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Chapter Text

The plan was simple enough: Wait for the girl to come to Hogsmeade, follow her until she’s alone, grab her, then bring her to Ranrok.

It was so simple, in fact, that Victor Rookwood resolved to pop into The Hog’s Head for a quick pint and a shot of firewhisky while his right hand man saw to the job. Theophilus had a penchant for capturing beasts; surely he would make quick work of a little bird like her, flitting around outside of her cage.

But when thirty minutes passed—then forty-five minutes, then a full hour—Rookwood began to grow anxious. He was just settling up his tab with the bartender when Theophilus Harlow barged in through the front door, winded and red-faced, his trousers covered in grass stains.

“Blimey, she’s a speedy little bugger!” 

“You didn’t capture her?” Rookwood asked as Harlow ambled wearily towards the closest available chair. “It’s one teenaged girl, how hard could it possibly—"

“She feckin’ runs everywhere,'' Harlow interrupted. “And when she en’t running, she’s climbing on the cliffs, jumping on the rocks in the stream—even saw her try to hop up on the ladder to the roof of The Magic Neep. Wild little thing, she is; I’d have an easier time trying to catch a damned phoenix!”

Harlow’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, and he signaled with his hand for the bartender to bring him a pint.

“Is she alone, at least?” Rookwood asked.

“She is,” Harlow replied. “Tailed her and a Slytherin boy as soon as they crossed the bridge into Hogsmeade. They split up shortly after, but I saw the boy standing in the square—cheers, mate—so I wager she’ll head there soon enough.” He took a huge gulp of ale, then exhaled loudly.

“And so you decided to let her out of your sight and head here.”

Harlow gestured to the grass stains on his clothing. “Thought I had her on the cliff behind Dogweed and Deathcap; she was within arm’s length, didn’t even notice me. Then she feckin’ leapt off the cliff without even a scratch. Lost my footing and fell—think I pulled summat in my back, too.” He took another swig of ale. “Figured you would be here so I came back to regroup. Might need a new plan, boss.”

Rookwood sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. I’ll get her. Clean yourself up and go fetch Ranrok; if she’s as wily as you say, tell him that I’ll need her to be distracted. I’ll meet you both in the stairwell of the alley next to The Three Broomsticks when the deed is done.”

Harlow finished off his pint with a chug and raised the empty stein towards Rookwood. “You got it, boss. Have fun.”

*****

Rookwood stood in the alleyway between the Hogsmeade Post Office and Steeply & Sons, using the shadows of the buildings to draw no attention to himself as he scanned the faces in the village square. He espied a Slytherin boy through all the hustle and bustle, a lad of sixteen or so, pacing back and forth near a bench at the very center of the plaza—Rookwood reckoned this was the same boy that Harlow had mentioned. He was alone, which was good; that meant the girl hadn’t arrived yet.

Ranrok’s description of her was unhelpfully simple, not that he expected much from that rat bastard goblin. A girl, maybe fifteen, with red hair. Might as well capture half the young women in the Highlands with that useless information to work with. He searched the crowd again; this one had red hair but was much too young, that one had red hair but was much too old, the one over there—

Ah.

A pretty young lady raced past the corner of Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop on the opposite end of the square, her long skirts and school robes—Ravenclaw crest, he noted—billowing behind her. Her copper hair was done up in a loose bun, a few errant tresses framing her round face; she was certainly older than fifteen, but by barely a hair’s width. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind found her somehow familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before. The girl stopped and looked around before she saw the Slytherin boy and made a beeline towards him.

A shame to give a lovely little thing like that to Ranrok. He’ll use her for whatever nefarious purpose he has planned before tossing her dead to the side, no doubt. 

It couldn’t be helped; if one comely young lass had to die in order for Rookwood to earn Ranrok’s favor and garner more power, then so be it. He’d kill a hundred comely young lasses if that was what it took. He watched the pair of students closely; he was too far away to hear their conversation, but the boy said something that made her throw her head back in laughter and playfully bat at his arm. Young love. How quaint.

The two were beginning to shuffle off towards the main thoroughfare when a rumbling signaled to Rookwood that his distraction had arrived. The ensuing chaos erupted within seconds as a troll barreled through the plaza, causing the masses to scatter; the handful of witches and wizards who remained pelted the troll with a myriad of spells before obeying Officer Singer’s command to draw it away from the village. It was just the three of them now; the Slytherin boy took her hand in his to lead her away. Rookwood stepped forward out of the shadows to tail them.

He balked when the ground shook and a low growl rang out. A second troll lumbered through one of the buildings lining the square and straight towards the pair, both of whom rolled out of the way with impressive agility. The boy, stupidly, flung a spell at the troll in a vain attempt at distraction as it charged towards her—

A silver glow appeared at the end of her wand and she held her hand up to it, forming an orb; it shot out, and the troll evaporated in the blink of an eye.

Rookwood stood stone still, absolutely gobsmacked. What in Merlin’s name? He had seen a similar magic before, in that runty upstart goblin’s hands. But this—whatever it was—seemed different, so much so that he hesitated to even call it magic; pure corporeal power, more like. It was beautiful. It was intoxicating. He wanted it. He needed it.

Ranrok, you damned goblin scum. You have a lot of explaining to do.

Crowds were beginning to return to the square, and the girl chatted a bit with Officer Singer before aiding in the clean up efforts. He watched her, catlike, trying to find a good opening in which to pounce. He swore under his breath upon realizing his chance had passed; there were too many simpletons milling about, and if he tried to snatch her up now it would only cause a fuss, which was best avoided. He spied on her until she entered Gladrags Wizardwear before sidling, unseen and unheard, towards the rendezvous point where Ranrok and Harlow were waiting for him.

*****

“Where’s the girl?” Ranrok asked immediately.

“A pleasure to see you as well,” Rookwood quipped. Harlow, standing behind the goblin, snorted in amusement. 

“I very nearly had her,” Rookwood continued, “Before your second distraction came along and ruined the opportunity. I watched that girl take down a fully grown troll on her own. You’re hiding something from me, Ranrok. Who is she? What is she?”

“She’s nothing to concern yourself with,” grumbled Ranrok. “If two human men, dark wizards to boot, can’t even nab one little girl-child, then—”

He stopped mid-sentence and looked up towards the top of the stairwell. Rookwood followed his gaze, turning around and catching a glimpse of ruddy sunlit hair that quickly disappeared. He glanced at Harlow, then down at the goblin, who was scowling severely.

“Go after her,” Ranrok ordered. “Both of you. And don’t muck it up this time. You know where to find me when you have her.”

Little puff-chested cur, Rookwood thought. I’ll have your head on a pike by the end of the year or so help me…

He made his way up the stairs, Harlow trailing closely behind him, and they stopped in the street to look for any sign of her; the waft of a school robe’s hem and the heavy thud of doors closing at the entrance of The Three Broomsticks told the tale. The men followed, and Rookwood flung the doors open as wide as they would go, making the presence of the two wizards known to all inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the sun to the dim lighting in the tavern. Boisterous chatter from the throng of patrons abruptly hushed into low murmurs; a goblin silently passed by them, taking his leave just as they were entering—Lodgok, the horrible little creature. Harlow turned up his nose and glared down at the goblin as if he were dung on the sole of a boot. Rookwood’s gaze, however, instantly snapped to the girl. 

She was sitting on a stool at the bar, mug of butterbeer in hand, with that gormless-looking Slytherin boy to her right. Her head turned towards the door to look at him, and Rookwood was finally able to get a good, proper view of her face. Bright eyes a deep, rich green; round cheeks, flushed rosy and vernal; a cute button nose, with constellations of freckles splattered across it. A perfect little poppet, aren’t you my dear? He committed every inch to memory. 

She withered under his stare for a brief moment, then stood up from her stool, stiff-straight, and glowered at him fiercely before taking her wand in hand. The Slytherin boy followed her lead, like a well-trained lap dog; seeing this, Harlow followed suit. Rookwood sauntered forward, chuckling at the girl’s moxie, before the barmaid Sirona planted herself directly in his path.

“What do you want now, Victor?” She asked with pointed annoyance in her voice.

“Charming as ever, Sirona,” He countered. “I only want a word with the young lady there.” He beckoned to the girl with a wave of his hand. “Come along, dear. Just a quick little chat.” He attempted to bypass the barmaid, who matched his every step with ease. 

“She’ll not be going anywhere with you. Do us all a favor, both of you, and make yourselves scarce so my friend here can drink in peace.” 

It was Sirona’s turn to take up arms with her wand, and then a table of four scraggy old wizards to Rookwood’s right did the same; after them, it was three housewives towards the back of the pub and a gaggle of Hufflepuff boys the next table over—and so on and so forth, until every patron was standing with their wand at the ready. 

The absolute gall. He was so close to getting his hands on the girl that it was tantalizing—she was right there—but Rookwood recognized a losing battle when he saw one, and knew when it was best to avoid a fuss.

“Awfully violent in here all of the sudden,” He huffed. “Half of you don’t even know this girl, and the other half just barely. No matter; we’ll take our galleons elsewhere. Come, Theophilus.” Rookwood leered at the girl. “Another time then, my dear.”

*****

And so Rookwood and Harlow were right where they started, at The Hog’s Head, with nothing to show for their hard day’s work. 

“I did tell you, boss,” said Harlow, half drunk with a belly full of firewhisky. “Got wildfire in her, don’t she? That girl will make even more trouble for us, mark my words.”

“Indeed,” Rookwood responded idly. He was wracking his brain trying to remember where he had seen her before. A girl, maybe fifteen, with red hair…

“Osric!” He shouted suddenly, slapping a hand on the table and causing Harlow to nearly jump out of his seat.

“What?”

“George Osric! Theophilus, listen to me.” he peered at his second-in-command with a wild-eyed mania. “I’ve seen that girl before. I couldn’t place it at first, but she was in that carriage with George Osric. I didn’t get a good look at her face then—but that red hair is unmistakable. It had to have been her. And if she managed to survive the dragon attack on the carriage, then…” He trailed off. 

“What are you thinking?” Harlow asked.

“I am altering our agreement with Ranrok,” Rookwood responded imperiously, and downed a shot of firewhisky. “I’ll not let that insufferable cretin touch a single hair on her pretty little head. If we have the girl, we won’t need him for long in any case. But best to keep him in the dark for now, and make him think he still has some semblance of power.” 

“Suits me,” Harlow grunted.

“I want you to send an owl to every Ashwinder camp in the Highlands. Eight thousand galleons to whoever captures her,” Rookwood continued, and Harlow’s eyes widened at the mention of such a hefty bounty. “Make it very clear that she is to be left alive. Confirm for yourself that it’s her when someone comes calling, then send word to me immediately.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Harlow gulped down another shot of fire whiskey.

“And one last thing…” His tone was low and serious now. “If anyone thinks they can play with her while she’s apprehended, tell them I will personally cast a well-aimed Cruciatus curse straight to the bollocks. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with this new plan, and grinned from ear to ear.

I’ll see you soon, my perfect little poppet.

Chapter Text

Every Ashwinder in the Highlands was all aflutter in regards to Rookwood’s bounty. Eight thousand galleons? A man with money like that could live very well off indeed, likely for the rest of his days. Some of the poachers opted to scour about the land in teams, promising to split the pot evenly between one another; others made the decision to act alone, finding it simpler to not worry about getting bogged down by any mistakes an ally might make. Every eye was open, searching restlessly for a red-headed Ravenclaw girl when they weren’t trapping magical beasts or shaking down shopkeepers in the hamlets that dotted the countryside.

Victor Rookwood, meanwhile, was attempting to placate Ranrok after the disastrous attempt to catch the girl in Hogsmeade. The disgusting mongrel was a thorn in his side, constantly nattering about a goblin artifact—a helmet of some kind, and probably just as useless as Ranrok. Rookwood agreed to the job, but only because the little wretch threatened to stop providing him with the goblin metal chains and collars that were a necessity for his operation at Horntail Hall. He wasn’t about to traipse about in some dusty old tomb himself, of course; Rookwood passed the request along to Harlow, who in turn assigned it to a group of capable Ashwinders. 

He received an owl from Harlow the next afternoon, stating that the helmet was in their possession and would be passed along shortly for him to hand off to Ranrok. Good. Rookwood resolved to hurl it directly at the goblin’s ugly mug like a bludger once it was firmly in his hands.

That evening, he received Harlow’s other letter.

Boss,

Need you to come to the camp where the helmet was as soon as possible. You’ll want to see this for yourself.

-Theophilus

…Was? Rookwood didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He donned his signature coat and top hat, pocketed his flask of firewhisky, and apparated into the night.

*****

“Merlin’s beard. What in the hell happened here?”

Rookwood arrived to find Harlow standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of absolute carnage. Bodies littered the ground all around them; smoke billowed from burnt barrels and boxes, all nearly reduced to ash; black marks from errant spells dotted the rocks near the pond at the center of the camp. An empty metal chest next to the smoldering rubble of one of the tents and a random chicken running in circles appeared to be the only things left unscathed.

“There’s one survivor,” Harlow told him gravely. “She let him go. Felt sorry for him, maybe, or wanted to send a warning to others.”

“ She did this?” Rookwood could scarcely believe it. He certainly didn’t expect a sweet-cheeked little creature like her to engage in wanton slaughter; perhaps he should raise the already generous bounty on her, if this was what they were up against. He walked over to the nearest dead Ashwinder; a woman, her neck and back broken, as if she had fallen from a great height.

“She couldn’t have done all this by herself,” he murmured.

“She most certainly did,” Harlow replied, kicking a metal bucket riddled with holes. “The surviving boy is at another camp nearby. You should talk to him yourself, and hear the tale. I told you that girl would cause us more trouble. If she catches a whiff of Horntail Hall—”

“That won’t happen,” Rookwood assured him. “I’ll have her snared like a frightened Mooncalf before she dares step anywhere near Horntail.”

“We should double our guards there to be on the safe side,” Harlow suggested.

He did have a point; the dragon fighting ring made Rookwood piles of money, and the loss of it would be devastating to all his other operations in the area. The proceeds from Horntail Hall were needed to pay his poachers, bribe the Ministry officials in his pocket, supply food and necessities to Ashwinder camps…and pay the girl’s extravagant bounty when someone finally got their hands on her.

“If we can afford the men, then do so. Take me to the boy,” Rookwood commanded. “I want a better picture of what happened here.”

The two men set out quietly on the path and into the dark silence of the Forbidden Forest, ignoring the clucking chicken that was following a few paces behind them.

*****

The young man was sitting with a fearful, far-away look on a small stool in the center of the camp; he held a flask in his trembling hands, and took a sip from it as often as his nerves allowed. His blond hair was dirty and caked with mud; his shirtsleeves were torn apart, speckled with dried blood, and he was missing a shoe on his left foot. A small crowd of curious poachers and Ashwinders surrounded him, and several stepped out of the way in deference as Harlow led Rookwood to the sorry sight. 

“Right, lad,” Harlow said to the boy. “Take another nip to calm yourself and tell Mister Rookwood here what you saw.”

The boy complied and took a deep sip from the flask; Rookwood took off his top hat as he knelt down on one knee in front of the frightened young man.

“What’s your name?” Rookwood asked.

“L-Llewellyn, s-s-sir,” the boy stuttered.

“How old are you, Llewellyn?”

“F-Four-fourteen, sir.”

A stripling. He was the youngest Ashwinder Rookwood had met in a long while; he assumed that young age was likely why the girl let him live, if you could call the boy’s current state a mercy over death. 

“It w-was horrible, sir,” Llewellyn blurted out quickly. “She’s a monster. I’ve never seen—it all h-happened so q-q-quickly—”

Rookwood held up his hand, signaling for the boy to stop. “Start from the beginning. What happened after the helmet was recovered?”

Llewellyn took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then took another gulp of liquor before speaking again. 

“We—We were gathered ‘round the campfire for a meal when the search p-party returned,” he began. “They were shaken up—had to fight some inferi, and lost a m-man in the tussle, but everyone else c-came back alive. So we passed around a bottle of f-fire whiskey, just having some fun, t-talking, and sharing memories…” He trailed off, eyes growing wider.

“What happened then?” Rookwood pressed.

“Then she came.” The young man hiccuped, and tears began to form in his eyes. “Red head, Ravenclaw robes, j-just like the bounty notice said. Walked in like s-she owned the place. Mister Michaels said we w-w-were lucky, that we could ship her off with the helmet and s-split the money between all of us. Then she—she—turned him into a chicken!” 

Llewellyn began to sob uncontrollably. Rookwood turned and shared a glance with Harlow, who shrugged his shoulders. An Ashwinder woman standing in the small crowd softly encouraged the lad to continue.

“Everyone else was gone within m-minutes, e-exploded or p-picked up and thrown down…I’ve never seen any m-magic like it. I tried to run away, but s-slipped; she saw me, came over and pointed her w-wand, asked where the helmet was…”

“Did she mention what she wanted it for?”

“No sir—I was so scared, I t-told her—and she said I could l-leave, so I ran as fast as I—Mister Michaels!” 

The chicken that had followed Rookwood and Harlow from the destroyed camp had tramped up quietly to the crowd; the boy lunged and hugged it tightly against his chest, sobbing even harder as the bird cooed softly against him. 

Rookwood rubbed a hand on his stubbly chin, drinking in the story he was just told, then stood and donned his top hat again before leading Harlow off to the side for a chat.

“The boy’s in absolute hysterics. Deep in his cups too, not that anyone can blame him. See if you can reassign him,” Rookwood said quietly, so as to not be overheard. “Something simple. An extra pair of eyes and ears in one of the hamlets, posing as a farm boy, perhaps.”

“Our contact in Feldcroft’s been asking for another pair of hands. I’ll send an owl in the morning,” Harlow told him. “You might want to alter the bounty on the girl, while you’re at it. Offer a larger purse, wanted dead or alive.”

Rookwood hesitated. Adding more to the bounty was fine, considering he underestimated what a hellion she would be; but he wanted her alive, lest her power be lost forever upon her death, or so he told himself. If she wouldn’t agree to join forces with him of her own accord, one little Imperius curse would have her singing a different tune. A perfect little poppet. Willing to do anything.

“I want her alive,” Rookwood stated, his voice barely a whisper. “I can convince her.”

Harlow stared at him, incredulous. “Convince her? She took out an entire camp. An eye for several eyes—”

“I will brook no argument on the matter, Theophilus. Raise the bounty to ten thousand, but make it very clear, once again, that she is no use to me dead.”

Rookwood ended the conversation abruptly, walking off before Harlow could offer another protest. He found a clear area in the camp and apparated into the ether, back to his estate.

*****

In his darker moments, Victor Rookwood supposed he was more like his father than he wanted to admit.

The man had been an odious lecher. Drank too much, gambled too much, killed and cursed others for the hell of it, chased every skirt he came across regardless of age or returned affection. Victor’s own mother was barely seventeen when she bore him; wedding her was the only good decision his father ever made. She was highly intelligent, formidable, charismatic, grasping; Victor adored her.

When Victor was a lad of eighteen, the elder Rookwood cast the Cruciatus curse on his own wife; he was in a drunken stupor and angered at some perceived slight against him. She succumbed to her injuries, and Victor vowed then and there to avenge her death with patricide. It took him four years of practice, reading books on dark magic and perfecting his aim on rats and other vermin that scampered through the crumbling courtyard of the Rookwood estate in the middle of the night. It was Victor’s twenty-second birthday when the man fell to his wand; he relished every second of it.

Upon his father’s “accident,” Victor inherited his father’s estate and business, molding it into the far-reaching and lucrative operation that he oversaw today. His mother would be so proud of him, if she were here. 

But as he sat in his study, lost in thought and nursing a glass of firewhisky as he drew the girl’s face from memory in his leather-bound journal, Victor Rookwood realized that he, like his father, drank too much, and gambled too much, and had killed and cursed others for the hell of it; and now, it seemed, he could add chasing skirts regardless of age or returned affection. He admired his handiwork in the journal; a stunning likeness, he had to admit. He took himself in hand, and spent himself as he imagined that the girl was highly intelligent, and formidable, and charismatic, and grasping. 

Victor adored her.

Chapter Text

“D’you reckon there are lady goblins?” The Ashwinder man asked his two companions, unprompted.

The trio—two men and a woman—were combing the forest outside of Lower Hogsfield just after the sun had set. They were on the hunt for a red-headed Ravenclaw girl, hoping to cash in on the eye-watering sum of money that Victor Rookwood promised to anyone who brought her to him, and figured the areas closest to Hogwarts proper would be the best starting point.

“What?” The woman asked.

“D’you reckon there are lady goblins?” The man repeated. “I en’t never seen one.”

“‘Course there are lady goblins,” the second man replied. “Can’t make more nasty little goblins without ‘em.”

The first man held his thumb and forefinger up to his masked chin in thought before nodding, satisfied with the answer.

“Idiots, both of you,” the woman piped up. “I have it on good authority that goblins get born when mud and shit mix together. Victor Rookwood told me so.”

“Mister Rookwood en’t never said more than five words to you,” the second man retorted.

“He has so.”

“If you’re such good mates with ‘im, then tell us why he’s in such a tizzy ‘bout this bird he’s lookin’ for. Must have a cunny of solid gold, what with the purse he’s offerin’ for her.” 

The woman rolled her eyes at the two men chuckling together. The three of them had now walked to the edge of the forest, and saw smoke wafting up from a fire close by; they neared it, taking care to stay hidden, and saw an older woman standing next to the edge of a lake. A small campfire crackled in front of a pitched tent, with a heavy chest sitting inside it.

“A local,” the woman whispered. “Right, lads. Let’s see what we can find out ‘bout this girl.”

*****

Flora reached Lower Hogsfield just as the first stars began to appear in the sky. The air felt crisp, and heralded the arrival of Autumn; she adjusted her striped scarf to better cover her neck and add a touch more warmth.

She had settled up payment for the return of some missing carts with the grateful goblin merchant Arn half a mile or so back, and arrived in the village to immediately hear yelling from across the lake. A woman in distress, it sounded like, which was rarely a good thing. She jogged closer and heard another voice, deeper and masculine, and a grandmotherly-looking woman flanked by a trio of Ashwinders came into her view.

“Answer the question, you old bat! You seen a red-headed Ravenclaw lass ‘round here or not?”

“I beg your pardon! I have no idea what you’re talking about! My research–”

“You think we give a doxy’s nip ‘bout your research? Tell us where the girl is or I’ll deliver your head to Rookwood meself!”

They’re getting much too bold now, harassing residents so close to the hamlet. Flora would not stand for it.

The three Ashwinders had their wands pointed at the older woman, coaxing her for information that she obviously did not possess; but they apparently would not take no for an answer, and the woman began to draw her wand just as Flora zoomed up to the scene, flinging a warning shot towards the Ashwinder man closest to her and narrowly missing his foot.

“You three!” Flora shouted. “Leave her alone.”

“Oho!” Crowed the second man in the group. “Look who we have here. We was just talkin’ ‘bout you, sweetheart. Now, make this easy for everyone and c’mere.” The girl did not budge, instead holding up her hand and making a rude gesture. The old woman gasped.

“Little chit,” hissed the final Ashwinder, a woman. “You got Puffskein fur in those ears, girl? He said come here.” She aimed her wand and began to cast Accio.

The next few seconds erupted into absolute chaos. With a wave the girl’s wand, the Ashwinder woman was hoisted up into the air, as if grabbed by an invisible hand, and was then flung into one of the Ashwinder men, sending him hurtling towards the edge of the woods; the woman unceremoniously hit the ground with the sickening and unmistakable crunch of breaking bones. The second man was struck by a bolt of white-hot lightning and exploded into dust. The last survivor scrambled back to his feet, and a nearby chunk of rock threw itself at him, knocking him down again, and he groaned in pain with his last breath. It was over within minutes. 

The older woman gaped at the two bodies and pile of ash wafting away with the breeze; she then regarded Flora, who was a bit sweaty and had some stray red hairs sticking to her forehead, but seemed otherwise unbothered by the fact that she had just murdered three people. The older woman had never seen such magical might; the deaths were a bit frightening, but the girl did very likely save her life.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” The young lady asked politely. “I heard you yelling from across the lake, so I came to investigate…”

“Oh, yes. I’m fine, dear. Thank you for asking. Are you alright?”

“Yes ma’am. Nothing I couldn't handle.”

“My goodness. You really are quite something, aren’t you?” The older woman held out her hand. “Nora Treadwell.”

“Flora Cohen.” She took the offered hand in hers and shook it.

Nora was impressed, if not concerned, by the girl’s fearlessness; she acted as if she threatened dangerous groups of dark wizards every Tuesday, a regular item on her to-do list after a quick breakfast and some errands. It was the kind of behavior that would get a young lady assaulted or killed.

“A pleasure to meet you, Flora. And now that introductions are out of the way, I will don my grandmother cap.” She stepped closer to the young girl. “My dear, you really must cultivate some sense of self-preservation. Rookwood’s Ashwinders are dangerous; I will spare you the more horrid details, but young women traveling on the roads in the area have been accosted more than once, and some have even gone missing. I’m not entirely clear on what exactly that magic of yours is—and, in all honesty, I’m not sure I want to know—but take an old woman’s advice: if you go poking your nose into trouble, there will come a day where luck will not be on your side, no matter how adept you are.”

Flora looked meekly at the ground and mumbled a sorry. She held her tongue about the goblin camp that she had cleared out only an hour and a half ago, or the poacher camp she obliterated just two weeks prior, lest the woman give her even more of a dressing-down. She opted instead to change the subject.

“What are you doing out here, Miss Treadwell?” Flora asked, taking a few steps towards the dead Ashwinders. She half listened to the woman tell her about her research, and Merlin, and strange markings on the ground, when she dug a hand into the pocket of the Ashwinder lady and grabbed a small handful of coins–nice–and a piece of folded parchment. She opened it and read:

WANTED ALIVE

10,000 GALLEON REWARD

RAVENCLAW GIRL, RED HAIR

15 - 17 YEARS OF AGE.

HIGHLY DANGEROUS. APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION.

CONTACT THEOPHILUS HARLOW IMMEDIATELY UPON CAPTURE.

There was a drawing of her face underneath the imposing words. The likeness was actually quite impressive; she wondered who drew it. Turning the piece of paper over, she found a short handwritten note.

Meg,

Heard that the girl was seen in your neck of the woods. Be careful if you go looking for her, but give her a good Crucio for me if you manage to declaw the little hellcat. I overheard some of the men saying we can’t use the killing curse because Rookwood is positively cunt-struck. Don’t know the truth of that, though.

Do let me know the next time you’re in Hogsmeade; I’ll meet you for a pint. You’re paying.

-Ernie

Flora briefly pondered the words before Nora called out, breaking her concentration.

“Find something, dear? You’re awfully quiet over there.” 

“Just a few coins, Miss Treadwell.” She clandestinely pocketed the parchment and shuffled back over to Nora. “May I help you with your research?”

*****

It was difficult to find sleep that night.

Flora lay in bed, musing over the bounty notice. Small wonder the Ashwinders were harassing Miss Treadwell about her, with ten thousand galleons on the line. That amount of money would make even the most law-abiding citizen salivate, never mind poachers and highwaymen. She did feel an enormous sense of satisfaction that she was considered “highly dangerous,” however; the idea of hundreds of dark witches and wizards being absolutely terrified of a teenage schoolgirl was really quite funny. 

Her mind wandered to what Miss Treadwell told her, about travelers being assaulted and kidnapped. You really must cultivate some sense of self preservation. Rookwood’s Ashwinders are dangerous.  

Rookwood. Cunt-struck.

The very thought made her want to retch. Moreover, it made her angry. She remembered the way he looked at her that day in Hogsmeade, ogling her with cold blue eyes. Bastard. Think you can rut on me like a dog in heat before handing me off to Ranrok? I’ll never fall to you.

She was at the age of both innocence and experience; she promised Sebastian a peek of her bloomers in exchange for helping her sneak into the forbidden section of the library, and while there he took one of the books off its shelf and showed her pages and pages of highly detailed drawings of witches and wizards engaged in various stages and positions of coitus. He snickered at her when she blushed a furious shade of pink and hissed at him to be serious, Sebastian, and put that back.  

While many people who met her—most people, actually—would hesitate to refer to Flora as a dignified young lady, she did have some sense of propriety, and recognized society’s expectations of modesty versus impurity. She did want to get married and have a family one day, after all. She thought about the sleepy little hamlet she visited earlier in the day, and how it would be nice to live in a similar place, settling down into a life of quiet domesticity. The notion made her feel serene, and she was finally able to close her eyes and drift into slumber.

*****

“Hello, you.”

“Hello, Sebastian.”

He stopped her in the hallway after potions class, gently catching her hand to grab her attention as she was heading out of the dungeons to make her way towards the tower where Professor Fig was waiting in his office.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you—we’ll have a long weekend at the end of the month. Halloween falls on a Friday this year, and no classes on holidays—so I was thinking you and I could spend a few days in Feldcroft, visiting my family.” His eyes had an uncharacteristic bashfulness to them, and a small blush made the freckles on his face more pronounced.

“I’ve told my sister loads about you. She’s keen to meet you for herself,” he continued. “And it would be nice for her to have some female company. You’ll have to meet my uncle as well, but…we could leave together early on Halloween morning, and—”

“I’d like that very much.” She replied with such speed that she surprised herself. “Yes, absolutely.”

He grinned at her, and her heart tumbled in her chest; she liked that very much.

Chapter Text

Feldcroft was a quiet little place.

Flora and Sebastian arrived to the smell of earthy petrichor, the soil damp from a soft drizzle of recent rain. A farmer and young field hand were tending to a patch of bulbous pumpkins, the rinds wet and shimmering with raindrops and colored lush shades of orange, yellow, and green. A lone chicken pecked at the dirt in front of the barn at the edge of the field. In the distance, Flora could see the crumbling remains of a castle, which must have been quite stately in its time.

Sebastian led her to his home, gemütlich and cozy, the front stoop peppered with jack-o-lanterns of various sizes carved by his sister, Anne. She was a clever and amiable girl, with warm brown eyes like Sebastian, but Flora sensed a melancholy behind them, brought on by her consuming sickness. Poor thing. Anne took to Flora immediately, and devoured every tale of her adventures. 

Sebastian’s uncle was a gruff, coarse man who seemed weary of the world, though he welcomed Flora into his home politely enough. Sebastian seethed every second he was around his uncle, who called him boy and barked at him to help harvest some of the vegetables in their garden almost immediately upon arrival. 

Alone together inside, the two girls poured over Flora’s field guide, a journal where she wrote about the places she visited, and drew pictures of the creatures she saw in the Highlands, and jotted down interesting requests people mentioned to her. She kept any interesting notes she found nestled between the pages of the large, leather-bound tome.

“‘I met a goblin merchant and artist named Arn today,’” she read aloud to Anne. “‘Some goblins stole his carts of supplies and kept them at a camp nearby. I dispatched the camp and was able to return his wares, for which he was extremely grateful. He gave me some coins and a charcoal drawing of Lower Hogsfield.’” Flora took the picture and unfolded it, blowing off some errant bits of black dust before handing it to the other girl.

“A whole camp of goblins?” Anne asked excitedly, regarding the drawing for a moment before handing it back. “And you met a nice goblin? Sebastian mentioned in his letters that you enjoy exploring, but I can’t even imagine…there are loads of goblin camps in this area. When you leave the village, be very careful, and keep an eye out.”

Flora smiled at her, and liked that Anne used the word when instead of if. She flipped to the next page of her guide, which detailed the little entanglement with the Ashwinder trio and Miss Treadwell; the bounty notice was folded into the spine of the book. Might be best to skip over this entry. Anne noticed Flora’s reluctance, but pressed her.

“What’s that?” She pointed to the folded bounty letter. 

Flora didn’t want to explain that oh, a criminal overlord has a bounty on my head that several people have tried to collect, all in an apparent attempt for him to have his way with me. But, she also didn’t want to lie to a new friend, so she resolved to be sparse with the details.

“Oh, it’s…well, I saved a woman, a researcher, who was about to be attacked by some Ashwinders.”

“Rookwood’s lot,” Anne nodded. “I’ve heard of them, from articles in The Daily Prophet. Did you see the castle in the distance when you arrived today? That’s Rookwood Castle.”

Flora stared at her, soaking in this new information. She had heard of Rookwood Castle before, when the keepers had told her it was the site of the second trial. She had asked if he lived there. Charles Rookwood, his ancestor, would hear voices in the rare moments when he visited his portrait at the location, but never saw anyone. 

Rare moments. Just because he isn’t seen doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Flora chose to ask Anne the same question, wagering that the more information she had about the site, the better prepared she would be.

“Is it…inhabited?” She asked Anne gingerly.

“I don’t think so. It’s practically ruins now, and it wouldn’t make sense for a criminal to live in a place where he could be easily found, would it? When you go poking around in it, let me know what you find.”

I wish I didn’t have to go anywhere near it, thought Flora solemnly.

*****

After a supper of shepherd’s pie, Flora went outside to take a look around the village while Sebastian and Anne played gobstones together. I won’t be very long, and I won’t go outside of the village, she promised them. She was walking along the edge of the pumpkin field when a young man waved her down; the field hand she saw from afar when she and Sebastian had first arrived.

“Miss! Miss!” The boy ran up to her. “I thought that was you, with the red hair. Do you recognize me?”

Flora looked the boy up and down. He was blond, maybe a few years younger than herself, and was carrying a chicken under his left arm. She couldn’t say he was terribly familiar.

“I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry.”

“It was a month and a half ago. The poacher camp, in the forest?”

She stared at him blankly.

“With the helmet? You let me go free? Do you…do you not…even…remember?”

Helmet. Lodgok. Camp. The terrified poacher boy. He was crying. She felt sorry for him.

“Oh! No, I remember.” She eyed him warily. “Are you still…?”

“No—Well, I’m glad I saw you, actually, because I wanted to thank you, see, for letting me go free. I ran away from all that—the poaching, and the dark arts—and I started a new life, here, helping work the fields.”

“That’s very…nice. I’m happy for you, that you chose a better path.” She smiled politely at him and took two steps back.

“Are you here in Feldcroft visiting family?” The boy asked, matching her by taking two steps forward. 

“Something like that, yes.”

The boy smiled back at her. “Feldcroft is an interesting place. Wild, if you go outside of the village, but I’m sure that’s nothing for you to worry about. The crops grow well in this area—lovely pumpkins this season—and I’ve been cultivating a small patch of chomping cabbages just outside the village. They’ll eat the other crops in the field, you see.” He took her wrist with his free hand and began to lead her away from the pumpkin patch. “C’mon, they’re just over this way; you can take some of the mature ones and use them if you find yourself in a fight again.”

“I…I don’t think we should leave the village,” she said hesitantly, trying to pull back; the boy had a very strong grip, and his hands were rough against her skin, calloused from manual labor.

“It’s not far at all, and won’t take long. You’ll be back in five minutes.” This boy would not take no for an answer. Reluctantly, she let him lead her outside of the village, and the two shuffled down off the main path and into a grassy dale.

“They’re right over there, behind those trees.” He let go of her and pointed. “Take as many as you like.”

Flora took a few steps forward, peering at the ground towards the trees, and then felt the point of a wand at her back—

“Crucio.”

*****

Boss,

We have her. I’ve confirmed it. She’s in the camp outside of Feldcroft. It was the lad Llewellyn who got her. Come as soon as you can.

-Theophilus

Rookwood beamed like a little boy on Christmas morning. Feldcroft! Right under his very nose! He could practically walk to the camp! He would do no such thing, of course; walking was for bumpkins and provincials. Why on earth people didn’t apparate everywhere like him, he’d never understand. And so he did exactly that, and met Harlow and Llewellyn outside of the poacher’s tent in the camp nearest the little village.

“Llewellyn, my boy! Well done, Well done!” He cupped the lad’s face between his hands and kissed the top of his blond head in absolute elation. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Thank you, Mister Rookwood,” said the young man bashfully. “She’s not too smart, for a Ravenclaw…arrived this morning with a Slytherin boy, so I just waited until she was alone, tricked her into leaving the village and she turned her back.”

Good lad. Stutter’s gone, as well. “She’s just inside, is she?” Rookwood asked.

“All tied up with a pretty little bow on top,” remarked Harlow, handing Rookwood the girl’s wand and a book found on her. “Fainted during the ordeal, and en’t come to. Makes it easier for you, I s’pose.”

“But she’s fine, otherwise?” Rookwood was practically salivating.

“Seems so,” Harlow muttered.

“Excellent.” Rookwood turned to address the lad. “Llewellyn, my dear, dear boy, if you ever need anything— anything at all—do not hesitate to ask. Send an owl from wherever you may be, and I will answer. You have a very bright future ahead of you.” He then looked to Harlow. “Theophilus, see that the boy is given his compensation, will you? And send word to the other camps that the bounty has been claimed. You know where I’ll be.”

Harlow grunted an affirmative.

“Thank you, Mister Rookwood, sir,” Llewellyn peeped, his cheeks turning a deep, rosy pink.

And with that, Rookwood strode through the curtains at the entrance of the tent…

And there she was.

She was asleep—or knocked cold, as Harlow had mentioned—with her hands and ankles tied, and lay atop a pile of mongrel furs towards the back of the tent. She was unsuitably filthy: A dribble of vomit trailed down her shirtwaist, and the hem of her skirt was tattered and muddy, as if she had been dragged on the ground. Most of her red hair was down, having fallen out of the bun on her head. Rookwood found it unbecoming, and resolved to clean her up upon arriving back at the estate he planned to spirit her away to.

Her face was tranquil in sleep, even more beautiful than he remembered; Rookwood bent down and drew a line from her temple to her jawline with a slow and deliberate finger. She stirred but did not wake, instead mumbling something soft and incoherent. A perfect little poppet. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead before picking her up carefully, legs draped over one arm, head nestled in the crook of the other, and apparated away with his expensive prize.

*****

The curse had done quite a number on her; it was morning before she opened her eyes, addled and nude, hands and feet bound, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. Rookwood slept not a wink, keeping his eyes watchfully on her, sitting in a chair next to his bed as she slept. He passed the time by thumbing through the book she had on her person—a journal, he quickly learned.

It was a fascinating source of information. She appeared to be quite the busy little bee, zipping around the Highlands doing this and that. He was able to glean that she had given the pilfered helmet to the goblin Lodgok, an interesting tidbit that he’d pass along to Ranrok upon his next unenviable meeting with that repulsive, stunted cretin. She had also, apparently, shown her bloomers to a boy who helped her sneak into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library— cheeky little thing, aren’t you?— and seemed to have befriended a house elf, having sketched a portrait of the hunched and hobbled creature. He thought it was a house elf, anyway; her drawing skills were so atrocious it could very well be a diricawl, for all he knew.

Most importantly, it seemed that she was making headway on finding the repository, though her writings made it sound as if she did not know where it was at present, or what it contained. This was good news for him; he didn’t know anything of the location, but did know from first-hand experience what was likely to be in it. Quite reassuring to know that he was still one step ahead of her. 

She had gone through a “trial,” slaughtering a platoon of goblins at San Bakar’s Tower during the little escapade— good girl—and was gearing up for another “trial" located at…Rookwood Castle. Very, very interesting. He could use this to his advantage, and sweeten the deal he planned to propose to her—not that she was in any position to deny him, and he certainly wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

She stirred in the bed, moaning softly before fluttering her eyes open. Her gaze wandered over to Rookwood sitting in the chair beside her.

“Good morning,” he chirped.

She startled, lurching her body up as best she could with her hands and feet bound; feeling her nakedness, she looked down at herself and gathered the bedclothes in her tied hands, pinning them to her breast and leaving only her back exposed, long red hair cascading down it. She wore a mixed expression of fear, confusion, and anger that made Rookwood positively giddy. 

Like a cornered hippogriff. Not so fearsome now, are you darling?

“Where…how did you—my clothes…you didn’t—” 

She curled away from him in modesty. Rookwood had never truly heard her speak before this moment; her voice was soft and sweet, a pleasant delight to hear.

He held up his hand and shushed her. “My dear, I am villainous, not monstrous. Your virtue is safe.” For the moment. “ You were in quite the state upon arrival; I took the liberty of removing your clothes, as they were covered in all manner of detritus. There’s new raiment for you there.” 

He gestured to a dress draped on the end of the bed; some bright and gaudy thing she wouldn’t have glanced twice at had she seen it in Gladrags. She’d rather stay covered in the bed sheets, if that was the alternative.

She looked around the room, taking in the new surroundings; a small table with an unlit oil lamp on the opposite side of the large, comfy bed. Rays of morning light peeking through the windows. A desk against the wall, with Rookwood’s signature top hat sitting upon it and his blue coat draped over one side. A decanter and two glasses perched opposite the coat. A plush, large rug on the floor in the center of the room. Stuffed and mounted heads of various magical beasts adorning the walls. And finally, Victor Rookwood, sitting next to her in a chair, holding her field guide in his hand, the tip of her wand peeking out of the breast pocket of his vest next to his own. She glared at him and he looked back at her with flippant amusement, which made her very, very angry.

“I imagine many questions are filling up that pretty little head of yours,” he told her, his voice dripping with condescension. “You are in my bedchamber, in one of my many estates. I—”

He was cut off by a wad of spittle flying at his face and coming into contact with his cheek; the girl’s eyes were practically feral. If looks could kill, he would certainly be dead. Rookwood chuckled and took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, sliding the chair nearer to the edge of the bed before returning the cloth to whence it came.

“Charming. I was hoping we could converse like adults, but—” 

He feinted a motion to backhand her, and she recoiled; instead, he cupped her face between his hands, bending over her small frame and letting her journal fall to the ground with a thud. She was forced to look into Rookwood’s eyes, ice blue and searing; his face was so close to hers she could feel the bristles of his unshaven jaw ghosting against her skin. He reeked of pipe tobacco and fire whiskey.

“Mark me, girl,” he seethed, “Were you anyone else, you would be dead as recompense. I admire your spirit, but if you deign to misbehave again, I will extinguish that fire in your eyes before the sun sets today. Do you understand me?” 

She attempted to nod. 

“ Say ‘Yes, Victor,’” he bade her. 

A pregnant, heavy pause settled in the air. She complied, finally, softly, with that lovely voice of hers. Yes, Victor. The sweetest music his ears had ever heard.

“Excellent.” Rookwood unhanded her and sat back in his chair, picking her field guide up from the floor and placing it on his lap. 

“I believe I mentioned wanting to have a quick chat when we first met,” he said lightly, as if her transgression never happened. “But we were quite rudely interrupted by a mob of drunkards. So, my dear, you and I are going to have a nice little talk, to make certain that we are both on the same page. I have many things that I can offer to you,” he held up her field guide with one hand, “and you, it seems, have many things that you can offer to me. I daresay that we can come to some kind of agreement.”

“An agreement,” she repeated quietly.

“Yes, darling, I just said that; do try to keep up. I assumed you to be quicker, being a Ravenclaw.” There was that patronizing tone again. She fought every urge to spit at his face a second time, fully aware that he was attempting to goad her; instead, she curled her bound hands into fists, and said nothing.

“I was a Ravenclaw boy once,” Rookwood told her, rising from the chair with book in hand to saunter over to the desk. He removed his shoes and put her journal down, then her wand on top of it, before pouring a glass of fire whiskey from the decanter. “Did you know that?”

“No,” she responded flatly.

“No, what?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “No, Victor.” 

He flashed his bright white teeth at her, predatory, before slowly walking back over and taking a sip from the glass, settling on the edge of the bed next to her. The frame creaked under his weight, and she scooted a few inches away, desperate to make more space between them. He reached over and put the glass to her lips.

“Drink,” he ordered. She hesitated.

“You just watched me taste it, darling,” Rookwood admonished, seeing her reluctance. “No poison, no love potion, no veritaserum, nothing of the sort. I would never sully such a fine batch of fire whiskey. Drink.”

“But—isn’t it morning?”

He shrugged, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Am I sensing more misbehavior…?”

She rolled her eyes again and took a sip as he angled the glass for her to drink. The liquor was warm in her mouth, and she sputtered a bit as she swallowed it, being more accustomed to sweeter, milder butterbeer.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Rookwood took a swig after her, and waved the decanter over from the desk with his wand; it refilled the glass before floating back to its previous position. 

He was taking great delight in her obedience. Apparently the girl just needed a firm hand, like all wild beasts. He half expected to have need of the imperius curse by now, but things were going swimmingly so far; the dark spell might not even be necessary, so submissive was she. The eye rolling was getting stale, but he would ignore it for the moment. A little fire made her much more fun.

“I must confess I don’t even know your name.” A lie. He swirled the golden liquor around in its glass. 

“It’s…Anne.” 

A lie in return, but not a very good one. Rookwood draped his free arm across her shoulders, and brought her closer to him; he dug his fingers into her like a talon when she resisted. There was that overpowering scent of pipe tobacco and fire whiskey again, filling her nostrils. 

“Oh, come come, miss Flora Cohen.” His voice was clipped and pointed. “As if I didn’t spend the whole night reading your journal front to back. You must cease this compulsion to lie, my dear; it’s a very unbecoming trait in such a beautiful young lady.” He forced the glass to her lips again. “Drink.”

Flora complied, deciding to play nice until she could find her way out of this yet. She attempted to draw upon her ancient magic, but nothing came; she was powerless without her wand in hand.

“Were you really a Ravenclaw?” She asked, trying to distract as he began to rub her arm. It did the trick, and she was honestly curious about it, having assumed he was once a member of house Slytherin. Might as well do some reconnaissance, and gather information.

“Is that so surprising?” He took another sip from the glass in his hand, and stared into space at nothing and no one, as if he were alone. “My father was a Slytherin, like most in our lineage, but my mother was a Ravenclaw. Wonderful woman—and so proud of me when I was sorted into the same house. She wasn’t able to finish her schooling…” He trailed off and smiled at a memory not described aloud. “…My father sent me a howler shortly after the sorting ceremony, calling me a mistake and a bastard, among other wonderful things.” 

There was an uneasy quiet before he snapped back to reality. “Why do you ask? Interested in carrying on the family line? Merely say the word, my dear, and I’ll make you fat with child.”

He snickered at Flora’s disgust, and she tried to push him away with a disdainful ugh; he kept his grip on her and just laughed.

“Yes, well, I’m not terribly fond of children, in any case,” he added. The combination of fire whiskey and an empty stomach was making his tongue loose—and hers, he hoped. He forced her to drink again, a larger gulp this time. “And now that you’ve asked me a question, it’s my turn to ask one of you.”

“It sounds like you already know quite a bit about me,” she sniffed.

“Oh, I do. But I’m after some… very specific information.” He moved his hand off of her shoulder and grasped her long red hair, yanking so that her head was tilted in such a way to look directly at him; his blue eyes pierced into her. “Tell me about the repository. I know you know about it. Don’t lie to me.”

“I…I know the repository exists. I don’t know where it is.” The words slipped out of her with barely a hint of struggle. 

A firm hand and some fire whiskey is all it takes. Rookwood seemed to be satisfied with this answer, but dug deeper. “What are the trials?”

“The Keepers want me to do the trials as a test to prove myself. Then they’ll tell me where the repository is.” A basic explanation, but that was the scope of her knowledge on the matter thus far.

“And your next trial is at my family estate? Rookwood Castle?”

“Yes.”

Rookwood tugged her hair harder and stared into her eyes, deep green and ringed with ire. She glowered at him, and he returned her gaze in kind for several moments before speaking.

“Well then, my dear, how lucky for you that I will help you with this.” He took a nip from the glass and paused, waiting for her to say something. “Oh please, darling, don’t prostrate yourself in adulation or anything. A simple ‘thank you, Victor’ will suffice.” He pulled her hair harder.

“Thank you, Victor.” His name was poison on her tongue; she would spit it out of her mouth each time he forced her to utter it.

“You’re welcome, my dear. Always a pleasure to help a damsel in distress. In fact, you and I could be very helpful to each other.” He let go of her hair, returning his hand to its perch on her shoulder, and forced another chug of whiskey on the girl. 

“Ranrok and I have a…tenuous alliance, you see. I have no love for that crusty, scum-sucking bastard, and I’m sure you feel the same, don’t you dear? Of course you do; he’ll use you up and then kill you dead, after all. We can’t have that, can we?” His fingers pressed down and smarted against her skin; she sighed wearily at the prompt.

“No, Victor.”

“Good girl. I’d much rather have a more…comely ally, such as yourself. So, this is where our little agreement comes into play. I will keep Ranrok far, far away from you, and you will skip about doing those trials just as well as you please—”

“Just tell me what you want, Victor.”

He squeezed even harder, now crushing her body against the side of his in some violent facsimile of an embrace; he was so close that the timbre of his voice vibrated against her whenever he spoke.

“It’s not polite to interrupt, darling. Someone really ought to teach you some manners. I only ask for a few minute little things from you; trifles, really.” The decanter returned to the bedside and filled the glass anew; he took a sip before forcing another on her. 

“One,” he began, “you will keep me abreast of your travels and findings. I’ll need information to throw Ranrok off your trail while you’re traipsing about in—oh, I don’t know, Marunweem, or some other similarly forsaken place. And the second thing…” he slid his hand down from her shoulder to lower back. “Well. I think you understand quite clearly what else I want.” 

Another shared nip of whiskey for the two of them before he resumed speaking. Flora was beginning to feel a bit pickled; she just barely shivered in response to Rookwood’s trespass, much to his delight.

“In return—because I know you are going to ask—you will want for nothing, my dear. Anything you desire, I will provide you. Knowledge, money, power. I can teach you the dark arts, if you’d like. You want someone dead? It’s done. You want a unicorn? It’s yours. Any girlish whim or fanciful yearning will be answered.”

Truthfully, he was also angling for access to the repository once it was found. But Rookwood was never one to show all his cards until it was absolutely necessary, and so it was best to stay mum on that for as long as he could. She would figure it out eventually, if she was smart. No matter which party got to the repository first, Rookwood would taste victory regardless.

The room was silent for a long while as Flora thought on these words to the best of her current ability. She was tippled, but even so: he was double-tongued and not telling her everything, of that she was certain. She was also certain that he would not take no for an answer. Anything she wanted? She had everything she wanted. Her face must have been wearing severe reflection; Rookwood seemed to read her mind. 

“I’ll even sweeten the deal for you, my dear; You can continue to attend school, and play with your little friends, and wander about the Highlands running silly errands for every moonmind and dimwit you encounter. You stay out of my business, and I will stay out of your business. Why, I’ll even let you leave here today…whole. Untouched. Entire.” The day will come soon enough, poppet.

She mumbled something.

“What was that, dear?”

She mumbled again.

“I’m sorry, darling, my hearing isn’t what it used to be; a close call with a bombarda spell several years back. Again.”

“Yes,” she uttered, looking up at him. “…Victor.”

Chapter Text

“Are you at all hungry?”

Flora was still in Rookwood’s bed, hands and feet bound, nude save for the bed sheets to cover her modesty, and positively reeling from it all. This was a man who had spent his morning taking obvious delight in humiliating her, forcing her to drink fire whiskey to the point of inebriation and threatening her chastity; and now here he was, leaning on his desk, mercurially asking after her well-being.

In truth, she was feeling a little peckish, and felt a headache coming on from the liquor that some food would likely assuage; but all she wanted at that moment was to be back in Feldcroft with Sebastian and his family, who were likely sick with worry over her disappearance. Oh, Sebastian. What would she even tell them? 

“No. I just want to leave.” Her words were sharp; she was sobering up a bit, and her fire was coming back.

Rookwood regarded her with a wanton bite of his lip before he spoke. “Well, as much as I love having you bound and naked in my bed, I always keep my word. You’re free to go.”

There was a long silence as she gazed at him expectantly; he did not move. 

“So untie me,” she seethed. “And give me back my clothes.” Ire was sewn into every word; she swallowed the urge to add you insufferable bastard.

“We really must work on those manners of yours, my dear. Lack of etiquette is a sign of poor breeding, you know.”

Had Flora rolled her eyes any harder, they would have disappeared into her skull. “Please untie me and please give me my clothes back, Victor.” She made a point to glare at him before adding, “I would also very much appreciate having my wand and field guide returned as well, Victor.” 

Rookwood strolled towards her with his wand in hand, grinning. “Are you not interested in wearing the dress I so generously procured for you?” He gestured to the garish thing draped at the end of the bed; she glanced over at it and wrinkled her nose, saying nothing.

“No? Very well. Let’s untie you then, shall we?” Looming over the side of the bed, he snatched her forearm with the speed of a serpent’s strike, roughly jerking her towards him. “And if you even think about using those little hands of yours against me once they’re free, I’ll have you back in bindings before you can say imperio. Do you understand me?”

So much for that idea, then. “Yes, Victor.”

“Good girl.” The bindings disappeared with a wave of his wand, and he stepped back a few paces as she rolled a sore wrist. “Now, stand up and we’ll transfigure those clothes for you.” She complied, bringing the bed sheets with her. 

“Darling, we can’t very well get you dressed when you’re swaddled in bedding, can we? Drop them.”

Flora huffed, knowing that those blue eyes of his were going to roam all over her. It could be worse; at least the sheets weren’t stained with her blood,  a macabre trophy he would have certainly crowed over. She let go, bed sheets wafting to the floor. Rookwood studied her slowly, from toe to tip, then brought the wand’s end to his chin, imitating a sudden thought.

“What day is it? The first of November?” He paused. The look of pure rage on her face was positively delicious. “Why don’t we meet at The Hog’s Head this coming Friday? Ten in the evening, perhaps? My treat, of course. We can discuss a course of action for that second trial of yours.” 

“Fine,” came the terse response. She would say anything to get away from this wretched nightmare.

“Lovely. I’m looking forward to it. You’re so much more beautiful when you’re agreeable, did you know that? Acting like a proper young lady suits you better than racing about in the woods like a hoodlum, blowing up poachers left and right.” 

He stole another deliberate glance before waving his wand, and she was finally, blissfully, decent again. Her hair was even back up in its bun, with the pins tucked in all the right places. Noticeably absent, however, were her bloomers, which seemed to have been replaced with a pair of woolen tights. Ugh. Her shirtwaist and skirts also felt a little more starchy than before; did he have her clothes laundered?

The field guide floated from the desk and hovered in front of her, allowing her to grab it. Meanwhile, her wand found its way into Rookwood’s free hand. He held it out in his palm, and she stepped forward, reaching for it; his hand enclosed on hers like a vise before she could take it.

“Remember, girl. Try anything and you’ll stay in this room bound and naked for the rest of your days.” He opened his hand back up when she nodded. With her wand finally back on her person, Flora couldn’t race for the door fast enough.

“And where do you suppose you’re going, exactly?” Rookwood asked the question just as the door was being pushed open. She turned around; he was looking at her peculiarly, as if she had grown a second head. 

“You said I could leave.”

Rookwood cackled. “My dear, we’re on an island off the Poidsear Coast. You can’t very well walk out of here, unless you also plan to do a fair bit of swimming. Just apparate, like a normal person.”

Flora stared at him blankly.

“You do know how to apparate, don’t you?”

She shook her head. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “A broom, then?”

More blank staring. Another shake of the head.

Rookwood was incredulous. “Then what are they—fine. Fine. I, ever the gentleman, shall bear the burden of escorting you to whatever dirty little hovel it is that you’re about to patter off to. Noblesse oblige, and all that.”

He laced up his shoes and donned his coat and top hat, mumbling about Merlin preserve us and idiots and teaching and that blasted school. He then held out his arm and crooked it, indicating for her to grasp it.

The last thing she wanted to do was spend a second more of her time with him, let alone touch him. But, it appeared that she had no choice in the matter, and she most certainly didn’t want to be stuck in his bedchamber on a remote island forever. She took hold of his arm.

“I’m going to Feldcroft. But not in the village; outside of it. I can walk the rest of the way.” I certainly don’t want anyone seeing me with you.

“Outside of Feldcroft it is, then.” Rookwood remembered Llewellyn mentioning that the girl had arrived there yesterday morning with a Slytherin boy in tow; probably the same brainless-looking whelp who accompanied her to Hogsmeade. Good thing her bloomers had been swapped out for tights, lest she once again wave them about like a libertine to yet another itchy young chap paying her the smallest kindness. Rookwood resolved that if he ever caught a single whiff of that boy pawing at her, she would watch her little suitor become dragon fodder.

*****

They apparated in front of the small tent she was held captive in the evening prior. It was afternoon now, and Llewellyn was sitting cross-legged in the grass next to the opening of the tent, feeding some kernels to his mentor-turned-chicken, Mister Michaels. The young man was given quite a fright when the pair suddenly appeared in front of him, jolting upright a bit before he realized who it was.

“Oh! Mister Rookwood! Hello.” Llewellyn then looked over to the companion. “And…” That girl.

Rookwood dipped his head in greeting. “Llewellyn.” The girl did not even look his way; she took a few steps towards the main path without a word before Rookwood caught her hand. “Friday. Ten. Be there.” 

The girl nodded and looked down, staring at her boots. As soon as he let go of her hand, she sprinted out of sight as fast as a jackrabbit and was gone.

“You’re…letting her go?” Llewellyn asked in disbelief. 

Rookwood ignored the question. “What are you still doing here, Llewellyn? You should be halfway to Italy by now, with that new fortune of yours. I assumed at the very least that you would be at Horntail Hall, gambling your days away and bedding every strumpet you can get your hands on.”

The young man laughed softly. “Hah, well…to be honest, sir, I’m not really sure where to go.” He offered another kernel to Mister Michaels. “I don’t have family back in Wales, not anymore. I can’t go back to Feldcroft—they’ll know that I had something to do with the girl going missing. I’ve been in poacher camps since I was wee; it’s all I know. I like having a laugh with the lads, and sharing a bottle or two ‘round the fire, that kind of thing. Miss hunting the beasts, too. I have coin now, sure, but it feels…lonely.”

“That’s what strumpets are for, lad.”

Another soft laugh. “No sir, that’s different, paying for affection. I guess I’m thinking of…camaraderie.” The boy looked up at Rookwood. “But why’d you let the girl go, after paying all that money?”

The question went ignored again, and Rookwood looked at Llewellyn curiously. Sensitive one, aren’t you? He thought for a moment before deciding that the young man was suffering from melancholy.

“Go to Horntail, boy. A few pints and the scent of a woman will shape you up. If you’re truly itching to get back on the path, Theophilus—Mister Harlow—is there often enough; ask him for work, if you see him. Tell him I sent you.” He apparated a small piece of parchment emblazoned with the Rookwood family crest, and handed it to the boy. “If he doesn’t believe you, give him this, and tell him he can send an owl.”

Llewellyn admired the parchment before pocketing it. “Oh! Thank you, Mister Rookwood. You’re right, sir—of course you’re right. I’ll head there right now. Thank you for your time, Mister Rookwood, and for listening to me.”

The boy scooped up his chicken and apparated away. Rookwood followed suit, and was back in his own bedchamber not a moment later, in dire need of some sleep. He undressed, taking off his shoes, coat, and hat, before flopping onto the bed and taking himself in hand, inhaling deeply into the bedclothes and drinking the traces of her scent.

*****

Flora was not a deceptive girl by nature. She never had a need to be duplicitous, or tell stories; her life was eventful enough that a simple recitation of the truth would keep friends and acquaintances rapt with attention.

So it was uncharted territory for her when she arrived back in Feldcroft, the village humming like a beehive, knowing that she would absolutely have to lie about what had happened to her. It didn’t feel good; it didn’t feel right . But if she told the truth—that she had awoken naked in the bed of a much older man—the implication spoke for itself, and she was scared that her reputation would be tattered, despite getting away with innocence intact. No one had to know. No one could know.

It was Sebastian who saw her first, trodding up the path. He ran to her, and squeezed her tight—she liked that—and he asked: What happened? Where were you? The whole village has been looking for you and a boy—one of the field hands. Goblins?

Sebastian smelled nice, like good warm earth, and she started to cry; he shushed her gently, and whispered it’s alright, you’re alright. He escorted her home, where she told him and his family the lie.

“It was the field hand,” she began. “He tricked me into leaving. Overheard some goblins one day, talking about a red head they were looking for, and he thought it was me—held me up overnight, thought he could get a ransom from them. But he was wrong, and—the goblins killed him. I was lucky, and got away.”

The search was called off; Sebastian’s family believed her every word. She didn’t like that.

*****

Flora and Sebastian arrived back at Hogwarts the next day, with little incident occurring throughout the week. It was Friday morning when Flora awoke late in the dorm room, her barn owl cooing softly next to her head; a notice was fastened to its leg, stating there was a package for her to pick up in the owlery. A package? From who?

After her morning classes, she trudged up the hill where the old tower stood, owls of every shape and size swooping in and out, to and fro. The package in question was quite large; she opened it to find a note, and…

A broom.

It looked…expensive. She hefted it in her hands; it was lightweight and sturdy, good for flying. The bristles glowed with a magic that looked like the last few embers of a dying fire. A cushioned seat was fastened onto it, and a little silver bell adorned the end of the knobbled handle. She read the note.

Tonight at ten. The Hog’s Head. Don’t be late.

…Oh.

Flora pondered the absurdity of it all. Rookwood kept her tied up and naked, threatened her with dark curses, and told her exactly what he wants from her; but he also let her go unscathed, told her he would help her with the trials, and that she would want for nothing. A mercurial man, indeed. Did he hate her? Did he like her?

She deliberated all afternoon. This must be a trick. It has to be. But what if I’ll need his help for the trial at Rookwood Castle? Back and forth, her mind went. She wished she could talk to someone—anyone—about the whole affair; but no one could know.

It was half past nine when she made the decision to go. She rationalized the choice by telling herself that she was not being bought, and if Rookwood tried to do anything untoward, she’d call upon that life-saving ancient magic and turn him into a chicken—or perhaps a rat, as that seemed more fitting. She also, secretly, really did want to try out that new broom.

It flew smooth as silk; Flora arrived in Hogsmeade a few minutes past ten. She walked through the dark, winding streets, finding her way to The Hog’s Head, and opened the door to find the pub practically bursting with the seediest-looking witches and wizards she had ever laid eyes on. She didn’t have to scan the crowd for long; that stupid top hat was unmistakable, almost as obvious as the humongous boar’s head mounted behind the bar. Rookwood was sitting at a small table tucked in a corner at the back of the pub, nursing a pint. He noticed her immediately, staring at the door and practically willing her little red head to pop into existence. Swimming through the mob, she made her way to the table where he was posted.

“You’re late,” Rookwood greeted.

Flora ignored both the witticism and the smug grin he wore from ear to ear, saying nothing as she looked for an empty chair. 

The grin grew almost impossibly larger. “Awfully crowded in here tonight, isn’t it dear? Not an empty seat in the house.” He patted his lap. “Sit.”

Absolutely not. “A gentleman would give up his seat for a lady.”

Rookwood threw his head back so hard in laughter that his hat nearly fell off. “And were a lady here, I would certainly offer it to her. Now sit.” 

He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her down onto him, settling her side-saddle into his lap and wrapping one arm around her waist. She felt like a porcelain doll on display; it was mortifying. Rookwood savored every single second.

Flora felt stubble against her ear and heard him whisper, “Try anything cute and you’ll have every single wand in here pointing at you before those pretty green eyes can even blink. Not so fun, is it, poppet?” She could have sworn he smelled a whiff of her hair; this was confirmed when she felt a sudden rigidity under one buttock, causing a severe shade of deep pink to flush across her face. Coming here was a huge mistake.

Rookwood, positively gloating with delight at her embarrassment, began to converse as if it were a perfectly normal, pleasant evening and nothing at all was the matter. “I will, quite graciously, excuse your tardiness. I’m glad that you’re here; I’ve missed having you in my bed.” Ugh. “Did you receive the broom?” 

“I did. It’s very…nice. Flies quite…well. Thank you.” She was trying to focus on literally anything other than the stiffness poking into her; that empty portrait on the far wall over there suddenly looks quite fascinating.

“Brought your manners with you tonight, did you? Glad to see that you’re learning.” He began toying with one of the loose tresses of hair that framed her face. “Speaking of, how are your studies coming along? You’re not skipping classes to roam about the Highlands, are you?”

It was a bizarre contrast, having Rookwood ask about her schoolwork while she was in this current predicament on his lap. Flora turned her face to look at him; his countenance was atypically gentle.

“No…why do you…even care to ask?” 

Rookwood tutted. “Is it so surprising that I take an interest in your schooling? It’s important for a young woman to receive a well-rounded education. Most muggle girls can barely even read, or so I’m told.” He tucked the tendril of hair behind her ear; his features suddenly changed, and the cunning to which she was more accustomed returned to his face. “My dear, are you quite alright? You seem terribly aflutter this evening.”

Flora rolled her eyes. “You know exactly—”

“And you really must stop doing that with your eyes, else they get stuck like that one day,” he interrupted. “But I’ll not keep you too much longer. We are ultimately here to discuss business, after all.” He eyed her with a roguishness as he brought the tankard to his lips, and Flora steeled herself for whatever ribald remark was about to come out of his mouth.

“But before we touch on that, I do wonder…if it were I atop you, would you be blushing just as feverishly as you are now? I suppose we’ll find out one day soon, won’t we poppet?”

There it was. At least it was one day soon, and not tonight.

He finished off his pint. “Anyway: to business. I have reassigned my Ashwinders stationed at Rookwood Castle to various other projects around the Highlands. Nothing too difficult or strenuous; I expect the majority of them will trickle back in on Monday evening.” He put his thumb and forefinger to her chin, and guided her face so she was looking directly at his. “That gives you the weekend to do whatever it is you need to do. I, of course, will be there as well; the only lonely soul in the entire place, should you need rescuing of some kind. Once you’re done, we can discuss your next trial, as well as…remittance of payment.” His gaze turned dark, and the hand around her waist briefly slithered down to her thigh and squeezed. “Or…you can make things easier for both of us, and come back with me tonight.”

Rookwood was getting tired of allowing both himself and the girl to delay the inevitable. He imagined the myriad excuses that would be offered to him over time: I need to get home before curfew, Victor. I have a test to study for, Victor. I have my courses, Victor. I have an appointment to lift my skirts for some dopey little schoolboy who doesn’t know his brain from his bollocks, Victor. In this particular instance, she mewled about how she had to get back before curfew, a weak and expected excuse. The girl was just torturing herself at this point, not that he minded that in the least; but perhaps a firm hand was needed once more, lest the gift of the broom spoil her too much and she forget her place. 

“Fine. We will broach the subject again after your trial,” he told her sternly. “But clearing out my family estate is not the easy task you might think it is, and I demand compensation in return.” He planted a little peck on her rosy cheek. “Go now—it’s late, and we don’t want you getting in trouble for being out past curfew, do we?”

He let go of her, and she didn’t need to be told twice; she climbed over the crowd and was out the door so quickly she practically apparated.

See you again soon, little poppet.

Chapter Text

Victor Rookwood arrived at his family estate on Saturday to find that he was not the only lonely soul in the place. Rather, the castle was teeming with a swarm of the foulest type of vermin: goblins.

Ranrok.

Rookwood marched straight into the courtyard to find that wretched creature and give him a piece of his mind. How dare that disgusting mongrel just waltz on in as well as he pleased? All the work that went into clearing the place out for the girl, gone. What was he even doing here?

“What is the meaning of this, you half-formed little—”

“A curious thing I heard, from one of my field scouts,” Ranrok interrupted, ignoring the insult. “He mentioned seeing a red-headed girl outside the village recently. And, even more curious, she was apparently seen in the company of you. Care to explain yourself?”

If only Ranrok were taller; Rookwood would have loved nothing more than to smack the sneer right off that grimy, grotesque thing he called a face. 

“It will surprise you to learn that every witch with red hair is not, in fact, the same person,” Rookwood responded coolly. “But it will not surprise you to learn that women quite enjoy my company. I, true gentleman that I am, escorted a young woman home after a night of dalliance. Nothing more.”

If Ranrok believed this, he did not mention it. “Need I remind you that the only reason we are even speaking is because you are the descendant of a keeper, and may at some point prove yourself to actually be useful?” He began to pace back and forth; Rookwood fought off the urge to punt him into the far wall. “I asked you to do one thing: get the girl and bring her to me. The simplest thing, and you can’t even do that . So I, it seems, have to take things into my own hands: I’ve taken the liberty of posting some of my troops closer to your larger camps around the Highlands. I’ve also sent a number of my loyalists to Horntail Hall, to keep an eye on you and your lot. Seems you all are too busy betting and whoring instead of actually working.”

Scabby inbred bastard gremlin, stealing MY magic, MY birthright, MY estate, MY girl—

“Did you ever get that helmet you were prattling on about?” Rookwood taunted. “Lodgok gave it to you, didn’t he? He received help from the girl, you know. I do hope he isn’t back in your good graces, fraternizing with the enemy and all that.”

Ranrok stiffened and thought for a silent moment before looking up at him. “And how do you figure that?”

“I have eyes and ears open all over the Highlands,” was the vague response. “He brought it to you, didn’t he? Go on; run along and ask him yourself.” And get the hell out of my castle.

The goblin thought for another moment before speaking. Rookwood was most certainly up to something, and wanted him away from here; Ranrok would not allow the dark wizard’s machinations to come to pass.

“Then you and I are going to take a trip to the mine and ask him.”

“Why is my presence required? Just go—” Rookwood began to protest, but quieted down when Ranrok’s armor glowed a sickly shade of red, indicating that there was no choice in the matter. 

Fine. Let’s make this quick.

*****

“I knew you’d try to leave Hogwarts alone again.”

Flora had just stepped into the northern courtyard, the grass dewy and bathed in morning light, when Sebastian’s voice rang out from behind her. She turned back towards the stoop leading into the bell tower, where he was leaning on the old stone wall with arms crossed. The pose was reminiscent of a prefect catching a first year student skulking around after curfew.

“Oh! Hello, Sebastian. I’m just—going out to do some extra assignments for Professor Fig.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself. “I’ll be fine. Back by supper time, I promise.”

There was anxiousness on his face as he strolled over to her; it was unusual for Sebastian to wear concern instead of the confidence that typically marked his features, and Flora sensed that this conversation was about to turn very serious. He stood in front of the girl and gently placed a hand on each of her small shoulders.

“I know I can’t stop you from leaving; you’re too headstrong. And you can hold your own with that ancient magic—not to mention you’re an absolutely brilliant duelist—but I do worry. Now more than ever, after the kidnapping in Feldcroft. You know how I’ve been researching ways to help Anne…” 

He hesitated briefly before looking in every direction to make sure they were out of earshot, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve taught myself the cruciatus curse. I practiced on spiders in the Undercroft, and—and I want you to learn it, too. To defend yourself, as a last resort if needed,” he explained. “You’re such a quick study, it won’t take long; we can even go practice down there right now, if you think you have the time.”

Flora blinked at him. Below the shock, she felt strangely proud of Sebastian’s endeavor. He’s even more clever than I imagined. He thinks I’m clever, too. She liked that. The knowledge made him even more enthralling, and she wanted to impress him just as much as he impressed her. What confusing emotions: the affection, the admiration, the desire. It made her feel more grown up, as if she was being told some large secret that adults knew but never spoke of.

“I always have time for you. Teach me.”

*****

Rookwood apparated back to the Castle after the vespertine sky had transformed into a cold, dark evening. Lodgok had folded like a fan under Ranrok’s questioning; he left the two goblins to natter at each other like old women, and do…whatever else it is that goblins do. Eat dung and hump stones, probably. 

In his absence, it appeared that someone saw to the estate’s vermin problem; their stunted, vile bodies were littered all over the courtyard and battlements. He did a quick, cursory jog around the estate; she was nowhere to be found. Rookwood even searched the castle cellar, which he usually took care to avoid both before and after Ranrok dug into it and took his birthright. He swore under his breath; the girl was not here. He made his way back into the courtyard and towards the tower that hosted his quarters, pausing for a moment on the battlement to admire the plenilune rising over the sea—

Ah. There you are.

That carmine hair was unmistakable, even by the light of the moon. She was standing on a stone altar atop the nearby cliff, bent over in a pose that suggested she was stargazing. He stalked out of the estate, making his way to the altar, and stood behind her as quiet as a thief; the girl took no notice of him as she peered through her telescope in deep concentration.

“Searching for Horologium?”

Flora jumped in place, and Rookwood tutted when she yelped out a word inappropriate for a young lady. The girl turned around, one hand over her heart from the fright. 

Victor. 

When she couldn’t find him in the castle, Flora had fostered the hope that he was dead in a field somewhere; What a disappointment to see that was not the case. He held no wand in hand, but she touched her own in the pocket of her robe for reassurance; a single glimpse and I’ll spring into action with my newest spell, she told herself.

“I assume your trial is done, judging by the generous amount of goblin corpses decorating my family home?” Rookwood asked.

The girl nodded simply. 

“Excellent. Well done, my dear.” Was that… pride in his voice?

Rookwood stepped forward to close the space between them and admire the face gazing up at him. A striped scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck; those precious round cheeks and the tip of her nose were rose-red from the cold, even more ruddy than her hair. Over her usual clothes she wore a standard school robe, loose and unsuitable for the biting weather, and the girl noticeably shivered every so often. He attempted to embrace her and provide warmth; she took a step to the side, then back, before looking over her shoulder and realizing there was no more room to move away, unless falling down the cliffside was an option. The idea was tempting to her for one brief moment.

“You’re freezing, darling. Come,” Rookwood beckoned. “Let’s get you warmed up inside.”

Flora found his kinder, gentler moments such as this unsettling; ever volatile, ever tormenting, ever quick to pass back into cruelty. She assumed to know precisely what he was fishing for, and stood up straighter in an act of decorum. “If you think I will lie with you—”

“I said I’ll warm you up, not treat you to the best night of your life. A quick chat and a cup of tea by the fire, that’s all.”

She crept towards him slow as an alley cat while he took off his coat, keeping two watchful eyes on the wand tip peeking out of his waistcoat pocket; he draped the coat over her shoulders once she was within reach, and she allowed herself to be ushered into the estate, and to Rookwood’s personal study.

*****

“I’ll send an owl to Augustus Hill in the morning, and mail a full wardrobe within the week. Really, darling; not even a jumper?”

Rookwood handed a teacup and saucer to Flora as she sat on a pouf in front of the study’s roaring fireplace, her robe and scarf folded neatly on the floor next to her feet. The teacup warmed her numb fingers, and she sniffed the hot, yellow liquid: chamomile. No hint of anything sinister. She took a dainty gulp as Rookwood sat opposite her in an oaken-framed armchair that was upholstered with velvet, with that almost ever-present glass of firewhisky in his hand.

“Better?” He asked.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Better.”

The room was lordly, every wall lined with bookshelves filled from top to bottom with tomes on every imaginable subject. There was a wooden desk against the far wall, cluttered with notes, maps, drawings, correspondence, a decanter, and what appeared to be a leather journal not unlike her own. His top hat and coat were placed on the seat of the desk chair. A ladder was propped up against one wall, leading to a locked wooden hatch in the stone ceiling of the tower. Had this been anyone else’s study, Flora could stay in this room for days on end, reading by the fireside and writing in her field guide; the room of requirement was momentarily called to mind. The witch and wizard were silent in each other’s company, each of them bursting with questions. She spoke first.

“I thought your study was in the cellar.”

Rookwood’s eyes narrowed a bit as he brought the glass to his lips before speaking. “Ah. I had wondered if you went snooping around down there. My father’s quarters, and his father’s before him; you know Slytherin types, with their love for dank, dark underground places. Most of it was destroyed when…well, you saw for yourself.”

“The broken repository. Yes, I saw.” The susurrus of ancient magic rang so loudly in her ears as she neared it that she could barely form a thought. It was as though it was bidding her to come closer, warring with an instinct that told her to stay away. The magic here was noxious. It was repulsive. It should have been shunned. If that repository contained only trace amounts of magic, she could only begin to imagine its intensity when it lay undisturbed. She ceased her daydreaming on the subject when Rookwood posed a question in return.

“Speaking of, where is the other repository?” He hid the greed in his voice with smooth ability. “You’ve done your trial. Surely you know?”

There was honesty in the girl’s voice when she told him that she did not. “I have more trials to complete.”

“How many?” 

“I don’t know.” This was a half-truth; noticing the four portraits in the map chamber, Flora assumed that there was one trial for each keeper. Victor Rookwood, however, could not have known this, and she was more than happy to string him along; this was the second time he posed a question regarding the repository, and she was beginning to harbor some suspicion. Flora did not like to be duplicitous, but would happily be so in this instance.

Rookwood’s shoulders sagged a bit at the response. “Do you know anything about the next trial?”

“No. The keepers will summon me when it’s time.” 

He appeared to believe every word and leaned forward in his seat, ravenous for information. “How? When?” 

“I thought you wanted to chat, not host an interrogation.”

Rookwood backed off, knowing when it was best to avoid a fuss. Truth will out, he told himself, leaning back comfortably into the armchair. All in good time.  

“You’re right, my dear. Merely the curiosity of a Ravenclaw; I’m sure you understand the feeling. As I mentioned, I need some information about your escapades. We don’t want Ranrok nipping at your heels, do we darling? All part of our little agreement.” He drank from the glass of firewhisky and admired her with obvious hunger. “You seem to blossom more and more each time I see you. Did you know that?”

“I know he was here,” Flora stated stoically, ignoring the flirtation. “I overheard the goblins. You know, the goblins you told me wouldn’t be here, as part of our agreement."

“Oh?” Rookwood crooned. He didn’t like that kind of talk one bit, but opted to keep a cool head for the moment. “If you are suggesting that I did not keep my word, I’m afraid you are sorely mistaken. I said the castle would be clear of Ashwinders. The goblins were an…unfortunate surprise for both of us, but no match for you, in any case.” The decanter on the desk floated over to refill his glass. “Why, I even led Ranrok away from here, darling; had you arrived a moment sooner, that grimy little rodent and his barbarian horde would be taking turns on you in some dim and dusty mine right at this very moment, before bludgeoning you to death. Thus, everything I promised, I delivered.” He paused. “Forgetting your manners again, I see.”

Flora sighed in frustration, hating this game. “Thank you, Victor.” 

“You’re welcome, poppet. Now, you must keep your word.”

“I told you, I will not lie with—”

“And I told you I only want to have a chat. However, I am a merciful man, and your little victory today has put me in a jovial mood, so I will grant you more time with your girlhood. I do wish you would let me attend to you tonight, at the very least.” There were those ice blue eyes again, darting across her figure for a slip of a second.

“Attend to me…?” The girl did not grasp what he was referring to, and raised an eyebrow at him in confusion. She jumped in her seat and nearly spilled her tea when Rookwood exploded into laughter, then dabbed at one eye to wipe away a tear.

“Oh, poppet. You really are the most darling little creature. Yes, I want to attend to you. It means I want to taste you.” The words oozed condescension. “Highly enjoyable, for both parties. I have quite the silver tongue, or so I’ve been told.” What a pleasure to know she was still innocent for him, and not faffing about in some dark corner of Hogwarts with an idiot whelp who wouldn’t know a cunt if it hit him in the face.

Flora mused on this new erotic knowledge as she nursed her tea, gazing into the fire and ignoring the dark wizard as he stared unblinkingly at her, silently willing her to say yes, Victor, attend to me. The girl seemed quite surprised that not every act of lovemaking involved some sort of violent thrusting or tearing; feeling itchy from the information, Flora crossed her legs, curling one over the other. She then looked away from the fire and back to Rookwood, who had not moved an inch during her woolgathering, stone still and peering at her. He was acting…surprisingly pleasant this evening. Or, at least as pleasant as Victor Rookwood could be; patronizing and vulgar, of course, but he was always patronizing and vulgar. She had been waiting with bated breath for the other shoe to drop, for him to threaten her with the imperius curse, or inebriate her once again and take advantage of her state, or… something abominable. 

“A surprise you don’t simply curse me and take what you want,” the girl murmured.

“Well, the imperius curse only works with intent; perhaps I’ve come to quite enjoy that fire in your veins, and I want you, not an empty shell of yourself. I’m getting softer with age, I suppose, though I have always had a weakness for beauty.” He drank and hummed appreciatively at the pretty young lady in front of him, her red hair looking even more ablaze by the light of the fire. “How lucky you are to be the chosen object of my affections. Every woman in the Highlands is grieving over the loss, I’m sure.”

Flora highly doubted that. 

“Although…” his eyes darkened. “I do tire of you delaying the inevitable, holding on to maidenhood with an iron grip. This isn’t some death march to the gallows, darling. You’ll enjoy it. A quick hitch of pain, and then an endless field of pleasure.”

“It’s improper for a lady to lay with a man who is not her husband,” the girl recited like a mantra.

The comment made Rookwood laugh even harder than he had earlier. “Is that what this is all about? Social standards? My dear girl, if that’s your concern, we can expedite our wedding night and be married on the morrow.”

Flora met Rookwood’s gloating face with a cold scowl. “You know that’s not what I—”

“Yes, yes. So serious, aren’t you? No man on earth is so witless as to shun a woman from his bed because she has experience.” He swirled the remaining firewhisky in its glass, grin fading from his face; the room was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, wistful, as if to himself. “My mother was about your age when I was born. Became wife to the horrible man I called a father a few months prior. Social standards, indeed. I’ve never approved of them.”

Obviously, Flora thought, with all the terrible crimes under your belt. The girl set the now-empty teacup and saucer down on the floor, picking up her scarf and robe, then stood and put them on. She wanted to get away from here, and digest this very odd evening. Very odd day in general, she reminded herself. “I should take my leave—I’ve missed most of supper time already.”

The excuse snapped Rookwood out of his nostalgia. He stood as well, placing his drink down before stepping closer to her. “You will let me attend to you before you depart,” he dictated, voice husky and low. “I didn’t go through all this work for nothing . In exchange for continuing to help with your trials, and showering you with gifts that most women would swoon at, I think I deserve a little gift of my own. You must hold up your end of the agreement, after all.” 

So much for a quick chat and a cup of tea by the fire. He was towering over her again; the girl surprised herself by not immediately taking out her wand. Perhaps she was growing less frightened of him? He was cruel to her, yes, but also…vulnerable around her. Strange man. 

You’re only delaying the inevitable. Highly enjoyable for both parties. I want you. You’ll enjoy it. An endless field of pleasure. Was she going insane?

The room’s environment was charged with anticipation, and she resolved that yes, she was going insane, and finally spoke. “...Fine. You can attend—”

That was all Rookwood needed to hear before he was on her, gripping her by the wrists, pulling her into an embrace and crashing his lips into hers; the hairs on his unshaven face scratched against her skin, and she tried to say something before his tongue slipped through her lips to silence her. She felt the friction of fabric as his hardness grew and rubbed against her. His hands roamed everywhere all at once as he kissed her, cradling her face, crawling down her neck and shoulders, tracing the contour of her small breasts through her clothing, then down her ribs, stopping at her waist; he picked her up as though she was weightless, and half-hurled her onto his armchair. He was on his knees in front of her with neck-breaking speed, hoisting her hips upwards and towards him, her upper body sinking into the seat of the armchair, and he fumbled with her skirts and stockings as the backs of her knees resting on each broad shoulder, legs dangling.

“Wait—” the girl protested.

“No.” 

He finally reached that treasured spot, crumpling the fabric of skirts against her chest, little face peeking out from behind them. Rookwood admired her pale, smooth thighs; her soft stomach, adorned with a protruding navel; the auburn hair that trailed down to her untouched lips, now so lewdly uncloistered for him. He was panting heavily, hot breath tickling her, and she squirmed with sensitivity as he lowered his head to the oft-dreamt ornament—

And then he stopped upon hearing raspy, grating voices shouting in the courtyard below.

“Goblins,” the girl whispered.

“Fuck.” The wanton desire that was roiling within him churned into hot rage, and he growled, low and animalistic, warmed by boiling blood and mind clouded with violence. Rookwood swore again as he stood up, and the girl followed suit, smoothing out her skirts.

“The door,” he seethed, pointing to the ladder propped against the study wall. He waved his wand and uttered the alohamora incantation, unlocking the hatch in the ceiling for her. “Fly. I will send an owl. Go. Now.”

The girl obeyed, clamoring up the ladder into the frigid night as Rookwood stomped out of the study, hatless and coatless, towards the courtyard to exterminate the new round of vermin in his family estate.

*****

“Ranrok en’t gonna be happy about that one bit, boss.”

Rookwood met with Harlow at Falbarton Castle the following day, for their weekly discussion of business. It was a ritual that the two men had participated in for over twenty years now, and they shared a bottle of firewhisky while chatting about new developments regarding Ranrok’s loyalists, the Aswinders, the Poacher Pack, and the girl, as well as other, smaller matters. 

“Ranrok can piss off,” Rookwood spat in response. “Disgusting, mangy fiend, sending his worms twice in one day to creep around my estate like they own the place, rifling around for my girl, dipping their dirty little hands into my birthright. I’ll think up some excuse for that stone-headed arselicker.” He drank deeply from his glass to calm himself, incensed that he did not even consider apparating away with the girl, so powerful was his desire for murder in the moment. He took solace in the fact that his aim was still quite impeccable, thank you very much; not a single shot of the killing curse missed its target.

Harlow chuckled softly. “When Llewellyn told me you let the girl go, I could scarcely believe it. Still can’t, to be honest. I s’posed she wouldn’t go down without a fight, all that battlelust in her. Maybe take a finger or two of yours with her. Hope she stays quiet as she has, don’t bite the hand that feeds and make trouble for us goin’ forward. Y’ought to rut a wee ‘un on her, keep her slowed down.” The man laughed at his own joke.

“She’ll behave. Like any beast, she just needs a firm and taming hand to remind her of her place when she acts out of order,” Rookwood assured his second-in-command. “Your correspondence mentioned the boy is doing well?”

“One of the best poachers I’ve seen in all my years. Caught three hippogriffs just in the past week. Says he spied a mating pair deeper in the forest,” Harlow gushed like a proud father. “Plan to assign a group of lads under him; take ‘em to the nest, then bring the ‘griffs back here. Bit of an strange one though, en’t he? Totes that chicken ‘round everywhere. Bought an hour of a harlot’s time at Horntail, didn’t even fuck her. Just wanted to talk the whole time.” He shrugged. “New lass there, by the way. You’d like her. Pretty. Ruddy-headed. The girls at the hall have been askin’ after you; miss gettin’ spoiled whenever you’re there.”

It had been a long while since Rookwood last made an appearance there. Too long. He had been so preoccupied with his latest little plaything he didn’t even realize he was neglecting other little playthings. Besides, the rude interruption last night had left him unsatisfied; Rookwood wanted his girl more than anything, of course, but a strumpet with a good mouth on her would do the trick in the meantime.

“I’ll apparate shortly, and introduce myself. Ranrok said he posted some of his loyalists there; not mucking anything up, are they?”

“Nothin’ I’ve heard of so far. But you’ll find out shortly if they are, eh?” Harlow polished off his drink and poured himself another. “One last thing, boss. Singer’s been nosin’ around again. Lucky for us she’s the laziest auror in the country, but there’s been too many close calls of late. I’m keepin’ my eyes on Bickle and his lot; man’s kickin’ up dust again. My wand arm’s been itchin’ to off him for months.”

“Then by all means, take him out when the opportunity presents itself. Another body to decorate the gibbets in the office under The Hog’s Head, or perhaps a new inferius to guard one of our stashes.” Rookwood paused to think on what he knew of Bickle; not terribly much, in truth. He lived in…Lower Hogsfield? Yes, that was it. Had a wife, he was certain of that. Children? Not a clue. “Make it clean, Theophilus, and make certain he’s alone when you do the deed. I don’t want heat on our backs from slaughtering both a man and his wife.”

“I won’t let you down, boss.”

“You never have. Keep me updated on the hippogriffs, and if you learn anything more about that phoenix situation we discussed last month.” Rookwood stood up, chugged the firewhisky from his glass, and slapped it back down on the table. “If you need me, I will be at Horntail Hall, spoiling every whore.”

Chapter Text

The packages began to trickle in on Tuesday morning.

They were full of every type of garment imaginable, for both cool and warm weather: coats, robes, skirts, shirtwaists, vests, stockings, jumpers, boots, and more—all of them quite tasteful, and not the gaudy, flamboyant things Flora would expect Rookwood to send. None of the bundles contained correspondence, which suited her just fine; but she knew he would attempt to establish contact eventually, and that filled her with a certain sense of…dread? Shame? Both? Neither?

She was ashamed that she didn’t not like what he was about to do that night. Her body responded to it with greed, a hot wetness between her legs and a pleasant, prickly sensation jolting from her core to every inch of her body, like flames licking at her bones. It was akin to the feeling when she cast her first successful Crucio; an almost indescribable, pleasurable sense of power. However, different from torturing spiders, she felt a surge of control when this dark magician, self-described villain, and emperor of criminals became absolutely rabid with desire for her. But…Victor Rookwood? She had been stone-cold sober that night—what on earth was she thinking?

The dread of seeing him again was knowing that he’d have some smart little comment like finishing what we started, or trying to coax her into some further depravity. She had held him off so well before that night—why was she starting to slip now? Was it because she dipped her toe into the dark arts?

Flora had so many thoughts swimming in her head about Saturday: Sebastian. The Undercroft. Cruciatus. The second trial. The aftermath. Rookwood. His…affections. A fortnight or more of excitement all in one day, too dizzying to even attempt to process. She wanted to simply get away, be alone for a while, and busy herself with errands and requests to keep the intrusive memories at bay; Flora’s friends, through no fault of their own, had other ideas in mind for her.

*****

It started with Poppy. The short, spunky Hufflepuff girl took the red-headed young lady aside after beasts class Tuesday afternoon, itching to show off something in the Forbidden Forest.

“Natty was the one who told me about it,” Poppy explained as she and Flora walked along the path towards the woods. “I couldn’t believe it; had to confirm for myself. You look nice today, by the way—new robe?”

Flora thought she had a good understanding of the forest, but Poppy ran circles around her. The little Hufflepuff knew to take this path, not that one; cross this bridge, avoid those centaurs; sneak past this pond, poacher camp over there. She led the Ravenclaw deep into the forest, so dark that Flora couldn’t tell if it was still day, and the two girls stopped to squat behind a large tree, its gnarled old roots protruding up from the earth.

 “It’s in a clearing just up ahead. Cast disillusionment on yourself, and follow close behind me,” the smaller girl directed. Flora did as she was told, and the pair crouched down, stalking invisibly through the brush until a field came into view, just past the treeline of the forest; they stopped, keeping a good distance away.

In the middle of the tract of land was a giant tent, larger than any other Flora had seen in the area. She would have marveled at it more if her attention hadn’t immediately focused on the uncountable swarm of poachers, Ashwinders, and goblins that were milling around outside of it, all armed to the teeth with wands and weapons. A faint roaring reached her ears, and she briefly looked to the sky for a dragon before realizing the sound was coming from inside the tent, followed by a cacophony of cheers, boos, laughter, and other chatter.

“Poacher camp?” Flora whispered in the general direction of her companion, unable to fully see her.

“Not just any poacher camp; I overheard some of the guards, first time I saw it. It’s a dragon fighting ring,” Poppy whispered back. “Horntail Hall. Makes Rookwood loads of money, I expect. Oho—speaking of the devil himself.”

With that unmistakable top hat and garish coat, it was most certainly Rookwood who had walked out of the tent, followed closely behind by Harlow. The men stood outside of the tent’s entrance, talking about something—she craned herself forward to listen, but was too far away to hear. Flora and Poppy watched in silence for several minutes before Harlow apparated off somewhere. 

Rookwood then looked around, as if sensing that something was not…quite…right. He stared too long in their direction; the girls froze, as still as rabbits espying a hungry fox, daring not to even breathe.

We’re not here. Don’t come over here, Flora willed him away. It worked—Rookwood said something to the guard closest to him, before apparating into thin air himself.

“Come on,” Flora whispered, leading her friend back into the woods, finding a safe distance away from the clearing before returning into visibility.

“Ooh, those bastards,” Poppy growled, waving her wand at an invisible target. “I’d love nothing more than to burn that place to the ground, with Rookwood and Harlow inside. The way they’re treating those poor dragons, forcing them to fight for amusement—horrible!”

Flora understood the sentiment completely; she also understood that Poppy, having an even poorer sense of self-preservation than herself, would almost certainly try to at some point.

“Poppy, listen to me,” Flora said gravely, placing a maternal hand on the Hufflepuff’s shoulder. “You stay far away from that place, understand? Never, ever go back there. Rookwood is a dangerous man, and a powerful dark wizard. He’ll kill you without a second thought.” 

You stay out of my business, and I stay out of your business was part of the agreement; while Rookwood was unlikely to use the killing curse on Flora, she severely doubted that would be the case for any of her friends. It sounded like Natty was poking around as well, from what Poppy mentioned—Flora would need to have this same little chat with her later.

“I know that,” Poppy replied. “It’s just…I heard that you had destroyed poacher camps in the past, and—well, you and Natty are so inspiring, fighting back. I want to help too.”

If only you knew. “You’ll help by staying out of Rookwood’s sight, and never returning here. Promise me, Poppy.”

“Alright, alright,” Poppy huffed. “I promise.”

*****

Sebastian passed Flora a clandestine note while walking past her workstation during herbology class on Wednesday morning. She pocketed it, and was able to read its contents while Professor Garlick was preoccupied with comforting another student, who was sniveling about a too-close encounter with a chomping cabbage.

Meet me in the Undercroft tonight after supper. I have something to show you.

Oh? That sounded intriguing. Flora met his gaze from across the room and smiled, indicating that she would be there. She made the trek that night, just as she was asked, and found Sebastian pacing back and forth waiting for her.

“Hello, Sebastian,” she greeted.

“Hello, Flora. You look—er, grand.” His attempt to hide a quick up-and-down glance of her did not go unnoticed; the satisfaction of Sebastian finding her pleasing made the girl stand up a little straighter. Amazing what a smart new wardrobe can do.

“You mentioned you had something to show me?”

“I do. Here—watch this.” He took out his wand, and performed Accio towards the ceiling, grabbing one of the thousands of tiny spiders that crawled all around the room. With the creature on the ground in front of him, he uttered another incantation.

“Imperio.”

When Sebastian moved his wand to the right, the little spider crawled to the right; when he moved his wand to the left, it crawled to the left. He then forced the arachnid to shimmy about in a circle, as if it were doing a little dance.

“The Imperius curse,” Flora marveled, suddenly feeling a familiar arousal. “Sebastian, you’re a genius.”  

The boy blushed and let out a bashful chuckle. “Oh, well, you know—”

“Teach me,” Flora bade him; she stepped closer to lace each finger of her hands between his own. “Please. I must know how.” With two dark curses under her belt, she could level the playing field with Rookwood immensely—and, lucky for her, she still had the element of surprise.

Sebastian’s face lit up with a bright, charming smile; Flora felt a familiar cloud of exhilaration growing larger inside herself, and chased away an embarrassing fantasy in her mind’s eye of Sebastian attending to her. 

“I was hoping you’d ask,” he told her. “Alright; take out your wand. Keep in mind you’ll need to be precise with your movements.”

*****

A parcel of bloomers arrived for Flora the next morning. This was, naturally, the package that Rookwood decided to affix a note to.

Tomorrow. Ten. The Hog’s Head. Dress up for me.

Flora wondered if he was there every Friday, at the same time, in the same spot. Why was he even able to lurk freely around Hogsmeade, anyway? Surely Officer Singer would notice him? After all, subtle was a strong word when it came to Victor Rookwood.

Her friend Natsai—or Natty, as the girl preferred to be called—had the answer. She took Flora by the hand after charms class, and spirited her away to a clandestine corner of the castle, where they could talk in relative privacy.

“Natty, I’ve been meaning to speak with you—”

“And I you, my friend. I was exploring near the castle grounds recently, and found this.”

The Gryffindor girl handed Flora a folded piece of parchment, who then opened it; the bounty letter. This notice, however, had a reward of eight thousand galleons.

“Oh, this must be an older version. The one I found was for ten thousand galleons.”

Natty stared at her. “You know about this?”

The Ravenclaw looked down at her boots for a moment, sheepish, wishing she had bitten her tongue. “How did you even get this, Natty? Poppy told me you’ve been snooping around Rookwood’s lot. You need to stay away from them.”

“No,” the other girl replied, with intense determination in her accented voice. “I will do no such thing. I have been collecting evidence against Rookwood and Harlow—I cannot stand men like them, poaching creatures, extorting shopkeepers, harassing innocents. I have spoken with Officer Singer, and she told me she will take care of it, but it has been months. I even see Harlow walking around Hogsmeade occasionally. I do not understand why she allows it.”

It was now Flora’s turn to stare at Natty. Months of evidence…?

“Officer Singer did tell me about a man who lives in Lower Hogsfield—Mister Bickle,” The Gryffindor continued. “It sounds like he is also collecting information against Rookwood and Harlow. I was hoping you would go there with me tomorrow, and we can speak with him together. Ten thousand galleons is a lot of money—perhaps Mister Bickle will know why they have this bounty on your head.”

All of this made Flora apprehensive. What if Mister Bickle knew something about her agreement with Rookwood, and Natty found out? She couldn’t let that happen.

“I’ll go with you. Until tomorrow, Natty.”

*****

Happily, Flora did not need to worry about her deepest, darkest secret being shared with Natty; unhappily, the reason was because Mister Bickle was dead, and his son was missing.

The two girls arrived in Lower Hogsfield to a scene of absolute chaos. A sobbing, frantic woman, holding a little girl of perhaps two, was being consoled by an older lady in front of the house closest to the village entrance. The door to the house was open, and Flora spied something that looked like a body on the floor, covered with a sheet. People were scrambling about in all directions, inside and outside of the hamlet, searching for something. She remembered thinking once upon a time that this little village was so charming, quaint and quiet and sleepy; now, it was anything but. Flora and Natty walked towards the center of the village, where a gruff-looking older man was directing the other villagers.

“What happened here?” Flora asked him.

“A murder. Dark wizards, we suspect. And the Bickle boy, Archie, lost from the village—might’ve been a witness, and was kidnapped.”

Flora and Natty looked at each other, then back at the man.

“Mister Bickle is dead?” Natty asked.

“Aye. Dangerous times, it is. We need some eyes on the southern road, if you lassies want to aid in the search.”

The girls agreed without a second thought, and shuffled out of the village to walk along the path, shouting the boy’s name. Flora briefly considered hopping on her broom to search from above before another thought entered her mind.

“Oh!” She gasped.

“What is it?” 

“I have a friend who sells his wares not too far up ahead. We should speak with him; perhaps he saw Archie.”

*****

“Hello, Arn!” Flora hailed the goblin merchant, standing next to one of his carts on the side of the road. The cart was covered with a woolen blanket, lumpy with piles of goods underneath.

“My word, if it isn’t miss Flora! Always a pleasure to see you,” he greeted, wringing his hands with some trepidation.

“Your friend is a…goblin?” Natty whispered to the Ravenclaw, who simply turned to her and smiled.

“Arn, this is Natty.” She gestured to the other girl.

“Hello,” said the Gryffindor. Flora certainly keeps some strange company.

“Arn, there was a murder in Lower Hogsfield,” the red-headed girl continued. “And a kidnapping. A little boy. Have you seen anyone come up this road? A boy, a wizard or witch, anyone?”

A muffled peep sounded out from the cart; all three heads turned to look at it.

“It’s alright,” said the goblin. “Miss Flora is a nice witch. You can come out.”

There was a rustling from beneath the blanket, and the cart creaked with movement when something hopped down from the back of it and into the grass. The face of a little boy, maybe six years old, peeked out from behind the cart. 

The two girls beheld the boy with their mouths open. “Archie?” They asked in unison. He nodded, and walked out from behind the cart to stand next to Arn. 

“This little one was being chased by a wizard,” Arn explained. “Positively terrified, crying and running on the path. You know how softhearted I am, miss Flora—I waved him over and he hid in the cart. I pretended to be doing some painting, and the wizard didn’t even stop to look my way—not unusual for your kind.”

“Arn, you’re amazing,” Flora breathed, marveling at the merchant’s quick thinking.

“I figured he was from the village, but couldn’t bring him back myself, because…well, I don’t think the villagers would believe that a goblin helped a human boy,” Arn continued to explain. “They’d chase me away, or worse. Wizardkind nowadays thinks we all support Ranrok. I’m thankful you don’t feel the same, miss Flora.”

“I understand,” Flora nodded, and smiled kindly at him. She took out her small bag of coins out of her coat and handed it to the goblin. “It’s not much, but…here. Natty and I will take him home.”

Arn began to protest, but the young woman insisted, and he thanked her before pocketing the coin purse; Natty bent down to be level with the little boy, and spoke softly to him.

“Archie, Can you tell us what happened? Why was a man chasing you?”

“My papa…” the boy sniffled.

“Let’s not press him,” Flora told the Gryffindor girl, not wanting to force the day’s trauma back on the boy. She thanked Arn again, and the trio of humans departed, walking in silence back to Lower Hogsfield.

*****

Missus Bickle—Johanna, she insisted the girls call her—had an answer. Theophilus Harlow. She spat his name out as if it left a dreadful taste in her mouth.

Flora knew of Harlow, but had never properly met him; he was close to Rookwood, but that was about all she could glean of him. When the girls took their leave of Lower Hogsfield and walked back towards Hogwarts, she asked Natty about him.

“Do you know anything about Harlow?”

“An awful man. A liar, poacher, murderer, and thief. He is Rookwood’s second-in-command, and runs his day to day operations. I do not know much more than that. We will take him down soon enough—Rookwood, too.”

The roof of Professor Howin’s hut had just come into view when they spied a young lady in Hufflepuff robes barreling towards them, waving her arms high and yelling hysterically.

“Is that… Poppy?” Natty asked aloud.

As the Hufflepuff raced closer, Flora could see that it was indeed Poppy; the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor girls broke out in a run to meet her.

“There…you two…are,” Poppy panted, stooping down to place her hands on her knees and catch her breath before speaking again. “Highwing—and Caligo—they’ve taken them—”

“Slow down, Poppy,” Flora instructed.

The smaller girl took a deep breath before she stood upright once more. “Poachers! They took Highwing and Caligo! I went to visit them—saw wagons and cages, so I hid in the bushes. I tried to follow, but couldn’t keep up—I don’t know where they are! You have to help me, please—both of you. Oh, if they were to get hurt, I couldn’t bear it—”

“It’s alright, Poppy. Everything will be fine,” Natty reassured her. “Of course we will help you look for them. Right, Flora?”

The two friends gazed at her with such hope and admiration that Flora felt like a monster for even hesitating. Just like a Gryffindor to jump into trouble without thinking of the consequences, she thought in a fit of pique.

You stay out of my business, and I stay out of your business. Rookwood wanted to meet in just a few hours.

“Do you trust me?” Flora asked.

The two other girls nodded in tandem.

“Then give me a little time—I’ll get them back. I have a plan.”

*****

“My goodness, don’t you look absolutely stunning tonight? Blue really is your color, darling.”

Flora stood in front of an approving Rookwood, having dressed herself to the nines by donning a Ravenclaw-blue winter robe over a black woolen skirt and pristine white shirtwaist, lacing up a shiny pair of boots over her dark grey stockings. She had even added a little color to her lips and cheeks, hoping to appease the man enough into granting her what she wanted.

Thankfully, this excursion to The Hog’s Head was not a repeat of the last time Flora had been here; there was plenty of seating available, and Rookwood was posted at his usual table in the back corner, with an empty chair opposite him. She moved to sit in it—and then had to skip backwards out of the way when it moved itself directly beside him with an Accio, the wooden legs scraping against the floorboards. He patted the seat.

“What a pleasure to see you looking like a highborn young woman,” Rookwood cooed as she settled into the chair. “Those horrid school clothes they dole out would make even a Veela look like a scraggly raggamuffin. Such a disservice to yourself, wearing those rags.” two tankards and pints of firewhisky floated over and placed themselves on the table. 

Flora took a drink of ale to stop herself from making some biting quip in return. Humor him. Instead, she simply and quietly uttered, “The clothes are all lovely. Thank you, Victor.” She even said his name in a normal cadence, unlike the barbed accent she usually threw at him.

Rookwood regarded her with genuine surprise on his face. “Highborn young woman indeed! We didn’t even need to prompt you to mind your manners.” He gulped down his firewhisky, then leaned closer and draped his arm around her shoulders. “So; staying out of trouble? Regularly attending your classes?”

“Yes, Victor.”

“Good girl. Heard anything from your little keeper friends?”

“No, Victor.” Flora even fluttered her eyelashes at him—she was being surprisingly docile this evening.

Too docile.

Rookwood squeezed his hand against her shoulder. “I can tell you want something from me, poppet. I’m not some fat-headed schoolboy waiting for his bollocks to drop,” he said in a low tone. “Out with it.”  

Flora dithered for a moment. She could tell him about Harlow bungling the kidnapping of Archie in exchange for the hippogriffs; but no, that might put the Bickle family more at risk. Best to pocket that information for later. He won’t give me something for nothing. She drank the firewhisky in front of her to calm her nerves, and the empty glass refilled itself.

“Victor.” She breathed his name in a clumsy attempt at seduction. “I know there were two hippogriffs caught today. I want them.”

Rookwood took his arm off her, leaning away to study her face before narrowing his eyes. “How do you know about that? Who have you been talking to?” He asked quickly.

“‘Any girlish whim or fanciful yearning,’” Flora recited, ignoring his questions. “Please, Victor?”

“I believe we also agreed that you would stay out of my business,”  he told her. “The answer is no, poppet.”

“But—” she began to protest.

“I said no, my darling. Were you asking for any other wild beast I would oblige you, and gladly; but I have sunk too much time, money, and manpower into those birds to just give them away. I’ll get you half a dozen mooncalves, or a pride of kneazles instead.” He brought the tankard of ale to his lips and drank, indicating that he would like to entertain no more of this conversation.

Flora pouted; this certainly wasn’t the direction she wanted things to go. Annoyed, the girl gulped down nearly all of her ale while glaring at Rookwood. There must be some way. Poppy was counting on her.

Poppy. Dragon fighting ring. Horntail Hall. Perhaps…?

“Are you a gambling man? What if we made a wager?”

That got Rookwood’s attention. He placed his tankard on the table and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He most certainly was a gambling man; he pondered this proposal for a moment, then grinned from ear to ear. “I hope you understand what you’re getting into, poppet. I play for very high stakes, and seldom lose.”

He wore a hunger that told Flora precisely what she would be putting on the table; she downed another shot of firewhisky, anxious to hear further terms of this wager.

“They are being held at Falbarton Castle. You have one full day to make your attempt— without dispatching any of my men. No spells; let’s see you use some of that famous Ravenclaw wit instead. I warn you, my dear, the odds are not in your favor. Theophilus won’t let those hippogriffs go without a fight. But, if you miraculously manage to recover the birds, you may keep them. Should you lose—”

“I know what you want from me.” You’ve been pestering me about it for weeks, you lecher.

“Such a clever girl.” Rookwood’s grin grew impossibly larger. “We will meet again tomorrow; same time, same place. We will apparate somewhere more comfortable from here, but we will apparate, whether you are ready or not, and I will find you, whether you are here or not.”

Awfully presumptive, aren’t you? Flora thought.

“In fact,” Rookwood continued, “I think I might need something to ensure your return.” He held out his hand. “Your journal.”

Flora was…amenable to this, she supposed. She hadn’t had time to write in it over the course of her busy Friday, so Rookwood would not be able to learn anything about Archie Bickle and Harlow’s botched kidnapping attempt. The only bit of information she held some reservations about was an entry from a few days ago, regarding Horntail Hall. She did write quite heavily about how dangerous it was, and it’s not like Rookwood knew Poppy, or what she looked like; Flora was the first person to admit that her drawing skills needed vast improvement. She took out her journal and handed it off; Rookwood pocketed it for a bit of light reading over the course of the next twenty-four hours.

“Very well. I agree to your terms.” Flora raised her tankard; Rookwood met it with his own, and they both drank. The wager was on.

*****

Flora exchanged sleep for time, zooming off to Falbarton Castle as soon as she left Hogsmeade—how fortunate to have been gifted such a swift and lovely broom. She pulled on the handle to fly upwards, as high as she could go, and cast a quick Revelio; the silhouettes of poachers appeared, milling about on the battlements and in the courtyard, where the girl also spied two large cages with winged beasts inside. Aha.

Landing straight into the courtyard proper would draw too much attention; she would almost certainly be attacked on sight. Flora instead opted to land a few meters outside of the castle’s portcullis. Apparating her broom away, she peered closer at the large, wooden door in the entranceway; two guards, standing on each side of it. A chicken was strutting around the shorter poacher on the left hand side—the boy from Feldcroft. Rookwood had mentioned his name once, that day he let her go free; what was it again? Something long and Welsh. Gwillym? No. Llewellyn? Yes, that was it. He seemed quite fond of Rookwood, from the short amount of time they were in each other’s presence before she raced back to Feldcroft. Hmm. Perhaps she could use Rookwood’s name, and fool the boy into letting her inside?

The girl marched right up to the front of the castle where the two poachers were standing, and put her hands on her hips; their heads snapped to her immediately.

“Who the hell’re you?” Asked the poacher on the right. He was an older, portly man, with a large scar across his nose and cheek.

“M—Mister Rookwood’s girl,” Llewellyn recognized. His frame shriveled a bit upon seeing her, as if he were frightened. Good.

“That’s correct,” said Flora imperiously. “Victor—Mister Rookwood to you two—has asked me to come here on his behalf, and transport the two hippogriffs you are holding here. They are needed elsewhere. Take me to Harlow, quickly.”

The two poachers simply stared at her.

“I said quickly,” she hissed. “We don’t want to keep Victor waiting, do we?”

The older poacher chuckled. “Look ‘ere, love, just ‘cause the boss is sweet on you don’t make you lady of the manor. If Mister Rookwood wants these birds as bad as you say, he can go through the proper protocol, like he always does.”

Flora pointed to Llewellyn. “This boy can speak for me; he’s seen me with Victor before. Isn’t that right, Llewellyn?”

“Oh! Er—” He sputtered, not expecting to be addressed by name. “Well, yes…but…”

Flora sensed this conversation was fated to go in circles. Mister Rookwood’s girl. Lady of the manor. 

Highwing and Caligo, you’d better be worth this.

Flora cradled a non-existent bump in her stomach and sighed, feigning distress. “I cannot believe this—I am indeed lady of the manor, expecting Victor’s heir to be born next Summer. What am I to tell him when our child, destined to be the most powerful wizard in ages, is lost because I went into hysterics? All because I was prevented by you two moonminds from following his very clear orders. Victor will hear of this, I can assure you both—and he speaks so highly of you, Llewellyn. What a shame if you were to fall out of his favor.”

The poachers turned to gawk dumbly at each other; Llewellyn grimaced at the scar-faced man. “I don’t want to get on Mister Rookwood’s bad side...Or hers, with that magic…”

The older man seemed less convinced. “The boss would’ve sent word ahead.” He turned to address Flora. “If this is a trick, Harlow’ll make quick work of you, girl.”

“And Victor will make quick work of you when I tell him what happened here tonight. Llewellyn, escort me to Harlow, please; if I am in this man’s presence any longer, I fear Victor’s child shall come to grief.”

“Er…yes, miss—Missus Rookwood. I think Harlow is still awake; this way.”

I can’t believe that actually worked. Do these dunderheads not know how to count months? Flora fought the urge to retch at being addressed as Missus Rookwood; pity to the poor woman who ever took on that title.

Llewellyn scooped up his chicken and gestured for her to follow him; she did so, exchanging a glare with the other poacher on guard while passing by, not giving into the temptation to stick her tongue out at him. The younger boy led the Ravenclaw girl up a stone staircase leading onto one of the battlements, and the two made their way towards a tower in the back of the castle.

“I didn’t know Mister Rookwood was even married. That was awful quick,” Llewellyn commented.

Flora snorted at having to keep up this charade. “Yes. Elopement. Very secret.”

“Merlin’s beard…Missus Rookwood, I’m awful sorry about what happened in Feldcroft, cursing you and all…Mister Rookwood was in such a state about finding you, y’see—”

“It’s fine.” It was not, in fact, fine, but she did not want to speak with this boy any more than she had to. Llewellyn did not take the hint.

“Makes sense to me now—Mister Rookwood, wanting a babe with that magic of yours. Powerful stuff. Scary, if I’m honest. You turned Mister Michaels here into a chicken.” The bird under his arm clucked. “D’you reckon you can turn him back?”

“No.” Flora had never even considered trying, but she certainly wasn’t going to perform any favors for the lad. 

Llewellyn’s face fell. “Oh. Shame, that. Well, Mister Harlow’s quarters are just up ahead…”

The pair shuffled a few more paces forward, and came upon a large wooden door leading into the tower; Llewellyn knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Still no answer.

The boy smacked his palm rapidly against the door and hollered: “Mister Harlow!”

Someone behind the door cursed loudly, and there was a rustling sound before it swung open to reveal Theophilus Harlow in the flesh—or rather, in his nightclothes. Flora stifled a giggle.

“Llewellyn, boy, it’s the dead of night—” He stopped, recognizing Flora. “The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

“Mister Rookwood sent his bride to speak with you about the hippogriffs,” Llewellyn explained.

Harlow squinted. “His what?”

Flora glared at the boy out of the corner of her eye before greeting Harlow with a smug grin. “Hello, Theophilus. Might I have a word alone?”

Harlow furrowed his brow and stared at the girl, then to the boy, then back at the girl again. “Feckin’—ugh, fine. Stay right there, lad.”

“Yessir,” Llewellyn replied with happy obedience.

“You. Girl. In.” Harlow pointed to his quarters inside. Flora crossed the threshold, speaking as soon as the door closed.

“I know about the Bickle boy.”

The way Harlow’s face fell upon hearing the words was so, so satisfying. “You—what…?”

“Mister Bickle’s son, and witness to his murder. A murder on your hands, I’m told. I don’t think Victor would be very happy if he were to learn about what a shoddy job you did, leaving loose ends like that. Lucky for you, this can be our little secret, if you let me leave here with those two hippogriffs in the courtyard.”

Harlow’s round, pudgy face turned bright red, very much reminiscent of a tomato. “You blackmailin’ me? I ought to kill you where you stand, girl.”  He began to pace back and forth, hands clasped together behind his back; he mumbled something that sounded like Rookwood’s bride indeed before addressing her again. “You are very, very lucky the boss is so starry-eyed over that cunny of yours. Just what am I s’posed to tell him, exactly? Your bird’s stolen the birds?”

The girl shrugged. “He knows I’m here. We made a wager.”

“Are you feckin’—” The second-in-command stopped pacing, and thought for a moment. “Y’know what? Fine. Fine. You en’t got a clue what you’re gettin’ yourself into, do you, Missus Rookwood? You think he’s gonna be happy about this? Think he’s gonna pat you on the head and say good job, love? ”

“Well, no, but…” she trailed off, the smug grin fading from her face. But my friends are counting on me. I don’t have a choice. Suddenly, Flora regretted this wager; it seemed that regardless of the outcome, Rookwood had won. She only wanted to protect Natty and Poppy, who would have aided her without a second thought—and look where acting alone got her.

“You think you won your little bet? Idiot girl. Take your feckin’ birds and get out—hope they’re worth whatever it is the boss has in store for you, Missus Rookwood.”

*****

Flora felt like the most witless Ravenclaw in existence as she dragged her feet to The Hog’s Head Saturday evening. She could just…not meet him, never see him again, but her field guide was part of her extracurricular studies; she had to get it back. If she explained that to Rookwood, would he be lenient? Probably not. The girl came to terms with the fact that she had grown complacent around him. He had been relatively kind to her yesterday, and at their meeting before that, with his concupiscent attentions and attempt to attend to her—not to mention providing heaps of gifts throughout the week. At least Poppy was happy; the Hufflepuff girl hugged Flora so hard that she felt like a rock hosting a limpet. The two friends agreed to keep them in a vivarium in the Room of Requirement, where Highwing and Caligo could rebuild their nest in serene peace, and avoid another unhappy incident.

Standing at the front door to the seedy tavern at the end of the lane, Flora wiped away her fearful tears, took a deep breath, hid her wand in the right sleeve of her robe—preparing to fight back, if that was what it came to—and opened the door.

…He wasn’t there. No one was there; the tavern was completely empty. Flora took out her wand—

“Crucio.”

—And before the girl could even form a thought, she was writhing on the floor, her vision entirely white in momentary blindness, drifting in and out of tortured consciousness. In some of her more lucid moments, she felt herself being carried; heard the sound of a rushing stream, and footsteps on wood; smelled the damp, musty odor of a dungeon, or some similar underground room. She heard herself cry out when she was slammed supine against something wooden, flat and hard;  then, the unfortunately familiar sensation of being nude and bound at the wrists and ankles. Her body began to convulse, muscles spasming, teeth chattering, breath growing rapid and heavy from primal panic; she felt a hand gently brush the side of her head, and someone shushed her.

Flora thought she blinked, but must have fainted. Upon the slow return to clarity, she attempted to sit up; her body, weak and weary, did not react. The girl’s vision slowly became clearer, and she lay on her back, head turned to the side, focusing on what she could see of the room—a strange place. Ornately decorated, with beautiful murals and lush velvet drapery of chartreuse green. She heard the crackle of fire, feeling a comfortable heat at the crown of her head; a fireplace behind her, she assumed. A tall and stately chair sat in front of her, elaborately carved from beautiful dark wood and upholstered with red leather; two matching chaises were against the wall behind it, flanked by two small cells with suspicious sanguine splatters on the walls and floor. Above them—gibbets hanging from the ceiling, with corpses in various states of decomposition locked inside each one.

Oh no. No, no, no. Flora squirmed and wriggled in vain, desperate to free herself of her bonds; and then there were footsteps, growing louder and louder as they drew closer and closer; the girl hissed in pain through gritted teeth when a hand wrapped itself in her hair and yanked, forcing her to look upwards and to the left, directly at the gibbet with a desiccated, wizened corpse inside.

“Quiz time, poppet.” Rookwood’s voice echoed through the room. “What trespass did this man commit against me?”

“I…I don’t…know—” 

“Think,” he barked, pulling her hair harder. She gasped at the pain searing her scalp.

“I—mutiny—”

“Wrong. Embezzlement. He thought he was smarter than me, and didn’t think he would get caught skimming off my profits from Horntail Hall. You know, poppet; my dragon fighting ring, as you so aptly described in your journal.” Rookwood swiveled her head violently in the opposite direction; another gibbet, with a fresher body inside—a middle-aged woman, head shaved and wearing a tattered Ashwinder uniform. 

“This one?”

Not having much knowledge of criminality, Flora resorted to saying the first word that passed through her mind. “S—slander…?”

“Wrong. Counterfeiting. She thought she could outwit me, and made false copies of my family crest—which I only give to those who earn my favor.”

Rookwood forced her head back in such a way that she was now gazing at him upside-down, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He hoisted a skull so closely in front of her face that it caused her to flinch; the bone was discolored and weathered, as if it had been without flesh for decades.

“And who was this wretched man?” Rookwood asked her.

Who would Victor Rookwood hate more than anyone? She tried to think back to every word of every conversation, as best as her mind could at the present moment. He has obvious moments of love for his mother…

“Your—father…?”

“Well done, darling. Although, I’m afraid that’s one out of three; you failed the quiz.” Rookwood tutted. “How lucky for you that I am a merciful teacher, and will allow some extra credit for my bright little Ravenclaw. Or should I refer to you as wife? Elopement, I’m told, with a child on the way. Quite the miracle, considering your condition.”

“Victor—please. I can explain—”

Flora gasped with relief when Rookwood let go of her hair to pile his coat, hat, and father’s skull on the nearby chair; she doubled over briefly before he was on top of her with a dazzling and inhuman speed, using the weight of his body to pin her down. She gazed up at him, feeling flayed alive by the cold stare of his unblinking blue eyes.

“I have been very patient with you,” he rasped into her ear. “Others have fallen to my wand for much lesser allowances than I have granted you. Do not play with me, girl." 

He kissed the side of her face, then nibbled on the lobe of her ear; she burned with shame as her own body responded with terrible betrayal, forming a wetness between her thighs. Rookwood’s familiar stiffness pressed against her through the cloth of his trousers.

“I tire of watching you play the witless little coquette, prancing about the Highlands without a care in the world, lifting your skirts for some empty-headed schoolboy who looks down at his cock and wonders what it’s for. You are mine.” He moaned into the junction where her neck and shoulder met. “Say it.”

“I—I’m yours…” 

Rookwood groaned at the response, searing her skin with kisses up her neck and along her jaw. A hand slithered down her body, fondling a small breast, trailing down the swell of her hip, then stopping to rub her thigh. 

“Are you still whole for me? Are you still entire?” He did not wait for an answer; Flora’s breath hitched when a probing finger forced itself inside her, pushing so far into her core that she felt dizzy. This is real. This is actually happening. When the digit finally began to withdraw, she felt the walls of herself squeeze every retreating joint, and mewled at the sensation.

“Good girl,” Rookwood murmured. He brought the dew-coated finger to his mouth, tasting her ambrosial wetness, and hoisted himself upwards to his knees, fiddling with the waistband of his trousers. “Shall we act on this little fantasy of yours? Will you beg for every inch of me? Plead for me to fill you? Pray for my seed to take purchase? Why, we could even draft paperwork with the Ministry, with you so keen to be my bride.”

You aren’t fighting back. Why aren’t you fighting back? She explained to herself that she was addled and feeble from the aftermath of the curse; the dark voice in the back of her mind opposed her. You’ll enjoy it. A quick hitch of pain, and then an endless field of pleasure.

Flora said nothing as she watched him fish out his arousal, engorged and incarnadine; he then lay upon her once more, prying her thighs open to position himself at her entrance. She held her breath and closed her eyes in anticipation; his lips crashed against hers, driving his tongue into her mouth, his facial hair prickly against her skin. Rookwood tore himself away to admire that face, flushed and rosy and so very beautiful.

“Look at me,” he bade her. She obeyed, opening those gorgeous eyes for him, greener than the sea.

“Mine.” 

He bucked his hips forward, slowly inching into her—the girl’s face contorted, and she cried out. It was a tormenting, torturous pace for both parties, although for very different reasons. She was so tight for him, so soft and warm and perfect that it took every atom of his being not to rush himself into climax. They moaned in unison when his member met with her resistance; there was a pinch, and then a surge of heat as he pressed onward, deeper, until he was hilted into her entirely. 

The symphony of sensations made Flora light-headed. Pain, pleasure, agony, ecstasy—she loved it; she hated it. She wanted it to stop; she wanted it to never end. Victor Rookwood was inside her, setting a rhythm by partly pulling out, then thrusting back in, pace quickening with each movement. The room echoed with the carnal sound of skin slapping against skin; she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

“My name—say it—” Rookwood panted, his brow beaded with sweat. A hand caressed her breast, pinching and teasing its pink bud; the hand then traveled south to perform the same action on another bud above her entrance. The euphoria was too much; she lost herself, and became boneless. Wonderfully, blissfully boneless.

“Victor—” 

Rookwood’s movements grew faster, more erratic, until he roared and thrust so deeply inside her that Flora felt as if she had been impaled. He collapsed on top of her, catching his breath, basking in the afterglow of coitus; they both sighed when he removed himself, leaving her hollow. He stood, tucking his flaccid phallus back into his trousers and drinking in the erotic sight of her on his desk; naked and bound, darling little face peering up at him, her chest and face flushed red, thighs still lewdly splayed open, entrance marked with the evidence of defloration—a mixture of her blood and his seed, pooling onto the wood below her. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, absentmindedly and aloud.

Flora did not feel beautiful; she felt…wet, mostly, from perspiration on her skin and fluid between her legs. It happened. It’s done. Did she feel any different? More adult, maybe? Not really; she just felt wet, and sticky, and tired.

*****

Rookwood cleaned her up with a wave of his wand, her body clothed once more, yet still bound; she huffed at this, which made him laugh as he took a small purple vial out of his pocket, uncorked it, and held it to her lips.

“Drink.”

Flora pursed her lips with distrust; he laughed again.

“Unless you do want a little Rookwood nursing on you next Summer…?”

Her eyes grew large. Absolutely not. She opened her mouth, swallowing every last drop. She felt less sore and weak; the potion must have had some healing properties as well. Rookwood hummed, pleased with her obedience.

“Your journal and wand are in a chest next to the entrance. I will let you leave here—after we have a little chat.”

Flora nodded. Anything to get out of here.

“Your Hufflepuff friend—the girl who showed you Horntail Hall.” He pocketed the empty vial and turned around, grabbing his coat off the chair and putting it back on. “Poppy Sweeting. Cute little thing, from what I can remember—though she was probably five or six at the time.”

Flora must have looked not unlike an owl, with how large her eyes had widened; she could only stare at Rookwood, stunned as she digested his words. He knows…Poppy…? 

There was that annoying smirk on his face; it seemed to appear whenever he took delight in vexing her. “Oh, poppet. You don’t know, do you? And to think, you wrote quite a bit about what close friends you are. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret: she was a poacher once—or rather, the daughter of poachers. Known to my men, having grown up in camps for most of her life; what a shame it would be if something were to happen to her, sniffing around the Hall. But, I’m sure her good friend Flora wouldn’t let anything befall her. Right, poppet?”

“Don’t,” responded Flora quickly. “Please. I’ll make sure she stays away—just don’t hurt her.” Flora looked up at one of the gibbets dangling from the ceiling, briefly imagining the Hufflepuff girl inside one; she shook her head, forcing the image out of her mind.

Rookwood’s smirk became vulturous. “That, my dear, is entirely up to you. If you continue to be a good girl for me, and meet with me when I send for you, she will be perfectly safe. But, if you decide to once more entangle yourself in my business…well. She’ll make a lovely decoration here in my office. Do you understand, my darling? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Flora repeated, feeling a tear run down her cheek. “Victor.”

Chapter Text

The week crawled by. Flora used this time to come to terms with her loss of innocence at the hands of Victor Rookwood, and attempt to process her feelings on the matter. She received a parcel from him the Wednesday following the incident, along with a brief note.

An early seventeenth birthday present for my dear little poppet. December 6th—next Saturday. More to come. Take good care of this. It belonged to my mother.

He really did read her journal front to back, didn’t he? Of course he knew her birthday; probably counting the hours until she reached majority, not that it ultimately mattered to him. Inside the package was a necklace, beautifully designed, wrought with silver and inlaid with sapphires and diamonds. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it; though lovely looking, it felt like a collar around her neck. She stowed the bauble in the bottom drawer of her dresser, hiding it from herself; to look upon it conjured the memories of what had been done.

She wasn’t a girl anymore, but she still felt like one, unable to make heads or tails of the swirling emotions; her body and mind were at odds with each other. It felt nice. You enjoyed it. You didn’t say no. But you didn’t have a choice. He wouldn’t have stopped even if you did. Thank Merlin he at least gave her a contraceptive potion to drink, and let her leave what he called his office under The Hog’s Head— torture chamber, more like. If she were to ever be the vessel housing Rookwood’s heir, she resolved to end her misery by her own hand, and toss herself over the side of a cliff; hopefully she would still have the agency to do so, should such a nightmare come to pass. No. It will never come to pass.

Her spirits perked up a small bit on Thursday, when the keepers finally summoned her for the third trial; finally, something to do that could get her mind off of Rookwood. Flora and Professor Fig made their way to the map chamber that evening. He noticed the newfound introversion worn by his protégée, and tried to gently broach the subject.

“My dear, is everything alright? You’ve been unusually reserved lately.” He stopped the young woman mid-stride before they entered the chamber, placing a paternal hand on her shoulder. “I hope you know that you can speak with me freely, and without judgment, if anything is bothering you.”

“It’s just…so much. The trials, and Ranrok, and…life.” A vague yet honest answer.

“You bear a heavy burden,” Professor Fig nodded. “But you are a very bright student, and a powerful witch. You are stronger than you know.”

Such a kind man. The words brought Flora to tears, who was not feeling very bright, or powerful, or strong. Her mentor hugged her, grandfatherly, as he consoled her; he smelled comforting, like a library filled with old books, ink, and parchment. 

*****

Another package arrived on Sunday, the last day of the month of November. Earrings, this time, and correspondence. 

I miss you, my darling. Continue to stay out of trouble. I will send you instructions to meet with me shortly. Enjoy these in the meantime.

The stones matched the previously-sent necklace, sapphires haloed with smaller diamonds; a little too large and showy for Flora’s taste, which meant they were perfectly in line with Rookwood’s sense of style. She shoved them in her dresser next to the other jewels. And that note…he misses her? Misses having a little doll to toy with, more like. A puppet he can control with a pull of her strings.

Finishing the third trial did put more of a spring in her step; pretending to be Headmaster Black was quite a fun little exercise in acting. And Professor Fitzgerald’s pensieve memory—a strange thing. She had never really put much thought towards Isidora Morganach before, but being shown that power to take away pain gave her some pause. Did Flora have this power herself?

She cuddled up in a comfortable nook of the Room of Requirement and re-read some of her past journal entries regarding the trials, and the keepers, and their pensieve memories, trying to glean more information on Isidora and create a cohesive timeline of events by taking notes.

Born in a small hamlet

Started school late - like me & Professor Rackham

Became DaDA Professor

Showed keepers how to take away pain - father as example. Keepers disagreed

Tried to convince Professor Fitzgerald - took away pain without consent.

Without consent. That gnawed at Flora’s mind. There were certainly a lot of gaps in the information here. She attempted to decipher her own terrible drawing of Isidora’s little hamlet, drawn from memory weeks ago–-the only thing she could really make out was a well. Yes, that tickled the wisp of a memory. The keepers, on a cliff, overlooking a small hamlet that seemed familiar but couldn’t quite be placed. 

*****

The unholy tirade Ominis unleashed on Flora and Sebastian in the Undercroft lasted at least two hours. Just when he seemed to be done chiding them about how the dark arts seem harmless until it’s too late, he would pipe up again with it’s to be avoided, it’s too risky, it’s not to be trifled with, there’s always a cost. He forced them to promise they would never use any of the curses again.

“We promise,” the pair told him, meekly and in unison; Ominis marched out of the Undercroft, sighing like a father who had scolded his naughty children. Flora and Sebastian, now alone, turned to each other.

“Well…I suppose it was only a matter of time before he found out,” Sebastian shrugged. “Not quite sure how he managed, though.”

“Ominis is very intuitive,” was Flora’s response. She appreciated this fact about him; he had a wisdom beyond his years, and a precise, fixed sense of justice most people never cultivated at any point in their life, let alone in their teenage years. He was originally cool to her, but had since seemed to be warming up, this little hiccup notwithstanding.

Sebastian idly kicked at a loose stone on the floor. “Bugger. I’ve been practicing down here for weeks just fine—they’re only spiders. Nothing lost there. No cost.”

This seemed like a good time to segue into a subject Flora had been wanting to delicately address for some time. “Sebastian…when you use the curses…how does it make you— feel?”

The Slytherin boy stopped his idle stone-kicking and focused all his attention on her; the wide-eyed look on his face suggested that he didn’t expect this question. “Oh—well, y’know…exciting. Powerful. Like a deep, dormant thing wakes up inside me. Something that was always there, but I never knew. Kind of like…” He chuckled before continuing. “Like…how I felt when you showed me your bloomers, for helping you sneak into the restricted section— exhilarating. I liked that.”

The boy and the girl formed identical, rosy hues of blush, so deep in color that the freckles on both faces were completely concealed. Each of them took a step forward towards each other, standing close but daring not to make another move.

“I understand,” Flora breathed. “The feeling of power. Of desire.”

The uttered word was a key that opened a locked door. The pair embraced, closing every small gap between them, and Sebastian kissed her, chastely, sweetly, unpracticed, his lips soft against her own. She ran her fingers through his chocolate-brown hair; his hands roamed all over her, artless, charming in their inexperience. He pulled himself away from her, making room between them but keeping his hands on her hips.

“Will you come to Feldcroft with me soon? Before the new year?” He asked. “Please? I know you’re probably…cagey about it, with last time. But you can protect yourself with two curses now, and—and Anne so desperately wants to see you again. There’s a tomb near the village that I want to explore, as well. I think there’s something in it that can help her sickness, but I need a little more time to research. Please come with me.” He kissed her again. 

“Of course.” The words were spoken without a second thought, and she returned his kiss.

*****

It was three days before Flora’s birthday when another parcel arrived, smaller than the other two that had recently been sent. She opened it and growled so fiercely that some of the birds in the owlery ruffled their feathers at the disturbance, hooting with displeasure. Another piece of jewelry—this one a ring, with a large sapphire set in the center, flanked by smaller, bright white diamonds set on a silver band. She rolled her eyes before opening the parchment that accompanied it; if this wretched man proposes to me via owl, I will scream so loudly that all of the Highlands will hear it. She unfolded the note.

Saturday. Eight in the evening. My office under The Hog’s Head. Prepare to apparate somewhere more comfortable. I want to see you dripping in jewels for me.

The implication of apparating somewhere more comfortable was not lost on Flora. So he wanted to have his way with her on her birthday while she…wore his mother’s jewelry? Ugh. You’re doing this to keep Poppy safe, she told herself. To keep all your friends safe.

*****

Flora busied herself with schoolwork as the days came and went, until it was finally Saturday morning. She awoke feeling…not much different, in truth. She was seventeen now, the age of majority in the wizarding world; but she didn’t feel older, or wiser, or more mature.

It was a good day spent with friends; she practiced some charms work with Natty in the morning, and Poppy helped her feed and brush all the beasts in her vivariums after lunchtime. Your thestrals are acting quite amorous. I think they’ll want to be breeding soon, the Hufflepuff remarked, and Flora couldn’t help but giggle at the clinical tone of her friend’s voice. She spent the late afternoon practicing spells with Sebastian in the Undercroft, under the watchful eyes—or rather, the all-hearing ears — of Ominis, who scolded them with a stop that you two, I know what you’re doing, have some decorum please when he heard Sebastian place a peck on Flora’s cheek.

She snuck out of the castle in the evening while the majority of the students were busy supping in the great hall; what on earth could she say if she were caught by a friend dressed in a fancy cobalt blue robe and dress, with several thousand galleons worth of jewelry stashed in her pocket? I’m doing this for them, to keep them safe. 

Flora hopped on her broom and zipped off to Hogsmeade, using a charm to keep herself warm in the cold and dark winter weather. She imagined Victor Rookwood wringing his hands and salivating in his office , obsessing over every passing second before her arrival. Landing in a field outside of Hogsmeade, Flora donned the jewelry, clasping the necklace around her decolletage; plucking one earring onto each ear; placing the large ring on her left middle finger, as the other digits were too slender, which made the ring feel uncomfortably loose. She sidled, quiet and feline, to the hatch leading to that dreadful place under The Hog’s Head. I can’t believe you’re actually doing this. What a wonder you were sorted into house Ravenclaw. You really must cultivate some sense of self-preservation. Feeling weighed down with anxiety and jewels, she strode inside; Rookwood was waiting at the entrance, where three barrels hid a secret passage that led further below.

“Oh, aren’t you just perfect?” Rookwood breathed, placing his thumb and forefinger on his chin and striding in an appreciative circle around her to ogle every inch, front to back and toe to tip; Flora felt like a little fish caught in the eyeline of a shark. He stopped directly in front of her to plant a suspiciously chaste kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, my dear. Quite the momentous day. Seventeen; the age of majority.” The timbre of his voice suggested he was in one of his better moods.

“Yes.” Flora replied with all the flatness she could muster. 

Rookwood gently cupped her face in his hands, rubbing a thumb against her soft cheek as he guided her head to look up at him directly into those greedy, striking eyes. “I hope you’re hungry, my darling. I have dinner waiting for us in my coastal estate; anything you want. Fine food, fine wine, fine company—only the best for my little poppet. Come.” He stepped back and held out his arm, indicating her to take hold.

This is the most cheerful and agreeable I’ve ever seen him. He’s up to something. Flora took a step back. “No tricks. Promise me,” she told him firmly.

He flashed his teeth in a wide smile. “No tricks. I promise,” he repeated. Cautiously, she grasped his offered arm, and the two apparated to the private estate off the Poidsear Coast.

*****

Rookwood was acting the perfect gentleman, which meant he was definitely up to something.

The pair arrived straight into the dining room, gorgeous and ornate, decorated with portraits and banners. The chamber was comfortably lit with braziers on the stone walls and three candelabras lined up perfectly down the center of the long, dark wooden table. It was festooned with so much food known and unknown to Flora that it could have given the house tables in the great hall of Hogwarts a run for their money—fruits both local and exotic, familiar and unfamiliar cheeses, meats from all sources of animals, platters of sweets. There must have been a dozen or more chairs surrounding the buffet. Rookwood took off her coat, apparating it away; he took off his own, as well as his top hat, performing the very same action on them. He then pulled out the chair directly to the left of the head of the table, indicating for her to sit. She obliged, and was tucked comfortably towards the place setting on the table in front of her. An empty wine glass to her right filled itself with a red liquid as Rookwood sat at the table head next to her.

“Eat, darling, please. No need to be shy.” He gestured widely at the myriad offerings, bringing a glass of red wine to his lips. She took out her wand—carefully, in case he lunged for it—then gingerly pointed at what food looked appetizing, bringing it over to her plate and piling it on. Rookwood stopped her just as she moved to pick up a knife and fork.

“Wait.” 

Flora froze; Rookwood leaned over to take her hand in his own, fiddling with the ring on her middle finger before taking the trinket off to rehome it on the next finger over. He hummed with concern, sliding it up and down the digit. 

“Too loose?” He asked.

“It’s fine—” Flora stopped as she watched the ring magically fit itself, perfectly snug, around the base of her finger. 

“There we are. Much better.” Rookwood sat back in his chair, hiding a smirk with another taste of wine. He then made himself a smaller plate of meats and vegetables, and let the girl— young woman, he corrected himself—take a few bites of salmon and a few sips of drink before addressing her.

“It occurred to me that I don’t know too terribly much about your background,” he declared. “I was hoping we could have a pleasant conversation over dinner, and get to know each other better. Answer any questions we might have about each other.”

“I see.” What is he snooping for? There hadn’t been a single snide comment about manners all evening; more surprising, he wasn’t strutting about like a cockerel, crowing over his prized hen. “Such as…?”

“Well, your parentage for one. Full blood? Half blood? Neither?”

Flora always found this question uncouth, no matter how politely it was phrased. “My mother was a witch, and my father was a wizard.”

“Full-blooded, then. Passed away, it sounds like?”

“Yes. I never knew them.” 

She was nervous; Rookwood noted that she always drank larger gulps when feeling some anxiety. “Alright, poppet, I won’t pry too deeply. You can ask me a question in return, if you’d like.”

Flora really was interested in Rookwood’s background, though she didn’t want to admit that outright. How does a man like this come to be? She chewed on a bit of roasted potato as she thought back to his moments of melancholy. “I remember…I know your mother was a Ravenclaw. She couldn’t finish her schooling because she married your father and had you, when she was around my age. Your father was a Slytherin; you didn’t get along.” She took a deliberate sip of wine and looked directly at her dinner partner. “What was he like?” The man’s skull was a trophy in his son’s office, after all; there was a story there. She shook away the image of the empty eye sockets gazing at them while… coupling.

Rookwood marveled at her steely memory, then burst out in laughter. “Oh, my darling, clever little Ravenclaw. You are full of surprises, did you know that? I’m flattered you remember so much about me.” He winked at her; Flora looked away, suddenly very interested in the asparagus on her plate as she listened to the tale. “My father was a dreadful man. His very existence was a crime upon wizardkind. He was a compulsive gambler—several generations of wealth to piss away, you understand—but charming, when he wanted to be. Had a weakness for women. He was also a terrible drunkard; how he was able to forge a crime ring is a mystery for the ages.”

Like father, like son. He sounds just like you. Flora reckoned voicing a little jab like that would sour this surprisingly pleasant evening; she took another bite of salmon instead, paying attention as Rookwood continued.

“As I grew older, I became more involved with the day-to-day operations when I wasn’t attending school. Forged alliances with smaller groups in the Highlands, made prosperous dealings, those types of things. My father hated this—saw me as competition, even though I was working for him. Where he would teach other witches and wizards under him the dark curses, he refused to do the same for me, his heir and only son. Afraid I would use them against him. So, after an…accident, I taught myself the wand work and incantations.” There was a poetic, far-away look in his eyes as he popped a piece of roast beef into his mouth. “And my father was correct. I killed him when I was twenty-two.”

“You…taught yourself?” Flora wondered aloud, gazing at him. Just like Sebastian.

“I did. I stole some books from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library during my seventh year, and practiced on rats in the courtyard of my family estate.” 

Very much like Sebastian.

Flora stared down and shuffled some bits of food around her plate while Rookwood studied the young lady’s wistful face. She seemed to be responding well to his honesty; he opted to provide her with more fodder for questioning. “My mother’s jewelry becomes you; I’m glad to find a use for them after all these years. I considered selling it at one point, but…well, sentimental value and all that. She always wore her ring on that exact finger—it brings back fond memories.”

Flora polished off her first glass of wine and took the bait. “You seem to harbor lots of love for your mother. What was she like?”

“Oh, an amazing woman. Much too good for my father. Quick-witted, captivating, elegant; a perfect lady. Rapacious, too—excellent business acumen. Good with numbers, kept the books for my father. Without her guidance and judgment, I wouldn’t be where I am today. She passed much too soon, at the age of thirty-five.”

The room grew quiet, save for the clinking of glassware and cutlery. Flora didn’t know what to say. What is he up to? The openness, the honesty, the kindness; she felt as buttered as the bread roll on her plate. The food and wine was delicious— especially the wine. Was she actually… enjoying herself in the company of this man who had been tormenting her for months?

Rookwood broke the silence between them. “Well, poppet, that’s two questions I’ve answered for you; my turn.” He threaded his fingers together, hands under his chin and elbows on the table; a boyish pose that displayed interest. “You wrote in your journal that you started school later than normal. I’m curious what your life was like prior to enrolling in Hogwarts.”

There was only one person who knew about her life before that whirlwind Summer when she received her acceptance letter: Professor Fig. He was not only her mentor; in her eyes, he was also her rescuer, a kindly old man who spirited her away to a new life. A quick second glass of wine washed away another kernel of timidity, and she told the tale. “As I mentioned, I never knew my parents. I grew up in a small flat in London with my aunt—a squib, and a spinster. We never had a particularly…warm relationship. She considered me a burden; we don’t keep in touch. When I turned eleven, and my acceptance letter to Hogwarts did not arrive, it was assumed that I was a squib as well. But…it did come. Five years late, but it did come. So now…here I am.”

“Here you are.” Rookwood flashed a handsome smile— stop that. He is NOT handsome.The wine must be getting to your head; and it’s awfully warm all of the sudden, isn’t it?

“Is it…a little hot in here to you?” Flora wiped her brow, feeling perspiration. The clothes and jewelry she wore suddenly felt quite itchy and uncomfortable against her skin.

“Not at all,” Rookwood responded smoothly, biting his cheek to hide a devilish smile. The aphrodisiac potion in her wine was doing its job, and she was none the wiser. Not much longer now. “I’ve also been wondering, my darling—if you’ll pardon me for broaching the subject of business on this lovely occasion—those hippogriffs. You were quite hell-bent on getting them. I’m very curious as to why. What on earth did you even do with them?” Rookwood asked this with a genuine spirit of inquiry; Theophilus had been uncharacteristically vague about the event. She tricked the boy while I was asleep, Harlow wrote. He’s just a lad—don’t be too hard on him. Best tracker we have.  

I should hold my tongue…but he can’t get to them now, Flora thought. They’re safe for the rest of their lives—Merlin, this dress feels awfully tight. “I have a vivarium. Several, actually, with all sorts of creatures—mooncalves, thestrals, puffskeins, nifflers—and now hippogriffs. It was a friend, actually—Poppy, who was inconsolable when they went missing. I promised to get them back from your poachers. They’re happier now, well taken care of, let me take some feathers in exchange—are you sure it’s not getting hotter in here?” She took another gulp of wine in a vain attempt to cool down.

Rookwood blinked; he assumed she had kept the birds, but it sounded as if she had quite the zoo going. Interesting. He prodded the matter. “I’m perfectly fine, my dearest—I had no idea about your little…beast collection. Perhaps we could alter our agreement to be more mutually beneficial.”

She knew he was up to something. “I’m not giving you my animals. I’m very attached to them.”

“No, no, nothing like that. To be frank, I’ve been musing on your little adventure—and while I do need to be firm when your rebellious streak rears its head, I realize that I was perhaps a bit too harsh .”

That was probably the closest thing to an apology she’d ever get from Victor Rookwood. The scene of him on top of her, entering her, flashed through her mind—what had been considered a terrible trespass was now strangely stirring. What is wrong with me? She strained to act calm, but wiggled in her chair a bit and fiddled with the earring on her right ear. “I accept your apology.”

Rookwood laughed out loud at both the comment and the sight of her desperately trying to appear unbothered; it was quite the show. “Then I hope you’ll accept my new terms as well. Perhaps we should move to my private quarters, and discuss in more detail there? You do seem… hot, now that I look more closely at you. Come.”

*****

Flora thought her knees would give out just as she plucked herself down to sit on the end of the soft bed. The room was all too familiar—her first time here, she awoke startled, naked and bound; another terrifying moment that her mind now thought arousing. He must have put something in the food, or the wine. But if that’s the case, why isn’t he also bothered? Itchy between her legs, she crossed one over the other as Rookwood put her wand down on his desk, rustled some pieces of parchment on it, then moved the desk chair to the side of the bed, sitting in it to gaze upon her.

“Feeling alright, my dear? Do you need to lie down?”

Flora desperately wanted to lie down, to tear off her clothes and use her own hands to find the release she was so in need of. “No, I’m fine,” she lied. “New terms…?”

“Straight to business; I like it. I’ve grown so fond of you, you know. Upon our first meeting, in this very room, I believe we agreed to a myriad of terms: I keep Ranrok out of your hair. You keep me updated on your movements in order to do so. I spoil you rotten. You keep me company.” The sharp pronunciation of the word and cadence of his voice made the prickliness between her legs even more pronounced; she tried to ignore it as Rookwood continued. “We also agreed to stay out of each other’s business. But now, I wonder…if we could perhaps combine our business.”

His eyes darted up and down her with obvious craving; Flora felt like she was about to burst. “I’m not…sure what you’re asking,” she panted.

“I’m asking to merge our assets, my darling. Your little escapade with the hippogriffs put the thought in my mind; you’ll be free to traipse into whatever poacher or Ashwinder camp you please, unharmed. Take whatever beast you want, decimate a horde of goblins—please, decimate several hordes of goblins—hell, even kill some of my men with that magic of yours, as long as you don’t make a habit of it. What is mine is yours. This really is quite the bargain for you—nothing much changes on your end. We will keep meeting regularly, and you will pass along information to me; you shall continue to attend school, and go through your trials; even better, any meddling friends of yours won’t be immediately killed on sight—though I do ask that you keep them in line. I also ask that you pass along any surplus products acquired from your beasts.”

Feeling foggy with carnal appetite, Flora tried with great difficulty to understand what Rookwood’s angle was. What was he getting out of this, other than feathers and furs? He reached out and put a hand on her knee— ohh, that felt good— and she responded with “There must be…a catch.” 

Rookwood hummed. “Well, I’m afraid there is a small legal issue. In the case of my unfortunate demise—many years from now, but one can never be too prepared—I want you, my darling poppet, to be cared for. To continue wanting for nothing. I’d like you to have access to the Rookwood family vault in Gringotts, actually, making you a very rich woman indeed. But the Ministry wouldn’t allow that with a simple verbal agreement; no, the slow crawl of bureaucracy requires paperwork. Paperwork that I, fortuitously, have right now, on this very desk behind me. All it needs is a second signature— your signature.” The hand on her knee crawled further up her thigh; she uncrossed her legs and bit her lip, stifling a cry of pleasure that attempted to escape. There was some other plan at work here, something he wasn’t telling her—but Victor Rookwood was never one to show all his cards until it was absolutely necessary.

“This sounds like a marriage,” she breathed. 

“The Ministry might call it that. I’ve never been one to follow the law, or social standards .” A second hand found its way to her other thigh, rubbing up and down. “I do this for you, my darling, to take care of you, to make you an honest woman again. I’m not asking you to bear my children, or warm my bed every night—though it’s certainly on the table, if you’re so inclined. Say yes for me, my love. Say yes for me and I will set you free.”

My love? 

He bent forwards and over, kissing her as he moved both hands up her torso, fondling her breasts, thumbs caressing both hardening nipples through the cloth of her dress and undergarments; it was so much. Too much. She would do anything to feel full and blissful again, no matter what obstacle was in her way, or who brought her ecstasy. There was nothing else in the world at this moment, no Hogwarts, no Sebastian, no ancient magic, no Ranrok, nothing; just Victor, Flora, and her inflamed desire, spurred on by aphrodisia.

“I’ll do it—I’ll sign it. Please—”

Rookwood twirled around, rushing to the desk then back to the bed, handing her a piece of parchment and a quill; she scribbled on it quickly, not even caring to read it as she signed a line at the bottom. The quill flew back to the desk; the parchment magically crept out of the room through the bottom crack in the door; and Victor lunged on top of her, pinning her across the bed, ripping her dress in twain right down the middle. Finally, they thought in unison.

Rookwood fumbled with her undergarments, cursing and mumbling about his hatred for these blasted things before also ripping them apart, piqued; then, the stockings for good measure, before the boots popped off her feet with a wave of his wand, and he sent the tatters of clothing to some corner of the room that neither of them cared about, hurling his wand over his shoulder in the general direction of his desk. Rookwood gazed at her small body, sweaty and naked save for the jewels that graced her ears, neck, and hand; she was a vision, a feast far greater than the evening’s supper, his and his alone. He pinned her waist between his legs as he unbuttoned his vest, tearing it off as if it was aflame…but he was being too slow. Flora groped for the buttons on his trousers in an attempt to undo them, much to his delight. 

“Impatient, aren’t we, poppet?” Rookwood hopped off the bed and onto his feet for a brief moment, shedding his pristine white shirt, then undershirt—Flora drew in a quick breath upon seeing a large scar on his chest, slanted from right pectoral to left rib cage—and watched with rapt attention until he was unclothed entirely. His member pointed at her like a knife, its head glistening, hilt surrounded by a thatch of thick, dark hair; it bobbed when she brought a hand to her own core, in need of gratification. 

“Cheeky little thing,” he chuckled, sliding back onto the bed lengthwise; Flora scrambled on top of him, desperate to touch the scar on his chest in wonder; to taste the delicious wine on his lips; to smell his familiar scent of pipe tobacco and firewhisky; to hear him call her good girl, darling, poppet, my love; Rookwood laughed when she groaned in protest at being topped instead.

“Impatient indeed,” he purred. He moved downward to lavish affection on a small breast, taking the peak into his mouth—ohh, yes, that’s perfect—rolling the bud with his tongue and gently nibbling it between his teeth, which was even more perfect. Flora bucked her hips, her moans and sighs composing the most lovely song for him as he performed the same action on its twin; she felt a hopeless emptiness between her thighs, and despaired for fulfillment.

“Please,” she begged. “Please, Victor, I can’t—I need—”

That was an even lovelier song; he moved further downwards, kissing her belly—with that adorable protruding navel—then her mound,  graced with a soft patch of auburn hair, before latching his mouth onto the bundle of nerves above her wet folds, using his tongue just as he did on her small and charming breasts. Oh, the taste of her! The sound of her! The sight of her! He had a perfect view when she came for him, arching her back, little breasts heaving, her hips grinding that sweet, delicious, perfect clit into his mouth, her hands roaming over his scalp as she rode the waves of her orgasm. “Victor!” 

Rookwood couldn’t bear it any longer; he had to be inside her. He switched their positions, moving her to be on top of him, hands on her hips to guide her downwards, both parties moaning as he anchored himself into her entirely, easily, her quim already slick with fluid. His hands set a pace for her to follow, bidding that she move up and down, delicate breasts bouncing to the rhythm, her little hands roaming over his chest and tracing the raised skin of his scar, beautiful moans escaping from her rosy lips. Rookwood chuckled upon feeling her walls clamp against him tightly, coming for him a second time as she cried out his name. “Victor!”

“Good girl,” Rookwood praised, forcing her hips downwards to penetrate her even deeper, further, heightening her climax into such intensity that her mind seemed to shut down. 

“Yes!” Flora slurred. “Victor!”

That did it. He wanted to continue on, to have her all night and into the morning, but those gorgeous sounds she was making, coupled with the sensation of being enveloped in her soft, warm cunt—always so tight for him!—he growled, answering her pleasure with his own, flooding her with seed. 

Flora stayed on top of him for a few moments, catching her breath, still bejeweled and glowing from the fulfillment that she had so craved. She was suddenly exhausted, half-drunk from wine and lovemaking, belly and womb full, and rolled off him to snuggle under the bedclothes, cuddling up to his warm body—she liked how it felt against her own—and he held her close in reciprocation as she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*****

Upon waking, the heavy pounding in her head and soreness between her legs was a reminder of the previous evening. Oh, Merlin—what had she done? Flora shot up in the bed as the memories returned, filling her with dread and regret; this can’t happen. This isn’t possible. It has to be a dream. 

It wasn’t a dream. She looked over to find Rookwood sitting at his desk, fully clothed with his coat and top hat, scribbling in his journal.

“Morning, wife,” he said plainly, without looking up from his writings.

“Do not call me that,” Flora spat.

Rookwood snorted. “Morning, poppet.”

My wand. Where’s my wand? I’ll kill him. She spun her head all around, looking for it.

“I have your wand in my pocket,” Rookwood stated, as if reading her mind. “Give me a moment and we’ll apparate back to Hogsmeade. I will give it back to you then.”

The anger bubbling inside her was so great she felt almost feral. How dare this man drug her, coerce her, forcibly marry her, and act so nonchalant about it all? It was outrageous. 

“I take it all back,” Flora seethed. “Last night. I don’t agree to your new terms, I don’t want anything of yours, and I certainly don’t want to be your wife.”

Rookwood looked up from his journal, then turned around to look at her with that stupid smirk on his face. “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that, my dear. The paperwork was received and filed this morning. A birthday and an elopement on December 6th; makes the anniversary easy to remember.” He wrinkled his nose to tease her.

“You drugged me. I know you did.”

“I did nothing of the sort. All that wine went right to your head. You really must learn to pace yourself, my darling. Otherwise, you’ll make all sorts of stupid drunken decisions.”

“You are the most infuriating man—” She attempted to pull off the ring on her finger; it would not budge. “Get this— ridiculous thing off me—”

“That’s not going anywhere. Enchanted.” Rookwood sauntered over from the desk, his wand now in hand, the tip of hers peeking out of the vest under his coat. “A lovely little reminder that you belong to me, my dearest darling bride.”

“I am not—” she shut her mouth when Rookwood pointed his wand at her, glowing at the tip with a dangerous shade of green.

“Behave,” he warned. “Or I will force you to behave. Get up; let’s get you dressed and back to Hogsmeade.” He then added with a mumble, “Nattering at me first thing in the morning. Certainly acting like a married woman.”

Naturally wanting to leave as soon as possible, Flora stood, glowering at Rookwood all the while, and he dressed her with a wave of his wand before apparating two pieces of parchment in front of her. She tore her fiery glare away from him to study them; the larger parchment was a map of the Highlands, peppered with Gs and As and Ps. The second, smaller parchment was a crest: four black wands flanking a large, golden R on a purple shield.

“A map of our camps across the Highlands,” Rookwood explained as she studied the papers. “Including goblin camps—please, do all of wizardkind a favor and wipe those disgusting creatures off the face of the earth. Perhaps a little rampage will cool that heated blood of yours. The second, my family crest. If any poachers or Ashwinders give you trouble, show it to them; they’ll know what it means. Although…” he chuckled. “Word travels awfully fast. Most will know Missus Rookwood when they see her.”

Flora grunted like an enraged bull. “Just get me out of here. I can’t stand to be around you a second longer. I hate you.”

Rookwood laughed. “I love you too, poppet.” 

Chapter Text

A strange letter arrived for Flora on the Monday after her return to Hogwarts from that terrible, horrible experience. It was not from Rookwood, thank goodness; his correspondence was always written on fine quality parchment. This paper was cheap, and tattered at the edges; Flora had to read the letter several times to even understand it.

Deer Misess Rookwood

Mistur Rookwood askt me to rite yew to sey helow he sed Im verry gud at traking beests so Im sposd to trak yew and keap yew out uv trubbel and Im sposd to kil any boyes hew lewk at yew Mistur Rookwood alsow sed my letur is sposd to remined yew he has ayes and eers all ovur the Hilends Hillonds plaice and that yurr sposd to beehaive! Bie Misess Rookwood! 

Llewellyn

…Merlin’s beard. How embarrassing that this boy ever managed to capture her in Feldcroft; he’s an absolute moron. Llewellyn must have spent his entire life in poacher camps, where basic education was likely just as scarce as adequate nutrition. At least he could spell names correctly. Flora managed to translate the note into readability:

Dear Missus Rookwood,

Mister Rookwood asked me to write you to say hello. He said I’m very good at tracking beasts, so I’m supposed to track you and keep you out of trouble, and I’m supposed to kill any boys who look at you. Mister Rookwood also said my letter is supposed to remind you he has eyes and ears all over the— several scratched out attempts to spell the word Highlands—place and that you’re supposed to behave! Bye Missus Rookwood! 

Llewellyn

So Llewellyn is keeping tabs on her movements for Rookwood, and is to tag along whenever she leaves the Hogwarts grounds? He’d better not, else she return that Cruciatus curse in kind. And what’s this about killing any boys who look at her? Didn’t Rookwood say that her friends wouldn’t be harmed? Jealous man. Jealous and mercurial. She attempted to pull the ring off her finger again; it did not move an inch. Luckily, no one had commented on it so far—she would lie when people finally did. It belonged to my mother, who willed it to be given to me on my seventeenth birthday, Flora recited in her head. 

*****

Flora made a trip to Hogsmeade on Wednesday to purchase some supplies from Brood & Peck, but got sidetracked upon meeting the goblin Garnuff. He was so frantic with worry that the girl had quite a bit of trouble even understanding him; she was able to glean that his pet mooncalf, Biscuit, had been stolen by poachers as he was traveling through the swamp outside of Upper Hogsfield, and that the creature was piebald with a little blue collar. That was not much information to go off of, but Flora was heartbroken to see Garnuff so lathered up in anguish, and promised him that she would return with Biscuit before nightfall.

If Llewellyn was following Flora, he did not make his presence known; that suited her just fine. With better weather, she would have given the boy more of a challenge by hopping on her broom—alas, the frosty, nipping snow made flying too perilous, so she quickly sprinted along the path instead.

Upon reaching the fen, she climbed up a grassy rise to get a better view of the surrounding area, took a quick glance at her map, and cast Revelio. There, outside of the swamp and in the nearby trees, were the shadows of two men sitting across from each other in a tent, with a large cage of a dozen or so stout, tiny creatures right next to it. That must be the place. Flora strode into the camp as if she owned it—and, technically speaking, she supposed that she did. The poachers in the tent, occupied with a card game, did not seem to hear or notice her; she crept over to the large cage and studied the crowd of mooncalves, one of which was indeed piebald with a little blue collar.

“Biscuit?” She whispered. That didn’t help much; every single mooncalf in the cage turned to stare at her with large, vapid eyes. Flora sighed. Not the brightest beasts, but they sure are adorable. She took out her wand and aimed at the lock to unclasp it—

“Expelliarmus!”

— And the wand suddenly flew out of her hand into the nearby brush. Flora cursed, turning around; the two poachers from inside the tent were standing side by side, armed with their wands pointing directly at her.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” said the poacher on the left. He was a young man, not much older than Flora herself—about nineteen, if she had to guess—tall and sinewy with a mop of red hair.

“Missus Rookwood herself,” purred the other. He was about the same age, shorter and broader-framed, with white-blond hair and a strong, Roman nose. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Flora did not appreciate his tone one bit, and definitely did not appreciate the hungry look the two men briefly shared . She took out the parchment with Rookwood’s crest and held it aloft. “I am here at my husband’s behest,” Flora stated, making a point to emphasize the word she so abhorred in order to strike some fear into these dimwits. “I am taking these mooncalves. Make this easy, and I will forgive you for disarming me. You,” she gestured to the red-headed man as she put the paper back in her pocket, “Go find my wand—it’s somewhere over there. And you,” she pointed to the blond poacher, “Unlock this cage for me. Quickly now, or you’ll have to answer to Victor himself.”

The two poachers did not budge; instead, they looked at each other and shared a dark chuckle. Flora did not like the direction this was heading; she took a step back when the blond began to slowly stroll towards her. “I don’t see the boss here—d’you, Leo?”

“Nope,” replied the red-headed poacher behind him, wearing a wide and wolfish grin.

“No boss here. All I see is a little witch without her wand.” The blond was only a few steps away from her now, and drawing nearer; Flora balled her hand into a fist. “Pretty, en’t you?” He commented. “I can see why he put that huge bounty out for you. Must have the tightest cunny in the Highlands for a price like— oof!”

There was a crunch of cartilage when Flora’s fist made contact with the man’s nose; she attempted to sprint away, deeper into the woods, but was thwarted by a quick and well-aimed Accio, and was on the ground in the blink of an eye. The red-headed poacher was on his knees above her, pinning her wrists into the cold earth; the blond clambered on top of her, ripping open her coat, then tearing her shirtwaist, exposing her chest to the cold air.

“Got cute tits—Rookwood sure is a lucky man.” His speech was slurred and nasal from the blood in his nose; Flora cried out and kicked her legs when he groped her left breast. “Teach you a lesson for punchin’ me—stop strugglin’—”

Flora screamed when there was a flash of green light; the blond poacher fell stone dead on top of her, pinning her further into the frozen dirt. The other poacher let go of her wrists, shooting straight up to his feet in terror, whipping his head around for the source of the killing curse; nigh instantly, he was back down on the ground in the fetal position, body seizing, mouth frothing, eyes rolling backwards into his skull. Flora tried in vain to kick and push the dead poacher’s weight off of her; she heard soft clucking when a calloused hand appeared, gripping the body by the shoulder and hoisting it off the girl. She looked up at her rescuer—Llewellyn, his wand in one hand, Flora’s in the other, chicken pecking at the dirt beside him. The poacher boy’s eyes were squeezed shut in propriety as he held out her wand; Flora sat up, grasping it to cast a spell that made her decent again.

“Are you alright, Missus Rookwood?” Llewellyn asked, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner—you’re a fast runner—”

“I’m fine, Llewellyn—you can open your eyes. Thank you…for saving me.” As much as Flora was not fond of thanking this boy, he certainly enacted a fitting punishment on her attackers; she could find a little kindness in her heart for him over this, and would even ignore being called Missus Rookwood for the moment. As Flora got up on her feet, she watched Llewellyn make his way over to the red-headed poacher, barely alive and still convulsing; he bound the cursed man’s wrists and ankles with a wave of his wand, before kicking him in the stomach for good measure. “Can’t wait to see what Mister Rookwood does with you,” Llewellyn mumbled. “Dragon food, probably.”

That comment piqued Flora’s interest. “What’s this about dragon food?”

“Mister Rookwood was very clear: ‘Llewellyn, kill any man who even looks upon my beautiful wife. And if they dare to touch her, bring them to the Hall for a fate worse than death,’” the boy recited. He then gestured to the dead poacher. “I killed that one because—well, I had to act fast. But this one—” he kicked the living poacher in the stomach again, who sputtered and groaned—“Is going to make a nice meal for a Hebridean Black.”

Flora snorted at the term my beautiful wife. “I see. Well, have fun at the Hall, Llewellyn. Thank you again for saving me.” Expecting the boy to apparate away, she strolled over to the cage of mooncalves, all still staring blankly and dumbly, not understanding of the scuffle that occurred. Pulling out her nab-sack and taking special care to aim at Biscuit, Flora opened the cage door and vacuumed the critter right up—plus three others, on accident—while the remaining beasts skittered off into the brush.

“Awful cute, aren’t they?” Llewellyn chirped from behind. “Mooncalves are my favorite.” 

Flora turned around in mild surprise that he was still present; the boy had slung the errant poacher over one shoulder— strong for his age, she noticed—with his chicken under the opposite arm. Llewellyn gazed at her expectantly, looking just as empty-headed as the rescued mooncalves. 

“I thought you were going to the Hall?” Flora asked.

“I’m waiting for you.”

“Me?”

Llewellyn nodded. “‘Course—can you imagine? Me, showing up there, telling Mister Rookwood this man assaulted Missus Rookwood—with Missus Rookwood nowhere in sight? Goodness, he’d be sick with worry—he’d want to see his bride safe. Always going on about how pretty you are, how smart you are, how much he loves you; makes some of the girls there awful jealous. Besides, don’t you want to see this man suffer for what he did? I would.”

There were many, many parts of that statement that gave Flora pause. He loves you? He certainly has a funny way of showing it. Jealous girls? There are women who actually like Victor Rookwood? Don’t you want to see this man suffer?… She did, actually. But weren’t there goblins at Horntail Hall?

“What about the goblins? They’ll fight me if they see me.”

Llewellyn shrugged as best he could while carrying an unconscious man and a chicken. “They keep to themselves—got a camp of their own next to the Hall. Not fans of us witches and wizards. If we apparate straight inside, they won’t even know you’re there.”

Flora told herself she was agreeing to go only because she wanted to watch her attacker become dragon food. “Fine. But let's be quick about it—I need to get back to Hogsmeade soon.”

*****

Infiltrating Horntail Hall had been much easier than Poppy expected. Idiots. 

She assumed that the entrance to the tent was charmed to dissolve any disguising spells, and so opted to do things the muggle way; dressing up in some stolen poacher boy’s outfit, hair tucked under a cap, her mouth and nose masked with a bandana to top it all off. Turns out being smaller and less developed for her age had an advantage; she passed quite well for a boy.

Hiding her voice was the hardest part, so she said as little as possible, only grunting in the affirmative or negative. One guard outside gave her some grief— quiet ‘un, en’t you, lad? Quiet means trouble— but a flash of gold was the ticket in. Now, to learn more about this new Hebridean Black that Rookwood got his prissy hands on. Poppy walked around, passing the betting booth, the harlot’s quarters, and entranceway to the tiered seating of the arena before deciding to post up outside the tavern, figuring this would be the ripest place to overhear gossip; lo and behold, she was right. She wasn’t able to glean much about the Hebridean, but did overhear a very interesting tidbit from some drunk, crying strumpet: Rookwood was married now. Quick and recent by the sound of it, to someone probably just as dreadful as the man himself. 

Half an hour passed; not finding the information she was looking for, Poppy was just about to relocate closer to the brothel when she spied little Llewellyn—not so little anymore—passing by the tavern, carrying a bound poacher over one shoulder and a chicken under his arm. Always was an odd one. He stopped to speak with a guard; Poppy craned herself to listen, but was unable to hear the conversation over the tavern’s chatter. Whatever Llewellyn told him must have been serious; the guard’s eyes widened before escorting the boy and his prisoner into a nearby stairwell. Something’s going on.

Another moment passed before the hive of seedy folk began to buzz in excitement; the glimpse of a top hat towering over the crowds was all Poppy needed to see to understand why. People parted to make way, and she was able to get a clear view of the bastard himself: Victor Rookwood, in the flesh, followed closely behind by…

…Flora?

Poppy peered closer; it was Flora. That rufous hair of hers shined like a beacon. The Ravenclaw girl looked Poppy’s way while passing by—not with recognition, but staring long enough to know that something seemed off about that poacher boy over there. Poppy watched in bewilderment until her friend and Rookwood disappeared from sight, going into the same stairwell that Llewellyn had entered earlier.

Flora didn’t seem harmed or cursed, which was good. But… what in Merlin’s name? Why was she here at Horntail Hall, with Victor Rookwood of all people? Something wasn’t right. The disguised poacher boy threw a psst to get the attention of a nearby blonde harlot with large, pendulous breasts; the woman sauntered over, assuming a sale was about to be made.

“Lonely?” Cooed the blonde in a breathy voice. “Bet you got a handsome face under that mask.”

“Lookin’ for information,” Poppy uttered in a deep voice. She handed the harlot a galleon. “Who was that just now? The red-headed lass with Rookwood.”

“Oh.” The harlot wrinkled her nose. “Don’t go getting any ideas. That was Missus Rookwood herself.”

*****

“Leave us.”

Rookwood’s commanding voice echoed through the small room, his tone as cold and hostile as the metal chains dangling from the ceiling. Llewellyn and the Ashwinder guard obeyed without a word, closing the heavy iron door behind them, leaving only Rookwood, Flora, and her attacker, unconscious, bound, and crumpled on the floor. Several silent moments passed before Rookwood strode over to Flora and, to her surprise, pulled her into an embrace and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly.

“Y—yes, I’m fine.” Rookwood’s gentle demeanor flustered Flora more than the attack. “Llewellyn said you’re going to feed him to a dragon.”

He chuckled. “That is a crowd favorite. But since you, my darling, are the offended party in this instance, I think you should be the one to decide this man’s fate. He must die, of course—but the method is up to you.”

Flora inhaled with a small gasp and gazed up at him; who would have thought that a mooncalf rescue effort would lead to holding a man’s life in her hands? She grew quiet again and stared at the bright, shiny buttons on Rookwood’s lapels as she pondered the situation carefully. What methods are there? Feeding him to a dragon did seem fitting, but…in the darkest recess of her heart, she wanted to do the deed herself, to see the regret in his eyes for even thinking he could assault her. She could use her ancient magic; but no, the keepers would probably— definitely— frown upon her using it as a form of execution when her life wasn’t in danger. She could use the Cruciatus curse to torture him to death, or the Imperius curse and force him to take his own life; but Rookwood was still unaware that she knew these dark spells, and Flora wanted to keep it that way for as long as she possibly could. She didn’t know the killing curse… but perhaps she could learn.

You will want for nothing. I can teach you the dark arts, if you’d like. 

“You know the killing curse.” Her tone was quiet and calm.

“I do. You want me to cast the killing curse on this man?”

“No. I want you to teach it to me, so that I can cast it on him.”

The pride and elation that swelled in Rookwood’s chest made him crack a smile so wide his cheeks ached. The idea was so brilliant, so devious and sinister that he himself couldn’t have thought up a more fitting punishment; he must be rubbing off on her. “Oh, poppet,” he breathed, kissing her once more on the crown of her head. “Of course I’ll teach you. I warn you, there is—”

“A cost,” Flora stated stoically, looking up at him. “I’m aware.” There is always a cost. 

Rookwood’s grin grew impossibly wider as he squeezed her tightly against his body, like a snake constricting its prey. “My lovely little Ravenclaw. Such a clever young lady, aren’t you? I hope you are clever enough to realize that if you so much as think about using this curse against me, all the freedoms I have granted you are forfeit. You will spend the rest of your days in thralldom, naked and chained to my bed. Do you understand me, wife?”

Flora managed to respond despite feeling suffocated. “I understand, Victor.” She had grown so accustomed to the ritual of handing her wand to him when prompted that she was embarrassed for not even considering the idea. A shame he was on high alert around her; killing Rookwood would make all her problems go away.

“Good girl.” He broke the embrace to take out both their wands, then put his hands on Flora’s hips to shuffle her into position in the center of the room; Rookwood pointed his own wand into the nape of her neck before arming her. “Now, my darling, it’s important to keep in mind that the dark curses only work with intent; and intent requires purpose, the desire to torture, to control, to kill. Th—” He halted abruptly when the poacher began to stir. “Why, what excellent timing. Ready, my dear?”

The girl was a quick study. Rookwood watched with barely restrained glee as she easily picked up on the curse’s wand movement and incantation while the poacher regained consciousness, then awareness of his fate; casting the curse took the girl a few tries, but she was a bright student, and her attacker sniveled as best he could before being hit with a noxious green bolt and becoming immediately devoid of all life. Flora dropped to her knees on the floor, panting, feeling stunned, feeling powerful, feeling… wet between her legs. 

“Excited, poppet? You’ll get used to it. Marvelous job. Truly.” He stooped down to her level, taking advantage of the girl’s awe to disarm her; Flora shivered when his hand ghosted over hers. 

“It feels… amazing,” She whispered.

“I know, my dear. It certainly ignites the passions, doesn’t it? Let’s go back to my quarters, and—”

“Here. Now. Please.” Flora didn’t care about the harsh ambiance of the room, or the dead man over there, or that she was pleading to be taken by Victor Rookwood of all people—she just wanted to be taken. Rookwood didn’t need to be asked twice before he was on top of her, pushing her skirts up, pulling her stockings down, cooing soft words in her ear.

“I’m so proud of you, my darling—my clever wife. So— ohh, so ready for me, aren’t you?” 

Flora mewled as two long fingers probed her core while Rookwood tickled her by nibbling and nipping at the soft skin of her neck; she then moaned his name aloud as he began to move the digits forward and backward, inside and out. “Victor.”

“I love you too,”  was his smooth response. Flora was just about to pant out an objection to the word love when Rookwood withdrew his hand, sucking the juices off them as he undid his trousers before flopping her over on her stomach, hoisting her hips upwards, forcing her onto hands and knees, and entering her abruptly from behind. 

It felt fantastic. He was hitting the most wonderful spot inside her that made Flora nearly jiggle one leg in pleasure. Rookwood crooned about how much he craved her, how cold his bed has been without his wife, how beautiful she looked for him like this. He had to slow his pace while watching the sweet, plump cheeks of her rump bounce against his body, threatening to make him release much too quickly; He spread them to admire the gorgeous view of her being penetrated before rutting on her in earnest, needing to fill her so he could admire this view again once she was dripping with seed. Flora groaned at how lewd it was, how she felt flayed alive and was enjoying every second of it; Rookwood’s orgasm peaked immediately after Flora met hers, and the girl cried out for him— Victor!— just as he spilled every drop of himself inside her. 

“My love.” He murmured the words as he withdrew, watching the mix of their fluids dribble from her opening; the pair took a moment to catch their breath and dress themselves before Rookwood handed her a potion, which she drank slowly but happily.

“You didn’t give me one of these on our wedding night,” Flora remarked. It was uttered so calmly that she surprised herself, and Rookwood smiled at her with uncharacteristic tranquility.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” was his simple response. “I wouldn’t worry too much about one time, poppet. If anything does happen, come to me, and I will take care of it.”

Flora nodded, satisfied enough with this vague promise, and posed a question after suddenly remembering that there was a dead man in the room with them. “Does it feel like that for everyone? The curse, I mean.” It was like her first Crucio and Imperio magnified to an almost unbearable extent. Strangely, she didn’t feel very embarrassed about the…results.

Rookwood laughed softly at this. “Marvelous, isn’t it? The curse certainly requires strong emotions in the user. As I mentioned, the passion abates with use, but the first time really is quite special.” Flora rolled her eyes when he winked at her. “Come back to my quarters with me, my dear. I have a gift for you, and we have business to discuss.”

*****

Flora answered the expected questions after plopping down next to Rookwood on a sofa in the sitting room of his quarters. School going well, darling? Yes, Victor. Still staying out of trouble? Yes, Victor. Any word from the keepers? No, Victor. Then came an unexpected question—or rather, an unexpected command.

“Your winter break starts next Friday, doesn’t it? You’ll be spending it with me, of course. We’ll honeymoon at my hunting lodge in the valley.”

Of course. Flora hoped hunting lodge wasn’t a sinister euphemism like the office under The Hog’s Head. She didn’t have any scheduled plans with which to rebuff him—Sebastian had mentioned wanting to return to Feldcroft, but hadn’t specified anything since then—and Flora doubted that Rookwood would allow himself to be rebuffed in any case. Spending nearly two full weeks with this man? She sighed. “Honeymoon?”

“Well, we are newlyweds, darling. You’ll enjoy it; a beautiful area, very well-hidden and secluded. A perfect love nest where no one can find us. It will be terribly romantic; We’ll discuss the specifics when we meet this Friday. Usual time, usual place.”

Flora suspected she had a very different definition of romantic in comparison to Rookwood. Flora’s romantic was an early morning spent wandering through woods, alone save for her thoughts; Rookwood’s version of romantic was probably lying in bed, turning each other inside out. Flora knew no would not be entertained as an appropriate answer.

“Fine,” she told him tersely, which made Rookwood hum with a joyful “I love you too, poppet.”

“Stop saying that—”

Rookwood cut her off by apparating a large, bulging bag of coins into her lap. “Your biweekly stipend,” he explained. “Plus a little bonus, for the judgment you showed here today. I really am proud of you, poppet. I knew you would be a quick study.” He draped an arm across her shoulders, eyes hazy with longing, and he bent to whisper in her ear. “I mean every word I say to you, my darling. I miss you terribly when you’re not with me. Stay the night—I’ll have you back before classes start in the morning.”

I mean every word I say to you. Flora had no doubt about that. He was singing her praises now, but it wasn’t more than an hour ago that he threatened her with slavery if she ever used her newly-gained knowledge against him. However, Rookwood did seem to have grown very fond of her, and was beginning to allow her more freedom and agency with each meeting. “I can’t stay,” she told him. “I have an errand to run in Hogsmeade—I promised I would return before nightfall. And tomorrow—classes start early. I can’t risk being late, but…thank you, Victor. For teaching me, and for this.” She lightly jangled the bag in her lap, and truly was thankful for the lesson. She would make a beeline to Sebastian as soon as she could find a spare moment to be alone with him; oh, he would be terribly impressed.

Rookwood leaned closer to kiss her on the temple. “You’re welcome, my darling. I won’t have my wife window shopping in Hogsmeade like some low-class guttersnipe; whatever Missus Rookwood wants, Missus Rookwood gets.”

*****

Llewellyn dropped Flora off outside of Hogsmeade just as the sun was setting, watching as the girl sprinted away from him and into the village. The goblin Garnuff sobbed with relief when little Biscuit was returned safely to him; he attempted to offer Flora some coins, which she refused. 

Flora then walked around the town for a bit, admiring the holiday decorations throughout the village, and the calming sprinkle of snowfall that coated every roof, making the world seem serene and quiet; a peaceful evening to contrast the hectic day. She walked along Hogsmeade’s main thoroughfare, making her way back to Hogwarts for supper, and spied a small silhouette standing under the sign post just outside the village; as Flora got closer, she recognized a small young woman with her hands on her hips, the Hufflepuff robes she wore wafting in the cold breeze.

“...Poppy?”

“Hello, Flora.” Her tone of voice had an unusually stern quality to it. “Or should I say, Missus Rookwood?”

Flora felt the blood drain from her face, her already pale skin turning ashen. “I—I don’t—”

The Hufflepuff girl marched right up to the Ravenclaw, stabbing Flora’s sternum with a sharp little finger as she spoke. “ You and I are going to have a discussion at The Three Broomsticks right now. And you are going to explain everything to me.”

*****

Flora managed to hold back the tears as she did indeed tell Poppy everything at a partially-hidden corner table inside The Three Broomsticks. It was a long, long story to tell, and she started from the very beginning. Poppy, irate at first, became calmer with every word, listening with rapt attention—sometimes asking a question for clarification or making a comment while nursing a butterbeer—which, given the length of Flora’s story, ended up turning into several butterbeers.

“He’s obsessed with me—he always has been, ever since he first saw me that day I visited Hogsmeade with Sebastian. We were sitting right over there, at the bar, and—Rookwood just stared at me with those blue eyes. Thank goodness for Sirona, chasing him away. A few weeks later, I saved a woman being harassed by Ashwinders outside of Lower Hogsfield. I killed them, with my ancient magic—you remember, that day I showed it off to you by hurling that boulder into the lake?—Well, I searched one of the Ashwinders, and found this.”  

Flora took out her field guide and thumbed through the pages until she found the bounty notice, with the handwritten note scribbled on the back, and handed it to her friend. Poppy studied the parchment, notice side first— really good drawing of you, she stated—then flipped it over; her eyes grew wider with each word, and she gasped upon reading that horrible, heinous word: cunt-struck. She passed it back to the Ravenclaw girl as if it were a diabolical totem, some cursed thing that burned the skin of her hand.

Flora continued: “For the long weekend over Halloween, Sebastian invited me to visit his home in Feldcroft, to meet his family. While I was there, I wanted to explore the village, so I wandered about, and—well, I don’t know how or why , but there was a poacher boy in the village—said he had turned away from that life, now working as a field hand. He recognized me because I spared him when I destroyed a poacher camp back in September; but it was a lie. He tricked me into leaving the village—and he cast the Cruciatus curse on me.”

“Oh!” Poppy gasped. 

“The next thing I knew, I—Oh, Poppy, it was terrifying—I woke up the next morning, naked and tied up in Victor Rookwood’s bed…”

“Did he…?” Poppy asked gingerly.

“No, he didn’t…not then.” Flora continued onward with her story, ignoring another gasp from Poppy. “He forced me into a bargain—an agreement. He offers me protection in exchange for information. If I don’t comply…he threatens to use the Imperius curse on me, so I’ll be willing and complacent. But if I do comply, he showers me with gifts—told me I would want for nothing. That day Highwing and Caligo were captured, he wanted to meet with me, so I thought I could butter him up, maybe lure him into giving them to me, but he was adamant; so, we made a bet. He told me where they were being held and that I had one full day to get them back. I…I tricked the poachers into thinking I was Rookwood’s wife, and that’s how I was able to retrieve them.” Flora skipped over the aftermath of the rescue, not wanting to distress Poppy. “Unfortunately, I think that put the idea in Rookwood’s head, and…he treated me to a rather nice birthday dinner last Saturday. Or, I thought it was nice at the time. He drugged me, put something in the food or the wine, and forced me to sign a marriage contract. That was when…well, it was our wedding night. And he wants to honeymoon over winter break. He loves me—or so he says.”

Poppy curled her nose. “The pervert. He’s old enough to be your father.” She paused. “Is that where your ring came from? You said you inherited it from your mother…”

Flora nodded, and Poppy watched as she attempted to pull it off her finger. “I hate this ugly thing. It’s enchanted and won’t come off. Ah! another thing, Poppy—and I don’t want to frighten you, but…Rookwood threatened you if I didn’t keep meeting with him after rescuing Highwing and Caligo. He told me about…your past. I haven’t told a soul, I promise.”

“Oh.” Poppy pursed her lips a bit upon hearing that, but perked up a few seconds later. “I believe you. This is a wild story, but I do believe you. I would suggest going to Officer Singer, but…to be honest with you, I’ve suspected for a while that she’s on his payroll, or he has blackmail against her or something, because she’s near useless. Natty might be able to help—”

“Don’t tell Natty,” the Ravenclaw girl blurted out quickly. “Please. Don’t tell anyone.” 

Poppy hesitated. “Fine. I think you should at least write an anonymous testimony to Natty for evidence, but…I won’t lie, this secret of yours is humiliating. I wouldn’t want people knowing either. You’ve kept my secret—thank you for that, by the way—so I’ll keep yours in return.”

Flora sighed with relief; however, one question was nagging her. “Poppy, how did you find out about this?”

The smaller girl shrank down in her seat, feeling sheepish. “Well, I…I know you told me to stay away from Horntail Hall, but I overheard some folks talking in Hog’s Head Alley about a new dragon there—a Hebridean Black. So, I, er, disguised myself as a poacher boy, and…might have snuck in today—”

Flora’s eyes went wide. “It was you. That poacher boy with the bandana—I thought there was something off…”

“You see? Not even my own friend recognized me. I can help you! We can help each other! No one at the Hall was suspicious of me; I can be your eyes and ears there. Rookwood is a liar. He’s hiding things from you, I know he is.”

Flora idly drummed her fingers on the table; Poppy was right. The girl was even more of a wild card than Flora realized; her Hufflepuff friend had her mind set on this, and it seemed she couldn’t be swayed. It would be helpful to have a personal scout peeking into Rookwood’s operations without arousing his suspicion; if only there were some way to protect her from harm…

The crest. 

"Here." Flora took out the parchment and handed it to the Hufflepuff girl, who glanced at the paper before pocketing it. “This is—”

“I know precisely what this is,” Poppy finished for her, a bit giddy. “Rookwood’s crest.”

“It should offer you some protection if you find yourself in trouble. I think you’re correct; Rookwood is hiding something—many things, probably. I know that you’ll go back to the Hall despite my warnings…keep me abreast of what you find, but be very careful, Poppy. I’ll try to find out more information as well, over winter break.”

The smaller girl grimaced. “You’re really spending your holidays with him?”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Flora told her. “I’d rather go of my own volition than be under the Imperius curse, or be dragged away by the poacher that’s constantly tracking me. If we want more information, I need to keep him happy and occupied.”

“Oh, Flora,” Poppy sighed deeply. “Just don’t…don’t let him do anything to you. Don’t fall for his tricks—you’re smarter than that. That bastard loves only one thing: himself. We’ll see Rookwood go down in flames soon enough.”

If only you knew. Flora was beginning to understand why she kept going back to him—she was frightened of him and what he was capable of, naturally, but Victor Rookwood also made her feel loved. It was something her aunt never showed her, something different from Professor Fig’s paternal love, or the love of a friend; this was more intimate, more vulnerable, more passionate. Despite all his deceptions, and regardless of his true feelings for her…she liked that.

*****

Flora woke up on Friday morning to find her courses had started; she nearly wept tears of joy to see it. Even the fatigue, bloating, and sharp abdominal pain couldn’t get rid of the spring in her step. A quickly-made potion had her feeling right as rain again, and she wondered how on earth muggle women could cope without it. She must have been wearing happiness on her face the whole day; Rookwood commented on her cheery mood when they met in The Hog’s Head that evening.

“Glad to see your dearest husband, poppet? I know it’s terribly difficult, spending so much time away from me.” Flora turned her head away from him to hide an eye roll, then drank a sip of ale from the tankard in front of her as he continued. “All is ready for our honeymoon next week; I’d like to give you a little taste of what’s in store by spending the weekend there. Finish up your drink, and we’ll apparate; you’re going to love it, I promise you. You’ll likely beg me to let you stay there instead of returning to school.” He donned a sardonic grin, and Flora didn’t even bother to hide another eye roll.

“You want to spend the whole weekend together?”

“Darling, we’ll be spending every weekend together going forward. Your studies are important, but you also have wifely duties now.” Rookwood placed a hand on her thigh to let her know exactly what her wifely duties entailed; thank goodness she had ammunition in which to refuse him, at least for the next few days.

“If you mean to lie with me, I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” Flora told him coolly. “I’m in no state for duties.”

Divulging this information did not have the effect she intended; in fact, Rookwood’s face showed no sign of disgust, or disappointment, or happiness, or anything, as if he was hiding his emotions behind a stone wall. “Ah. You see, my dear? I told you not to worry.” He shot down a dram of firewhisky in one gulp. “Come. Drink up and we’ll be on our way.”

*****

Flora hated to admit that Rookwood was right. The hunting lodge was large, yet cozy, hidden away deep in the woods with all the amenities she could think to ask for. Upon arrival, Rookwood took custody of her wand and coat before they settled into the comfortable sitting room. He asked if she was hungry; Flora shook her head, and he shed his coat and top hat to drape them over a sofa before pouring two glasses of liquor, handing one to her. She nestled herself onto a divan, nursing her drink as he lit his pipe and sat next to her.

“This is…lovely,” Flora stated begrudgingly as she unlaced her boots with her free hand, taking them off and curling her legs underneath her. 

Rookwood beamed. “I don’t come here often enough. My mother was very fond of this lodge as well; she added a library and a large bath, down the hall from the bedrooms. I’ve told the house elves to obey your every desire; just don’t go thinking you can make friends with them. They know not to converse with you.” 

He drank down his glass of firewhisky, and used his wand to place the glass back on the table it hailed from before draping his now-free hand over Flora’s small shoulders. In the past, she disliked the smell of pipe tobacco; now, she found the smoky, earthy scent to be quite pleasing. The aroma, coupled with the soft pillows on the divan, Rookwood beginning to gently rake his fingers across her upper back, and the gemütlich aura of the hunting lodge made her feel languid, like the calm waters of a lake at dawn. Flora finished her drink and put the empty glass on the nearby side table before she closed her eyes and mused, “If I knew how to apparate, I would come here all the time.”

Rookwood cocked an eyebrow; that was an interesting idea. He didn’t want to give the girl too much freedom of movement, but she was certainly growing accustomed to her situation; perhaps he could offer her lessons in exchange for another lesson. “I could teach you that as well, if you’d like.”

Flora opened her eyes again and looked over at him. “You would? Really?”

“It’s a good skill to know; apparition has saved my life more than once. You’re such a fast learner, my dear—I imagine it wouldn’t take more than an afternoon for you to grasp the basics. I’m still amazed that it only took you about an hour to learn the killing curse; that magic of yours heightens your abilities, I imagine. Unfortunately, apparating is not nearly as exciting to the senses as curses are.”

Flora bit her lip. Don’t fall for his tricks. “You’ll—you’ll really teach me how to apparate?”

“Anything for my little poppet. For something in return, of course.”

Of course. “You didn’t ask for anything in return for the killing curse,” she argued.

“But you did give me something in return, darling, and what a lovely time it was. You’re a smart girl—I’m sure you can think of some way to remit payment.” Rookwood grinned at her, his pipe floating over to a nearby table to ash itself; he leaned back on the divan, and regarded her with expectation.

Flora pouted. She wanted so badly to learn, and…he did teach her the killing curse without so much as a second thought. “If you teach me this weekend, I can…perform my wifely duties next weekend.”

Rookwood laughed, throwing his head back into the pillow behind him. “You’ll be doing that regardless, I can assure you.” He found the small amount of innocence she had retained endearing, and opted to guide her into this new lesson. “Here, darling; something else to teach you. Come closer.”

Flora obeyed, scooting closer to Rookwood on the divan and watching him with curiosity and some trepidation as he fiddled with the waistband on his trousers. “What are you…?”

“You, my dearest wife, are going to attend to me.”

Flora’s face turned bright pink upon hearing the words, and then became scarlet when Rookwood’s member jutted proudly from his opened trousers. Nearly catatonic with shock, she offered no protest when he grasped her left hand and brought it to his manhood, guiding her to stroke it; the skin was soft and warm, and a small, wet bead formed at the tip in response to her touch. Rookwood took his own hand away once he established a rhythm for the girl to follow, and felt himself involuntarily twitch at the sight of her small hand, adorned with her wedding ring, wrapped around his shaft.

“Kiss me,” he commanded. As if in a trance, Flora leaned further towards him, hand still moving up and down, meeting his lips with her own, his tongue jousting with hers; he tasted of pipe tobacco and firewhisky, the two heady scents she had come to always associate with him. She felt a surge of power when he moaned into her mouth; it was a feeling that she wanted to chase, and broke the kiss to move her head slowly downwards, enticed by the idea of Rookwood coming undone through her ministrations. She tenderly licked the salty dew with the tip of her tongue, causing him to throb and groan—she liked that—and swirled her tongue around the head and along the shaft, which elicited an “ Ohh, poppet.”

She looked up; those large, deep green eyes gazing at him while she played with his cock was so erotic that he couldn’t help but grasp the back of her head and direct her downward, pushing himself into her mouth. Quick learner indeed; the girl enveloped half of him, adapting to the new sensation, bobbing her head upwards and downwards and taking him in, inch by inch with each movement, until her lips met the base of his shaft. The tip of his member nudged the back of her throat, making her close one eye and gurgle with some discomfort.

“Good girl,” Rookwood panted; the words spurred Flora onwards, wanting to see the Highland’s most dangerous criminal melt for her, wanting dominion over him. The large hand on the back of her head gripped into her hair, goading the girl into a faster pace. Flora held her breath when he finally flooded her mouth with brackish fluid; she swallowed, much to Rookwood’s great delight.

“My love. You clever thing.” He sighed out the compliment as he tucked himself back into his pants, and the girl sat upright once more, not entirely displeased with this new knowledge. “I think you have more than earned that apparition lesson, poppet. We’ll start after breakfast tomorrow morning.”

*****

On Sunday afternoon, Flora apparated right outside of the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, within walking distance of Hogwarts. Yesterday’s lesson on apparition went well; she felt nauseous after the first few successful efforts, but was growing used to the feeling. She adored having the freedom to move about in the blink of an eye, and was surprised that Rookwood was open to teaching her both apparition and the killing curse. But why? Her newfound talent would make it harder for Llewellyn to track her…wouldn’t it? Was he still tracking her? It didn’t make much sense. Perhaps Rookwood really did love her, and was lowering his guard, slowly but surely.

Upon entering the quad, she spied Sebastian alone and zoomed over to him, happy to finally have her chance to speak with him privately; Ominis was constantly suspicious of them whenever they were together, even outside of the Undercroft. Flora had a feeling she didn’t have much time to converse with Sebastian before their blind Slytherin friend would suddenly appear.

Much to Flora’s excitement, she was correct about Sebastian being terribly impressed with her. “Really? You must teach it to me,” he practically begged, not even caring to ask how she learned it. “Ominis will find out if we practice in the Undercroft—I don’t know how he does it, but he will find out. We can go to Feldcroft over break, explore that tomb, find a quiet place where you can show me the wand work.”

Flora dithered at this—Rookwood would not be happy at all if he found out she had defied him for Sebastian; it would put the boy in danger, and Rookwood would most certainly find out . However, she knew how to apparate now—and surely Rookwood would busy himself with something other than her over the course of the next few weeks? Perhaps she could find a few hours to sneak away. “I have plans over break, but…I’ll try to find the time to visit you and Anne. I’d love to teach you, to return the favor for all you’ve done for me. If I can’t visit soon, perhaps a short weekend visit after the new year?”

Sebastian’s face lit up brightly; thirsty for knowledge, he happily agreed. 

Chapter Text

It was two days prior to winter break. In the spirit of the holiday season, Flora was performing various errands and requests for folk all over the Highlands; today, she was focusing on Upper Hogsfield. One of the shopkeepers in the town center, Claire Beaumont, waved Flora down and remarked that the girl seemed like someone who was, in Miss Claire’s words, well traveled; she asked that Flora keep an eye out for her missing brother, Bardolph, last seen wearing a hand-knitted jumper. From what Miss Claire told her, Flora came up with two likely scenarios for his disappearance; both seemed rather grim. 

The first scenario was that Bardolph had gone to a nearby Ashwinder camp for some reason—always a bad idea. The second was that he had gotten caught in the crossfire of some goblin camps on the road, which were also disrupting local trade. Flora took a look at the map Rookwood had given her; the goblin camps were closer. Plus, it would be a good thing for the hamlet and any traveling merchants to no longer fear for their lives on this particular road. Goblins it is, then. She set out on the path, and groaned when she heard soft clucking and the pattering of feet behind her just outside the village.

“Go away, Llewellyn.” The boy had become a nuisance. He would never show himself when Flora was in a hamlet or walking to Hogsmeade and back with a friend, but always seemed to know where she was, and would suddenly appear during times such as this—when all she wanted was to be alone.

“But—er, I have a message from Mister Rookwood…”

What, are you an owl now? Flora turned around to face the poacher, who handed her a letter stamped with Rookwood’s wax seal; she opened it and read:

My Darling Wife,

You are to apparate to the lodge immediately after your classes are finished on Friday. Travel light—bring your wand and journal, as well as your jewelry. I have procured raiment for you.

Tell Llewellyn what time I can expect you, and if you require anything else for our honeymoon. He will relay the message.

Stay out of trouble in the meantime, poppet. I’m counting the hours until I have you in my bed again.

The girl turned up her nose. Of course Rookwood was counting the hours; he was probably going to pounce immediately upon her arrival. She looked up at Llewellyn, who was awaiting a response with wide-eyed expectancy.

“My classes end at four on Friday—assure him I will be there by five. I’ll be bringing my owl, as well. That will be all, Llewellyn.” She planned write heavily over the course of the next two weeks, both in her journal and letters to friends; Poppy, Natty, Sebastian and Anne—

Flora, suddenly struck with an idea, stopped Llewellyn just before he apparated away. “Oh! Llewellyn—ask him something for me, will you? I have an ill friend; she’s not long for this world. If things take a turn for the worse during our honeymoon, I’d like to visit her for a day or two and say goodbye. It’s very important to me. Please let me know what he says as soon as you can.”

“‘Course, Missus Rookwood—I’m sure he’ll understand. I won’t be gone long. Don’t go looking for any trouble in the meantime.”

*****

… Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…

Flora dispatched the goblins with ease. She had even made a little game of it, counting how many fell to her wand—twenty-four in total. Once the camps were cleared, she took a moment to ponder the huge drill parked behind the tents—why were they digging here?— then searched  the area high and low for any sign of the missing man; nothing. He must have gone to the Ashwinders after all. 

While Rookwood’s legion of dark witches and wizards were much more clever than his idiot poachers, they were also much more dangerous; she hoped her title of Missus Rookwood would allow this situation to be resolved peacefully. Flora took another look at the map to orient herself, then jogged along the path, making her way to the Ashwinder’s location in a nearby copse of trees. She was nearly there when she heard the unmistakable sound of someone running behind her, and turned around to look.

“Hello, Missus Rookwood!” Llewellyn called in a cheery, lilted voice. Rookwood was right; the boy was a good tracker. “I have an answer for you from Mister Rookwood. He’ll consider allowing you to visit your friend— ‘with stipulations,’” the boy quoted. “He’d like to discuss it more with you this weekend.”

Flora sighed. With stipulations was better than a flat out no, at least. “I see. Thank you, Llewellyn.” Now go away.

The poacher boy did not go away. Instead, Llewellyn turned himself around in a circle, eyeing the surroundings. “What are you doing out here? We lost an entire camp of Ashwinders in this area a few weeks ago. Curse training gone wrong, I heard.”

That didn’t sound good at all. Flora felt a sense of dread form in the pit of her stomach as she began to suspect that Mister Beaumont would not return home. “What kind of training?” She asked.

“Creating inferi!” Llewellyn’s happy tone did not match the ominous words he spoke.

Oh no. Flora shivered. She laughed in danger’s face at many things—wolves, goblins, dugbogs, poachers—inferi, however, were a different story. The rattling sounds of death they made; their dried, withered husks for bodies; the fact that they were only susceptible to fire spells; it all made her skin crawl. They were just so… unnatural. Why anyone would want to create them was beyond her understanding; she tried to avoid them at all costs. 

“Llewellyn, does the name Bardolph Beaumont sound at all familiar to you?”

The boy didn’t even take a second to think before shaking his head. “No. Why?”

“Well, he’s a villager who’s been missing from Upper Hogsfield. His sister asked me to find him, and it sounds like he, for whatever reason, made his way to the camp up ahead. I thought perhaps if you recognized the name, he might have joined the Ashwinders and been posted elsewhere, or seen at the Hall.” she paused to steel herself. “If what you say is true, I think something very, very bad happened to him here. I need to find out what happened, and give Miss Beaumont closure.”

Llewellyn’s face softened with pity, and he hugged the chicken under his arm closer. “That’s awful nice of you, Missus Rookwood—you’ve got a kind heart. You do a lot of good deeds for people, don’t you?” Llewellyn’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink, and he took a tattered piece of parchment out of his pocket. “I saw you walking with Poppy Sweeting outside of Hogsmeade a few days ago—”

“You know Poppy?”

“‘Course I know her; we grew up together! She’s a swell lass, isn’t she? I hadn’t seen her in years before then—she’s cut her hair shorter, and wears long skirts now, like a proper lady—but I did recognize her. She was always nice to me, and the beasts, too. Taught me loads about them.” Llewellyn held out his hand that was grasping the piece of paper, his face turning from pink to scarlet. “Will you give her this letter?”

Flora found herself feeling surprisingly touched by this request. For all his faults—of which there were many— Llewellyn was charming in his sensitivity; he was obviously sweet on Poppy. She took the parchment from his hand and pocketed it. “If you explore this camp with me—and don’t tell Rookwood about it—I’ll make sure she gets it, Llewellyn. I promise.”

The boy dithered for a moment before breaking into a happy smile. “It’s a deal. Thank you, Missus Rookwood; I appreciate it. Now, let’s go find out what happened in this camp.” Rookwood’s loyal little lapdog, biting the hand that feeds? It was nothing short of miraculous; he must be very sweet on Poppy. 

Llewellyn knelt to settle his chicken down on the ground. “Stay right here, Mister Michaels—we’ll be back soon.” The bird cooed in the affirmative, and the two humans walked further into the forest, towards the deserted Ashwinder camp.

*****

After the battle, Flora salvaged what little scraps she could of the hand-knitted jumper from the desiccated, smoldering corpse of Bardolph Beaumont. She wondered precisely how truthful she should be with Miss Claire; It would be a kindness to lie about this—the man suffered a fate worse than death. But it wouldn’t be right to give her false hope. 

“That’s him, then?” Llewellyn asked, setting fire to a fallen inferius nearby, making doubly certain the undead corpse would not rise again.

“It must be—Miss Claire said he always wore a jumper she knitted for him.” Flora wrinkled her nose at the odor of burnt, acrid flesh in the air as Llewellyn walked among the inferi, burning each one of them; she explored the abandoned camp as he did so, finding some pieces of scratch paper in the nearby tent. Reading them, she realized these were the final journal entries of Bardolph Beaumont—a truly sad tale. 

“Find something?” Llewellyn chimed as he walked over to Flora, finished with his task of cremating the dead.

“Yes—Mister Beaumont wrote these before he died.” She summarized: “He wanted to learn the dark arts to protect his village, and asked to speak with Rookwood directly. The Ashwinders thought he was a spy and strung him along, telling him he needed to learn the unforgivable curses before they could make the introduction. Bardolph believed them, and ultimately paid with his life—and death.”

“Poor man,” the boy uttered quietly. 

Poor man, indeed; he actually wanted to meet Victor Rookwood, and look where it got him. “Well, that’s that, then,” Flora said grimly. “I should head back to Upper Hogsfield and deliver the news.”

The poacher boy and Ravenclaw girl reunited with Mister Michaels on the way out of the forest and walked along the road towards Upper Hogsfield in silence, the situation weighing heavily upon them. Flora pondered the dark arts, and the horrifying ability to create inferi; was Rookwood himself capable of this? Highly likely, she reasoned. No surprise that a dangerous man knows dangerous things.  

Llewellyn took his leave of Flora just outside of the hamlet, and she trekked towards the village center where Claire Beaumont was peddling wares. The girl took the small, tattered strips of jumper out of her coat pocket and cheerlessly handed them to the woman. “Miss Claire…I have bad news about your brother.”

*****

Flora caught Poppy after supper that evening, just as the Hufflepuff girl was leaving the great hall. The Ravenclaw handed Llewellyn’s letter to her friend, who squinted and took several minutes to comprehend it; knowing the boy’s atrocious writing skills, Flora didn’t blame her, and waited patiently for the girl to finish reading.

“Llewellyn gave you this?” Poppy asked.

“He’s the poacher who’s tracking me for Rookwood,” Flora whispered, not wanting to be overheard by passers-by. “He saw us walking back to Hogwarts from Hogsmeade a few days ago, and told me you two grew up together. He seemed so taken with you that I couldn’t find it in my heart to say no when he asked me to deliver that letter…what does it say?”

“It’s a love letter,” Poppy sighed with a trace of irritation. “I think it is, anyway. Little Llewellyn…he would follow me around everywhere when we were children. It would get very annoying very quickly. But, he was always kind to the beasts; he’s good at heart, unlike most poachers. Not the brightest star in the sky though, is he?”

Flora laughed. “Definitely not.”

“He helped me that day Highwing and I escaped from the camp—well, actually, I tricked him into it. Told him we were going to play a really fun game called free the hippogriff, and the first person to unlock Highwing’s cage was the winner. He unlocked it, I hopped on her back, and that was that. I was eleven at the time, so he must have been nine or so.”

Flora laughed even harder; it seemed Poppy had spent most of her life finding ways to make trouble for Rookwood’s poaching operation. She caught her breath and asked, “Do you want me to give him a message in return?”

“No, no—I’ll send him an owl. I bet I can trick him again, and have him give up some secrets about the dragons at Horntail Hall.” 

*****

Flora said her goodbyes to all her friends on Friday after classes had ended, promising that she would write to each of them over the winter break. She returned to her dormitory, pocketing the gaudy jewelry hidden in the bottom dresser drawer and stowing her barn owl in the traveling cage before also deciding to stuff some clothing and an extra pair of boots in a rucksack; knowing Rookwood, most of the procured raiment he had for her would be inappropriate to wear outside of the bedroom. The thought made her groan loudly. Just keep him happy and occupied. Two weeks isn’t that long; think of it as a reconnaissance mission. Easier said than done.

Flora tapped each pocket of her coat to assure herself that all her usual items were in place; wand? Check. Field guide? Check. Coin purse? Check, though it was doubtful she would need it. Rookwood would have parchment and quills for her to use, and the hunting lodge had a library full of books—no need to bring those. She took a deep breath. Time to be off, then. She donned her rucksack, picked up the owl cage, and made her way to a field outside of the castle grounds, apparating to the hunting lodge.

She arrived right on time, and let herself inside. The foyer was quiet and dark; she put down her owl and rucksack, and a group of three house elves appeared to immediately spirit away her belongings. “Is Victor here?” Flora asked them; they ignored her question, and were gone just as soon as they came. She stood in the foyer for a moment, not really knowing what to do; she expected Rookwood to greet her upon arrival. It was highly unusual for him to not be punctual. 

The girl opted to explore the lodge a bit. There was the sitting room to the right of the foyer, and the dining room straight ahead; she turned to the left, wanting to explore the hallway and peek into the rooms she hadn’t seen upon her first visit here. Right over there was the spare bedroom she had stayed in last weekend— I know you love cuddling up to me in your sleep, my darling, but I can’t have you staining my bedding in your condition, Rookwood chided her—and his master bedroom right next to it. Across from his room was the bath, and the door to the library was at the farthest end of the hallway. She made her way towards the library, stopping when she noticed a door to its left; curious, she opened it and stepped inside to find a study. The large stone fireplace was lit, illuminating the room; across from it was a dark wooden desk made of ebony, atop of which was—

Rookwood’s journal. He must have been in an awful rush to just leave it behind like this. Oh, it was so tempting to open it up and leaf through the pages, but…he could arrive any time now, and would be terribly cross if he found her reading it. It’s only fair. He’s read your journal. A quick peek won’t hurt. Flora snuck over to the desk on tip-toe, as if moving even an inch closer to the leather-bound book would summon its owner; gingerly, she opened it up to a random page, and found the drawing from her bounty notice looking back at her.

So it was Rookwood who drew it. She flipped through the next few pages. He was an excellent artist—there was a portrait of Llewellyn on this page, and Feldcroft on that one; Flora reasoned he must have drawn these around the time she was captured. She thumbed through further pages, scanning the small amounts of writing. There was a drawing of her asleep in bed, with several pages describing their wedding night—in great detail, naturally. Skipping forward, she came across a drawing of a bottle—the contraceptive potions he had been giving to her—and several paragraphs of writing. She peered closer to scan the small print…

There were footsteps in the hallway. Flora quickly shut the journal and raced over to the fireplace, standing with her hands straight out in front of her, pretending to warm up; Rookwood entered the room not three seconds later.

“There you are, poppet,” he greeted. “I see you found my study—cold, darling?”

“Just a bit.” Flora responded as calmly as she could with the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. That was much too close of a call for comfort. “I was surprised you weren’t here when I arrived.” 

Rookwood strode over to his desk, picking up his journal and transfiguring it away, showing no sign of suspicion that the girl had stolen a glance; he then came over to Flora, who allowed him to embrace her and plant a peck on her forehead. “A trip to Hogsmeade that took longer than intended,” Rookwood told her, breaking his grasp to prompt the girl for her wand; she obeyed the cue. “Good girl,” he cooed. “Let’s get you settled in then, shall we? There’s an armoire full of clothing for you in the master bedroom—dress up for me, and we’ll have a chat over drinks in the sitting room before dinner.”

*****

Alone in the master bedroom, Flora took the time to ponder what she had seen in Rookwood’s journal as she dressed herself. If only he hadn’t retaken custody of it; she could sneak another peek while he was asleep, and read some of his writings. She was burning with curiosity.

The girl gazed at herself in the mirror, all dressed up and feeling quite pretty in her jewelry and long, midnight blue evening gown, carmine hair done up in its standard bun with gentle locks framing her face. She left the master bedroom and made her way to the sitting room where Rookwood was waiting for her, sans coat and top hat; he stood up from the divan when she entered the room, his eyes sparkling as he drank her in.

“Is there ever a moment where you don’t look absolutely gorgeous?” He purred. “I do believe I married the most beautiful woman in all the Highlands. Sit, poppet, and I’ll get you a drink.”

Flora blushed at his flirtations, and sat while Rookwood stood over the credenza on the opposite wall of the divan, pouring a drink for each of them before joining her. He held his standard glass of firewhisky in one hand, and passed her a fluted glass full of bubbly, buttery yellow liquid; she took it in her hand and eyed the contents warily.

“Champagne. Nothing more,” he reassured her, noticing the girl’s reluctance. “You’ll love it. Go on, darling, take a sip.”

Flora, wanting Rookwood to keep up his amiable disposition for as long as possible, did as commanded. Ooh, she did love it; the bubbles tingled her mouth prior to swallowing, and the taste was delightfully sweet without being cloying. She murmured a thank you, Victor when he shot a quick glance at her.

“You’re welcome, my dear. Now: Llewellyn mentioned you have some sick friend you’re wanting to visit at some point?”

“Yes—her condition worsens every day. I don’t think she has much time left. Potions do nothing for her, and healers don’t even know what her illness is. It’s almost as if she’s cursed; she often has coughing fits, and complains of sharp pain in her lungs whenever she speaks.” While Flora had not seen Anne in person since late October, Sebastian would keep her updated on his twin sister’s health; Anne’s condition had deteriorated to the point where she could only say a few words at a time, and now communicated her needs mostly through writing. “If I receive an owl from her, I’d like to take some time and visit, to say my goodbyes,” Flora added.

Rookwood furrowed his brow; this illness sounded… familiar. “A strange sounding ailment, to be sure. Where does this friend of yours reside?”

Flora drank from her flute of champagne. “Feldcroft.”

That confirmed it. Rookwood thought on this; if he allowed the girl to go to Feldcroft, she was likely to also gad about with that pinheaded Slytherin lad. He remembered her laughing and playfully batting at the boy prior to the troll attack that day in Hogsmeade, causing a dark cloud of envy to well in his chest. No. He wouldn’t allow it. She is Missus Rookwood. She belongs to him. Best to string the girl along, keep her awaiting an answer, and fully claim her as soon as possible, just as intended. “It’s important to say goodbye to those we love, my darling. I will consider your request; hopefully all will be well, and we’ll find you’re worrying that pretty head of yours over nothing.” Rookwood drank from his glass, emptying it, and espied the girl pouting out of the corner of his eye; he deemed it to be obstinance, and would brook none of it. “Manners, poppet. Be grateful I am even entertaining the idea.”

Flora sighed. “Thank you, Victor.” She hid her frustration by taking an angry sip of champagne, and watched the decanter float from the credenza to refill Rookwood’s glass.

“Much better, darling. Such a good wife you are, obeying your husband. A good wife makes a good mother, or so I’ve heard.”

The comment blindsided Flora, who stared at him unblinking, mouth slightly ajar. “Don’t you dare—” she began; the chime of a bell thwarted her.

“Ah,” Rookwood chirped. “Come, poppet; dinner’s ready.”

*****

A good wife makes a good mother. The words burrowed into Flora’s head and refused to leave. Rookwood deftly avoided the subject over dinner, but the girl would not drop it; he finally relented as he was changing out of his clothes in the master bedroom. His wife lay in bed, dressed in a vestal white nightgown with her long red hair down, still badgering him with questions.

“Merlin preserve us, poppet, it’s one comment made in passing,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his vest. “Take it as the compliment that it is, darling. Do you not aspire to hold the title of mother someday?”

Yes, but not with you. Flora glowered at him. In a fit of pique, she spat out, “I’ll hurl myself off a cliff if I ever find myself with your child. You don’t even like children.”

The comment made Rookwood chuckle. “So dramatic, aren’t you? Things change, poppet. I didn’t expect to ever settle down and get married, yet here we are. Children should be seen and not heard, of course, but…perhaps as I get older, I’ve decided that I want to sire an heir to pass my empire along to. A son, to take over the family business.” The girl didn’t need to know that Rookwood also wanted a fail-safe, lest his plan to access the final repository go pear-shaped; if he couldn’t harness that power for himself—or, Merlin forbid, that disgusting goblin got his greasy paws on it—at least Rookwood could gain some power by rutting on the girl and passing her magic down the Rookwood family line. That might of hers, coupled with his ancestry from a keeper—he wagered it would make him the patriarch of the most powerful wizarding family in existence. He grinned at the thought; she would be bound to him forever through blood soon enough. Although the girl had most assuredly snooped through his journal, she didn’t seem to get far along enough to read that the potions were merely a placebo. 

Noticing the smile on Rookwood’s face, Flora grew even more annoyed. “Even with all that happened with your mother—”

“How lucky for you, then, that I don’t want a repeat of the past, and your patient and kind husband provides potions for you at his own expense. It’s important to finish your education first and foremost, without worrying about any happy accidents. As I told you, poppet: if anything happens, come to me, and I will take care of it.” The lies poured deftly from him. Now dressed down to his underclothes, he crawled into the bed next to his wife, who leaned away when he moved to kiss her; a quick, hard squeeze of her shoulder forced the girl into compliance. “Give it time, darling, and you’ll be begging me for piles of children.”

How many children compose a pile? Flora briefly wondered as she fixed a dark gaze on the wizard next to her, who winked and asked, “Shall we get to practicing then, poppet? It is the first night of our honeymoon, after all. And I know you do so enjoy being taken from behind.” Rookwood sighed, reminiscing upon the fond memory. Flora’s face burned—she did enjoy it, not that she would ever admit it and allow him the satisfaction. “I want the recipe for the potion you’ve been giving me. I won’t lie with you until I have it for myself.” 

“Done.” A small piece of parchment appeared in front of her within seconds; there was barely any time to place the paper on her nightstand before Rookwood’s hands were helping themselves to her, finding their way under her nightgown and snaking up her soft, petite frame. His fingers found a sensitive spot under her ribs that caused Flora to flinch and let out a sharp, instinctual giggle.

“Ticklish, poppet?” Rookwood crooned, bunching up her nightgown before commanding she take it off. She complied, slipping it off over her head to bare herself completely; he lay atop her and created a trail of kisses down her neck, gently biting and nibbling at the skin. “You’ll leave a mark,” Flora protested.

“Good.” He continued his affections, taking a moment to admire his handiwork—the softly-bruised outlines of several love bites—before continuing the trail of kisses downwards, passing her collarbone and sternum to administer attention on her diminutive breasts, nipples pert and rosy from arousal. The girl moaned at the circular motions of his tongue, the tender flesh rolling gently between his teeth; she bucked her hips against his, leaving a small spot of her wetness on his underclothes. Flora sighed when Rookwood rose to his knees, unsheathing himself, and bade her: “Turn over.”

“Victor…more, please…” she brought her hands to each breast to knead them, craving more attention from his mouth. Rookwood chuckled softly, laying on top of her once again; he positioned himself at her entrance and kissed the two erect, pink buds, and the hair on his face felt delightful against her sensitive skin. “Whatever Missus Rookwood wants, Missus Rookwood gets,” he rasped. The sensation of his mouth suckling and nipping at her breasts was so intense—and felt so, so good— that she was seeing stars. Flora brought a hand up to her mouth, biting a finger to keep from crying out in pleasure; Rookwood batted it away.

“No. Don’t hold back. You make the most wonderful sounds for me.” He grasped one small breast in each hand, pinching the sweet, pink nipples between his splayed fingers, and plunged into her. The girl’s core squeezed around him as she enveloped him fully, happily, and she arched her back, filling the bedroom with a song of desire. They made love for who knows how long—who cares how long—and Rookwood felt himself beginning to come undone after several lovely contractions indicated that she had reached her peak. “Say you love me, my darling,” he groaned, squeezing her breasts harder. “I’m so— close—say it—”

“I—I love—you—” 

Rookwood roared as the intensity of his orgasm swept over him, draining himself into his wife, collapsing on her in a sweaty heap to catch his breath; he could stay like this for eternity, atop her nude form, enfolded blissfully inside her. She allowed him to stay in this position for several moments before mewling with some discomfort at the weight pinning her down; he rolled over, tucking his flaccid phallus back into his underclothes, and exhaled loudly with contentment, laying his head on the pillow. He turned to admire the beautiful, naked creature in his bed, lying on her back, long rufous hair splayed out, emerald green eyes fluttering to fight against sleep—not a girl, not a woman, a goddess. He moved an arm over to bring her closer to him, and she lay her head on his chest, her small hand idly tracing the scar on his chest through his undershirt. He could smell a new perfume in her hair, fruity, sweet, fresh—orange blossom, perhaps. “I love you too, poppet,” he murmured softly; the girl hummed drowsily in response, and fell into slumber against him.

*****

The first night and following morning established a ritual that would continue throughout the majority of the honeymoon. In the evening: Chat over drinks. Dinner. Undress. Make love. Sleep. In the morning: Wake up. Make love. Drink a potion. Dress. Breakfast. Once these steps were out of the way, Rookwood usually retired alone to his study for a few hours after the morning meal, leaving Flora to her own devices until the early afternoon. 

Her first morning at the lodge, she awoke nestled in Rookwood’s arms, feeling his stiff erection against her and a sense of anxiety over missing a dosage the prior evening. Rookwood assured her that one vial taken in the morning would be more than enough to stave off any accidents that might try to take purchase, regardless of the time of day. I need release, poppet, all men suffer from this in the morning, I’ll give you the potion after we have a quick bit of fun, stop fretting, he told her. Over breakfast, she was placated somewhat with a present. As he handed her the long, thin box, Flora spied two rings on each of Rookwood’s hands that he had not worn before; a simple gold band on his left, and a more ornate ring on the smallest finger of his right.

“Finally noticed, did you?” He caught her interested glance. “My wedding band and signet ring; I picked them up from the jeweler in Hogsmeade yesterday, along with your lovely little gift. The reason I was unfortunately late, and unable to greet you upon your arrival.” He omitted the true reason for his tardiness; the shopkeeper put up quite the argument when prompted for the weekly protection payment. Nothing a little Imperius curse couldn’t handle. 

“I’m surprised you want to wear a wedding band,” Flora opined, fiddling with her own; stubborn, it still would not move.

“Of course I do, my love. With all the women who throw themselves at me, I need something to let them know I’m no longer available.” He winked at her while tearing a strip of bacon between his teeth; Flora rolled her eyes. “And the signet ring?” She asked.

“Passed down through the generations. Sat in the family vault for decades, collecting dust after my father died—I had it cleaned and polished, after twenty years of wanting nothing to do with it. Now, though…” Rookwood grinned, and Flora braced herself for whatever comment she was about to be needled with. “Perhaps it will come of use once a new generation of Rookwoods crop up.”

She refused to take the bait. Instead, she wordlessly opened up the box that was given to her; a bracelet to match her other jewelry, though much daintier and better suited to her tastes. Flora angled the box in several different directions, admiring how the diamonds and sapphires glistened in the morning sunlight pouring through the windows, before clasping the trinket on her wrist. “Thank you, Victor. It’s beautiful.”

Rookwood beamed at the girl, pleased with her satisfaction and unprompted good manners. “Only the best for my dearest wife. Now,” he stood up from the table, “I have some correspondence to attend to in my study. In the meantime, feel free to make use of the library—your owl is in there, as well as a desk and writing supplies. I will call for you in a few hours.”

Flora did precisely that. The library was cozy, with walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, crammed with tomes both thick and thin. Along one wall, nestled between two bookcases, was a desk with her barn owl on a perch beside it. The bird was holding a letter; it seemed Flora had received her first correspondence of the winter break. She took it from the bird and scratched its head in thanks before regarding the letter—it was from Deek. That new puffskein must have been born. Flora opened it and read:

Miss Flora,

All goes well with the beasts. Deek will send you another letter as soon as the puffskein is born. Deek has also enclosed a recipe found on your potion station—Miss Flora must have forgotten it before leaving. Deek is also watering your plants as instructed. Please write to Deek if you would like anything from the Room while you are away.

Best,

Deek

A recipe? Flora didn’t remember leaving anything behind; she kept all her potion recipes in her field guide. She studied the yellowed, aged paper sent with the letter—it looked decades old. The potion seemed easy enough to create; she kept all the necessary ingredients in the Room of Requirement, and the brewing time was stated to be twenty minutes. She flipped it over to find a note, written in an unfamiliar cursive script:  Upon researching, this recipe appears to stave off fertilization. The Room always provides.

Flora took out her field guide and set it on the desk, flipping through it to find the parchment Rookwood had given her yesterday. She compared the two recipes; they were very different. Who to believe: Rookwood, or this unknown person who once had access to the Room of Requirement?

The unknown person. Definitely the unknown person. “Thank you,” Flora whispered aloud in gratitude to this Hogwarts student from the past; it seemed proper to say something, at the very least. The Room always provides, indeed. She immediately drafted a response to Deek, detailing the ingredients she would like sent. Please send as much of each as you can, as often as you can. She attached the letter to her barn owl and opened the window, allowing the bird to fly away before closing it again. In the meantime, she could transfigure a small potion station here in the library—

Flora cursed. Rookwood has my wand. She couldn’t transfigure anything without it; plus, she preferred stirring the cauldron with her wand, as she sometimes burned herself when mixing by hand. The girl sat down on the floor and stared into the fireplace, concentrating deeply as she formulated a plan.

*****

That evening, Flora put on the skimpiest, slinkiest gown she could find—not a difficult task, considering Rookwood’s taste in women’s clothing—and donned every bit of her jewelry before meeting him for pre-dinner drinks in the sitting room. She looked in the mirror; the low cut neckline, dipping down to show a hint of what little cleavage the girl had, the navy satin cloth hugging against the swell of her hips, the glittering jewels that adorned her neck, wrist, ears, and finger—he’ll love it. She even decided to change her hair a bit, putting half of it up in her usual bun and leaving the other half down to cascade down her back.

She was right; Rookwood did love it. “Merlin’s beard, darling,” he crooned, handing her a flute of champagne. “Keep dressing like this for me and we’ll have an infant in your arms by this time next year.” He bit his lip with hunger, ice blue eyes roaming over every inch of her, and drank his entire glass of firewhisky in one go before pouring himself another.

“I was hoping you’d like it,” Flora responded softly as she sat down and ignored the threatening compliment. Rookwood stood over her, cocking an eyebrow when the girl downed a large amount of the liquid in her glass; she was nothing if not readable, and a delightfully terrible seductress. “Tell me what it is you want, poppet. You’ve certainly gone to great lengths to make me amenable, whatever it is.”

Flora forced every muscle in her face to form a smile. “I want to thank you for the potion recipe, Victor. It seems easy to create, and I’ve ordered the ingredients. But, unfortunately, I don’t have a cauldron. If I had my wand, I could transfigure one.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him for added effect.

Rookwood threw his head back and barked out a deep laugh. “Is that all? Darling, I’ll transfigure a potion station in the library for you. Consider it done.”

“I find that using my wand helps when stirring and bottling—I can be so clumsy when it comes to potions…”

“Then I suppose you’ll need to be careful, won’t you, poppet? You’ll get your wand back when you leave at the end of your break. Don’t pester me about it further.” Rookwood’s tone of voice indicated his cheer was ebbing slightly. Flora took the hint and dropped the subject; a cauldron alone was better than no cauldron and no wand. She was safe enough from Rookwood’s scheming for now. “Thank you, Victor.”

“Good girl.” His face was ravenous. “Getting all dressed up to ask for potion supplies? I can’t wait to see what you wear—or don’t wear—when you want something more serious.”

Change the subject. This is a reconnaissance mission, after all. “Everything going well with business?” Flora asked, idly fiddling with her bracelet while Rookwood stood with his back towards her, pouring a third glass of firewhisky. “Nothing Harlow can’t handle while I’m here,” was the response. “He takes care of most day-to-day issues for me on a regular basis. Not much of a change on his end.”

“And…Ranrok?” She couldn’t remember the last time they had discussed the goblin rebellion and its leader; the keepers were certainly taking their time on the final trial’s specifics, much to her disappointment.

Rookwood turned back around to face Flora, narrowing his eyes. “What about Ranrok?”

“Does he know about…us?”

Rookwood waved his hand in a way that suggested he was sweeping away the merest thought of that pestilent, disgusting wretch. “Of course not—Ranrok is an idiot. Don’t give a single moment of thought to that mutt .” The fact that both parties were at a standstill in this race to the final repository was highly vexing— months later, and neither the goblin nor the girl seemed to have any clue as to its location. At least Ranrok had begun construction on that gigantic drill of his—the girl, meanwhile, had more questions than answers. Once information did come to light, the goblin could rally his troops within a matter of hours, and tunnel into… wherever it was with Rookwood in tow, who would be able to finally destroy that miserable runt and possess two things that rightfully belonged to him: the repository, and the girl.

*****

Deek’s package arrived Wednesday morning, and not a moment too soon—Rookwood had been insatiable since Flora’s arrival on Friday. Every night, every morning; he was very insistent, and, well…she didn’t deny him. The girl didn’t have a frame of reference for what constituted a good lover, but she enjoyed his affections—and, she hated to admit, he did have a silver tongue. After so many sessions of lovemaking, Flora was itching to create this new potion, to soothe her nerves and ensure that a new generation of Rookwoods would never come into being.

She made enough to last for the duration of her stay—taking great care to not spill a single drop when pouring the liquids into small glass vials—and drank one; it tasted awful. She forced it down, retching once every drop was swallowed. Drinking this foul potion everyday would be grating, but… it’s better than the alternative. Feeling relief, she sat down and took the time to admire the portrait of a young woman with blonde hair hung on the wall over the library desk. The jewelry the woman was wearing told Flora precisely who this was—Rookwood’s mother. Even without the jewels, Flora would have figured this was the late Missus Rookwood, with her strong jawline, aquiline nose, and bright, piercing blue eyes; she shared so many features with Victor that it had to be her. 

That evening, Rookwood wore an unusual melancholy; as much as he tried to hide it, the girl took notice during dinner. “It’s likely I will be gone when you wake tomorrow morning,” he told her. “Business to attend to. Fear not, poppet—your handsome and charming husband shall return in time for breakfast.”

“What sort of business?” She asked, curious.

“Nosy little thing, aren’t you?” Rookwood studied the girl’s face before giving a soft-spoken answer. “I’ll be visiting the family crypt, if you must know.”

Oh. “Your mother,” Flora intuited.

“Correct. I pay my respects, recast the spell that keeps her flowers fresh, scourgify her plaque to ensure it’s clean and polished...” he paused for a moment. “I have done it on the same day every year for over twenty years now. I won’t let our honeymoon get in the way of it; I’m sure you understand, darling.”

“I understand, Victor.” Flora plucked at the beef on her plate with a fork, at a loss regarding what to say. “I’m sorry…I know you loved her very much. I saw her portrait in the library—she was beautiful.” That comment was genuine; the next one, less so. Humor him. “If we ever have a—a daughter, we could name her after your mother—”

That cheered Rookwood up; a wide grin broke across his face. “Coming around to the idea, poppet? I knew you would. Alice it is, then.” He chuckled softly. “I hope you bear me sons, for the sake of my coffers. Any daughter of mine will be even more spoiled than you are.”

I won’t be bearing either for you—and I am NOT spoiled. “Pretty name,” was Flora’s simple reply. “A shame she passed so young.” The girl was gripped with intrigue regarding the cause of the late Alice Rookwood’s demise; not many witches passed away of natural causes at thirty-five. Illness, perhaps? Or something more sinister?

Rookwood crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, angling his head in a way that suggested reminiscence. “She would have liked being a grandmother, I think. Certainly would have liked seeing me married—although, she would have scolded me over your age.” He noticed the girl’s  sea-green eyes peering at him intently, burning with unasked inquiries. “Let me guess, poppet: you want to know how she passed.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but…” was the sheepish response.

“No, you do mean to pry.” Rookwood’s chest heaved with a deep sigh. Time to tell the tale, then. “As you know, I killed my father. It’s where the scar on my chest came from—I know you’re wondering about that, as well. Diffindo. A parting gift from him on that wonderful night—idiot man. Were he sober at the time, his aim would have been better. I believe he wanted to slash my neck.”

Flora stared in confusion. “What does that have to do with—”

“Vengeance.” Rookwood uttered the word in a crisp, pointed tone of voice as he cut the girl off. “Because he, my darling, killed my mother. His own wife. Tortured her to death with the Cruciatus curse over some small, insignificant thing that no one alive even remembers. I was by her bedside when she succumbed to her injuries—holding her hand as she drew her last breath. I swore revenge then and there, at age eighteen, and fulfilled my promise four years later. And I swear to you, my darling bride, here and now, that I am not like my father, and I will not repeat the past.”

Flora was astonished by both this story and Rookwood’s severe cognitive dissonance. She didn’t dare mention that he very much was like his father—a hardened criminal who constantly drank, married a teenage girl, and was now  pestering her for an heir. He could be cruel like his father, but…he had soft moments as well. How confusing it all was, this push and pull of hating him and—not loving him, but succumbing to his charms and finding him likable enough at times. “I’m glad to hear that, Victor,” she murmured humbly. “Thank you, for…for being open with me tonight.”

“My pleasure, darling—I do love you, after all. And to love is, ultimately, to show vulnerability.” Rookwood patted the wooden dining table with his hand and stood up. “Ah, well. We can’t change the past, can we poppet? Come; finish up your dinner, and we’ll take a bath before retiring for the evening.”

*****

The hunting lodge bath reminded Flora of the prefect’s bathroom in the faculty tower of Hogwarts. She had snuck in there once, and secretly wanted to dip into its warm, steamy waters ever since. This room, though smaller, was the perfect answer to her fantasy. She stood over a bench along one of the walls, undressing with her back to the bath; first her necklace, bracelet, and earrings, which she lay down neatly next to a pile of folded towels on the bench, then bent to unlace her shoes—

“Hurry up, poppet,” a nude Rookwood called from the far end of the giant pool, sitting on an underwater step with his lower half hidden by the soapy water. “At this rate we’ll be ringing in the new year by the time you’re undressed. If you’re going to be coquettish about it, the very least you can do is face me.”

Flora turned her head and threw a stony glare at him before resuming the act of taking off her shoes. She felt the coolness of the tiled floor through her stockings, shedding those next; then, she slowly undid the buttons on the side of her dress, allowing it to fall in a heap to the floor and leaving the girl now fully naked. She grabbed a towel off the bench and wrapped it around herself— You’re not hiding anything I haven’t seen before, poppet, Rookwood quipped—and she picked up her dress, folding it neatly before placing it on the bench, leaving all her apparel in an organized row before wading into the hot, relaxing bath, putting the towel to the side once her body was modestly hidden by the water. She advanced towards the opposite side where Rookwood was waiting, and sat next to him on the step. He moved closer and helped himself to letting her hair down, the ends of the long, ruddy locks floating on the water’s surface. The girl briefly bent down and backwards to dunk her scalp in the relaxing bath, the entirety of her fiery mane turning dark auburn from dampness when she returned upright and sighed with relaxed contentment.

“Much better,” Rookwood remarked, running a hand through the length of her hair, wet tresses separating between his fingers. “You have a new perfume or soap, I’ve noticed. A lovely scent—floral, vernal. It becomes you. Orange blossom?”

Flora’s cheeks and the bridge of her nose turned a noticeable shade of pink. “Yes—a French perfume I found in Hogsmeade.” She had barely made a dent in the stipend Rookwood had given her, but she did spend some of it on some pleasurable and expensive little tokens—perfume, a tortoiseshell comb, fancy teas and sweets, a rather fetching bonnet she spied in the window at Gladrags. Money was scarce growing up; now that she had it, didn’t she deserve to treat herself to nice things?

Rookwood tittered with delight. “Spoiled little thing—look at you, purchasing imported perfume. I wouldn’t expect my wife to settle for anything less.” He sidled even closer towards her, hoisting the girl up to sit in his lap and face him, embracing her and caressing the small of her back. She put up no fight, even when his hands slid to her backside, squeezing both cheeks of her rump, and he bent down to whisper in her ear: “I love it when you’re wet for me.” He guided her buttocks upwards before swiftly thrusting her back down to impale her quickly, easily, entirely to the hilt; she gasped at both the speed and the pleasant lack of friction. “Victor—!”

The waters churned around them as she bounced up and down without needing encouragement; good girl, Rookwood cooed, and grinned at the sight of her blushing face; the pale skin of her arms and chest, adorned with gooseflesh and beads of water; her long, luscious auburn hair and the scent of orange blossom wafting from it; her adorable protruding navel, barely visible underneath the soap and bubbles. He took one hand off the girl’s round little rump, repositioning it to stroke her belly. “How ravishing you’ll be, heavy with my child,” Rookwood whispered in her ear. “You want that, don’t you, poppet? Tell me you want it.”

You’re safe as long as you have your potions. “I—I want it—”

“What do you want, darling? Be specific, my love—I give you so many things.” He halted her ministrations, holding her hips upwards in place, not allowing the girl to move back down; Flora squirmed in a vain attempt to continue the wonderful movements that could bring her release, unfortunately thwarted by his strong hands. “Victor—please—” she begged.

“My beautiful wife—this tortures me just as much as it tortures you. If only you would tell me what you want, then I could provide what you so desperately crave.”

You’re safe as long as you have your potions. She repeated it in her mind, a new mantra to give her comfort. “Victor, I—I want to give you— please, I need—”

Rookwood tutted at her. “Look at you, poppet. Not even at your peak and already speaking in a garbled mess. Be specific, my darling, and I will release you.”

Flora huffed, trying once more to press her hips downwards and have his wonderful stiffness back inside her, and once more finding herself unable to find the satisfaction. “Victor, I want to—to give you an heir. I’ll give you as many children as you ask of me—Please, just—I need you inside me—”

“Good girl.” Her request was obliged, and they were coupled so perfectly and completely together again; he groped one of her breasts, the mount of flesh bouncing to the rhythm of lovemaking and catching his eye like a ripe, tempting fruit. Rookwood plucked at the hardened nipple, and the girl made the most delicious whimpers when he did so. "S ensitive, aren’t you, darling?”

Flora sighed out his name— Victor— in a pathetic attempt at admonishment. His hand on her breast found its way to pinch and rub her southernmost bud between her legs under the water. “You belong to me,” Rookwood murmured. “No one else will ever touch you. Say it.”

“I’m yours— Victor— all yours— Ohh!”

Rookwood held onto her as he was rewarded with her quick, intense undoing; the girl wrapped her sinewy arms around his neck and shoulders after meeting her orgasm, exhausted, drowning in pleasure, and let out a soft whimper at the sensation of brimming with seed. You’re safe as long as you have your potions.

*****

With less than a week left of the honeymoon, Flora considered herself very, very lucky that Rookwood had not taken it upon himself to personally examine her correspondence; she would have never received that letter and recipe from Deek otherwise. She had, in fact, written and received letters to and from most friends—with the notable exception of Anne and Sebastian. No news was good news, she supposed, but it did give her some pause; hopefully all was well in Feldcroft.

On New Year’s Day, Rookwood broke his usual tradition of attending to business alone in his study after breakfast, instead inviting Flora to join him; a small stool sat in the middle of the room, opposite from a chair, easel and large canvas, and table graced with paints, brushes, parchments, quills, and inks atop it. He commanded her to strip— Keep your jewelry on, darling— and sit on the stool.

“It might surprise you to learn that I enjoy drawing and painting, when I can find a spare moment to do so,” he told her, sitting in the chair behind the easel as she undressed. “With only three days left together, I’d like to have a portrait of you. Something lovely to look at and reminisce fondly over our honeymoon.”

“Couldn’t you just enchant the brushes?” Flora asked, plopping herself on the stool, fully bare save for her jewels.

“I find it soothing,” was Rookwood’s simple reply. He began with a sketch on the canvas to outline the scene; not twenty minutes into the session, the girl began to fidget, unaccustomed to sitting still in silence for long periods. “Be still, poppet,” he reprimanded. “Small wonder your own drawing skills are in the state they are, with your lack of patience.”

Flora’s nostrils flared as she sighed with listlessness, and at the very true fact that she did not have the eye of an artist, by any means. Rookwood laughed at the sound. “No need for ennui, darling. We can chat while I work. I’m an exceptional artist, and an even better conversationalist.”

And so modest, thought Flora with dripping sarcasm. “Did you paint the portrait of your mother hanging in the library?”

“I did—about twelve years ago, from memory. A stunning likeness, if I do say so myself. One of my earliest boyhood memories is being out in the courtyard with her, watching how the sun shone in her hair, how her sapphire ring glittered when it caught the light. The start of my artistic ventures, I suppose.” He looked up from the canvas, studying the shape and curvature of the girl’s pale thighs, the way shadows danced upon them in the firelight, the sparse patch of auburn hair peeking out from between them; he turned back to the canvas, stating, “You have no memories of your parents, I imagine.”

“No. None. I do know I look like my mother—she also had red hair—and that my parents met at Hogwarts, when they were third years. My father was a Gryffindor, and my mother was a Hufflepuff.” Flora shifted from discomfort at the lack of movement and the direction of the conversation. “I have a friend who’s also an artist—landscapes, mostly. He gave me a charcoal drawing of Lower Hogsfield. I wish I were better at drawing, but…I prefer writing.”

“I’m aware. I saw it in your journal.” Rookwood tore himself away from wetting a paintbrush to meet her eyes. “A bold decision to consider some runty goblin as a friend, poppet. Keep in mind their kind is waging a war on us at the moment. Thank Merlin your selfless husband has brokered an agreement with their nettlesome leader, else all of wizardkind would be under the boot of goblin dominion by now.” Rookwood dipped the brush into a well of carmine paint, adding strokes to the canvas as he continued. “I hear you laid waste to two of their camps in Hogsmeade Valley not long before you arrived here. Brilliantly done, darling.”

Llewellyn was delivering her response in lieu of tracking her at that particular time—Rookwood must have learned this information from another party. Ranrok, most likely. “Do you know why they were digging there? I saw the drills—it’s just odd, tunneling underneath castle ruins outside a hamlet…” Had she known Bardolph would not be found alive, she would have taken the time to explore the ruins more closely; as it was, she didn’t get close enough to hear the soft, sonant susurrus of ancient magic, instead considering that time was of the essence in regards to finding the missing villager.

Rookwood turned up his nose, as if the fetid stench of goblin was invading the air of his study. “That thick-headed bastard goblin seems to think there are smaller stores of your magic strewn all about the Highlands. You’re an intrepid little explorer, poppet—perhaps you can discover if he’s correct.” Rookwood omitted the important information that he himself had mapped several of these suspected areas, combing over notes attributed to his ancestor, Charles Rookwood. The girl was already powerful enough; it would be a dreadful thing if the little pussy cat honed her claws and transformed into a tiger. Best to keep those stores untouched for the moment, and access them once he gained this power from the repository. “I’m terribly curious about this magic of yours, poppet. Ranrok can apparently hear it.” Rookwood barked out a quick, loud, “Preposterous.”

“No, that’s true,” Flora responded with conviction. “I can hear it, and see it. It whispers and glows.”

Rookwood’s head snapped up immediately to stare directly into the girl’s eyes; she shriveled for a brief second under his glare, then repostured herself to the sitting position she had been in for what seemed like eternity. “Oh?” Rookwood drawled. “Fascinating. Do continue.”

Flora recited precisely what she told all her friends when they questioned her about ancient magic. “I can hear it, like I mentioned—whispers, but not…not words, just soft sounds, like it’s trying to get my attention. And it glows, a silver-blue color. It’s pretty.”

Moonminded girl, holding the most powerful magic in existence and all you can say is ‘it’s pretty’. “I see. I remember seeing it first-hand; you caused a troll to explode , if memory serves.”

Flora, pacified by Rookwood’s happy disposition over the course of the honeymoon and spurred on by youthful pride in her magical aptitude, stared at one of the easel legs as she divulged information that should have perhaps been kept to herself. “Explosions, bolts of lightning…I’ve turned someone into a barrel…I can lift people up and throw them back down again. Oh, and I’ve turned wolves into sheep before.” Flora giggled at the unspoken memory. “I did something similar with Llewellyn’s friend—turned him into a chicken, which is why Llewellyn is always toting him around.”

The absolute last thing Rookwood cared about was Llewellyn’s mentor-turned-chicken. He was positively reeling with delight over the possibilities. The absolute iron grip he’ll have on the Highlands once he accessed that final repository—no, the absolute iron grip he’ll have on the continent. He would walk as a god among men. He composed himself before responding, forcing every fiber of his being to keep calm as he kept on with painting. “I wonder, my darling—with my ancestor being a keeper, you see—if this magic of yours will be passed down. Oh, don’t give me that look,” he tutted when the girl glared and wrinkled her nose. “Would it really be so bad? You have a handsome, intelligent, loving husband. You have more money than you know what to do with. You have a home— several, actually. You have power. You are given everything you desire. You’ll have beautiful, happy children to ruffle your feathers over like a hen soon enough—but please, continue to delay the inevitable while you pine for what could have been: living in some dirty hut in a backwater like Pitt-Upon-Ford, barefoot and pregnant, with an impoverished dullard of a husband rutting his ugly, moronic children on you. The choice is clear, poppet.” Rookwood, now finished with his tirade, turned his attention back to painting.

There is no choice at all. But you’re safe as long as you have your potions.

Chapter Text

Flora flocked to the Undercroft immediately upon arriving back at Hogwarts on Sunday afternoon, the day before the start of the new term. She suspected Sebastian would be there—and her assumption was correct. He was also alone, which was good; they could speak in privacy.

“My bastard uncle,” was his reason for the lack of correspondence. “Made me work in the fields from sunrise to sunset, never giving me a moment’s peace. And he forces Anne to stay inside all day, which makes her sickness even worse. She struggles to speak sometimes, but she can still write— she’s not brainless. Uncle Solomon and I got into an argument about it, which sent Anne into a coughing fit that he blamed me for—I couldn’t stand him any longer, and came back here a few days ago. He’s so… maddening—” Sebastian let out a primal roar as he whipped out his wand and cast Confringo on a suit of armor, causing the metal plates to tumble loudly onto the cold stone floor; Flora flinched at the sound and the boy’s pure ire. 

“I hate him. Hate him!” Yelled Sebastian. “He doesn’t listen to reason. He doesn’t listen at all. There’s a way to cure Anne, I know there is.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” Flora mumbled quietly. What else could she say? Certainly not something akin to A shame to hear your break was terrible, Sebastian. I spent most of mine happily copulating with my much older crime lord husband. He showers me with attention and loves when I say ‘Yes, Victor, right there, that’s perfect’.

The Slytherin boy sighed loudly. “It’s—it’s fine. I’ve spent a lot of time researching and thinking over the break. There’s a relic in that tomb that might be able to help Anne—I want to go there this weekend and find it, and I want you to come with me.” Sebastian turned to Flora, his rich, brown eyes holding an inscrutable dark quality that she had not seen in them before. “That relic will cure Anne. It has to. But—if for some reason it doesn’t, I think your ancient magic can cure her. I read about it in one of the books I swiped from the forbidden section of the library—someone with magic like yours was able to heal people centuries ago. You promised you would join me, Flora.”

Flora’s mind instantly recalled Headmistress Fitzgerald’s pensieve memory with Isidora Morganach. Taking pain away seemed a noble enough cause—as long as consent was involved, anyway. Why, then, did the keepers seem so opposed to it? To alleviate pain was to perform a good deed…wasn’t it? If only they weren’t dragging their feet on the fourth trial; San Bakar’s pensieve memory likely had answers for her.

“Sebastian—in your book, did it have the name of whoever healed people with ancient magic?”

The boy pouted. “I wish. It did at one point, but the name was scratched out—completely unreadable.”

Strange. “I think I know who it might have been. A woman who was once a professor here at Hogwarts. Isidora Morganach,” Flora breathed. 

“Morganach?” Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “I know that name. There’s a Morganach Manor just outside of Feldcroft. It burned down the night that…” He paused. “I’ve never told you the story of how Anne became sick, have I? It happened there—at Morganach Manor. It caught fire two summers ago, at the start of the goblin rebellion, though we didn’t know that at the time. It was the middle of the night—we thought it was an accident. A lightning strike, maybe, or an oil lamp that had gotten knocked over, something like that. Anne ran there to see if there was anyone inside, and…that was when the goblins cursed her.”

Flora found it odd that a goblin would know how to cast such a brutal curse, considering they didn’t even carry wands. Even with Ranrok’s stolen magic, it didn’t seem likely; the loyalists would be cursing people left and right if that were the case. “Is she positive it was a goblin?”

“Of course it was a goblin. It had to have been,” Sebastian fumed, balling his hands into fists. “She has no memory of that night—or very little, anyway. She doesn’t remember what she saw, but she can recall hearing a voice right before she was attacked: ‘Children should be seen and not heard.’”

The blood drained from Flora’s face, leaving her noticeably ashen. Children should be seen and not heard. Those same words, that exact phrasing…it wasn’t a goblin who cursed Anne. It was Victor Rookwood. But… why? If he was at Morganach Manor that night—the beginning of the goblin rebellion—he must have been looking for something there; she had a sneaking suspicion that something had to do with ancient magic…and where there was Rookwood and ancient magic, there was Ranrok. 

Isidora Morganach’s home. Ancient magic. Victor Rookwood. Ranrok. Anne Sallow. These were the pieces of the puzzle, but Flora couldn’t quite figure out how they all fit together into a larger picture. To cast such a brutal curse on Anne…there must be something very important in that manor. She had even described Anne’s symptoms to Rookwood, and he said nothing. Whatever it was that the dark wizard found, he obviously didn’t want anyone to know—not even his own wife. Flora needed to discover whatever it was, without him knowing that she was growing wise to his machinations.

“I’d like to visit that manor,” she told Sebastian. “If Anne was cursed there, perhaps there’s a clue as to why.”

Sebastian didn’t seem very keen on this. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea—the place is crawling with a small army of goblins. They’d overpower us, even with your ancient magic and…” a sparkle suddenly lit up the boy’s eyes and a smirk unfurled across his face as he came upon an idea. “Alright, Flora. We can investigate the tomb and the manor. In exchange, I want you to teach me the killing curse. Right here, right now. Another thing you promised me.”

Flora didn’t appreciate this suggestion of repayment in kind and making good on promises; Sebastian’s new-found commanding tone was uncomfortably reminiscent of Rookwood. However, she did see the logic behind it; if they were going to carve their way through a swarm of goblin loyalists, they needed to use every available spell in their arsenal—dark magic included. 

“Very well,” she agreed, adding a caveat. “Sebastian, I should warn you beforehand that the aftereffects of the killing curse are very… intense. This is a spell that requires a lot of self-control…” she trailed off, suddenly reluctant. Would Sebastian beg for her just as she had begged for Rookwood? She wanted that…didn’t she? If Rookwood finds out, he’ll kill Sebastian. That was something she didn’t want.

Sebastian confidently shook off her concerns. “I can handle it. Let’s hurry up and get started, before Ominis decides to make an appearance and keep us out of trouble.” He flashed a wide grin, and Flora smiled shyly in return.

Sebastian was a quick and clever student, just as Flora was. She showed him the zig-zag, lightning bolt movement of the wand, shared with him the incantation— not the usual Latin, Sebastian noted—and looked on professorially as he attempted to cast the curse on one of the little spiders infesting the Undercroft. He began to show a small amount of agitation after half a dozen unsuccessful attempts, but Flora pacified him with kind, supportive words— remember that you have to mean it, it requires intention— and the spider was finally dispatched with a ghoulish green light that shot out from the Slytherin boy’s wand. Sebastian marveled silently at the deceased arachnid, with its spindly legs curled upward and immobile in death; Flora, standing off to the boy’s side, felt a surge of blood rush to her face upon noticing the stiff protrusion in his trousers—then felt it against her as the boy practically charged her, causing both of them to tumble in a heap to the cold stone floor.

“Flora.” Sebastian sighed her name with yearning as he clambered on top of her. “That was amazing— you’re amazing.” An inexperienced hand found its way to a clothed breast, and he bent forward, crushing his lips into hers.

“Sebastian,” she murmured, trying to softly protest in between kisses. “Sebastian, I don’t—”

The caged entrance of the Undercroft creaked, heralding the arrival of Ominis. Sebastian flung himself back onto his feet in surprise, and Flora sped into the entrance just as the blind boy was exiting, accidentally clipping his shoulder with her own. She yipped out a quick, shrill “ sorry Ominis, hello by the way, goodbye Sebastian, we’ll talk later” and was gone, leaving the two perplexed boys behind.

*****

Later in the week, the decision was made to depart for Feldcroft on Saturday morning. In the meantime, Flora plotted how to keep her plans a secret from Rookwood— and his bloodhound, Llewellyn. With the poacher boy out of the way, she would have much more freedom of movement, and Rookwood would be none the wiser.

The answer lied in Poppy, who Flora enlisted for help as the pair studied together in the library. “You need me to keep Llewellyn distracted? Why?” The Hufflepuff asked, legs curled up underneath her as she sat in a large, plush armchair opposite her Ravenclaw friend.

“He follows me everywhere, and reports back to Rookwood on my movements. I need to go to Feldcroft with Sebastian this Saturday, but I can’t have Llewellyn tracking me while I’m there—he’s been ordered to kill any boys I’m seen with.” Flora rolled her eyes. “Please, Poppy? It’s only for a day, and I know Llewellyn would drop everything to meet with you.”

Poppy folded her arms and leaned back in the armchair. “We did exchange some letters over break, so I suppose he wouldn’t find a request to meet in person unexpected or suspicious. I asked about the dragons at Horntail Hall, but Merlin’s Beard, I need a codebreaker to figure out his chicken scratch—not a clue what he’s writing about, if you can even call it writing.” The girl thought quietly for a moment before a sly grin broke out from ear to ear. “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll send him a letter today. Don’t you worry for a single second about Llewellyn following you. I’ll make sure he stays very busy.”

“Don’t go finding trouble, Poppy,” Flora warned.

“No trouble,” Poppy lied. “I promise.”

Whatever details Poppy’s letter contained, Llewellyn was absolutely overjoyed by the prospect of meeting her face-to-face—as he mentioned several times to Flora on Thursday, while she trotted her way back to Hogsmeade from Keenbridge following a successful potion delivery.

“It’ll be just like old times, Missus Rookwood! I can’t wait to see her again!”

“I know, Llewellyn. You said that fifteen minutes ago.” 

“I have so many stories to share with her—should I dress up? I don’t have any smart-looking clothes, but I can buy some. D’you reckon I need a haircut?”

“You look fine, Llewellyn.”

“I wish I could grow a beard. Mister Rookwood says women love facial hair, because it tickles them when you—oh! I forgot to mention Mister Rookwood would like you to join him at his Poidsear estate tomorrow after your classes. Sorry…I’m just so excited—”

Flora stopped in her tracks and cursed under her breath. Rookwood did mention wanting to see her every weekend—after spending so much time with him over the break, she had totally forgotten. She needed to come up with an excuse for her absence. Visiting her dying friend? No; she had stupidly told him the truth about Anne living in Feldcroft. If Rookwood grew suspicious, he would know the exact area to search. Schoolwork? No; that had never stopped her before. Illness? No; Llewellyn could plainly see, here and now, that Flora was perfectly healthy. However…Llewellyn was not terribly bright. It could work.

“Please give him my apologies, Llewellyn. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather this week—part of the reason for this potion delivery, you see. Mister Pippin has kindly offered to reward me with some Wiggenweld, to ease the pain—and the school nurse suggests I take the next few days to rest in the hospital wing, under her supervision. Assure him I’ll be right as rain by next weekend.”

The poacher boy bought the lie. “That’s an awful shame, Missus Rookwood—I hope you feel better soon. Is the baby alright, at least?”

Flora stared, incredulous. Surely this boy didn’t still believe the lie she told him to rescue Highwing and Caligo from Falbarton castle…?

“Ah—unfortunately…the baby has been lost. One reason for my illness. I’ve made my peace with it, but…” She trailed off. It felt monstrous to lie about this. “Please, don’t mention it to Victor. He’ll be shattered by the news.” She then quickly added, “And please don’t tell Poppy, either.”

Llewellyn wore genuine sorrow on his face. “A terrible thing to hear, Missus Rookwood. Here, let’s get you safely back to Hogsmeade. I’ll let Mister Rookwood know you’re ill once I see you off.”

*****

“Enter.”

Rookwood’s voice rang with authority upon hearing a soft knock on the door to his quarters inside Horntail Hall. The intrusion heralded one of several scenarios: a guard, come to report a violent, drunken brawl in the stands that required severe intimidation as a reminder to behave like gentlemen; a harlot, once more begging him with Please, Victor, I miss playing together, your wife won’t know, who could be placated with a sizeable coin purse; or Llewellyn, come to report on Missus Rookwood’s movements and deliver any personal messages to and fro with trusted privacy. Looking up from his sketches as he sat at his desk, Rookwood was quite happy to find Llewellyn walking in.

“Llewellyn, my dear boy—always a pleasure to see you. What is my wife up to now? You passed my instructions along, I trust?”

“Hello, Mister Rookwood.” Normally, the boy’s tone was chipper; today, it seemed…detached.  Contemplative, almost. “Missus Rookwood is ill, sir, and won’t be able to travel for the next few days. She expects to be fully recovered by next weekend.”

Rookwood, unlike Llewellyn, immediately intuited that this was a lie. “I see. Did Missus Rookwood detail precisely what this illness is?”

The poacher boy looked down at his boots and fidgeted in place. “Well, yes sir, but—she asked me not to say anything, and I don’t want to upset you…”

“I can handle it. Go on, then,” Rookwood prodded.

“Missus Rookwood… lost the baby.” Were those tears forming in the boy’s eyes? “I’m awful sorry, sir. Missus Rookwood doesn’t want you to despair.”

Not only was it a lie; it wasn’t even a believable lie. It was much too soon for a pregnancy to be known, let alone lost. The girl was hatching some sort of scheme that apparently required a veil of secrecy, and Rookwood didn’t like it one bit. “Not to worry, Llewellyn. My wife is incredibly lucky to have such a virile husband—be sure to repeat those exact words the next time you see her. Keep up the good work, lad, and continue to keep a watchful eye on her this weekend.” Expecting the boy to leave, he returned to his sketches; instead, Llewellyn cleared his throat, and Rookwood regarded him once more. “Something else, Llewellyn?”

“Y’see, sir…since I was expecting Missus Rookwood to be with you this weekend, I—well, I’ve been exchanging letters with a real nice girl, and she asked if I could spend time with her on Saturday. I was hoping that maybe I could still see her, but…I understand if—”

Rookwood held up a hand as an indication for the poacher boy to stop speaking; he abruptly obeyed, and waited quietly for a response while the dark wizard deliberated. Llewellyn was a loyal, hardworking lad; the boy had more than earned a day—and a night—to court a pretty lass. However, Llewellyn was also an exceptional tracker, and the girl was most certainly planning to gad about in some far-flung corner of the Highlands this weekend; she needed to be kept under close watch. Where was she going, and what was she doing that involved such discretion? Rookwood drummed his fingers on the desk, rhythmically and idly, before realizing she had told him the answer weeks ago: Feldcroft. Visiting that cursed, dying girl wouldn’t require such furtiveness…but rolling about in the hay with a toothless, dimwitted Slytherin boy would. It seemed, then, that Missus Rookwood needed to be prodded with an ever-so-gentle reminder from her husband: you belong to me.

“I think you deserve some time to chase after a lovely little filly, Llewellyn. I know keeping up with my wife is not an easy task, by any means. Go on, then—and don’t let the girl pull you into too much mischief.”

*****

Flora and Sebastian arrived outside of Feldcroft on Saturday morning without trouble. The boy, still seething with rage at his uncle, suggested they inhabit a bothy built for weary travelers just off the main road leading into the village. It was a small, one room shack outfitted with two beds, a fireplace, and a chamber pot—all that was needed, really.

“This place doesn’t get much use anymore. Not a lot of travelers on the roads around here, with all the goblins about,” the boy told her. “That means we’ll have plenty of time alone together.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it affectionately.

“We should get to work then,” Flora said, ignoring the flirtation. She wanted to make this trip a quick one; despite knowing Llewellyn was currently occupied with Poppy, Flora couldn’t help but feel a sense of paranoia, as if she were still being watched. “I’d like to start with taking a look around the manor, if that’s alright with you.”

Sebastian seemed a bit put out by the girl’s lack of response to his affections, but agreed. The pair made their way to the charred, ashy husk of the manor, slaying every goblin in sight upon arrival—with perhaps a bit too much fervor, in Sebastian’s case—and, upon entering the abandoned home, Flora noticed that there wasn’t much to look around at; the fire had consumed nearly everything. A portrait propped up against one charred wall seemed to have survived—a woman, with her face burned away. The scorch marks were too concentrated and shapely for this to have been done by the same fire that destroyed the manor; this destruction was deliberate.

“Someone obviously wasn’t fond of whoever she was,” Sebastian commented. “Isidora, you think?”

“I do,” Flora replied. “And I think you’re right—someone did this on purpose. I wonder who…or why.” A glint of light caught the corner of her eye; she turned her head and was met with a bubble of silvery light wafting at eye level like a speck of dust. More appeared as she stepped closer, leading her into the adjacent room where she could hear the unmistakable whispers of ancient magic, ringing louder and louder as she drew towards a singed bookcase along the stone wall. “Sebastian!” The girl hollered. “I think there’s something in here—” 

The Slytherin boy jogged into the room, complying when Flora requested help in moving the bookcase; the girl gasped upon seeing what hid behind the wall.

“What is it? That magic of yours showing you something?” Sebastian asked her.

“It’s—it’s an entrance to the Undercroft,” Flora marveled, touching it to make it visible to her companion. A portal to the Undercroft, here in Morganach manor; it couldn’t be a coincidence. Was this what Rookwood and Ranrok were looking for that night? Another question that, frustratingly, had no clear answer at the moment.

“That’s lucky, then,” Sebastian quipped, moving closer to the girl. “A fast and easy way to return to Hogwarts. We can use it to leave once we’re done here in Feldcroft.” The boy’s entire face blushed bright pink when his stomach gurgled loudly, causing Flora to giggle.

“Hungry?” She teased. “I think we’ve found all we can here, anyway. I packed some sandwiches—let’s take a break back at the cabin.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sebastian replied. “Let’s go—I’m starving.”

*****

“So Anne really doesn’t remember anything else about that night?” Flora asked, impolitely chewing a mouthful of bacon sandwich while speaking. The pair sat side by side on one of the small beds inside the bothy, enjoying the warmth that emanated from the fireplace while they chatted and slowly ate lunch.

“Only what I told you,” Sebastian replied with better manners, swallowing his bite before responding. “You can ask her yourself soon enough—she’ll be meeting us outside the tomb. I sent her an owl yesterday asking her to join us.”

Flora nearly choked on another bite of sandwich, surprised that Sebastian didn’t mention this highly important piece of information beforehand. “She’s meeting us there? Alone? Can she walk that distance in her condition?”

Sebastian scoffed. “You’re starting to sound like my uncle. She’ll get there fine—it’s not far from the village. She’ll walk in sick and walk out cured—you’ll see.”

If she can be cured at all. Flora hated to even have the thought in her head, but she knew the scope of Rookwood’s malice from first-hand experience—it was a likelihood that she needed to be mindful of. A likelihood that Sebastian needed to be mindful of.

“Sebastian…” the name was uttered with supreme gentleness. “Suppose we don’t find that relic in the tomb, or it doesn’t help Anne—”

“It will be there, and it will help,” the boy huffed. “If something goes wrong, you can heal her with your ancient magic.”

“But I’ve never tried anything like that before. I think we need to come to terms with the possibility that she—”

“That’s enough.” Sebastian growled with such spite that it almost made Flora jump. “You sound exactly like my uncle. I’ve come too far, researched this for too long to stop now. I will cure my sister. I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise. Not you, not my uncle, not even Anne herself.”

A long and awkward silence filled the cabin. Oh, Sebastian. Flora always found his determination admirable, but now…this determination was brazen and greedy, whereas he was much more kind and altruistic only a few months ago. Where was the Sebastian who had escorted her to Hogsmeade? The Sebastian who was her dueling partner in Crossed Wands? The Slytherin boy had changed, and not for the better—he very much reminded Flora of Rookwood. Both growing up in unhappy homes—one with a hated uncle, the other with a hated father; one with a beloved sister, the other with a beloved mother. Highly intelligent, ambitious, willing to do whatever it takes to reach their goal…even if it required the use of dark magic. They were so similar in so many ways that it made Flora uneasy. Sebastian was heading down a very dark path—she didn’t like that.

*****

Whatever Flora was doing in Feldcroft, Poppy hoped it was worth it. That girl owed her a gigantic favor.

With a bag containing her poacher disguise in hand, she made her way to the large, old oak tree just off the main path leading into the forbidden forest, where she agreed to meet with Llewellyn. She arrived early; Llewellyn, apparently, had arrived even earlier.

“Poppy! Poppy Sweeting!” The boy cried out with joy, bounding like a puppy as soon as she was within view. He had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a long coat made of some type of brown leather; the chicken under his arm was also looking a bit more proper, with a small red ribbon tied gently around its neck, as if it were wearing a bow tie.

“Hello, Llewellyn,” Poppy greeted. “Nice coat.” The sarcasm in her tone of voice went right over the boy’s head.

Llewellyn’s face lit up like candles on a Christmas tree. “You like it? It’s dragon hide! I won it in a bet yesterday. Oh, wow, Poppy Sweeting! It’s really you! It’s been five years, six months, eleven days—”

“What’s with the chicken?” Poppy asked flatly, not wanting Llewellyn to continue going into detail on the exact number of hours, minutes, and seconds since the two had last seen each other.

“This is Mister Michaels!” Came the chipper response, as if it were a perfectly acceptable answer to the question. The chicken cooed in greeting.

“Hello, Mister Michaels.” Poppy reached out with her free hand and gently pat the bird on the head before getting straight to business. “So…Llewellyn. That Hebridean Black dragon at Horntail Hall—I‘be never seen one in person before, but I sure would love to. I was hoping you could treat me to a tour of the place.”

Llewellyn hesitated. “Well, er—I don’t think the Hall is the best place for a proper lady like you to be hanging around at…and a lot of folks are still real sore about you and that hippogriff escaping years ago, even if they weren’t there. It’s a popular story to tell ‘round the fire in the camps—y’know, like one of those cautionary tales.”

Poppy swelled with pride at these words. If freeing a hippogriff was legendary, then doing the same for a dragon would be mythical. “Oh, come on, Llewellyn—it’ll be like the old days! Wandering around the camp, having a laugh, looking at all the beasts…” and freeing them from their cages. She hoisted up her bag. “I brought a disguise. No one will know it’s me. Please, Llewellyn?” The look on the boy’s face indicated that he was torn; perhaps he just needed a little more coaxing. “If you show me the dragon, I’ll meet with you as often as you want,” Poppy lied, sweetening the deal.

Llewellyn hugged the chicken in his arms, continuing to dither before reluctantly agreeing. “Alright. But only for a little bit.”

Poppy hissed out a happy yes, then dove behind the tree with her bag, changing into her disguise; Llewellyn, acting as a proper gentleman, closed his eyes, protecting the girl’s modesty.

“Ready!” Poppy strode back out from behind the oak tree, standing proudly with her hands on her hips as Llewellyn opened his eyes.

“Oh! You could have fooled me. You look just like a lad!” Llewellyn commented.

It doesn’t take much to fool you, Llewellyn. A puffskein could do it. “If anyone asks, my name’s…Paul,” Poppy told him, tying a bandana around the lower half of her face. “I’m new to the Pack and you’re showing me the ropes. Let’s go.”

*****

The sun was setting over Feldcroft. Flora and Sebastian had been anxiously waiting outside the tomb for nearly an hour; she was just about to suggest searching for the sick girl when Anne came into view on the path, slowly heading towards them. As she drew closer to the pair of students, Flora noticed that the girl looked awful. Her hair was dull and without luster; her skin was sickly and pallid; her eyes no longer offered any spark of life, with bruise-colored bags deeply-set underneath them. Politely, Flora kept her observances to herself, and greeted Anne with a friendly hug; she felt every bone through Anne’s paper-thin skin, and could feel the rattling of lungs against her as the poor girl labored for breath.

“It’s good to see you again. You look—er, well,” Flora told her.

“No, I…don’t,” Anne panted. “But it’s…kind of you…to say.” The girl hobbled over to Sebastian and greeted him with a similar hug; she shouldn’t have come here, Flora thought. Not in the condition she’s in.  

Sebastian did not appear to be of a similar mind. “You weren’t followed?” He asked. “Uncle Solomon didn’t see you leave?”

“I snuck out…after he fell…asleep in…his armchair,” Anne confirmed. Satisfied enough with this answer, Sebastian took the lead to usher the trio into the entrance of the tomb with immediacy, and cast Lumos to provide a source of light. The air inside was stale and ancient, as if no living, breathing thing had graced this place for centuries; the miasma threw Anne into a coughing fit.

“Sebastian, wait a moment,” Flora called out to the boy, who was several paces ahead of the two girls. She rubbed Anne’s back with maternal comfort. “Maybe we should see you back home,” Flora whispered, out of the Slytherin boy’s earshot. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be in here…” Flora didn’t think it was a good idea for any of them to be in here; she couldn’t shake the eerie sensation of being watched.

“I’ll be…fine,” Anne wheezed quietly in between coughs; she spoke so weakly that Flora could barely make out the words. “If something…goes wrong…I’ll send word to—”

“What are you two whispering about back there?” Sebastian hollered impatiently. “We’re almost to the main chamber—that’s where the relic is. The sooner we find it and cure Anne, the sooner we can leave.”

Flora shot a nasty look in his direction, which went unseen as the boy turned around and began walking further into the tomb; she wrapped Anne’s arm around her shoulder, offering the sick girl support as they slowly made their way to the main chamber—large, domed, constructed of cold, aged stone, and decorated with hundreds of urns and caskets that had been sealed away for centuries. In the middle of the sepulcher lay a raised stone altar, its ornate carvings weathered away from time; Sebastian lit the braziers along the walls, and the trio edged closer to the altar, upon which was the much-coveted object of Sebastian’s obsession: the relic. A small, obsidian pyramid that gave off a heavy, inhospitable aura of dark magic; Sebastian moved closer, reaching out to take it.

“Sebastian, don’t—” Flora began to warn; she halted when the relic flew away from Sebastian and towards the entrance of the large room, where it landed right in the hands of…

“Uncle Solomon!” Sebastian and Anne cried out in tandem; the former with ire, the latter with surprise.

“Boy,” Solomon spat. “I knew it. I knew you’d gone and come up with some foolish scheme—and roped your sister into it. Get it into your thick skull, lad: she can’t be cured. Not by healers, not by potions, and not with this.” With a wave of Solomon’s wand, the relic evaporated in his hand, lost forever, and the ensuing minutes erupted into such chaos that Flora briefly thought it had to be a dream. She and Anne could only watch in wordless horror as Solomon fell lifelessly to the floor in the blink of an eye, killed by his nephew’s hand with a zap of green light and an incantation of Avada Kedavra. Anne screamed out her uncle’s name, hobbling over to his body as Sebastian dropped his wand and sank to his knees with the realization of his rash, split-second decision…and then she was gone. Anne, in an act that likely took any magical strength she had remaining, apparated away with Solomon’s body—to where was anyone’s guess. Flora, frozen in place a few paces away from Sebastian, could only stare at the boy; it took several seconds for her mind to interpret what she had just seen. Sebastian murdered his Uncle. 

All was quiet now, save for Sebastian’s heavy breathing, which slowly morphed into soft sobbing. Flora edged closer to the boy as he rose to his feet and mewled out her name, then found herself crushed against his body in a tight embrace; she wriggled in his arms upon feeling the aftereffect of the curse against her. Here? Now? After all that just occurred?

“Sebastian—d-don’t—” she stuttered when naïve hands found their way to her backside. “We should leave—”

“I didn’t want this,” Sebastian said solemnly, burrowing his tear-stained face into the crook of her neck and shoulder. “All I wanted was—was for my sister to be happy again, to be healthy again. You’re all I have left now—you and Ominis. Oh, Flora— stay with me. Don’t leave me. Spend the night with me, please . You feel the same way, I know you do. We can go back to the cabin, and—” the sentence went unfinished. Flora jumped back with a yelp when the sound of a spell was flung in their direction, and watched helplessly as the boy fell back down to the ground, paralyzed and unmoving—thankfully with life still behind his eyes—as a familiar voice rang out.

“Paws off, mutt.”

No. It can’t be. But it was—Flora whipped her head towards the source of the voice, only to see Rookwood himself at the entrance to the sepulcher, wearing a vile, sinister sneer as he slowly strode towards the two students. She felt just as paralyzed as Sebastian—from shock, rather than from a spell. “V—Victor…How did you…?”

Rookwood ignored her, stopping to kick Sebastian’s wand further away before looking down his nose to study the boy’s face. “So this is the pudgy, snub-nosed stripling who competes for my wife’s affections?” He chuckled. “I’ll wager she didn’t tell you that, did she, boy? My wife holds so many secrets — I think we all deserve to know the truth, don’t you agree?”

The dark wizard was on her in an instant, pinning her down on the raised stone altar with the entirety of his body weight. One aggressive, masculine hand pinched her nostrils closed, forcing her to open her mouth; the other hand uncorked a small vial, sprinkling a few drops of an unfamiliar liquid into her mouth, and she sputtered and coughed before the fluid drained down her gullet. 

“Tell me, wife,” Rookwood hissed. “Who taught you the killing curse?”

“Y—you did, Victor,” the girl stuttered. The truth spilled from her mouth as if the words were not her own.

“Hear that, boy? I did. Oh, she begged for me to take her afterwards—waved her cunt right in my face and pleaded for my cock. Isn’t that right, poppet?”

“Yes, Victor,” Flora sobbed.

“And this boy begged for you, didn’t he, when you taught him in turn? Did you relent? Does he know how soft you are? How tight you are? How sweet you taste? The Veritaserum will tell the tale, poppet.”

“No, Victor—I’m faithful to you—”

Rookwood was quite pleasantly surprised to hear that Missus Rookwood had her priorities in order, and his suspicions of cuckoldry were incorrect; in some primal way, it would make the act of taking her in front of her quaint, virgin suitor even more delectable. “Good girl,” he cooed, flipping the girl onto her belly, skirts up, stockings down, lewdly splayed and ready for him; unbuttoning his trousers, he told her, “I’ve been watching you— both of you—all day, poking your little noses into trouble. Such a shame to see a family annihilated in seconds, all for some fool’s errand, trying to find a cure that doesn’t exist. I will say, it was quite the show—and, credit where it’s due, boy, you’ve got good aim. I wonder who could create such a curse? I think you know, don’t you, poppet? You’re such a clever Ravenclaw, after all; Why don’t you tell your little friend here your suspicions?”

“It wasn’t goblins who cursed Anne. It was him. It was Victor Rookwood.” As soon as she uttered the name, Rookwood hoisted her hips upwards and plunged himself brusquely and abruptly inside her. “Me!” He cackled.

“Sebastian, don’t look—” Flora begged, and felt herself become wracked with shame, knowing the request was futile. She yelped when a hand smacked her forcefully on her bare rump, leaving a bright red print on her pale skin; a mark of ownership that Rookwood positively adored to see.

“You belong to me. Say it, wife.”

“I’m yours, Victor,” the girl sniveled, holding back fearful tears. “I belong to you.”

Rookwood groaned upon hearing his name as he plundered his wife, claiming her, letting this pockmarked idiot boy know that she is Missus Rookwood . He slapped another handprint on her opposite buttock, forming a matching pair, and grunted, “Never should have let you return to that infernal school—your rightful place is with me.” The girl gasped when two fingers toyed with the bundle of nerves above her entrance, and she cried out his name again, which brought him ever closer to climax. “Who do you come for, wife?”

“You, Victor…”

“Good girl. Oh, my love—”

My love. Flora hated that she loved those words, and hated herself for reaching climax in sync with Rookwood’s own, feeling his warm seed fill her womb. Rookwood sighed out a loud mine while admiring his handiwork as he tucked himself back in his trousers: the scarlet outlines of his hands on her sweet, round cheeks, the dribble of seed at her entrance, the soft moans she made while catching her breath—she was his property that no one else dared to encroach upon. He allowed the girl to hike up her stockings before roughly pulling her against him, forcing her to gaze upon the petrified schoolboy, whose mind was no doubt reeling. 

“She’s such a good girl, isn’t she?” Rookwood taunted, kissing her temple to further stoke whatever mass of anger the boy was most certainly harboring. “So loyal. So clever. So beautiful. You never had a chance, boy. You have no girl, no family, and soon you’ll have no life behind those eyes. A mercy, I think—quick and painless, which is a far nobler death than you deserve.” Rookwood raised his wand and took direct aim at Sebastian—Flora, feeling the minute dose of serum beginning to wear off, screeched out a don’t!

Her cry went unheard, muffled by a regal voice casting Depulso and the loud clattering of urns breaking as Rookwood was propelled against the far wall of the tomb, his top hat flying off when the back of his skull slammed into the stone, causing him to groan before briefly losing consciousness. Thinking quickly, Flora raced to pick up Sebastian’s wand nearby; seeing that Rookwood’s spell on the boy had dissipated, she tossed it over for him to catch before taking the young man firmly by the wrist and breezing to the entrance of the sepulcher, where Ominis, of all people, was standing with wand in hand. This day must be a dream. It has to be. It’s too bizarre to be reality.

“What in—?” Ominis began to ask.

“No time,” Flora panted, grabbing the blind lad with her other hand and shooting out of the tomb like a cannonball. The two Slytherin boys practically wafted in the breeze like kites behind her as Flora tore along the path, past the small bothy, and up to Morganach manor, where the trio made a speedy escape back into the safety of the Undercroft.

The three students found themselves in a jumble on the floor, all breathing deeply, all saying nothing. Sebastian was the first to stand—and without a single word or glance, he stormed away from the other two friends, leaving the Undercroft. Flora called out for him to wait, Sebastian, but he did no such thing. 

“Oh, Sebastian,” she sighed, and wiped away tears that began to blur her vision. 

A soft, stately hand found its way to her shoulder, and Ominis spoke in his princely voice: “Flora. You and I need to speak urgently—about Sebastian, and what happened back there.”

Oh, Merlin. How much did Ominis hear? How much does he know? “How did you know where we were?” 

“Anne,” Ominis responded. “I received a letter from her just a short time ago—she must have the fastest owl in the Highlands. When Sebastian sent word asking her to meet at the tomb, she notified me in turn. Anne suspected nothing would come of it, but agreed to update me on whatever happened…” the boy halted briefly before continuing. “You, aside from her, are the only witness. Tell me: did Sebastian murder his uncle with the killing curse?”

“Yes,” Flora blubbered. “He did. Anne apparated away—is she alright?”

“She didn’t say—she was in a hurry to send correspondence, I imagine. I will find out what I can and let you know of her whereabouts. I’m curious as to who the man I heard upon my arrival was…?”

“A thief.” It wasn’t a lie. “Tried to shake us down for whatever we found in the tomb. How much did you hear?”

“You screaming, and Sebastian being threatened with a quick and painless death.” The reply caused Flora to breathe a sigh of relief; Ominis was much too judicious to be deceptive. When he said that was all he heard, she fully believed it—and how lucky that his unseeing eyes meant he couldn’t recognize Rookwood. It was still much too close of a call. He can’t know.

“This is, naturally, an absolute travesty. I know you and Sebastian are… close, Flora, but I implore you to listen to me when I suggest that this act cannot go unpunished. We both love Sebastian, in our own ways—however, it is my belief that justice should prevail over emotion. An innocent man is dead at the hands of our friend—that is the fact of the matter, and it must be dealt with. We should inform the Headmaster of what occurred.”

“You want to turn him in?” Flora stared into the Slytherin lad’s glassy, sightless eyes. Judicious, indeed.

“I don’t want to turn him in—but I believe it would be prudent to do so. I understand it’s painful to consider the idea of losing Sebastian…he’s a very dear friend to both of us. However…I believe we lost him long before today. He attempted to use dark magic, without realizing that dark magic was using him.”

There is always a cost. Flora pondered the possible fates that awaited Sebastian; once again, regardless of the outcome, Rookwood had won. If Sebastian is given up and found guilty, he’d be shipped off to Azkaban—to serve a life sentence, most likely—and would be out of her life forever, leaving Rookwood with one less rival to worry about as the boy seethed with hatred for her behind bars. If Sebastian is found innocent, he would be allowed to rejoin the wizarding world… again leaving Rookwood with one less rival to worry about as the boy seethed with hatred for her in freedom. Regardless, each outcome led to the same painful realization: Sebastian would likely hate her for the rest of his days. She opted to agree with Ominis—not for justice, but for self-preservation. Sebastian knew her deepest, darkest secrets, and had nothing to lose by announcing them to the world. No one else can know.

“ I agree.” Flora’s tone was stoic. “We should go to the Headmaster immediately.”

*****

When Rookwood came to, he was covered in ash, slightly concussed, and alone. He swore under his breath; the girl must have made a quick getaway with her homely little suitor in tow, but he couldn’t quite remember how. Popping the cork off a vial of Wiggenweld found in his pocket, he drank to ease the dull, throbbing pain in his head and thought back to the moments prior to the escape; the girl was there, of course. That runt of a boy was petrified and nearly dead—but after that, nothing. Rookwood cursed again; he had to find her. He needed a tracker. Llewellyn. He needed Llewellyn.

Rookwood cleaned himself up, donned his top hat, took a sip from his flask of firewhisky—a far superior medicine than any healing potion—and apparated outside of Horntail Hall. Surprisingly, Harlow and Llewellyn were standing just barely an arm’s length away upon his arrival.

“Oho! Good timin’,” Harlow greeted. “Got a small… issue to deal with, boss.”

“Oh, for the love of— what is it now?” Rookwood groaned. Harlow shuffled him off to the side, allowing relative privacy as they spoke; Llewellyn stayed put nearby, with a look on his face that was not unlike a recently-kicked newborn mooncalf.

“Y’know how these young lads are, boss,” Harlow began. “A pretty face and the promise of cunny makes ‘em grow stars in their eyes and think with their smaller head…”

Rookwood didn’t like this conversation already, having had more than enough of young lads and their behavior today; he pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved out a sigh. “Llewellyn’s new lass, I take it?”

“Not just any lass. Angus and Violet’s girl—wee Poppy Sweeting. Y’think your girl is wild, well…” Harlow held up his left hand to show off several clusters of deep bite marks on his palm and raw, red scratches crawling up his forearm. “This one’s feral. Took four men to finally bring ‘er down. It en’t entirely the boy’s fault, boss—y’know how Llewellyn can be. He was coerced into showin’ the girl ‘round while she was in disguise, lookin’ like a lad. The nimrods we got in this place didn’t even notice—it was of the harlots who grew suspicious while tryin’ to make a sale, exposed the charade.”

Poppy Sweeting, in custody here at the Hall? It was music to Rookwood’s ears. He came to find a tracker and was instead provided with something much more effective: bait. 

*****

The Great Hall was swirling with rumors and intrigue at breakfast on Sunday morning. Aurors took custody of a Slytherin student in the dead of night, but no one seems to know why was the general gist of things; Flora tried desperately to ignore the gossip around her and not burst into tears by concentrating deeply on a slice of toast upon her plate. She spied Ominis over at the Slytherin table—who, being blind, did not meet her gaze—and scanned other familiar faces in the crowd before realizing Sebastian was not the only friend missing: where was Poppy? The Hufflepuff girl never missed a meal.

The question was quickly answered when an owl dropped a letter dangerously close to the wad of jam on Flora’s plate during the morning mail delivery. Fine parchment, but no seal—no signature at all, though the handwriting was more than familiar enough to know who this letter was sent by. It simply read:

She is at the Hall.

“Fuck.” Flora cursed under her breath as she crumpled up the note; the second-year boy sitting beside her shifted with discomfort, deciding to ignore the foul language and instead become very interested in that platter of ham right over there. The Ravenclaw girl inhaled the remnants of her breakfast and stomped out of the Great Hall, feeling a flurry of emotions. Anger. What, did Rookwood want to rut on her in front of Poppy now? Sadness. It was her fault Poppy was even in this mess to begin with. Fear. She had to get her friend back to safety—who knows what sort of depravity Rookwood might inflict on the girl, since he enjoyed toying with his prey so much. Flora went back and forth on how to go about things; storm the place and rescue Poppy? Risky—Rookwood was likely on high alert, awaiting her arrival at any moment. Meet with him? Also risky—he very likely had some deal to broker in exchange for Poppy’s safe return, and Flora was sick and tired of cowing to his demands. How did Poppy even get caught in the first place? She spent all of yesterday with…

Llewellyn. He would have all the information Flora needed to make a decision. Now standing in a field—her apparating field, she had come to call it—Flora looked around, hoping to espy the boy, who seemed to be nowhere nearby. She grew disappointed at first, then hopeful; if Llewellyn wasn’t here watching her, surely he was at the Hall watching over Poppy instead? He was so ecstatic about meeting with her, after all. 

How lucky, then, that the poacher boy was alone outside the Hall upon her arrival. She apparated a few meters away from the entrance, cast a disillusionment charm so as to not be seen, and crept closer to Llewellyn, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, feeding his chicken a palmful of cornmeal. 

“Llewellyn,” Flora whispered, hidden from sight a few steps away from the boy’s left side; he whipped his head in every direction, searching for the source of the whisper. “Llewellyn, over here—to your left.”

The boy turned his head to the right and stared.

“No—to your left, Llewellyn. It’s me, Flora.”

Llewellyn, finally gazing in the correct direction, knitted his brow in confusion and asked, “Who?”

Flora sighed. “Missus Rookwood.”

“Oh! Missus Rookwood! Er, why are you hiding…?”

“Never mind that—I heard about Poppy. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s fine—Mister Rookwood assured me she wouldn’t be cursed or harmed.”

“What happened? How did she get here? I thought you two were spending the day together.”

“We were, and it was grand! Well, until…” the poacher boy sighed. “She was real keen to see the Hall, asking about the dragons here, and I wanted to impress her…so I agreed to show her around, but only for a short while. She even brought a disguise—looked just like a lad! Fooled a lot of folks, that’s how good it was.” Llewellyn sat up a bit straighter, seeming a tad proud of Poppy’s effective poacher boy disguise. “Miss Poppy’s awful clever—always has been. But then, as we were passing by the brothel, one of the girls tried to…well, you know. Wanted to make a little money, and approached thinkin’ Poppy was Paul, the new lad. Said ‘you got soft features’ or something like that, and pulled down Poppy’s mask before either of us could react. One of the lads nearby recognized her, and yelled out ‘that’s little Poppy Sweeting!’, which got a lot of people’s attention. Before I knew it, she was casting spells left and right, which made an even bigger ruckus. She was finally caught when Mister Harlow wrestled her to the ground—his wand went flying when she cast Expelliarmus.”

The mental image of Harlow, red-faced and breathless as he met his match in a spunky sixteen year old Hufflepuff girl brought some levity to the situation. “Where is she now? Being held in one of the jail cells?” Flora asked.

Llewellyn’s face morphed with a soft sense of worry. “No, she’s—well, Mister Harlow told the guards, ‘just throw her in the nearest empty room, we’ll worry about moving her once the boss arrives,’ so they stuck her in the brothel. I begged Mister Rookwood to not keep her there—she’s a proper lady, after all. But…” the boy’s tone turned despondent as he added, “He didn’t agree. He won’t let me see her, either—afraid I’ll get duped again.”

It seemed Flora now had an accomplice. “Do you know the disillusionment charm, Llewellyn? We can sneak in and find her—”

“Charms like that don’t work inside the Hall,” the poacher boy informed her.

Flora cursed; there goes the easy way. The last thing she wanted to do was see Rookwood, let alone negotiate with him; just thinking about his smug, grinning face made her blood boil. She had half a mind to storm the place, and nearly made the decision to do so before coming to the realization that Rookwood likely took custody of Poppy’s wand. Get in, get the wand, get the girl, get out. Flora made herself visible again, sighing wearily as she did so. “Come with me, Llewellyn,” she commanded the boy. “It seems I need to have a talk with my husband.”

The poacher boy obeyed, escorting her inside and to Rookwood’s quarters; Flora grabbed the boy’s wrist as he raised it, halting him from knocking on the door. The girl steeled herself, standing up straighter and taking a deep breath before entering without even bothering to knock. Rookwood, apparently, was not accustomed to such brazen behavior from his men, looking up with genuine surprise on his face as he sat at his desk in the center of the room; upon seeing his visitor, the startled look contorted into dark, wolfish delight. “Poppet,” he crooned as he stood from his desk. “What a pleasure to see you again—and so soon after our last meeting.”

Flora scowled, silently willing that the dark wizard suddenly and inexplicably burst into flames. “You know why I’m here. Give me Poppy’s wand.” 

Rookwood paid no mind to the request as he strutted closer and closer towards the girl. “Alone this time, darling? No fat, spotty-faced lad nipping at your heels and begging for affection?” Flora deftly hid her sour reaction to the barb from Rookwood, now towering over her and needling further. “I read about the most intriguing rumor this morning, you know. One of my contacts in the Ministry tells me a young Hogwarts student was taken into custody last night. Awaiting trial, I’m told, for murder and use of an unforgivable curse. I wonder who it could possibly be?”

That did it; the girl brandished her wand and pointed the tip directly in the center of the dark wizard’s chest. He held up his hands to shoulder height, palms facing towards her…and dared to laugh.

“Oh, did I hit a sore spot, poppet? And here I was going to reward your loyalty by allowing you to keep your wand on your person when in my presence. Remember, darling: if you want to kill me, it requires int—”

Flora had no intention of killing Rookwood, but she certainly had every intention of making him suffer just as much as she had suffered—as Sebastian had suffered. Every single ounce of her hatred for the man seemed to amass at the end of her wand, and he was lurching and groaning on the floor in the fetal position before she could even finish saying Crucio. She blinked, processing the fact that she had just cast the torturing curse on Victor Rookwood— which meant she needed to get out of here as soon as possible, with Poppy in tow. She bent down, moving the dark wizard on his back as he continued in his convulsions, and plucked Poppy’s wand out of his waistcoat pocket; in a moment of pique, she cast a Confringo on the far wall, setting it ablaze. Flora barged out of the door and whizzed past Llewellyn, who had a frightened, wide-eyed look as he followed behind the girl and peppered her with questions. What’s going on? What was that sound? Is Mister Rookwood alright? Why does it smell like smoke?  

The queries went unanswered as Flora sprinted towards the brothel with the poacher boy jogging closely behind; the path was surprisingly and helpfully clear, as someone in the throngs of poachers and Ashwinders shouted fire!, causing mass confusion and chaos as people ran towards the tent’s entrance. Heavy smoke began to billow all throughout the Hall, indicating the fire she had started was spreading much more quickly than expected; by the time the pair had made their way into the harlot’s quarters, they appeared to be the only souls in the place.

“Which room, Llewellyn?” Flora asked with a sense of urgency in her voice. The boy, looking positively terrified by the unfolding events, pointed to a nearby locked door that was quickly undone with an Alohamora; Poppy sprung out of the room with a fierce roar and her fists in the air, expecting to dispatch a guard, and stopped herself upon realizing who it was.

“Flora! Wh—is something on fire?”

“We need to leave,” Flora told the smaller girl. “I’ll explain when we’re safe—but we need to go now.”

*****

The trio found safety in the nearby clearing, and watched silently as a horde of several different types of dragons, finding themselves no longer chained by captivity, flew into the horizon while the burning remains of Horntail Hall and the nearby goblin camp collapsed, leaving only a smoking ring of ash and rubble where it once stood. Llewellyn was bawling loudly and hugging his chicken for comfort; Poppy was grinning from ear to ear, highly pleased by the scene in front of her; and Flora uttered two words aloud to herself: I’m free. The comment grasped the attention of her two companions, who looked over to her. 

“I’m free!” She repeated, almost giddy. “He’s gone. Rookwood’s gone!”

Llewellyn began to sob even louder, piping down into quieter sniveling when Poppy snapped at him with, “Shut up, Llewellyn. That’s a good thing. Rookwood was a miserable bastard.” She then turned back to Flora. “Thank you for saving me—even though I promised I wouldn’t make trouble.” The words of gratitude went completely unregistered, so full of euphoria was the Ravenclaw girl. Rookwood was gone, justice for Sebastian and Poppy had been exacted, and she was finally, blissfully rid of her tormentor. 

“Let’s go back to the castle; I’ll explain everything on the way there,” Flora suggested.

“What about him?” Poppy pointed a thumb back towards the crying poacher boy. “They’re not going to let him into Hogwarts. And just because Rookwood is dead doesn’t mean the Poacher Pack is going to immediately disband—especially if Harlow’s still around. Since Llewellyn was seen in the Hall with you before it burned down…they might consider him an accomplice.”

The mere suggestion of being disloyal sent Llewellyn into a frenzy of wailing; Flora hushed him while she thought for a moment. “You said yourself that he’s kind to beasts, and he does have some farmhand experience…right, Llewellyn?”

The boy nodded as he wiped his tears away with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Maybe he can…go live with your gran?” Flora suggested. “He can help care for her beasts. If the poachers want revenge, they’ll be looking for you too, Poppy—and they won’t hesitate to threaten your family. Llewellyn can protect her, if it comes to that.”

Poppy didn’t appear too keen on this at first, but relented upon realizing that Flora was right; poachers would likely accost her gran sooner or later, and some protection was better than none—even if it was Llewellyn doing the protecting. “Fine.” She took a moment to transfigure a quill and parchment, then squatted down beside a nearby rock, using it to bear down as she quickly wrote a letter and drew a rudimentary map before handing both to the boy. “Here, Llewellyn—you can use this map to get to my gran’s farm. Give her this letter when you arrive—it’ll explain everything. Tell her I’ll write again soon.”

The poacher boy, despite not having much say in this decision, seemed content enough with the outcome. “I’ll look after your gran, Poppy—she’ll be safe with me, I promise. Mister Michaels will enjoy being on a farm again, too.” Llewellyn then regarded Flora. “I enjoyed following you around, Missus Rookwood. I’m sorry you’re a widow now…”

“Don’t be,” Flora responded flatly. “And don’t call me that anymore. Call me Flora. I’ll keep in touch, Llewellyn—good luck.”

With that, the poacher boy and his chicken apparated into the ether to begin the newest chapter of their life as reformed poachers, leaving the two students behind to return to Hogwarts. Flora, despite sadly explaining to Poppy that Sebastian was expelled for killing his uncle with an unforgivable curse while the two girls journeyed back to the castle, was nevertheless joyful at the prospect of also starting a new chapter of her life: one that was entirely free from Victor Rookwood. Later that evening, just before bed, she attempted to pull the large sapphire ring off her finger and stow it with her other jewelry in the bottom drawer of her dresser—but, again, the ring refused to budge.

Chapter Text

Two months passed by. Now March, Flora awoke early on a Saturday morning to begin a journey to the coast, where an important issue awaited her: the keeper’s final trial. She bathed herself, donned her traveler’s clothes—which seemed to have shrunk a bit the last time they were laundered, like much of her other apparel—laced up her boots, draped herself in a cloak and scarf, and set off, apparating just outside of Bainburgh. She opted not to stick around; the hamlet was unsettlingly eerie, and she could have sworn she heard a rattling, deathly moan from a nearby copse of trees. Jogging in the direction towards the Clagmar Coast, she noticed an abandoned shack off the main path outside the village; upon gingerly poking her head inside for curiosity’s sake, she found a lovely new handle for her wand on the desk inside, as well as a note—written by an Ashwinder, bemoaning the fact that they were stationed here on the order of Victor Rookwood. Even in death, it appeared her former husband continued to hound her. She still came across camps of poachers and Ashwinders, of course, but her assumptions were that Harlow had taken over all operations, and the alliance with Ranrok dissolved along with Rookwood. 

These assumptions were wrong. Rookwood was still very much alive, still very much invested in his alliance with the goblin leader, and still very much in control of his operations—though the girl was presently out of his grasp, much to his chagrin. She was as slippery as a squid; there were sightings of her, but nothing of substance—until Ranrok, the scabby little cretin, mentioned her whereabouts in passing while showing off his nearly-completed drill in the mine off the Clagmar Coast.

“I’ve increased the security of this place—the child has destroyed four of my nearby loyalist camps in the past twelve hours alone. No thanks to you,” the goblin sneered. “My scouts report she is dangerously close to finding this operation. Perhaps you can finally make yourself useful and bring her to me before she wreaks even more havoc than she already has.”

I ought to cleave you in half, you snot-nosed, puff-chested, scum-sucking maggot. “Don’t you worry your tiny little head,” the dark wizard quipped pointedly. “I will personally find her.” Rookwood had no intention of delivering the girl to Ranrok, of course; the man had spent the past several weeks going half-mad with rage at her shenanigans that brought down Horntail Hall, leaving him several thousand galleons poorer. The nerve of her, casting the Cruciatus curse on her own husband, after all he’d done for her, all he’d given her—where did she even learn that spell, if not from him? Not at that damned school, surely. He should have put the girl under the Imperius spell months ago—and, now that he had a more precise idea of her location, he aimed to do just that, and have his perfect little poppet back again…willing to do anything.

*****

Flora set up a small tent on a lonely, desolate beach along the Clagmar Coast. She had originally planned to stay the night at the inn located in the town center of nearby Cragcroft, but an interaction with a strange woman left a bad taste in her mouth. You look awfully young to be in your condition, the woman commented, then rudely asked, are you married? Flora told her the truth—that she was a young widow—then made the decision to sleep out on the beach, fearing similar prying questions from other nosy villagers. Yes, there were goblins and poachers and Ashwinders about—but the newly-acquired giant graphorn curled up outside the tent was a loud signal for others to stay away. With only a sliver of daylight remaining, the girl gathered up the driest pieces of driftwood she could find and made a small campfire, feeding some pellets to The Lord of the Shore before frying up a rasher of bacon for dinner, pondering her day while she ate.

Your condition. And what condition was that? The woman was probably just a loon. Flora had gained a little weight, was all—the stress of Sebastian, Poppy, and Rookwood had gotten to her, and she found some comfort in a pastry or two at breakfast and cake after supper. Nothing wrong with that. She wasn’t pregnant; she couldn’t be, having taken her potions religiously. Pregnant women got sick in the mornings; Flora wasn’t sick. Pregnant women didn’t get their courses; Flora had her courses. She was a bit late this month, again from stress, but…last month…didn’t she…?

Upon doing some quick math, the girl began to panic. Her last cycle was in December…right before her honeymoon. With all the mayhem that had occurred, she must have lost track— stupid. You stupid, moonminded idiot. She began to pace back and forth, fretting and wondering what to do. Come to me, and I will take care of it. Whatever that option was, it wasn’t an option anymore—Rookwood was dead, and had cursed her with a little blessing before shuffling off this mortal coil. 

Surely it wasn’t that noticeable; no one at school had commented on it. Then again, she had spent most of the winter swaddled in warm, heavy robes; if it was noticeable, she must have done a grand job at hiding it. Ripping off her corset, she gazed downward to study herself for a moment through the cloth of her shirt. A soft bump, maybe, and slightly larger breasts—though the former could be bloating, and the latter merely wishful thinking. She took a deep breath: everything will be fine. No one will find out. You can hide it—it’ll be your secret.

*****

Rookwood sat at his desk in the Poidsear estate, gripped with fascination as he read and reread correspondence from Ailsa Travers, one of his top lieutenants.

Contact was briefly made with Missus Rookwood in Cragcroft yesterday. She seemed to think I was a local, and was not forthcoming with information when prodded—but she is certainly sporting a little belly, and stated that she is a widow. Unfortunately, she has since left the area.

Another week of the hunt, and another week of nothing to show for the effort. However, that little belly sounded quite promising; this information could certainly be used to his advantage. Why waste the time and resources on a chase when he could orchestrate a way for Missus Rookwood to come to him? What a shame it would be if the Headmaster received an anonymous letter informing him of a pregnant student in his midst; Black would certainly not risk suffering the humiliation and swiftly oust the girl. With nowhere to go and no access to that infernal school, she would be vulnerable, alone, and without support—leaving an opening for a kind old woman like Ailsa to swoop in, feign an offer of aid…and deliver Rookwood’s perfect little poppet back to him.

*****

The repository had been found. It was, quite literally, under Flora’s nose the whole time.

As Ravenclaw girl and her mentor stood in front of the gigantic vessel of goblin silver underneath Hogwarts, she marveled at the strands of ancient magic swirling about inside, the susurrus ringing so loudly in her ears she almost didn’t hear Professor Fig’s question: “What will you do?”

Flora pursed her lips in thought. What will she do? Ranrok was likely continuing in his search; simply leaving it be could turn into a liability if he ever did find the repository’s location. On the other hand, the keepers were very clear that this magic was dangerous and should not be tampered with, even by those with the best of intentions. 

“Nothing.” Her response was solemn when it finally came. “I’m going to honor the wishes of the keepers.”

“A wise decision,” Professor Fig agreed, nodding his head.

“There’s only one thing left to do now: find Ranrok and destroy him. I need to make sure he never finds this place.”

Professor Fig hesitated at this less-wise decision. “I would counsel you to not seek out Ranrok on your own. Lucky for us, the repository is right under Hogwarts; if he does learn of its location, we can quickly thwart his plans.”

That was that, then; another secret for Flora to keep. No one would find out about the entrance in the map chamber, and certainly wouldn’t find out about the little bump carefully hidden underneath her robes.

Unfortunately, someone did find out about the little bump. Even more unfortunately, that someone was Headmaster Black, who barked at Flora to report to Nurse Blainey immediately upon the girl’s arrival in the great hall. Flora did no such thing; instead, she panicked, packed up her belongings, and decided that if she was going to leave Hogwarts, it would be on her own terms. So many questions swam through her mind as she walked aimlessly along with no idea of where to go or what to do, luggage charmed with a levitation spell and hovering behind her.

How did Headmaster Black find out? Someone must have told him, but…no one knew. Why are you doing this? Why are you giving up your education for Rookwood’s hellspawn? Because…well, it was her hellspawn, too. Flora had always wanted to settle down, to be married and have a family; but she wasn’t an ordinary girl, so perhaps her life was meant to be just as unordinary. What about the repository? There was a portal to the map chamber in the forbidden forest; she could still keep an eye on it once things calmed down. Things will never calm down. Where are you even going to go? She still had a little money left over from her stipend—enough to spend a few nights at an inn, though she would need to find a steady source of income and a more permanent residence soon. The nearest inn was The Three Broomsticks; Flora made her way there, deciding that some rest and a hot meal could help soothe her frazzled state of mind. She paid for a week of boarding upfront; the cost was so reasonable that Flora suspected Sirona did not charge her the full price. 

“I don’t ask questions,” the proprietress told the girl upon providing a supper of potato and leek stew with a slice of bread. “It pays better to keep my eyes and ears open, and my mouth shut.”

“Do you ever hear any rumors about me?” Flora asked curiously, sopping up some broth with her bread.

“All the time. Some of them are probably even true,” Sirona responded with a wink. “You certainly enjoy adventuring, don’t you? I heard about what you did for Claire Beaumont. A terrible thing, her brother getting involved with Rookwood’s lot.”

Flora felt like she could open up a bit around Sirona. It was good to have someone in her social circle who didn’t ask questions but could provide her with any news or gossip floating about town. “I heard Victor Rookwood died in a fire several months ago…” Flora mentioned tenderly.

“I did too, and I don’t believe a word of it. A fire? You can’t burn the devil. Mark my words, that man is still skulking about somewhere in the Highlands. You be careful,” Sirona warned. “Keep flashing that bag of galleons around and he’ll appear in a cloud of bats to shake you down in some dark alley—or worse. I saw that look he gave you the day of the troll attack. You’d be wise to keep your wits about you.”

If only you knew how unwise and witless I’ve been. “Thank you for letting me stay here, Sirona. And for the food,” Flora said politely. “If there’s anything I can do to help around the inn…”

Sirona chuckled at this offer. “I’d hire you, but a spirited girl like you would quickly get bored of pouring butterbeers and wiping down tables. If I hear of any problems that need an intrepid young woman to solve them, you’ll be the first to know.”

*****

Upon exploring town the next day, Flora passed by an abandoned building with a large FOR SALE sign in the window. It seemed to be in good condition, with a shop on the first floor and a flat on the second—perhaps this could be that steady income and permanent residence she was looking for. Flora, spying a little house elf sweeping the front stoop, inquired about the possibility of purchasing the building.

“Hello there. I couldn’t help but notice that this shop is for sale…”

“Oh yes—Mistress Mason is very keen to sell the building, and Penny!” The house elf peeped happily, pointing to herself as she uttered her own name. “Mistress Mason lives in the house closest to the mill, if you would like to inquire about purchase. Penny would very much like to work in another shop here; Penny is an excellent sales elf!”

This would work out splendidly, Flora thought. She could live in the flat above the shop, and this little house elf could help her run day-to-day operations once…once Flora became more occupied with a newborn a few months from now. “Thank you, Penny. I’ll speak with your mistress right away,” Flora told the house elf. Cutting through Hogsmeade’s main square en route to Missus Mason’s home, the girl heard a somewhat familiar voice call out to her just outside the Hogsmeade post office. “You there! The young woman with the red hair! Over here!”

Flora turned around, seeing the strange older woman she had encountered in Cragcroft a few days prior marching towards her. What was she doing here?

“I thought that was you. How funny to see you again,” the woman told her. “I hope you weren’t too bothered by my comments in Cragcroft. I was just so surprised to see such a young woman starting on the path to motherhood—and I was terribly sorry to hear of your predicament, with your husband having passed.”

“It’s…fine,” Flora replied in a flat tone. What a bizarre woman. She was acting awfully familiar, and the girl wasn’t fond of the fact that this woman seemed to suddenly be in Hogsmeade when Flora was; it all seemed terribly suspicious.

“I’m actually quite happy to see you again. I have helped young women in your predicament before, you see. If you require anything, such as lodging or money—”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you. No need to be concerned on my account. If you’ll excuse me…” Flora attempted to bypass the woman, who stepped into her path and blocked the way.

“You’ll have to pardon me for broaching the subject, but…” the woman lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you still in school? I hate to see a girl like you throw away her education. If you are perhaps interested in…well, in continuing your studies, I know of someone who can aid you. A young thing like you should focus on education first, and worry about children later in life.”

Flora’s eyes went as wide as saucers upon hearing this intimation. This old bat was being much too presumptuous, and it seemed she would refuse to take no as an answer for anything. Best to just tell the lady what she wanted to hear so Flora could simply be left alone. “I’m in a rush at the moment, but I’ll consider your offer, Miss…?”

“Travers. Or Ailsa, if you prefer. Do think on it, dear. You’ll see me around town again, I’m sure. I take my meals at The Hog’s Head, if you need to find me.” And with that, the odd woman walked away, leaving a very puzzled Flora behind. 

*****

Cassandra Mason was asking for two thousand galleons for the shop, flat, and Penny the house elf. Flora managed to haggle the price down to fifteen hundred galleons, and found herself the owner of Hogsmeade’s newest shop: Vesters and Venum. She dealt in consignment, mostly, which was easy enough, and the upstairs flat was the perfect size with all the needed amenities. By early April, she had begun to earn a modest but steady income thanks to Penny’s smart salesmanship, and would travel to Upper Hogsfield once a week to meet with Dot Sprottle, a woman with experience in midwifery and a good friend of Sirona’s. 

Victor Rookwood, meanwhile, was merely a few streets away in his office under The Hog’s Head, having just arrived after spending several weeks on the Coast with that bastard goblin showing off construction on the drill. Rookwood was positively overjoyed to learn from Ailsa Travers that his wife was indeed expecting, and positively livid to learn that the girl was quite enjoying a life without his presence. 

“A shop? A shop? Playing merchant while she bears the proud honor of carrying my heir? No—she needs to be with me, living in the lap of luxury. She is Missus Rookwood, not some…some provincial.” He closed his eyes and sighed deeply to calm himself. “Tell me where this shop is, and I will get her myself.”

“Vesters and Venum in Spire Alley,” Ailsa told him. “She won’t come quietly—the girl’s batted away every offer I’ve thrown at her. I’ve tried everything to snare her, boss, save casting a curse. Says she’s happier than she’s ever been.”

Happy? Oh, she was happy to be impoverished and pregnant? Happy to be alone in bed at night? Happy to be without his affections, without his gifts, without his love? It was a betrayal that Rookwood would not stand for. She would be happy to learn that her husband was very much alive, happy to return into his arms, and happy to live the rest of her days by his side. Manic with rage, the dark wizard stormed out of the Ashwinder hideout, making his way to the quaint little building containing a shop and flat in Spire Alley, and barged inside to find a house elf minding the store.

“Where is your mistress?” He demanded. “I must speak with her urgently.”

The house elf’s frame shrunk with fear. “Mistress Cohen is on an errand…Sir is welcome to leave a message with Penny—”

Cohen. The use of the girl’s maiden name made his blood boil. She was no longer Flora Cohen, she was Missus Rookwood. “How long until she returns?” Rookwood snapped, ignoring the offer.

“It may be several hours—”

“I can wait. She lives upstairs, does she?”

“Mistress Cohen does live upstairs, yes—but patrons are not allowed—”

“I am not a patron, I am her husband. I will await her return, and you will say nothing upon her arrival. Understand?” The dark wizard did not wait for a reply and made his way upstairs to the flat, grimacing at how small and austere his wife’s living situation was. How in Merlin’s name could she be happy living in a hovel like this? It was beneath her. There was not a single painting on the walls, nor a single rug on the floor; it consisted of one room with a simple kitchen, water closet, bed, dining table and chair, and a little cradle. Even his poachers out in the wilds lived better than this. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, Rookwood found not a single drop of liquor in the flat, and he certainly wasn’t going to drink tea or tap water; he took his flask out of its pocket, sat at the dining table, and drank, waiting for his wife.

*****

Flora arrived back from Upper Hogsfield just as dusk was blanketing the sky. According to Dot, everything was healthy and normal, and the kind woman reminded Flora to take care of yourself as she did upon each weekly check up. Hungry and tired, Flora aimed to do just that. Entering the shop, she greeted Penny—who was behind the counter and holding her breath.

“Is something…wrong, Penny?” Flora raised an eyebrow. The house elf pointed a tiny, bony finger to the ceiling as she continued to hold her breath, indicating something about the flat. “It’s not that Travers woman again, is it? Merlin’s beard,” Flora grumbled, making her way up the creaky stairs. Upon entry, the flat looked very different, decorated with unfamiliar furniture and lush purple walls—but she had no time to marvel, for there, sitting at a much larger and darker dining table than before, was… Victor Rookwood.

“Evening, poppet,” He chirped, as if this were a completely normal and expected interaction. “Lovely to see you again. I trust you missed me just as much as I missed you.”

Flora opened her mouth, but was too shocked to scream, or cry, or say anything; she merely stood in place and stared, looking as dumb and wide-eyed as a mooncalf.

“I took the liberty of adding some embellishments to your… charming abode,” Rookwood told her as he stood from the table to slowly stride towards her, his ice blue eyes finding their way downward to gaze at her stomach. “You’re more beautiful than ever, I see. Come closer, darling; I want to get a better look at you.”

Flora, now less frozen from surprise, placed a bejeweled hand on her belly and shook her head fearfully, stepping backward. “No—no. No. This is a dream. You—you’re dead—”

“This is very much not a dream, poppet, and I am very much alive. Now, be a good girl for me and come closer.” With an Accio, she was pulled by her clothing and straight into Rookwood’s open arms, enveloping her as he kissed the top of her head. “Are you not happy to see your husband, my darling? Are you not happy that our little family is together?”

Happy was certainly a strong word for it; bewildered was a much more apt description. “Y—you’re not…m—mad at me?” Flora stuttered.

Rookwood chuckled, bringing a hand to the girl’s chin, raising her round, sweet face upwards to look directly into his eyes. “Mad?” He cooed softly; the hand then roughly clamped around her jaw like a vise, his voice now a roar. “Idiot girl. I am not mad, I am furious. My own wife, thinking she could kill me where countless others have failed, burning down my greatest source of income, and living in disgusting squalor while she awaits the birth of my child? It’s humiliating. It’s an embarrassment. That little one is your saving grace, poppet; were it not for your condition, I would have you under the Imperius spell, nude and clasped with a collar and chain as you follow me everywhere like a dog. You certainly deserve punishment; my child, however, does not.” The strong hand freed itself from her face, then found its way downward to gently touch the small swell of her belly. “How long?” He asked in a quieter tone.

Dazed, Flora managed to sputter out an answer. “Five more months. Due in September.”

“Let me see,” Rookwood demanded, helping himself to untucking the girl’s shirtwaist from her skirts and lifting the cloth to expose her midsection entirely, marveling at the swollen stomach and feeling a small amount of his distemperate rage melt away; another victory for Victor Rookwood. “Pack up your things, my darling, and we’ll apparate to my Poidsear estate. I am not letting you out of my sight until our child is born.”

So Rookwood thought he could just reappear, continue to control every aspect of Flora’s life, and that she would be fine with that? No. She was hungry, she was tired, and she was angry. Tucking her shirtwaist back into her skirts, she told him, “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m staying right here, in my home, above my shop. Leave me and my baby alone.”

Rookwood actually laughed at these words, and playfully fiddled with a tress of copper hair framing her face. “You seem to be forgetting one very important thing, poppet: you belong to me.”

He grabbed hold of her in an instant, and before Flora could even exhale a single breath, she was in the bedroom of Rookwood’s Poidsear estate, the dark wizard snaking a fist into her hair, pulling her towards the bed by the scalp and throwing her onto the mattress, binding her wrists and ankles with a spell before another wave of his wand left her completely nude, unarmed, and vulnerable. 

“I will give you one chance to beg for forgiveness, since I am such a merciful husband,” Rookwood seethed, pulling her from the bed to the floor by her tied ankles and forcing the girl on her knees, postured as if she were in worship. “Choose your words wisely, poppet. You are making a choice for both of you, after all.”

He wouldn’t dare…would he? Oh, she wanted to spit right in his face, to tell him to go ahead, kill me and lose my ancient magic forever, to hiss go fuck yourself…but he was right. She needed to make the best choice not just for her, but her unborn child. She needed to cultivate self-preservation. “I’m sorry, Victor…” she mumbled.

“What was that, darling? I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you,” Rookwood taunted.

“I’m sorry, Victor. Please have mercy on me. I’m so happy you’re alive, so happy to be your wife, and so happy to bear your child. I’ll be a good girl for you.”

A wide, wicked grin broke out across the dark wizard’s face. “Of course you will, poppet.” He untied her bonds with a spell before hoisting her upwards back onto her feet and commanded, “Tell me you love me.”

Flora sighed, so very weary. “I love you, Victor.”

“I love you too, poppet. You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He gloated, transfiguring a nightgown on the girl’s form as a reward for her behavior before bending forward to gently and softly peck her on the cheek. His countenance suddenly softened when he gestured for her to sit on the bed, asking, “When did you last eat? Are you hungry?”

She was absolutely famished before this whole ordeal; now she was positively ravenous. The thought of food perked her up. “I’m starving—I last ate at lunchtime, when I fried up some bacon.”

Rookwood raised an eyebrow. “Bacon, and…?”

“Just…bacon.”

The dark wizard’s shoulders sagged as he groaned. “You must eat well, my darling, and rest often—wait here.” He left the room, muttering about bacon alone being unacceptable and a pauper’s meal; exhausted, Flora fluffed her pillow as she adjusted herself in the bed, sitting upright with her legs and waist nestled under the soft bed sheets, little belly half-covered; Rookwood returned shortly with a plate festooned with small samples of various meats, fruits, vegetables, a dollop of rice, and a very appetizing-looking custard tart. He transfigured silverware and a cloth napkin, handing them and the plate off. “Eat,” he told her.

Flora did as she was told, popping several small cherry tomatoes in her mouth and chewing as she began to ask, “How did you manage—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Rookwood chided, turning his desk chair around to face the bed before sitting. “It’s uncouth. You’re a lady, not a mendicant. Those manners of yours have deteriorated in my absence, I see.”

The girl pouted, then nibbled at a sliver of strange, soft golden fruit. Finding the taste delightfully rich and sweet, she took a larger bite, pointedly swallowing before attempting to speak again. “How did you…survive?”

“Simple apparition, my darling—as I told you before, it has saved my life more than once. I recovered quickly; it was one of the more… gentler times I have been hit with the Cruciatus curse. Speaking of,” he leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and threading his fingers together between them. “Where on earth did you learn it? Who taught you?”

Flora didn’t want to spoil this rare jovial mood of his with the truth: that she learned it from Sebastian. The thought of the boy languishing away in a cell, awaiting trial and consumed with anger at her betrayal was an unbearable sadness that she couldn’t even begin to cope with, and forced her attention to the small pile of rice on her plate. “I taught myself,” she said softly between bites; a white lie won’t hurt anyone. “I snuck into the restricted section and pinched a book about the dark arts.” Then, hoping to keep Rookwood’s agreeable disposition just that, she opted for flattery. “You gave me the idea, when you told me the story of how you learned the unforgivable curses.”

“Clever girl.” Rookwood’s chest swelled with pride. “That son of mine will be just as intelligent as his mother—and as handsome as his father, no doubt.”

Flora dared not even suggest the possibility of a daughter as she finished her meal, again not wanting to spoil this rare atmosphere of kindness. Instead, she yawned and placed the empty plate on the bedside table. Finding herself exhausted and highly enticed by the soft bedding, she flopped onto her side and cuddled her face into the pillow. Rookwood chuckled, finding the act charming, and transfigured the plate away, undressed down to his underclothes, then joined his wife in bed, nestling himself against her so that the pair were akin to two spoons in a drawer. What a joy to embrace her again, to smell the perfume in her hair, to caress her soft skin—he wanted to kiss her, to taste her, to hear his name escape her lips in ecstasy once more. 

“I missed you terribly my darling, despite it all,” he whispered into her ear, the scruff on his face tickling her. “My bed has been so cold and lonely without my wife by my side to warm it.”

“I’m tired, Victor,” the girl told him, feeling his arousal against her backside. “I need rest…”

“You can rest after we make love,” he responded, shifting to be on top of her, hiking up her nightgown to behold her form. Flora winced when he palmed one breast too fervently, and she mewled out a “Sore…”

Ah. It seemed a little more gentleness would be required as her body adjusted to motherhood. Lightening his touch, he quipped, “Getting rounder up here as well, aren’t we? I suppose I’ll have to share these soon enough,” which caused the girl to snort and roll her eyes. He trailed kisses down her stomach, admiring his victory before latching onto the bud at the apex of her thighs and probing two fingers into her womanhood—oh, how he had missed that delectable taste, those soft, warm thighs, her sweet voice sighing and moaning for him! What he wouldn’t give to stay like this forever, to never leave this bed and be forever entwined with her.

“You missed me too, didn’t you darling?” Rookwood withdrew his fingers and suckled the juices from them while he unsheathed his engorged manhood; the girl did not respond, instead biting her lip as she watched him crawl into position, his member so tantalizingly close to entering her, filling her, satisfying her; rubbing the head of his erect phallus against her opening, he taunted her again. “I asked you a question, poppet. Be a good girl and tell me how much you missed having me inside you.”

Flora’s chest heaved with lust. “I missed it, Victor…”

He delved into her by a mere inch; so close, yet not enough to sate her desire. “How much, darling?”

“Every night—oh, Victor, please—”

Another blissful inch—but she needed him entirely, and chose to expedite this journey to fulfillment. “Every night, every morning—I thought of you, and…” she placed her bejeweled hand above her entrance, stimulating the already engorged pink bud. “Victor!”

This show of eroticism, the suggestion that his wife touched herself so desperately in his absence, made him rut on her so passionately he forced himself to slow his pace for fear of coming too quickly. Flora was not of the same mind, bucking her hips against him with the fire of youthful impatience; his pace much too slow for her liking, she spurred him onward with a darling little giggle, and cooed, “Victor…Victor, I love you…I missed you…” The truth of the words did not matter; his body quaked and he groaned, spilling himself inside her upon hearing the words escape from her without his direction.

“Oh, poppet,” Rookwood crooned upon unsheathing himself from her, once more laying next to her in the bed, shuffling her frame closer so that she draped one leg over his own and rested a small hand on his chest while her swollen belly pressed against him. “My perfect wife—my sweet girl.” He stroked one hand along her forehead, brushing the small, rubescent strands of hair back; he then kissed her temple and she sighed, content and drowsy, before falling right to sleep in her husband’s arms.

*****

A month passed before Rookwood felt comfortable enough to leave the estate and attend to business for a few hours, leaving Flora to her own devices. Naturally, she used this time to get into trouble—or, what Rookwood would consider trouble. She considered it a simple errand: go to Hogsmeade and check on the shop. It wouldn’t take long—she would return before Rookwood even knew she had stepped out.

Apparating near the main square, her first stop was Vesters and Venum in Spire Alley. Penny was outside on the stoop, holding a little elf-sized broom in her hands and speaking with—

“Professor Fig?” Flora breathed as she came closer.

“Flora!” Her mentor cried, in sync with Penny’s Mistress Cohen! Flora bounded over to both of them, greeting the old wizard with a warm hug before asking him to please, come inside; the girl felt a pang of embarrassment upon escorting her mentor into the flat, forgetting that Rookwood had oh so generously redecorated it, and quickly remarked, “It was like this when I bought the building. Please, sit, and I’ll make some tea.”

Professor Fig obliged, placing a large bundle of letters on the dining table as Flora handed him a cup and saucer. “I managed to collect all correspondence addressed to you,” he told her. “The Headmaster has been very… adamant that no faculty or students keep in touch with you. I heard the reason for your sudden disappearance, but…” he sighed with a hint of downheartedness as he studied the girl.

“You didn’t want it to be true,” Flora finished for him, softly and sadly as she slid a cup and saucer to him, sitting at the opposite end of the table. “Please don’t be disappointed, Professor. I’m happy—really, I am. I own the shop and this flat, so I have income and a job. I’ve made my peace with how things have turned out.” A sudden question then came to the forefront of her mind. “How did the Headmaster know, Professor? How did he find out?”

“An anonymous letter, apparently. Under normal leadership, I doubt gossip would be given a second thought, but…well, Headmaster Black is driven by pride. Understanding is not a word anyone would associate with him—and after what occurred with Mister Sallow, the Headmaster is on high alert to swiftly stamp out any mischief, shall we say.”

An anonymous letter? But…no one knew. Flora herself had only just realized her condition the evening prior to her expulsion. Who else would have known, if not Flora herself? She thought back to that weekend: she got dressed. She apparated outside Bainburgh. She did the final trial. She went to Cragcroft, and… met that Travers woman.

You look awfully young to be in your condition. Are you married? Ooh, Flora was going to hunt that nosy old bat down and throttle her. She swallowed her rage for the moment and turned her attention back to Professor Fig, who told Flora, “I am glad to see you’re doing well. You were difficult to find at first, but when I heard there was a new shop in Hogsmeade owned by a young woman matching your description…well, I had to see for myself. Your house elf gave me a bit of a fright when she told me you hadn’t been seen in weeks—”

“I was traveling,” Flora lied. “And there’s a portal in the forbidden forest that leads to the map chamber, Professor—I can access it with my ancient magic, so that I can keep an eye on…our secret.”

Professor Fig winked at her. “Trust a Ravenclaw to be resourceful. You are a powerful witch, and the best student I’ve seen in decades. With the secret under our watchful eyes, and the goblin rebellion having grown quieter in recent months, it will be good for you to take some time for yourself—and your growing family.”

The fact that the goblin loyalists had grown quieter did not sound like a good thing at all. Flora suspected that this alliance between Ranrok and Rookwood was still in place. She needed to keep a very close eye on that repository; who knew how close Ranrok was to finding it? 

Your husband would know.

*****

Flora returned to the Poidsear estate mere minutes before Rookwood himself. She nestled herself in a plush armchair by the fireplace in the library, pretending to occupy herself with a book when the dark wizard burst into the room.

“There’s my dearest poppet. Such a lovely sight to see,” he pronounced while sauntering over to the chair, stooping down to prompt Flora for a kiss and place a hand on her stomach. “Taking good care of my son, darling? You were retching something awful this morning; he’s not giving you any more trouble, is he?”

“I’m fine now, Victor. Just…reading and getting some rest. How was…business?” She asked timidly.

“Fine, fine,” was the simple response as he strolled over to the decanter on the library desk, pouring himself a glass of firewhisky.

“What did you do?” Flora prodded, causing Rookwood to raise a suspicious eyebrow.

“Being awfully nosy today, poppet. It’s nothing to concern that pretty little head of yours—all you need to concern yourself with is the health of yourself and the babe. You ate a hearty lunch, I trust? Not just bacon?”

“Yes, Victor, but—I’m only curious—”

“There is nothing to be curious about, darling. Drop it.”  

The sharp tone of his voice indicated that this conversation was destined to go nowhere; Flora sank lower in her seat, shutting her book before pouting and turning her attention to the dancing flames in the fireplace. She was feeling some resentment at his lack of transparency; he was hiding something, like always. “I think the salt air makes me sicker in the mornings,” she uttered. “And there are too many stairwells here—it will be more difficult for me to get around as the months pass. I’d like to relocate somewhere else before the baby is born—Rookwood Castle, perhaps.” Flora turned her head to regard Rookwood, who quickly but noticeably hid a wide-eyed expression; the girl continued, “Is it not important that your son be born on the family estate?”

“That is…true,” Rookwood murmured. “But it’s infested with rodents, darling, and needs heavy repairs. If mobility is your concern, we can relocate you to the hunting lodge.”

“Rodents?” Flora asked with false innocence. “I can take care of rodents, and a few quick shots of Reparo will have the castle looking good as new. Surely it’s not still crawling with goblins?”

“Of course not,” Rookwood snapped. “I am ending this conversation. I will consider your request, and you will remain here in the meantime, where you can safely and happily spend your days growing fat with my child. Do not pester me further, poppet.”

No further pestering was needed; judging by Rookwood’s reaction, Flora surmised the alliance with Ranrok was still in place, though she still did not have an answer regarding his proximity—or lack thereof—to the repository. Satisfied enough with this information for the time being, Flora switched back to playing the sweet, pregnant, doting wife Rookwood wanted her to be. “I’m sorry, Victor. I only want what’s best for the baby.”

“What is best for the baby is what is best for you. Eat well, rest often, and obey me. I will brook no more questions from you today, poppet. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, Victor.” His temper evaporated when a darling little smile broke across her face.

“Good girl.” He beckoned for her to come to him, and she obliged, sitting on his lap and resting her head on his shoulder, allowing him to stroke the side of her belly with his free hand. The girl had been very well behaved for him in the past week, despite the odd hiccup here and there—sneaking into the kitchen for sweets, complaining she was too tired to make love, this annoying little interrogation— but impending motherhood was beginning to slow her down, and soon enough Rookwood would have everything he wanted: his perfect little poppet, a son in her arms, and the power of the repository.

*****

With Rookwood being coy regarding his precise involvement with Ranrok, Flora found another avenue to become privy to the rebellion leader’s plans: Lodgok. She received rare correspondence from her goblin friend in the parcel of letters Professor Fig had given her, and it seemed to have been delivered only a few days prior to the reunion with her mentor.

I have something to give you that can end this rebellion, Lodgok wrote. Please meet me near the mine on the Clagmar Coast. 

That sounded quite serious. Rookwood had just left for the day, giving her several free hours before his return. She was familiar with this mine, and it was close enough to her current location; he wouldn’t know if she popped out for a quick meeting, just as he didn’t know about her little excursion to Hogsmeade earlier in the week. Flora dressed herself in clothing appropriate for the rainy weather, hiding her bump under a thick woolen coat, and apparated to a safe spot just outside the mine, surrounded by the largest goblin camp she had ever laid eyes on. Hundreds of goblins in sight, but not a single hint of Lodgok; perhaps he was inside the mine proper? Time was of the essence, meaning she couldn’t spare the slow-but-steady stealth approach. The girl took out her wand, closing her eyes to steel herself for the upcoming melee, and charged, beginning the attack.

*****

Done with his business with Harlow for the day, Rookwood apparated to the mine on the Clagmar Coast to find every goblin dead. Normally, the dark wizard would consider this a cause for celebration; however, the injuries found on their little crumpled bodies and piles of ash every few paces indicated that someone had not only chosen to be disobedient, but had also chosen to disrupt his alliance and place herself and his unborn child in danger. He stomped through the field of bodies, finding no survivor in sight—except one, right inside the entrance.

“Lodgok,” he spat. “Where is she?”

“Where is…er, who?” The goblin responded with trepidation.

“Do not play coy with me.” the dark wizard gestured to the piles of corpses that trailed into the mine’s entrance. “She’s obviously here. Where?”

“I—I haven’t seen her—” the goblin let out a guttural urk when Rookwood hoisted him up by the collar, shaking his little body side to side.

“No? Then you and I are going to find her, and you are going to pray to whatever god you goblins worship that we get to her before your brother does.” Rookwood strode into the mine, toting the goblin weightlessly in his hand, and made his way towards the main chamber where Ranrok likely was—and, judging by the loud explosion and screech of metal-on-metal that had just occurred from that direction, where she was as well. The sound caused him to quicken his pace; he arrived, Lodgok in hand, to see the giant drill completely destroyed in a jumble of smoke and iron, Ranrok with his armor glowing a menacing red, and the girl, wand in hand and ready for battle—ready to get herself and his son killed, more like.

“Flora.” The rare utterance of her name coming from Rookwood made the girl turn around in horrified surprise; Rookwood, not once taking his eyes off her, hurled Lodgok to the muddy floor, a small tome falling out of his apron pocket when he thudded to the ground. Flora rushed to Lodgok’s side to help the goblin up, an act that made Rookwood wrinkle his nose in disgust. Stupid girl. Should be clamoring over to ME. 

Ranrok, meanwhile, turned his attention to the book. “Brought something to me, little brother?” He asked, picking up the leather-bound volume and leafing through it. 

“I was bringing it to you,” Lodgok told the girl. Her entire attention was focused on that disgusting creature, asking him if he was alright; it made Rookwood positively seethe with rage. The dark wizard marched over to her, striking quick as a viper to wrap a strong arm around her waist, pinning her to him, the point of his wand digging into her neck; she swallowed thickly when Rookwood’s stubble grazed her ear, and he whispered so that only she could hear: “You have made a very grave mistake by coming here, poppet.”

“Victor—let me go—” Flora protested, squirming in vain; she stopped when Ranrok pointedly and loudly shut the book in his hands, roaring at Lodgok so fiercely that his voice echoed throughout the mine, causing all three heads to turn his way in audience.

“You knew. You knew where it was. This whole time—I don’t need the girl. I don’t need any of you—”

Flora screamed when her goblin friend was thrust into the far wall of the mine with Ranrok’s corrupted magic, dead in an instant. The impact caused a heavy rumble, heralding an impending cave in; Rookwood wasted no time. He pointed his wand at the goblin leader, the tip glowing green, aimed—

And missed. He missed!

Flora was sobbing now, both at the loss of her friend and the sensation of the killing curse’s beam coming much too close to her ear for comfort. Rookwood, still holding her in his strong grasp, disapparated with the girl mere seconds before a boulder came hurtling down atop the pair. Flora found herself in the carnage outside the mine, Rookwood on top of her, pinning her into the muck, his wand jabbing into her neck and his pupils dilated with pure, unadulterated rage.

“Why?” He bellowed. “Why do you persist in your obstinance? Why can’t you simply be the way I want you to be? Why can’t you be perfect for me?”

“Victor, there’s no time—Please, let me go,” Flora sputtered through tears.

Rookwood, in his madness, ignored her attempt to reason with him. “What will it take? Will you finally behave for me under the Imperius curse? Will you be perfect for me then? What will it take?”  

“Don’t! Don’t—you’ll hurt the baby. Please, I’ll be good—” She ceased protesting when the tip of Rookwood’s wand briefly glowed the tell-tale green of the Imperius curse before ebbing away. The dark wizard again attempted to muster the curse—and faltered in his intent, not wanting to harm the babe. Furious, he hurled his wand into the grimy sand wet with goblin blood, and began to rip at the girl’s clothing, shredding each layer. 

“You have ruined everything,” he panted, ignoring the girl’s crying as he stripped her nude. “Years of work, bowing to that wretched cur—now gone, all because of you. I hate that I love you, hate that I have coveted you from the very first second I saw you, hate that you refuse to understand that you are mine.”

“Victor, don’t—stop. I’ll take you to the repository,” Flora bargained, wide-eyed as she watched Rookwood fish his large, erect member from his trousers. He forced himself harshly inside her quim, applying pressure to her neck with a strong hand, and took her with abandon. Her body unready for the trespass, she yowled in pain, begging in vain for him to stop, please.

“You’ll be taking me to the repository regardless, poppet—after I break you. Will you finally be a good girl for me after I fuck every hole in your body? Will you behave when you lie here, bruised and battered with every orifice dripping? That belly will be even rounder after I pump you full of my come— fuck—” the hand around her neck tightened its grip as Flora felt the warm wave of seed filling her, and mewled a small, helpless-sounding Victor. Rookwood flipped her over, her face and chest burrowing deeper into the grime as her hips were raised upward; the girl’s face reddened with shame at the enjoyment she felt upon hearing the dark wizard breathe out a gorgeous as he examined her sopping cunny, spreading the cheeks of her backside and once again thrusting his phallus into her quim. She gasped and moaned when a finger probed her other entrance; Rookwood chuckled when the strange and pleasant sensation caused her to climax, her walls clenching his erection as the waves of her orgasm passed through every inch of her body.

“Dirty thing. You love this, don’t you poppet? You love being used? Being broken? Being tamed?”

“I love it, Victor—” Wracked with pleasure, Flora could barely speak.

“Of course you do— fuck, always so tight for me—you want more of my come, don’t you darling?”

“Yes, Victor! Yes—”

“Wild little creature. You’d be leaving here pregnant if you weren’t already. You love carrying my child? Love being tied to me forever?”

“Yes! Yes, I love you! I want you!”

She was rewarded with another orgasm, appetite sated by more of Rookwood’s hot seed spurting inside her, ropes of white dripping out of her upon his withdrawal; Rookwood wound a hand into her hair, forcing her onto her knees as he stood upright and positioned his cock, wet with their mingled fluids, in front of her face.

“Clean me,” he directed. She hesitated, bright green eyes gazing up at him, before gently prodding the head with the tip of her tongue, then enveloping it into her mouth, tasting the entwined fluid of him and herself on the warm, delicate skin. Rookwood snapped his hips, forcing the entirety of himself in her mouth, groaning an ohh, my darling girl when the head of his erect member reached the back of her throat, placing a hand on the top of her head to fuck her mouth just as feverishly as he had her cunt.

“Let’s paint that pretty face,” he grunted, pulling out of her mouth abruptly and aiming to embellish her sweet, darling little face with spurts of sticky, warm semen. She closed her eyes and mouth as the act took place; finally satisfied, Rookwood took his time to study the scene before him, memorizing every inch—a beautiful drawing to sketch in his journal later tonight. He tucked himself back into his trousers and picked up his wand, wiping the blood off it before cleaning the girl up to make her decent again. Feeling dry and clothed, Flora opened her eyes, dazzled by the absolute depravity that had just been unleashed on her. She gently prodded her stomach with one hand, fearful that the jostling had been too intense for the little one.

“The baby’s fine, poppet,” Rookwood told her, unfazed and having rutted away his wrath. “Let’s get you back home. You need to rest.”

“But…what about Ranrok?”

Rookwood shrugged. “Died in that cave in, I imagine. In the unfortunate event that he is still alive, destroying the drill has bought us some time. You can afford to recuperate after such an eventful outing, and I need to send word to my men that every goblin in sight must be exterminated. Come along, sweet one.”

*****

Flora’s suspicions of Ranrok’s fate ebbed as time passed. It was now August, and the repository still sat unmolested in the caverns below Hogwarts under the supervision of Professor Fig, who promised to alert Flora the very second there was an indication that something was amiss—not that she could do terribly much about it, being eight months pregnant.

Rookwood had relocated his wife to Rookwood Castle in the weeks prior to giving birth; the estate had been cleaned up with significant repairs prior to her arrival, and was now actually quite stately-looking without crumbling battlements and swarms of goblin loyalists. Flora spent most of the remaining Summer days reading and writing correspondence in the sunny courtyard, enjoying fresh air as she awaited the arrival of the baby—who her husband insisted would be a boy, insisted also be named Victor, and insisted an Ashwinder preside as her midwife.

“She is one of my top lieutenants, and a very dear friend,” Rookwood told Flora over dinner one evening as he hid a smirk with a chug of firewhisky. “I’m sure the two of you will get along swimmingly. She’s delivered dozens of little poachers and Ashwinders over the years.”

How strange to think that Rookwood had friends, as opposed to underlings and cronies; what sort of person would willingly be friends with Victor Rookwood? A lunatic, most likely—or an arsehole, like Harlow. The second in command had stoked Flora’s ire several days ago when he arrived to the estate to meet with Rookwood; he took one look at the girl, swollen belly heavy with child, and roared with laughter before slapping Rookwood on the back and crowing, “Well done, boss.”

The woman was not an arsehole like Harlow—but she was a lunatic, and she and Flora did not get along swimmingly. Flora shook Rookwood awake one wet, rainy September morning with a frantic Victor, Victor! Wake up, I think it’s time; Rookwood shot out of bed, wasting not a second. He had a small breakfast sent up to the bedroom for his wife, still early in labor, before summoning Harlow and Ailsa to report to me immediately. Harlow arrived at the castle a short time later, finding his boss pacing back and forth in the courtyard, top hat in his hands, while screams and cries echoed from a nearby open window.

“Harlow! Harlow, there you are,” a flustered Rookwood addressed as he raced over to his right hand man. “Upper Hogsfield. A woman—Dorothy Sprottle. Find her and bring her here.”

Both men winced at the sound of glass breaking, then more incoherent screaming. “Everythin'…alright?” Harlow asked.

“No, she—she’s being obstinate again. She refuses to let Ailsa come anywhere near her. Says she wants her midwife. Go, Harlow, quickly—my son—”

Perturbed by Rookwood’s unusual state of nervousness, Harlow quickly apparated to Upper Hogsfield, where he turned to the nearest villager and uttered, “Lookin’ for the Sprottle residence.” The terrified villager pointed a finger towards the nearest house, where an older woman was tending to her garden; Harlow strode over and addressed her. “Dorothy Sprottle—yer comin’ with me. Got a wee ‘un that needs deliverin’.”

*****

Rookwood had drunk nearly two full flasks of firewhisky as he awaited the arrival of his child. The news of Missus Rookwood’s labor traveled quickly through the estate, and a small crowd of Ashwinder guards had congregated in the hallway along with Rookwood, Harlow, and Ailsa Travers. When Missus Sprottle finally left the bedroom to deliver the news, he was so drunk on liquor and elation he could have sworn he misheard the woman, who congratulated him on his happy, healthy daughter.

“Son,” he corrected the midwife.

Missus Sprottle chuckled before timidly and abruptly stopping, hoping not to enrage the dark wizard. “Ah…no. It is most certainly a little girl.” Several guards cheered or sighed happily at the news of a healthy baby; Rookwood simply stood in stunned silence for several moments before speaking again.

“Thank you, Missus Sprottle. Harlow will see you home and make sure you are well-compensated for your work here today…and your discretion.” He gestured to the second in command, then turned to Ailsa. “Send an extra keg of ale and firewhisky to all the camps—make it clear that it is to celebrate the arrival of my firstborn.” He then entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and beheld his exhausted wife sitting in bed with a little bundle in her arms.

“Victor.” She smiled so brightly it lit up the entirety of her gorgeous face, and Flora scooted as best she could to make room for her husband to sit on the bed. “Come meet her.”

“Well done, poppet.” He kissed his wife on the temple, still sweaty from labor, and teased, “Well then—shall we start trying for a boy?”

Flora, much too tired to react to this needling, handed off the little bundle; as his newborn daughter was passed into his arms, Rookwood looked down at the red, splotchy face swaddled in blankets, bleary blue eyes peering back up at him, and immediately felt like he could die for her. “She’s perfect,” he whispered.

“Isn’t she?” Flora agreed. “She needs a name…I was thinking—”

“She has a name,” Rookwood announced imperiously. “Alice Victoria Rookwood.”

Chapter Text

The atmosphere of the private room on the top floor of The Three Broomsticks was somber, as it often was during these bimonthly meetings. Natty found an empty seat near the fireplace, occupying it just as Mister Rabe called the meeting to order.

“As many of you are aware, the rumors regarding Victor Rookwood’s death are false—we have known this for some time,” Mister Rabe began. “The destruction of the dragon fighting ring has caused Rookwood and Harlow to increase their extortionist racket on the good, hard-working citizens of the Highlands. Many of us in this room—myself and my wife included—have been on the receiving end of some not-so-gentle requests to involve ourselves in one scheme or another. Another such person is Otto Dibble, who brings us some new information that we were not aware of prior to today. Mister Dibble, if you please…” 

Mister Rabe gestured to a young, bespectacled man who stood up in the far corner, whose voice cracked a bit from nerves when he started to address the small group. “Earlier today, a young woman carrying an infant stopped by the shop—Gladrags, that is—and purchased several items. I have seen this young lady several times before, though not with an infant, and thought nothing of the transaction until she told me to tab the Rookwood account. I obliged, then alerted Mister Rabe of the interaction…and…”

Mister Rabe picked up where Mister Dibble left off. “Based on Mister Dibble’s description of the woman and these two pieces of recovered evidence, we believe that this was Rookwood’s wife and infant daughter.” He held up two pieces of parchment, one in each hand; in his right was a notice, stolen from an Ashwinder camp, informing Rookwood’s lackeys of an additional delivery of ale and liquor to every camp in the Highlands, celebrating the birth of his first-born child. In his left hand was a very familiar-looking bounty notice that caused Natty’s eyes to widen.

“Flora?” She gasped. When every head in the room turned to look at her, she felt as if she should offer an explanation. “I know this girl—Flora Cohen. She is—was—a Ravenclaw student at Hogwarts. She suddenly disappeared several months ago, for reasons I do not know…my mother says the Headmaster has forbidden even the staff from discussing it.”

“I think we certainly know the reason now,” an older gentleman named Mister Philbert opined, then grumbled something about children having children. The comment went ignored by most of the group as Mister Rabe pressed the Gryffindor girl for more information.

“When did you notice Miss Cohen was missing from Hogwarts?”

Natty cast her eyes to the ceiling as she tried to recall. “March, I think? It has been quite a while. It was not unusual for her to leave the castle grounds for days at a time and wander around the Highlands, but…Flora is a good person, Mister Rabe. This is very out of character for her—I do not want to believe it.”

Mister Rabe tapped his toe on the hardwood floor while studying the drawing on the bounty notice. “It’s not unlikely that she was coerced…” He looked up from the drawing and directly at Natty. “Do you have a way to contact Miss Cohen?”

Natty nodded. “I can find her.”

“Good. I leave this to you, Natty, since you have a rapport with her. If you can glean any information about Rookwood and Harlow’s dealings— anything at all—please report it at the next meeting. To have an insider on our side, and Missus Rookwood no less, would be an immense help to our cause.”

*****

The Rookwood family could not have asked for a more perfect baby. At two months old, little Alice was a good sleeper and a healthy eater with a happy, curious disposition—and, with sparse dark hairs on her scalp and bright blue eyes, she looked exactly like her father, a fact that Victor Rookwood would proudly crow about to anyone with a working pair of ears.

For Flora, Alice’s birth heralded something of a rebirth for herself. She was tied to Victor Rookwood forever now, as the mother of his child; while she didn’t scream I am Missus Rookwood from the rooftops, she did stop tip-toeing around the topic and used the title to her advantage at times—mostly while shopping in Hogsmeade. Rookwood, now fully trusting that his wife would behave and stay by his side, allowed her to leave Rookwood Castle every Tuesday and Thursday to run errands in the wizarding village…with stipulations, of course.

You may take Alice with you, but you will not let her out of your sight for a single second. Of course, Victor. Don’t get my baby into trouble, and don’t spend all of my money. I won’t, Victor. You will return to me at The Hog’s Head no later than four in the afternoon. Yes, Victor.

These rules were easy enough to follow. After months of postpartum cloistering in Rookwood Castle, Flora was ecstatic to have a change of scenery; doing laps around the courtyard while pushing Alice in her pram became a stale exercise relatively quickly. After several visits to Hogsmeade, mother and baby had established a routine: get some shopping done in the square, then pick up a copy of The Daily Prophet on the way to Vesters and Venum. Collect the shop’s profits from Penny and do some bookkeeping (the only task the little house elf seemed to need help with). Once that was done, it was time to nurse Alice, then a nap in the upstairs flat. A nappy change upon waking, then meet daddy at the tavern and head home.

This routine was mildly disrupted one Tuesday, just after Alice was put down for her afternoon nap. Flora sat at the dining table with the newspaper, skimming through the headlines when one in particular caught her eye: STUDENT ACCUSED OF USING DARK ARTS ACQUITTED.

There was no picture, no name or identifying information, and only a short few paragraphs; but as Flora read the words, then again, and finally for a third time, there was no doubt as to who this student was.

Acquitted. So what did that mean? Sebastian was free? Was he here in the Highlands? What if he returned to Feldcroft, only a quick jog from her current residence? What if he was right here in Hogsmeade at this very moment? No witnesses came forward to testify. Well, no one asked her to testify. If only Flora weren’t breastfeeding; she had never felt so desperate for a nip of firewhisky. Ominis would likely know more, but getting in touch with him was difficult—being blind, he rarely had much reason to send or receive letters, and Flora suspected the Headmaster was still fielding her correspondence to and from her student friends. She resolved that it was better to try and fail at contact than to not try at all, and set to writing a short note, enchanting the words to be spoken aloud—quietly and carefully, so as to not wake Alice. I am in Hogsmeade every Tuesday and Thursday until four in the afternoon. Please find me at Vesters and Venum in Spire Alley. We must speak about Sebastian.

Flora pocketed the parchment in her coat, making a mental note to drop it off at the post office prior to meeting Rookwood at The Hog’s Head. She then cast her eyes to the sleeping infant in her cradle; chubby arms flanking her head, tiny hands curled into fists as her cheeks twitched into a smile while she dreamt. “No matter what happens, I will always be here for you, and I will always keep you safe,” Flora whispered.

*****

“I tell you, she really is the most darling— oh, here she is now—”

Rookwood practically broke time itself in his rush to the door of The Hog’s Head as Flora entered the tavern, carrying Alice in her arms. He took the infant and raced back to the bar to continue his conversation with the proprietor, holding the baby up so her tiny face was level with his own as she gazed upon the nearby mounted boar’s head with puerile interest.

“You see, Jasper? A stunning likeness—not a single doubt as to her paternity. Hard to believe a devil like me could sire such an angel.”

“Looks just like you,” the proprietor grunted.

“Doesn’t she, though? Already smart as a whip, and—hello, poppet.”

Jasper was spared more tedious and boring details about another man’s infant when Flora sidled up to Rookwood and tugged on his coat sleeve, indicating she was ready to return home; the cue went ignored as Rookwood pecked her cheek in greeting and told her, “Jasper here tells me that someone came by earlier today, asking far too many questions about Missus Rookwood. A friend of yours, perhaps.”

“Oh?” Flora turned to face the proprietor. Someone asking too many questions certainly did sound like they would be a friend of hers; several culprits came to mind, actually.

Jasper, as indicated by his response, was a man of few words. “Gryffindor girl.”

Natty. “What sort of questions did she ask?”

Rookwood chimed in. “She seems to think I have kidnapped you—that I am holding you against your will, and that you are not happy.” He turned Alice around in his arms, who cracked a broad, gummy smile upon seeing her father’s face. “But that’s not true at all, is it, princess? Your mother is very happy, because I spoil her almost as much as I spoil you. Speaking of, I have gifts for the two of you.” He shifted the baby and held her closely with one arm to unsheathe his wand, transfiguring a small stuffed owl toy for Alice, who stared at it with wide blue eyes as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“Ooh, she likes it—what is that, Alice? Did daddy give you an owl?” Flora cooed before addressing her husband. “You have something for me, too?”

“Yes, yes, poppet. Something for you, too.” Rookwood returned his wand to its pocket in his vest before pulling out a long, thin box from his coat, the shape and size indicating some sort of jewelry. “But first, I want to know more about this girl snooping around.”

Flora shrugged while eyeing the gift in his hand like a magpie. “Just a friend from my time at Hogwarts. I haven’t seen her in ages—I have no idea what she might want.”

Rookwood did not sense any duplicity in this response, but still bristled with suspicion. “She seemed to know quite a lot about you, according to Jasper. Referred to you by both your married and maiden name, asked about the last time you were seen here…she even mentioned you might be carrying an infant. What information is she looking for?”

Flora reiterated that she knew nothing about this. “I told you, I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, before Alice was even born…” She trailed off, realizing how strange it was that Natty knew of both her marriage and Alice’s existence. Flora had never told her those things…so who did? “What information is she looking for?” Flora wondered aloud.

Rookwood sneered. “Business.” Thank Merlin his wife had never expressed interest in becoming more enmeshed in his dealings and he caught this little charade before it began, else Missus Rookwood blabber to her friend and once again cost him a lucrative avenue of illicit income. “Listen well, poppet: this girl is likely not working alone. If she—or anyone else—manages to corner you and ask more annoying questions, you know nothing, you are very happy, and you will firmly warn her about what happens to those who pry into my business. The Rookwood family will not suffer intruders. Isn’t that right, princess?”

Alice, who had now decided this fascinating new toy needed to be drooled on, gurgled joyfully when her father planted a kiss on her forehead and handed the box in his hand to Flora. It was zealously opened to reveal another bracelet; more sapphires, with a small silver disc in the center, engraved with the initials AVR.

“A small token of my appreciation for bringing Alice into the world,” Rookwood explained. “You can pass it along to her, once she becomes old enough. Sapphires are her birthstone—a future Ravenclaw no doubt, just like her parents and her namesake.”

“It’s beautiful, Victor. Thank you.” Flora looked upon her daughter as she clasped the jewels around her wrist. “She’ll be wearing it before we know it.”

*****

It seemed the former Sallow residence had a new tenant; Flora noticed a wisp of smoke emanating from the chimney of the small cottage one crisp November morning while walking along the castle ramparts. A pang of fear shot through her as she imagined Sebastian returning to the household, then reassured herself that the idea was ludicrous; surely he would want to stay far away from the site that had afforded him so many unhappy memories. Curiosity gnawed at her all morning; with Rookwood away from the estate for several more hours, she bundled Alice up in warm clothing and a woolen blanket for a quick pop into the village.

“Someone new in town?” Flora asked the hamlet’s merchant upon arrival, tilting her head towards the residence in question.

“Yes—a young lad, just arrived last night,” was the response.

Flora bit her lip in worry. “…The same one who lived there before? With his uncle and sister?” 

She exhaled with relief when the answer was no. Feeling braver, she drew closer to the domicile, observing broken shards of pottery near the stoop; the sad, withered garden full of weeds and long-dead vegetables; and a new, macabre addition from her last visit—a small, rounded headstone on the right side of the cottage. Oh dear. Please don’t be…

It wasn’t Anne’s grave—it was Solomon’s. Flora felt terribly guilty to be thankful, but…if Solomon was buried here, it meant Anne had likely returned to the hamlet at some point. Ten months had passed since that day in the tomb; while Rookwood had taunted Sebastian that the curse couldn’t be broken, she did harbor a kernel of hope that the girl was still alive and somewhere. Lost in her thoughts, Flora jumped when she saw movement through the window out of the corner of her eye; a shadow, illuminated by the lit fireplace. Time to meet the new neighbor, she supposed, and wondered if the boy knew of the residence’s history.

He was very aware. With a sleeping infant nestled against her chest, she gently knocked on the door with her free hand, stunned when the wooden door creaked open to reveal—

“…Ominis?”

“Is that…Flora?” The blind lad held his wand out straighter in front of him. “It is— Flora, I’ve been trying to find you for months. Come inside, we need to discuss—”

“Sebastian. I know; I read about it in The Daily Prophet.” She entered the threshold, the inside of the cottage unchanged in vacancy, and immediately blurted out, “What are you doing here, Ominis?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he countered.

That was fair. “I…I live nearby. I saw smoke from the chimney this morning and thought perhaps—”

“You wondered if Anne or Sebastian had returned,” Ominis finished for her with a deep sigh, leaning against the dining table. “Unfortunately not. I came for the weekend to clean this place up; I plan to stay here over winter break. It certainly brings back memories—some fond, others not so fond.” There was a long pause as his face morphed into melancholy. “You know about Sebastian, then.”

“I do—acquitted due to lack of evidence. If I had known, I would have testified—”

“I tried everything to get in touch with you, but you were nowhere to be found. The Headmaster was less than helpful when I asked for an explanation—something about setting a bad example. Even the Ministry tried contacting you, to no avail. Where were you, Flora? What happened?”

“I was…preoccupied.” The little bundle in her arms stirred and let out a drowsy croak, offering a further explanation to Ominis; the blind boy raised his eyebrows, face turning a flustered pink.

“You—please don’t tell me—”

“Sebastian isn’t her father,” Flora swiftly clarified. “It’s a long story…”

“I do not want to know,” Ominis huffed.

There was another long pause—much more awkward this time—before Flora cautiously asked, “Do you know anything about Sebastian’s whereabouts? Do you think he might be…vengeful?” Of course he’s vengeful. You’re married to the man who cursed his twin sister. You’re holding that man’s child in your arms right now, for Merlin’s sake.

“I haven’t a clue as to where he is or his state of mind. Perhaps he’s vengeful, perhaps he wants to atone; I hold out hope that it’s the latter, and that he will attempt to make contact at some point—if not with one of us, then at least with Anne…if she’s alive.”

“I want to believe she is,” Flora uttered somberly.

“As do I. I have tried everything in my power to search for her. Alive or not…I merely want closure.”

Flora also wanted closure. There must be a way to discover Anne’s fate; if Flora weren’t toting a two-month-old around everywhere, she would be scouring the Highlands herself. A cursed and sickly teenage girl would stick out like a sore thumb; surely someone, somewhere could find her—

Someone with exceptional tracking skills.  

“I know a boy who can help us,” Flora told Ominis, her tone now more optimistic. “His name is Llewellyn. If there’s anyone who can find Anne, it’s him.”

*****

Three days later, Anne had been found. Per Flora’s request, Llewellyn showed up at Vesters and Venum to deliver the news on Tuesday.

“Miss Flora!” The boy hollered, knocking on the door to the upstairs flat just as Flora had finished changing Alice’s nappy. “It’s me! Llewellyn!”

“Oh! That was fast—Come in, Llewellyn.”

The boy entered the flat, looking not much different than the last time Flora saw him, and still toting his beloved chicken, Mister Michaels, under one arm. 

“I was so glad to get your owl, Miss— oh!” He pointed to the cradle in the room, where Alice was flailing her limbs with furious excitement at hearing all the ruckus.

“This is Alice,” Flora said, picking the infant up for a proper introduction; the baby’s line of sight immediately focused on Mister Michaels, and she cooed with delight at the creature before enthusiastically shoving one half of a tiny fist into her mouth.

“What a darling! Hello, Alice,” Llewellyn greeted. “Gosh, Miss Flora, I had no idea you had a baby. Do you have a new husband, too?”

Flora hesitated. “Well, no…I, er, I am still Missus Rookwood. Victor—Mister Rookwood—is Alice’s father.”

Llewellyn’s face scrunched with confusion.

“He’s still alive, Llewellyn,” Flora clarified; the boy’s face then morphed into such happiness it was as if Christmas had come early.

“Really?! Oh, that’s amazing—so many surprises today! I’d love to see him again. Do you think he remembers me?”

“I’m certain he does, Llewellyn.” Flora had no doubt that Rookwood would also love to see the boy again. “What have you found out?” She asked.

“Your friend is alive!” Llewellyn announced joyfully. “I found a girl in Marunweem who matched the description you sent me. She’s living with an herbalist there—Mister Cromwell. A kind man.”

Flora inhaled a sharp breath. “That’s wonderful news.”

“I think she recognized me from Feldcroft, and it spooked her—she rushed into the back room when I entered the shop—but I did speak with Mister Cromwell. He calls her Annie, and said she helps him pick plants and herbs in the area. He likes having the company—says she reminds him of his daughter.” He paused, twiddling his fingers nervously. “Another thing Mister Cromwell mentioned…is that your friend doesn’t speak—only communicates through writing, and nodding or shaking her head.”

Still cursed, then, Flora assumed. “Did Mister Cromwell mention anything else? Did he say anything about a boy, or Anne having a brother?”

Llewellyn thought for a moment. “No, nothing like that ever came up. It was a short conversation, but I hope this information is helpful to you. I enjoyed finding your friend—it reminded me of old times.” He waved to the smiling baby in Flora’s arms and commented, “She really looks an awful lot like Mister Rookwood, doesn’t she?”

Were Rookwood here, he would have kissed the boy for making this comment unprompted. Llewellyn then fidgeted in place, as if he wanted to ask something but was hesitant to do so—Flora surmised the lad wanted to see her husband. Llewellyn did come through for her, finding Anne; she could afford him a favor in return. Poppy would have an aneurysm if she knew Flora was putting her gran’s protector back into contact with his former boss…but Poppy didn’t need to know anything about this conversation.

“Come to The Hog’s Head with us, Llewellyn—Victor’s waiting there, and I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic to see you.”

The boy happily leapt upon this invitation, following closely behind mother and baby through the winding streets of Hogsmeade, making small talk along the way. Rounding the corner into Hog’s Head Alley, Llewellyn briefly stopped Flora and whispered, “There’s a girl in red school robes who’s been following us…”

Natty. Again. “It’s fine, Llewellyn,” Flora reassured him. “Just a friend from my school days. She’s been wanting to catch up for some time, but…well, taking care of Alice makes free time a luxury now. She won’t follow us into The Hog’s Head—not while Victor’s there, anyway. Come on.”

Llewellyn once more looked over his shoulder with some suspicion before obeying, padding along behind Flora and Alice. Inside the tavern, Rookwood sat at the bar with Harlow, speaking in hushed tones; the two men turned to face the newly-arrived trio, and stared wordlessly at Llewellyn as if he were a ghost.

“That en’t Llewellyn, is it?” Harlow asked, finally breaking the silence; he quickly drank the shot of firewhisky in front of him and narrowed his eyes, peering closer. “It is— where the hell’ve you been, lad? We thought you were dead.”

“Hello, Mister Harlow! Mister Rookwood!” Llewellyn stepped towards the pair, plopping into an available stool next to Harlow and being immediately provided with a pint of ale; Rookwood, however, became focused on Flora, still holding Alice and standing at the entrance. He strode over, took the happily-babbling infant from her, and uttered in a seething whisper, “I’m sure you have an excellent reason as to why this reunion did not happen sooner?”

Flora withered under his intense gaze, starkly contrasted against the shining, joyful blue eyes of her daughter in his arms. “Are you not…pleased to see Llewellyn?” She asked.

“Of course I am pleased— I’ve spent the majority of this year thinking my best tracker was dead and gone,” Rookwood replied. “However, I find it terribly convenient that my wife seemed to know of his whereabouts and kept silent for months. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were suddenly up to something.” He turned his attention to Alice, planting a kiss on both of her fat, round cheeks. “You’ll be talking soon enough, won’t you, princess? Then you’ll be able to tell me all your mother’s little secrets.”

The baby giggled as if in agreement; her mother, meanwhile, frowned. “It’s not a secret—” Flora protested.

“Please don’t be too sore with Miss Flora, Mister Rookwood,” Llewellyn chimed in from the bar, pint in hand. “I thought you and Mister Harlow died in the fire at the Hall, and I didn’t hear otherwise, being on the farm—rumors don’t travel as fast outside the Highlands.”

Harlow snorted. “A farm? Waste of yer talents, lad.”

“It’s not so bad,” Llewellyn responded after a large swig of ale. “Honest work, and gran’s awful nice—taught me how to write better, and tells interesting stories. My favorite one is about the snidgets.”

Rookwood turned around to share an interested look with Harlow. The second-in-command prodded the boy further, while Rookwood addressed Flora. “Go home,” he commanded tersely, handing Alice back over. “I will join you later—after I catch up with Llewellyn here.”

*****

When Rookwood said he would arrive home later, he apparently meant near midnight, drunk and reeking of firewhisky. It was providence that Flora had cast a silencing charm on Alice’s bassinet next to the bed, else the baby would have been awakened by his thunderously loud stumbling—which certainly awoke his wife.

“Victor, it’s the middle of the night,” Flora yawned in the darkness.

“Hello to you too, poppet,” he slurred, throwing his coat and hat onto the floor before collapsing into the bed, fully clothed including his shoes. “You missed me terribly, I’m sure.”

Not particularly, Flora thought, actually enjoying a quiet evening alone with Alice. She pushed Rookwood away when he sidled up closer to her, sloppily attempting a kiss. 

“You smell of liquor—and take your shoes off,” she chided.

“How is my darling princess?” He asked, ignoring the rebuke while fumbling with the buttons on his waistcoat.

“Asleep, Victor. Hopefully she stays that way.”

“She’s such a good baby, isn’t she? Everyone says so—even Harlow, and he despises children. Let’s have another. A boy this time, a lovely lad like Llewellyn.”

The idea of a second pregnancy so soon after giving birth made Flora shiver with discomfort. Taking advantage of Rookwood’s inebriated state, she pivoted the subject while helping him unlace his shoes. “You had a grand time out with him, it seems.”

“Lovely lad, that Llewellyn,” Rookwood repeated. “Told me all about your secret operation to find that cursed girl.”

“And I told you it’s not a secret. I wanted to discover what became of my friend Anne. Thanks to Llewellyn, I know she’s alive.” 

Rookwood flicked his unlaced shoes loudly onto the floor and now lay half-dressed and sideways on the bed, propping his head onto his wife’s lap. “Why wouldn’t she be? Unless she was eaten by wolves, or something similar.”

He can’t be serious. “Because you cursed her, Victor,” Flora hissed. “She was withering away from your dark magic.”

Rookwood angled his head to meet Flora’s eyes with his own, and stared at her for a moment before speaking. “I could cure her, you know.”

The offer made Flora stare right back at him. “You said there was no cure.”

“Perhaps I lied?” Rookwood posited. “Perhaps I wanted to twist the knife into that empty-headed boy for putting his filthy hands on my wife. A curious thing, the nature of curses— that curse in particular. It was as if the magic I had cast that night was not my own. I wonder…if I could harness that power again, I could likely break the curse.”

Given that the event had occurred at Morganach manor, it was entirely possible that Rookwood’s curse was influenced by traces of ancient magic. How convenient that he was now broaching the subject of a cure after taunting the impossibility all those months ago—he was obviously angling for access to the repository. 

“You don’t want what’s in that repository, Victor. Charles Rookwood would want us to guard it, not use it.”

Rookwood let out a sharp chuckle. “Charles Rookwood has been dead for hundreds of years, poppet—his opinion doesn’t hold much weight anymore. That repository is our family’s birthright. Would you rather it fall into the grip of goblins? They’ve been quiet for months, but it’s only a matter of time. If they find it, they’ll hunt us down and kill us—even Alice. We don’t want that, do we? I imagine goblins find infants to be quite delicious.”

The look of anguish that crossed his wife’s face at this comment almost— almost— made him regret uttering the words aloud. “Don’t say things like that,” she admonished, looking towards the sleeping baby. “We will always keep her safe—”

“Terribly difficult to keep one’s child safe when one has been slaughtered by goblins, poppet. This is not the arduous decision you are making it out to be. Allow me to access that power in the repository—I receive my birthright, your little friend gets cured, and all of wizardkind is saved in the process. Everyone wins.”

Ideally, the repository would remain in place, untouched and under Flora’s watch; but she needed to be realistic, not idealistic. Rookwood was right—she hated it, but he was right. Would it really be so bad? Better the devil you know. Ranrok was most assuredly still out there somewhere—she had learned her lesson from Rookwood’s reappearance, and knew better to assume the goblin leader had perished in the cave-in at the mine without seeing a body.

“If I take you to the repository…promise me here and now that you will cure Anne,” she replied quietly. 

Still slightly inebriated, Rookwood winked at her. “Of course I promise. I want my wife to be happy, after all.” He had no clue how—or if— this girl could be healed of the curse, and didn’t care a single whit about his wife’s friend, in truth. But if this duplicity would finally be what gained him his birthright, then so be it. Anything for more power.

*****

Victor Rookwood now had everything he wanted; his wife, his daughter, and his birthright. Victory had finally been achieved. Flora was surprised to find that the caverns under Hogwarts were accessible via apparition, and even more surprised to find not a goblin in sight—not a single hint that the loyalists had been there, or any attempts to tunnel inside. Perhaps Ranrok really was dead.

Upon their return to Rookwood castle, the dark wizard gleefully practiced his new-found prowess in the courtyard, only stopping when Flora marched outside to fuss at him for waking Alice from a nap after he cast a too-loud Bombarda spell. That evening, predictably, his wife prodded him regarding a cure for her cursed friend as the pair sat and supped in the dining room.

“I will help your friend once I get my bearings, poppet,” he told her. “I need time to understand this magic and its limitations, if any.”

Flora saw this for what it was—stalling. “Let me at least go to Marunweem to see her. Please, Victor,” Flora begged. “I can take Alice with me—she enjoys new scenery, and it would allow you time to experiment without bothering her again. Just for a day.”

Rookwood leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms to ponder this. If Llewellyn weren’t already assigned to a very important job, he would have the boy trail his wife out of caution. Marunweem; a tiny hamlet of no interest or importance. She would be fine. “Half a day,” he told her. “No detours— go straight there and come straight back. If you are a single second late in returning, I will raze that piddly little village to the ground.”

Flora left the next morning, bundling Alice up in a sling tightly affixed across her chest. Piddly little village was an apt description; the hamlet consisted of one shop and so few houses she could count them all on one hand. Little Alice sneezed upon entry into the shop, unused to the scent of incense wafting in the air.

“Bless you,” said the shopkeeper in greeting—Mister Cromwell, Flora presumed.

“Oh, thank you; are you Mister Cromwell? My name is Flora—I’m looking for a friend of mine. Anne. I was told she’s staying here with you.”

“Ahh, Annie—my wonderful helper. Yes, she resides here,” the wise-looking older gentleman confirmed. “She’s out at the moment gathering toadstools, but will be back within the hour. Such a sweetheart, that girl is.”

Out? By herself? In her condition? The last time Flora had seen the girl, she looked days away from death. “Is she…still sick?”

Mister Cromwell looked puzzled at this question. “Sick? No, no. She’s perfectly healthy.”

“Is she still cursed, I mean,” Flora clarified.

The gentleman looked even more perplexed at this. “A curse? Not that I’m aware of—and I saw the effects of many curses during my time working at the Ministry. She doesn’t speak, as I’m sure you’re aware, but she’ll write or gesture to communicate. I believe her muteness is due to some…past trauma, but I don’t want to upset her by prying too deeply. I’m certain she’ll divulge more when she’s ready.”

This was… strange. Mister Cromwell was speaking as if Anne had never been anything other than hale and hearty. Flora had even more questions now; when did Anne arrive? Did she tell you where she came from? Did she mention her family? Why would she come to an herbalist if she didn’t need their services? She needed to go straight to the source for answers. “You said Anne is out picking toadstools? Is there a specific area she finds them in? I’d love to see her again as soon as possible.”

“She never strays too far from the base of the Switchbacks—just follow the path through the village that leads into the mountains,” he replied.

Flora thanked the man for his time, and headed out on the path towards the Switchback mountains. Just outside the hamlet, there was a noticeable trail of disturbed earth, indicating some recent foraging—as good a clue as any to follow. She followed along the winding path until she came to a fork, the right going further up the mountainside, and the left leading into a clearing. Flora looked to the left; there she was, looking like a normal, healthy young woman, sitting on a boulder with a basket of mushrooms at her feet.

“Anne!” Flora cried out. The girl’s head whipped towards her direction, eyes noticeably wide even several paces away. Flora? She mouthed, then held up a finger to her lips, indicating a need for quiet before waving her hand in a gesture for the old friend to come closer. Flora did so, and understood the request for silence as she sat on the boulder; a nest of thestrals on the opposite end of the clearing. Anne must have been taking a break and watching them prior to Flora’s arrival.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” Flora whispered; Anne dug through a pocket in her apron to procure a quill and small journal, writing: Baby?

Anne must have been bursting with just as many questions as Flora was. “My daughter, Alice,” she answered, stroking the infant’s fine, dark hair. “Anne, I spoke with Mister Cromwell—he told me you would be around here, and that you’re a helper at his shop. But…” Where to even begin? What to ask first? “He seemed confused when I asked about your curse. What happened?”

Flora waited patiently as Anne wrote a reply, passing the journal into her hands once finished. I returned to Feldcroft to put Uncle Solomon to rest, and expected to die there. Three days after he passed, I woke up and felt like the curse had been lifted. I stopped coughing, my skin regained color, I felt normal again, but I couldn’t speak. I can’t explain it very well, and I don’t know what happened. But it was the best birthday present I could ask for. I didn’t want to stay in Feldcroft—bad memories. I’ve always wanted to visit the coast, so I came to Marunweem. I like it here, and plan on staying.

“Birthday present?” Flora asked aloud. “Your birthday was three days after…the tomb?”

Anne nodded.

Children should be seen and not heard. Of course—Anne had turned seventeen. She wasn’t a child anymore. Flora felt a pang of despair upon remembering that Anne and Sebastian were twins; the poor boy had spent his own seventeenth birthday locked away in some cell inside the Ministry, awaiting trial. Oh, Sebastian. If he had only waited three more days, all of this heartache would have been avoided. Flora began to ask another question, but Anne raised a palm to stop her, and scribbled a query of her own: who is her father?

Flora hesitated at the loaded question. Victor Rookwood. My husband. The man who cursed you and nearly killed your brother. She resolved to use the same response she told Ominis. “It isn’t Sebastian, if you’re wondering.”

Anne made a face that indicated she wasn’t fully satisfied by this answer, but allowed Flora to ask another question in return; it seemed she wanted to do a back-and-forth approach to catching up.

“Sebastian…are you aware of what happened to him?”

Anne waved her hand back and forth in a way to indicate somewhat, then wrote down a more detailed response. I read articles in The Daily Prophet that I’m sure were about him. Ominis must have turned him in after he received my owl. I was surprised that he wasn’t sent to Azkaban. Part of me is happy about that, but another part isn’t. It’s confusing.

“I understand. I feel the same way,” Flora agreed, not divulging that she, too, was involved with Sebastian’s expulsion and the aftermath that ensued. “I spoke with Ominis—he’ll be staying at your home in Feldcroft for winter break. He tried to contact both of us…to testify in Sebastian’s trial. When neither of us could be found, the Ministry let him go free.”

Have you heard from Sebastian? Anne wrote.

Flora shook her head. “I haven’t. I was wondering if you had.”

Her heart began to beat ferociously in her chest when she read Anne’s answer: I have. He sent me a letter a few days ago. Then, the beating nearly stopped and Flora’s blood turned ice-cold upon seeing Anne’s next question: Victor Rookwood is the father, isn’t he?

“How do you… Sebastian. What did he tell you?”

He is terribly worried about you. He wrote that Rookwood tricked or cursed you, and was taking advantage of you. He feels guilty he couldn’t help—he wants to avenge you. Avenge me, too. He also wrote that Rookwood admitted to cursing me.

What a tangled web this all was. Flora had thought for months and months that Sebastian hated her, blamed her for everything that befell him—but apparently it was all in her head, and far from the truth. He certainly was vengeful, but not towards Flora; she looked down at Alice’s face, adorned with a sweet, happy smile. “I…I’m sorry, Anne. I can’t allow anything to happen to Victor. He’s my husband, and Alice’s father. She adores him, and he adores her in return—he really is a loving husband and father. Victor even offered to cure you; that’s the main reason I came to see you. But, since the curse is broken…well, we can get your voice back…I can try with my magic right now—”

Anne shook her head, and wrote: I don’t need to be cured. I’m content as I am, being here with Mister Cromwell. You seem happy, too. I don’t harbor any ill will towards you or your choices. I just want all this to stay in the past where it belongs.

That was a mature answer. “Thank you, Anne. I’m glad you’re safe and happy. I need to return home soon—this little one will need a nap shortly—but please, do me a favor and reach out to Ominis. He’ll be delighted to hear from you. And Sebastian…do you know where he is?”

All he said is that he is in the Highlands. Nothing specific. I haven’t seen him.

“If you do see him, or hear from him again, please tell him not to worry about me. Tell him I’m happy.”

*****

In his wife and daughter’s momentary absence, Rookwood had taken it upon himself to research in the cellar study, hunting for any writings regarding ancient magic. The infernal whispering was highly annoying, but he powered through it long enough to come across a fleeting mention of some sort of lair deep in the Switchback mountains, of all places. Perhaps Marunweem was of some interest and importance; Intrigued, he brought the most promising tomes into his own study. Upon leaving the tower, he espied his wife and daughter re-entering the courtyard, right on time.

“My two favorite ladies,” he crooned while approaching them; noticing some melancholy on his wife’s face, he remarked, “Oh dear. Not all is well with your little friend, I take it?”

“She’s perfectly fine. The curse broke on her seventeenth birthday. She still can’t speak, but rejected a cure when I offered it to her.”

How lucky. Rookwood gained the power of ancient magic with no strings attached; he couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. “Everything worked out, then—no need to look so glum, darling. Come inside, I don’t want my baby catching a cold out in this frigid weather.” He ushered the pair up the snowy ramparts, then down the hall and into the nursery where Flora plopped down into the rocking chair, unswaddling the infant from her layers of blankets before beginning feeding time.

“She loves those gorgeous things almost as much as I do, doesn’t she?” Rookwood commented, leaning against the nearby crib; he snickered when his wife shot a glare at him and uttered, flatly and sarcastically, “You’re hilarious.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He took a moment to admire the scene of wife and child in front of him before prompting, “Well—you’ll be pleased to know all is ready for our stay at the hunting lodge in a few weeks. The spare bedroom has been converted into a nursery for Alice, complete with everything she could possibly need. She’ll love it there, I’m sure. We’ll have a wonderful time bonding as a family, celebrating our first anniversary and your birthday…being away from troublesome Gryffindor students, mute cursed girls, and the blasted whispering never giving me a moment’s peace…”

“It’s from the— ouch, Alice—it’s from the broken repository in the cellar,” Flora told him, wincing when the baby suckled with a little too much fervor. “You’ll get used to it.”

Rookwood did not get used to it; rather, he became so vexed by the constant humming that he insisted the family relocate to the hunting lodge two weeks earlier than the originally-planned entirety of December. 

“Finally, some quiet. I cannot concentrate with that constant racket in the background, driving me to the brink of insanity,” he fumed, lighting his pipe in the sitting room while Flora sat on the floor with Alice, trying to grasp the baby’s attention with the favorite stuffed owl toy. Instead, Alice seemed much more intrigued by the smoke coming from her father’s pipe.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t smoke around Alice,” Flora said disapprovingly.

“She’s fine, poppet—once in a while won’t do any harm. Curious as a kneazle, isn’t she?” Rookwood chuckled, blowing a ring of smoke into the air that was met with a squeal of delight from the baby. “We should get her one as a pet. She’ll love it.”

“No, Victor. She’s not even three months old yet. Her main interests are shapes and colors, not kneazles.”

“A snidget, then. Something round and shiny to chase around once she begins walking.”

“They’re extinct, Victor.” Flora sighed; enduring hours of childbirth, toting this man’s infant around everywhere, and he still enjoyed needling her whenever the chance presented itself. “No kneazles, no snidgets, no phoenixes or unicorns. If you must spoil her, do it with toys or books—you know she loves being read to.” The chime of the bell from the dining room indicated supper was ready. “Thank goodness. I’m starving. That means it’s bedtime for you, Alice—say goodnight to daddy.”

“I can put her to bed,” Rookwood offered, ashing his pipe before picking the little one up into his arms; he countered his wife’s incredulous stare with, “Don’t give me that look. I believe I mentioned wanting to bond as a family while we’re here. Besides, I want to show her the portrait of my mother in the library.”

Flora smiled at this show of softness. “Alright, then—come find me if she gets fussy. Good night, sweetness.” She kissed the sleepy-eyed baby, departing towards the dining room while Rookwood carried his daughter down the hall; after several moments, Flora crept towards the library, unseen and unheard as she peered through the slightly-opened door, grinning while watching her husband gently rocking the infant and whispering tales of the baby’s namesake until his daughter was fast asleep.

*****

The next morning at breakfast, Flora received a howler. Poppy had finagled a way to get the letter smuggled out of Hogwarts— how was anyone’s guess—and gave the poor redhead a tongue lashing for the ages. To add to the shame, Rookwood roared with unbridled laughter upon entering the dining room and seeing the carmine envelope sitting unopened on the table.

“Delaying the inevitable again, poppet? Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

Flora gingerly took the envelope in her hands, which immediately opened itself and shot into the air, raining an unholy, raging tirade in Poppy’s familiar high voice.

“You have A LOT of explaining to do, Flora! Llewellyn left the farm saying he needed to help you with something, and told gran he would return in a few days—she was beside herself when he didn’t come back. Because he wasn’t around, gran’s home was RANSACKED and her journals were STOLEN by idiot poachers! I send a letter to Llewellyn asking him to go back home, and WHAT does he say? ‘Oh, sorry Poppy, I have to find snidgets for Mister Rookwood now. Miss Flora told me he’s alive and brought me to him’. Is THAT where you’ve been? You’re BACK in that bastard’s clutches? ON PURPOSE? Not only that, Natty says she saw you shopping in Hogsmeade with a BABY? What is WRONG with you? I am going to FIND you and YOU are going to FIX this mess that YOU started.”

The letter burst into flames, sprinkling down into Flora’s porridge, who sat and stared at the bowl as she felt her entire face grow hot and pink with embarrassment.

“Charming girl,” Rookwood said, unfazed.

“Victor…what are you planning?” Flora asked after a moment of quiet. “What’s this about snidgets and stolen journals?”

“Business, poppet—nothing to concern yourself with. It seems Llewellyn needs to be reminded about the importance of discretion…”

“It certainly sounds like something I need to concern myself with,” Flora countered, crossing her arms. “I am your wife, the mother of your child, and you still refuse to let me have any part in your affairs—”

“For your protection, my darling. Ignorance will serve you well, should any aurors ever come knocking.” Rookwood slid into the dining chair next to Flora, winding an arm around her shoulders. “You have one very important job—raising my children. There are women in my ranks of poachers and Ashwinders who would, quite literally, kill for the opportunity. You, my dear, are very much involved in my affairs—by ensuring that I have an intelligent, capable heir to leave my empire to. There’s no need to fret over these small tasks of trapping beasts and the like. That’s what underlings are for.”

Flora was tempted to toss her weight around and say underlings like Harlow, who left a witness to the Bickle murder alive and never told you? The second-in-command had never much liked her, and the feeling was mutual; but she did like the Bickles, and didn’t want Rookwood using his new-found powers to finish the family off. Fine. Let Rookwood direct his cronies on some wild goose chase trying to hunt down an extinct magical species.

A soft cry from the direction of the nursery indicated that someone was awake and hungry. “Feeding time,” Flora sighed, attempting to stand from her seat before being thwarted by the arm draped on her, forcing her back down.

“She’s a good girl—she can wait for a moment.” Rookwood moved his hand to guide Flora’s chin upwards and meet his hazy-eyed gaze. “Kiss me,” he commanded. She obeyed, planting a chaste kiss on his lips; taking this as an invitation, Rookwood’s hands wound themselves through her hair, letting the long tresses down from her bun as he moved to lavish attention onto the erogenous junction where her neck and shoulder met.

“Victor…” Flora breathed, closing her eyes at the sensation of his mustache tickling against her skin. “We can do this later…”

“Or we can do this now.” He cleared the dining table with a sweeping hand, plates and cutlery clattering to the floor, and hoisted his wife onto the table before stooping to lift her skirts and pull down her stockings. “I want you to come undone for me.”

Her meek protests turned into moans of enjoyment when Rookwood’s tongue performed a lovely string of movements upon the apex between her thighs, quickly unraveling for him just as intended; she mewled with disappointment when he ceased in his ministrations and stood to unsheathe the throbbing erection from his trousers.

“More,” Flora panted.

“More, poppet?” Rookwood crooned, mounting her and angling himself at her entrance. “More what, darling?”

“More of you, Victor—please—”

What sort of husband would he be to deny his wife’s request? He obliged, guiding himself deep into her wetness, groaning as his member prodded her deepest recess—still so blissfully tight for him. Her lips found his again, kissing him ardently, passionately, with large, sea-green eyes looking into his own as he chased release.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Oh, my darling girl—I know you do.” His motions became more rapid, stirred by the words. “I love you too—ah, poppet—”

Pressing his thumbs into the dimples of her hips, he shuddered upon emptying himself into the gorgeous creature underneath him, ensuring not a single drop of his essence was wasted by lying atop her for several moments. Catching his breath, he uncoupled from his wife, buttoning his trousers as he told her, “Go check on my baby, then—and bring her into the study when you’re done. I want to draw her.”

*****

“Take that down, Victor.”

Flora, upon entering the study with Alice, immediately gestured to the large, nude painting of herself over the fireplace—a souvenir from last year’s honeymoon.

“Why? It’s a beautiful portrait of you,” Rookwood countered, not even looking up from reading the letter at his desk. “It’s my favorite—well, one of my favorites. I’m quite partial to the drawing in my journal of your face covered in my—”

“Victor!”

Rookwood sighed, finally standing to turn his full attention to his wife. “I will take it down soon enough, poppet—I plan to paint you again, in all your finery, for our anniversary. Today, though, I would like to draw this darling little face.” 

He walked over to the pair, kissing the baby’s forehead in a morning greeting before gesturing for them to sit in a large armchair in front of the fireplace, ornately upholstered in blue velvet. Flora did so, angling the infant towards the opposite chair Rookwood was nestling himself into, journal and quill in hand.

“You’ll need to be quick—she doesn’t like to stay in one position for long,” Flora told him. “She’s already taught herself how to flip from her tummy onto her back.”

“Of course she has—she’s clever, just like her parents. She’ll be walking and talking by this time next year.” He began sketching, occasionally peering closely at the baby’s happy face while making conversation. “Looks just like us, too.”

“She looks like you. Everyone says so. Same eyes, same hair…” 

Rookwood laughed softly. “Let’s hope she won’t be too gorgeous when she gets older. Still, she favors certain features of yours, as well; around the mouth and nose, in particular. I had secretly harbored some hope after she was born that her hair might be blonde, as my mother’s was…but my little princess is perfect just as she is.”

Flora was silently thankful that her daughter didn’t look like her namesake; Rookwood would likely have very high hopes for the girl as she grew up, and being treated as a carbon copy of her grandmother would only lead to anguish in the end; possibly even resentment. Flora’s only hope for little Alice was that she not continue down the same path for a third generation of Rookwood women, and would see to it that Alice finish her schooling. Happily, that was a worry that could be stowed away in the back of her mind for several years yet.

“Nearly done, darling—look back this way,” Rookwood told the infant, whose attention had turned to an emerald green envelope on the study desk; he snapped his fingers several times, causing Alice’s eyes to roam back towards the direction of her father, smiling widely when she saw his face. “There’s my happy girl. Such a wonderful model you are.”

“She’s interested in the envelope on your desk—she likes the color, I imagine,” Flora remarked. “Who is it from?”

“Still trying to entrench yourself in my dealings, I see.” Rookwood glanced up from his journal to briefly eye his wife. “It’s from one of my lieutenants, if you must know. Selwyn, out on the coast—informing me of a very promising new Ashwinder recruit. Highly capable and talented, I’m told, with a penchant for the dark arts.”

*****

This highly capable and talented recruit was none other than Sebastian Sallow, who now used the alias Albert Poe—or Bertie, as many of the campmates called him. The plan was to infiltrate the Ashwinders—easily done—and quickly rise through their ranks, eventually allowing him to meet Rookwood for a second and final time. The fire of revenge burned brightly inside the boy; Rookwood needed to die by his hand. For Anne’s sake. For Flora’s sake. The memory of the poor girl, being… abused in the tomb while he could only watch helplessly was a terrible vision to bear. The chatter he heard in the camp indicated that this perverse debasement was still ongoing, only stoking his desire to free Flora from her tormentor.

“Will I be able to meet Mister Rookwood someday soon?” Sebastian asked the camp’s leader, Mister Selwyn, over the campfire late one evening with feigned excitement. “I’ve heard so much about him…”

“With talent like yours? Not a doubt in my mind, lad,” Selwyn responded. “I’ve been sending him letters about your progress, in particular—he’s keen to hear more of your exploits. Give it time; he’ll be occupied with his wife and baby for a while yet. Always holidays around this time of year.”

Wife and baby. Sebastian swallowed the urge to retch. “I didn’t know Mister Rookwood had a family.”

Selwyn nodded while drinking from his flask. “Been married for…a year now, maybe? And the little one was born in September.”

Poor Flora. Sebastian couldn’t imagine the strength of will it took to be in her predicament. Being imprisoned by that vile man…he shook away an image of the red-headed girl screaming no, stop, please don’t while squirming underneath the dark wizard’s large, violating form, hands tearing her clothing, her face stained with tears. She probably had to endure his trespasses every day; it must be a miserable existence. 

“What is…Missus Rookwood like?” Sebastian forced himself to ask, needing to keep in character.

“Never met the lass, myself. Mister Rookwood doesn’t like mixing his private life with business too much. Those who have met her, well…some like her, some hate her.” Selwyn shrugged, chugging down another mouthful of liquor. “Harlow in particular can’t stand her, especially after what happened at the Hall.”

“What hall? What happened?” Sebastian prodded.

“Horntail Hall—the old dragon fighting ring. Burned down earlier this year. Rumor has it the Rookwoods had a lover’s quarrel, and Missus Rookwood set the place on fire—with Mister Rookwood inside. She went missing for a few weeks after that, but obviously… amazingly… they’ve reconciled.” Selwyn chuckled, half-drunk. “I was hoping he might wed my niece after that debacle happened—give him a proper lady instead of a hellcat, and more Ministry ties, to boot. But the boss is crazy about his wife…says it was love at first sight.”

It wasn’t. I was there, Sebastian wanted to say. He assumed this reconciliation was one-sided, given that Flora went missing afterwards—probably desperate for freedom, only to be captured again and…forced into motherhood. She must be under the Imperius curse. She has to be.

Hold on just a little longer, Flora. Don’t worry—I’ll rescue you.

Chapter Text

A few days after his acceptance into the Ashwinders, a pretty girl named Ivy began to show some flirtatious interest in Sebastian. Several weeks later, on one cold night in early December, he finally relented to her on a bed of hay in some dark corner of the ruined castle camp.

At twenty, she was a few years older than him, with long, dark blonde hair and steely grey eyes like thunderclouds; her breasts were large and round, roseate nipples hardened from the crisp winter air when she undressed for him. She laughed loudly upon straddling him, his eyes wide and moon-like as she guided one of the pert buds into his mouth.

“Have you done this before?” She asked.

“No,” he admitted sheepishly, the blush across his face so red it hid every freckle.

“That’s alright,” she cooed in reassurance. “I can show you what to do. This will be fun, I promise.”

It was fun—particularly when she unbuttoned his trousers and took him into her mouth. He hissed with pleasure, nearly groaning Flora as he wound a fist into her long hair, face growing hotter as her head bobbed up and down on his engorged member. He began to protest when she stopped, but she shushed him and whispered, “My turn.”

She flopped next to him on the hay bed, legs splayed lewdly to reveal the entirety of her dark pink sex to him; she guided him down to her warm core, fluids glistening in the moonlight, and he couldn’t help but answer the compulsion to taste her. She swooned with delight as he lapped at the moist folds, experimentally inserting a finger into the offered treasure, then two; the coarse halo of dark hairs tickled his nose, and she smiled at him when he looked up to meet her lust-clouded eyes.

“Take me,” she crooned, licking her lips; Sebastian didn’t need to hear the invitation twice before he was on top of her, plunging his rock-hard phallus deep into her…and ohh, she was soft, and tight, and her heat felt so heavenly around him. Her lips tasted like wine; she smelled like fresh grass and rainwater. Her breasts bounced for him with each thrusting movement, so pale and lovely he couldn’t tear his eyes or hands away from them. He wanted to last longer, but…

“Don’t come inside me,” she warned, sensing his undoing.

“I—I won’t,” he panted, mustering the determination to not do so; she made it terribly difficult, sighing and moaning underneath him. He quickly unsheathed himself from her body, already missing her inviting warmth as he spurted ropes of semen on her belly with a loud groan; she giggled and wiped at the seed with a finger before bringing it to her mouth, an act he found surprisingly erotic. “You taste good,” she told him.

“So do you.” He smiled, helping clean her up before they both redressed into their respective Ashwinder uniforms; he collapsed back onto the hay and waved for her to join him.

“A cuddler, too. Lucky me,” Ivy teased, laying down on her back beside him. “Most of the lads around here just want a quick rut. You’re different, though, aren’t you?” She turned on her side to face him, staring with a curious interest. “I overheard you talking to some of them—is it true you killed your father?”

“It’s true,” Sebastian lied. He had kept the bare bones of his story, but made alterations here and there; killing his father instead of his uncle had been some of the more drastic changes.

“I killed my father, too,” Ivy told him in commiseration. “Not with a spell, though—stabbed him to death, like muggles do. Messy, but felt great. He deserved what he got: a slow and painful bleeding out.”

“What did he do?” Sebastian asked.

Ivy furrowed her brow. “Wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

Oh. “I’m sorry,” Sebastian offered.

“Don’t be. Like I said, he deserved what he got.” The pair grew quiet; an owl hooted lowly off in the distance. When a silent moment passed, Ivy asked, “What about your father? What’d he do?”

“Nothing,” he answered.

The older girl snorted out a nasal laugh. “Selwyn’s right—you will go far, especially with an attitude like that; devil may care . Keep it up and you’ll outrank Harlow himself come springtime.” Still giggling, she caught her breath and added, “You’re keen to meet Mister Rookwood, aren’t you, Bertie? I’ll bet he’ll be real impressed with you when that day comes. You two are a lot alike.”

I am nothing like that horrible man. “You know him?” Sebastian asked.

“I wouldn’t say I know him…but I’ve met him a few times. Before I was reassigned here, I lived at the Hall—you know about the Hall, right?”

Sebastian nodded.

“Well, before it burned down, I lived there in the harlot’s quarters—didn’t have many other skills when I first joined up. He was kind to us. Always introduced himself to the newest girls, gave us gifts, paid well…or so I heard.” She cleared her throat. “ You ladies are my bread and butter, he would say. Then he got married.” She sighed deeply, raising her arms and crossing them to pillow her head. “Must be nice, being Missus Rookwood. Resting on your laurels, having piles of money to spend, not having to lift a finger for anything. Smart of her to cement that position with a bairn.”

Sebastian could not disagree more, but kept mum. “I’m sure there are downsides,” he murmured.

*****

“Victor! You are… insatiable…”

“I am, I really am. Don’t be too loud, poppet; we don’t want to wake Alice up from her afternoon nap now, do we?”

Rookwood pressed himself against his wife’s backside, pinning her against the desk in his study. She sighed deeply as he peppered her neck with kisses, feeling his hardness grow through the layers of her skirts.

“We just did this before breakfast…Don’t you have work to do?” Flora asked.

“I can multitask,” Rookwood told her, flipping up her skirts and bunching the fabric at her waist to pull down her stockings. He nibbled at the lobe of her ear, whispering, “I’ll see you leave this lodge pregnant with my son, poppet.”

Despite her meek protestations, the slick fluid between Missus Rookwood’s legs indicated she found these words to be terribly exciting. “I don’t—I think we should wait another year, at least,” Flora sputtered.

“We should… but we won’t,” Rookwood crooned in response. Unbuttoning his trousers, he commanded her, “The letter to your left—read it to me. You’re so interested in my business, after all.”

She plucked the piece of parchment off the desk and began to read aloud as Rookwood placed himself at her entrance, coating the head of his erect member with her wetness and causing her voice to shake. “Boss, per your instructions, we’ve—oh, Victor—!” 

She cried out when he anchored himself inside her, squeezing her round buttocks to ensure he was hilted as deeply as possible. “Continue,” he grunted, greedily slamming himself into her small body.

“P—per your instructions, we’ve been s—slaughtering every goblin in the— ah— in the area. The new boy, B—Bertie is particularly impressive, and h—has excellent…aim…ohh, Victor, I can’t—”

“Keep going, my love,” Rookwood pressed, chuckling and kissing his wife’s cheek as she endured the waves of her orgasm.

“W—with your permission, I would like t—to promote the boy to d—duelist. I have no doubt that h—he will continue to…be an asset…” She couldn’t press onwards; Rookwood was rutting on her with such passion her mind could comprehend nothing else. 

“You see, poppet? Dreadfully boring stuff. I much prefer this type of work—filling my beautiful wife to the brim.” His pace grew more rapid, moaning upon finding release; he kissed her again and said, “We’ll need to keep a close eye on you. I want to know the very minute you learn you’re bearing my son.”

Flora did like to entertain the idea of having a little boy—someday. Just thinking about running around after toddler-aged Alice with a swollen, pregnant belly made her feel winded. “Alice will likely be waking up any moment now—I should go check on her, and leave you to your correspondence about…” She glanced at the letter. “…Bertie.”

Rookwood sighed. “Selwyn sings that boy’s praises. Another young upstart—time will tell if this one lasts.” He playfully swatted at his wife’s backside. “Go check on my baby, darling. I’ll join you both in the sitting room before supper.”

*****

A group of roaming poachers in the area stopped by the coastal camp one evening and told stories of a strange deer in the area. En’t look like any deer I’ve ever seen ‘round these parts, and too smart to fall for our traps. Intrigued, Sebastian went out to scout at dawn the next morning.

He passed by a trail of undisturbed poacher traps and made his way down to the coastline, finding some fresh hoof prints in the sand; strangely, the tracks disappeared behind a large boulder, where they became much more human-looking. It appeared this deer wasn’t a deer at all—it was an animagus.

Sebastian followed this new trail down the beach for several minutes when a figure came into view; a familiar young woman wearing Gryffindor robes, pacing back and forth with some agitation. He came closer, and she brandished her wand upon seeing him in his uniform, only lowering it when he was close enough to recognize his face.

“Sebastian…isn’t it?” She marveled in her accented voice. “I haven’t seen you in ages… and you’re an Ashwinder now?”

Sebastian felt some relief that Natty was more interested in his current clothing than why he had suddenly disappeared from Hogwarts nearly a year ago; it was an ordeal he tried not to recount if he could help it. “I’m not—not exactly. I figured this would be the best way to find…” he trailed off.

“Flora?” Natty finished for him. “I often see her in Hogsmeade, but I haven’t been able to speak with her—she is very evasive, and never too far away from Victor Rookwood. I grew concerned when I hadn’t seen her there for several weeks, and I heard Rookwood owns property out here on the coast, but…” she pointed into the distance towards a fortress blanketed in fog on an island in the sea. “…It seems it will not be as easy to sneak in as I had hoped, and I don’t have a broom with me.”

“Selwyn—one of the Ashwinder lieutenants—told me Rookwood is on holiday with his wife and baby until the new year. They might not even be in the Highlands at the moment,” Sebastian surmised, spitting out the words wife and baby as if they were a bitter poison.

Natty disagreed. “I would not be so sure about that—Rookwood is not the type to stray too far from his prospects.” She hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Sebastian, I think we can help each other. I belong to a group who is eager to see Rookwood gone, and you have access to information about his movements. If we combine our knowledge, I’m certain we can find Flora and finally learn what is going on. Married to Victor Rookwood…and a baby? It isn’t like her.”

“She’s cursed,” Sebastian opined quickly. “She must be. Rookwood has her under the Imperius spell—there’s no other explanation.”

“Poppy Sweeting seems to think she is with Rookwood of her own volition. It is very strange…Flora burnt down his dragon fighting ring, but went back to him. Perhaps she is under a curse, as you say.”

A silence settled between the two as they pondered this odd predicament, a moment passing before Sebastian told the Gryffindor girl, “I’ll need to get back to the camp soon, but let’s keep in touch, Natty. I’ll pass along any information I hear if you’ll do the same.”

“Of course.” Natty nodded in agreement. “With our combined efforts, we will save Flora.”

*****

Rookwood turned on his side to face his wife in the bed, kissing her into wakefulness before greeting her with, “Good morning, my darling poppet. Happy eighteenth birthday—and happy anniversary.”

“Good morning,” she sighed drowsily in response, arching her back with a stretch as Rookwood rose from the bed and made his way to the armoire to dress himself for the day ahead.

“I have new raiment and jewelry for you to wear for me today,” he told her, buttoning up his starched white shirt. “New clothing for Alice, as well. I want both of you dressed to the nines for your portrait sitting—we’ll begin straightaway after breakfast.”

Flora yawned a yes, Victor and rose from the bed, donning her morning robe draped on the headboard before pinning up her hair into its usual bun—a necessary task to do prior to nursing, as Alice had quickly learned that it was great fun to tug on her mother’s long russet hair, and even greater fun attempting to stuff the shiny tresses into her little mouth. A soft coo from the nursery in the next room indicated the entire family was now awake; Flora made her way into the baby’s room, picking up little Alice and changing her nappy before settling into the rocking chair to begin the morning feeding. Mother and child were nearly done when Rookwood strutted into the room.

“I’ve laid your outfit on the bed,” he announced before rummaging through the nursery’s dresser drawers to procure a deep purple dress and matching bonnet, each edged with lace—a stark contrast from the typical white or powder blue clothing the infant was usually adorned in—along with tiny booties. “Dress her in this when she’s finished.”

“It’s very…colorful,” Flora remarked.

“This is the Rookwood family color, my darling. Rich, regal, and resplendent—just like us. I want to see you—both of you—in this color on more festive occasions going forward.”

Alice unlatched from her mother’s breast, belching to indicate she was sated; the infant then cast her eyes to her father and gurgled as if to say good morning.

“Good morning, princess. You see? Alice loves it already. A Rookwood through and through.”

“You certainly are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?” Flora addressed the baby, who smiled sweetly in response. 

Rising from the rocking chair, Flora did as she was told and dressed Alice in her new clothing—the little bonnet and booties really were quite cute—and the family made their way to the dining room for breakfast, Alice nestled into the crook of her mother’s left arm, allowing Flora to eat with her right. Upon finishing the meal, the baby was passed off to her father so that Flora could return to the bedroom and change into Rookwood’s desired attire: a satin and silk evening dress of dark aubergine, along with shiny new leather shoes. A spritz of perfume, a few adjustments to the bun of hair on her head, and Flora admired herself in the mirror— pretty, she murmured—before joining her husband and daughter in the study.

Rookwood’s eyes sparkled with delight upon seeing his wife in the family color. “Perfect—absolutely perfect. You look ravishing, my dear; just as the Rookwood family matriarch should look.” He smirked, lowering his voice before uttering, “If Alice weren’t here with us, I’d help myself and have a little taste of you.”

Flora rolled her eyes as a bright and furious blush crept across her face. She had an inkling such a thing would be occurring at some point during the course of the day; it was their first anniversary, after all. “You mentioned new jewelry…?” She prompted.

“I’ve made a little niffler of you, haven’t I? Yes, poppet—a gorgeous new collection of jewels for my gorgeous wife.”

With a wave of his wand, a large and heavy box appeared, floating at chest height in front of Flora. She opened it to find a parure of diamonds and pearls; the matching set consisted of dangling earrings, a three-stranded choker, and a broach ornamented with the Rookwood family crest. She sputtered at the huge, glossy pearls and bright, white diamonds; they were fit for a queen, and must have cost several small fortunes. Alice, in her father’s arms, also became very interested in the shiny objects, peeping out a charming sound and holding out a tiny hand as if attempting to grab them.

“It seems I have two little nifflers,” Rookwood commented with a laugh. “Go on, darling—put them on.”

Rookwood watched with giddiness as Flora greedily pinned the broach to her dress, clasped the choker around her neck, and adorned her ears with the large earrings; once done, he nodded at her in admiration before taking another, smaller box from his coat pocket. “Put this on, as well—a birthday gift from Alice.”

“You got me a present too, sweetness?” Flora cooed at the smiling baby before opening the second box; a locket and chain of sterling silver, ornately engraved on the outside with various wildflowers found all across the Highlands, and the initials FCR in the middle; she opened the pendant to find a small wisp of her daughter’s soft, black hair. Overcome with emotion at this thoughtful gift, Flora wiped away a tear and softly said, “Thank you, Victor.”

“Oh, come now, poppet—none of that. No need for tears.” Rookwood, secretly quite elated that these gifts had stirred his wife into such sentimentality, stepped forward and pecked her on the lips with a soft kiss, stroking her cheek with his free hand. “I hope you realize how loved you are. You are a powerful witch, a beautiful wife, and a wonderful mother.”

Flora, donning the locket, beamed at him with a bright smile and simply said, “I love you, too.” 

Rookwood straightened his stance at these words, proud as a peacock. “Of course you do, darling—I’m a fantastic husband. Here; take Alice and sit so we can begin.” 

He passed off his daughter into Flora’s arms, mother and child sitting in the chair beside the fireplace while Rookwood set up his easel, canvas, and painting supplies opposite them. Feeling very spoiled and a bit embarrassed at not knowing her own husband’s birthday, Flora gingerly asked him, “When your birthday arrives, what would you like me to get you?”

Rookwood snorted. “A son.”

“I’m serious, Victor.”

“So am I, poppet. As much as I love Alice, I do want to hold our boy in my arms before I turn fifty. I’ll be forty-four in February—an age I’m none too keen to reach.” He sighed with some melancholy as he began sketching an outline on the canvas. “When I was younger, I would celebrate my birthday by hosting the most wonderful parties at the Hall— orgies, more like. Bedding countless women, liquor flowing like water…they would last for days at a time. Perhaps I should plan one again. After all, I don’t want my troops thinking marriage and fatherhood has softened me; it would invite a mutiny.”

But marriage and fatherhood really has softened you, Flora thought. She didn’t like the idea of an orgy, but Rookwood had a hedonist’s heart, and reveled in having all eyes on him. “I can organize a party for your birthday,” she offered. “It won’t be an orgy, and you most certainly won’t be bedding countless women, but…”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, poppet?” Rookwood uttered with a slick tone. “If anything, you should be proud. Hundreds of women throughout the years have tried to earn the title of Missus Rookwood— and all of them failed, save for you.”

“H—hundreds?” Flora repeated weakly. Nevermind the fact that she didn’t chase after her title, and she most certainly wasn’t jealous; where on earth did this man’s stamina come from? “That can’t be right. If there are any other little Rookwoods running around, I’ll—”

Rookwood hid a sly grin by biting his cheek, and instead cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll do what, poppet?”

A darkness crossed Flora’s face for a slip of a second. “I will take action to ensure Alice—and any future children we have—inherit what is rightfully theirs, as the true heirs of the Rookwood family. I refuse to have bastards coming out of the woodwork, sniffing around for scraps.”

Rookwood stared at his wife for several moments, slack-jawed in amazement, before belting out a wicked laugh. “Merlin’s beard, poppet—I truly outdid myself when I made you my bride.” Dipping a brush into a puddle of crimson red paint, he continued: “That is, naturally, the smartest course of action. However, you have no need for concern; Alice is my only child, and you continue to remain the greatest object of my affection. No other woman could possibly compete.” He hummed as he painted, musing appreciatively over his wife’s newfound sense of possessiveness; it was delightful how much she had changed in only a year. “You know, darling…I think we should plan that little party. It would remind me of old times, and I can show you both off to all of my lieutenants.”

“How many lieutenants do you have?” Flora asked with genuine curiosity.

“There are seven in total—all highly capable, highly talented, and most importantly, highly loyal. Ailsa Travers, you already know—one of my most devoted followers, and a dear old friend. Silvanus Selwyn is another—I met him in my school years—and he, along with Gwendolyn Zhao, pulled the strings to allow me my influential Ministry contacts. Then there’s Iona Morgan, a young and gifted poacher. Quite beloved among the Pack. Tempeste Thorne joined the gang ages ago during my father’s time, before she had even left Hogwarts. Dunstan Trinity and Catrin Haggarty are both proficient at… acquiring property—”

“They’re thieves,” Flora corrected.

Rookwood tutted. “Such an ugly word, poppet. I much prefer the term finders. If people don’t want to lose their valuables, they should take greater care to ensure they don’t go missing.”

This certainly sounded like quite the motley crew—and, therefore, exactly the type of people Rookwood would consider friends. “They all sound very…interesting,” Flora commented politely while Alice attempted to gum at the wedding ring on her finger.

“I think it would do you well to make some new friends, darling—Merlin knows you need to keep better company. Mute girls, busybody Gryffindors, irksome Hufflepuffs, moronic Slytherins…at least you and Llewellyn get on. You’re lady of the manor, poppet, and all well-to-do ladies should know how to host an excellent party. I will leave the invitations and planning in your hands.”

Flora had never hosted a party before, but…how hard could it be? “You won’t be disappointed, Victor,” she assured him.

*****

That evening, with Alice put to bed and supper over, Rookwood insisted that he and his wife partake in a nightcap in the sitting room. “One drink won’t do any harm, poppet,” he told her, handing off a glass of champagne. “Just one, though. I don’t want you getting my baby drunk the next time you feed her.”

Flora sipped happily at the sweet liquid while sitting on the divan, Rookwood beside her with his pipe in one hand and glass of firewhisky in the other. Once she had polished off the drink, her husband commanded, “Stand up, my darling; I want to take another look at you in your new finery.”

She did so, smoothing out her skirt and standing in the middle of the room so Rookwood could admire his wife with a hungry leer. “Marvelous,” he murmured, drinking from the glass in hand. “I really do have the most exquisite taste. That dress fits you like a glove, and pearls are truly becoming on you. Don’t you agree, poppet?”

“Yes, Victor,” Flora said obediently, blushing from his compliments. “I can’t thank you enough for such a wonderful birthday—and anniversary.”

“Oh, but you can, dearest,” Rookwood purred, his voice growing low and sultry when he commanded, “Strip for me. Leave the jewels on.”

Just as expected. At least he didn’t need to drug you this year. Flora began to comply, groping at the buttons on the back of her dress before Rookwood stopped her.

“Slowly, darling—put on a little show for me.” He set his pipe and drinking glass down on the nearby side table before leaning back on the divan, arms raised and hands resting behind his head as he regarded his wife with an expectant grin. “Well? Go on then, poppet. Excite me.”

Accepting the challenge, Flora resumed unbuttoning the dress at a more graceful pace; she slid the shiny new shoes off her feet, then neared the divan, balancing a foot on it to offer him a peek of leg as she rolled down one stocking, then the other. Once her legs were bare, she leisurely pulled the top of her dress downward, stopping when the fabric dared to very nearly expose the entirety of her round breasts. Rookwood seemed to be enjoying her efforts, as indicated by the large bulge in his trousers and glimmer in his eyes.

“More,” he rasped, drinking her in with an unblinking stare and a bite of his lip as she complied; slowly, tenderly, the dress was pulled down to bare her pale breasts, her soft stomach, the swell of her hips, the auburn patch of hair between her thighs, until she stood before him entirely nude, bejeweled, the midnight-purple fabric in a pool at her feet. Adding to the anticipation, she unpinned her long, copper-colored hair from its bun, the tresses unfurling down to her chest as if hoping to offer modesty. 

Rookwood felt as if he might burst when she crawled onto the divan and straddled him to occupy herself with unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt; she tortured him further by ever-so-gently swaying her hips to tease his confined erection. When she licked her lips as she finally turned her attention to the buttons of his trousers— ohh, how badly he wanted that tongue to trail itself up and down his shaft, those lips to engulf him fully to the hilt! 

“Poppet,” he groaned as a small hand wrapped itself around his engorged and proudly-jutting member.

“Yes, Victor?” She responded in a voice drenched with such sweetness and innocence it made his cock twitch; knowing precisely what he wanted, she did not wait for an answer and trailed kisses down his chest and stomach, gently bringing her open mouth to his manhood. The sight of her sucking on him with her little rump hoisted in the air was an absolute vision, a veritable feast—and when she turned her gaze upwards, those bright green eyes meeting his own, her beauty was incomparable.

“Touch yourself for me,” he commanded with a moan; his wife obliged, her free hand finding its way between her legs, the sound of her slick wetness reaching his ears and indicating Missus Rookwood was ready to be fully ravished by her husband; without coaxing, she changed her position to be fully on top of him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders before slowly sinking herself down onto his hard, throbbing member, the two parties sighing in tandem with pleasure at being made whole once more. The sight of her engulfing him from tip to base, the smell of her orange blossom perfume, the taste of himself mingled with champagne on her lips, the sound of her voice softly uttering his name between words of love—how could he possibly last, bombarded with such perfection? 

He fought release just long enough for his wife to meet her own, her spasming muscles squeezing tightly around him, urging him to follow suit; he emptied himself so deeply inside her that he was certain his seed would take purchase and endow her with the gift of his  second child. She flopped down next to him on the divan, naked and flushed and panting, closing her eyes from exhaustion; in the short time it took Rookwood to re-don his trousers and shirt, she had fallen asleep, curled up like a cat.

“Wake up, little kitten—let’s get you into bed.” 

She mumbled something incoherent in response; when she did not move, Rookwood scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, taking off her jewelry and placing it on the bedside table, tucking her into the sheets and bestowing a kiss on her forehead before undressing and crawling into the bed himself, embracing his wife and drifting into sleep.

*****

“Good news, lad—you’ll be meeting Mister Rookwood himself in a few weeks.”

Finally. Sebastian looked up at Selwyn from his morning ration of eggs with all the feigned excitement he could muster. “Really?”

“Really.” Selwyn held aloft a small piece of paper, bright purple with shimmering golden writing. “Boss and his wife are going to be hosting a little party at Rookwood Castle in February to celebrate his birthday. Requesting to bring my top workers along—and that means you. Should be a laugh; good food, good wine, good company…you won’t be disappointed.”

Sebastian would only be disappointed if Rookwood’s head was still attached to his body at the end of the event. It would be a gamble, especially if his suspicions of a large crowd were correct, but…he wagered that could also be used to his advantage. The Rookwoods wouldn’t recognize him if he wore a mask, and if he could get Rookwood alone, or create some sort of distraction…it might work, but he couldn’t afford to be sloppy. He wrote to Natty regarding this prestigious invitation, asking for advice; she responded that very evening, and a rudimentary plan was formed.

Sebastian would procure two uniforms with masks to be used as disguises—why two, Natty did not specify—and they would meet at his abandoned home in Feldcroft prior to arrival at Rookwood Castle. Once inside the party, Natty would find a way to get Flora alone, then spirit her away to a safehouse in Lower Hogsfield. Rookwood would no doubt notice his wife’s absence, allowing Sebastian to jump in with a lie that he had seen her walking towards a strange cave outside of Feldcroft— that wretched tomb—and volunteer to accompany the dark wizard there. Once inside, Sebastian would ensure the deed was done, seal up the tomb, and save both Flora and the Highlands from Rookwood’s iron grasp. There were holes in this plan, of course, but Sebastian was a smart lad; he could improvise if needed.

A backup plan for distraction presented itself in the form of Ivy, who had learned of the invitation and begged Sebastian to tag along. “Oh, please talk to Selwyn for me Bertie, and convince him to bring me along, too—I love a good party, and I’ve never seen the Rookwood estate before.” 

Ivy could sweet talk a brick wall with her flirtatious nature, and Rookwood seemed the type to never rebuff a beautiful woman’s advances; if Natty and Sebastian’s plan went pear-shaped somehow, perhaps Ivy could be coaxed into helping their cause while being none the wiser. Sebastian managed to convince Selwyn on Ivy’s behalf, under the guise of feeling nervous about being in Mister Rookwood’s presence, and wanting a close friend there for comfort. Selwyn agreed with a warning: “Fine, but it’s on you to keep a close eye on that camp rat. Don’t want her embarrassing me in front of the boss.”

*****

One early morning in late December, Rookwood insisted Flora and baby Alice tag along for his annual pilgrimage to visit his mother’s grave in the family crypt. Flora, in an act of respect that delighted her husband, donned all black and the late Missus Rookwood’s sapphire jewelry before the family apparated to the cemetery in Hogsmeade, the crypt situated under a beautiful old oak tree.

“You don’t use… inferi to guard this place, do you?” Flora asked with a shiver, holding her swaddled daughter close as she followed her husband down the stone steps and deep into the cold, quiet crypt nestled under the earth.

“Of course not, poppet,” Rookwood reassured her. “I wouldn’t bring you and Alice here if I did. My ancestors deserve better than having rattling old corpses shuffling about, in any case. Here—my mother is this way.”

He led his wife and daughter through a winding hallway of the large crypt—Flora taking notice of Charles Rookwood’s resting place as they passed by—and the family stopped at the end of the hallway, in front of a casket laid on a stone shelf in the wall, the closed lid festooned with unwilted white roses. Flora read the shiny plaque fastened to the wall as Rookwood took off his top hat, holding it in solemnly his hands as he sank down onto his knees:

ALICE BURKE ROOKWOOD

1831 - 1866

BELOVED MOTHER

“Hello, mother,” Rookwood murmured softly, kissing the plaque. “I brought my wife and daughter along today.”

Flora had no clue what to do; did he want her to say hello? Talking to the departed, especially someone that she had never met, seemed awkward and strange. She simply stood there, passing baby Alice to Rookwood when he indicated he wanted to hold her, giving Flora his top hat to hold for him in return.

“This is your grandmother—your namesake,” he told the infant, her blue eyes staring up at his face in rapt attention, as if she knew this was a very serious conversation. “She would have been delighted to meet you. She left this world twenty-five years ago today, but she’ll never truly be gone as long as we keep her in our memory. That’s why it’s very important to come here every year and pay our respects. Do you understand, princess?”

The baby in his arms blinked.

“Good.” He kissed little Alice on the forehead. “I have a wonderful, happy family, mother—I provide them all the love and comfort in the world, just as you provided me. Your granddaughter is three months old, already so smart and beautiful; my wife outdid herself in delivering such a treasure. Our daughter was born in September on the family estate, which I have now restored to its former glory. I think of you whenever I see the sun shining in the courtyard…”

Flora stood idly by, listening in on the one-sided conversation Rookwood was holding, recounting the events of the past year to his dead mother; it was always unsettling yet somehow charming to see him morph into such a sentimental man. He wasn’t teary-eyed or crying—Flora reckoned Rookwood didn’t know how to cry tears of sadness—but he was obviously wracked with emotion, and she rubbed his shoulder with a comforting hand. Beloved mother, indeed.

*****

“Who’s Flora?” Ivy asked Sebastian on the morning of New Year’s Day. 

Nursing a hangover, Sebastian stared dumbly at her with a plate of breakfast in hand, eventually finding it in himself to sputter out, “Er, what?”

“Who’s Flora?” Ivy repeated. “You mumbled that name a few times in your sleep last night. You got a girlfriend that I don’t know about?” She teased, poking a finger into his shoulder.

“No, it’s not…I mean…” Better be careful with this. It seemed the majority of the Ashwinders knew Missus Rookwood as precisely that—Missus Rookwood. However, if Sebastian loosened his lips too much, it might run the risk of him being found out; something he certainly didn’t want to happen before Rookwood fell to his wand. “She’s…my twin sister. The night I killed my father, she was the one who turned me in.”

“Your own sister betrayed you?” Ivy marveled. “She must be a monster.”

“She’s not a monster, she’s just…lost. I want to hate her for it, but I can’t. Something bad happened to her, and I think it addled her mind.” 

Ivy cocked her head. “You sure are an interesting one, Bertie. You’re a great wizard, flinging Cruciatus around like it’s going out of style, destroying whole packs of goblins on your own…but you’ve also got this softness to you. Almost like you’re too kind to be an Ashwinder. It’s refreshing.” She paused, fiddling with a lock of her hair. “You and I…we could get out of here, make it on our own. Start a new life.”

This suggestion steered the conversation in a direction Sebastian certainly did not expect. It was certainly tempting, but…the mission. You need to kill Rookwood. Flora. She’s in trouble. However, Ivy was a nice, fun girl—very fun—and a welcome distraction. Being no stranger to heartbreak, Sebastian didn’t want to cause her suffering. There were times when lying was the best option, he told himself; this was one of those times. “I want to find my sister before I leave the Ashwinders,” he used as an excuse. “I was hoping someone might have some information on her at the party next month.”

“I bet Mister Rookwood could help you find her, if you asked. He’s got connections all over the Highlands.”

Sebastian pursed his lips. “I’m sure he could.”

*****

The day had finally arrived. Sebastian made his way to the old Sallow residence to await Natty’s arrival. Feldcroft, predictably, had not changed much; still small, still quiet, still sleepy. Strangely, someone seemed to have been living in the home until relatively recently; while every piece of furniture was unmoved and unchanged, it was surprisingly clean inside—not a hint of dust—and there were ashes in the fireplace, along with some canned fruits and vegetables in the kitchen cabinet. Anne, Sebastian hoped. Uncle Solomon’s grave in the garden suggested she was here at some point.

He lit a fire in the fireplace before laying out the two disguises on the dining room table as he waited for Natty. She never did end up explaining why she wanted two; he had his own uniform and mask, after all. This question was answered when Natty arrived at sunset, with peculiar Poppy Sweeting in tow carrying a large leather bag. 

“She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Natty explained apologetically. 

“Because you two need me there.” Poppy patted the side of the leather bag before setting it down at her feet. “If your plan goes sour, we can all make a quick getaway on Highwing and Caligo.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Sebastian groaned. “I can bring in Natty, but two guests might be seen as suspicious…”

“I can get myself in—with this.” Poppy fished around in the pocket of her robe to procure a piece of parchment. “Rookwood’s family crest. Flora gave it to me ages ago. Rookwood gives it out to his most useful cronies.”

Sebastian turned to look at Natty, who shrugged in response. “Poppy told me she was raised in poacher camps. She has insight that we do not; it would be useful to have her there.”

“Fine,” Sebastian agreed curtly. “But remember—both of you—we’re doing this to free Flora more than anything.” And kill Rookwood, of course. He drew a curtain between the main room and the bedroom to offer some privacy for the girls to change into disguise. “Get dressed and we’ll head over to the Castle.”

Poppy and Natty spent a few minutes deciding who would wear what. “Merlin’s beard, these outfits are ridiculous. We look like circus performers,” Poppy commented as the pair changed behind the curtain. “I guess I’ll take the yellow suit. Natty, do you want the deer skull mask, or the wolf skull?”

Sebastian donned his own raven skull mask as the two girls stepped out from behind the curtain. “Ready?” He asked.

“Let’s go over the plan one final time,” Natty suggested, her voice slightly muffled by the deer mask over her face. “I will find Flora and get her alone inside. I will disapparate with her and take her to the Bickle’s home in Lower Hogsfield. Poppy here can be our go-between; Poppy, keep an eye on me, then find Sebastian and let him know when Flora and I leave. Sebastian—”

“I’ll lie to Rookwood about her location, lead him away from the party, and do what needs to be done,” Sebastian nodded. “Poppy can slip out after I lead Rookwood away.”

“Wish I could be there with you when it happens,” Poppy sniffed. “Let’s go, then; I’m starving, and I bet there’s going to be food at this idiotic birthday party. Don’t want a bunch of poachers and Ashwinders eating up all the good stuff before we even arrive.”

The trio of self-proclaimed rescuers began the quick trek to Rookwood Castle, with Poppy making small talk along the way. “What was Azkaban like, Sebastian?”

“I didn’t go to Azkaban, I was acquitted,” he grunted in annoyance at the question. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’ll bet,” Poppy responded without a hint of social grace. “Just curious, is all. I think the dark arts can be justified in certain situations, like the plan for tonight. I’m surprised you’re alright with it, Natty.”

“I have tried desperately to involve Officer Singer, but she has dragged her feet for over a year now. If this is the only way to rid the Highlands of such a villainous man, then…so be it.” Her tone was severe and somber. “I do not like it, but we are out of alternatives. Rookwood must be dealt with.”

*****

The trio entered the courtyard without incident upon arrival, the throng of poachers and Ashwinders allowing them to blend in with relative ease. Sebastian and Natty scanned the crowd for a glimpse of red hair, while Poppy mosied toward the buffet.

“There!” Natty pointed to an unmistakably tall top hat in the crowd towards the opposite side of the courtyard. “Rookwood. Flora likely will not stray far from him. Let’s—”

She was cut off when a young blonde woman bounded over to greet Sebastian with a hug. “Hello, Bertie! I almost didn’t recognize you with that mask on. What, are you still nervous about meeting Mister Rookwood?” 

Ivy. Her slurred speech indicated that she had already helped herself to imbibing in several drinks. Sebastian responded with a flat, “Yeah. Nervous.” 

“Well, don’t be! C’mon, I want to see the bairn.” Before Sebastian could offer a protest, Ivy had grabbed him by the hand and was pulling him towards the far side of the courtyard, losing Natty in the crowd; Poppy, holding a plate full of finger foods, regrouped with the Gryffindor companion shortly after.

“Where’d he go?” The Hufflepuff asked before shoving a cheese-topped cracker into her mouth, and noticeably bristled upon espying a young man with a chicken in his arms speaking with Iona Morgan. “Llewellyn,” she hissed, causing some crumbs to fly out of her mouth. “That traitor. I’m going to throttle him.”

“You can throttle him another time—let’s go get Sebastian. We need to stick together.” This advice went unheard; Poppy had already wandered off again, leaving Natty alone once more. So much for sticking to the plan.

*****

Flora felt a bit overwhelmed by everything; the crowd, the attention, the fact that Alice kept gleefully trying to yank on her jewelry. She stood shyly near Rookwood, who told her to go mingle, poppet, be a good hostess. She walked just out of her husband’s earshot when a bubbly, tipsy blonde woman towing a masked Ashwinder by the hand approached and introduced herself. 

“Hello, Missus Rookwood! I’m so happy to finally meet you—I’m Ivy, and this is Bertie. We both work under Selwyn. And this must be the little Rookwood! Oh, she’s darling.” The young woman stooped down to be at eye level with the infant, who smiled at this pretty new acquaintance. “She looks so much like Mister Rookwood, doesn’t she?”

While Ivy chattered on about how much she loved children and especially babies, Flora briefly turned her attention to Bertie, who had so far said nothing and simply seemed to… stare at her. Rather, she sensed his stare on her, being unable to see his face hidden by the mask he was wearing.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just nervous,” Ivy told her. “Take off your mask, Bertie! Don’t be so uptight.”

The young man shook his head, still saying nothing; Ivy frowned. “You know what you need? A stiff drink.” The young woman smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “Wait here—I’ll be right back.”

When Ivy left to head towards the buffet, Bertie finally uttered a single word. 

“Flora.”

She recognized his voice immediately, turning ashen and instinctively holding Alice closer. “No. No. S—Sebastian? You’re Bertie?” She looked around; no one seemed to be paying them any mind, and Rookwood was deeply entrenched in a conversation with Ailsa Travers.

“It was the only way I could save you,” he whispered. She looked so fearful of him it made his heart sink.

“Save me? From what?”

“What do you think? Come on, let’s find Natty and Poppy and get out of here.”

Sebastian, Natty, and Poppy, all here? Flora didn’t like this at all. “Sebastian, this is my home. I have a family now. I’m not leaving.”

She flinched when he held up a hand close to the left side of her face and snapped his fingers several times, as if trying to get her out of a trance; Alice, unaware of any danger, seemed to quite enjoy this interesting sound. 

“You’re cursed, aren’t you? Imperius?” He asked.

“I am not—”

This argument was cut short when Rookwood sauntered over, glass of firewhisky in one hand, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders and regarding Sebastian without a single hint of suspicion. “Making some new friends, poppet?”

“Yes, Victor.” Flora made a point to lean into his embrace. “I was just telling Bertie here about what a loving husband and father you are.”

“Ah, yes—Selwyn’s golden boy. And Ivy as well, isn’t it?”

Ivy had now returned by sheepishly inching forward, a mug of ale in each hand and a light blush dusting her face at being so easily remembered. “Hello, sir—it’s good to see you again. It’s a pleasure to meet your wife and daughter.”

“It is a pleasure, isn’t it? Motherhood suits my wife quite well; she’s already begging me for a second child.” Rookwood laughed at his own words, while Flora rolled her eyes and Sebastian fumed in silence. When Ivy handed the lad a mug, he considered tossing the contents right into the dark wizard’s face.

“Victor is…very keen to have a son,” Flora explained bashfully, driving an invisible dagger further into the boy’s heart while Ivy squealed with drunken delight.

“Bertie here has a twin sister, you know—”

Oh no. Don’t, Ivy. Not here. Not now. Sebastian felt beads of sweat form on his brow.

“—She’s missing, and he’s hoping you might be able to help find her, sir. A girl named Flora.”

Both Flora and Sebastian held their breath and whipped their heads in tandem to look at Rookwood’s face; the dark wizard seemed relatively…surprisingly… composed.

“That name is not familiar to me,” he lied while staring right at the boy. “However, my wife told me a very interesting rumor some months ago about a young woman here in the Highlands who has been miraculously cured of a terrible curse. She lives in Marunweem; I believe this is the lost girl you are looking for. Now, if you’ll excuse us…do enjoy the rest of the evening, both of you.” 

Rookwood shuffled his wife and daughter away, Flora turning her head to glance back at a happy Ivy and undoubtedly stunned Sebastian. She turned back to regard her husband and whispered, “You knew, didn’t you…?”

“Of course I knew, poppet; I’m not dense. When I read about the acquittal in The Daily Prophet last year, I surmised the boy would try and weasel his way back into your life somehow. Selwyn’s letters only increased my suspicions. I also knew that you, now the doting wife and mother that you are, would rebuff his advances when the time came.”

Always several steps ahead. “You didn’t try to pull strings with the Ministry? I thought you of all people would want him in Azkaban.”

Rookwood wrinkled his nose and brought the glass of liquor to his lips. “No one deserves Azkaban.”

Flora briefly wondered if she should ask did you have anything to do with his acquittal? She supposed he did, albeit indirectly, when he sired Alice onto her. Pulling the baby’s tiny hand away from the locket around her neck, she instead asked, “Why did you tell him about Anne?”

He winked at her. “I love a happy ending.”

*****

“Well, that sounds promising, doesn’t it, Bertie? I told you Mister Rookwood could help you.”

Sebastian felt so numb Ivy’s words barely registered in his mind. What in the world just happened? Flora wasn’t cursed at all—she was happy, and here of her own volition—and Rookwood…told him directly where to find Anne? Not only that, his twin sister was healthy again; was Victor Rookwood the one who cured her? Was it Flora? Was it even true? Mind swimming, he drank his entire mug of ale in one gulp.

“Someone’s thirsty! Here, I’ll go get you another.” 

Ivy took the empty mug from his hand, trotting off in search of a refill; her absence allowed Natty to sidle up to Sebastian and quietly ask, “There you are—have you seen Poppy? She wandered off, and…are you alright?”

“No,” he answered with honesty. “I—I think we should leave. I need to go to Marunweem as soon as possible.”

“Marunweem? But why? What about Flora?”

“I spoke with her and Rookwood…” Sebastian heaved out a sigh, briefly closing his eyes. “She isn’t cursed. She has a home, and a family; she’s happy here.”

Natty frowned. “Let me speak with her—alone. Perhaps she has been coached on what to say, and feels she cannot be truthful in Rookwood’s presence.”

“You’re welcome to try, but she’s going to tell you the same thing she told me.” Sebastian’s response was tinged with doubt.

Natty craned her neck to scan the crowd. “There she is—remember the plan, Sebastian.” 

“I really don’t think—”

Natty, apparently, would brook no argument on this and made a beeline in Flora’s direction; Sebastian watched with some trepidation as the Gryffindor girl milled about near the red-head, awaiting an opening to speak with her. Natty looked towards Rookwood’s direction; and, finding him enthralled in a discussion with Dunstan Trinity, she quickly approached Flora, lay a hand on her arm—

And they were gone in a second. Rookwood, upon hearing the distinct sound of disapparition nearby, snapped his head towards the direction where his wife and daughter were formerly standing; Llewellyn! Find them! he barked out, just moments before a deep, metallic sound chimed out in sync with a rumbling of the earth.

Chaos erupted when a large drill of goblin metal erupted from the ground in the middle of the courtyard, swarms of goblins spilling out of the abyss. Spells and shouts flew in every direction; a boy toting a chicken whizzed past Sebastian in a blur; and where was Ivy?

“Sebastian!” Poppy’s familiar voice cried out. He looked upwards to find her on the back of a large, snow-white hippogriff. 

“Let’s get out of here! Get on!” She commanded, and pulled him up onto the flying beast with an Accio just before a close call with an ax-wielding goblin. Sebastian called out Ivy’s name, with no response. He scanned the carnage below as the hippogriff flew over the courtyard en route to Lower Hogsfield; the only person he was able to make out was a man in a purple coat and large black top hat, cornered and casting a noxious green bolt from his wand.

*****

“Natty,” Flora huffed. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Taking off her deer skull mask, Natty responded, “I have been trying to speak with you for ages, Flora, but I could never get you alone. Sebastian and I decided this would be the best way to save you…”

There was that savior talk again, just like Sebastian had told her. “You haven’t saved me, you’ve kidnapped me— and my daughter.” Flora looked around the familiar domicile; the Bickle residence. “Why did you bring me here? Where are the Bickles?”

“They are safe in Hogsmeade,” Natty reassured her. “Missus Bickle and I belong to a group of concerned citizens who want to end Rookwood’s chokehold on the Highlands—we meet twice a month. When someone brought forth information about Rookwood having a wife and child…and your name came up…I could not believe it. I had to find out more, knowing that you would not willingly get involved with poachers and dark wizards. If you are in trouble, we can help you—”

“I’m not in trouble, and I don’t need help,” Flora announced imperiously, causing Natty to sigh with the exasperation of a disappointed parent. The Gryffindor girl opened her mouth to protest when a pounding knock rang out from the front door.

“That should be Poppy—perhaps she can reason with you.”

It was not Poppy; it was Llewellyn, red-faced and wheezing. “Missus…Rookwood…?” He asked between gulps of air.

“Llewellyn! I’m here.” Flora raced to the door, shuffling the boy and his chicken inside past a frowning Natty, settling him into a chair at the dining table before pouring a glass of water for the winded lad to drink. “Llewellyn, did you… run all the way here from Feldcroft?” She asked.

“Most of…the way,” the boy answered between heavy breaths. He took a huge gulp of water and placed Mister Michaels on the table, then continued: “Missus Rookwood, there was a goblin attack as soon as you were kidnapped—”

“Goblins?” Flora held Alice closer and shot a glare at Natty.

“I know nothing about any goblin attack—and you were not kidnapped,” the Gryffindor girl protested, crossing her arms. “How do we know this is even true, and not some sort of trick?”

The front door flung open, and a maskless Poppy strode inside with Sebastian close behind. 

“We’re here!” Poppy announced. “Got out just in time; there was a goblin attack, and—” She halted mid-stride upon seeing Llewellyn sitting at the dining table. “Llewellyn.”

“Oh! Hello, Poppy! I— oof—”

The Hufflepuff girl punched the poacher boy in the jaw with breakneck speed, causing him to fall out of his chair with a thump and drop the glass in his hands to the floor, shattering it; the commotion caused Alice to scrunch up her little face and begin crying loudly, and Natty moved to hold Poppy back by the arms so as to not allow any further consternation inside the small home.

“Poppy, look what you’ve done,” Flora chastised, bouncing the very unhappy infant in her arms. “Hush, Alice, it’s alright…”

“I don’t care about your stupid baby— let me go, Natty,” Poppy raged with the ferocity of a dragon.

“I—I’m sorry, Poppy!” Llewellyn sniveled, rising from the floor with one hand nursing his sore jaw. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry!”

“Will everyone please calm down?” Natty pleaded over the hubbub of yelling, crying, and clucking. 

Everything fell silent when Sebastian fired a warning shot from his wand into the hardwood floor. “Quiet,” he said in a stern, low tone. 

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Natty sighed with relief, casting Reparo on the broken drinking glass. “Poppy, sit down—and if you cause any more trouble, I will take you straight back to Hogwarts.”

“Fine,” Poppy spat, sitting down at the dining table, arms crossed and glowering fiercely at Llewellyn as the boy gingerly retook his seat opposite her and scooped up his chicken to hug it.

“So there was a goblin attack?” Natty addressed Sebastian. “This boy mentioned it as well, but I did not know whether to believe him.”

“It happened right after you disapparated with Flora,” Sebastian confirmed. “Hundreds of them.”

Flora chewed her lip. Victor. Surely he was alright, with his newfound ancient magic, but… I have a bad feeling about this.

“I have to go back,” Flora said to the group as she rubbed a motherly hand across Alice’s little head. “But I can’t take Alice with me; it’s much too dangerous for her if the goblins are still there.”

“You really want to go back?” Natty asked with some amazement in her voice.

“Rookwood Castle is my home,” Flora told her. “I need to rid it of goblins, assess the damage, and…find my husband, to ensure that he’s unharmed. I—I—” Her voice cracked, and she wiped away a tear.

“ Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” Poppy grumbled, putting her elbows on the table and holding her face in her hands.

“I love him.”

Poppy and Natty groaned; Llewellyn sighed happily; Sebastian pursed his lips and said, “I’ll go with you,” which caused every head to turn his way.

“Oh, Sebastian— you will? Really?” Flora’s face brightened with a wide smile.

Only because I want to find Ivy, he thought. I’m worried about her.

Natty studied Sebastian, assuming his motivations regarding the plan were still in place; she then offered, “You are right about one thing, Flora: it is too dangerous to take your daughter. I can watch her for you, provided you are not gone long.”

Flora appreciated this, but felt some anxiety about leaving Alice alone with Natty; what if she took her away and into custody of this group of concerned citizens? Flora needed some assurance that wouldn’t happen. “Llewellyn will stay here with you and help. Right, Llewellyn?”

“Yes, Missus Rookwood!” The poacher boy agreed obediently and without hesitation. “Mister Michaels and I will guard the little one with our lives.”

Poppy snorted. “I’ll stay here, too.” You and I have unfinished business, Llewellyn.

“Oh, all of you—thank you. Thank you so much.” Flora kissed Alice’s head and said to her, “I won’t be long, sweetness; we’ll be back with daddy soon.” He’s fine, Flora reassured herself. Of course he’s fine. He’s Victor Rookwood.

Chapter Text

“…Mister Rookwood? Sir?”

“Poppet?” Rookwood croaked. No. Someone else. His wife would never call him either of those things. 

Mind foggy and eyes still shut, the dark wizard shifted, attempting to hoist himself up off of what felt like a hard, cold stone floor. He hissed through his teeth upon feeling a searing pain tear through his body; a cracked rib, most certainly, and what felt like a deep, open wound on his back. There was something amiss with his dominant hand, as well; he attempted to wriggle his fingers, to no avail.

“Please don’t move too much, sir—those goblins did a number on you.”

Rookwood opened his eyes; once they had adjusted to the darkness, he found himself locked in a large cell with a buxom young blonde sitting cross-legged across from him, his top hat in her lap and a large bruise on her left temple. The air was stale; they must be underground.

“Goblins,” Rookwood repeated with a murmur. How humiliating. Victor Rookwood, the most powerful wizard in the Highlands and wielder of ancient magic, bested by stunted, putrid goblins. And this girl…the one from the party. Ivy. He swiveled his head to look around; no one else save for him, this comely lass, and the corpse of a dead old wizard in the corner. 

“Lovely company we have,” he remarked, gesturing his head towards the body. The levity made Ivy laugh softly.

“You were out cold for so long, sir, I was concerned you had gone the same way as him. It’s been hours since I’ve seen another soul—not even a goblin.”

No other prisoners, then. Just us. Why this girl, though? It was understandable why the goblins wanted to capture him— they had probably found the final repository empty and used their miniscule brains to put two and two together—but this girl? A young Ashwinder working under Selwyn in some backwater camp along the coast? It was almost as if…

They captured the wrong girl. Of course; those empty-headed, beady-eyed mongrels couldn’t tell a bowtruckle from a barrel, let alone one young woman from the other. They didn’t want Ivy; they wanted Missus Rookwood. He thought back as well as he could to the last memories he had of the party: his wife, on her best behavior and looking gorgeous in her finery. His daughter in her arms, happy and charming. He was speaking with Dunstan Trinity about a promising lede on a stash near Brocburrow when he heard the sound of someone disapparating, and they were gone. He ordered Llewellyn to find them. The goblin attack. After that, the adrenaline of battle, then…nothing. How humiliating. Age must finally be catching up to him.

“Ivy,” he prompted the lass. “Tell me how you were captured.”

A bright blush settled across the young woman’s face. “Well, I—I was going to get Bertie another drink after we spoke with you and your wife…but I needed to, er, have a go, so I went outside the courtyard and around the side of the estate for some privacy…and just as I finished up, I got tackled from behind, and a crossbow butt to the head took me out. I woke up here, wandless, right before the goblins brought you in.” She gingerly dabbed at her bruise.

Rookwood stifled a laugh, both to save the girl from more shame and to give his broken rib a rest. “Terrible luck, that.”

It was humiliating to be captured, yes, but at least Rookwood wasn’t caught with his literal pants down—and he was secretly relieved this girl was captured in lieu of his wife and daughter. Whoever it was that disapparated with them likely saved their lives; regardless if that person was friend or foe, he hoped Llewellyn had already found them and was keeping the Rookwood family under close surveillance.

“Fear not, my dear; we’ll find a way out of this yet,” he assured Ivy. “I’m sure Mister Harlow and my lieutenants are mounting a rescue mission as we speak.” 

*****

The strong, acrid scent of burnt flesh made Flora nearly double over upon arriving back to Rookwood Castle. There were no goblins in sight—none living, anyway. A huge pillar of black smoke billowed upwards from a pile of their burning corpses in the middle of the courtyard; seeing Harlow and a man with an eyepatch— Dunstan Trinity, she recalled—piling more bodies onto the pyre, Flora strode right up to the second-in-command while Sebastian took a left to investigate a neatly-laid row of dead Ashwinders nearby.

“Theophilus, where is Victor?”

Harlow pretended not to hear her.

“Theophilus,” Flora repeated, louder this time. “Where is Victor?”

“Dunno,” Harlow grunted.

“You don’t know? He could be in danger! We need to find him—”

“Oh, do we?” Harlow shared a look with Trinity before turning to regard Flora with a cold glare. “Listen ‘ere, girl, an’ listen good: I only take orders from one man, not his glorified harlot. The boss is gone—which means it’s time for a change in leadership. En’t that right, Dunstan?”

“Boss was gettin’ too distracted with family matters these past few months,” Trinity agreed. He took a step towards Flora, who brandished her wand and warned, “Come any closer to me and I’ll take your other eye.” 

This threat only made the man chuckle; Sebastian, seeing this scene unfold out of the corner of his eye and not at all liking where it was going, approached the trio to diffuse the situation.

“Missus Rookwood is in a state of shock, sir. I’m sure she means no harm,” he told Harlow. “I’ll escort her out of here. She just needs to pick up some items for her baby before she departs.”

Harlow regarded the boy with a cool glance before responding. “Selwyn’s best lad, innit?…Fine.” The dark wizard turned back to Flora and addressed her. “Fifteen minutes. Get what you need for yer whelp an’ get out of my sight, girl.”

With that, Harlow turned around and focused his attention back on the pyre, ignoring the colorful language Flora spewed as Sebastian led her towards the inside of the castle.

“That bastard,” she fumed, stomping towards the nursery. “Over twenty years as Victor’s right hand, and he won’t even bother to look for him? Grasping for more power…Victor will be furious when he hears of this…”

Sebastian said nothing as he followed behind her, briefly poking his head into every room they passed by; no sign of Ivy, and she wasn’t among the dead outside. Espying Selwyn milling about in the dining room, he told Flora, “I’ll join you in a few minutes—I need to speak with Selwyn.”

The pair went their separate ways, Flora heading further down the hallway and into the nursery, while Sebastian entered the dining room and approached Selwyn, who greeted him with some surprise.

“Bertie, lad! Had me worried when I couldn’t find you—thought you met the same fate as the boss.”

Rookwood’s lieutenants seemed awfully quick to accept the man’s death, not that Sebastian cared terribly much; Victor Rookwood could go to hell and stay there as far as he was concerned. “I was able to get Missus Rookwood and her baby away at the start of the attack,” he lied, “But I lost track of Ivy. I didn’t see her among the bodies…”

“She hasn’t reported in,” Selwyn told him. “Everyone else is either dead or accounted for, save for her, the boss, and a poacher boy.”

Strange. Rookwood’s absence was self-explanatory—retaliation for orchestrating nearly a year of attacks on the goblin loyalists, Sebastian wagered—but Ivy would be of no importance to them. Of all the girls at the party, why her? Noticing the worry etched on the boy’s face, Selwyn uttered, “Don’t take it too hard, lad. Loss is common in our line of work. I can’t even count how many friends of mine have fallen over the years; you get used to it.”

Sebastian was no stranger to loss, which was precisely why he wanted closure. If Ivy was alive, she needed to be rescued; if she wasn’t, well…she still deserved better than rotting away in some cold, dark goblin mine. He resolved to bring her back regardless. Taking his leave of Selwyn, he walked down the hallway to find Flora standing in the middle of the nursery, sobbing into a stuffed owl toy; upon noticing she now had company, the girl attempted to compose herself by wiping the tears off her face with the back of her hand.

“Alice’s favorite toy…Hootie,” she said softly, as if to herself. “Victor gave this to her when she was two months old. He was so happy when she was born—it changed him. He desperately wanted a son, but…he loved Alice from the first moment he held her in his arms. And now…” She choked back a sob. “She’ll grow up without a father. She’ll never know how much he loved her; she’s too young to remember him.”

Sebastian couldn’t help but offer comfort at this; Flora’s words heavily reminded the boy of his own parents, gone much too soon. He stepped forward, placing a hand on each of her small shoulders. “Everything will be fine, Flora. I promise you, we’ll find him…and Ivy, too. Selwyn told me they’re the only ones unaccounted for.”

Flora smiled weakly at him. “I’m glad you’re here, Sebastian. And…I’m glad you’re not mad at me. In another life, we might have—”

“Time’s up, girl!” Harlow hollered from the courtyard below.

Flora huffed before grabbing some baby books and clothing, bundling them up in her arms along with Hootie the stuffed owl. “That rat bastard,” she mumbled as the pair made their way back down to the courtyard, and she pointedly threw a rude gesture in Harlow’s direction before disapparating back to Lower Hogsfield with Sebastian in tow.

Harlow, with arms crossed, turned his head to address Trinity. “Have someone follow ‘em,” he ordered. “That uppity bitch is goin’ to make trouble for us, I know it—her an’ that sprog of hers.”

*****

“So what did Flora say this thing’s name was?” Poppy asked, sitting on the couch with legs crossed and looking down her nose at Llewellyn playing peekaboo with the infant wriggling on the floor.

“Alice,” Natty replied, sitting in a nearby armchair. “And she is not a thing, Poppy, she is a baby.”

“Victor Rookwood’s baby is most definitely a thing,” Poppy countered. “Looks just like him, too—poor Flora.”

The baby laughed uproariously when Llewellyn hid his face behind his hands, then fanned them open. “Alice, look—peekaboo! By Merlin, she’s so cute —er, I think she laughed so hard she went wee on herself…”

“I’m not changing it,” Poppy sniffed.

Natty exhaled deeply. “I will change her.” She rose from the armchair, picking up the baby and telling her companions, “It is getting late—hopefully Flora will be back soon, but we may need to put Alice to bed before then. Find something we can use as a cradle, please.” 

The Gryffindor girl took the infant into the kitchen for a changing; Poppy did not move from the couch, while Llewellyn briefly looked around the sitting room before pointing to a wicker laundry basket loaded with clean white sheets next to a roosting Mister Michaels. 

“Oh! Good thinking, Mister Michaels. That looks comfortable—let’s use that,” he commented, looking to Poppy with a dopey grin as he pulled the basket to the center of the room; she scowled at him in return. 

“I can’t believe you left my gran’s farm to be Rookwood’s nanny,” she hissed. “Her journals about the snidgets were stolen because you weren’t there to protect her.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged a bit, but his expression was still otherwise lively. “Gran’s a strong lady, Poppy. I didn’t expect to be away so long…Missus Rookwood asked me for a favor, y’see, to find her missing friend. Then I learned Mister Rookwood was still alive, and wanted to see him one last time, but…well, he and Mister Harlow bought me an awful lot of drinks, and asked me questions about snidgets—” 

The poor boy held up his hands defensively as Poppy opened her mouth to bellow a severe response; he cut her off with, “But I lied! I promise! I told Mister Harlow I would take care of the tracking, and I’ve been telling him the wrong things—he won’t find any snidgets.” 

Truthfully, the poacher boy was much more terrified of Poppy’s wrath than Mister Harlow’s; luckily, the Hufflepuff girl seemed to calm down at these words, knowing Llewellyn was not quite bright enough to be malicious. She dropped the subject with a warning: “If I ever find you trapping beasts again, Llewellyn, I’ll learn the killing curse and come after you myself.”

The boy gulped. “Yes, Poppy.”

“All clean,” Natty announced, re-entering the room with a yawning Alice in her arms. Seeing the procured wicker basket, she tucked the baby into the makeshift cradle as Llewellyn watched on happily, sitting cross-legged next to her with Mister Michaels in his lap. Ever the friendly lad, and seeing this new acquaintance throw a quick glance at the chicken, the poacher boy decided to strike up a conversation.

“Don’t worry—Mister Michaels doesn’t bite,” he assured the Gryffindor girl. “You can pet him, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” the girl responded in her accented voice. Llewellyn wagered she must be from very far away; as far away as Germany. Maybe even farther.

“Where are you from?” He asked, curious.

The girl sighed as if she heard this question often. “I am from Uganda.”

Llewellyn had no clue where Uganda was, having never even heard of the place before now. “Oh…is that near Germany?”

“Stop bothering Natty, Llewellyn,” Poppy chided. “And be quiet; the thing’s almost asleep.”

“Oh! Sorry,” he whispered, admiring the sweet, heavy-lidded infant in the laundry basket. “Such a darling, isn’t she? Mister Rookwood was awful keen to start a family after he married Missus Rookwood. Every moment in my wife is pure bliss, he told me. It was like a romance novel.”

This boy really had no filter at all, did he? Natty looked quizzically to Poppy, who simply rolled her eyes in response just as the front door opened; Sebastian and Flora entered, the latter showing evidence of tears on her freckled face as she juggled a melange of items in her arms. Her spirits briefly lifted upon seeing her daughter safe and sleeping in a laundry basket, surrounded by three watchful friends and a chicken.

“We had to make do without a cradle,” Natty explained. Seeing the remnants of sadness on Flora’s face and assuming all had likely not gone well, the Gryffindor girl then carefully asked, “Only the two of you…?”

Everyone looked at Flora, who stayed silent as she gazed down at the sleeping baby; Sebastian piped up with an explanation of the journey’s events.

“Rookwood and my friend Ivy are the only two from the party that couldn’t be found. I think they’re looking for him, too,” he gestured to Llewellyn. “Everyone else is dead or has already reported to their superior. And Harlow…he’s mounted a mutiny in Rookwood’s absence.”

Llewellyn seemed to be the only person in the room surprised by this news, his mouth hanging wide open in disbelief. 

“He refuses to help with a search,” Flora told them. “I—I don’t know what to do, or where to even…start…” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized she did know of a place to start in the search for Rookwood; the final repository. The goblins must have finally found it. Why did they take Rookwood and Ivy, though? Why not Flora?

Because you weren’t there.

“I think I know where they are. I also think I know why the goblins took Ivy,” she said to the group. “It has to do with ancient magic. I think…I think they mistook Ivy for me.”

“Typical. Stupid creatures,” Sebastian mumbled so quietly that no one else heard the quip. In a louder voice, he told Flora, “We don’t have the luxury of time—if the goblins realize they’ve captured the wrong girl, they’ll kill her.” If they haven’t already. He chased the thought out of his mind.

“What’s all this we business?” Poppy protested. “It’s already well past curfew for Natty and me, and I’m certainly not going to fight an army of goblins or keep playing nanny.”

Natty agreed. “Poppy is right. We need to return to Hogwarts, and would likely be more of a hindrance than a help in a fight, but…I believe we can help you in another way, Flora,” she offered. “I will send an owl to Mister Rabe—the head of the group I belong to—informing him of what has occurred with Harlow. My hope is that we can apprehend him. Harlow will likely be on the lookout for your daughter, as well; I would not be surprised if he views Rookwood’s only child as a threat to his new position. You should take her somewhere very safe.”

Llewellyn piped up with, “Mister Michaels and I can keep watch over Alice, Missus Rookwood!” 

“Victor and I have a hunting lodge in the valley where we holiday—it’s very secluded, and Alice has a nursery there with everything she’ll need. I’ll take you there, Llewellyn.” Flora then looked to Sebastian. “We can leave from the lodge once Alice is settled—you’re right about not having the luxury of time. Let’s go.”

*****

Whatever reservations Flora had about leaving Alice in Llewellyn’s care were quickly dispelled upon seeing how protective the boy was regarding his new charge. Alice slept through the trek to the lodge, allowing Flora to quickly go over the basics of childcare with the lad in the nursery, as Sebastian explored the other rooms with morbid curiosity.

“I’ve put some bottles of milk in the kitchen—I cast Glacius on them, so they should last a while. Just ask the house elves to give you a bottle, and they’ll heat it up for you prior to feeding. You shouldn’t run out, but if you do, she can eat soft foods like porridge or purée.”

“Yes, Missus Rookwood!”

“She usually needs a changing every few hours. Just cast a basic cleaning charm on the old nappy, then fasten a new one on her so she doesn’t get a rash.”

“That’s easy enough, Missus Rookwood!”

“She’s a good sleeper, so she shouldn’t give you too much trouble for the next few hours, at least. There are plenty of toys to keep her occupied when she wakes up, and she loves being read to.”

“I won’t let her out of my sight, Missus Rookwood, don’t you worry! No one will find us out here—and if they do, Mister Michaels and I will make short work of them.” 

True to his word, the boy sat in the nursery’s rocking chair, his chicken roosting on the side of Alice’s cradle, both guarding the sleeping baby intently after Flora gave her a soft kiss goodbye. “I’ll be back home with daddy soon, sweetness,” she told the infant.

It’s time. Flora quickly popped into the bedroom to change into her traveling clothes before striding down the hallway to find Sebastian in the study, who was examining the newest painting of her and Alice hanging over the fireplace.

“Interesting portrait of you,” he remarked.

Flora blushed with mild embarrassment. “Victor painted that a few weeks ago—he’s really quite the artist. Most of the paintings in this lodge are his work.”

Sebastian couldn’t help but snicker. “Like the other interesting portrait of you in the bedroom?”

Of course he saw that, Flora thought as her face became impossibly redder. Changing the subject, she told the boy, “Llewellyn is all set with Alice—she’ll be in good hands while we’re gone.”

“I don’t doubt it; he seems very loyal. It’s strange, though—I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.” He hummed in thought for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, I brewed some wiggenweld in your library while I was waiting, so I’m ready if you are.”

Flora took a deep breath to steel her nerves. Seeing this, Sebastian told her, “Don’t worry. We’re clever and capable—a good team. We can do this. You can do this.”

I can do this. I can do this. She would repeat the words over and over in her head. I can do this.

*****

Rookwood found himself growing impossibly bored with each passing moment. No wand, no journal…not that he could do much if he did have them, his right hand as mangled as it was. No potions to heal himself with, either. At least the girl was nice to look at.

Ivy appeared to be similarly restless, pacing back and forth in the cell. She had tried several times to fiddle with the lock to no avail, and finally sat down when Rookwood told her to do so.

“You need to conserve your energy, my dear.” Might as well pass the time chatting with an underling; Merlin knew the dead old wizard in the corner wouldn’t make a good conversationalist. “Tell me about yourself, Ivy.”

“Oh, I’m not terribly interesting, sir,” she replied humbly.

“Humor me. You’ve been working for me for quite some time, haven’t you?”

“Three years, sir. I started out at the Hall, then was reassigned under Selwyn when it burnt down.”

“And what made you join up in the first place?” Most of the Rookwood gang were lost souls, in one way or another; this girl was likely no different.

Ivy knitted her brow. “There was nowhere else to go after I killed my father.”

Oho. Rookwood’s eyes sparkled at these words. “Patricide, eh? Well deserved, I’m sure. Let me guess: a drunkard? Abusive? Did abominable things to the point where you simply couldn’t take it any longer?”

Ivy blinked at how correct these assumptions were. “Yes, sir—how did you know?”

Rookwood winked at her. “I killed my father, too. Terrible men tend to all follow the same script.”

The girl shifted position, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin between them. “Must be more common than I thought—Bertie also killed his father.” She sighed. “I hope he’s alright. Probably worried sick about me, sweet as he is.”