a fascinating person."

"She's alright," Draco agreed, and then he kissed her forehead and grasped her hand. "Are you ready to go?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Amora breathed, their fingers clasping together.

"Try not to be too nervous."

"I'll just be myself," Amora said, earning an eye roll and a scoff.

"I'm sure that would go down very well." Sarcasm dripped from his voice, but he squeezed her hand three times, and then they were off— apparating from the foyer of Malfoy Manor. They twisted and turned, only for a second or two, and then their feet landed in place outside the Minister's House.

It was a building taller than it was long, and its old, Gothic architecture had been kept pristine. The front garden was nothing but a tidy strip where the press often stood to try to capture photographs or gather quotes from the current Minister of Magic.

Amora recalled several photographs inside the Daily Prophet of Minister Fudge and Minister Scrimgeour standing outside this building. She'd never seen Lucius Malfoy, or former Minister Thicknesse, so perhaps the press were no longer allowed to come so close to the Minister's residence. Privacy and censorship were much more common now.

A couple of men stood off to the side, smoking what appeared to be cigars, one of whom nodded at Draco as he and Amora moved up the short staircase to the heavy oak doors.

"High Commander Malfoy," the bulky man directly in front of the door greeted, and stepped aside. The door swung open.

Amora gripped his hand even tighter as they moved inside. The hallway was slightly narrow and reminded Amora of entering a townhouse. A man gathered their coats from them, and Amora's small bag to put in a cloakroom. A different man held a tray of drinks further down the corridor, wordlessly passing Draco a short glass of what appeared to be whisky. He snapped his fingers, and a different man came from the door behind him, a tray of cocktails in his hands.

Amora glanced at Draco nervously. It felt as though they were tricking her.

"They're mocktails," he murmured. Of course.

Amora accepted one and smiled slightly at the men, taking another breath as the two large doors at the end of the corridor opened magically, revealing a ballroom as big as the one at Malfoy Manor. The sound of music drifted into Amora's ears, a jazz song she wouldn't recognise, and people were chattering and laughing, glasses clinking, a few couples dancing near the live band.

"He's here!" A man chucked his arm over Draco's shoulders immediately— Rosier, Amora recalled from the wedding. "Happy Birthday, High Commander." He'd clearly had a few too many to drink.

Draco nodded. "Thank you, Rosier."

Amora looked around the room, praying to find Theo in the sea of faces that were a mixture of completely unknown and sort of familiar. Dozens of people came up to them in the next fifteen minutes to wish Draco a happy birthday, all varying degrees of drunk, and they'd acknowledge Amora on his arm politely or too eagerly.

Amora spotted Astoria and Daphne with a group of women at a table. Astoria's belly was bigger than it had been before, her hand resting on it as she smiled at something a man had come over to say to them all. He hovered, his hands touching Astoria's shoulders.

"I'll go and mingle," Amora said quietly as someone called for Draco to go over to them.

He shot her an apprehensive look. "I didn't really want you to until Theo got here. I can't keep my eye on you the entire time."

"There are so many people here," Amora murmured. "I won't stray."

"Bad things happen in plain sight," Draco warned.

"I'll go and say hello to Astoria. I won't leave until Theo gets here," Amora promised him.

Draco swallowed but nodded. Amora moved before he could change her mind, stepping over to the group of women. They were all around her age, maybe a few who were in their late twenties. Amora noticed women tended to stick to their age groups, a table of ladies in their thirties nearby, and so on.

"Hi, Amora!" Astoria greeted and leaned towards her to grasp her hand, pulling her into the seat next to her. "Did you just get here?"

Amora nodded with a smile. "I did. How are you?

"I'm great!" Astoria grinned, stroking her belly. "I'm going to pop any day now! I'm so excited!"

Amora stilled for a moment, but then nodded along eagerly. "Oh gosh!" She exclaimed. "I bet you are."

"You should be in bed, resting," Daphne huffed, taking a sip of her mocktail. "Not out at a party days away from your due date."

Astoria frowned. "I feel fine enough. Don't worry about it, Daph." She turned back to Amora and whispered, "Overprotective older sister over there. She's going to be such a good auntie."

Amora glanced across at Daphne's miserable expression and wondered if her bitter tone carried more weight than that. There was something unusual about their sister dynamic. Amora had never had a sister before, but she assumed you didn't sleep with your sibling's partner behind their back. Daphne had gloated about it to Amora the day they went to Madam Opal's together.

Amora listened to the women converse about general topics. They spoke about their husbands, their futures, their most recent shopping trips, or things they'd heard other women talking about. They seemed unsure of each other, or at least Amora thought so, beating around bushes, walking on eggshells. None of them would discuss anything beneath surface level, and most acted like they were okay with that.

She tried to add in her thoughts now and again, but it was difficult to get a word in edgeways, and she worried about the looks Daphne shot her every time she so much as smiled.

"I heard Warrington's looking for a second wife," one of the redheaded women whispered from Amora's left side. "Supposedly, Mrs Warrington doesn't talk enough. Or talks too much, I can't remember which one."

Daphne snorted. "If my husband were Minister of Magic, I'd tape my mouth shut if he asked me."

Amora winced. She thought of the girls from the Ministry— the younger one whose mouth had been magically sewn together. She felt her fingertips heat with anger.

"Right?" Another lady agreed. "Some women have it all and they don't even realise it."

Amora glanced across the room at Minister Warrington. His cold expression surveyed the men around him as they spoke. His chin was held high, looking past them once he was bored, scanning the crowds of people. Amora whipped her head back to the women before he could reach her.

"Maybe his wife is trying to fill in the awkward silences," Amora remarked. "I imagine he doesn't talk much at home either."

A couple of the women's eyes widened, and a few lips pursed. Daphne's face grew red, but Astoria giggled slightly, pressing her fingers to her mouth. A curly-haired woman and the blonde beside her both hesitated to smile.

Amora felt her stomach twist. It had been the wrong thing to say. She wasn't supposed to be controversial or draw attention to herself. She needed to blend in and gain the trust of the women sitting at her table.

"It's probably that she doesn't talk very much," Astoria said. "She was in my year at school. Really quiet thing."

"Who is his wife?" Amora asked in an attempt to cut through the thick air.

"Mrs Warrington is the... scrawny thing near him. You see the one sitting off to the side?" The curly-haired woman leaned closer to Amora, directing her with her eyes.

Amora's head shifted, casually craning her neck to look. She found Warrington again, her eyes flickering to the woman sitting closest to him. Or girl, rather. She was scrawny because she was a girl. Eighteen or nineteen, the same age as Astoria, not even a year out of Hogwarts, and dressed in something that most likely tried to make her look older, but failed miserably.

Amora's breath hitched. "Isn't he..."

She trailed off and caught herself at the last second. Age gaps weren't frowned upon. Several wives weren't frowned upon. Or, if they were, the women kept their heads down. Amora didn't blame them entirely. Nobody wanted their mouths sewn shut, or their hands cut off, or their magic stripped.

"Same as me and Marcus," Astoria said, as if she could read Amora's mind, and she frowned. "Do you have a problem with it?"

"No," Amora blurted. "No, not at all. Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that I might. The Order– propaganda. It doesn't die immediately, you know?"

Astoria smiled sympathetically. "They tell us all about how you're brainwashed. It's awful. And I suppose you've always had the High Commander. You were in the same year group at school, weren't you?"

"We were," Amora mumbled, and glanced back at Mrs Warrington.

She looked like she had seen a ghost. Her dark skin was almost lifeless, her black eyes trained on the tablecloth as if it were speaking to her. When another woman sat down and started to talk to her, Mrs Warrington glanced up and managed a flicker of a smile.

Amora felt her heart aching. She was only four years older than her, but there was a surge of maternal protectiveness that ached into her bones. The four years made such a huge difference— it was the difference between growing up during the war and just escaping to join the resistance.

"She's the oldest of seven!" Astoria exclaimed suddenly. "Imagine that. I don't know if I could quite handle that many."

Amora felt her stomach drop. She wondered if the girl had been chosen because Mr Warrington expected her to be highly fertile, or to want a huge family like she'd had. Maybe because she was quiet, easily controllable.

She couldn't find it in her to reply to Astoria, which was fine, because Astoria was quickly moving on to the next person to talk to. Amora realised quickly that Astoria, despite being so young, was one of the most popular women among the wives. Amora wondered if it was because Astoria seemed to play her role effortlessly, like some sort of role model.

"Hello, ladies," Montague's voice was distinct, deep and slimy, as he snaked an arm around Daphne, glancing around the table. His eyes landed on Amora, and she curled her lip. "Where's your husband, Mrs Malfoy? I have yet to wish him a good birthday."

"I'm sure he's very close by," Amora replied.

Daphne glanced between them and scowled. Her manicured hand dug into her husband's arm. "Honey, would you find me another mocktail?"

Montague laughed at her. "What did your last slave die of?"

Daphne's mouth wobbled when he walked away, but she quickly recovered, sitting up straighter and blinking. Amora felt something pass through her, sympathy or anger, she wasn't sure. She stood up from the table and swiped her hands down the skirt of her dress.

"A mojito mocktail, Montague?" Amora asked.

Daphne stuck her nose up. "Don't worry about it, Bu— Malfoy."

"Anyone else?" Amora asked the table.

When nobody said anything, Amora wandered off to where one of the waiters with the trays was moving around. She grabbed two drinks and headed back to the table, planting Daphne's mojito in front of her, raising her own to her lips and sipping.

"Thank you, Malfoy," Daphne said quietly.

"That's so sweet, Amora," Astoria gushed.

Amora pinched her straw between her fingers and glanced over to where Montague had disappeared. He was already watching her, squinted eyes but smirking, and Amora wondered if he thought she was trying to rile him up on purpose— or if he thought he was getting under her skin in the same way Draco used to. He said he liked the chase.

Amora wanted it to be clear to him— there was no sense of hatred and frustration with an underlying hint of attraction. Not like there had been with Draco at first. With Montague, it was just disgust. There wasn't an ounce of tension. She felt her skin crawl thinking of him.

"If you want to go off with him, do it," Daphne said harshly, rolling her eyes and drinking her mocktail. "It's the flirting I can't stand."

Amora furrowed her brows. "Excuse me?"

"My husband." Her teeth were gritted. "He wants you. Don't resist on my behalf."

"I don't want him," Amora snapped immediately.

Daphne huffed, and her chair scraped back as she hurried off in the direction of the bathrooms. Astoria stood up too, a lot slower than her older sister, clutching her belly. Amora moved to help her, but Astoria brushed her off.

"I'm fine, thank you," Astoria sighed. "Sorry about her. She pretends she's okay with Montague sleeping around. She thinks he wants a second wife, too. Lots of the Ministry men are getting in on the trend. She just can't seem to get pregnant. It's stressing her out. Oh, no, don't worry– she is fertile, she's been to the doctor's."

The trend.

"Maybe it's him," Amora mentioned, and Astoria's eyes bulged.

"Don't say that!" Astoria scolded and shook her head, disappointment painted across her features. Amora felt like she had touched a hot kettle. "I'm going to find my sister."

Amora didn't try to stop her or explain herself. She watched as Astoria hurried away and didn't bother turning back to the table of women who were probably gawking at her. Were they offended that Amora didn't want to sleep with Daphne's husband? Furious that she thought maybe Montague might be the infertile one, and not Daphne?

Amora downed the rest of her mojito and wished there was real rum in it, putting it on the table and marching over to a familiar mop of dark hair. Theo peeled himself from the wall when she found him in the corner of the room.

"You alright?" He asked.

"You need a haircut," Amora replied bitterly.

Theo shot her a look, furrowing his eyebrows and running a hand through his hair. "What?"

"Sorry," Amora huffed, taking a deep breath in. "I just want to go home. I don't like it here."

"It's a bit much, isn't it?" Theo acknowledged. "What did you do to piss off the Greengrasses?"

Amora rolled her eyes. "I don't want to sleep with Montague."

"What?"

"I know."

"Did he ask you to sleep with him?" Theo gaped.

"No!" Amora exclaimed. "I mean, he keeps on saying vulgar things whenever I see him, but Daphne was all, like, 'have him if you want him, just get it over and done with', and when I said I didn't want to, she got in a huff about it. Astoria didn't like that I said Montague might be the reason they haven't got children yet."

Theo's mouth dropped open. "Did you say that? You're not supposed to imply that. It's always the woman's fault— Dark Lord's words, not mine."

Amora growled. "That's a fucking joke. It's 2002, for fuck sake."
Theo smoothed his hand over her shoulder. "I know. Merlin, I know. Have you managed to ask any of them about lockets?"

Amora shot him a look. "Do you think women just talk about the jewellery they have lying around at home in their free time?"

Theo looked at her incredulously. "I don't know what women in this sort of society talk about! I don't know if you all secretly gossip, or if—"

"The only gossip was a split between our table over whether or not Mrs Selwyn, whoever that is, lied about being pregnant for attention, or if her miscarriage was genuine."

"That's..." Theo's nose curled. "Disgusting."

"I miss Pansy," Amora announced, exasperated.

He sighed. "Okay. Well, I have good news, and I have bad news."

"Go on."

"I think I know where the... thing is."

Amora's heart stuttered. It felt like every hair on her body stood up, her eyes nearly falling out of their sockets.

"You do?" Amora gasped. "Is someone wearing it?"

Was it that easy?

"Nobody's wearing it," Theo dismissed. "It's upstairs in the Minister's living quarters. I did a dark magic detection spell. It's so dark up there, I have no idea what else it could be."

"Warrington's in charge of dark spells, or he was— do you not think it could be a really horrible potion or something?" Amora checked, lowering her voice and glancing at a couple who passed them a little too close for her liking.

Theo waited for them to be out of earshot and shook his head. "I've tested this spell on other forms of dark magic. It's nothing like that. Potter's scar has the same pattern coming from it– that's where the Dark Lord's soul entered. The magic residue looks completely different in a... You know what."

Amora chewed her lip. "So you're one hundred percent sure?"

"Yes. I know it's up there," Theo said, so sure that Amora didn't doubt him for a second— and she could almost feel the nerves radiating from his body, a mixture of anxiety and excitement.

"Is the bad news that you have no way we can get up there?"

"No, I have an idea. The bad news is that it's incredibly risky and nobody is going to like it one bit," Theo hesitated, and then jerked his thumb in the direction of Draco. "Especially him."

D.M + A.M

Lavender wafted up Amora's nose, her body prickling with euphoria, so deep that even her bones felt weightless, her brain temporarily mush in her skull before her thoughts seemed to straighten themselves back out. Theo pocketed what was left of the vial, glancing around the empty cloakroom as if somebody might burst through the door at any moment and spot them.

"Don't you want some?" Amora asked him.

"I've had nearly an entire vial before coming here," he admitted and patted the pocket where the Calming Draught sat. "This is for Draco when he realises what's going on."

Amora's lips parted. "He's really good at Occluding. I don't think he'll need it."

"I'll need it to make him more manageable," Theo said. "Trust me."

"Do you not think I should be the one telling him the plan?" Amora replied. "Seeing as I am the one doing all of the... dangerous work?"

"He'll stop you," Theo said.

"Maybe he'll think of something better?" Amora pressed. "He's very clever, Theo."

"I know he is," Theo nodded. "But his blindsight is you." He paused. "Amora, if you're too worried about the plan, we can leave and come up with a better one. I don't know when the next party is, but we can carry it out then. It would give us a chance to consider absolutely everything, we could—"

"But there's no guarantee the Horcrux would still be up there, right?" Amora said, and watched Theo hesitate to nod. "Or that Warrington will host, or that he'll be here, or that the circumstances will be like this."

"We had a win against a rebellion group the other day," Theo nodded. "Things are more relaxed than usual."

Amora played with her fingers, some nerves battling the draught in her system. "So this is perfect. As long as I'm convincing, Warrington likes the look of me, and nothing steers too far from the plan. Correct?"

"Correct," Theo replied. "I can transfigure a faux locket. I need a different necklace, maybe half an hour."

Amora reached around and undid the clasp of her necklace. She dumped it in Theo's outstretched hand.

"Will that do?"

"Perfect."

"Okay, cool. So, next phase, we tell Draco. I can start the plan while you get to transfiguring. Then, you can try and slip it to me," Amora said.

Theo thought for a few moments. "I'll hang around the exit. Try to be on his left side. I'll sit at the table and pass it to you."

"Okay," Amora exhaled. "Okay."

"Amora, if you're not sure—"

"Theo." Amora grasped his hand before it could run through his hair. "I am finally doing what I signed up for. You never doubted me when we were in the Order together."

"It's been some months since you last fought," Theo pointed out. "And you were never sent into the Minister of Magic's jaws alone. Not to mention, said Minister is nearly as psychopathic as the Dark Lord."

"If it goes wrong, I have the portkey," Amora said.

"Draco will never forgive me if this goes wrong," Theo disclaimed. "And I'll never forgive myself, either."

Amora grasped him. "Theo, start transfiguring that locket. Or find Draco first. I don't know which order you'd prefer. But just– trust me."

There was silence for a few moments. "I trust you."

D.M + A.M

Amora drifted over to Draco, a newfound bounce in her step thanks to the calming draught and a secret shot of Theo's firewhisky. He was shaking hands with a man, his silver eyes darting over to hers, and he turned his back on the group of men.

"Darling," his voice was rougher than usual, doused with firewhisky— his lips twitching as he placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her further away to a private spot. "I couldn't see you anywhere. Or Theo."

Amora squeezed his arm. "He wants to talk to you."

Draco's eyes narrowed, darker. "To me?"

She nodded. "He's in one of the cloakrooms. Come on."

"Why is he in a cloakroom?" He asked, but he let her lead the way out of the ballroom and down a corridor.

Amora didn't answer but pushed the door open. Theo glanced up from where his wand was glowing over Amora's necklace, perched on one of the footstools in the dim light. Draco shut the door behind him and muttered a silencing spell.

"You found it?" He breathed.

"I'm making a replica," Theo corrected him. "But I know where the real one is."

"Fuck," Draco muttered. "Is it in this building?"

Amora's stomach twisted, and she grasped his hand, steering him to face her. "Theo will tell you everything. I need to go."

His hand clamped around her forearm. "Like hell you do. Where do you need to go that isn't with Theo or me?"

Amora hesitated. "Theo has a plan."

Draco glared over at Theo. "Theo has a plan, hm? I can already tell from the tension in this room that I am not going to bloody like it."

Theo swallowed and put the necklace down on the bench. "Amora, you go— I'll fill Draco in."

"No, Amora," Draco growled, and gripped her tighter. "You're not going anywhere."

Amora sighed and lifted her hand to his cheek. She brought his face down to hers, kissing him on the lips sweetly for a few seconds. Draco pulled away, and his nose crinkled. There were a couple of silent seconds.

"Why do you taste like lavender?" He hissed. "What are you two up to?"

Amora tried to leave his grasp to no avail. "Draco, please, just— just calm down. Let us explain."

"We're getting the Horcrux tonight," Theo said, as if it were a promise, his face unfaltering. "I know you didn't get to see much of it, but Amora's an extremely good witch. She's quick thinking, she's brave, she's—"

"Being completely stupid if she thinks I'm using her as bait," Draco growled. "That's what's happening right now, isn't it?"

Amora glared and finally managed to wriggle herself free. "I'm not bait. Why do you assume all I'm good for is bait?"

"Amora is retrieving the Horcrux," Theo stated. "She's doing it."

Draco's jaw went slack. "No. From whom? No. No way."

"I'm not asking for permission," Amora warned. "I'm letting you know, Theo and I have a plan— if you're in on it, it makes it a lot easier for us. If you're not, don't try to stop me."

"Amora, who has the fucking Horcrux?" Draco demanded, running a hand through his hair— it was falling in his face again anyway.

Theo winced at Amora's silence. "Warrington," he muttered, resembling a child answering to a parent.

Draco laughed, mocking and severe. "No! Fuck no!" He bellowed. "Are you two joking? Have you both lost it?"

Amora sent Theo a look. "I told you."

"Draco, Warrington would never let you close enough to have a look. I've never even spoken to the bloke."

"Neither has Amora."

"But Amora is a beautiful Pureblood lady," Theo pointed out, and watched as Draco nearly stopped breathing. "And she can use that to her advantage."

"So you are bait?"

"No, because I'll be saving myself," Amora spat. "Would you stop with that?"

Draco rolled his silver eyes. "No way. No fucking way. Come on, Amora. Is your bag in this cloakroom? Grab it. We're leaving."

"The Horcrux—"

"Some things are worth more than Horcruxes!" Draco snapped at her.

Amora stilled. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. It was maybe one of the sweetest things somebody had ever said to her, and Merlin, she just wanted to jump into his arms and be whisked away, to ignore everything bad going on in the world, but she had a duty— she had a responsibility. If she didn't help, how could she expect anybody else to?

"I'm helping, Draco," Amora murmured quietly. "I'm sorry."

Draco hesitated. She turned for the door, figuring it might be the only chance she had, but his voice rang out, dangerous and cold.

"I forbid you," he said.

Theo's breath hitched. Amora's head craned over her shoulder. "Excuse me?"

Draco hesitated. "I forbid you from going out there. As your husband, I forbid you."

Amora walked back over to him and stopped in front of him. She studied his angry features. She saw the cracks of fear behind them. He almost looked like his Hogwarts self in the uniform of an older, braver man.

"Do you mean that?" Her voice was quiet.

"I do."

Amora lifted her hand and smacked him swiftly across the face. His words resonated deeper with her. How long did it take a man to snowball into the monsters in the ballroom? Did they all use that phrase one day, realise it worked, and then test how far they could go?

Draco's lips pursed, but he didn't react to the hit.

"You don't ever say that to me," Amora scolded him, her eyes burning with red-hot tears of fury. "Or you won't have a wife to forbid anymore." There was a long silence. "You're either with us, or you're not. You pick."

More silence.

"I am always with you," Draco's voice hardly came out. "But I will never forgive myself if you get hurt. Warrington— he's vile, Amora. He's killed children, he's killed women. I've heard he wants half-bloods gone next."

"Warrington has a weakness," Amora told him, her hand finding his cheek, her thumb rubbing gently over the red mark she'd left on him. "He doesn't suspect short, little Hufflepuffs."

Draco's eyes flickered with something. "You're using my words against me," he mumbled glumly, but there was this twitch of something on his lips— and Amora thought, despite everything, it could be pride.

"I bet you didn't know that badgers are good at camouflaging," Amora smiled faintly at him. "I think I've hung out with a certain group of Slytherins long enough to know how to blend in."

Theo also smiled. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think she could do it, Draco."

There was a long silence. Draco buried his face in his hands for a moment and exhaled deeply. He pushed his fingers up through his hair and then blinked his exhausted eyes at Amora.

"I know you can do it," Draco agreed weakly. "What do you both need me to do?"

Amora kissed him hard. 

...

Chapter Text

LOST IT TO TRYING 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 

Amora knew she looked good; she had to if she wanted this to work. She bordered on disrespectful— "slutty" some of the older pureblood ladies might call her, but tempting or sultry was what she was going for. It wasn't enough to draw disgusted looks, but definitely enough to capture the attention of every wandering eye in the room. 

Eyes were drawn to her chest where she'd pulled down the fabric of her dress, just enough to show off some cleavage, and her lips had been painted a beautiful crimson colour, designed to capture attention. Women didn't wear much makeup anymore, and most were covered up modestly. It was like chucking a lamb into the lions' den. 

Subtle enough not to get into trouble, Theo and Draco had reassured her. Draco was even less sure of their plan when he saw her, but a few whispered promises later, and she was in the ballroom, her backside stinging slightly. 

Amora walked towards Warrington and the group of men surrounding him. Before she could reach his area, a familiar face appeared in her line of vision, heading straight for her. Dark hair, bright eyes, pale skin. Amora wondered where she had met him before.

 "Amora?"

Amora tilted her head at him and smiled. "Hello. I'm terribly sorry, you'll have to remind me of your name. My memory isn't the best."

The man waved a dismissive hand and grinned. "That's alright, I didn't expect you to remember me. The night we met must have been a bit of a whirlwind for you. I'm Caspian." He carried on when her face didn't change. "We met at the bar. I was going to take you to the BMA, but someone called them on you..."

Amora's face lit up. "That's right! How are you, Caspian?"

"I'm alright, thanks," he replied. "I see you've done well for yourself. Mrs Malfoy now, hm?"

Amora shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose. I was actually hoping to speak to Minister Warrington tonight."

"Oh?" Caspian furrowed his eyebrows. 

"You work for the Minister's cabinet, don't you?"

"I work for the Wizengamot," Caspian corrected her. "Law-making and stuff like that. Minister Warrington's been working very closely with us recently, though."

Amora smiled. "That's great. Do you think you could introduce us?"

"With his wife right next to him?" Caspian asked quietly. 

Amora shrugged. "I heard he's looking for someone else. Whispers through the grapevine."