Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How do you know you are a goddess?

I cried oceans, but did not drown. 

Chapter 1:

April 24, 1984

Spring sunlight drifted into her room, the warmth of it a buzz against her skin. She sank a little deeper into her mattress, enjoying the pleasant feeling and the scent of hydrangeas that floated through the open windows.

She took a deep breath and smiled.

Today was her birthday.

She was nineteen today, and her father had promised.

With a pleased hum, she stretched her arms above her head and let the giddy feeling of excitement fill her.

Folding back the sheets, she slid out, her loose hair falling about her shoulders and back from the high bun she had placed it in the night before.

“Penelope.”

A young female house-elf appeared, dressed in the house livery of the Allard family: a deep Aegean-blue dress with the house crest in bronze on the bust.

“Yes, my lady? How can Penelope help you today?”

“Where is Papa?”

“The Master is in his study, my lady.” She nodded, unsurprised.

“Has he eaten?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay, can you have a small breakfast prepared for both of us? Plate it so I can carry it to him. Also, we will be heading out today. Prepare my clothes. His as well.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything else, ma’am?” She considered the question.

“Yes, one last thing. Any letters that come for us today, please keep them aside until we return this evening. I don’t want anything to distract Papa.” The elf looked slightly torn by this but gave a nod.

“It will be done, my lady.”

“Thank you, Penelope. You’re a dear.” The young elf blushed slightly and gave a slightly shy smile before curtsying. She popped away, and a soft dress appeared on the bed. Nothing extravagant—just something to allow her to leave her room and roam the hallways.

She threw the dress on, ran her hand through the tangled mess of her hair until it was at least presentable, and grabbed her wand. She cast a teeth-and-breath cleaning charm on herself as she left her room.

The halls were all brightly lit, the sun streaming in through high windows and bouncing off pearl-toned stone and sea-green painted walls.

This was the ancestral home of the Allard family. A small family with the status of a marquis in old times and even higher statuses dating further back.

Each hallway held centuries of paintings, some of ancestors and others of famous scenes important to the Allard family.

“Happy birthday, my dear.”

“Happy Birthday, young lady.”
“Happy Birthday.”

“Happy Birthday, Mademoiselle.”

Each painting of an old aunt, uncle, a grandmother, and grandfather called out to her as she made her way to the small dining room. There were three: one large one for major gatherings, one medium one for extended family gatherings, and one small one just for them—her father and her.

When she entered, a metal tray with tea and breakfast, spelled to stay hot, was already waiting. She smiled at the crepes and stuffed croissants. Her favorites. Their house-elves were the best.

She lifted the tray up and made her way to her father’s office, pausing only once at a large painting of a woman with dark hair and deep blue eyes.

“Good morning, Mama.” She let a smile bloom on her face for the portrait, pushing back the bitter feeling she always held at the sight of it. 

“Good morning, my Cosette. Happy birthday! Nineteen and the most beautiful, sweetest girl in the world!” If she had the time, she’d argue with the painting on that. Her mother had always been the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen—eyes as blue as an ocean night and hair long, with loose curls. She’d gotten her mother’s eyes and hair texture, but the rest was her father.

“I’m not sure about that, Mama. I have to go, though. I will stop by and talk with you before going to bed.”

The woman nodded while frowning.

“Are you spending the day with your father?”

“Yes. He promised.” The frown was replaced with a pleased smile.

“Well, he does keep his promises, doesn’t he? Go then, darling. Do keep him out of trouble, won’t you? That man… he’s getting crazier every day. He needs to get out and get some air.” Nodding, she turned towards her father’s doors, not seeing the painted crease of worry on her mother’s face.

Her hands were full. She kicked at the door. She could hear the man jump in surprise, the chair screeching on the hard wood as he choked on his surprise. She laughed under her breath.

“Come in, come in.” She pushed the doors open, the magic recognizing her as heir and unlocking.

The room was a wild mess. There were maps hung along the back wall, papers scattered here and there, some even on the floor, and books stacked to the ceiling in leaning towers, held up only with magic. There were mysterious buzzing instruments along the shelves near the windows, a few on his desk, and all she knew nothing about—only to “not touch.”

And above it all, glowing in bright lines of crisscrossing patterns, was the magical map of ley lines her father had created. It floated above them, close to the office ceiling. Certain points, she noted, were pinched into balls, as if her father wanted to keep track of a thought.

Her father’s research had always been a mystery, but she knew a little bit. She knew what the people in the Ministry knew.

That her father was a researcher of folkloric magic. Dead magic. The kind of magic that society had long outgrown and no one truly cared about anymore because it wasn’t relevant. That he researched because he believed in cultural preservation, understanding history in order to keep history alive—knowing where the pagan practices of modern magic came from.

And she knew a bit about what he was really researching—what would cause those in the Ministry to be livid.

Magic itself. Its origin. How it buried itself in the land like veins through a body. How it sprouted into humans like fruit from a berry bush.

But that’s all she knew.

“Knowledge is power, sweetheart, but it is also a threat. Until you can be strong enough to protect yourself, it’s best you don’t know too much, hmm?”

She understood her father’s meaning, but…

The curiosity still burned.

“Naomi! Happy birthday, my princess.”

The man behind the desk was like sunlight.

Archibald Valor Crouch was a strong man. Hair like honey and eyes of amber, he stood out in a crowd. His beard was cut low and his hair was thick at the top, fading off at the sides. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that gleamed as he smiled at her, dimples showing beneath his mustache.

He flung his arms open. She sat the tray down and threw her arms around him as though she was still a little girl, laughing as he stood with her and twirled around the office. She could feel her feet lift from the ground and how the sound of the papers beneath his feet crumpled.

“Good morning, Papa! You do know I’m not a little girl anymore, yes?” He swirled around with her for another moment before coming to a stop, setting her on her feet before landing two big smacks of kisses on her cheeks.

“You are a young lady. I know. But you will always be my little princess, hmm! No arguing about that!” She beamed up at him and then promptly smacked his arm.

“You’ve gone without eating again, haven’t you? I can tell Mama is getting worried.” He rolled his shoulders, his wrinkled white shirt mussing up even more.

“Bah! Your mother was a worrier in life and she’s a worrier in the afterlife, mon amour. I will eat. Eventually. Food can wait. I’m close to figuring something out. Can’t be distracted by something as mundane as food.”

She watched as her father sat back down and picked his pen back up. She felt disappointment begin to fill her.

“Are we not going today, Papa? You promised.” Her father looked up at her and promptly balked.

“No, no, no, we’re going. I will always keep my promises, too, dear Naomi. And today is your birthday… a very special birthday, at that…” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but one look at her face and he dismissed it. Instead, he shuffled some of the papers off to the side and slid the tray in front of him, pointing at the other chair in front of his desk.

“Come, my dear! Sit. We shall dine like royalty today, in your honor.” Relief and affection washed through her. She sat down and began pouring their tea as he plated up the food. The morning continued on, warm and pleasant and full of joyful chatter. Today was going to be a good day! She couldn't wait!

Port d’Aegir is a small, magical port town off of St. Raphael on the southern coast of France. It borders the Mediterranean Sea and sits on land still legally owned by the Allard family.

The buildings stand tall along the cliffside overlooking the white sand beaches, each one cluttered together with colored stones of oranges, whites, and pale blues with red clay tiled roofs. Fairy lights scatter along the cobbled streets like frozen snowflakes, lighting the path at night. During the day, the sunlight bounces off the waters below and causes gleaming silver streaks to reflect up into the town.

It was one of Naomi’s favorite places in the world.

She walked next to her father as they slowly moved through the streets, her pale pink robes fluttering against her moving feet. She was dressed light for the spring warmth, like her father, who was dressed in one of his familiar cream linen suits.
They moved leisurely. She’d been here a hundred times. She knew the sound of the birds and the waves as they hit the coastline. She adored the scent of fresh macarons as they wafted from Lily’s Patisserie. She looked up at her father.

“Where to first?”
She tilted her head as she clasped her hands behind her back.

“I’d like to stop and get some flowers. Maybe some macarons. Oh! And I’ve got to stop and grab a net of raw oysters.” He looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

“Oysters? Raw ones?” She huffed.

“Don’t give me that look, Papa. You’ll see why. And the fresher the better.” With a shrug, he guided them to their first stop.

Madam Vee was a stout woman with a round face and constantly blushing cheeks who owned the flower shop on the street. She was sweet, but firm, and Naomi had known her her entire life.

“Afternoon, Madam Vee.” Bouncing over to the woman who smiled at her.

“Afternoon, my lady. You’re rather chipper today! Anything interesting happening?”

“Nothing much! Just my birthday.” Naomi glanced over at her father, who had moved towards one of the other shop windows, eyeing up something on the inside.

“Ah! So it’s finally the day of your nineteenth? Are you making your trip to the Sea-Gate? I know your family has done it for centuries.”

“Yes. I’m so excited. I finally get to do it.” The woman chuckled at her visible giddiness, watching as she swayed a bit on the balls of her feet.

“Oh ho! It’s rare to see you like this, my lady. You’re usually so reserved.”

Naomi could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. She flushed and straightened her shoulders, composing herself and pressing her hands into a more ladylike, gentle position in front of her.

“My apologies, Madam Vee. I forgot myself. I’m just so excited today.” The woman simply grinned and softly tapped her shoulder.

“Hush. I didn’t say that for you to self-correct. I said it because it looks good on you: joy. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile so freely. I’ve missed it.”

She huffed as they shared a moment of sad recognition. Naomi hadn’t been this exuberant since her mother passed when she was fourteen.

“Well, my lady, are you here for flowers?” Grateful for the change in subject, she nodded and looked at the blooms.

“I’d like a bouquet of white lilies, bluebells, and beach roses, please.”

“A sea offering, eh? Wait just a moment as I get what you need.” She watched as the woman went about gathering the flowers with ease, wrapping them in brown paper and handing them to her. Naomi moved to give the woman the coins she owed, but Madam Vee stopped her.

“Don’t worry about it, my lady. Today is your special day. Enjoy it. Happy birthday, from me, yeah?” Naomi grinned.

“Thank you.” She turned to sidle up next to her father, who was just exiting the shop he was eyeing earlier. She lifted the blooms to her nose and breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh floral fragrance.

“Get what you need?”

“Yes.”

They chatted for a bit, her father buying her favorite raspberry and green tea macarons, and continued their slow journey towards the coast. Soon her father broached a topic she'd been hoping to avoid a little while longer. 

“Have you considered any more offers from the Institute? They have sent me several letters hoping that I will convince you.”

Naomi shrugged her shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. A strand of her hair blew forward, catching on her eyelashes, and she pushed it back, using it as an excuse to avoid looking at her father, who was eyeing her with interest.

L’Institut Hermétique de Saint-Cérès had been requesting her attendance to study enchantment and magical archeology ever since she'd left Beauxbatons. Both of her parents had attended and she'd graduated with prestigious grades in those areas. Something was holding her back, though. 

“Not really. I-I’m not sure about studying in that field.”

“Enchantment or Magical Archaeology?”

“Both. Neither." She pressed her forehead to his shoulder in frustration. "Ah! I don’t know.” Groaning, she huffed at her father’s chuckling.

“I’m serious, Papa. I’m only good at enchantment because of Mama. You know that was her gift. Magical history is yours. You both trained me well; I’m just not sure if either one of those fields are me.” It was her father’s turn to huff as he pulled her in with an arm around her shoulders.

“I understand, princess. Know that neither your mother nor I would ever want you to do something you didn’t want for yourself. Our footsteps are not yours.”

She looked at her father then—really looked at him.

Watched how the spring sunlight caught in his hair, turning strands of honey-gold brighter, how his expression softened when he looked at her, as though she were something fragile and irreplaceable. As though the world might try to take her if he ever blinked.

She opened her mouth to respond, appreciation and something like relief filling her—

“-that’s a good thing, that is. Your daughter not wanting to follow in your footsteps. Wise, too.”

The voice cut cleanly through the moment.

A man stepped out from beneath the awning of a nearby shop, robes marking him unmistakably as Ministry-affiliated. They were well-tailored but worn thin at the cuffs—practical, ambitious, eager to be noticed.

Naomi felt the shift beside her before she saw it.

Her father’s warmth vanished.

The man she knew—the one who laughed with her over breakfast, who kissed her brow as though she were still small—slid behind a familiar, impenetrable mask. Pureblood composure. Polished and cold as marble.

She mirrored him without thinking. Spine straight. Chin lifted. Silent. Observant.

The man was tall and narrow, almost birdlike, with sharp features and a thin mustache that twitched with poorly concealed disdain. He clutched a stack of folders under one arm like a shield, eyes flicking briefly to Naomi before returning to her father.

“Mr. Rowleby,” Archibald said mildly. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to run into you, but I’m not a liar.”

Rowleby’s mouth thinned.

“I’ve heard you’ve trained in the art of falsification, however. How are things going in the Ministry’s research division? I understand your most recent paper was… underwhelming.”

Rowleby stiffened.

He didn’t answer her father.

Instead, his gaze slid back to Naomi. Her father tensed even further when the man dismissed him. It was the height of disrespect to ignore him. Even more disrespectful to address her before they were officially introduced.

“My dear,” he said, voice syrup-smooth, “do you know your father is something of a laughingstock in the intellectual community? I’ve more respect for bubotuber salesmen than I do for him when it comes to academic rigor.”

Naomi felt something coil in her chest.

But before she could speak—

“Jealousy has a very distinct sound when it speaks,” her father said pleasantly. She shivered, cause that was the voice her father used when he was extremely displeased. “Are you still upset that your last published theory unintentionally validated three of my discredited ones?”

He tilted his head.

“If you’re not careful, Mr. Rowleby, you may eventually prove everything I’ve ever written correct. Including my assessment that you are, in fact, an idiot.”

Rowleby flushed.

Archibald stepped closer—not threateningly, not loudly—but with the quiet certainty of a man who knew exactly where he stood.

“You also forget yourself,” he continued. “You are currently standing on Allard land. I would hate for you to be accidentally cursed due to a misunderstanding in tone.”

Naomi watched Rowleby’s bravado falter.

Just a fraction.

Enough.

He took a half-step back, eyes flicking around the street as if suddenly aware of how exposed he was.

“You think yourself untouchable,” Rowleby snapped, recovering poorly. “That your name and your… antiquated research protect you. But times are changing, Crouch. The Ministry doesn’t look kindly on men who refuse oversight.”

Archibald smiled.

It did not reach his eyes.

“I find the Ministry doesn’t like being reminded that it doesn’t own magic,” he said calmly. “Good day, Mr. Rowleby.”

Rowleby huffed, muttered something under his breath, and stalked away down the street.

The silence he left behind was thick.

Naomi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“That man,” a new voice said quietly, “has always been bitter.”

Another wizard emerged from the doorway behind them—older, with silver threading his dark hair and robes marked with a senior Ministry insignia. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and—most importantly—honest.

“Director Vaumont,” Archibald acknowledged, inclining his head slightly.

Vaumont glanced after Rowleby before turning back.

“He speaks loudly because he knows he will never matter as much as you do,” Vaumont said. “You frighten people like him. Not because you’re reckless—but because you’re right.”

Naomi’s attention sharpened.

“The Ministry doesn’t always treat you fairly,” Vaumont continued, lowering his voice. “But don’t mistake that for lack of respect. Many of us know what you’ve uncovered. We simply… wish you were quieter about it.”

Archibald’s jaw tightened.

“Truth is rarely quiet,” he replied.

Vaumont sighed. “Be careful, Archibald. Knowledge may be power—but it also paints a target.”

His gaze flicked, briefly, to Naomi.

“And you,” he added gently, “are far more visible than you realize.”

With that, he stepped away, leaving behind a warning disguised as courtesy.

Archibald exhaled slowly and pulled Naomi closer to him again, turning to walk away. She clenched her hands into the paper of the flowers and macarons.
What was that? That… felt a bit dangerous.

She glanced at her father, who was still quiet, his brows furrowed, but he did not look at her.

“Fresh oysters, right? And then we head to the Sea-Gate.”

She only nodded.

The trip was suddenly different. No longer jovial. Her father felt guarded, like he had become a shield and sword beside her. She observed out of the corner of her eyes how his own assessed the street.

They grabbed a net of oysters, still fresh and moving, before making it down to the coastline near the cliffs.

All in silence.

She let out a slow breath as the Sea-Gate came into view. Today was her birthday. She would not let what just happened dampen it.

The Sea-Gate was two massive pillars of weather-worn rock that rose from the shoreline just beyond the reach of the highest tide. They were carved by the sea itself, smooth in places, jagged in others. The pale, salt-bleached limestone was shot through with veins of blue-green crystal that faintly glowed at dusk. Between the pillars was nothing—no door, no arch—just air and the sound of the sea.

At high tide, the water rushed in between the pillars, not around them. The in-between was the gate.

She’d only been here once before, with her mother, back when she was seven. Back when she was introduced to the sea and their patron goddess, Amphritite. Not that she was introduced to a literal goddess. It was more symbolic, a ritual of the House of Allard. All the blood-born children of the Allard family went through this.

She stepped forward, her father standing on the beach behind her in encouragement, and felt the warm beach water rush across her feet as she moved through the gate. The wet muslin of her dress clung to her legs as she moved, the sea salt burning pleasantly in her nose, and her magic… oh, her magic felt so alive here.

Water was like the Allard family’s native tongue: she could speak it easily. Her magic knew it, imitated it, spoke it when she was angry, rushing around her like waves breaking on the shore.

She passed the stone pillars, unsure about what would happen and going off the memory of her mother’s lessons. She’d considered asking her mother’s portrait, but… it felt strange to do so. A betrayal, in a sense, because the portrait wasn’t her mother. Not really. It was simply a preserved memory, and in this moment, she needed to feel as connected to her mother as she could without the bitter taint she still carried looking at her portrait.

“The Sea-Gate is tradition. It is where you will be given direction.”

“Direction? By who, Mama? Why?” Her mother’s warm hand ran through her hair.

“By magic. By the goddess. No one in the family truly remembers, but we must do it. As long as there’s an Allard, we go to the gate. We offer ourselves up for use, and we’re given direction and blessing.”

“Is that how you began enchantment, Mama?”

“Hmm. A bit. I was shown I have a gift in seeing intention in magic. I’ve taught you this, my daughter. Enchantment is magic that laces intention. The Sea-Gate does not give you a destination, just direction. A hint on where you’d be best used. Following its direction often sees you being blessed.”

“When do I go?”

“I’ll show you the way on your nineteenth birthday.”

But… her mother passed a few years after that. She wasn’t here today, and she was walking it alone.

She stopped, the soft sand sliding between her toes, and sat down in the water. Unseen, beneath the water, was a drop. The sand gave way to darkness. She dangled her legs off the side like she was sitting on a cliff, the water lapping up against her thighs. She set the oysters off to the side and unwrapped the flowers. She plucked three strands of her hair and wrapped them around the bouquet before pushing it beneath the water.

“I offer this as a sign of submission to mother magic. To the will of our patron goddess, Amphitrite. Blessed be thy will. Guide me on my journey. Show me how best I am to be used.”

She offered up a sincere prayer before allowing the water to take away the blooms. A few petals had been ripped away by the force of the lapping waves and floated on the surface around her.

She sat there in the quiet, looking in the distance. Observing the horizon.

A few long moments passed. 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. It certainly wasn’t nothing.

Self-doubt started to pulse in her chest.

Did I do something wrong?
Why isn’t anything happening?
What—what if I don’t get direction? What does that mean?

Her spiraling thoughts came to a halt when her heart skipped a beat. She lost her breath as her hand went up to grasp her chest, a groan escaping her. It happened again and again.

Am I having a heart attack? What’s going on?

She choked, feeling like the breath was being knocked out of her as her heart beat out of rhythm. And then flashes of vision came into her mind.

Water. Water rushing all around. Alive and silver as moonlight. Warm and icy cold in turns. Holding her. Curling water fingers along her skin with the kind of affection of a living being.

Magic, like the ley lines glowing on her father’s office ceiling, criss-crossing across the world in pulsing flashes. Her body was flying across the land, watching how those lines brushed against each other like two rivers meeting in places, while other crevices were dry.

She was looking at herself. Her body was lying in bed, clearly sleeping, and she was moving through space and time.

The vision sped up, flashes of images coming at her so fast she couldn’t comprehend them.

Green eyes in a young face. A grim running under a clear day. Barty, skinny and frail. Her father looking at her with wild eyes. Her Uncle Bartemius caressing her cheek. A bald, snake-like face emerging from a bubbling liquid. Grey eyes staring at her, fierce and possessive and with something that positively burned her.

She sat up from the sand with a deep inhale, her body shivering from the cold of the ocean and the vision that had overtaken her.

She looked around her, bewildered.

“-what—”

What the hell was that?

She shifted to stand, her legs shaky like a newborn fawn and breath leaving in gasps.

Merlin.

That was so much. Too much. Too fast. She needed time to process it all. Time to understand what it was she had seen. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling the beat of it slow back to normal. She grabbed the oysters and made her way back to her father. She needed to see someone stable right now. Someone safe.

He smiled at her as she returned, though his face quickly turned concerned when she came closer. She must look a right sight. She knew her hair, at least, was full of sand and her dress soaked through.

“Are you alright, princess?”

She let him hug her, his warmth seeping into her skin and calming her the rest of the way.

“I’m alright, Papa. It was just… a lot.”

“What happened? What did you see?” She looked at him, curious.

“Your mother… she saw something too. Told me about it. I figured it would be the same for you.” She hummed and leaned her head on his chest.

“I’ll… tell you later.”

He nodded, taking out a wand and spelling the sand from her hair and dress, following up with a drying spell.

He looked down at her hand.

“Really, what do you need the oysters for?”

“Oh!” She smiled at him before heading back to the ocean and walking further in until she was waist-deep in the water. She looked back at him, noting how his eyebrows were raised. He was looking at her in the same way he did when she decided to paint all the house-elves’ nails.

It didn’t last long when a hand, human-like, reached up out of the water. Several figures were swimming up to her, and she smiled down at them.

Mermaids.

She opened the net of oysters and listened to their screeching trills as they grabbed handfuls of them. A couple of them swam up and lifted themselves out of the water, planting gentle, worshipful kisses on her cheek. She pressed warm kisses back on theirs, and they giggled, shyly grinning with sharp rows of teeth. A few swam closer to the rocky shore, using the rocks to open up the oysters and eat in the sunlight, while the rest swam back into the sea.

She turned back, grinning in joy, at her father. The last time she’d come with her mother, the mermaids had swum up to her then, too. This time she wanted to be prepared.

But her father wasn’t grinning at her. Instead, his face was troubled and his eyes held fear as he looked past her towards the ocean.

They’d returned later that evening, past dusk. They’d eaten at a familiar restaurant, and though they talked like usual, she could tell her father was still thinking.

"Before I forget!" He shuffled into his coat jacket and pulled out small box, handing it to her with a smile.

He’d kissed her brow and wished her a final happy birthday before he disappeared somewhere into the manor.

She eyed the box for a moment before opening it. 

Inside on black velvet was a beautiful necklace. A locket. She lifted it out of the box, examining it as she began walking to her room. 

The locket was heavier than it looked.

Not large—no ostentatious display of wealth—but solid in the way quality things were solid, made to last rather than impress. It rested against Naomi’s palm with a quiet, reassuring weight, warm from her skin.

The face of it was a single, uninterrupted sapphire.

Not faceted like a jewel meant to catch light for others, but smooth and deep, polished into a flawless oval that drank illumination instead of scattering it. Its blue was ocean-dark, almost black at the edges, and when the light struck it just right, faint currents seemed to move beneath the surface—slow, patient, endless. Like depth rather than decoration.

The gold casing was minimal, old-fashioned, its edges worn smooth as if it had been handled often. There were no sigils etched into the front, no heraldry, no family marks. Nothing to announce what it was or who it belonged to. Just the stone.

She turned it over.

The back was engraved in a careful, familiar hand—elegant but restrained, the kind of script that favored clarity over flourish.

Toujours.

Always.

She smiled. She'd put it on tomorrow.

She’d planned to talk with a portrait of her mother, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she made her way to her room and went to bed.

She’d later wished she had at least followed her father. Kept him a little longer.

Her sleep that night had been restless. Naomi awoke several times throughout the night, her magic fidgety and her mind leaping between darkness and flashing pictures she forgot as soon as her eyes opened.

Penelope already had her things ready, so she dressed and went to open her bedroom door, only for her father to be standing right outside, prepared to knock.

“Papa?!”

“Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?”

“Probably better than you did, Papa.” And she probably did. There were puffy bags under his eyes and he looked worn, as though he’d aged overnight. She looked him over quickly, noting that he was dressed to leave and observing how wild his eyes were. 

“You're not wrong. I’m sorry, princess. I’ve got to go. An emergency has come up.” He turned, obviously expecting her to follow.

“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” She’d not seen her father this frazzled in a long time. Unease crept up in her mind. Hadn’t she seen that look on his face just yesterday, in one of the visions at the Sea-Gate?

“I’m… not sure. I received a message from a friend. I need to make sure he’s okay.” He’d practically run down the stairs with her hot on his heels. At that, she grabbed the back of his jacket.

“Are you going into something dangerous? Yesterday—? Is this about what happened yesterday?”

They paused before the front doors. She watched as he paused, taking off his glasses to run a hand down his face before he replaced them to look at her.

“It’s possible. I’m not sure. There’s… some things I haven’t told you, but you’re old enough now.” He sighed and pulled her into a hug, kissing her forehead near her hairline. “We’ll talk when I get home. You can tell me what you saw. I’ll tell you what’s been happening that I, and your mother, have done our best to protect you from.”

Naomi’s bottom lip quivered.

“Papa, don’t go. Please. I don’t feel good about this.” She could feel his arms tighten.

“I’m sorry, princess. I have to. Lock down the manor until I get back, okay? No one in until I get back. Understand?”

He lifted her chin until she looked at him and nodded. He smiled at her then. Warm, but worn.

“I’m proud of you. You are your mother’s daughter. You are smart. Strong. Beautiful. And so wonderful. I can’t wait to see what you do in this world, hmm?” He kissed her forehead again and left.

She stood there for a long moment just staring, the heat of her father's kiss still lingering on her skin. 

That was the last time she’d see her father.

Chapter Text

Rome wasn't built in a day, 

but it burned in one.

May 2, 1984

She took a deep breath in.
Held it.
Released it in a shudder that trembled through her ribs with a dull ache. The pain was a muted reminder of all the harsh crying she’d done over the last week.

The smoke curled upward from the pyre in languid, jellyfish-like tendrils—translucent, rippling, strangely alive. Naomi watched them rise with a numb sort of fascination, each drifting shape threatening to coalesce into something familiar: the silhouette of a man turning away, the impression of her father’s slumped shoulders as he left, the way he had kissed her forehead too softly, lingering, as if afraid he might break—not her.

The air was thick with the scent of burning purple carnations—the Allard family’s flower of mourning—and the blackberry oil rubbed into Archibald Crouch’s feet for safe passage. Old, old magic. Pagan magic. The kind her father would have been proud that she’d used. The kind her mother had whispered to her at night, cradling Naomi’s small hands and teaching her that the world of wands and parchment was not the only world there was.

“Every witch has two bloods,” her mother used to say. “The one the Ministry recognizes, and the one the earth does.”

Naomi had believed her. She still did.

But the sweet, cloying incense, the sticky smoke, the heavy ache in her limbs—everything felt wrong. Too ceremonial. Too final. It itched beneath her skin with uncertainty.

Because this wasn’t her father. This didn’t feel like something he’d want. To be remembered on a solemn, rainy day in May. Not when he’d been so bright. So solid. 

Mother Magic, help me. Didn’t I just see him? It was just my birthday. He was going to come back. He was going to tell me everything.

She gripped the white mourning cloth draped over her hands, fingers digging into the embroidered Allard sigil until her nails left crescents in the thread. The cloth was meant to catch tears, keep the mourner’s grief from staining the ground. Old magic understood the weight of sorrow. It understood that grief, too, was a spell. She’d hoped to use it later—her tears—to help figure out what happened.

Except Naomi had no tears left.

She’d cried them out in the quiet hours before dawn, when the manor’s enchantments hummed low, when even the house spirits stayed away out of respect. The crying had left her raw and hollow, a scraped-out cavity of a girl wearing the shape of a woman. Bone dry. Hollow. Like a tree struck by lightning, burned from the inside until there was only the surface.

Instead, she chose to breathe slowly, trying not to choke on the sweet, oiled scent in the air.
Tried not to choke on all the words she wanted to let slip.

Her eyes cut across the haze of the funeral pyre to look at the stoic faces near her.

Unfamiliar faces. Ministry faces. No one was familiar, aside from her uncle. Unsurprising, when she was the last of the Allard family and almost the last of the Crouch.

And she didn’t want to share her grief with strangers. Not when she already suspected what none of them would believe—what they would refuse to even hear.

Archibald Crouch had died in a splinching accident. He’d left on an emergency trip to visit a friend in Russia about some serious business that he’d refused to tell her.

She still remembered that day. Just a little over a week ago when he left out the doors. 

He’d chuckled at her, his hands shaky and his smile unreal—his reassurance, even then, not quite sure—as he kissed her forehead and walked away

She’d been nervous, fearful even, because of how terrified he’d looked. Because of the vision she’d had of him that day which hadn’t helped.

Naomi sighed and took in a deep breath.

According to the reports, he’d gone to a bar, had gotten too drunk while spending time with a group of friends. When he apparated out, he had left his arm, his shoulder, and half his heart behind.

The very thought of it pissed her off.

Her father had not died in a drunken splinching accident. It was impossible. And the fact that anyone thought he could—anyone—made bile rise in her throat, her hands clenching in the cloth to the point of almost tearing it.

Archibald Crouch had been a man of discipline. Consistent. Honorable.

A man who had vowed off alcohol when Naomi was still a child, sealing it on his magic and his mother’s grave—because his own father had been cruel with drink, and Archibald had sworn the cycle would end with him.

Naomi had been the only one—besides her mother—to witness that vow. She remembered it clearly even though she’d been no more than seven: her father’s hands trembling, his voice steady but his eyes haunted by memories, the way the candlelight sputtered around the Crouch family cemetery as if magic itself held its breath. He’d taken her tiny hand and pressed it over his heart as he spoke the oath.

“I will never drink. I will never be what he was.” His voice had been grave, but sincere. He’d looked both her mother and her in the eye as he said it, and Naomi had felt the magic tighten within her own soul. He’d made the vow to her and her mother; magic had simply been the witness and overseer.

How could he have died drunk when magic itself would have punished him?

“No. No—it doesn’t make sense.” She’d recited the same phrase late into the night ever since she’d heard it. And it didn’t.

Which meant it was a lie.

Which meant someone had lied.

Naomi’s eyes caught on a figure across from her. It looked like she recognized one other—the same man whose bitter words she remembered.

“-that’s a good thing, that is. Your daughter not wanting to follow in your footsteps. Wise, too.”

She watched him, eyes leveled on him until he met hers. He didn’t smile. There was no relief there. No bitterness there now—only something that looked like frustration. Maybe concern.

She didn’t have the will to think deeper about it.

She shifted her gaze back down to the pyre. The smoke was settling; the distortion of heat above her father’s burning ashes was cooling. She considered her thoughts over the last few days. She already knew who would benefit from that lie.

Cowards didn’t like facing their mistakes. And they certainly didn’t like others seeing them.

She refused to let her eyes cut to the side where her uncle stood, despite watching him move closer in her peripheral.

Her jaw clenched as a hand—cold and too familiar—settled on her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch, but every muscle in her body curled inward like a threatened cat. She hated her uncle.

“Let us go back,” Bartemius Crouch said, his voice quiet, smooth as a sheet of unrolled parchment. “They will place his ashes in an urn. Once that is done, you may choose where to return him to nature.”

Return him to nature.

Her mother’s phrase.

Stolen out of Bartemius’ mouth like sugar soured in tea.

She swallowed hard and followed his gaze toward the courtyard archway that led away from the funerary pyres. They hadn’t had the funeral where she wanted, no her Uncle insisted it would be more efficient to do it using the ministry’s funerary pyres. At least their house-elves—French elves with proper uniforms, not the rag-wearing British ones—would take care of her father correctly. Every Allard funeral rite needed to be handled with care; this family believed in death as a passage, not an ending.

She kept her eyes forward as they walked, and kept her uncle always in view at the corner of her eye.

Bartemius Crouch was her father’s younger brother and, yet, looked nothing like him. You could say her father was the one who took after the Crouches with his lighter-colored hair and youthful features. The Crouches usually aged more slowly when it came to looks, always competing with the darker beauty of the Blacks. Her uncle, however, was only in his late forties and already looked well past that, his wiry hair thinning at the temples and showcasing a receding hairline, his deep-set wrinkles speaking more of frowns than smiles. When he talked, there was always an undercurrent of meaning. Even today, at the funeral of his brother, his voice held no emotional attachment to anything. Today might as well have been an ordinary spring afternoon, and he was too tired to deal with any problems that arose.

He had been the exact same the day he came to tell her that he’d received a Ministry owl announcing her father’s death. He’d known before she did.

“Yes, Uncle.”

It didn’t take long for the house-elves to place her father’s ashes in the urn. Naomi gripped it tightly, her fingers still smelling of blackberry oil, as they walked back to the apparition point. She wanted to spread his ashes near her mother, but that was back at the Allard family funerary woods. Every Allard had their ashes spread there amongst the pink lakes and fairy trees, amongst the blackberry bushes and spider lilies.

But her uncle refused to stay in France any longer—not even for this. He’d already said they would be leaving by dawn the next day. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t stay on her own. She was already nineteen. Of age, even in the magical world. Why couldn’t she live here on her own?

But she knew why.

The magical world—particularly when it came to pureblood rights of women and inheritance—was controlled by men. Muggle women had more freedom than she did right now.

They apparated back to the manor. The hallways, as bright as they were, felt cold. Quiet.

“Naomi.”

She paused by a linen-covered mirror—an Allard custom to keep the dead from lingering or being trapped within the mercury-backed casing—and turned.

“Follow me,” Bartemius said. “We must speak in the parlor.”

Her fingers tightened around the urn as she obeyed, the scent of blackberry oil lingering on her skin like a memory of gentler hands. Papa’s hands had always been warm, steady. Her uncle’s… were not.

Once inside, Bartemius crossed immediately to the bourbon cabinet—her father’s bourbon cabinet, maintained only for guests—and poured himself a glass. The gesture was casual. Disrespectful. Almost mocking.

Naomi forced her feet into the center of the room, spine straight, chin lowered in expectation of the part she must play: obedient, pureblood, demure. She wore the mask she was trained to wear and focused on breathing calmly.

Her uncle sipped, his lips smacking at the taste, and turned to her.

“You are a pureblood heiress,” he began, eyes dragging over her face with bland appraisal. “I trust you understand what that means.”

“I understand, Uncle,” she said.

Slow satisfaction curled within his chest as he took another sip.

Bartemius studied his niece with a measured, clinical interest, the bourbon warming his hand as he rolled the glass between his fingers.

Naomi Cosette Crouch stood rigid as a wand, lips set, eyes hollowed by a week of mourning, and yet—. He paused. Her eyes were a bit shadowed right now, with grief, he was sure, but he could imagine that on a normal day they would be bright.

Perfect, his mind purred.

Yes.
She would do.

She was prettier than Archibald deserved to sire. Prettier than a girl raised as an Allard should have been. Her hair—that warm honey-brown the Crouch line had thinned out generations ago—was vibrant on her. Alive. It curled in soft ringlets down to her waist.

And her eyes—deep ocean blue—were not Crouch at all.

Those belonged to that French Allard woman Archibald had married.
A distraction of a wife.
A weakness.

Bartemius took another sip of the bourbon. He savored it, feeling the quiet burn as he allowed his eyes to linger on his niece. It had been too long. He hadn’t seen his niece in several years—not since before his son…

He dismissed the thought.

Archibald would have frowned at him for drinking today of all days. And wasn’t it ironic that his brother had died so near the same day as their father.

What a tragedy, he thought sardonically. He smirked internally, eyes still considering. It made the bourbon taste all the better. Sweeter, even.

She was exactly as he needed her—untethered, disoriented, leaning silently toward obedience out of habit and grief.

He could almost feel the malleability in her. And the best part?

She didn’t yet know how thoroughly alone she now was. Ah, how he’d missed this. He hated his brother. Hated his brother’s wife. But his niece… he’d missed his niece.

Bartemius let his gaze sweep her body—not with lust. At least not entirely. Rather, he was gazing with consideration. He paused at the thought and let his gaze linger a bit more, thoroughly amused by the way things had shifted with the death of his brother.

It didn’t matter whether it was lust or not. She was his.

Archibald had always been the golden one. The heir. The beloved son. The one with a wife chosen out of affection instead of a political match, and the one with the beautiful daughter who admired him.

Bartemius had watched it all unfold as he stood in the shadow their father forced him into.

And then again when the public had applauded Archibald’s career choices, his charity work, his research, his letters of legacy. Archibald had been the son people admired even when they critiqued his work. He was admired.

But now?

Now Archibald was ash in a ceremonial bowl because he couldn’t keep his secrets under control.

And Bartemius was the only surviving Crouch man of consequence.

His gaze flicked to Naomi.

There were just a few last things to line up, and everything that should have been his would be.

Her eyes remained lowered—the proper pureblood way. At least her father taught her something right.

Good, he thought. Very good.

She hated the way his voice held no grief. No tremor. No loss. No sincerity.
No kindness.
Just expectation.
Just ownership.

If my father was here…

She answered him, teeth grinding behind the words.

The look in her uncle’s eyes unnerved her. She understood her position very well. The laws of those in wealth, in nobility, had not changed since the early nineteenth century. They were so outdated she wondered how they had not revealed themselves to the Muggles yet, with how backwards they were. She, as a woman, could not own property or inherit vaults unless under special circumstances. Archibald Crouch was the eldest son of the Crouch family, and therefore Lord Crouch and Lord Allard. She was an only child. In the Muggle world, she would be able to inherit everything; equality among the sexes was something understood. And though, in the magical world the sexes were considered equal when it came to magic, finances were something different.

She was considered unworthy to hold onto her wealth by herself unless she was married. That meant she would have to live with her uncle until marriage. He would be Lord Regent until then. When she married, her husband would then become the Lord.

Her jaw hurt from how hard she gritted her teeth. Shit. She knew her uncle was power hungry. He always had been. He was the reason her aunt had died of sickness and why her cousin had gone the way he had—lost to the desire, not for power, but for a father figure who would just tell him he was good enough.

No. Her uncle wrapped himself in the cloth of titles and found his identity there. She hated him for it, and hated her situation even more because she was now in his care. She wasn’t a person to him. She knew that. She was an opportunity for him and, in truth, that scared her.

She would have to find out what he was planning. Because he was clearly planning. She would have to—for her sake.

Magic stirred faintly around her—soft and aquatic, brushing her skin like water rippling around stones. It always did that when she was emotional.

Her uncle’s magic felt nothing like water.
It smelled like iron; like chains.

He stepped closer. His cloak bunched awkwardly around his shoulders, as though it belonged to a man broader, stronger. Her uncle had always been a pretender. A liar.

Unsurprising.

She hid the smile at her train of thought.

“Good. Then you understand that you will be leaving France and living in the Crouch family home in England as of tomorrow. The elves will place everything in this manor under stasis for a later time.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she demurred.

“When you return to England,” he said, swirling the bourbon, eyes half-lidded as they gazed upon her, “you will remain within the estate unless granted permission to leave. The war may be over, but dangers remain. I expect obedience on this matter.”

A cold, sharp lance of anger burst through her chest—but she kept her gaze lowered.

“A calm sea hides beasts.” Her mother’s voice rumbled in the back of her mind.

“Yes, Uncle. I understand.”

He reached out and cupped her face, lifting her head so he could gaze into her eyes. His were a muddy brown. Cold.

The gesture should have been tender. Would have been if it had been her father. Between any other family, it might have been. Real family. Her uncle had always been oil to their water. He didn’t mix, and it showed.

Instead, goosebumps rose across her skin as his thumb stroked her cheek with a calculated slowness, the emptiness in his eyes more unsettling than rage. And she found, without meaning to, that her anger was quickly replaced with uncertainty. He looked at her as one might assess a newly purchased wand: testing for malleability.

She’d seen this too. The ocean had shown her this too.

“Naomi,” he murmured, his voice a slow and dangerous cadence. She’d only ever heard it when he spoke to her. She’d never even heard him use it with his own wife. “I have done many… regrettable things in my life. A few I wish undone. Most I do not.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I would hate for you to become something else I won’t regret.”

The words slid over her skin like the cold edge of a blade, and she shivered before she could stop herself. That was a threat. A promise, even—and he meant it. She watched as the muscle around his mouth twitched. He wanted to smirk, but bailed on the act.

She closed her eyes, briefly, so he wouldn’t see the flash of vengeance in her. How dare he? How dare he feel so triumphant over her on the day of her father’s funeral. She’ll dance on this man’s grave one day.

“Don’t strain yourself pretending you’re capable of remorse on my behalf.” She bit back the response and chose to swallow the laugh that burbled.

She wanted to stab him. Carve a knife along his skin. Watch him feel something other than utter self-assuredness. She shoved it down, blinking a moment, a little dazed at the sudden need for violence.

She bowed her head, because that was what he expected.

“I understand, Uncle.”

I can’t do anything now. Not yet.
But I am not that little girl anymore, Uncle.
And your day will come. Soon. That’s MY promise.

“Go on to bed,” Bartemius said, turning away as if she were already dismissed. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

Naomi bowed her head—obedient, dutiful, every inch the pliable heiress he believed her to be—and walked toward the doorway on steady legs.

Only when her back was turned, safely out of sight, did she let her fingers curl around the urn so tightly her knuckles went white.

She needed answers. Now.
And possibly—just maybe—a plan to commit murder.

She stepped into her bedroom, closed the door, and locked it with a soft click. The Allard crest carved into the wood pulsed faintly, recognizing her signature and sealing it against intrusions—physical and magical.

Only when she set down the urn did she allow herself to breathe deeply, her shoulders releasing their tension.

There was grief. There would be grief for a long while, she knew. She wasn’t unfamiliar with it. However, the grief was being overwritten with cold anger and suspicion that curled tightly around it like barbed wire.

Her uncle didn’t know it, but ever since the last time he’d visited—back when she was fourteen and her mother had just died—she’d promised herself that she’d never let that happen again. She’d do whatever she needed to do to never feel that level of fear again. She’d rather rot in Azkaban than feel that helpless again.

And she knew her uncle enough to know that he’d at least try.

She moved to her window, looking out at the rain as it hit the ground in thick sheets. She placed her palm there, grounding herself, feeling the cold seep into her skin. Her magic stirred in response along with the heat of her skin, and brushed the glass with delicate frosted mist.

She clenched her jaw.

I know my father. He did not drink. Bunch of Idiotic sheep for thinking it. So…think, Naomi! What really happened!? Who fed the Ministry the lie that he was drunk? Who covered the tracks? And why?

Why go after my father in the first place?

There were too many questions. Most had no answers yet. She knew where to start, though.

Bartemius Crouch, Sr.

She turned from the window sharply.

“I need proof. Evidence. Something.”

“There’s… some things I haven’t told you, but you’re old enough now.”

She began pacing the room, her gown swishing the floor as she moved, her hands wringing as her mind raced.

That’s right.

Her father needed to tell her something. Maybe she needed to talk to her mother’s portrait. She’d been avoiding it the last week.

She also needed to get into her father’s office.

Her parents were dead, and though only a man could inherit, she was still the heir. This, after all, was the Allard manor. Not the Crouch. There were no other Allards that could interfere with her control of this place. And her father’s office—he’d locked it magically with blood runes before leaving for Russia. Only two people could open it: Archibald Crouch, Lord of two houses, and his heir.

Naomi drew in a breath and called one of the Allard family elves.

A handsome elf with a tuft of curly, blond fuzz on his head appeared, dressed in his uniform livery.

“Belisse, I need your help.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle Naomi?” the elf asked, bowing. “What does Mistress Allard wish?”

Her throat tightened. She’d grown up with these elves and they’d never addressed her as such. It had always been “young lady” or “my lady.” It was good to be proven correct, even if it also proved she was now an orphan.

“I need access to my father’s office,” Naomi whispered.

The elf blinked, then nodded gravely. “As Mistress Allard, your command is law.”

He vanished with a gust of lavender-scented air.

Naomi draped her mother’s invisibility cloak around her shoulders, the magic already beginning to fade. She’d have to move slowly through the corridors if she didn’t want the mirage effect around her to be noticed.

She slipped out into the hallway, careful not to disturb the floorboards that squeaked. Her father had long ago taught her how to step between the seams—his mischievous trick for sneaking late-night cocoa from the kitchens in order not to awaken her mother.

She swallowed the lump that had risen from the thought, taking a moment as she breathed through it. Grief was most painful when you couldn’t always guess when it would hit you.

She traveled along the corridors quietly, listening for any sounds, until she stood in front of her mother’s portrait.

“Hello, Mama.”

She removed the cloak and watched as her mother’s sad eyes found hers.

“Hello, my darling.” They were quiet for a long moment. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

She said nothing. The woman wasn’t wrong. The painting sighed, shifting within the canvas.

“I’m sorry. We’ve left you alone. That was never something we wanted.”

“I-I know, Mama.” She watched as the woman placed her hands up to the canvas, as if she wanted to lean out but there was a wall keeping her away. “It’s just…hard. Because you’re not really her. Sometimes, I don’t know what’s worse: You being dead and gone, or you being here, where I can see, but not touch you. You’re not real.” She choked on a sob that she couldn’t swallow back. Guess she still had a few tears left. 

“I’m an orphan now. I have no one. I don’t know what to do.” She couldn’t bear to look at the woman’s face. She came here for answers. She didn’t want to look at her. 

“What did the ocean tell you? What did you see from magic?”

Naomi shook her head.

“I can’t process it right now. There was too much.”

A wrinkle appeared above the painting’s brow. Curiosity? Concern? Both?

“Okay. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. You will understand it in time.” A gesture toward her father’s office doors. “Go to your father’s office. He left a letter for you on his desk.”

“A letter?” Maybe there were answers. The painting nodded.

“Belisse.” The elf popped in and flicked at the wards guarding the doors. Two layers of protection. House-elf magic and Allard family magic. “Thank you, Belisse. When I leave, replace the wards.”

She turned toward the oak door and placed her palm over the Allard crest, flinching slightly at the small cut it caused as it tasted her blood. She hadn’t had to do this before, but the master of the house was dead.

It pulsed in recognition, then unlocked with a soft click.

The scent hit her first—bergamot, parchment, and the faint metallic tang of magic. Her father’s magic. His wand polish still lingered in the air. She wrapped her arms around herself against the wave of grief that hit her. She wasn’t ready for this. She needed to do it, but she wasn’t ready. The scent of him was everywhere.

She walked in and shut the door behind her, a few candles lighting on their own. She moved in a circle for a moment, taking it all in—and it hit her quickly.

Everything looked untouched.

Too untouched.

Her brows knitted in confusion at the clean organization. Her father wasn’t sloppy by nature, but he worked in the chaotic brilliance of people who lived in their minds more than the world. His room had always been tidy… but lived in. Arranged chaos. He’d never been this organized, his papers lying in neat stacks all around. She observed the ink stains on the blotter. A half-eaten biscuit from their last breakfast together near the ledger, no crumbs. Books stacked along the table near the window like shields.

She moved with slow, deliberate calm, though her pulse was a drumbeat behind her ribs.

This was staged, and it could only be by her father.

That… spoke for itself. Because that meant he knew something was happening before he left. Enough to do this.

Stacks of his research notes lay in neat piles. Maps pinned with magical tacks glowed faintly under preservation charms. A notebook lay open on the desk—its quill frozen mid-curve and still in the air, as if Archibald had been interrupted mid-thought. Intentional.

Naomi stepped closer.

The open page was filled with hurried, looping script:

“Meeting in Moscow confirmed. Source reliable but frightened. Information suggests internal interference. If correct… everything compromised. Must confirm.”

Her breath caught.

Internal interference?

Compromised?

She scanned the margins, eyes darting. A few words stood out:

Ministry
Regulation Committee
someone watching; been warned
trust no one
B.C. (initials, circled hard)

Her stomach flipped as she ran her fingers over the deep impression of ink.

B.C?

Bartemius Crouch?

Her nose picked up a scent as she leaned onto the desk and her eyes drifted to the ink blotter. She leaned in further and inhaled.

Blackberry oil.
Carnation ash.
The same remnants of the ritual they’d used on his body.

Her throat tightened.

Papa… what were you preparing for? Why does your ink smell like death preparation? What’s going on?

And then her gaze caught on the corner of the desk.

A single envelope.

Plain.
Cream-colored.

No wax seal—he would never risk a magical tracker—but her full name was written across the front in her father’s looping, elegant script.

Naomi Cosette Crouch
For Your Eyes Only

Her stomach tightened.

She didn’t touch it immediately, just stared and breathed. Something about the envelope felt strange. Not dangerous. Not cursed. Just…off. Like a line of magic circled around it. But then her hand was lifting to it before she could think about it, as though she couldn’t resist it even if she wanted to.

A spark of magic flittered around her thumbs before fizzling out. A ward. Her father’s magic.

She hesitated for a moment as the ward recognized her before her fingers brushed the parchment.

It was warm.

Naomi sucked in a breath and lifted the envelope. A faint shimmer crossed the surface—barely perceptible unless you knew to look. Something like another ward, but not quite. Her pulse hammered as she broke the simple paper flap and slid the letter out.

It was an enchantment—a cipher spell he used whenever he researched things the Ministry would have labeled “politically inconvenient.” Something taught to him by her mother, but turned sideways to fit him.

The parchment was full of symbols—not letters—written in normal lines across the paper.

Each sigil twisted into constellations. Slanted lines like runes but not quite runes. Clusters of dots and dashes and small geometric shapes.

It was beautiful. And completely incomprehensible.

Her breath caught as the first line glowed faintly, then dimmed as if rejecting her attempt to read it.

Frustration and fear pricked her throat.

What were you trying to tell me, Papa? Or rather, what were you trying to hide from everyone else?

Her eyes tried to take in everything before she noticed something—small, etched into the very bottom edge of the page.

A tiny hammer.

The Crouch family mark for “hidden.”

Her father wasn’t a big fan of the Crouch family, despite being the Crouch Lord. However, he admired the family magic. He’d chosen a pagan cipher from the Crouch line this time—Pallas’s craft instead of Amphitrite’s dolphin. Her father had only taught the cipher to her mother. He said he would teach it to her, too, but he died before he could finish his lessons. It was encoded and she'd she’d need a “password” to unlock it.

She couldn’t decode it yet.

A wave of grief wrapped around her as she clenched the letter to her chest.

“Papa… what’s going on?” she whispered.

In the silence of the study, something creaked—floorboards shifting in the hallway outside.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

She snapped the notebook shut and tucked the envelope with the letter into the corset of her gown, scanning wildly for someplace to hide at the same time. The desk remained enchanted—unsearchable without the Lord or heir’s command.

She whispered, “Cacher.”

The notebook dissolved into shimmering dust and sank into the wood grain.

The footsteps grew louder. Slow. Measured.

Her uncle.

She slipped behind a tall bookshelf, heart pounding against her ribs, fingers curled around her wand. She cast a quick Hushem charm on her breath, a silencio over her feet, and forced her back against the wall and into the shadows. With a last flick, the candles dimmed until they were out.

The office doors creaked open, and dread pooled in her stomach when the candles relit themselves. He wasn’t supposed to be able to come in. She’d reacted on instinct, but her uncle wasn’t supposed to be able to get into the Allard Lord’s office.

She could just make out a vial of something being tucked into a pocket as her uncle’s boots clicked on the marble.

“Archibald,” Bartemius murmured to the room, voice quiet. “You always were careless with your… activities.”

Naomi’s blood turned to ice.

He knew.

He knew exactly what was in this room. What her father had been up to. What he’d been researching.

She listened as he chuckled under his breath.

“Good for me, though, that you were.”

His steps moved closer.

A moment of silence.

A soft hum of magic as he scanned the room, searching. She wondered what he was looking for. He moved over to her father’s desk and tried to touch it—only to be shocked back with magic. He tsked under his breath as he looked at his slightly singed fingers.

Then—

“That’s alright, for now. Everything will be settled soon, anyway. You never could keep me out for long, big brother.”

The air shifted as he turned—pausing at the threshold as though he sensed something. For a terrifying heartbeat she was certain he’d detected her. Then he closed the door, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Naomi stayed hidden another full minute before daring to breathe again.

When she stepped out, her hands trembled from adrenaline—but her mind was clear.

Her father wasn’t just murdered.
He was silenced.
And Bartemius Crouch was connected to it—whether directly or indirectly, she didn’t know yet.

But she intended to find out.

She retrieved the hidden notebook, tucked it into her pocket, and slipped back under the invisibility cloak.

Leaving the office, her heart sank.

Because her mother’s portrait was gone.

Chapter Text

In order to save myself, I must destroy first who I was told to be. 

Chapter 3:

May 29 , 1984

Magic felt different in Britain.

Naomi noticed it when she first crossed the border—how it pressed close, taut and anxious, like the lingering breath before a scream. France’s magic was soft and cyclical, tied to rivers and moon phases, steeped in old rites. British magic was rigid, policed, and openly suspicious. Even the air tasted of Ministry interference and quiet fear.

She hadn’t stepped foot in Diagon Alley yet, but she had already been plastered across the Prophet despite never leaving the estate. 

GRIEVING HEIRESS TAKEN IN BY HEROIC UNCLE
TRAGIC PUREBLOOD LOSS: Crouch-Allard Heiress Orphaned

She imagined the letters piling on her uncle’s desk—offers, alliances, contracts disguised as condolences. Pureblood society loved tragedies when profit was attached.

The attention made her skin crawl.

Utterly ridiculous. 

Speaking of things that made her want to hex the nearest wall—

The letter her father wrote was still unread, tucked away in a magically hidden locked space of her luggage. She couldn’t crack it and it was driving her crazy. The symbols had stared back at her every night since France, pretty and useless, refusing to become words without the missing password. It was the only time she’d ever wanted to shake her father for being clever.

She’d like to ask her mother’s portrait, but it had gone missing that night and she hadn’t bothered to ask her Uncle about it, already guessing why he took it. 

There was no telling what the portrait knew. She just hoped he hadn’t burnt it. 

Not that she missed the thing. Not really. 

The portrait wasn’t her mother. It was pigment and preservation, a polite lie nailed to canvas. Naomi didn’t mourn it—she resented it. And she resented even more that someone had taken it, as if they had the right to remove her access to what it knew.

Speaking of her Uncle…She hadn’t forgotten the impossible: her uncle entering her father’s office in France when he shouldn’t have been able to. Not unless he’d brought an answer with him—blood, stolen and carried like a skeleton key. 

But she was in England now. There was nothing she could do about her Uncle’s access to her father’s knowledge. Nothing she could do, trapped as she was, in a land healing from a war. 

It had been nearly three years since an infant Harry Potter supposedly killed the Dark Lord. Three years since the sham of a Ministry of Magic rounded up death eaters and threw them into prison, most with no trial. Three years since her cousin, Barty, had been thrown into Azkaban.

…And, it seemed, a little less than three years since her hypocritical uncle had taken her cousin out of prison in exchange for her Aunt. 

She spent the first three weeks in England as the perfect obedient niece. Quiet. Composed. Docile.

An act.

She was waiting. Observing her Uncle’s moves during the day and his timing when he returned at night. She kept her activities habitual, leading the man into a false sense of security when it came to her. 

Bartemius Crouch was a man of ritual and a man of control. He checked daily with the house elves on her movements- She knew because they told her. 

He left every morning at precisely 7:28 a.m and returned between 5:30 and 6:00 in the evening. He did not waver from this. He demanded her presence during dinner and retired after to drank a glass of scotch in his office. She’d return to her room after grabbing a book and locked her room door with magic as his footsteps would always hover outside for several moments before he’d move to his own room at night. 

She’d waited until she had become so familiar with him that she’d recognize his breathing in the next room, the shift of air when he left it. 

She timed her movements. Counted her uncle’s footsteps. Noted which portraits watched her too closely. Learned the rhythms of the house and the brittle magic woven into its stones. She let him think she had folded under grief like pressed parchment. A docile lamb, hurt by the loss of all she loved. Needing to be cared for. 

He believed her.

“His mistake.” She chuckled to herself as she made her first move. 

Step one: Reestablish control of the Crouch House elves. 

Her uncle had controlled this house since her father left to marry her mother. The elves were familiar to him and feared him. 

The Crouch estate didn’t recognize her the way the Allard manor had. It should have—by blood, by title, by the simple logic of magic—but houses were like people: they obeyed whoever had fed them longest. Bartemius had ruled these stones for years, poured his will into every ward and corridor until the place smelled faintly of him.

Even with Archibald as Lord, absence had consequences. Authority, Naomi was learning, could be inherited on parchment and still be lost in practice.

But she was heiress. Again, law may not recognize her, but magic did. She’d just have to assert her authority in a different way. 

The old magic in their bonds would recognize her the moment she made it look her in the eye.

She’d waited until he left that morning and followed one of the older house-elves down the narrow servants’ stairwell. She held the French invisibility cloak in one hand, just in case, and allowed the passageway’s gloom to cover her as it was thick enough to swallow her whole.

The deeper she went, the colder the air became—dense with Crouch magic. It felt…different. A forgotten friend. Like meeting someone she should know but couldn’t remember the face of. 

The elves didn’t come down this far. Only one did. She’d noted that the basement was a place her uncle avoided, always sending the house elf Winky down if he needed something. 

“Patterns can be dangerous, Naomi. Someone should never be able to memorize you unless they love you, and if they love you, they don’t need patterns to know you.” She’d never been so grateful for the lessons of her father. 

Naomi swallowed hard as she stepped off the last stone step, her body coming to a stop before her mind recognized what, or rather who, she was looking at. 

And because she had seen this. The sea, again, had shown her this. 

Frail. Hollowed. Too thin to be real. The image had flashed through her at the Sea-Gate like a warning wrapped in saltwater, and Naomi had…not dismissed it, but been too overwhelmed with everything to process it.  

The Sea-Gate had shown her pieces.

Which meant the rest of the vision wasn't metaphors either. Not that she had time to accept this. Accept that the very thing that was supposed to give her direction, guidance on her path of magic, had shown her droplets of her future. 

Because Barty was down here.

Her Barty. Her beloved cousin who she hadn’t seen in years. 

And he was nothing like she remembered. But she loved him and therefore she knew it was him. 

Her cousin sat huddled against the far wall—thin, shaking, half-swallowed by an invisibility cloak bunched in uneven folds around him. 

The sight hit her hard. 

Visceral and wrong on a level she couldn’t explain. Because this..this was wrong. 

Barty had always been full of sharp edges and bright ambition, too proud for his own good. Too Smart. But always burning with life. Her last real memory of him floated up unbidden—

“He confessed,” her father whispered to her mother that night in their drawing room. Her aunt stood by the fireplace, body slumped in defeat. “He admitted to torturing those Muggles. Said it proudly. Merlin, Juliette, I barely recognized him.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth.
“He is only eighteen, Arch.”
“And angry. So terribly angry,” her father whispered. “Bartemius is marching him to Azkaban tomorrow.”

Naomi had peeked around the doorway, small and terrified, watching as her aunt collapsed onto the floor in sobs so deep they shook the walls. Her father had left her mother and moved, lifting her aunt gently.
“He is still your baby, Melissa. No prison will change that.”

Naomi had never forgotten her aunt’s wail. It sounded like a spell being ripped from a witch’s chest and the sound still caused her to tear up many years later.

Now, in this cold basement, Naomi looked at Barty and saw a ghost of the boy she remembered. A boy who was like her older brother. 

His skin had lost its color, pulled tight across his cheekbones. His hair fell in greasy, tangled ropes. His eyes—once quick and cutting—were glazed and unseeing, darting in small, frantic motions he didn’t seem aware of. His tongue flicked out, not unlike a snake, and tasted the air as if it will help him sense for danger he couldn’t defend against. 

He wasn’t shackled.

He didn’t need to be. 

Her throat tightened and she choked back a sob she didn’t have time for.

“Winky…” she whispered.

The old house-elf, the one she had followed down here, trembled violently, twisting her hands in the hem of her towel.

“Mistress shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, voice shaking with equal parts fear and guilt.

She stepped forward, the invisibility cloak dropping from her hands.

“What is this? What did Uncle do to him!?” her voice was barely above a whisper, but desperate and angry. 

Winky’s ears flattened against her skull.

“Winky cannot—”

“Yes, you can!” Her voice was sharp as cut glass, magic rising like angry waves across her exposed arms. “I am the heiress. My magic outranks him. You will answer me.” 

The elf whimpered, caught between conflicting magical loyalties, until Naomi’s magic pulsed outward—gentle. but authoritative, distinctly Allard and Crouch.

“Do not allow my Uncle to fool you about who is truly in control here, Winky.”

The elf shuttered and collapsed to her knees under the weight of her own magic bowing before Naomi’s authority.

“M-master took young master from the prison,” she sobbed, her body shuttering from being forced to obey. “Mistress begged him to. Mistress traded places for him. Master brought young master home and… and…”

“And?” Naomi demanded, kneeling beside her cousin, her hands hovering in confusion. How do I fix this?! Uncle! How could you?

“And Master cursed him, young mistress! A curse to never leave the house. Never speak the truth. Never fight. Never be seen. Never resist.”

Naomi felt her breath leave her lungs in a cold rush. She looked back at the elf, eyes watery but no tears fell. No. 

The imperious.

This was a betrayal she couldn’t fathom, and she wasn’t even the one who was betrayed. 

Her uncle had extracted his son from Azkaban and then imprisoned him worse than the Dementors ever could.

Her hands moved without thinking—reaching for Barty, cupping his chilled cheeks. His breath hitched faintly at the warmth, eyelids fluttering.

“Barty,” she whispered. “It’s Naomi. I’m here.”

His eyes didn’t react. She grit her teeth against the rage that rose in her like a tide. 

An unforgivable holds the name because it delves into depths of the worst emotions a human can have for another. The desire to kill. To hurt. To control. 

She’s unsurprised this was the one her Uncle cast. Unfortunately for him her mother was smart, a woman beyond her time. 

“Naomi, understand my love that not all men are stupid. But some are. And the ones that are always think they’re not. They always think they’re more than they are. A smart woman is one who knows how to use this.”

Naomi raised her wand and concentrated on her own will. She pulled up every desire to break past her Uncles authority. Break past his manipulations. Every ounce of need to not allow that man to win before aiming her wand at her cousin. She let her memories of her cousin flood her and increase her anger:
Barty teaching her to cheat at Exploding Snap.
Barty defending her from a Beauxbatons student in the French market who called her “half-foreign.”
Barty laughing loudly at the Malfoy Yule Ball when she tripped and nearly floated upside down from accidental magic.
Barty: her brilliant and arrogant and sharp-tongued, but never cruel older brother.

Her magic surged. She knew what casting this spell would mean for her, what it represented. She didn't care. 

“Imperio.”

The spell shot forward like a blade, white like lightning, and slammed into the man.

She felt the two magics collide—hers and her uncle’s. His resisted first, thrashing like a hammer, but Naomi pressed harder. She thought of her father’s body slipping into the pyre. Of the sly smirks of her Uncle over the last couple of weeks, how he seemed so satisfied with everything. She thought of the notebook she had found in the Allard office and the initials. She thought of her uncle’s cold hand on her cheek.

Her anger honed her magic into something sharp and unwavering.

His influence cracked.
Shattered.
Fell away like ice.

And Barty took a deep shuttering breath, eyes blink fast, like the first inhale after being underwater for too long. He shook, his eyes dazed as he looked around the desolate basement. 

A couple blinks, eyebrows narrowing as his eyes refocused. 

Then those same eyes widened in recognition. Naomi hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until the wave of relief hit.

“Naomi?”

She exhaled shakily. “It’s me.”

A broken laugh burst from him before he lunged forward, hugging her with what little strength he had. 

Naomi held him tightly, feeling all the missing years pressing between them. She kissed his cheek. 

“I missed you, Bee.” He choked on a laugh and she didn’t comment on the tears she could feel sliding down the side of her neck. 

“Words…,” She could feel him swallow, his body shaking as he tried to keep himself up, “Words ccccannot exppppress how much I’ve mmmmissed you, Nomi.”

They sat together on the cold stone floor until his breathing steadied. When he pulled back, his smile was crooked—too tired to reach his eyes, but still, unmistakably Barty.

“Did you just… cast an Impppperius to break an Imperius?” he asked, incredulous.

She shrugged faintly. “Mother taught me.”

“Well. That explains why Fafafa…” a deep breath, “father hated her.”

His smirk flickered.

Then faded. 

Eyebrows knitted into concern. It took a moment, like he needed time to pull the string of thoughts he held fully together. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

“My father died.”

Barty went still.

“Uncle Archie?” His voice broke at the end.

Naomi bit her lip and nodded.

“And Father… kkkkept me down here?”

Another nod.

Barty’s jaw tightened. “Then something is very, vvvvery wrong.”

Naomi smiled humorlessly. “I know.”

“Yyyou’ve got a plan?”

“It’s forming.”

“That’s my gggirl.”

He tried to stand but swayed sharply. Naomi caught him, pulling him into her arms, her heart twisting at how positively waifish he was.

He chuckled breathlessly. 

“You’ve grown.”

“And you’ve shrunk.”

“You’re not wrong. Cccccomes with being ttttortured by dementors and then hhhhidden away in a basement for a couple years.” His voice is sarcastic. A classic Barty thing to say. She turned to the waiting elf. Barty took several deep breaths, as if the sudden verbosity had tired him out and he had no energy to do more than roll his head against her shoulder.

“Winky, bring food. Broth. Soft bread. A nutritional draught.”

The elf scrambled away.

While waiting, Naomi ran her fingers through Barty’s tangled hair, gently pushing strands away from his feverish forehead. He leaned into the touch unconsciously. 

Winky returned with a tray, and Naomi fed him slowly, patient with each spasm that interrupted his chewing. She wiped his chin as he shook in her arms. She coaxed him through sips of potion as he choked, his body knowing how to swallow, but having forgotten what it means to taste. .

By the end, color warmed his cheeks faintly.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I’d say you missed your calling as a Healer, but I don’t want to ruin the image I still have of you hexing people for looking at you wrong.”

She snorted. “Can’t I be both.”

They shared a small smile before Naomi’s expression sharpened. A thought coming to mind.

“Winky,” she said quietly. “Tell me… what happened to my aunt?”

The elf froze.

“Winky… please.”

The elf’s voice cracked, tears streaming down her dusty skin. “Mistress couldn’t bear young master in Azkaban. She insisted she take his place. Master allowed it. But Mistress… she was sick. Weak. Azkaban…” Winky’s voice trembled. “Azkaban took her mind. Took her life.”

Naomi closed her eyes.

Her aunt had loved Barty fiercely—sometimes too fiercely. She often thought the woman was trying to make up for what her Uncle had lacked, pouring out a double portion of parental love.

“And my uncle?” Naomi murmured. “How did he react?”

Winky’s lip quivered, guilt and sorrow at the situation written clearly in her body’s distress. “Master said… one less burden.”

Barty inhaled sharply but said nothing. His eyes shimmered with a silent, old grief. An old hatred.

Naomi felt something cold settle in her belly.

Her uncle had sacrificed his wife.
Hidden his son.
Lied about her father.
And now kept her under lock and watch.

What did he want?
What was the endgame here?

“Winky,” Naomi said slowly, “my uncle is planning something. I know it. Tell me what else he has done.”

The elf shook her head miserably. “Master speaks to no one. But Winky knows… he waits for something. Someone. Winky hears him talk to the Family Ledger.”

The Family Ledger.

The book of lineages, inheritances, and magical contracts.

A book used for—

Marriage arrangements.
Bloodline negotiations.
Financial transfer of vaults.

Naomi’s mind snapped into motion.

Her father’s sudden death.
The rushed funeral.
Her uncle dragging her back to England.
The Ministry narrative.
Her inheritance.
Her uncle’s strange touches.
The Ledger.

Pieces slid into place with a sickening click.

Barty met her eyes.

“You know what he wwwants,” he said quietly, a stutter fluttering on the ends of the words. But, Merlin, it was Barty. He was still here. Still who she remembered. 

Naomi swallowed hard. “Yes. I do.”

“He’ll marry you to someone,” Barty said, voice hoarse, shaky but not stopping. “Someone he cccan control. Someone who bene…benefits him ppppolitically. Or someone who ties him ccccloser to power.”

“Or someone tied to my father’s research,” her voice was slow as he processed her thoughts. “Someone who benefits from his death.”

Winky whimpered softly. “Master looked at the Ledger two nights ago. He couldn’t decide if you were a bargaining chip or…or a safety net.”

Barty growled under his breath.

She was numb. Cold.
But beneath it all—beneath the fear and fury—came something sharp and clean.

Clarity. 

She looked back at her cousin. He looked so tired, but he was trying. Barty was always smart. She knew, even though he’d been slowed, he was coming to the same conclusions. 

“The only way someone can gain the Crouch Lordship from me is through marriage.”

“Indeed.”

“If he wants the Lordship he can’t exactly get it by allowing me to marry off to someone else. It would be passed down to my kids. It doesn’t make sense that he wants to marry me off.”

“That is only true if what someone is offering isn’t more valuable than the Lordship.” Barty’s voice was soft, allowing him to get through his sentence with nothing more than a chippy inhale. She frowned. 

“What if I were to Marry my Cousin who is currently under the imperious curse of my Uncle? Wouldn’t he gain the power of the Crouch Lordship as long as both of us remain under control?”

Barty huffed in irritation and tiredness. She watched as he maneuvered his body back towards the wall and slid down. 

“That’s rather d-dastardly. Esp…especially considering he d-doesn’t have to tell anyone else about the marriage. He could control the Lordship while still using you within whatever deal he’s scheming.” 

Naomi frowned harder. That was true. 

She wrapped her arms around her body, as a sudden thought occurred to her. Her stomach dropped. No no no no no. 

Merlin No. Please. 

Her thoughts had come to a halt, all the breath within her body left together at once and she could only stare dazedly at the wall. Suddenly she felt like the one who’d been in Azkaban. 

“What is it, N-Nomi?”

“He…doesn’t have to marry me to you, does he, Bee?” She whispered. She watched as he paled in understanding. 

“He could just marry me himself.” Those touches…made a lot more sense. She blinked back flashes of memory. Of her Uncle. Of his hands. 

I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m not her. Not her. No more. 

She looked back to her cousin, his skinny face more alert now than he’d been so far. 

“You need Gringotts.”

“Yes. I need Gringotts. But before that...”

She turned to Winky. 

“Winky you are a Crouch Family Elf, correct?” The elf began pulling on her ears, but nodded her assent. 

“Yes, Young Mistress.”

“Is my Uncle the current head of this house?”

“He is standing in as the head until you marry, young mistress.”

“Who is the heir?”

“You are, young mistress.”

“So my Uncle, who is standing in for me, is holding the heir prisoner and has placed mind controlling curses on another member of the crouch family. Is this okay, Winky?”

The elf looked like she could melt into the floor. 

“No, young mistress.” She whispered. “It isn’t.”

“I’m glad you agree, Winky.” She made a show of settling herself into a firmer, regal stance and looked the elf in the eye. “Now, Winky, we are not going to let this oversight continue, so I need you to agree to an unbreakable vow. It is to protect you and us.”

“Yes, young mistress.” The elf obediently held her hand out and Naomi joined her. 

An Unbreakable Vow between wizards was a thing of equals—dangerous, mutual, witnessed by a binder who held both parties steady as the magic fused.

This was not that.

House-elves swore differently. Their vows weren’t partnerships; they were bindings. Old servant-magic—hierarchical, brutal, and absolute. A Crouch elf could be compelled to swear if the bloodline demanded it, and the house itself could serve as witness.

Naomi didn’t like using that kind of magic. It tasted like iron when she spoke it. But she wasn’t asking Winky to die for her—she was giving the elf a shield Bartemius couldn’t pry open with threats or Legilimency.

She sighed as she looked at her shaking elf, but she stayed firm.

“Now Winky, repeat after me,” the elf nodded, “I swear on my magic to not tell Bartimeous Crouch senior anything I witnessed here today…” the elf complied. Naomi continued.

“...I swear on my magic to keep the secrets of Naomi Crouch and Bartimeous Crouch Junior from anyone attempting to get those secrets through legilimency, potion, compulsion, command, enchantment, manipulation, or any form of magical extraction…”

“...I swear on my magic to help Naomi Crouch and Bartimious Crouch Junior escape from Bartimious Crouch Senior for the continuation of the Crouch Family, so mote it be.”

Once the elf was finished, her magic settled heavily around her, protecting her and giving them help where they needed it. 

“Thank you, Winky. Now I’d like you to tell Uncle, when he asks, that I stayed in my room for most of the day and only ventured to the kitchen and the gardens. As for Barty, everything was normal for him. When uncle is not here, please make sure he gets as many meals as he can handle and a strengthening potion. Okay?”

“Yes, Young Mistress.” Naomi stood and glanced at her quietly thinking cousin. 

“I’m going back up before Uncle gets home. I will check on you when I can.”

She turned and walked towards the door. 

“Be careful, cousin.” She frowned and turned back to him.

She paused, listening to Barty’s labored thoughts. He lingered within the beats between every few words, taking slow breaths as if he was beginning to drift into sleep.

“If he’s planning… to use you for the …safety net… of the Crouch Lordship…what’s his plan… for using you… as a bargaining chip? Who…else is…involved, Nomi? ”

Naomi didn’t turn around.

But her voice was ice.

“I don’t know. But I suspect it’s someone connected to my father and the Allard Family.”

Inside her mourning cloth, her hand tightened around the folded notebook she had stolen from her father’s office.

She needed time and time wasn’t something she was sure she had. 

She moved to go back up the passageway. She'll finish her initial goal of dealing with the house elves of this house, afterwards she'd move on to the next thing. 

Step Two: Get into her Uncle’s Study and find the ledger.