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Chapter Text

Masquerade

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“There are days when her humanity

Feels like a fever dream,

As if her bones are but the bower

Of a horned, hungry thing.”

Elizabeth Knight

✦✦✦

Chapter One

The Abyss  

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“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

 Friedrich Nietzsche

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“He will be here, my Lord." 

The room was dark, save for a puddle of flickering firelight in which she knelt, forehead pressed to the rough floorboards. Heat licked at the exposed nape of her neck from the oversized fireplace, plastering damp tendrils of hair to her skin. Beneath the inky folds of her cloak, sweat beaded along her spine. She inhaled the stench of rotting wood, the stagnant air heavy in her lungs. Her jagged breath tore holes in the silence.

“Lord Voldemort does not like to be kept waiting.”

The taste of fear was copper and salt on her lips.

Alessia swallowed it back like bile, the motion raw in her tight throat. She would not yield to the crushing weight pressed against her already bowed spine. She curled her gloved hands into fists, the leather groaning in protest, a familiar mantra circling through her mind like a flock of trapped birds:

I have survived worse than this… 

She had never expected mercy - not here.  

Not with his fury still echoing in her bones. Not with the blood still fresh in her throat.

She should have run when he screamed. 

In the graveyard, his gaze had passed over her with barely more than a flicker of recognition. When Potter had slipped through his fingers, and his screams of fury had shattered the night, she should have gone.  

She could have been home now. At Tessari.

Out of the Death Eater robes she loathed, the night scoured away with scalding water. Jasmine-scented air curling through the open windows. Her teacup still sitting half-finished on the desk, rim stained with the dark imprint of her lips. Parchment cluttering the wood beneath it, her neat handwriting slashed through in frustration. Books piled high: some bookmarked, others splayed open and abandoned. 

The chaos had been unusual for her, but that night nothing could hold her focus. Her gaze kept drifting to the clock atop the mantelpiece. Her thoughts had snagged, again and again, on Hogwarts. 

She’d spent the day buried in dread, anticipation clawing at her as the third and final task of the Tournament drew near. They had known something would happen. What conclusion could it have been but this one? And yet again, the boy had been at the centre of it.

Harry Potter.

Caught up in the Tournament despite all of Dumbledore’s protections. Passing the first two tasks with an ease that reeked of interference. Someone at Hogwarts had wanted him to win. Not for glory. Not for fame. But for something far darker.

They had seen the delicate gossamer strands of the plot, even if they had not been able to see the full shape of the web. 

Now they knew. Everything had been to get Potter out of Dumbledore’s grasp. To deliver him to the Dark Lord. 

Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken...

Yet, to her relief, the boy had survived; his part was not yet played, after all.

It had done little to help her now.

The Dark Lord’s fury at Potters escape had been near homicidal. He had flung a few cruciatus curses, shrieked at them all to leave. Any Death Eater with sense had obeyed.

Only Wormtail had remained - cringing behind the Dark Lord, clutching his new silver hand, wide-eyed with the desire to flee.

And Alessia had stayed. She had hesitated in the shadows, his earlier words ringing through her mind:

One, who I believe has left me forever ... he will be killed, of course

She had thought of Severus - delayed by Dumbledore, apparating before the Dark Lord and cut down before he could speak.

The risk had been too great.

Even with the phantom of Severus’ scorn hissing in her ear --- “Fool! Now is not the time for Gryffindor heroics ...!” ---, she had stepped forward. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs. Her cloak rustled over the grass. Her boots scuffed against the loose stones, alerting him to her presence.

 When she drew closer to the Dark Lord’s shadowed form, swallowed beneath the folds of his cloak, she dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and waited. 

“I said, leave,”  he hissed, without even turning his head.

“Forgive me, master. But I must speak with you.”

As she spoke, she snatched a glance at Wormtail. Just as she had suspected, he displayed no surprise at her voice. He knew. The Dark Lord must have told him. She wondered what else the rat had learned.

Moments later, she had tasted the cruciatus curse for the first time that evening. The terrible, bone-shattering pain had been worse than she remembered; and yet almost a relief. The tension of anticipation was finally broken.

The curse had set the tone for the next two hours. 

If she had known it would go on like that, she would have left Severus to rot in whatever grave Dumbledore had dug for him, and cursed the both of them.

A shadow stirred at the edge of her vision. It slithered towards her, the heavy cloak cutting serpentine patterns across the dusty floorboards, until it came to a swirling stop, fabric whispering against her cheek. 

He stank of decay, like something unearthed from a grave.

Alessia raised her head and a crack of blinding white pain shot through her skull, forcing her back down into the dust. Her face contorted. A sibilant hiss of breath stole through her clenched teeth. Still, she forced her eyes up to him. 

His wand was a pale flash against the darkness of his robes, the handle clenched tight in a skeletal hand. 

“Master. I---"

“It has been hours, Visconti. Perhaps,” he said, thick with mocking pity “your faith was…misplaced?”

She felt as though she were drowning.

“No, my lord,” she said, though she knew it was futile.

Unblinking, she met the blazing brand of his stare. She twisted her skirts through her fingers, trying to hide the tremor in her hands. “He will come. He—“

“Crucio!”

The curse surged through her bones. 

Splintering. Tearing. Ripping. 

Her body convulsed, fingers scrabbling at the floor, head cracking against the wood, teeth snapping together, slicing open her tongue. The pain was inescapable. Far away she could hear the screams, ripped from her already ragged throat….

…and she was laying back at his feet, chest heaving, a sticky wetness against her cheek. 

She lay, broken, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The waves of the curse thrummed through her body, leaving her boneless and sapped in its wake – a marionette with cut strings. 

Dumbledore's voice writhed through her skull like a hungry worm, gnawing at the edges of her resolve. 

There are things much worse than death.

She forced the thought away and wondered what would happen if – this time, just once – she didn’t get up. 

But stubbornness, or desperation, got her back to her knees. The sudden motion sent nausea rolling through her, and dark spots danced across her vision. The room tilted. 

For one awful moment she thought that she would faint. 

Don’t you dare. 

“Please, my lord,” she gasped, words laced with blood. 

He turned away, striding to the hearth, his spine a taut, trembling line. His wand twitched against his thigh. Alessia saw the moment the anger ripped through him - and tensed before the wand even lifted.

The curse hit her like a bludger. 

The impact ricocheted through her sternum with the sickening crack of bone. Her strangled scream tore loose, forcing the last of the air from her lungs as she pitched forward onto the floor.

“Where is he?” The Dark Lord spat the words like venom.

She couldn’t breathe. Each shallow inhalation sent tendrils of pain curling through her ribs. 

“I don’t know,” She rasped. “He must have been delayed…. My lord, please…please….”

Hot tears began to blur her vision. 

She blinked them away. 

Control it. 

“Delayed?” 

Cold fury in his voice. Alessia tried to rise but couldn’t. A small, pitiful whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.

She hated herself for it. 

“Tell me, Visconti.” The razor of his voice was drawn slow. “Does a faithful servant not answer his master’s summons, without delay.”

“Please---"

“He has abandoned me—-.”

“No!” 

She could barely look at him. Could only tilt back her head and peer through a veil of tangled hair, knowing he could see the tears, the terror. 

“Master, I have explained… Severus stays away to serve you. He risks your lordship’s displeasure so that he may keep Dumbledore’s trust--”

“He has spent fourteen years cowering beneath Dumbledore’s wing,” sneered the Dark Lord.

“Better than rotting away in Azkaban! What use would Severus have been to you---?” She broke off, coughing violently. When she lowered her hand, the glove was flecked with blood.

“The Lestranges went to Azkaban rather than betray me.”

“And that was a noble gesture, my lord. But after fourteen years they can give you nothing more than their empty gesture of loyalty. Severus will bring you information on Dumbledore. You ordered him to get close – he obeyed you. Why would he throw it away now?”

“He is a coward and a traitor!” said the Dark Lord.

“No! My lord, please. Please! You must give him a chance to explain---”

“’Must’, Visconti? You forget your place.”

“Forgive me, master. I merely…I wish only to serve you—"

“Lies,” hissed the Dark Lord. “You abandoned me.”

“Never. Never!”

“Legilimens!”

The intrusion slit her open, leaving her flayed and naked and raw.

…A darkened room. The taste of wine on her tongue. "It's getting stronger every month. Severus, we have to act--"…

…Heat. Bodies slick with sweat. The bedsheets twisted and clinging. She arched towards him, her mouth shaping his name…

…."You bring shame on this family!" Spittle flying from furious lips….

…Bubbling cauldrons. The heavy, comforting scent of an apothecary….

…”I will not be Dumbledore’s pawn!”…..

… “You are my daughter;” the insidious whisper was as smooth as silk “My blood. You aren’t like them…” …

…Stairs coiling down into the earth

A bloody handprint, slick and glistening on the crumbling wall. 

The door, yawning open on silent, ravenous hinges. 

Stench of rotting meat.

Something glistening wetly in the dark.

Wide, gaping mouths. Hands reaching for her.

Screams - torn from a human throat, but wrong, too thin, too animal….

“No!”

Alessia recoiled, tearing herself away, forcing the memory back down into the fetid grave she had buried it in.

But the smell remained - sweet, cloying, clinging to her skin - and the gnawing terror that hollowed out her bones.

Stairs into the earth….Blood on the walls….Fingers reaching…

She hunched forwards, hands clawing at her skull, as though she could rip the memory from her head. 

Faces in the windows…. Blood staining the snow….The door. Always the door….

And then, with a terrible jolt of understanding, Alessia realised what she’d done. 

“Master…” She dropped her hands and lurched forwards, falling at his feet. “Forgive me. I didn't …. I couldn’t ….”

“Crucio.”

The curse hit like the shattering of glass. 

No end. No mercy.

There was a purity to the pain; it obliterated everything until she was nothing but agony. Time stretched, warped, disappeared. She could only endure, lips pulled into a silent rictus, too broken to even scream. When it finally stopped, she lay slumped in the dust, mind still as death.

A pit. A tomb.

She dragged in a gasping breath and the dagger between her ribs slipping a little deeper. 

“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”

Something brushed against her temple, then fingers twisting cruelly into her hair, wrenching her head back. Alessia caged the scream between gritted teeth. Too much. The pain was too much. But she forced herself to focus. 

My memories are yours. I would hide nothing….

He plunged into her mind.

This time, her thoughts were crystalline, still as a frozen lake. Memories flowed towards him – Severus’ voice in the dark. Whispers over books and cauldrons. Secret promises traded in the moonlight. For every memory she offered, there were a dozen more he ripped free. Raw, private moments she longed to protect. But she did not resist. She let him take them. 

She was a loyal and obedient Death Eater. Just another ambitious pureblood, hungry for power. Nothing else. Nothing more.

And then the pressure receded. Her mind collapsed, thoughts scattered like books flung from shelves. She sagged, falling limp to the floor. 

Alessia pressed a trembling hand to her temple, where the pain beat against her skull. She allowed her eyes to close, just for a moment. Unconsciousness prickled at the edge of her mind, soft and dangerous as fog. Her strength - whatever stubborn flame had carried her this far - was guttering out.

Somewhere through the haze she sensed him moving away.

She forced her eyes open and saw the Dark Lord sink into a tattered wing-back chair before the fire, his wand tapping an impatient tattoo against the fraying armrest. 

Alessia didn’t bother trying to rise. Better to hoard what little strength she had left. She sprawled where she had fallen, resting her cheek against her forearm, and let her thoughts spiral, light as dust motes on the air.

Severus, where the fuck are you? 

Hours must have passed since Potter vanished from the graveyard. Why was Dumbledore keeping him? Every minute wasted dragged Severus closer to the noose. 

Potter had returned to the school with a corpse. Chaos would have broken loose. Students screaming. Fudge bumbling. Potter shouting the truth for anyone who would listen. 

But Severus should have slipped away by now.

Unless…

…and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service. He is at Hogwarts…

The Dark Lord’s earlier words crawled through her mind. Had the spy attacked Severus? Tried to expose him?

No. More likely the spy has been caught. Severus had stayed behind to clean up the mess. 

Who was it? Who had gotten Potter’s name into the goblet, spun this whole cursed web?

Her thoughts fractured and fell apart. No matter how she clutched at them, they slipped through her fingers like ash.

The minutes dragged by, leaden and slow. Alessia counted each frantic beat of her heart, each ragged breath. Her muscles screamed. Flames writhed in the hearth. Somewhere in the shadows, Nagini shifted with a wet, sinuous sound.

The Dark Lord didn’t move. Didn’t speak. 

Sleep began to coil around her, thick and treacherous.  

 The knock crackled like thunder through the silence.
 
“Enter,” said the Dark Lord. 

Wormtail scurried into the room and stood cringing in the doorway, clutching his new silver hand to his chest like a beloved child. His watery eyes flicked to her, triumph gleaming, before darting back to his master.

“M-Master. Snape is here.”

Alessia looked at the Dark Lord, and found his gaze already waiting, cold and merciless.

“Get out.” 
 
“My lord.” 

Alessia pushed herself upright. The effort wrung a low, animal sound from her throat. She staggered a step forward, legs as brittle as twigs. Darkness crowded behind her eyes, greedy and patient.

Not yet. 
 
Wormtail lingered in the doorway,  blocking her path with a slow, smug smile. She didn’t look at him. Let the rat enjoy his moment. His time would come - and she would be there, waiting, when he fell.
 
The hall was pitch dark, save for the spill of the firelight licking across the floor. Against the far wall, masked and emotionless, stood Severus. 

Their eyes met, a fleeting collision, and his mind speared into hers. 

‘He is a coward and a traitor!’ 

Sharp-edged fury. Pain beyond pain. Mistrust leaking like poison.

Then his familiar presence withdrew.
 
“Tessari,” she whispered as she brushed past him, lingering long enough to feel the touch of his fingers against her own. 
 
Then he was gone, door snapping shut between them.

And the darkness swallowed her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Taste Like Religion

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“The blood on my teeth begins to taste like a poem, like religion, like the way you look at me.”

Sean Glatch

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Severus watched from behind the cage of rusted iron railings as the cab pulled away from the curb. 

The drunken shouts of muggles spilled from its open windows. He turned his head and spat onto the filthy pavement, the tang of blood still coating his mouth. Taking another pull on the damp filter of the cigarette, he thumbed open a battered pocket watch, tilting it so that the light of the distant streetlamp reflected on its face. 

It was a little past three o’clock. Later than he had planned. Too late for what mattered.

He stuffed the watch away as he slipped out of the narrow alley, his left arm burning briefly as the wards acknowledged his passage, and moved down the deserted street. His dark eyes slid across the empty windows, and then flicked to the far end of the road. A steady flow of traffic still rumbled past despite the hour, the storefronts a blur of neon signs. 

Music pounded from a passing car, and the nearby muggles howled in response, their alcohol-addled minds as lucid as werewolves.

He stopped at a flight of stone steps a dozen houses from headquarters and kicked at a half-empty beer can. It clattered and bounced into the road, dark liquid foaming out of the top, and he threw the stub of his cigarette after it. Lowering himself to the steps, he pulled a rumpled packet from his cloak, his other hand raking through his lank hair. 

The tip of the cigarette glowed orange, and his sigh unfurled into the night in wispy blue curls. 

By the time this cigarette is finished, he told himself. You’ll be able to apparate without splinching

His pulse still roared in his ears. When he stretched out a hand it shook as though palsied. He clenched it into a fist, ignoring the lightning burst of pain that shot up his arm. 

All things considered, the night had gone supremely well. He was alive, and aside from the lingering cruciatus, uninjured. Given the night’s beginning and the tangle he’d glimpsed in Alessia’s mind, he had anticipated worse. 

For the first time since entering the Dark Lord’s sitting room, he allowed himself to think of her; Alessia emerging into the hall, bleeding, broken, still beautiful. Her usual impenetrable facade had been in tatters, her pale face discoloured with blood and bruises. She had been limping, hadn’t she? When he’d dipped into her mind, it had been sluggish with pain, so dense he could glean only fragments. That unsettled him. He knew her mind. He knew the rigid order that normally reigned there. 

Finding her there at all had been a surprise. He had assumed her safely back at Tessari, or anonymous among the crowd of Death Eaters. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would have been reckless enough to remain behind, alone with the Dark Lord. But really, he should have expected it. It was the sort of mad, reckless stunt that was precisely her style. 

He yawned, his aching jaw popping, and turned his thoughts to the broader game, fingering the night’s players like chess pieces before casting them onto the board. The Dark Lord and Wormtail at headquarters, seething over Potter’s escape, already scheming their next move, tediously predictable. Alessia at Tessari, piecing herself back together and waiting. Dumbledore at Hogwarts, shuffling everyone around like so many irrelevant pawns. Potter asleep in the hospital wing. The Order would be moving, word travelling from person to person: The Dark Lord has returned, get ready to fight. 

And the Death Eaters? Some would be celebrating their return to power. Others would be staring in terror at their new shackles. A few would flee. The news of the Dark Lords return was already leaking, despite his orders, seeping through pureblood society. By tomorrow afternoon, there wouldn’t be a single old family left unaware. After that? The wider public.

He thought of Cornelius Fudge, backing away, fear sharp in his eyes and thick in his mind. He was not a man fit for war. Perhaps that, at least, would be to their advantage.

He ground out the cigarette beneath his boot and glanced back at the boarded windows.

Nothing left worth waiting for.

He disapparated.

----

He found her exactly where he knew she would be. 

The scent of Jasmine greeted him first, curling like a beckoning finger as he nudged open the bathroom door. A splash of water. The soft slide of skin against porcelain.

Most of the candles were left unlit, the few scattered halos of light too weak to hold back the dark. Outside the tall windows, night pressed against the glass and beyond it was the undulating sweep of the sea, its roar so familiar his mind no longer noticed. 

The claw-foot tub crouched before the window, steam rising in lazy tendrils. Alessia lay submerged, face turned away, dark hair cascading over her shoulder. One arm draped carelessly over the rim. 

She didn’t speak. Just lifted a languid arm, pointing towards the row of glittering vials lined along the marble counter. 

Severus caught his reflection in the gilded mirror as he approached. Dark bruises pooled beneath his eyes; a line of dried blood trailed from his split lip to his chin. The left side of his face was raw, a vague memory of his skull hammering floorboards flickering at the edge of his mind.

His fingers closed around the first vial. They clinked together; his hand still trembling too much to hide. He ignored it, uncorked the potion, and sniffed: loamy dandelion root, the leafy tang of fluxweed.

The draught coursed through his veins like wine, easing the lingering pain. He downed the others quickly - painkillers, restoratives - then filled a glass and drank until the tight ache in his throat began to loosen.

When he glanced at the mirror again, Alessia was watching him. Her gaze held his like a hand at his throat, gentle and unrelenting.

“Where were you?” she asked, velvet voice hoarse with the echo of screams.

Severus turned to her, away from the mirror’s accusing stare. His gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate.

Outside the Dark Lord’s sitting room, she had looked terrible; bloodied, bruised, hair matted. Now the illusion of perfection had been restored: her face a flawless porcelain mask, flushed with steam, gleaming like glass beneath candlelight. 

He didn’t bother to disguise the hunger in his gaze. It tracked the length of her bare legs, the slick sheen of her skin, the glistening hollow of her throat. But as he drew closer, he saw the ugly sprawl of bruises beneath her left breast, blooming in dark purples along her ribcage.

He crouched beside the bath, still studying the bruises, and dipped his hand into the water. His fingers brushed against her wet skin, tracing the shape of the bruise, then recoiled at the scalding heat.

Of course.
 
After an evening of torture, this is how she chose to heal. By boiling herself clean.

“What happened?” he asked, voice raw.

She turned her head,  just enough for him to catch the flicker of a joyless smile. A soft, sardonic laugh slipped out “What happened?” she echoed, voice dripping acid. “I don’t know, Severus - you tell me. You were right behind me, weren’t you?” 

The words sliced through the steam-laden air, clean and deliberate. Water sloshed as she pushed herself upright, and for the first time he truly saw the damage: bruises, faint swelling at her jaw, the oily glint of healing balm at her temple. Something dark flickered across her face before she turned it away. 

Severus said nothing. He only watched her, letting the heavy silence stretch. Anger was easier than fear. Anger, he understood.

When she realised he wouldn’t rise to the bait, she turned back, her voice sharpened to draw blood “Why don’t you ask your master?” Her lips  curled into a vicious little sneer “You were next in line to grovel.” 

She fixed him with that basilisk stare. “Didn’t you get your turn? What in Merlin’s name do you think happened?” 

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just held her gaze, letting the silence speak for him.

She broke away with a muttered curse and  leaned back against the porcelain, movements stiff with pain and pride. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, curling through the water like ink. One damp lock clung to her throat, and Severus found his eyes tracing its path downwards, over the delicate flutter of her pulse.

“Three broken ribs,” she said at last, her voice brittle with exhaustion. “Could’ve been worse.”

He reached out, unable to resist brushing that curl from her cheek. His fingers trailed down her jaw, over the slope of her breast. She didn’t pull away, but tension coiled through her, poised between pain and pride.

“Don’t, Severus.” Her voice was flat. Cold as steel. “You’re not the first man to put hands on me tonight.”

The words hit like a blow. Every muscle snapped taut, frozen by image of faceless, nameless hands on her. He stilled, his hand hovering just above her skin. 

Her face gleamed with something like triumph, daring him to respond. To betray the weakness she knew, and had sliced open with surgical precision.

For one dangerous moment, he imagined wrapping his fingers around her throat, wiping the triumph from her face.

But he didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

Instead, he withdrew his hand with care, each movement precise, as if performing a complicated charm.

He rose to his full height and stepped back.

She flinched, then masked it with a casual shift, turning her head as if he were the one dismissed.

“Where were you?” she asked again, tone polite. Almost conversational.

It’s a game to her. Severus thought, her smile curdling his blood. Always playing her fucking games. 

“Busy,” he said. The word landed like a slap.

“’Busy’?” She repeated, sweet as spoiled fruit.

He didn’t reply. He refused her the satisfaction.

Alessia gave a soft, scoffing sound and turned away. “Well. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”

She grabbed the side of the bath to push herself up, but immediately fell back. Her body sagged into the water, breath hissing through her teeth. Her flushed face drained of colour, twisting in pain. For the first time, there was real vulnerability in the curve of her shoulders. 

But it vanished almost instantly, masked beneath a tight breath and a locked jaw.

“Have you ---” he began, his voice softer than intended.

“Just help me up.”

Her skin was slippery beneath his hands as he eased her upright, scalding water sluicing down his sleeves. She seemed to barely breathe, body shuddering against his as tremors of pain rattled through her body. She leaned heavily against him, too proud to cling, but unable to fully bear her own weight. Severus braced her carefully, feeling the frailness she fought so viciously to hide.

Her lips pressed into a tight line, breath shallow and rapid. He said nothing, just held her, until she was ready to move.

When she pushed him away, sharply, stubbornly, he let her go without protest. She braced herself against the counter, knuckles white with effort, body wobbling dangerously before locking into rigid, defiant stillness.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror: pale, water-slick, bruised, and utterly unbroken.

She tilted her head, scrutinising every inch of her face, searching for flaws: a bruise, a mark, anything to mar her beauty. Her finger traced the curve of her mouth, the dark arch of her brow. A queen assessing the ruins of her kingdom.

Severus simply watched her. He had seen this ritual before; her beauty was armour, as vital to her as her wand.

Once satisfied, she drained a glass of water. The sharp clink of glass against marble broke the heavy silence.

“I can still taste blood,” she murmured, her voice barely louder than the faint gurgle of water draining from the tub. Her reflection met his eyes, but her gaze was distant, turned inward, seeing something he could not.

Severus nodded, silent. 

Again she touched her lips, as if trying to wipe away the phantom taste. A subtle shudder of disgust passed across her hunched shoulders. 

With a flick of his wand, a white towel soared into his hand. He stepped forward, draping it around her torso with deliberate care, smoothing her soaked hair over one shoulder. Her skin still radiated heat from the bath, flushed and fever-warm beneath his palm. He leaned in, brushing a kiss to the nape of her neck. His hands ghosted along her hips, then up to her ribs. This time she didn’t flinch. Instead, her muscles softened beneath his touch, her body yielding for the span of a breath, no more. Her weight shifted, her tension unravelling, just slightly, into him.

Then he stepped back.

Slowly. Deliberately. Letting the space open between them like a wound.

“Did you heal them?” he asked, voice clinical.

“Of course,” she replied, as if the moment had not happened. Her spine straightened with brittle elegance. “They’ll be fine in a day or two.” 

Their eyes met again in the mirror. His face, bruised and bloodied. Hers, porcelain and composed. Silence between them. They were circling each other, calculating. Waiting to draw blood.

The moment snapped when Alessia turned from the mirror and left the bathroom, one hand clutching her ribs as she walked. She was limping, subtle but unmistakable; the jagged edge of her pain slicing through her usual grace.

Severus followed, pausing at the threshold of the dressing room. He leaned against the doorframe, and stifled the urge to sneeze at the cloud of scent which hit him, lillies, vanilla, the astringent bite of magic-laced powders. The perfume was suffocating, like incense in a chapel too long sealed. 

The room was obscene in its scale and indulgence. Velvet robes and silk gowns hung like precious jewels in neatly ordered rows. Shoes lined beneath them, heels catching the soft lamplight and gleaming like teeth. Shelves filled with precious stones, diamonds that she wore like armour, the emeralds that were her shields. Each drawer likely filled with heirlooms worth twice as much as a Ministry salary.

Alessia moved through it all as if it were nothing. 

She had spent her life surrounded by wealth, expected it as her due. And every time he saw it, Severus couldn’t help but remember the scrawny, underfed child he had been, wearing second-hand clothes that barely fit. He pushed the familiar resentment aside before he could stew in it. 

She reached for a slip of ivory silk, and Severus’ eyes caught the gauzy fabric.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

She didn’t bother to turn as she pulled it over her head. The slip clung to her damp body like poured light, catching her narrow waist, the sharp bones of her hips.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied coolly, adjusting the strap and wincing.

He tore his eyes away. “Dumbledore is expecting us.”

Her response came with a casual flick of her wand as she dried her hair. “Let the old fool wait. That is not my concern.”

“Alessia—-”

Her voice was as sharp as flint. “Though if you wish to run back to your master like a loyal dog, don’t let me stop you.” 

Her gaze met his, and rage crawled up his spine. She had that look again, the one that set his teeth on edge, half-daring, half-dismissing. He took a slow, deep breath, and suppressed the fire burning through his chest like firewhisky.

Not yet.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, dangerously quiet, ice dripping from his words.

She was fighting a smile again as she dismissed him with an elegant wave of her hand.

“I am not interested in your martyrdom, Severus,” she said. “I’m exhausted. I have nothing to report that can’t wait. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.” 

A vein was beginning to throb in his temple. He watched her for a long beat. “This is not a game.” 

She turned slowly, the gleam in her eyes bright with challenge. “Oh, really? Because I thought the hours of torture and interrogation were such fun.”

She took a step closer. “I will not jump to attention whenever he beckons, Severus. I owe him nothing.”

He held his ground, but she just brushed past him, imperious as a queen, as though nothing had happened.

Severus’ hand shot out to clamp around her wrist before she could take another step.

He wrenched her round to face him, felt the satisfying press of bone hard beneath his fingers, and squeezed. She yelped, surprise flashing through her eyes, and for the briefest moment he caught the flicker of arousal.

She cried out, attempting to jerk away, but he held fast and pulled her into him. The press of her body sent a jolt of lust spiralling through him, raw and furious.

Before she could spit another word at him, he moved, swift and brutal. Her back hit the wall with an echoing thud, harder than he’d anticipated. He didn’t let that stop him; not when the explosion of her breath against his face sounded like the gasp of a lover. Again she tried to wriggle free, but his knee caged her, pinning her in place, his hand locking both her wrists above her head.

“Let me go,” she snarled, her voice a savage rasp against his mouth.

“That is enough of your pureblood melodrama---" he hissed, but she fought him, twisting, teeth bared.

“Let me go!” she demanded again, thrashing, the scent of her, jasmine, soap, blood, drowning him.

Her pulse drummed against his clenched fingers. The frantic heat of her skin was maddening.

“I will when you are prepared to behave like a reasonable---”

“Fuck you,” she spat through clenched teeth.

Her hips bucked against him, sending another delicious wave curling through his stomach. He laughed, a low, dangerous sound, and leaned in until their breaths mingled.

“Is that what you want, Alessia?” he murmured against the shell of her ear. “Will that silence you?”

Her entire body vibrated with anger, the mixture of fury and lust in her eyes intoxicating. She would have slapped him if her wrists were free. Instead, she tried to drive her knee upwards, but he was ready, and blocked her easily with his own. 

She gave a sharp intake of breath; pain this time, not fury. He thought back to the sight of her in the bath, the dark sprawl of the bruise on her ribs. For a second, something in him recoiled. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not when she was like this. But the heat of it, the storm of her, the challenge in her eyes, meant it was already too far gone.

“Get off of me!” Her voice was a guttural growl against his throat. “I am not in the mood to play tonight, Severus.”

He leaned into her, his body pressing her further into the wall. “Then don’t provoke me,” he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. 

“’Provoke you!’” The smooth lines of her face were taut. “I could have died tonight. For you ---”

The words lanced through him. He froze.

“I didn’t ask ---”

“You didn’t have to!” Her voice cracked. “I stayed behind. I grovelled at his feet. I endured that because I thought it might save you.”

She was panting now, pain clearly catching up to her, but stare remained hard.

“The least you can do,” she said, “is stop fighting me!”

His grip slackened. Just slightly. He raised a hand and splayed it along the sharp edge of her jaw, lifting her chin so he could stare down into her piercing eyes. For the second time that night he allowed his thoughts to graze hers. He saw the fierce, desperate hunger that burned there, the same twisted need, stitched with violence. His thumb brushed her lower lip as he withdrew.

“If you think----”

“We are on the same side, Severus!” 

“Then stop fighting me.”

“I despise you,” she whispered. Her voice was honey and poison.

“The feeling is decidedly mutual,” he replied, just as soft.

And then he kissed her. 

Her mouth tasted of potions: bitter dittany, sharp hellebore, something metallic that might have been blood. At first her lips were slack. Then, slowly, she responded, tongue fluttering against his own. He deepened the kiss, teeth grazing her lower lip and felt her shudder beneath his touch. His snaked his hand down, brushing over one silk-covered breast, pausing to pinch the hardened nipple through the fabric. Her teeth caught his lip and bit down hard. One hand curled around his shoulder, talons digging into his skin, marking. Claiming.

He curled his fingers around the column of her throat, his thumb pressing into the tender hollow at its centre. Her pulse stuttered against his skin in a frantic staccato.

He shoved her harder into the wall, swallowing the strangled sound she made as her head thumped back. The skirt of her nightdress rode up easily over her hips, and when he forced his hand between her thighs, she opened for him without hesitation. Her sex was hot and slick and furious. He looked into her eyes, the clear crystalline blue of winter, as he slipped two fingers inside her and watched pleasure shudder over her face in sharp, unwilling waves.

A dark smile curved his mouth as he ground the heel of his palm against her.

Her eyes fluttered closed for one agonising heartbeat, then snapped open again, full of rage, longing and defiance.

And then - 

She slapped him. Hard.

The crack of it echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side, hair whipping across his face as heat burst over his cheek. He turned back slowly, tasting copper where his teeth had cut into his tongue, hand still curled around her cunt. 

Alessia stared up at him, chin lifted in defiance, one eyebrow raised in a silent dare. Her mouth twitched at the corners, not quite a smile. A challenge.

He was going to destroy her. 

Severus grabbed the front of her nightdress and yanked her forward. She stumbled, gave a small, surprised shriek, but he didn’t give her time to recover. He didn’t care. 

She fought him as he dragged her over to the dressing table, fists beating against him, bare feet kicking out. He forced her down over the glossy surface, her body collapsing with the impact. Jars tumbled. Glass shattered. The sharp scent of perfume sliced through the air.

Alessia twisted, hands scrabbling for purchase, but he was already behind her. One arm snaked around her waist, the other fisted into her hair, forcing her down. She thrashed, all muscle and fury, but she was still weakened, wounded, and Severus caged her easily between his hips and the table. The buck of her hips against his erection was maddening.  

The mirror above the table trembled with the force of their movements. In it, her face flickered, lips parted, eyes clouded with the desperate need.

He bent low, his breath hot against the back of her neck.

“Fight me all you want,” he murmured, voice low and rasping with something almost wild. “You always lose.”

Keeping one hand tangled in her hair, he slid the other down her spine, slow and deliberate, until it reached the hem of her slip. He shoved the silk up roughly, baring the soft flesh of her buttocks. The fabric bunched at her waist, damp from her skin, clinging to her like surrender. 

The first slap of his hand against her skin pulsed through his cock. 

She gasped and froze.

He paused. Waiting.

Then she pushed back against him, not in protest but in challenge. Daring. No begging. No surrender. Only the furious, glorious demand to be taken harder. 

The next blow was rougher. The one after that, harder still. 

His palm stung; her skin flushed deep beneath his hand, a colour he wanted to mark into her forever.

Her cries were raw, tangled with curses, threats.

He bent over her and pressed his mouth to her ear.

“Still not in the mood to play, darling?”

Her wicked laugh was a savage thing.

When he pushed inside her, it was not gentle. It was never meant to be. A deep, guttural sound tore from her throat as she arched back to meet him, angling her hips to draw him in deeper. Her body took him in like it had ached for him.

He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Each thrust was sharp, claiming. 

Severus dipped his head to her throat, mouth finding the frantic rhythm of her pulse. Then he slid lower to bite the place where neck met shoulder. She jerked beneath him, a hoarse, throaty moan ripping free.

One hand braced against the table. The other clenched the mirror’s gilt edge, knuckles white. It rattled with every thrust.

Her reflection was a masterpiece of ruin. 

Lips parted, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Her flushed skin gleamed with sweat, curls tumbling wild across her shoulders. One strap had slipped, revealing the soft blush of a nipple peeking above lace, rising and falling with each thrust. He watched her watching herself, greedy eyes devouring her own reflection, tracing each flicker of pleasure across her face, glorying in her own beauty.

“Look at me,” he growled in her ear, voice thick with possession.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his reflection. 

Then smiled; a sly, self-satisfied curve of the mouth—like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Masks

---

“We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.”

André Berthiaume

---

Neither of them moved for a long time.

Severus’ forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, hair tickling her skin.  His fingers still dug bruises into her waist. Alessia gulped in air, willing her heartbeat to slow. Her legs shook so violently that only the press of his body, pinning her to the table, kept her upright. 

“You’ve ruined me, you brute,” she rasped, breathless laughter threading through her voice. His arm came around her, bearing some of her weight, and after a pause she twisted inside the shield of his body, sliding back onto the table. Her legs fell open, feet hooking behind his thighs to draw him close. When he brushed against her, pleasure flared, sharp and sudden, temptation rising like heat. But instead she just kissed him - slow, sweet, lingering - more ache than invitation.

When he tried to pull away she didn’t let go. She caught his mouth again, pressing herself into him; his body solid and alive.

The first tear slipped down her cheek by the time she finally allowed him to retreat. She blinked hard, brushing it away.

His brow furrowed. He reached for her, fingers splaying gently across the bruises blossoming on her ribs.

“I didn’t hurt you….?” 

“No,” she murmured,  her thumb sweeping across his cheek. “Never.”

He arched a brow. Alessia gave a wry smile.

“No more than I wanted you to,” she laughed.

But another tear escaped before she could stop it. A spasm of impatience passed across his face before he masked it behind his customary stillness. 

How he hated a crying woman.

“It’s not---” she started, then broke off with a huff of irritation. “You weren’t there,” she said finally.

She hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but it landed like one.

“I just needed you. And you weren’t there.”

“Dumbledore---”

“I know,” she cut in. “I understand. I just… forgot how hard it is.” 

There was a scathing reply, written into the twist of his features. Alessia kissed it away before it could form. The moment dissolved, even if the echo of it remained, heavy in her chest.

She slipped from his arms and untangled herself with care, ignoring the twinge in her side as she eased her nightdress back over her hips.

It was cooler in the bedroom. The double doors to the balcony stood open, letting in the salt-tinged breeze from the sea. Alessia retrieved a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses from the sideboard, and poured them each a generous serving.

When she turned, Severus was already slouched on the settee before the empty hearth. Still in his Death Eater robes. They looked no different from his usual attire, and yet Alessia could not help the faint flicker of disgust. He had spare robes here. He knew that. But she didn’t want the inevitable fight.

So she said nothing, just handed him a glass and dropped heavily onto the seat beside him.

Raising her glass in a mocking salute, she said dryly “To the Dark Lord.”

He ignored her and knocked back the firewhisky in a single swallow. She mirrored him, feeling the burn claw its way down her throat. It was comforting. Familiar.

Before she could lower her glass, he was already refilling it.

“It’s almost four.” he said “If we visit Dumbledore before breakfast, we have just over three hours.”

Alessia tilted her head, surprised. “You’re agreeing with me?”

His flat stare was answer enough.

She smiled into her glass. “Progress.”

Severus rolled his eyes and downed the last of his whisky. The silence between them shifted - becoming looser, easier.

“You won’t be missed at breakfast?” she asked.

“It’s the weekend. No one will notice.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer.
As tempting as it was to let Dumbledore stew, Alessia summoned a house elf and sent it to Hogwarts with instructions: assurances that all had gone to plan, and a request for a meeting - not before breakfast, as Severus had suggested, but for ten o’clock. She ignored his muttered protests.
When she turned back to him, he regarded her through narrowed eyes.

“You are intolerable.”

“And yet,” She murmured, with a coquettish smile “you tolerate me. Frequently.” 

His reply was a deadpan stare. Alessia laughed. He liked this version of her, half dissolved in velvet and whisky, even if he would never admit it. This version of her was easier.

She leaned back against the cushions with a soft sigh. Her fingers traced lazy patterns over the worn emerald velvet, savouring the small pleasure of it against her skin. The firewhisky slipped too easily down her throat now, the knot in her chest loosening, breath by breath - the illusion of peace, as fragile as spun glass.

The waiting had been the worst part. It always was. But now it was done. 

Finally, she could act.

“What happened at Hogwarts?” She asked, at last. “Why were you so delayed?”

Severus drained the last of the firewhisky, turned the glass slowly between his fingers, then set it down, half an inch from the waiting coaster. Precise. Deliberate. A dare. Alessia saw it, and saw the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. A dark little smile. Her fingers tightened around her own glass, nails digging onto the cut-crystal facets, but she only lifted it to her lips and drank, slow and steady, never breaking his gaze.

Only then did he speak.

“The headmaster asked me to remain behind.”

“And you obeyed without question?”

“It was the right decision.” A small shrug, as though it hardly mattered. 

“My ribs would argue otherwise,” she replied, dryly.

“You weren’t meant to remain behind.”

“And you weren’t meant to take two hours!” she snapped “I did what I had to, Severus.”

“As did I.” His voice was low and even , dark eyes glimmering.

She looked away, jaw tightening. They’d fought about Dumbledore too many times. There was no use opening that door again, and not tonight when she didn’t want even the ghost of the Headmaster between them.

She exhaled slowly.

“Very well,” she said finally. “So, the two of you sat idly by whilst the Dark Lord tortured Potter, then me. What happened when Potter returned?”

He looked at her for a long time, clearly debating the comment. Then, at last, he retreated behind the shield of strategy. 

“What happened between Potter and the Dark Lord?” He countered

Alessia raised a slow eyebrow at him. Then, after a beat, she simply sighed. She eased herself back against the arm of the settee and drew up her legs, draping them across Severus’ lap.  He endured the indignity with the weary grace of a man who had long since given up resisting her. Good.

“Did Potter tell Dumbledore what happened?” she asked.

“I believe so.” He rested a hand on her bare ankle, thumb rubbing absent patterns over her skin.

“But not you?”

“There wasn’t time.” He met her eyes as he said it, lips curling faintly, inviting her biting retort.

She didn’t give it. She would hate to be predictable.

“Do you think he would tell you?”

Severus only shrugged, his silence eloquent.

Of course not. Dumbledore would share only what he chose, parcel out the truth like favours, as though Severus were a beggar at the table. 

Without thinking, she reached for him, tasting the lingering burn of firewhisky on his lips, feeling the soft pull of exhaustion as his forehead came to rest against hers. Neither of them moved.

She let her eyes close.

Let herself believe - just for a heartbeat - that it was enough.

Then she pulled away.

She told him everything.

The shabby muggle graveyard. The Death Eaters; the ones who had come, the ones who hadn’t.

And Potter. Lily Potter’s sacrifice. The resurrection through stolen blood. The strange tether binding boy and monster - a connection she still didn’t fully understand.

“Their wands connected?” Severus repeated, frowning. “Why?”

“I’m not certain.”

He lifted a disbelieving brow  “Magical theory is one of your specialities, isn’t it?”

“I need to do more research.”

“You can’t even hazard a guess?”

“I could,” she admitted. She had ideas. Vague theories, and half-formed notions clawing at the back of her mind. “ But I’d rather not offer guesses. Perhaps Dumbledore---”

“Even if Dumbledore knows something, he’ll never share it.”

“I’ll start researching tomorrow.” She hesitated, then added quietly “The Dark Lord seemed…rattled by it. He’ll want to know more.”

Severus’ hand tightened around her ankle — a hard, involuntary squeeze. “And telling him what you know could get you killed.”

“We can decide when we understand it better,” she said calmly, as if she hadn’t noticed the throb of tension under his touch.

He didn’t answer. But she could feel him thinking - feel the restless churn of strategy in his mind.

There was not much to say about the rest of the night – in the retelling it was almost boring in its monotony. And yet it had cost her.

She shifted slightly against him, brushing her toes over his waist.

“Well?” She said, voice rough with fatigue. “What happened at Hogwarts? The spy?”

Severus released a slow breath, as if weighing every word.

“Alastor Moody.”

The name struck her like a stunning charm. Alastor Moody. Scourge of Death Eaters. Murderer of Evan Rosier. Fanatic opponent of the Dark Arts. 

Her lip curled in disbelief “I beg your pardon?”

“Polyjuice potion,” Severus continued steadily. “The Death Eater had been masquerading as him all year.”

Alessia felt something cold and vicious stir in her chest. There was a delicious irony in it - that such a hated enemy had worn his skin.

“And Moody himself?” She asked “Dead?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Alessia said flatly, making no effort to mask the cruel twist in her voice. “Did he at least suffer?”

Severus’ raised an eyebrow, considering her. “Feeling bloodthirsty, are we, Visconti?”

“He murdered Evan.”

Severus snorted. “Yes, your dear fiancee was such a loss to the world.” At her sharp glare, his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Rosier dug his own grave.”

“I won’t discuss this with you.” 

Even after all these years, the splinter of memory tugged at her - ‘Evan was murdered. I’m so sorry,’ and the guttural scream. A shattering grief which she had borne ever since.

The pressure on her ankle tightened, grounding her. Alessia pushed the memory aside. 

“Did the bastard suffer?” she asked again, voice steady now. 

“He’s been kept prisoner for a year.”

“It’s a start.” But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “Who was the Death Eater?”

“Barty Crouch Junior.”

Alessia stared at him. Then, flatly: “He is dead.”

“Apparently not,”  Severus shrugged “There was a switch between the boy and his mother. Crouch has been hiding him ever since.”

So she had been wrong. Deeply wrong. 

The snivelling, sycophantic boy she had dismissed at Hogwarts. The father incapable of mercy - not a man to betray his cause, even for this own blood.

“I always thought he was innocent.” She prided herself on reading people. How had she misjudged them so catastrophically? “Where is the boy now?”

“The Dementors took care of him.”

A shudder ran down her spine, cold as a death. 

“I need to hear the confession,” she said “All of it.”

“Of course. You’ll also want to see what happened with the Minister.”

Alessia looked up sharply. “Why?”

“He was there when Potter appeared. He heard the boy’s story. Heard Crouch’s confession. He refused to believe any of it.”

She exhaled, long and slow. But really, she couldn’t claim to be surprised. She may have misread Crouch, but Fudge she knew to the bone. She had studied him too carefully not to. 

Her shoulders sagged back into the cushions, the weight of it all pressing down like lead. “He was given proof?”

“Potter’s testimony. Mine. Dumbledore’s. Minerva’s. Crouch’s confession.” A pause “And I showed him my mark.”

She stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“It’s well known that I am a Death Eater.” 

“Yes but--- to flaunt it---” Her mind spun, implications dancing too fast to catch.

Severus simply shrugged, unmoved. 

Alessia looked away and breathed through the violent urge to hex him.

“Fudge might as well hand the Ministry straight to the Dark Lord,” she said finally.

Because Fudge was the sort of man who would choose a comfortable ignorance, over inconvenient truth. And ignorance, in her experience, got you killed. 

But this time, it wouldn’t just be himself he doomed. The ministry controlled the press. The press controlled the public. Assuming the Death Eaters stayed quiet, the wizarding world would remain oblivious - until it was far too late. 

He was playing right into the Dark Lord’s hands

She considered, foolishly, intervening. Trying to open the Minister’s eyes.

She dismissed the idea almost instantly.

Let him stumble blindly for a little longer. The Dark Lord would not wait forever. 

Neither would she. 

Her head tipped back against the cushions, eyes fluttering shut, willing the spinning thoughts to slow.

If the Ministry aligned itself against Dumbledore, it meant yet another mask - both he and the Dark Lord wanted her inside the Ministry.

So many guises carved into her flesh; loyal Death Eater, repentant victim, perfect pureblood daughter, obedient Ministry pawn.

A thousand skins stitched together, each demanded by a different master.

What would be left of her, once they were done scraping over her bones?

She opened her eyes again, blinking slowly.

And Severus - stubborn, reckless Severus - had aligned himself so openly with Dumbledore. 

She could barely think; she was so tired. 

“Do you have a vial?” She asked, already reaching for her wand. 

She placed the tip against her temple, drawing the memories of the evening to the forefront of her mind. When she withdrew the wand, a delicate webbing of silver clung to it. She carefully deposited the threads into the vial Severus handed her, and watched as he did the same. 

Later she would sift through his memories.

Severus’ eye for background details was sharper than hers; he would catch movements, glances that her focus might have missed. And she, in turn, could read the subtle betrayals that always slipped past him.

Sharing their memories was not affection.
It was survival.

Alessia covered a yawn with the back of her hand as Severus slid his own vial beside hers on the table.

“I suggest we get a few hours sleep,” she said, voice rough with exhaustion. “Before our meeting with the headmaster.”

There would be more to discuss. 
There always was.
But not tonight.

Through the eastern windows she glimpsed the first traces of dawn creeping across the sky, soft, pale and merciless. It wasn’t enough to lift the darkness that swallowed the room when she extinguished the candles. 

At last, she made her way to the bed and slipped between the crisp, cold sheets. A moment later, she felt the mattress dip: Severus lying down behind her, his body fitting against hers, stomach to her back, breath warm at the curve of her neck.

She found his hand and clutched it tightly, his calloused palm, the slender wrist, the ring on his right middle finger, the twin to hers.

For this moment, at least, she was at peace. 

She clung to the illusion of the quiet — soft, sweet. 

But a mask, all the same. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Four
The Shadow

---

“Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow”

T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

---

The sunlight crept into the room with the grace of an assassin.

Alessia watched its slinking progress and listened to the cadence of Severus’ heavy breathing, memorising the steadying beat of his pulse beneath her fingers. Occasionally, her eyes would close, the rise of her chest deepening, but then she would start back from the edge of sleep, hand reaching instinctively for him, as though she expected to find him gone.

When six o’clock was finally announced in an echo of gentle chiming she was almost relieved. She could return to her routine, the pretence of normalcy restored, even if only briefly.

She eased herself from Severus’ slack grasp, thumb stroking the pad of his palm one final time, and paused to look at him, his usually scowling face softened by sleep. There was a shadow of stubble across his chin, and a flake of skin was peeling away from his lower lip. His eyes looked bruised with exhaustion. 

She’d barely seen him since Easter. The distance had felt greater than usual. She swallowed back the tight knot in her throat, as she slipped from his grasp.

Her ribs were healing at least.

She examined them carefully in the mirror, fingers pressing along each bone. The pain was mild enough to confirm that all was well.

The stone floor of the balcony was cold beneath her toes. Far below came the familiar sound of waves crashing against the cliff. A small table was set with breakfast, a folded daily prophet lying next to her plate.

“Lacey,” she called as she sat down. At once the elf appeared, and Alessia didn’t wait for her to finish her usual routine of grovelling before speaking “I need some books from the library, as well as parchment, quill and ink.”

She rattled off a few titles, then added “and anything else pertaining to wand lore you can find.”

“Yes, Madam.”

The elf vanished. She poured herself a steaming cup of coffee, ignored the food, and shook out the daily prophet.

GOBLIN NEGOTIATION TALKS IN JEAPORDY

Alessia sighed. So that was that. The minister had dug his grave.

She read the paper from front to back, the routine almost a balm. When she had finished, she threw it aside and picked up the first book, The ways of wands, and cracked it open, already pulling the parchment and quill to her.

It was almost 8 o’clock by the time she heard movement from the bedroom. Five minutes later, Severus emerged, yawning, wearing an old nightshirt. Alessia set down her quill.

“Tell me the first half of the prophecy again.”

“Good morning to you, too.” He replied, voice disfigured by another yawn. He sat down opposite her, and she reached for the coffee pot, pouring a cup for both of them. 

Beside his plate, he set down a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He shook one from the packet, ignoring her pointed stare, and lit it with his wand. 

He drew on it before speaking, his words curling into the air in hazy puffs of smoke. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...”

Alessia gave a noncommittal hum, and picked up her quill again.

She could feel Severus’ assessing gaze. His eyes slid across the pile of books, to the parchment covered in her notes, to the discarded copy of the daily prophet. “Did you sleep at all?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “A little,” she lied. “Potter’s wand. What do you know about it?”

“Medium tone wood. Not ebony or oak. Other than that, I don’t know.”

“And the Dark Lord?”

“Have you eaten?” He asked, eyeing her spotless plate.

“The Dark Lord?” Alessia insisted. 

Severus did not reply. He watched her through narrowed eyes, and then sighed through his nose, with the air of a man whose patience had been tested beyond endurance. He set the still smoking cigarette down with deliberate care and set a slice of toast on her plate. “Eat,” he said, voice quiet but firm “Then we’ll discuss whatever foolishness you’re planning today.”

It was dry, and like sand in her mouth. The butter was greasy on her lips. She forced herself to chew and swallow, then take another bite, washing it down with gulps of coffee. Thankfully Severus knew better than to watch her, and busied himself with his own breakfast. When at last she had finished, she wiped her lips and hands on the napkin, shuddering at the feel of grease and crumbs. 

“The Dark Lord?”

“Yew. That’s all I know. Not Unicorn hair, I would have thought.”

Alessia gave a soft huff of agreement, and stared out at the expanse of sea, thinking.

“Dumbledore won’t tell us anything,” she said. “Even if he does know.”

“You’re certain its down to the wands?”

“I think so. Still, one can never be too certain when it comes to Potter and the Dark Lord. The Prophecy----”

Severus gave a soft snort of derision.

“I know that you don’t put much stock in ‘fortune telling’, Severus. But the Dark Lord believed in it last time; he will go after it again.” 

“And the all powerful Madame Visconti can’t just hand it to him?”

The look she gave him was sharp and deadly. She let it trace along his skin before she smiled, teeth flashing “Try telling me how to do my job again, Severus. I dare you.” He didn’t look away, just met the heat of her with a steady composure. Alessia broke the stare before the sensation curling in her stomach could settle any lower. “You need to see if you can get anything out of Dumbledore.”

“He won’t tell us anything he doesn’t deem necessary.”

“I know that, Severus. But you can at least try. He may let something slip.”

Alessia drained the last of her coffee and stood, chair scraping against the stone. She could feel his eyes on her as she returned into the bedroom.

---

Severus watched her dress, gaze sharp and unyielding. She wouldn’t have minded, except that it made her ache for him, and they had no time for that. Still, she couldn’t resist lingering over the slow slide of silk up her thighs, the fastening of garters, the brush of her own hands against bare skin.

“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, as he watched her reach for the corset.

Alessia quirked a brow at him, but his tone brooked no argument. “You broke three ribs last night, Alessia. They need to heal.”

“I’m fine,” she said “I’m not leaving without it. My robes won’t fit right.”

He watched her carefully, as though weighing the matter “You are the most ridiculous creature.”

Alessia smiled, catching his gaze in the mirror. “Yet you’re still here.”

He didn’t protest again as she finished dressing, though he did click his tongue disapprovingly when she slipped her feet into a pair of high heels. She paid him no mind.

“When is Hogwarts breaking up for the summer?” She asked, as she used her wand to twist up her hair and pin it atop her head. 

“The third.”

“You’ll join me for dinner that evening.”

“As your majesty commands,” he replied, sarcasm drowning his words.

Alessia smiled at him in the mirror, as she fixed the pearl into her earlobe. “Please.” Then, when his face revealed nothing, she dropped her voice an octave. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

She was rewarded with the dark glint of hunger in his eyes.  

“Well, in that case, how could I possibly refuse?”

—

Ten o’clock came and went. 

Alessia pretended not to notice Severus’ rapidly growing impatience as she carefully adjusted the button on her glove, then took a minute to inspect her appearance in the mirror.

When she had delayed them for the full five minutes, and just when she thought Severus might snap and drag her through the fireplace, she finally met his smouldering stare.

“Shall we go?” She crooned, in a tone of perfect innocence.

The lingering weakness from the Cruciatus curse sent her head spinning as she hurtled through the floo network. When her heels cracked against the hearth she shot out a hand to steady herself, gloves tightening around the stone in a death grip as she willed her trembling legs to bear her own weight. 

She gave herself two precious seconds to recover, for the dizziness to recede. Then she straightened and brushed the soot from her robes, scanning the small, cozy room above Dumbledore’s office. Most of the space was taken up by worn armchairs clustered around the fireplace, a side table set for tea, and book-lined walls. A large window stretched along one curved wall, offering a view of the grounds beyond.

She barely had time to take it in before Dumbledore’s voice drifted up from the office below. 

“—-It is essential Harry return to his aunt and uncle’s for a few weeks. After that, he can stay with you and Arthur for the rest of the summer holidays.”

Alessia’s attention snapped to the conversation, and she moved quickly towards the staircase that overlooked the office, weakness forgotten. Severus was stood at the top, one arm outstretched, fingers spread in silent command.

“The stairs creak,” he whispered, leaning close. She nodded and  cast a cushioning charm on the soles of her shoes. Together they descended a little way, careful to keep to side of the wall. When they stopped, she leaned slightly towards the railing, and peered down into the office. They were high enough that the pair seated at the desk would need to crane their necks to be able to see them. 

Alessia felt the breath catch in her throat. Dumbledore was sat behind the desk, draped in robes of deepest purple, and to her dismay, Molly Weasley was seated before him.

She hadn’t anticipated seeing her aunt this soon - nor looking quite so worn. The hunched set of her shoulders told Alessia just how much of a toll the night had taken from her. A pang of something twisted through her chest, a fierce need to protect. It would be so easy to reach her, to pull her from Dumbledore’s meddling hands. Alessia’s fingers tightened painfully around the railing, as she forced herself to stay hidden.

“Alright then,” replied Molly, her voice rasping faintly, betraying her lack of sleep. Despite her assent, she did not sound pleased. “But I don’t like the thought of him alone with those people. Not after everything he has just been through.”

“I agree. But it is necessary.”

Alessia glanced at Severus, and raised an eyebrow slightly. Severus just shook his head, expression unreadable. Why was Potter returning to his muggle relatives ‘necessary’? Alessia tucked the titbit away for later. 

“Will you tell him about the Order?” Molly asked.

“We shall see,” Dumbledore said vaguely. “He will likely find out himself, one way or another.”

At once Molly said “ I don’t want Ron involved in it. Or Ginny, and the twins. They’re still in school…”

Ginny. If Dumbledore thought he was going to involve her in this war, he was very much mistaken.

“I understand,” he agreed quietly. “The Order will not accept underage members, in any case.”

There was a pause, then “Arthur and I will join. We want to help ——“

Alessia sucked in a sharp breath, a flicker of fear pulsing through her chest. At once, Severus shot her a look, a firm order to keep silent. She returned the look with a glare, but said nothing. 

“….appreciated,” Dumbledore was saying, his tone placating “We need all the help we can get.”

Alessia had expected the reply, but still she felt the hot flush of anger.

“We don’t have an excuse to stay out of it, this time,” Molly continued, though her voice faltered slightly  “Bill will also join, as I’m sure will Charlie. Percy…. I’m not sure.”

“One step at a time. For the next couple of weeks our focus will be on gathering the old members, and seeing which new ones we can recruit.”

“Alessia,” Molly said, and Alessia’s heart skipped at the unexpected sound of her name. “I don’t know if she would join….”

“Madame Visconti would certainly be a valuable ally,” Dumbledore replied evenly.

Alessia leaned towards Severus and whispered “does he know we’re here?”

Severus gave a quick nod, eyes not leaving Dumbledore.

“I can try to speak to her,” said Molly “But if the Minister doesn’t come around….I don’t know if she would risk her position. Then there’s her fathers family….”

“It would be complicated, for her,” Dumbledore murmured.

“Yes. Merlin knows the war cost her enough last time.” 
“That is all the more reason for her to stand against it, now.” Despite the softness of his voice, she could hear the pointed weight to his words.

Alessia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The last thing she needed was Dumbledore preaching.

“She often visits for Sunday lunch. If she comes today, what should I tell her? I suppose she doesn’t know about any of this yet….”

“She very well might,” said Dumbledore, and Alessia could swear she saw his eyes flick upward. “Rumours are bound to be circulating through pureblood society by now.”

There was a long pause, then Dumbledore continued. “I will speak to her this morning.”

“You have the time?” 

“I can make the time. Having her support could make a great deal of difference in this war.”

Guilt and flattery: Dumbledore’s two favourite weapons. 

“Thank you. I should let you get on. I have taken up enough of your time.” There was the sound of shuffling as they both got to her feet.

Dumbledore moved from behind the desk to see Molly out “Your company is always welcome, Molly. I will contact you and Arthur when arrangements have been made for the first meeting.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, her voice softer now, her anxiety palpable. “Do let me know if Harry needs anything…?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied pleasantly.

The door clicked shut behind Molly. Dumbledore’s head lifted to them. Alessia and Severus made no attempt to hide; they remained still, the silence as dense as thunder.

“I’ll be up in a moment,” Dumbledore called, tone unreadable, already turning toward the stairs.

As one, they stepped back from the railing. Severus said nothing as he watched her straighten her gloves, banishing the tremble of anger from her fingers. When she met his eyes again it was as though something had closed behind them, the tenderness of the past few hours sealed away.

They returned to the little sitting room. Severus settled into one of the plush crimson armchairs, but Alessia was too restless to sit. Her mind was churning, turning over the conversation they’d just overheard. She began to pace, each step sharp and measured, the click of her heels on the floorboards like the ticking of a clock.

“Molly intends to join the order,” she muttered on her second pass, voice low and tight. 

Severus just watched her, face carefully neutral. She spun on her heels to face him, brows furrowed in frustration “She can’t.”

“How exactly do you intend to stop her?” He asked dryly, almost amused. 

Alessia’s jaw tightened “Well I haven’t worked that out yet.”

Severus snorted softly, the sound light but edged with derision. It gnawed at her already fraying nerves “Clearly.”

Her fingers twitched as she resisted the urge to throw something at him. The corner of his lip curled, as though he read the temptation in her eyes.

She diverted herself by moved toward the large window, her gaze sweeping over the calm expanse of the lake and the distant hills. It was beautiful, serene - and utterly at odds with the tangle of anxiety in her chest.

Finally, she heard Dumbledore behind her. At once Alessia whirled on him, the usual cool and formal pleasantries forgotten. “Why was Molly here?”

“Madame Visconti,” Dumbledore said warmly, as though her rudeness was a pleasant joke “a pleasure as always.” His mild little smile was infuriating “Please take a seat. I’ll pour us some tea.”

Alessia didn’t move. The tension stretched between them, taut as a wire. Dumbledore’s expression never wavered. 

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the faintest flicker of movement . Severus, ignoring their posturing, casually adjusting the sleeve of his robe, as though he had not a care in the world.

Alessia sighed, and lowered herself into the seat beside Severus. She refused to look at him, knowing that a glance would reveal the disapproval written across his face.

Dumbledore’s soft humming filled the silence as he poured the tea. Alessia accepted the cup and drank in two long gulps, the cloying sweetness thick on her tongue. The empty teacup clattered against the delicate saucer as yet another spasm trembled down her arm.

She set the cup down and glanced at the soggy tea-leaves: A raven, hovering above a fallen cross, poised to strike. 

You don’t say.

But the omen was quickly drowned by another splash of tea. A drop of it landed on the polished wood, pooling like blood. Alessia stared at it, transfixed and felt the familiar frustrations threaten to bubble up once again. 

It had been well over a decade since she had last sat in this office. Once, it had felt like a place of intrigue, of power. Now it just felt suffocating; a cluttered room of churning instruments and precarious towers of books. Nothing here ever changed. Nothing here ever would.

“Will you take a biscuit?” 

Dumbledore’s voice broke through her thoughts. His expression was kind, as though they were old friends, sitting down for a quiet chat.

Alessia merely raised a delicate eyebrow, and waited for him to settle into the armchair opposite them. 

“How is Mr Potter?” She asked, as though deeply concerned for the boys welfare.

Dumbledore’s expression faltered slightly “He is recovering in the Hospital Wing. Physically, he should be fine in a day or two, but…” He set his tea cup down on the coffee table, gaze lingering on it. “I fear last night will have left some deeper scars on his soul. I think it helped to have Molly with him.”

“She was with him all night?” Alessia asked tightly.

“She was.”

Alessia’s gaze darkened, and she said through clenched teeth “You should not have encouraged her to join the Order. You—“

“She made her own choice,” Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, peering over his spectacles at her “As must we all.”

Spare me.

Choices. Always choices. As though anyone were ever truly free to make them. 

She looked to Severus, who was studying Dumbledore carefully, finger tapping absently against his ring.

“I don’t want her involved,” Alessia insisted, voice sharpening.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, and when he looked at her his eyes were heavy with understanding. She hated him for that alone. “We all wish to keep our loved ones safe from harm, Alessia. But she must do what she feels is right.”

“She’ll get herself killed!” Alessia snapped, heat rising in her voice. 

At once she regretted it, what it revealed. She had learned this lesson before; any piece of herself given to Dumbledore would be used against her.

“Alessia…” said Severus, a soft warning lacing his voice. She ignored him.

“Potter is like a son to her,” she continued, forcing her voice back to neutral “If she has to stand between him and the dark lord—” 

She broke off with a sharp hiss, a sudden spasm tearing through her ribs. She had sat forward to quickly, her angry gesture too emphatic. She pressed a hand to her side, waiting for the pain to pass.

At once Severus moved, but she waved him impatiently away. 

“You’re hurt,” Dumbledore said softly, his face now a perfect mask of concern. 

“It’s nothing,” she sniped back, voice like ice.

“Have you seen a healer?” he pressed.

Alessia raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Of course I haven’t.”

What did he think? That she could simply stroll into St. Mungo’s and hope that no one noticed? 

“I will ask Madam Pomfrey to join us,” Dumbledore said firmly. 

“That’s unnecessary,” Alessia said coldly.

“I insist.”

“I can tend to my own wounds—“ she began, but Dumbledore was already turning to Severus, his expression implacable. “Severus, perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch Madam Pomfrey, whilst Alessia gives her account of last night?”

Alessia snapped her head to Severus, brow arched in challenge. For a moment, his fingers tapped thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. Then he nodded once and rose. 

She sat back with a sound of pure frustration. 

She understood it all too well. 

Dumbledore didn’t care about her injuries. He had simply seen an opportunity to separate them -  to pick at their stories, to dig for any inconsistency.

“As unnecessary as it may be,” Dumbledore murmured. “I would still feel better knowing that you’ve been seen by a qualified healer.”

“Indeed,” Alessia said cooly “You would not want to risk damage to such a ‘valuable asset’ would you?” 

It was petty. It felt good. 

She saw his eyed harden and he opened his mouth to respond but Alessia cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand “I have other things to do today. Can we get this meeting over with, please?”

For a long moment, Dumbledore only studied her. Then he sighed, a soft sound, weighted with both pity and resignation “As you wish.”

Alessia took a slow sip of tea before continuing, moistening her throat but also giving herself a chance to breathe, to get her emotions back in line. “Potter told you about the graveyard?”

“He has. But I would appreciate your insight as well.”

“Of course,” she replied, and then she began. 

She told him everything. Every single word she could remember the Dark Lord speaking. The Death Eaters she had recognised, their hollow posturing and barely-concealed unease. The plans he had revealed. She left nothing out - there was no point in lying. Dumbledore watched her as she spoke, measuring her words weighing them against Potter’s account, scanning her for any signs of omission or deceit. 

She watched him in turn, alert for any flicker of emotion.

Neither of them gave anything away.

When she came to the final moments - the strange connection between the wands,  the ethereal figures - she paused. 

“Well?”

“Well what?” Dumbledore asked mildly.

“Do you know what happened, what might have caused it?”

“ I may have a theory or two,” he replied vague as ever.

When he didn’t elaborate, she said “Theories which you choose not to share?”

“I will not risk Voldemort taking the knowledge from you.”

Alessia gave a soft, humourless laugh “Your faith is overwhelming.”

“I have every faith in you, Alessia. But the risk is unnecessary.”

For a long moment Alessia looked at him, debating whether to press. Then she said “Could this… connection put Severus or me in danger?”

“I cannot foresee any reason why it should.”

She nodded and just said “Very well.”

She didn’t tell him that she already knew exactly what had happened.

She continued her account. But when she reached the part where she had stayed behind after the Dark Lord had ordered them all to leave, he interrupted. 

“Why?”

“The Dark Lord was furious. He’d already made it clear that he believed Severus had betrayed him. I feared the dark lord would kill Severus the moment he apparated to him.”

Dumbledore frowned. “Voldemort is volatile, but he is not stupid——“

“I chose not to take that risk.”

“It was unwise——“ he persisted, but Alessia overrode him sharply.

“It was necessary. You may hold Severus’ life in low regard, but I do not.” 

The words were intended to wound, and she was satisfied to see them land, the briefest expression of pain betraying him.

“I care a great deal for both of you,” Dumbledore said evenly.

“Of course,” Alessia sneered “We are valuable to you, after all.”

He didn’t answer, and Alessia was glad of it. The feigned sorrow in his expression was enough as it was. 

The rest of the story passed quickly - there was little enough to say about the hours of waiting and torture. When she was finished, she took another gulp of tea, before reaching into her robes and drawing out two small vials. 

“My memories of it all,” she said, placing the vials down on the table. She didn’t want to share them with him - not the later parts, not the humiliation - but he needed as much information as possible.

“Thank you,” he replied simply, pocketing them with care.

They sat in silence for several long minutes, sipping their tea. Dumbledore peering into the flames as though he could read his future in them. 

A door banged open downstairs, and a minute later Severus reappeared with Madam Pomfrey following, a large leather bag held in one hand. At once Dumbledore was on his feet, and Alessia rose behind him, shooting Severus a swift glare which he chose to ignore. 

“Ah, Poppy,” said Dumbledore warmly. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Not at all headmaster,” she said briskly, her eyes already scanning Alessia for injuries.

Dumbledore gestured to her. “Madame Visconti is in need of a healer. I was hoping you might look her over.”

“Of course.” The witch moved to the side table, and hoisted her bag onto it, unfastening the catch with a soft snick. 

Dumbledore moved towards the door “We shall give you some privacy.”

As Alessia had known, the examination was a waste of everyone’s time. Pomfrey prodded at her ribs with her wand, and gave her a wholly unwelcome lecture about the corset, before declaring that Alessia had done a satisfactory job at healing them herself. Rest, pain relief potions, and an un-corseted waist were all she recommended. When Alessia rose and tightened the boning and laces back around herself, Pomfrey had snorted and shook her head.

Alessia followed the still muttering woman down the winding steps and onto the wide stone balcony that curved along the outer edge of the office. Severus was nowhere to be seen.  Dumbledore  stood alone, leaning against the stone balustrade, watching the grounds. 

Clearly he was not done with her.

Wordlessly, Alessia moved to join him, resting her forearms on the stone and gazing out at the distant hills. It was peaceful here. She could acknowledge that much at least. 

“Do you miss it?” Dumbledore asked eventually, drawing Alessia reluctantly back from her thoughts. 

“Miss it?” she echoed. 

“Hogwarts.”

Alessia looked back over the beautiful scene before her. Then, simply: “No.”
 
She had never missed this place - not for a single moment.

Dumbledore glanced sideways at her. “You never needed Hogwarts. Not like others have.”

Like Severus?

But she said nothing. She was quite sure that she wouldn’t like the answer that that particular question. Instead, she said “I was ready to leave this place long before I graduated.”

“Then you were fortunate. Some are never truly ready to leave.” 

Alessia thought back to her final year at Hogwarts. ‘Fortunate’ wouldn’t have been her first choice of words. 

“Last night,” she said, keeping her steady gaze locked on the gently rippling lake “the Dark Lord mentioned his plans to break the Death Eaters out of Azkaban.”

Dumbledore nodded. 

Alessia turned to face him fully. “You cannot let him.”

“I’ll do everything I can to prevent it.”

“That’s not good enough,” Alessia replied sharply, taking a small step towards him. “If Cornelius won’t act, then it falls to you. He cannot break them out.”

“I will need you to get more information on his plans. When he plans to break them out, how he plans to do it.”

“Done.” she replied with an impatient wave of her hand. “But I will not have Alexius walk free. Whatever the cost, he stays in Azkaban.”

“Alessia—“ Dumbledore began, but she cut him off. She was not going to have that conversation with him.

“I warn you, headmaster - I’ll speak to the Dark Lord, if I must. I’ll beg him, bargain with him - whatever his price, if I can pay it, I will.”

“Even if it could cost us this war?”

She didn’t answer, and Dumbledore gave a weary sigh. 

“I know there is no point in attempting to dissuade you, Alessia. But if Voldemort gives you an ultimatum, I expect you to come to me. Before you act.”

Alessia inclined her head. It was all she could give him.

Whether or not she was telling the truth, she wasn’t sure yet.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “But be careful. If he knows about this weakness —“

“I know,” replied Alessia. And she did. She knew all too well. But she could do nothing else. 

“I’ll do everything I can to force the Ministry to acknowledge the danger, to take the necessary precautions.”

“And me?”

“I need you undercover,” he replied. “You already have the Ministers trust; he will feel safe to confide in you. Use that. Guide him if you can.”

“Then I cannot be seen with you. Or Severus.” Her eyes turned back to the lake, calculating  “If Molly and Arthur publicly support you, I’ll need to distance myself from them to.”

He fell quiet, gazing thoughtfully out over the lake.

Then, almost idly, he said, “You’ve always had a gift for persuasion. If you tried…Do you think you could sway Fudge?”

Her gloves creaked faintly as she tightened her grip on the stone balustrade. “Perhaps,” she said, matching his airy tone. As if this were an academic exercise. “Given enough time, I could probably make him think it was his idea.” 

She kept her eyes on the horizon, even when she felt him turn to her. “But at what cost, I wonder?” he asked, gently.

A beat of silence, then she turned to fix him with a hollow smile. The lake breeze caught her hair, tugging loose strands from her pinned coiffure. “One higher than I would prefer to pay.”

She had hoped he would leave it at that, but he continued, in that gentle, maddening tone. “Would you pay it, if I asked?”

Alessia allowed the silence to stretch as she met his stare with her own polite mask of civility, the courteous smile she wore everyday. “I suppose the real question, headmaster, is would you dare to ask it of me?”

Another pause. Then Dumbledore simply inclined his head, as though accepting her answer.

“I know all of this won’t be easy.”

Alessia shrugged “It is necessary.”

“There is something else I need from you.” 

She gave a humourless laugh “Of course there is.”

“I need you to join the Order of the Phoenix,” he said, and at once Alessia’s head snapped to him “Officially, and as an active member.”

“No.”

“Alessia….”

“In the last war, you said—“

“That was then,” said Dumbledore, gently.  “You left the country after your graduation. You were barely back before the war ended. Things are different now.”

“There is no need for me to join the Order,” she persisted. “I’ll give you information directly. If everyone in the Order knows who I am - what I am - then it is only a matter of time before it reaches the Ministry—“

“That won’t happen.”

She laughed, sharp and cold “You don’t know that. All it takes is one person talking. Or for the Dark Lord to plant one spy into the Order——“

“Voldemort does not need another spy. He has two already—“

“What if he doubts our loyalty? And don’t tell me that if you had the chance to place a third spy into the Dark Lord’s circle, you wouldn’t take it? This could ruin me——“

“I am asking you to trust me,” said Dumbledore simply.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” Alessia’s voice was harsh with anger, but she made no attempt to soften it “I trust that you will do whatever necessary to win this war. Including sacrificing me.”

“It is not my desire to hurt you.”

“Your desire is irrelevant. You’d do it anyway.”

He didn’t so much as flinch at the accusation “I will not argue with you, Alessia. But if  you want my protection, you will do this.” 

Alessia turned away, and leaned against the balustrade, weighing the cost, measuring how far he’d push.

After a full minute had passed, she said “This would mean telling Molly.”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t possibly understand what that would mean.

“I have a condition,” she continued. “Before the first meeting I want the names of every single member of the Order. And when new ones are recruited, I want their names. Before they learn about me.”

“I will not allow any threats into the Order, Alessia,” said Dumbledore simply, as though that could possibly be enough.

“So you say,” she replied coldly “But I think we’ve established my lack of trust. Your word?”

Dumbledore sighed. “You have it.”

Alessia nodded her thanks “Then I need to speak to Molly this afternoon.”

“I will contact you as soon as a meeting place has been arranged.”

"Please do not come to Tessari,” she said quickly. “I cannot risk you being seen there.”
 
“Of course.” 

“Severus can contact me. Or Molly and Arthur.” Alessia glanced at the stairs curving around the side of the tower. No doubt Severus was waiting for Dumbledore now. Would Dumbledore tell him everything? 

“Be careful, Alessia,” he said as she moved towards the door.

“Always.”

But at the top of the stairs, she paused. 

“I expect you to keep your word, Headmaster.” She let him see the icy chill of her hatred. “And do try to remember: Severus’ life is not yours to spend.”

She did not wait for a reply. The click of her heels slit the silence, the warning lodged sharp as glass beneath his skin.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five
The Stranger

---

“It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger”

Anne Sexton

---

Alessia stumbled as she apparated, legs buckling the moment they touched the gravel path. Only the nearby fence kept her from hitting the ground, ribs screaming in protest at the violent movement. She clutched the flaking post, heart pounding, breathing ragged. 

Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous than she should be so weak. 

It seemed that apparating across the country, combined with a sleepless night and several rounds of torture, had weakened her more than she wanted to admit. She should have been more careful – but only now did she realise how close she had coming to splinching herself. 

After Hogwarts, she had apparated to Ireland, a difficult jump at the best of times, but necessary. From there, she had apparated straight to Devon, to the Burrow. Too far. 

Gingerly, she flexed a gloved hand, half expecting to find a finger missing. A flutter of sensation pulsed across her skin.

Idiot. If the Dark Lord didn’t tear you apart, you seem content to finish the job yourself.

Alessia breathed slow and deep, willing the fear to recede. She was unharmed. No need to dwell on what might have happened. 

She ran her hands down her skirts, brushing out the phantom dust, and carefully stepped forwards, testing her legs. Ahead, the Burrow waited, balanced in its usual precarious defiance of gravity.

She paused at the kitchen door. Through the lace curtains, she saw Molly bustling around the room, flitting from table to counter to sink, levitating plates and jugs, even as she pulled steaming food from the oven. 

The faint creak of the door was lost beneath the bubbling of water and the screech of music from the wireless. Molly was humming absently, wand poking from her apron strings, frizzy hair escaping from the knot at the nape of her neck. 

The mundane, absurdly domestic picture slipped between Alessia’s ribs, and lodged against her heart like a thorn.

Still, she allowed herself a moment longer in the calm, inhaled the scent of coffee and clean soap, let Molly’s contented hum convince her, just for a second, that she was safe.

Until the familiar thought pushed its way forward:

I don’t belong here.

“Molly,” said Alessia, softly.

At once the cosy domesticity shattered. The tune died on Molly’s lips as she spun, tension sweeping across her features, hardening the usually soft lines of her face. 

“Sia!” Molly cried. 

In a instant, she was across the kitchen, reaching for her.

“Wait, Molly, don’t hug - ”

But Molly had already drawn her into one of her crushing embraces, and it was all Alessia could do to catch the scream of pain in her throat, as her ribs shrieked in protest.

At once Molly fell back, horror written across her face. Alessia forced her own into neutrality, not wanting Molly to know just how much it had hurt. 

“What—?” 

“It’s nothing,” Alessia said briskly. “A bruised rib, nothing serious. Come here.”

She reached again, and could have laughed at the feather-light hug Molly gave her, as though she were drawing a baby bird into her arms. Her hair smelled of a clean, floral perfume, and when her cheek brushed Alessia’s, she felt the dampness of tears.

“I’m fine, Molly.” Alessia whispered. She pressed her lips to the wet skin, holding her a little tighter, unsure which of them she was trying to comfort.

When they broke apart, Molly turned quickly, wiping her eyes under the pretence of smoothing back her hair. 

“Right on time as usual, dear. Lunch will be ready in a jiffy. I did ask Bill to set the table, but he and Arthur seemed content with nattering about Merlin knows what!” Her voice was light and cheery, an admirable attempt at normalcy, but Alessia could hear the hitch in it. “Sit down, dear, we can’t have you on your feet! What did you do to yourself?”

“I fell over,” Alessia lied smoothly. 

Molly just looked at her, brow furrowing in disbelief. 

“Are you really surprised?” Alessia added lightly, smiling “You’re always scolding me for these ‘ridiculous shoes!’”

Molly’s frown deepened, but before she could press further, footsteps approached - Arthur. 

His embrace around Alessia’s waist was a little tighter than usual, the press of his cheek against hers lasting a beat too long. 

After that, Bill’s casual greeting was almost a relief. 

“Have you spoken to Dumbledore?” He asked as they drew apart. “Did he tell you?”

“I know,” Alessia confirmed. 

“Surely we can discuss this after we eat?” Molly interrupted, pleadingly.

Bill opened his mouth to argue, then caught his mother’s face. He swallowed the protest, and nodded. “Of course, Mum.”

The meal was tense and uncomfortable. Just the four of them – Percy had gone into the ministry that morning, and was not expected back until later. Molly’s lips formed a tight line whenever he was mentioned, and it was obvious something was wrong. Alessia didn’t push. Not yet. 

The scrape of cutlery against plates filled the silence, broken only by scattered attempts at conversation. Everyone scrambled  for topics that didn’t touch the heavy weight hanging over them. 

Bill was monosyllabic, barely engaging. Molly was too bright, too cheerful, her voice a brittle mask of normalcy. When she wasn’t speaking, her face sagged with exhaustion. Only Arthur seemed able to carry himself with any ease, allowing himself to be drawn into a lengthy discussion with Alessia about the goblin uprisings dominating the headlines.

It was moments like these that Alessia was grateful for her upbringing – the art of polite conversation drilled into her since birth. Small talk came easily. She carried the table with practised charm through the meal, and through the dessert that Molly insisted they eat. 

Unsurprisingly, Molly heaped Alessia’s plate with enough food to feed a dozen. One look at the glistening roast potatoes turned Alessia’s stomach. So she slowly fished vegetables out of the gravy, forcing herself to chew and swallow, ignoring Molly’s cajoling. 

Twice Bill caught her eye and offered a small, sympathetic smile. 

When at last the table was cleared, they adjourned to the sitting room. Arthur brewed a pot of coffee, and they sank into the worn, familiar chairs with steaming mugs. 

For a moment, none of them spoke. 

Molly sat beside her on the sofa, her hand brushing Alessia’s knee occasionally, as though needed to reassure herself that  Alessia was still solid and alive. 

Alessia sipped her too-hot coffee and tried to settle into the moment, tried to let herself belong.

But her body would not relax.

The comfortable silence wrapped around them like a language she didn’t speak. Arthur’s gentle humming as he stirred  sugar into his cup. The creak of old leather as Bill settled into his chair, gazing into the empty fireplace. Molly pulling her knitting into her lap, as though there was nothing more important.

Alessia knew this rhythm. She had seen it more times than she could count, had been invited into it.

But she had never learned the steps.

I don’t belong here.

The thought crawled under her skin and settled beneath her breastbone.

Alessia tightened her fingers around her mug, and said nothing.

“Can we talk about it now?” asked Bill, finally, glancing warily between his parents.

A thrum of tension passed through Molly’s body, Alessia felt it against the press of their knees, and heard the small steadying breath she took.

“There are things we need to discuss,” Alessia murmured. 

“Dumbledore spoke to you, then?” Bill asked, leaning forwards. “Mum and I were at the tournament last night. We were there, when….” He faltered, glancing at Molly.

Alessia nodded. “So I heard. I had a meeting with Dumbledore this morning.”

Molly’s hand gripped her knee. “I mentioned your name to him,” she said anxiously “I hope you don’t mind?” 

Alessia turned to her. The guilt evident in Molly’s face was raw, almost painful. That desperate desire to keep her safe. 

It made what Alessia had to say so much harder. 

“Actually,” Alessia said carefully, “I already had a meeting scheduled with him.”

“Oh.” Molly’s frowned, clearly wondering what business Alessia could have with Dumbledore. 

She opened her mouth, but Alessia cut her off. Now that the moment was here, she had to finish it.

“Molly, I—-” The treacherous words caught in her throat. Alessia stared into her aunt’s face, into eyes which mirrored her mother’s, and tried again. Nothing came. She licked her lips, trying to moisten her suddenly parched mouth.

Coward. Just say it.

She broke off from Molly’s stare, from the oppressive weight of her concern, setting her mug down on the side table with careful precision. Instead of looking back to Molly she addressed Arthur. “There’s something I should have told you a long time ago.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked briefly to Molly, then back to Alessia. His expression was cautious, bracing.

Alessia folded her hands in her lap, staring at the weave of the rug.

“Sia?” Molly breathed. Fearful. Fragile.

Alessia forced herself to meet Molly’s eyes. She owed her that much. 

“I’m a Death Eater.”

The words fell like boulders, crushing everything. 

No one moved. Molly didn’t so much as blink. She didn’t react when her knitting slid soundlessly from her lap.

Then Bill made a half-strangled sound, and it was as though a spell had been broken.

“No,” Molly whispered, then again, stronger “No. Sia….”

Alessia looked away. She couldn’t breathe.

Bill had leaned forwards in his chair, head in his hands.

“When?” asked Arthur quietly.

“When I was seventeen.”

Molly’s sharp intake of breath told Alessia she had understood the implications immediately.

“Alexius.” She spat, more statement than question. There was more venom in that word than Alessia had ever heard from her.

“Yes,” said Alessia, simply.

Bill looked up from his hands. “Who—-”

“My father,” Alessia clarified, though the word tasted foul on her tongue. 

Molly stood abruptly, wrenching herself upright as if the chair had burned her. She walked towards the kitchen door, and for a terrible second, Alessia thought that she was going to leave; that this, finally, was what going to force Molly to accept what Alessia herself had always known.

But she didn’t.

Molly turned, marched back, and said in a hard voice Alessia had never heard aimed at her: 

“Show me.” 

Alessia didn’t move, just repressed the instinctual urge to curl her arm protectively into her body.

“Let me see it,” insisted Molly again. “I need to see it, Alessia.”

It stung more than Alessia could ever admit. ‘Alessia’ not Sia. Not now.

She carefully unfastened her sleeve and jerked it back.

Molly’s gasp was as sharp as a blade. Her flinch of disgust said everything. 

Alessia looked away. Arthur was also staring at the mark too, but his horror was easier to bear. 

What was he thinking? Was he remembering all the times he had let her hold his children, let her tuck Ginny into bed, only to now learn that she had been a viper in their midst the whole time?

When Molly finally spoke, her voice was a trembling thread. “Oh, my darling. My poor girl.”

The pity - raw and suffocating - made Alessia flinch. But Molly was already leaning down, gathering her into a loose, careful embrace, as though she feared Alessia might break apart.

Alessia sat rigid, enduring it. She gritted her teeth against the comfort. It hurt more than any Cruciatus. 

“I don’t understand,” Bill said from somewhere behind his mother. “What has her father got to do with this?”

At last, Molly released her. She sat back down, pressing herself close to Alessia, hand clinging tight to her knee.

Alessia didn’t have the heart to pull away, though every single instinct in her was screaming at her to move; to escape this domesticity and all its dangers behind. She had felt safer last night, staring into the Dark Lord’s wand than she did now.

She didn’t flee. 

Instead she focused on the only thing she could control: slowly rebuttoning her sleeve with exacting precision, each movement tugging at her healing ribs. When the last pearl was fastened, she smoothed the fabric down and adjusted her gloves.

She thought of Severus watching her dress that morning, of the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, and let the memories anchor her.

“My father,” she began, voice flat and steady. “Alexius. He was a Death Eater. He decided I would follow in his footsteps.”

“And you couldn’t refuse?” Bill asked. His voice was soft, but the underlying accusation was sharp.

“No.” 

He frowned, and Alessia added reluctantly “My father was not a man who accepted the word ‘no.’”

Molly flinched visibly, her hand tightening painfully around Alessia’s knee. 

“But—-” Bill started.

“Leave it, Bill,” Arthur interjected sharply. “That’s not important right now.”

Bill sat back in his chair with a mutinous roll of his eyes and a muttered “Seems important to me.” He folded his arms. “So what now?”

Arthur lowered his coffee cup. “Are you still one of them?”

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

Arthur only nodded, slow and grim. “I suppose it would be.” 

His gaze was steady, not gentle, but not cruel either,

“You said you met with Dumbledore this morning?” Molly asked. Was that hope in her voice? Alessia wished it wasn’t.

“Yes. Dumbledore found out what I was when I was eighteen. Just after…” Alessia cut herself off “Just before Alexius was sentenced. After that I started passing him information. On the Dark Lord. On the Death Eaters.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Molly whispered.

There were a hundred reasons. Alessia chosen the one that would hurt the least.

“When I first came here… you were the only thing in my life the war hadn’t touched. I wanted to keep that. And I… I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“Oh, Sia…” Molly said, voice thick with unshed tears.

But Alessia pressed on before she could say any more.

“This morning Dumbledore and I discussed my role moving forward. The dark lord thinks I’m his spy. He expects me to pass information from the Ministry and the Order, and to spread whatever lies he needs them to believe.”

“So you’re a double agent?” asked Bill.

“Yes.”

A pause, then: “Fuck.”

Alessia gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Indeed.”

“You were with him last night,” said Arthur quietly.

Molly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Your ribs!”

“It’s nothing,” Alessia assured her automatically “Bruises. They’ve already mostly healed. But yes; I was there.”

Bill stared at her in disbelief.

“There have been signs that he was growing stronger for months,” Alessia explained. “Dumbledore and I had time to prepare what I would do, if he summoned me.”

“Merlin….” breathed Bill.

Alessia shrugged. “It went as well as I could have hoped. Better than I had feared.”

“What about the Ministry?” Arthur asked. “You’ve heard about Fudge?”

“I have. If he continues denying the Dark Lord’s return, I’ll have to play along.”

“You can’t possibly….” Bill frowned, struggling to untangle it all.

“I have to,” Alessia said simply. “The dark lord expects it. If I disobeyed, I’d have to run.”

“But—-” said Molly, leaning forwards as if she could her with sheer will alone.

“Molly,” Alessia interrupted gently. “Don’t fight me. Please. I can’t change this. I don’t want to argue.”

Molly shook her head wordlessly, and as Alessia watched her throat convulsed, as though swallowing back tears. The was anguish written across every line of her face.

“No one else can know,” Alessia continued “If you so much as whisper it, I’m ruined.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating,

“We had a disagreement with Percy, this morning,” Arthur said at last. Alessia felt the twitch of Molly’s hand against her thigh, and caught the sharp look she gave Arthur, as though trying to prevent him from continuing.

“What about?” Alessia asked, voice sharpening.

Bill answered, cutting across the silence “We told him. About You-Know-Who. About the Minister’s reaction.” He broke off with an awkward glance at Molly, mouth twisting into an apologetic grimace. 

“He’ll come around,” Molly insisted. “It was just a shock, is all.”

“What exactly did he say?” Alessia persisted. There was danger here, whether Molly would like to admit it or not. She was not about to let Molly’s instinct to protect her children put herself at jeopardy.

Bill continued after a moment, eyes flicking from Molly to her. “He said that if the Minister didn’t believe it, neither did he. He left for the ministry before lunch.”

Alessia’s stomach twisted.

“If he sides with the Ministry—“ she began.  

“He won’t!” Molly said quickly. Desperately “He just needs some time!”

But Alessia saw the truth in Arthur’s grim expression.

“Maybe,” said Alessia, carefully. “But if there’s even a chance he’s loyal to Fudge, he cannot be told about me. I can’t risk it.”

Arthur nodded quickly. “We understand.” He turned to Molly. “Don’t we, Molly?”

Molly hesitated, torn. But at last she nodded, too.

“If the Minister continues down this path,” Alessia said quietly “then I’ll have to publicly side with him. That would mean a public split from all of you.”

Bill nodded grimly. “But at least Dumbledore will have someone close to the Minister.”

“Exactly. I can influence him. Or at least… slow him down.”

“Is there no way of persuading Fudge? To get him to see sense?” asked Arthur.

“Once Cornelius makes up his mind,” Alessia said, voice soft but certain, “It’s almost impossible to change it. And this - admitting  the Dark Lord is back - it’s too much. It would make him look weak. He won’t want to believe it. I’ll do what I can, but persuasion would likely push him even further into denial.”

“Dumbledore won’t stop trying,” Bill muttered.

“No, he won’t,” Alessia agreed. “And that will only make Fudge dig his heels in deeper.”

Molly pursed her lips and turned her head away. Bill stared bleakly the family clock, still ticking away in the corner. Arthur just watched her, that same heavy, assessing gaze. 

The silence that fell was different now: not the warm hush of family, but something colder. Heavier. Like the sky right before a thunderstorm.

Finally Arthur broke it.

“Are we in danger, because of you?”

She met his stare. “Yes,” she said simply. “If people understand our connection, they could use you to get to me. Especially the Dark Lord.”

Arthur only nodded, grim but unsurprised.

“I’ll keep my distance,” she said. “Publicly, you’ll be Dumbledore loyalists. I’ll be the Ministry’s darling. If we’re clever, no one will suspect.”

She looked at Molly, her gaze steady.

“But if anything happens…if it comes to it….you must protect yourselves first. Disown me if you have to. Just keep your children safe.”

Molly drew in a deep shuddering breath. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. 

Then she whispered, brokenly, “But you’ll still come for Sunday lunch, won’t you?”

For a long moment, Alessia could only stare at her. Then, for the first time since she had entered the Burrow, she laughed. A real laugh. Not brittle or hollow or sharp, but warm and aching and full of love.

“I assume the threat of hexes still applies?”

Molly nodded fiercely, tears brimming.

“Then I’ll come when I can. If I can.”

Molly’s gripped her hand painfully tight, as though she anchor her there through love alone.

Maybe she could. 

Because already, Alessia could feel the terrible, crushing weight of that love settling over her heart.

And she knew it would be far, far heavier than any betrayal.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six
What We Hide

---

“Man is not what he think he is, he is what he hides.”

Andre Malraux

---

“But you’ve heard about dear Cressida, of course?”

Alessia had not heard about ‘dear Cressida’. She did not want to hear about ‘dear Cressida’. ‘Dear Cressida’ could have been at the bottom of the ocean for all she cared - and she would have gladly raised a toast to the tide that dragged her there.

But she arranged her face into an expression of deepest concern, wove worry into her voice and said. “No. Last I heard, she and Tiberius were still in Paris?”

Yes,” Sabine frowned, genuine grief softening her pretty face. “She and Tiberius got into such an awful row, before the whole of French society! Apparently, she caught him with one of his…” here she made an elegant little gesture, indicating all that she, the chaste pureblood wife, could not bring herself to utter, “…women.”

That, of course, was the real tragedy of the day; that would dominate conversation for the next week. That Tiberius Flint had a penchant for whores, and that his wife didn’t have the grace to handle it behind closed doors.

Alessia gritted her teeth behind her perfect mask of concern.

She had spent the day walking into battlefields disguised as conversations, with only her wits to keep her from utter ruin. Her ribs screamed beneath the boning of her corset and exhaustion hollowed out her bones. And now, when she had thought that it was finally over, she found herself playing the gracious hostess in the stifling parlour, sipping tea and listening to Sabine’s inane gossip. All the while fighting the desire to tear the parlour apart.

But she made all the correct pitying noises, joined the two other women in bemoaning the infidelity of husbands, and smiled at her own luck at not being saddled with one. As though it were a mere stroke of fortune, and not that she had spent the past fourteen years fighting tooth and claw to stay out of the marriage bed.

Over the rim of her teacup, she caught Vanessa’s eye and saw her own fond exasperation reflected the roll of her eyes. Sabine Selwyn was a gossip. She always had been, and always would be. 

Sometimes that was useful. 

Sometimes it was a complete waste of time.

“You know about what happened last night?” Vanessa asked, once Sabine finally paused for breath. “At Hogwarts?”

Alessia lowered her teacup and nodded. “Yes. I was there.”

Sabine’s nervous glance toward Vanessa told Alessia that they had already discussed her. 

“Alaric said he thought he recognised you,” said Sabine, carefully.

Alessia’s head snapped up. “You told him about me?” she demanded, gaze hardening. 

Sabine’s husband, Alaric Selwyn, was a mid-ranking death eater. Unremarkable. Not a concern, until now. Already her mind was calculating - who Alaric might tell, who they would tell next. One whisper in the wrong ear, and it was all over.

“I had to, Alessia!” Sabine cried. “He’s my husband! And I thought…I thought he might keep you safe.”

It took all of Alessia’s will to keep her expression neutral. As though that idiot could protect her. “Please tell me you’ve not told Uncle Vittorio.”

Sabine shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said, biting her rosebud lip “It’ll break father’s heart when he finds out.”

Alessia sincerely doubted it. Whatever calcified stone remained in Vittorio Visconti chest, it would never break. 

“Alaric visited Marcus this morning,” Vanessa broke in. “He told him about the Dark Lord. Not about you. He’s talking about taking the mark.”

Marcus Visconti: Vanessa’s husband. Sabine’s brother. Vittorio’s golden heir. A man about as worthy of the Visconti legacy as a troll.

But that little scrap of information caught Alessia’s attention. Marcus wanted to be a Death Eater. and if she wasn’t mistaken, their cousins Matteo and Antonio would likely follow his lead. If Alessia could present the three of them to the Dark Lord, make an offering of them…It would buy her favour.

But to Vanessa she merely said “He needs to take care. It’s risky; he means too much to this family to lose.”

Vanessa’s eyebrow arched, catching the lie; her small nod accepted it anyway. She wouldn’t want Marcus to take the mark. Even if there was little love left between them, he was the father of her children. She would protect him for their sake. 

Alessia held no such loyalty

The visit dragged on for another hour before the women finally took their leave. When the door clicked shut behind them, Alessia carefully lowered herself back onto the settee and sat, the taste of poison and saccharine smiles thick in her throat.

——

Tessari was quiet. 

In the study, the phonograph whirled: Verdi’s ‘La Traviata’ - Violetta was falling in love. The candles had burned low, waxy stalactites dripping from the iron candelabra’s, their flames beginning to gutter.

A raven perched on one arm of the settee. Her oil-slick feathers shimmered in the candlelight, and her dark eyes glinted with a keen intelligence. Alessia lounged beside her, dressed only in a thin nightgown of emerald silk, bare feet tucked up onto the cushions. Her fingers idly stroked a glossy wing. She had long since stopped pretending to read. The book lay abandoned beside her. 

She was singing. Her wine-dark voice barely more than a hum; the familiar words of the opera a talisman against the day’s trials.

She knew she should be asleep. But not yet.

When the sound came, the soft scratch of wood against wood, Alessia looked up slowly, as though surfacing from a dream. A white pawn slid across the ornate chess board. 

She considered it, then leaned forward, hand already reaching for the piece. Not to touch, but just to caress the air around it, as though she could feel the hand that had moved its twin. 

She thought of Severus; hundreds of miles away in his rooms at Hogwarts, leaning even now over his board. 

“Amore mio,” she whispered, as though he could hear her.

Then she slid her own pawn forward. Even across the distance she could see his rolled eyes, hear his muttered reply. 

“Always the Sicilian defence, Visconti.”

——

It rained the next morning. Alessia stood at the balcony doors, coffee cradled in her hands, and listened to the insistent drum of rain against glass, the roar of the sea as it hurled itself against the cliffs below. It felt as though the storm had snapped that taut thread of tension that had shadowed her through the previous day. 

She didn’t expect it to last. 

She dressed for work with the same ruthless precision she used in everything. Tonight, she would corner Fudge, force a meeting, and measure exactly how far he had slipped from Dumbledore’s grasp. She dressed accordingly. 

The deep green robes clung to her waist, the cut chosen with care. She remembered the last time she had worn them; remembered the way Fudge’s gaze had lingered, the oily appreciation he hadn’t even tried to hide. Good. She wanted him distracted.

She laced her corset tighter still, ignoring the bark of half-healed ribs. Threaded tiny diamonds through her ears. Twisted her dark hair into its usual severe chignon, not a strand out of place. Drew on her dark leather gloves. 

Last came the lipstick: a deep garnet that turned her mouth into a weapon. She knew what that colour did. She wanted him looking at her lips. She wanted him thinking with something other than his brain.

She wanted him blind. 

——

After the chaos of the weekend, it was a relief to descend into the echoing calm of the Department of Mysteries. The day passed quickly; Alessia spent it at her desk, ploughing through paperwork and drinking endless cups of tea. There was other tasks she could have seen to - experiments to oversee, containment charms to review, but her body needed rest. 

It was nearing six o’clock when she looked up from her desk and began methodically clearing away the quill and ink, filing the parchment back into its various folders. 

Most nights she didn’t think of leaving the Ministry before seven. But she knew Fudge could usually be relied upon to leave at least an hour earlier. After the weekend’s events, she doubted he would have slipped away any earlier. 

She could have asked for an official meeting - he wouldn’t have refused her. But she wanted him unguarded.

Before leaving, she paused to examine herself in the mirror by the door. Her gaze swept over her reflection, checking that her silken armour was still perfect; her hair still immaculate, the lines of her lipstick still sharp enough to cut. Only then did she leave the office. 

She paused when she reached Fudge’s Office, allowing her features to soften slightly. 

All day she had worn the face of the enigmatic Head of the Department of Mysteries. Composed, impassive, inscrutable.

But that wasn’t what Cornelius Fudge wanted to see. He wanted a woman who was almost - but never quite - his equal. Someone who came to him for advice. Someone who cared what he thought. Alessia was more than willing to play into that particular illusion.

She rapped twice on the door with a gloved knuckle and waited, poised, until his voice called out, wearied even through the heavy wood.

His desk was chaos. That was the first thing she noticed. Crumpled letters, broken quills, several inkpots, two cups buried beneath drifts of parchment. 

The Minister himself hardly looked any better. His sparse hair stood in untidy wisps, clearly having too many fingers run through it. His tie was askew, his fingers stained with ink. He looked exhausted. 

Disgust curdled in her stomach, but was swiftly buried beneath a gentle smile.

“Cornelius. Do you have a moment?”

He looked up from the parchment he had been furiously scrawling on, and managed a weary smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Madame Visconti,” he said, aiming at his usual jovial tone, but failing miserably. Alessia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. That this man had once been elected Minister for Magic was still beyond her. “Of course, do come in.”

He dropped his quill, oblivious to the ink it splattered across the parchment, and gestured her towards the comfortable chair opposite his desk.

Alessia shut the door with the point her heel and angled her head, her smile curling a little wider. “Should I take offence, Minister?” she asked, voice soft and teasing.  “I’ve asked you to call me Alessia. Or are we not friends?”

This time his grin was genuine. “Of course, Alessia, you must forgive me,” he said with a chortle, running a hand through his thinning hair again. “It has been a most trying day.”

She raised an eyebrow, mock stern. “Well then, my forgiveness must come at a cost.”

“Oh?” He asked, leaning in slightly, waiting for the punchline of this cosy little tête-à-tête.

Alessia took half a step closer to the desk “I’ll forgive you if you take 10 minutes to sit and have some tea with me.”
He laughed again “I think I can manage that,” he said, beginning to rise. 

“No, don’t you dare get up.” Alessia scolded lightly. “I can get it.” Her sharp eyes softened, her voice turning to easy concern “Rest for a moment. You work far too hard.”

She doubted he had done half the work she had today. But that wasn’t the point.

She took her time making the tea, giving him space to settle into the comfort. When she added the milk and single spoonful of sugar to his cup, she didn’t need to ask. She had memorised how he took it years ago. It was the sort of detail that made people feel memorable. Special. 
When she turned, she caught the quick dart of his eyes from her hips to her face, though she pretended not to notice.

Keep dreaming, little man. Even if you got me into your bed, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with me. She would have the fool begging for mercy in under five minutes. Two, if she wasn’t feeling merciful.

But she kept the disdain from her face as she set the cups on the desk and sat, neatly crossing one leg over the over, adjusting the fall of her skirts with idle grace. 

Again, she let the peace settle, gave the moment time to breathe. She waited as Fudge eased back in his chair, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly, the tension draining from his frame.

Only then did she speak. “What’s going on, Cornelius?”

Fudge looked up and attempted to rearrange his face into polite confusion “What—?” He began.

But Alessia cut him off with a murmur, gentle as a lover’s breath. “Don’t. Please don’t lie to me, Cornelius.” Her voice lingered over his name like a caress. “I’ve heard nothing but rumours all day.”

He sighed deeply, one hand rising to rub at his temple. “About…Him, I suppose.”

Alessia frowned, lip curling slightly, as though the subject were too gauche to discuss. “I hesitate to dignify it with a name. But yes.”

“It’s preposterous, of course,” said Fudge quickly, shaking his head. “The boy is clearly disturbed. And Dumbledore has always been….well, eccentric.”

“He’s quite mad, from what I hear.”

“It’s a concern,” he admitted. His damp forehead gleamed under the unforgiving office lights. “A great concern.”

Alessia’s brows drew together. She sat forward, a signal of anxiety. “I have family at the school - my cousin’s children. I would hate to think they were in any danger….”

“No, no,” he said hastily, waving a dismissive hand. But she didn’t miss the flicker of panic behind his eyes. Merlin forbid anyone suspect the Minister of putting valuable pureblood children at risk. “The ministry will be keeping a closer eye on the school, I can assure you.”

Alessia smiled warmly, watching as his eyes drifted, inevitably, to her lips. “I knew you’d have a handle on it already. I shouldn’t have worried.”

“It’s quite natural to worry about one’s family.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. And then, with a small conspiratorial glance, added “I just wish the school benefited from the kind of leadership we enjoy here.”

Fudge puffed up like a toad, positively glowing. “You are too kind, my dear!”

Alessia laughed softly. “I only say what everyone thinks. But… If anyone were to ask me about the rumours….”

“The official line is containment. Calm.” He said quickly. “We can’t go alarming the general public with this nonsense, now can we?”

“Of course not,” Alessia said, all warm reassurance. “I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. But I knew you’d put my mind at ease, Cornelius.”

“It’s always a pleasure to speak with you, Alessia.” His smile was genuine now, not the weary, faltering thing from when she had entered.

She rose slowly, giving a small, practised shake of her skirts, and gave him just long enough to admire her tapered waist while her attention was elsewhere.

“Well then,” she said, “can I persuade you to dinner on Friday, at Tessari? Nothing grand, I promise.”

Fudge beamed. “Yes, yes, of course! That would be delightful!”

“Perfect. I’ll have the invitation sent. I suspect we’ll both need a quiet evening, after a week like this.”

She gave him one last smile before turning to leave. 
Her tea sat untouched on the table, she couldn’t bear to drink anything from this chaotic little office.

As she moved to the door, she knew that his gaze would linger on her hips, and she allowed them to sway, just slightly. Just enough.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she paused, hand on the door handle. “Oh, one last thing. The Department may begin drafting a few private contingency frameworks.” She waved a dismissive hand, as if to say bureaucratic nonsense. “Just internal protocol, nothing official.”

“Yes, of course,” said Fudge, with bluffed confidence. “Do keep me informed.”

“I always do,” she replied sweetly.

She stepped into the empty corridor, let the smile fall from her face, and rubbed her hands together with a shudder of disgust. She could still feel his greedy eyes on her.

It was a filthy business. But then, she had never expected to stay clean. 

—

Dinner with Cornelius Fudge was a delicate balancing act that Alessia had long since mastered.

The dining room at Tessari was far too grand for the occasion, and she knew he would be cowed by its formality. Instead claimed the warmth of the summer evening as an excuse to host him in the Solarium: a domed chamber of glass and iron curlicues, thick with scent and colour. Purple aconite, crimson foxglove, and pale-night-blooming jasmine spilled from marble planters.

Beyond the glass walls there was nothing but air and sea, the western cliffs dropping away into rolling surf. The sunset was  glorious. She flung the doors wide , letting the salt wind and the soft rush of the tide drift through the room. It softened the edges of the performance, and lent the stage a feeling of intimacy.

The wine had taken longer to decide than the menu. Too fine, and he would feel inferior, too common and it was an insult. She selected a Bordeaux, just a touch more refined than his usual palette. She knew he enjoyed it, knew he would pretend to recognise it and she would, of course, pretend it was her favourite. She would compliment his taste, as though it mirrored her own. 

She completed the tableau with a gown of deepest claret, chosen to echo the plants that curled around her seat, and the shade of her dark lips. The neckline dipped lower than she typically wore. She knew the Minister wouldn’t object.
The meal went flawlessly until desert.

Alessia listened to all of Fudge’s tedious anecdotes with rapt attention, laughing and smiling in all the right places, seasoning her responses with the compliments he so adored. Again and again, she guided the conversation towards topics that actually mattered. But always casually. As though it were idle speculation.

“Have you heard anything of the new security proposal from Enforcement? I heard whispers about a registry review. But I thought surely that would be premature.”

“Oh, yes, yes — quite right, of course it’s premature. Nasty idea, that. Came from Dawlish, if you’d believe it! We had a word—well, I had a word. Nonsense, really.”

Alessia smiled, tucked the name away for latter, and let her fingers brush his sleeve as she replied “I knew you’d be sensible.”

Then she poured more wine. 

She kept their glasses topped up throughout the meal, just enough to loosen his tongue. Her own, however, she barely touched, sipping with delicacy and vanishing half of it with a wordless charm. 

They were halfway through dessert, Fudge gesturing wildly with his fork as he rambled about some diplomat, Alessia nodding, her laugh smooth and low, when heat erupted down her left forearm. 

The Dark Lord was summoning her.
 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight
What She is Not

---

“She must always seem to be what she is not.”

Luigi Pirandello, ‘Six Characters in Search of an Author’ 

---

The sea was freezing. 

Alessia kept walking, ignoring the icy burn. The sand shifted between her toes and the frothing waves lapped up her calves before retreating into the swell. The sun was just breaking the horizon, streaking the sky with molten gold, though it was still too weak to warm the shore.

She tugged Severus’ cloak tighter, the weight of its sodden hem dragging behind her, heavy with seawater. A shawl would have been easier, but the cloak smelled of him; bergamot, herbs, charred wood. She buried her face in it as she walked, thinking of the man she had left asleep in her bed. Of his arms. His safety.

It was foolish, really. If she wanted to dream of him, she could have stayed curled against him, warm and held. But she had woken after only a few hours, desperate to be alone, to scrape the night from her skin. To think.

So she walked the eastern coast of Tessari, watching the sunrise and convincing herself that all was well. No threat could reach her here, not on this island that she’d raised from ruin, carved into her fortress. She could wander barefoot, wrapped only in a thin nightgown and a stolen cloak, thick curls spilling over her shoulders. 

Again and again she reached with her magic, letting the wards hum against her skin, alive and strong, pulsing with over a decade of her power. Even the Dark Lord couldn’t breach them. He could hurl himself against them like waves against the cliffs, and he would break. Scattered and defeated. 

Half-way across the bay she spotted the tracks in the wet sand, a tangle of prints looping over one another. But the direction was clear. Alessia smiled and quickened her pace. 

They led to the end of the beach, where a shallow cave nestled into the cliffside. The herd liked it here, when the tide was low. At the mouth of the cave, she let Severus’ cloak fall into the sand - she didn’t want his scent masking her own. She clicked her tongue softly as she stepped into the gloom, so her barefoot approach wouldn’t startle them.

The thestral watched her from the shadows with placid eyes, wings tucked in tight to her body, ears pricked forward.

“Bonjour, ma chérie.” Alessia murmured. She moved slowly, giving the mare time to retreat, if she chose to.

But the creature lowered her head and stepped forward, pressing her sleek muzzle into Alessia’s palm. 

She was the dominant female - the first thestral Alessia had brought to Tessari as a foal. Alessia had loved her from the start. Her quiet power. The honest beauty of her ugliness, hard and unapologetic. A wild thing. Not bred for gentleness, or ornamentation. Not made to be tamed.

No pretence. No charm. No mask.

Their trust had to be earned slowly, on the thestral’s terms. But once it was given, it was absolute.

Behind the mare, half a dozen others watched from the shadows, tails flicking the sand, breath steaming in the morning chill. But it was the sudden movement from behind the mare’s flank that caught Alessia’s eye.

She peered around her, just in time to see the foal lower its head from her teat, stubby wings flaring as it wobbled across the rocks on unsteady legs. It was tiny. A newborn.

The mare shifted, as if to shield the foal with her body. Alessia stepped back at once, lowering her gaze. The thestral’s dark head swung between them, ears swivelling, assessing, before emitting a series of high-pitched chittering sounds. She backed away, hoofs clattering, wings rustling.

The leathery skin brushed against her clavicle, and Alessia felt it: the phantom collar of the Dark Lord’s hands,  the greasy trail of their stares. If they ever touched her - truly touched her - if she was handed over like meat to those dogs…..

But the tiny foal has pressed its nose to her thigh. 

She knelt.

Straight into a freezing puddle that soaked up her skirts and bit into her legs. She didn’t mind. It was cleansing. A sharp cut through the sweat of memory.

She stroked the foal’s neck, velvet-soft, and felt the hot breath burst against her cheek. 

Something in her chest loosened.

She would wear the dress again, if that was the cost.

The mare shrieked, a high echoing call, and gently rested her head on Alessia’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Alessia breathed. “Ma chérie…ma belle fille.”

——

The sun was high by the time she made her way back to the bedroom, trailing sand and seawater.

She found Severus still in bed, tangled in the sheets, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

He looked up when she entered, his dark eyes raking over her windswept hair, the damp, bedraggled nightgown, the sand still caught on her feet. His eyebrow rose, lip curling in amusement.

“You look,” he said, “like a Selkie.”

Alessia laughed; not the broken, breathy sound of the night before, but something real. The dawn walk. The thestrals. The foal. She felt lighter. More herself. She crossed to the bed and crawled onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, smiling at his muttered curses as her frozen skin pressed against his warm body.

“Will you steal my pelt and make me your wife, Severus?” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck. 

“You’re getting sand on the bed,” he said dryly, though his hand was at her hip, drawing her in.

Alessia just hummed in reply as she leaned down to press her lips to his, his warm body stirring against her. While he was distracted, she took the mug from his hands and drained it in two long swallows, ignoring his protests. The black coffee was too bitter for her taste. But that wasn’t the point.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, as she leaned to set the mug on the bedside table, though his other hand now came to rest on her waist, supporting her. 

His growing erection nudged against her, and Alessia felt her own body stir in response.

“And you love it,” she murmured, leaning back into him, hips grinding as she caught his mouth and slid her tongue between his lips. His response was hesitant; a flutter of his tongue, hand coming up to cup her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek. Tenderness, not hunger. Without demand.

She sat back and lifted the nightgown over her head in one smooth motion, baring herself to him. His eyes dropped to her breasts before he caught himself, and looked back into her face. Desire clouded his eyes, but his voice was steady.

“Alessia…”

“Don’t.” She reached for his nightshirt. He didn’t move. Alessia exhaled slowly.

She leaned forward and kissed him again. He tasted of sleep and coffee. His stubble rasped against her cheek. 

“I won’t let them take this from me,” she whispered against his lips.

This time when she tugged on the nightshirt, he raised his arm, allowing her to undress him.

He didn’t move as she adjusted her position, guiding him into her. His hands remained on her hips, steadying but not leading. 

As she lowered herself down she kissed him, letting him taste her moan of pleasure. His throat pulsed as he swallowed, and his grip at her hips tightened, but otherwise he was still.

Alessia rocked against him, her arms around his neck, holding him close, breasts against his chest. She kissed him until she couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. Not a request. An offering. 

She just shook her head, pressing herself into him, wanting him deeper, closer. “Don’t stop.” The words were a breathless rush.

“Then tell me what you need.”

“Just hold me. Don’t let me go.” His arms closed around her, skin pressed to her skin, mouth to her mouth. And all the while he remained still beneath her, letting her reclaim the moment. Reclaim herself.                                                                                

—

Dumbledore had been due at nine o’clock, but it was past ten by the time he finally arrived. 

Alessia waited for him in her study. She stood at the open French doors, watching the gentle breeze stir through the garden, delicate petals shivering as it passed. The night was warm, the air fragrant with the scent of lavender and night-jasmine. The wine was sweet on her tongue and the Opera unfurled from the phonograph like velvet, rich and heavy. ‘

‘Vissi d’arte’. Tosca’s voice floated over the room: sorrow, devotion, despair. 

In a rare concession to self-indulgence, she hadn’t dressed, remaining in the silk slip that whispered against her skin like a secret. The dark violet robe clung softly to her form, belted loosely at the waist. It caught the candlelight like a bruise. Earlier, she had swept her hair up into a loose chignon, but now stray curls had fallen free, kissing the nape of her neck, sweeping along her cheek. 

It would have been perfect, if not for the Headmaster’s imminent arrival.

She looked like a woman without armour, soft and languid. 

But there was a wildness behind the elegance. A cold fire burning behind her pale eyes. 

When the house-elf at last announced the Headmaster’s arrival, Alessia did not turn. She simply raised her glass to her lips and took another sip, her gaze never leaving the garden. Waiting.

She wasn’t going to perform for him tonight - not the perfect façade of ‘Madame Visconti’. Let him take her as she was, unbound and untamed. Let him decide what to make of this new performance - the illusion of no mask at all.

His quiet approach was buried beneath Tosca’s lamentations.  

“You keep beautiful company,” Dumbledore said softly as he drew up beside her. “Opera and moonlight.”

A beat of silence. Space for a reply. Alessia said nothing. Didn’t even look at him.

“A curious muse,” he continued. “How did you come to enjoy muggle opera?”

She took a sip of wine; watched the cut crystal catch the moonlight. “I was dragged to a performance of Carmen when I was young.” The memory hurt, even now. A tender, bittersweet ache. “I thought I would hate it. That it was just muggle nonsense.”

“But?”

Alessia smiled. “I fell in love.”

“Quite the performance,” he said gently. 

“It was perfect,” she murmured. The wine slipped down her throat. She leant idly against the doorframe, and waited to see what he would do with that particular intimacy. 

He tested it, carefully. Was he probing for weakness? Or  trying to find the seam between mask and skin?

 “I noticed that Severus spent the night here again.”

She paused. She watched as a moth danced closer to the flame of one of the wrought-iron lanterns, wings beating against the glass, giving him time to wonder how she would respond to the bait.

“You say that like it’s remarkable,” she replied, voice light, tinged with amusement. As though he wasn’t prying into something he had no right to.

“Should I be adjusting my expectations, after a night summons?”

Another slow sip of wine, utterly unhurried. “Expectations are dangerous things,” she said smoothly. She turned her head slightly, her gaze flicking to meet his - just long enough for him to see it: the same provocative curl of her lips she’d given the Dark Lord last night. “Best not to have too many.”

Dumbledore’s voice was carefully free of inflection as he said, “It would be helpful, if I knew not to expect him until morning, after a summons.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to speak for Severus,” she replied with a breathy laugh and an elegant roll of her shoulders. “I suggest you ask him. I imagine he’s far more obedient to you than he ever is to me.”

The night held its breath as Dumbledore studied her. Alessia looked back at the garden, unbothered, and allowed the silence to stretch, just long enough.

Then she sighed softly. “Don’t worry, Albus,” she murmured, low and intimate, as though the wine had allowed a confession to slip from her lips. “Severus was exactly where I needed him.”

“Did you sleep?” He voice was kind, as though he truly cared. 

She met his gaze, her eyes soft and unguarded. “Better than I would have without him.”

Let him make of that what he would. 

This time, she didn’t let the intimacy settle. Instead she pivoted abruptly. “Severus told you about the meeting?”
 
Something flickered in his clear blue eyes, but she couldn’t quite catch it before it was gone. Sorrow? Regret? 

“He did,” he confirmed. “He said Voldemort spoke to you alone, after?”

Alessia nodded once. “He wanted to discuss the prophecy.” She had sharpened her voice, returned to the brisk, business-like cadence he was familiar with. He accepted this shift without comment. 

“Ah. So we were correct, then?”

“He wants it. Given what happened at Godric’s Hollow, and then the graveyard, he is…unsettled. I think he’ll be reluctant to move without hearing the entire prophecy.” Here she paused, let her eyes close, let her exhaustion seep into her voice. “He’s more afraid than he lets on,” she said quietly. Almost to herself. “That’s dangerous.”

“He asked you to retrieve it?”

She looked at him. “He asked about access. But his meaning was clear. I was vague, as we discussed. He’s given me time to ‘research’.”

“How much time?” Dumbledore asked.

“Not enough, I’m sure,” she said with a wry smile. “And he will not forgive failure.”

Dumbledore nodded “Then you will have to take care.”

The harsh laugh that escaped her was perhaps the first real thing she had given him that evening.

“Don’t insult me. ‘Take care’?” Alessia laughed, low, mirthless and grating. Let him hear the bite. “No, Dumbledore. What I will have to do is maintain the façade of loyalty, to seem to be making progress when I am purposefully making none. I will have to dance for a sadist, and hope he finds my performance compelling enough that he doesn’t see it for the distraction it is.”
 
“I would trust no one else with the task,” he said gently, as though flattery would calm her. 

“Neither would I.” She gave a rueful little smile, and raised her wineglass in a mock toast. “To being irreplaceable.” She drank deeply.

“If you need anything—“

“You’ll be the first to know.” It was a lie, cleaner and easier than the truth. She served it without shame. He accepted it without protest.

Again she lowered her voice until it was barely more than a whisper. “You’re sure it’s worth it?”

They had debated this numerous times over the past year, even since the signs of the Dark Lord’s return had begun to emerge. They had known he would go after the prophecy, had known they could use that against him. But allowing herself to be used as a diversion still stung.

“If you’re asking me,” said Dumbledore, “then you clearly doubt it.”

Alessia hesitated. “Maybe. But then, you aren’t the one paying the price if I fail.” 

‘If you fail me, Alessia…I will feed you to those dogs. Then we’ll see what lies beneath that pretty little mask of yours.’ 

The memory slithered in, sharp and insidious. She flinched before she could stop herself. Adrenaline flooded her veins like ice. 

Not again. Not now. She shoved it back down, for what felt like the hundredth time that day. She didn’t look at the Headmaster. 

“I’m not in the habit of risking my life on lost causes, Albus.”

She meant it to sound like a rebuke, a warning. Instead, fear snagged her voice, a ragged fray at the edges.

Suddenly she was all too aware of her bare, vulnerable feet, the softness of her un-corseted waist, the pale flash of her ungloved fingers. The silk that draped her suddenly felt lighter than air, like nothing, like he could see every part of her through it. 

Fuck.

She fixed her eyes on the garden. Swallowed twice.

Control it.

“Alessia—?”

But she didn’t let him finish. Whatever he was about to say, she knew she didn’t want to hear it. 

Instead she turned abruptly, careful not to meet his eyes as she strode back into the study. Her skirts flared, as though trying to outrun the memory.

‘I have no use for the service of whores, Madame Visconti.’

Occlude.

The thought was a vicious snarl. 

Occlude.

She made herself think of Severus, kneeling before her in the shower. His mouth on hers. His grip at her waist. ‘Tell me what you need’. She touched the ring, the reminder that she was safe, that she had only to call him—

As she passed her desk, her spiralling thoughts were interrupted by a loud, guttural croak from the shadows. She looked up. The raven watched her, shuffling along the perch, wings flaring in agitation. Alessia let out a breath, felt something in her chest ease.

“Doucement, ma douce,” she whispered, reaching out to run her fingers along Épine’s soft, downy feathers, felt the hard press of her beak against her palm.

But she didn’t allow herself to linger; it was too tempting. 

Alessia sank into one of the settee’s before the fireplace and assumed a position of languid grace, legs drawn up onto the cushions, one arm draped lazily over the armrest - a woman at perfect ease. Untroubled. 

There came another deep croak from Épine, and the raven detached herself from the shadows, soaring over to settle on Alessia’s shoulder, feathers brushing her throat, head bumping into her cheek, like a kiss. 

Alessia smiled, gave a small breathy sound, almost a laugh. “Oiseau rebelle,” she murmured fondly, the familiar epithet like a lullaby on her tongue. She reached up to stroke Épine’s wing, but paused as the bird gave a low, rasping call and shifted, unsettled. “Calme-toi, ma douce.”

The silence dragged on, but Alessia didn’t look up. The press of Épine’s body against her face was comforting, anchoring. 

It was Dumbledore that finally cracked the silence. “What happened last night?” His voice was kind and tinged with pity. She loathed him for that alone.  

“What do you mean?” She looked up slowly. Dumbledore was perched on the settee opposite, had fixed her with his intense gaze that threatened to look straight through her. It had been a long time since she had feared that stare.

“Severus indicated something was amiss. He seemed..aggrieved.”

“It was not Severus’ place to speak,” she snapped back, anger flaring. What had Severus said? She would strangle him herself if he had dared—- 

“No,” said Dumbledore softly. “But I’m glad he did. Someone should.”

She looked away. The pity in his expression was smothering. Instead, her eyes caught on the chess set between them, left mid-game. She watched for a moment, letting her mind focus on the neat squares, the pre-defined, contained movements. She leaned forward and nudged a rook forward, straight into the bishop’s path. A gambit. A sacrifice. If Severus wanted to expose her, he could bloody well take the piece himself. 

She was still considering the board when she spoke. “I was having dinner with the minister when the Dark Lord summoned me.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dumbledore nod. But he was wise enough not to interrupt. 

“I chose to delay. I wanted to finish getting what I needed from Fudge first. And when I did….” Alessia swallowed. “I didn’t take the time to change. 

She gave a small, mirthless smile, a cruel twist of her lips. “Not that it mattered. He was quite….taken with the ensemble.” 

The possessive slide of his gaze down her body.  ‘And dressed for a more…personal audience….’

“He always did prefer red.”

Her fingers stilled on Épine. The bird nudged her head into Alessia’s face, a soft ‘crou’ burbling from her throat like a caress. 

With ruthless precision she shoved everything down, memories, pain, fear, until all that remained was an echo of herself. Hollow. Contained. When she turned her face back to Dumbledore, it was the perfect mask of polite civility once again.

“Fudge won’t be persuaded, you know,” she said. Her voice was even, smooth. Entirely back under her control. “He has too much to lose.” 

He watched her in silence. She could almost see the calculation behind his eyes, not concern but consideration.

She carefully angled her head, raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Try me.

She wasn’t eighteen and desperate any more. 

“It’s not him I’m trying to persuade,” said Dumbledore, finally accepting her change in subject.

Alessia eased back against the sofa, carefully adjusted the fall of her skirts over her legs.

Merlin, she wanted a cigarette. 

Instead, she flicked her wand. The bottle rose from the table, floated over and tipped into her glass, refilling it with perfect grace. 

“Wine?” she offered, as the liquid splashed into her glass. 

Dumbledore shook his head. 

“The louder you shout, the harder they will work to discredit you.” She took a sip of wine. “Have you considered that whispers, if spoken into the right ears, could be more effective?”

He smiled. “Whispers are your area of expertise, Alessia,” he said mildly. “I cannot remain silent and allow Voldemort to strike from the shadows.” 

“Then you will have costs of your own to bear. Fudge will destroy you, before he lets you make a fool of him.”

“Cornelius is certainly welcome to try.”

She inclined her head. She had warned him of the danger. It was on the Headmaster if he didn’t listen.

“There is another matter I want to discuss with you,” she continued. “I have three Visconti cousins. They haven’t taken the Mark; they were too young during the first war. But now….” She shrugged. “I know them. They’ll take the mark anyway, if I can be the one to present them to the Dark Lord, it will earn me his favour.”

He regarded her intently. 

“You would offer him soldiers to strengthen your position?”

“They’ll join anyway,” Alessia countered.

“Tell me about them,” he said, after a moment of thought.

“Marcus is the heir - Vittorio’s son. He would join for the honour, to serve the noble cause,” she sneered. “He is a man of words, not action. The Dark Lord will get little use out of him.”

Marcus would hate being a Death Eater, when he realised what it entailed. The bowing and grovelling. The fall from golden heir to mere pawn. But Alessia couldn’t bring herself to care what he wanted. 

“Then there is Matteo,” Alessia continued, lip curling in distaste. “He is Giovanni’s heir - a drunk like his father. The family disgrace.”

She sincerely doubted that Matteo would survive longer than a year among the Death Eaters. But really, the idiot was determined to drink himself to death anyway. He may as well serve a purpose.  

“His brother Antonio is the threat, the gamble. He…” Alessia broke off, considering. “Did you hear about his arrest, last year?”

“I did,” said Dumbledore. His face was grave. 

It had been a nasty bit of business. Antonio had beaten a man to death, in the middle of knockturn alley, in front of several witnesses. Apparently Antonio had owed money to one of the gangs, a gambling debt, and hadn’t wanted to pay. He had been declared innocent, thanks to Visconti money: an expensive lawyer and numerous bribes.

“He was guilty, of course.  And of more besides that.” 

Much more, if even half of the rumours were true.

“This is the man you want to put into Voldemort’s service?” His voice was soft, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

“Want has nothing to do with it. Antonio will take the mark, no matter what I do.” The lure of power, of blood and violence, would be too strong for him to resist. “I may as well get the credit for it.”

And with any luck Antonio would get himself killed in the Dark Lord’s service. That would remove one problem from Alessia’s life - not to mention his wife’s. When was the last time she had seen Julia without bruises?

“I don’t care about Matteo,” Alessia said, “but I must insist on Marcus.”

“Why?”

Alessia sipped her wine, pausing to consider just how much to reveal. “To them, Marcus’ voice will always carry more weight than mine. If… If they were to try to…violate me —-”

‘I will feed you to those dogs’

“—-It won’t matter what I said.” She wouldn’t allow herself to hear the Dark Lord’s voice. To feel his hands at her throat.  “But Marcus will have to intervene, to defend the family honour.” She gave a small, bitter smile. “He doesn’t care about me, of course. Only the blood.” She shrugged. “It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.”

“You would use your cousin as a shield?”

“Yes,” she replied simply, without guilt or remorse. “My family has tried to use me my entire life. Why should I not return the favour?”

Dumbledore considered her over the rim of his spectacles for a long moment. Alessia didn’t blink.

“You must do what you have to,” he said on a sigh. Then, quieter, almost regretful, “You always do.”

She just nodded, the accusation sliding off her like a summer rain. She had long stopped expecting approval for the choices that kept her alive.  

“Have you—?“ She began, but a sudden sound scraping sound undercut her words and she broke off, glancing down at the chessboard. The black knight glided past her rook. Ignoring the gambit completely. 

Alessia swallowed. She looked away. 

“Curious,” said Dumbledore, lightly. “I believe Severus has a set almost identical to this one?”

She looked silently back to him; let her burning eyes show her challenge. 

You do not get to touch this.

Dumbledore smiled. “On a different matter entirely,” he said, voice easy, “you’ll be pleased to hear the issue of Headquarters for the Order has been sorted.

“Oh?”

“The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” he said, as though reciting a passage from a book, “can be found at number 12 Grimmauld Place, London.”

There was magic in the words, she felt the subtle shift as the Fidelius charm allowed the knowledge to settle in her mind. But that wasn’t what made her entire body go still.

Grimmauld Place. 

She stood abruptly, upsetting Épine, who gave a shrill, indignant cry and hopped from her shoulder. She drifted to the empty hearth, staring into the ashes, as she carefully shifted through her thoughts, tucking everything back into their proper places. Her left hand drifted to her right, where the diamond engagement ring still sat on her right ring finger.

“Regulus Arcturus Black, you will propose to me properly, or I’ll refuse to marry you.”

“Liar, Les. You can’t possibly resist this face.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. It’s written in the stars, love. You’ll marry me, make the family proud, move into that draughty old tomb, and give the noble house of Black a dozen perfect heirs—“

“A dozen?!”

But she had been laughing, hadn’t she? And they had gone back into that ballroom arm-in-arm, and when Regulus had gotten down on one knee, he had followed her script to the letter, even if there was a mischievous glint in his eye…

The memory tried to root itself in her. Its golden warmth was more dangerous than last night’s ice. 

She didn’t have time for the echo of Regulus tonight.

Alessia turned back to Dumbledore. “Grimmauld Place?” She repeated, her voice low, almost a whisper.

The Headmasters brow’s furrowed, before understanding passed across his face. “Ah, of course. I hadn’t considered your  history with the place.”

History. Such a bland, unassuming word for that gaping wound.

“It would have been my marital home. Regulus and I…” She broke off. Even his name felt like a betrayal. She touched her thumb to the ring again. An entire future lost. “And now it’s the heart of a rebellion? Walburga would have choked on the shame.”

That was a consolation, at the very least. 

She calmly returned to her place, but as she sat, Épine croaked her displeasure and took flight. Clearly, Alessia wasn’t forgiven for jostling her. But instead of returning to her perch, she instead flew to the arm of Dumbledore’s settee, and sat, head cocked, watching him. 

The gesture seemed to come without thought - Dumbledore reached for her, fingers outstretched.

Alessia flinched. She didn’t care if he saw, or what he made of it. The instinct to protect was too strong.

But before Alessia could say anything, his hand dropped, leaving the raven untouched. He carefully sat back, angling his body away from her, a wordless concession, a gesture of peace. 

“Sirius has been kind enough to allow us to use it,” he said, voice emotionless, allowing the moment to pass. “It’s not quite habitable at present, but it will serve our needs.”

Alessia nodded, sitting back. “It always felt more like a tomb than a home.”

“We’ll be meeting Tuesday night, at eight. And I have the list of names, you asked for.”

Dumbledore brought a folded sheaf of parchment from his robes, and passed it to her. 

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Many of the names meant nothing to her - relics from the first war? She hesitated at the Weasleys: Molly, Arthur, Bill, Charlie, but said nothing. There was no point.

“You’ll need to keep Moody in check,” she muttered, grimacing. “We have a…complicated history.”

Understatement. Moody was going to have a fit when he saw her. 

More names. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin: Severus was going to hate that. 

Then, at the very bottom of the parchment, like an afterthought: “You’ve recruited Kingsley Shacklebolt?”

“We have,” said Dumbledore.

Alessia made a soft, noncommittal sound, as though she didn’t care. But the name echoed through her like a curse, like a bruise, never quite healed. 

Shacklebolt. She would need to sit with him, work with him, speak to him. Pretend he wasn’t a reminder of the worst day of her life….

But her face was neutral as she handed the parchment back to him. He accepted it, and tapped it once with his wand. The parchment disintergrated into ash.

“I should be going,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

They walked in silence back to the entrance hall. At the fireplace, Dumbledore paused and turned. 
 
“Molly came to visit me, last week,” he said lightly. As if it were an afterthought.

As though he hadn’t saved it for the end, when her guard might be down.

Alessia just looked placidly back at him. “Why?”

“She asked me to protect you.” He said it kindly. But to Alessia the words felt like the teeth of a trap, sharp and unforgiving. 

“It was not her place…” she said stiffly. 

Dumbledore’s smile held something soft. Sad. “It’s always a mother’s place, to protect her children.”

The words lodged in her chest like a blade. She didn’t let it show. Wouldn’t give him that. 

Instead, she turned without another word and walked away, spine rigid, steps measured.

——

Back in the study, Alessia curled up on the floor with her back pressed against the settee. The wine bottle lay beside her. She had every intention of draining it. 

The war was only a week old, and already she was exhausted; bruised and raw. 

Grimmauld Place.

Regulus.

Shacklebolt. 

The Dark Lord’s hands at her throat.

She tipped her head back against the cushions and swallowed hard. Swallowed the grief, the shame, the fear, until it lodged, choking in her throat. 

Pretend it wasn’t burying her alive. That’s what she always did. 

And this was just the beginning. It would get worse. Of course it would.

She lifted the bottle and drank deeply. 

‘We’ll see what lies beneath that pretty little mask of yours.’ 

‘I’m not in the habit of risking my life on lost causes, Albus.’

Her voice. It had broken. Weak. Pleading. She had practically handed her vulnerabilities over, laid them at Dumbledore’s feet like offerings. 

‘He was quite….taken with the ensemble. He always did prefer red.’

What had she been thinking? She’d let her petty desire to wound him cloud her judgement. She’s shown too much. Far too much.

So many years. So many lessons learned through blood. And still, she was that same stupid girl, letting herself lose control.

She had made a fool of herself. A fucking fool.

The meeting had been a disaster. 

With a vicious snarl, she seized the bottle by the neck and hurled it at the fireplace. It shattered against the marble, a spray of crimson and dark glass. 

Épine screeched in protest and took flight, vanishing through the open doors. Alessia didn’t care. 

She couldn’t bear it. Her skin felt too tight, the room too small, silence pressing down like a vice.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she seized the chessboard and flung it. Pieces clattered across the floor, scattering like bones. 

‘Severus indicated something was amiss’

How dare he.

He knew what Dumbledore was to her. Knew the danger. And still, Severus had told him something. Had cracked the door open.

Betrayed her. 

And he was hundreds of miles away, in that awful castle, when she needed him. She needed him and he wasn’t here. He was never—

Her face was wet. When had she started crying?

She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to need him. 

But she did.

And although she shouldn’t, although it was weak and foolish and unnecessary, she collapsed onto the settee, sobbing.

——

He should have known something was wrong the moment she moved the rook. 

It was a clumsy. Inelegant. So unlike her usual meticulous style - always a dozen moves ahead - that Severus spent ten minutes studying the board, convinced there was some deeper meaning. A trap. A gambit. A message. 

Only there was nothing. No deeper strategy.

It was just a bad move, almost a surrender. 

In all the years he had known her, Alessia had never ceded defeat - not unless it was torn from her, teeth bared and claws drawn. And even then, he was never quite sure it wasn’t some feint, some sleight of hand meant to draw her opponent close enough for the kill.

So he had ignored the rook and pushed his knight forward. A test. Not tactic.

But he never could have foreseen this.

Dumbledore had returned from Tessari late, and offered a measured account of the meeting, most of which Severus had already heard from Alessia herself. The prophecy. Her plans to recruit her cousins. The tone was dry, clinical, but there was something else beneath it. A watchfulness. A quiet calibration in the way Dumbledore studied him, as it testing his reaction.

Still Severus hadn’t seen the truth. 

Not until the board exploded.

Wood and ivory burst across the room; the rook cracked against the wall with a sound like splintering bone. A bishop skidded past his feet. The board itself hit the floor and shattered, the sound crack like a broken scream. 

Her scream.

His body was already moving.

“Severus—?” Dumbledore began, stepping forward.

But Severus didn’t answer. In half a dozen strides, he was at the fireplace. No cloak. No explanation.

She needed him.

That sound - that break - had embedded itself beneath his ribs like a splinter.

He could do nothing but obey.

——

He heard her before he saw her.  

Severus followed the sound of her sobs; wrenching, ragged cries torn from her chest, half-swallowed screams. As though she was trying to stifle them, even when there was no one to hear. 

In the study, her chessboard mirrored his own. Pieces were scattered across the room in a storm of onyx and ivory. The white queen had landed near the door, her carved crown cracked clean off. A dark stain marred the marble hearth, wine dripping like blood down the columns, glass glittering like spilled stars in the rug. 

Alessia didn’t look up. She was curled into the corner of the settee, legs drawn to her chest, arms wound tight around herself. Her face was buried in the dark riot of curls; a mourning veil. Her tears had drowned out his footsteps. 

“Alessia.”

She startled violently at his voice, as though she had been struck. As though she hadn’t known he’d come. But the wards should have shifted when he entered. She should have felt him arrive. 

Had she truly fallen that deep?

She shifted, just enough to peer up at him through the mantle of her hair. “What—?” Her voice was thick with tears. It caught in her throat. “How—?”

“You broke my chessboard,” he said softly.

Her eyes flicked to the wreckage. A tremor passed through her.

“I’m sorry.” 

“It can be mended.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. She made a sound, small and choking. Another sob she trapped in her throat. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Ridiculous woman.” He was already lowering himself beside her, drawing her in. She half-crawled into his lap without protest, boneless and shuddering. “You’ve been disturbing me since we were thirteen. I don’t see why you’d start apologising now.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I ruined it. The meeting --- Dumbledore ---“

He gathered her to him, pressed his face into her fragrant hair. “Always so dramatic, Visconti.”

Her mouth tasted of wine. He kissed the tears from her cheeks. 

“Whatever happened,” he murmured. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Together.”

As they always did. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine
To be Consumed

---

“You play with fire because you want to be consumed.”

Jeanette Winterson, "The Passion”

---

The Leaky Cauldron was redolent with the miasma of pipe smoke, stale beer and burnt fat, a thick fug that seemed to bar the doorway. The air shimmered with the heat of too many bodies packed into too small a space. Alessia paused at the threshold, her mouth tightening in revulsion before smoothing back into practised neutrality. 

To think that she’d left Tessari for this. 

She’d left behind her dinner with Severus. An evening spent slowly coaxing him into her bed with nothing but a glance and a smile.

Faces turned to her from the crowded tables, and conversations stuttered as they took in the structured silhouette of her robes, the severe chignon, everything marking her as someone who didn’t belong. Alessia ignored them as she swept through the maze of tables. Though she did tilt her head slightly when a muttered “fucking Dumbledore!” erupted from a shadowed corner, before slinking back into low grumbles. 

The barman was already moving toward her; a balding man with tobacco-strained fingers, and a small mouth twisted into an ingratiating smile. The sort of man who was used to being ignored.

“Percy Weasley,” she said, before he could speak. “Has he taken a room here?”

At once the smile faltered. He began to shake his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but—“

But Alessia was already inside his mind, stealing the truth from his thoughts.

“He’ll want to see me,” she said smoothly, voice slicing clean through his protest. “Could you escort me to his room? And prepare some tea for us?”

As she spoke, she slid several galleons across the bar, careful not to let her gloves touch the filthy surface.

He hesitated, but in the end her money convinced him. It always did.

“Right away, ma’am,” he said. “One of the girls’ll take up the tea and show you the way.”

Alessia inclined her head. “You may send the bill for his stay to me. Alessia Visconti. Tessari.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

-—

The narrow stairs groaned in protest as they climbed.

Alessia followed behind the serving-witch and her clattering tea tray, holding her skirts away from the mould-speckled wallpaper, her heels carefully navigating the pitted treads. 

The dim candelight barely touched the squalid corridor, but it made her pocketwatch gleam all the brighter as she flicked it open. Gold shimmered in the half-light, and the ruby eyes of the Ouroboros - the Visconti crest - seemed to wink at her with knowing malice. 

Half past seven.

Severus would be arriving at Tessari now. Finding only a cooling dinner, and an empty chair. The apologetic note she’d left, asking him to wait. 

What would she do if he didn’t?

If it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have come. But it had been Molly, tear-stained and desperate, begging for the protection of her son. Alessia had surrendered instantly. 

Even if it meant stripping off the silks and lace she’d chosen, and binding herself back into propriety. 

Even if Severus didn’t wait for her. 

Merlin, let him wait.

The serving-witch stopped at the top of the stairs before a weather-worn door, and rapped her knuckles against the wood. There was a thud from inside the room, followed by footsteps, and the door creaked open.

“You ‘ave a visitor, Mr. Weasley.”

“Tell them to go away.” Percy’s reply was biting, abrupt.

“Are you quite sure of that, darling?” Alessia called.

There was a pause, and then: “Alessia!” Percy’s head appeared around the doorframe, surprise written across his face. His hair was untidy, the collar of his robes askew. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and even at this distance Alessia could see his bloodshot eyes. 

Two tearful Weasley’s in one day. Lucky her.

“What are you—?” But then he caught himself. He tried to hide his surprise behind a polite, welcoming smile. But Alessia could see the relief that now coloured his features. “I mean, come in. Please!” 

He stepped back and they followed him inside. It was a small room; most of the space was taken up by a battered armoire and a threadbare four-poster bed. An open trunk sat at its foot, the contents spilling over its lip and disgorged about the room. The serving-witch skirted the trunk to set the tray on a rickety table before the window, its dirt-streaked panes obscuring a delightful view of dirty rooftops and guttering.

Alessia watched her leave, giving Percy time to surreptitiously dry his eyes on his sleeve.

As the door clicked shut, she turned back to him. He bit his lip, and looked uncomfortably about the room. “I’m sorry about the mess. I only just—-“

“Nonsense,” she said. “I understand you’ve had a difficult evening.”

“What are you doing here?”

She gave a small, theatrical tut. “Mind your manners, Percy,” she scolded gently. “Or did I not teach you any etiquette? Invite me to sit down and pour us some tea. Then we can talk.”

“Please,” he said, with a flustered gesture at the table. “I didn’t mean to…“ His face had flushed in horror at the thought of having offended her.

But she cut him off with a soft laugh, a reassuring smile to show that she was only teasing. He returned it. Nervously.

As she took her seat, Alessia flicked her wand toward the tea tray, cleaning it with a silent charm. Percy busied himself with the teapot and she reached for the buttons at her wrist, began to slide one glove from her hand.
Then paused.
Her fingers hovered there, curled against the glove’s seam. The leather whispered against her skin. Then, without a word, she let her hand fall back into her lap — still gloved.
 “I spoke to the barman,” she said, accepting a chipped teacup and saucer without a flicker. “He’s going to send the bill for your stay to me.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s not up for debate.” She interrupted, voice firm. “It’s the least I could do.”

He bit his lip, brittle pride warring with the exhausted need to be protected. For someone to take control.

So many people wanted to hand over the reins of their life. Alessia had never understood it. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, taking his seat opposite her. “I won’t be here long. I just needed somewhere while I worked out….” He broke off with a vague gesture.

“I understand,” she reassured him. All kindness and comfort.

She sat back and took a delicate sip of tea. It was stale and oversteeped. She swallowed it anyway. 

“Did Mum send you?” he asked, after a minute of comfortable silence. 

“She did.”

He paused. “Did…Did she tell you why I left?”

“Her version of it, at least,” Alessia replied softly. 

“What they’re saying, Dumbledore— about you-know-who….” He looked up at her, brows furrowing. 

Was it a question? Did he want her to confirm the lies he had already convinced himself were true?

She curled her lips into a grimace. “I know. I’ve tried talking to them.” A small, sad shake of her head. “They won’t listen.”

“The Minister himself has made it clear….” His voice was surer, more confident now that she had confirmed she agreed with him.

“Dumbledore has them convinced, I’m afraid. They think they know better….” She broke off with a small, sad exhale and took another sip of tea, as if to compose herself. “I’m glad you’re being sensible at least.”

Percy didn’t acknowledge the praise. He was staring into his teacup as though hoping to read his future in the leaves, fingers twisting the edge of the starched tablecloth.

“Did you hear that the Minister offered me the Junior Assistant position?”

“Cornelius told me this afternoon.” Alessia’s smile was bright, full of the pride he craved. “I can’t say that I was particularly surprised. The Minister was always good at recognising talent.”

Especially when that talent was whispered into his ear over dinner and an expensive Bordeaux.

But the compliment slid off him without finding its mark. 

“Dad didn’t think so.” His voice was a low mumble, and carried all the weight of a confession.

At once Alessia recognised the true wound - not the fight, not the ministry post. This. The raw sting of a father’s disapproval. She silently set her teacup down, and leaned forward, listening. 

“He said…” Percy broke off, swallowing. He looked away. “He said that Fudge only gave me the job so I could spy on them.”

Well. 

That certainly sweetened the pot. 

Alessia didn’t let the thought touch her face. Her expression remained composed, sympathetic. She knew exactly what he’d seen in his father’s words: a mirror of the doubt he already bore. The seed that would root and fester.

His eyes flicked to hers, searching for contradiction, for something that might soothe the fear. But he looked away before he could find either confirmation or comfort.

She understood that fear all too well. It was the kind that lived deep, that gnawed through the silence of sleepless nights, whispering versions of the truth. The kind that you tried to bury beneath a fortress of lies and ambition.

He knew, deep down, that his father was right. 

The only question was how far he’d have to fall before he could admit it.

Alessia reached across the table and closed her hand over his, stilling its nervous movements with gentle, comforting pressure. When he looked up, her eyes were kind.

Such a soothing lie. 

“He didn’t even…ask if it was what I wanted,” he whispered. 

“Don’t believe it.” She held his stare, ignored the tear that escaped before he could blink it away.

Merlin.

His eyes were the same shade of brown as Molly’s.

As her mother’s.

How had Alessia never noticed?

Something hot and heavy was clawing its way up her throat, but she swallowed it ruthlessly back. 

“They’re wrong, darling,” she continued, voice perfectly steady. “They never really understood you, what you’re capable of. I do.”

“Thank you.” His voice was almost inaudible. 

He blinked and another tear slipped free. He turned his face away.

“Not at all,” said she softly, sitting back. 

Alessia sipped at her tea and turned her gaze to the soot-smudged rooftops, to the darkening slice of sky beyond the filthy windows, giving Percy time to compose himself; blot his eyes, take several steadying gulps of tea.

What time was it now? Was Severus waiting for her? Or had he already left?

She thought back to her sultry promise, whispered just a week earlier. ‘I promise to make it worth your while’. 

Surely that would be enough to hold him there.

“So,” she said gently, turning back to Percy, “what’s next? Now that you’ve flown the nest?”

Worry tugged at the corners of his mouth and he shook his head. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. It’s just all been…so sudden…”

“Of course,” she murmured. “But that’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t ask you to—“

“I’m offering.” Her tone was absolute. “You’re my cousin.”
 
He swallowed and nodded. The gratitude in his expression was almost too much.

“I don’t want you to worry about anything tonight,” she said. “Just get some rest.” 

Then she hesitated.

 She thought of Molly. Of the steaming plates of food she’d placed before Alessia. The gentle encouragement to ‘eat, sweetheart’, when Alessia had been too broken to care about such things. She’d been Percy’s age, hadn’t she?

“Have you eaten?” She asked. The gentle note in her voice wasn’t feigned this time.

“No. I’ve not had time.”

“Then at risk of sounding like your mother, I must insist.”

It was the least she could do.

“Will you stay for dinner?”

“I’ve already eaten.” The lie was easy on her tongue. “Besides, I imagine you’ll want some time to think. But you will tell me, if you need anything, won’t you?”

“Thank you.” 

“And I’ve already sent a letter to my agent, about finding you a flat somewhere.”

“But I—“ Colour was flooding his face. “I mean, I can’t really afford—“

Alessia laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Let me take care of it.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t give him time to speak 

“Don’t think of it as a gift. I’ve always known you have a bright future ahead of you, it would be an honour to invest in it. Besides,” she said. Her smile was almost saccharine. “I think I’ll get a good return, once you become Minister for Magic, don’t you?”

She couldn’t save him from the path he had chosen. She wasn’t even going to try. But if she was going to make use of him, the least she could do was ensure that he had a warm meal, and a roof over his head. 

A flat. A hot meal. A little comfort. It was a paltry gesture compared to what she owed Molly. 

But it would have to be enough.

—

It was fast approaching 9 o’clock by the time Alessia returned to Tessari. 

The moment her heels struck the marble floor, her magic was flaring out, pressing against the wards like questing fingers.

Please.

There, bright as a constellation in a velvet sky, was a thread of magic as familiar as her own.

He’d waited. 

Of course he’d waited. 

She should never have doubted him. He always kept his word to her.

A laugh flew from her, light as a bird, the cage of tension loosed from her ribs. Instinctively her hand rose, gloved fingers pressing against her lips to suppress the smile, before remembering where she was. That there was no one watching. 

She turned to the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece and considered her reflection: tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, brushed out her skirts, smoothed the high collar of her robes. 

Then she caught the eye of her reflection and laughed again. 

Fool. Moon-eyed, besotted, fool.

---

The dining room at Tessari was a grandiose, solemn room; a stage, designed for subtle wars fought over candlelight and crystal. 

The centre of the room was dominated by a chandelier of blackened brass and smoky crystal, hung from the vaulted ceiling. It dripped candlelight over the oak-panelled walls, where the inlaid gold filigree caught the light like veins beneath skin. The silent sentinels watched from gilded frames, long-dead Visconti ancestors kept gagged with silencing charms.

An ebony table ran the length of the room, its surface gleaming like still water, flanked by high-backed chairs carved with intricate, baroque patterns. Most were empty and pushed back in perfect symmetry.

Only one was occupied. 

Her chair.

Severus sat at the head of the table, reading a leather-bound tome as though he belonged there. He had decanted and poured the wine, and kept the dinner hot beneath warming charms. As Alessia approached, the last vestiges of pressure seemed to vanish from her shoulders. Her steps were slow and measured. She wanted to unfurl the moment, to let it breathe, linger. Just a little while longer.

Please.

“I was worried you wouldn’t wait,” she admitted softly, as she approached him.

He didn’t look up. “Then you’re not nearly as clever as you pretend to be,” he muttered. There was a pause as he finished whatever he was reading, then he snapped the book shut and set it on the table. 

She leant down and pressed a kiss against his warm cheek. He smelled of rue and peppermint; he’d been brewing. As she pulled back he stopped her with a hand to her waist, head turning to catch her mouth, parting her lips with his. The taste of wine was on her tongue.

She drew back, while she still could. 

“I said I’d be here,” he murmured against her lips.

The words seemed to settle into her, a balm, like chocolate after a dementor. “Careful, amore mio,” she whispered against his ear, his hair brushing her lips. “That sounded dangerously close to devotion.”

She withdrew and took her seat. She reached for the buttons at her wrist and slid the gloves from her hands, setting them beside her plate. 

“I had a family emergency.”

“What happened?”

But Alessia just shook her head. “No. We agreed.” She took up her wine and sipped. “No ‘business’ tonight. It wasn’t important.”

He hesitated before accepting her ruling with a small incline of his head. 

As they began to eat, the silence was broken only by the scrape of cutlery. Alessia took another sip of wine. 

Then stopped cold, glass still pressed against her lips.

A honeyed sweetness on her tongue. Wrong.

Not from the wine.

Her fingers tightened on the glass, and her mind went utterly still. 

Poison? Surely not?

Her eyes flicked to Severus. He was watching her, utterly calm. Amused, even.

And she knew.

Bastard.

Slowly, precisely, she set her glass back on the table.

“Severus Tobias Snape, what have you put in my wine?”

He cocked his head. Raised one arrogant eyebrow. “Is that an accusation, Visconti?” The low baritone of his voice was like velvet against her skin.

Her met her glare with his own implacable expression. But she could see the challenge in it. The test.

As though she were one of his bloody students.

She snatched her glass up and sniffed it, but she couldn’t smell anything beneath the wine. Either odourless or too subtle for her to detect. Another sip. She rolled it around her mouth, over her tongue, trying to detect anything more, but there was only wine and the faintest sweet undertone. 

But she knew what it was. There were only so many potions Severus would decide to slip into her wine, and only one of those would cause her gaze to keep returning to him, watching the line of his throat, the elegance of his fingers. There was heat blooming on her cheeks, and deep inside she could feel the beginnings of that low, aching want.

Complete and utter bastard.

She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. 

Not yet, at any rate. 

She took another deliberate swallow, picked up her cutlery and resumed her meal, keeping her features perfectly placid.

“You do realise, Severus,” she said, tone light, “that drugging a woman is highly illegal?” Her condemnation was punctuated by another sip.

She looked up at him. Her eyes snagged on his face; the aquiline line of his nose, his fathomless eyes, his lips…. Merlin, his lips. Her gaze dropped back to her plate.

“Yet here you sit.” She could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Drinking it like it’s vintage Merlot.”

“I don’t like to waste good wine.”

The room was stifling. She unfastened the button at her throat, skin hot against her fingers as they grazed her clavicle.

“By all means, Visconti, turn me in. After dessert.”

The low promise in his words. The throb of lust that pounded through her. The indecent fantasies that pressed at the forefront of her mind.

She couldn’t make it this easy for him. She wouldn’t.

“You’re a beast,” she breathed, concentrating hard on not allowing the growing sensations to show on her face.  The more wine she had, the harder it would get. She drank anyway. “Have you had any?”

“I thought,” he drawled, “it would be more…amusing…to watch you fall apart, by yourself.”

Of course he did.

They ate in silence. Alessia couldn’t have carried a conversation if she’d wanted to. She could barely think, her mind was too crowded, memory and fantasy tangling together, blocking out all reason. His hands on her breasts. His teeth at her throat. His fingers between her legs…

He watched her. Gauging her reactions. Admiring his handiwork. She didn’t have to look at him and see his gloating expression to know that he was enjoying her slow unravelling.

 If she saw his face she was going to break, drag him onto the table—-

“…you don’t want?”

“Hmm?” Alessia looked up, blinking rapidly as his words finally penetrated the haze of her mind.

“Do pay attention, Visconti,” he chided.

“My apologies, professor.”

He met her challenging stare without blinking. Alessia looked away. If she didn’t, she’d be lost; in his arms in a second, tearing the robes from him, tasting him.

Stop it.

But Severus clearly had no intention of helping her. 

“I intend to ruin you tonight,” he said. Alessia’s head shot up, the words going straight through her, a low throb of desire. 

“With every pleasure we’ve previously explored. And perhaps a little more,” he continued. The dark, wicked glint in his eyes nearly undid her. “If there’s anything you don’t want, tell me now. Before you forget how to speak.”

Promises, promises.

But she bit the teasing reply back. This was important. If only she could think. “I need to work tomorrow.” Her voice was hoarse. She paused, cleared her throat, took another sip of that accursed wine. “So don’t ruin me too thoroughly.”

She tried to return his smirk, but her expression faltered the moment she looked back at him. Her throat pulsed as she swallowed. 

“Other than that….” She broke off.

Other than that I’m yours.

Other than that, I want your darkest, most depraved…..

She shook her head, trying to chase the thoughts away. But they clung to her. What did Severus have planned? What was he going to do to her tonight?

‘I intend to ruin you…with every pleasure….and perhaps a little more….’

Alessia shuddered.

She reached for her fork again, and made herself chew, then swallow. Her throat didn’t seem to be working properly. What was she even eating? 

She had promised herself that she would get through the meal, that she wouldn’t give in to his game. But clearly a new strategy was needed. 

She pushed her plate away, met his eyes, and drained her wineglass in one long swallow. That was one challenge she could win at least. Even if she knew she’d soon regret it.

The room tilted around her when she stood, as though she were truly drunk. Her legs were trembling; they didn’t feel like they belonged to her. The two steps to his chair took all her concentration.

Severus leant back in his chair, graceful fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass, the perfect picture of aristocratic, unhurried ease. She was going to unravel him, before this night was through.

“Finish your wine, Severus.”

He considered her.  “Do you not want dessert?”

Alessia stared at him. Forget unravelling. She was going to devour him.

She released a long breath to steady herself. Then in one sudden movement, she swept his plate from the table, ignoring the crash as it hit the floor and shattered, cutlery clattering behind it.

She went to lift herself onto the table before him, but almost missed the edge. Her hand shot out to steady herself, palm flat on the wood.

Not now. 

She ignored his infuriating smirk, and settled herself down, slipping out of her heels.

He took a swallow of wine, watching her. 

She locked her eyes onto his. Let him see the want. The desire. The invitation. With one stockinged foot she brushed along his knee, then up the seam of his inner thigh. She paused briefly at his groin before continuing up his chest, allowing her skirts to slide down her leg, revealing the silky sheen of her ankle, her calf.

“If it’s indulgence you’re after, Severus,” she purred, voice pitched low and honeyed. “I promise, I can be truly decadent.”

His lip twitched. He reached up and wrapped a hand around her ankle, stroking tenderly. The sensation pulsed up her leg and settled at the apex of her thighs. Alessia bit back her moan. There was nothing in the world other than those fingers, the press of his thumb against the bone.

“A charming attempt, darling,” he said. His fingers tightened. Before she had the chance to react he tore the stocking from her leg in a shush of ripping silk, garter snapping against her thigh.

“But you don’t make the rules tonight.”

Forget devouring him. He was going to utterly ravage her.

And, Merlin, she was going to let him.

“I do hope your ancestors are enjoying the show.” 

Alessia looked up, blinking. He was watching the portraits lining the walls with amusement.

“They’ve certainly been granted a front-row seat,” he continued.

She tore her eyes away from him, and considered them - her illustrious ancestors. Some had turned their back on her. Others were watching, their faces purple with rage they could never voice. 

Good.

This was why she had kept them, why she had allowed them into her home. Let them see what their legacy had come to. Let them see as she dismantled it, piece by fucking piece.

And if she could give them a show while doing so, let them count themselves lucky.

She turned back to Severus, wickedness dancing in her eyes. “Let them watch,” she said, loud enough to echo off oil and canvas. “Maybe they’ll finally learn something.”

She slid her foot down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Do you think we could scandalise even old Stefano? I hear he was quite the degenerate… Though I suspect even he might have found this…indecorous.”

And there was absolutely nothing decorous in her searching foot, in her skirts hitched up to expose the pale flash of her thigh.

His fingers ran over her calf, back down to her ankle. Then tightened. With one tug she was slithering from the table and into his lap. One arm came up to anchor her, to cage her, to crush her to him. The other slid up her body, to the high collar of her robes. Deftly, he released one button. Then a second.

“So many buttons,” he said in an intimate murmur. Smoke and satin in his voice. “Did you really think these could keep me out?”

Alessia couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t hold a thought. The pads of his fingers grazed the column of her throat, lingering at her pulse point. She wanted to drown in his touch.

“Or did you forget that I’ve already seen beneath them? That I know every hidden inch of you?”

As he spoke, she stared at his lips in fascination. They seemed to caress each word, to linger over the syllables. She thought of those lips touching her skin, pressing against her mouth. Impossible. The pleasure would be too intense, too exquisite. She would die if they touched her. 

She would die if he didn’t kiss her.

Was it desire or desperation? She wasn’t sure, only that she would come undone without him.

His hand was moving again, sliding along her jaw, up across the sensitive skin behind her ear, into her hair. He pulled one pin free and dropped it to the floor. Then another. One by one, curl by curl, he freed her, until the dark mass of her curls tumbled loose around her shoulders, unbound and exposed. 

Each curl that kissed her cheek sparked a fresh blaze under her skin.

When he was done Severus sat back, considering her. Like a riddle he hadn’t quite solved. As though she were something sacred and defiant. A mystery only he could unravel.

He swallowed, and she hungrily watched the bob of his throat.

The urge to touch him was too strong to resist. With slow, languid movements she looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself closer to him. She shifted her hips, grinding down on his lap, and felt his hardness press against her. It drew a helpless little whimper from her, and it took all of her self control not to do it again. 

Instead she crushed her mouth to his, her tongue flicking provocatively across his lips, tasting him, memorising the shape of him.

He didn’t move. 

His mouth was pliant beneath hers, but utterly unresponsive. 

She growled into his mouth, half-frustrated, half-pleading. She tried again — this time with intent. It was a kiss of seduction. She caught his lips between her teeth, breathed into him, opened for him, yielding to him entirely.

Her hands tangled into his hair and she arched her spine, hips rolling against him, rhythm slow and purposeful.

Finally, finally she felt him respond and his kiss deepen, his tongue moving against hers. His hands shifted to her waist, gripping tight. His hips jerked up to meet her, the control slipping at last. He exhaled, a low breath against her lips and Alessia tasted the shape of victory in it.

“Still in control, Caro?” She crooned into his ear, her voice sugar-sweet and barbed.

Only for it to die beneath a gasp of surprise, as his hand shot to her throat, squeezing gently. He sat back, lips hovering just out of her reach, smiling.

“You’re beautiful when you think you’re winning,” he murmured. His grip tightened, hard and possessive. Her breath hitched. The beat of desire was so sharp it was almost painful. “It seems a shame to disillusion you."

She was going to break. She was going to fall on her knees and beg him to touch her. 

But there was still enough defiance in her for one last refusal.

“What do you want, Snape?” she growled.

“You know what I want.”

She shook her head. “No.”

His hand tightened, eliciting a breathless moan from her. His other hand  pushed up her skirts until her found the leg still clad in silk. He ripped the stocking from her in one violent movement. 

“You will submit, Alessia.” The words were a dark promise. His eyes were deep, all-consuming pools. She was sinking. Weightless. “You always do. Is it pride? Or do you want me to punish you?”

A languid caress of words.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

But even now, she couldn’t submit with a fight.

“No,” she whispered.

She met his dark eyes, knowing he would see the plea in hers: Fight me. Win me. Master me. Please.

He studied her. His hands came up to cup her face, as he pressed his lips to hers. “Very well, darling,” he said. “But I will have you, either way.”

In one swift motion he was on his feet, taking her with him, and setting her on the edge of the table. He kissed her again, deep and claiming, tongue sliding against hers. His hands brushed the front of her robes, freeing one button, then the next. Alessia tangled her hands into his hair and held him close, meeting the frantic press of his mouth with her own desperate hunger. 

Her body was burning for him. 

His lips dragged down along her jaw as he shoved her robes aside, freeing her arms, baring her skin, forcing the fabric over her hips. He kissed her throat in bruising passes, his teeth nipping, lips punishing. She was melting into him, utterly undone, desperate, needing more, more, more….

But he only pulled away. With a guiding touch at her hip, he turned her so that he could reach the laces of her corset. She obeyed, desperate to be rid of the it - the way the boning pressed into her stomach, the scrape of fabric across her nipples, each sensation unbearable. She wanted to feel only him against her; his breath, his body, his sweat.

But instead of loosening the ties there was a sudden, sharp tug as he yanked the laces tighter, driving the breath from her in a broken gasp. Her held the laces tight, let the corset bite into her waist.

His breath brushed the shell of her ear, and his voice was a deep murmur. “I do so enjoy having you bound.”

Another fierce jerk of the laces that almost pulled her off her feet. Whatever breath had been left in her lungs was gone. She couldn’t breathe. 

And then the pressure released. Slowly, methodically, he began to unlace her, each pass of his fingers grazing her spine: never quite fondling, never quite innocent. Always lingering.

She was trembling by the time the fabric fell away. The desperate desire was coiled so tight that she could no longer think of anything but her own body, the stroke of his hands over her ribs, the sweep of her own hair against her neck, the tiled floor, cold beneath her feet. And the ache between her legs, sharp and sweet.

Touch me. Please touch me.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, steadying herself. It took all of her remaining self control not to touch herself, and it was only his displeasure that was keeping her from doing so.

“Severus,” she whispered.

His hands encircled her waist, gently stroking. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.  

“I—“ The word caught. The old instinct to fight still roared in her blood. But there was nothing left. She swallowed. “Please.” That one word held everything. Her desperate need, her breathless surrender.

Submission. Complete and total.

I’m yours.

“Severus, please. I beg you, I….I…”

He turned her gently to face him, kissed the broken pleas from her lips, the tears from her cheeks.

“Good girl.”

She gave a small, shattered whimper. “Please, I need—“

“You’re mine.” 

A hand was slowly stroking up her thigh, moving higher with each sweep of his fingers. The entire world had faded to that hand.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yours.”
 
Lips, sweet against her own, breathing devotion, swallowing surrender. A hand in her hair, pulling her closer, deeper. Down and down.

“I believe I was promised indulgence….” He muttered against her lips.

“Yes.”

“….decadence.”

“Yes.”

Anything.  

“Then let us see if you taste as sweet as you promise.”

The words seemed to vibrate through her, to pulse like desire, like blood through her body. A whisper passing like velvet over her skin.

“Lie back.”

The table. Yes. 

He helped her slide onto the gleaming surface, smooth and cold beneath her naked body. She lay back, into the soft pillow of her hair, let her legs fall open, exposing herself to him completely. There was nothing she needed to hide from him.

The chandelier was above her, glittering overhead like a canopy of stars. Around it, the great fresco. A dark phoenix, wings outstretched, giving itself to flames. The Ouroboros, trapped in its own eternal coils. Cypresses and banks full of roses.

A hand touched her ankle. 

Severus.

Yes. 

Amore mio.

I’m yours.

Claim me.

Consume me.