I'm back.

o.O.o

When she wakes up the next morning Harry is gone.

"To his hearing," Granger had murmured to her tirelessly, wringing her hands together nervously and pacing across the floor, "they can't expel him - they just can't!"

No, she thinks later, over a cup of tea, they can't. And although the details escape her she does know that when he returns later that evening it would be triumphantly.

As the days teetered on she couldn't help but find herself enjoying the company of the Black home more and more - the dusty rooms, musty book-smell, and dark corners providing her a sense of comfort she thought she'd lost when Cedric died.

Her heart pangs at the mention of him, but - for once - she doesn't wallow in it. He was gone - dead, rotted, put in the earth - and the world was worse off for it, but nothing would change. That chance was already gone, bypassing her with wistful notes of what could have been - and, besides, it's her own fault anyway.

"Would you like some more toast, Vitoria dear?" Mrs. Weasley asks, bustling around the kitchen and clearly looking for a distraction of some sort. Anything to keep her mind at bay from what was happening at the Ministry.

"No," she says, quiet in the morning gloom, "but thank you."

Mrs. Weasley nods and settles herself to cleaning the different pots and pans that were utilized for their breakfast feast, choosing to use her hands - a rarity - rather than her wand.

Victoria, hands cupped carefully around her tea, watches her.

She watches as the sweat glistens across her forehead and the tight line around her eyes become more pronounced by each ticking of the clock.

Distressed, she thinks, and the word feels odd on her tongue.

Molly Weasley was a woman high on energy. Full of bustling warmth and sweet treats and honeyed affection that seeped into every word she spoke; tight-lipped anger, although seemingly frequent, speaking only to her concern. But now, in its place remained the most genuine of fear; the fear for her child, and the fear for their future. No, it seemed, distressed was not a word that suited Molly well at all.

She sighs.

"It's going to be fine," she says, the call of her voice echoing across the kitchen and bouncing off the walls, "Dumbledore wouldn't let anything happen to Harry."

There's a pause, hands faltering in their furious scrubbing to clutch the side of the counter in a tight grip, "I know that, I just..."

"You can't help but worry?"

"Yes, I suppose."

Mrs. Weasley stands up straight, shakes her head, and sets back to work. It's quiet like this for a long moment, and Victoria lets her take her time. If she wanted to speak then Victoria would listen - and if not, then that was fine too.

"That boy, he- he's been through a lot. Too much, far too much, for his age," Mrs. Weasley says eventually, sliding one dish out for another, "and this, on top of everything - oh, Victoria. He loves Hogwarts so much, I couldn't bear to see him lose it too. And I know Dumbledore would do his best to stop that from happening, but with all the things that's been thrown his way I can't help but fear that not even Dumbledore can prevent-"

She stops here, throws her hands out as though reaching for words just out of her grasp and slumps when they still don't come.

"It feels like a hopeless situation," Victoria summarises, watching the liquid in her cup swirl.

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley says very quietly, "it does. What hope does that boy have when the Ministry itself is-"

She cuts herself off here, as though coming to her senses, and rounds on Victoria with bright red cheeks.

"Oh Victoria," she says, embarrassed, "I shouldn't be bothering you with something like this!"

"It's really fine Mrs. Weasley."

"No, it's not. You're a child for heaven's sake and for me to be seeking counsel from you, oh-"

She sputters on for a few moments more, waving her wand in rigid strikes that force the cooking utensils into their place.

Victoria doesn't say anything more.

Her tea is cold.

o.O.o

She spends the rest of the day flicking through dusty pieces of parchment with Sasha curled, purring, around her neck.

'Dark arts are an essential way of life,' the book she was currently immersed in was telling her, 'even despite the disdain it garners. It's easy to mock and snub those that have found a higher calling, to sit upon a throne of second-class charms with the blood of mud corrupting your veins. Truly, what grace can be found in a Riddikulus spell? Or refinement in a Tarantallegra? There is none, I assure you. But what about the simple beauty of a perfectly cast Expulso curse? The sheer elegance of Fiendfyre?'

It was a distasteful book. A hateful one. If only it could come to life, could grow eyes and ears and behold this unwavering reader that held it within their grasp. To shriek and groan at the sight of this dirty mudblood that would dare tarnish the pages with her undignified presence. Who would dare find peace in this house of horrors.

The house was quieter than usual, the air tepid with tension. Every so often she could hear whispering voices rush past the room she found herself hidden in that day, frustration and impatience hidden in their tone.

It was easy to ignore, to invest herself fully in the white-yellow pages of dark spells and hexes. Here - a charm that would cause the flesh on her victim to bubble and burst in acidic puss, corroding their skin and killing them in a matter of minutes.

Or here, a variant of the bubblehead charm - a gush of water wrapping around the head of her would-be victim and drowning them. A slow, painful death.

On and on she reads, the rustic and tattered papers almost-bursting with forbidden knowledge, and she wonders - ever so briefly - what offerings of torture someone like the Malfoys could provide.

A charm that would inflict vivid hallucinations of death (as though anyone could truly understand-) , almost impossible to break - almost impossible to cast - and leaving the victim to slowly wither away and starve.

The killing curse, it seems, was actually quite merciful. Unavoidable, yes, but quick. Efficient.

Painless.

It does what it's meant to do.

And what are you meant to do?

She could make ants burst beneath skin, make them eat away at any unlucky soul that finds themselves at the other end of her wand. She could torch the scraps and move on with her life, hiding her murder effortlessly.

Quick, efficient, and painless. Oh, how lucky.

She doesn't know what she would do with this information, but finds herself tucking it away - just in case, just in case - anyway.

By the time she's made it through the book it's dark outside. There's laughter and celebration resonating up through the floorboards, and she takes a moment to sit back and let it sink in.

She lets herself imagine for a moment - just a tiny moment - what it would be like to join them and truly be a part of them; not the odd girl that's been forced into their lives, but a welcome part of the family. It's a bright and cheery affair, full of cobbler and laughter and love and-

"That's enough of that," she says aloud, breaking herself from the illusion with tireless ease.

She's exhausted, suddenly.

Scooping a sleeping Sasha into her arms, she makes her way out into the hall, but can't bring herself to make the journey back to her room. Granger and the Weasley will both come up from supper eventually, and facing them feels like a task too insurmountable to face. She walks along the halls, opening doors at random and entering the first she finds with a bed. She doesn't bother turning on the light when she crawls under the sheets.

When she closes her eyes it's like falling.

And in her dream, she's become the monster.

o.O.o

A moment of bravery is all it takes.

o.O.o

Victoria Dodger is many things, but brave is not one of them.

She doesn't know why she does it.

Maybe it was the red behind Harry's eyes that did her in.

A child.

Or maybe it was something as simple as boredom.

A monster.

She's mapped out this house, painstakingly memorizing each hall.

It only takes her a moment to find his room, to creep past the door and look out at the chipped plaster walls.

It feels empty, dust-settled, and isolated. Torn apart. Abandoned, it was clear, with no hope for anyone ever coming back.

Regulus Black reads the plaque on the door, and she traces her fingers over each letter with weary apprehension.

Is it still here?

It's a simple thought, but one that has the hair on the back of her neck standing on end with the fear of not wanting to find the answer.

Bravery.

The floor creaks beneath her feet with every step she makes further into the room, Slytherin green drapes falling in great ribbons of dirty silk across the dusty window that lets in only the most meager of light.

She goes about her business as quickly as she can, the somber atmosphere only enhancing her eagerness to be done with this whole affair, rustling through drawers and settling in front of the trunk sitting at the end of the Slytherin themed bed with a tight sort of reluctance.

Any moment now she expects the ghost of him to come up through the floor, to shriek and wreak havoc upon her intrusion into this sanctuary of dark magic. Bones and bottled potions are carefully placed aside as she delves further into the depths of the trunk, dusty tomes, and robes that only hinted at death spewing forth in a never-ending stream.

The trunk was, unsurprisingly, charmed and it's moments like these that she truly hates her age. Magic that she can't even use.

But she bites her tongue and discards bits and pieces of a teenager's life - parchment, empty ink wells, a muggle book, and cloth-covered set of dried potion ingredients that would have Snape hissing up a storm.

It feels like it takes forever before she sees the glint of it, feels the - empty, empty, empty - death that swallows the air from her lungs whole.

Her hands are shaking when she picks it up, twists it in her fingers and lets it settle - rusted and elaborate and speaking of a former beauty that it can no longer hold - in the palm of her hand.

It's an elaborate locket, embroidered with a great gleaming S that curled, like a snake, across the entire surface in glittering green jewels. The gems were teasing her, glinting like oil was trapped just beneath the surface, a canvas immortalized in precious stone. The metal was crusted in dirt, chain withering away with time, seemingly-fragile jewelry holding an evil far greater than anything many had ever known.

Her lips tighten.

She sits there, staring at it until the sunlight streaming across the floor patters out and only the moon remains. Only then does she carefully tuck it away into her robe and put everything - tomes and robes, the meager remains of a life long gone - back carefully.

When she stands up her legs have gone numb and she nearly trips, sick nausea working its way up her throat as the full consequence of her actions hits her, over her robe.

She doesn't spare another look back as she races from the room, like fire is licking at her heels-

Fiendfyre.

"Victoria? Where have you been?"

It's Granger - it's only Granger - and she has to force her hands to unstiffen from their clutch over her hiding place.

"Are you alright?"

Suddenly, for no reason at all, the injustice of everything - her circumstance, the choices she's being forced to make, and the deaths - leaves her burning up from the inside out.

"Why do you care?" she spits, "It's not like this is the first time I've spent a day by myself," the words, cutting and full of spite - venom falling from her lips, and oh what a snake she's become - halters Granger.

Her brow, tumbling over with long curly locks, creases with what can only be hurt.

"...Dinner is on the table when you want it," she says, turning away quickly and disappearing down the hall, shoulders hunching up around her ears the further away she gets.

Victoria clenches her fist and sets her jaw, stubbornly refusing to feel guilty. She wasn't even here by choice - what should she care how this child felt? Granger wasn't her friend.

Spite sitting heavy in her stomach, she bites her cheek so hard she tastes blood and retreats to an isolated room.

She does not eat dinner.

o.O.o

She was good at this-

Isolating herself.

It was something she'd grown accustomed to a lifetime ago.

She was good at waving those who cared away, holding them at arm's length until they finally moved on from her. Until they lost her in the hustle and bustle of their own busy lives. Sometimes they'd come around again, checking in with fake smiles that bellied their lack of interest, faces morphed into something she could no longer recognize. It was easier that way.

Meaningful relationships, no matter how precious they were, were too difficult to keep.

And, sometimes, she fell into this funny sort of trap - thinking that it was going to last, that surely this time they would stay, that things would be different.

That they'd somehow break free of this distant hold she kept on them and push forward to truly be a friend.

She would hold onto their smiles, no matter how fleeting they were, and relish the warmth they provided, but-

"You never make an effort, do you?"

But she always ends up back here, at square one.

And it's better this way, truthfully.

It really was easier.

She just wasn't meant for close friends.

If she tells herself she was always meant to be alone, that he was all she needed-

It was just easier.

o.O.o

There's a noticeable dip in Sirius's mood over the next few days. It's obvious that the impending departure of Harry - now cleared of all charges - is the cause. Harry skitters around him nervously, not knowing what to do, opening his mouth as if to say something only to close it again moments later. The guilt on the boy's face has Victoria nearly rolling her eyes, but it's not a situation she's interested in being a part of.

So Sirius mopes around the house with hunched shoulders and fake smiles and muttered excuses; declining every invite to cook that's thrown at him. She doesn't push him even despite her own growing annoyance - though at what she isn't quite sure - until one day she's awoken by a great cacophony of noise.

"There's been a mistake!"

"We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!"

She hides in the hall, summoned from her dusty abode of parchment, listening to the noise drifting out of the boy's room with a hazy sort of attention. She was still half-asleep, drawn here like moth to a flame.

"I suppose all the mad stuff must've counted against him…"

"That's right, you've caused too much trouble mate."

There's a creak behind her and Victoria turns, hands balled up at her sides, to see Granger falter.

They stare at each other for a long moment before the other girl clears her throat, averts her eyes, and enters the room.

"Did you - did you get-?" Granger says.

Victoria, now alone, feels herself nearly begin melting into the floor; sobered awake all at once.

"I knew it! Me too Harry, me too!"

"No, it's Ron, not me."

"It - what?"

"Ron's prefect, not me."

" Ron? But...are you sure? I mean-"

"It's my name on the letter."

"I...I, well, wow! Well done Ron! That's really-"

"Are you alright dear?"

Victoria flinches and turns, looking up at Mrs. Weasley with a start. The woman was carrying some freshly laundered robes.

"I...yeah, I'm...fine."

"Are you sure? You look awfully pale dear, have you eaten yet?"

She shakes her head mutely.

"Go on down and get something to eat. I'll be there in a moment if you want to talk."

Victoria did not want to talk.

She does not say this aloud and, in fact, cannot bring herself to say anything at all.

Mrs. Weasley disappears into the room and Victoria, feeling a bit fuzzy, makes her way to the closest isolated couch she can find.

She falls asleep and dreams of nothing.

o.O.o

The locket, unknown to anyone, burns a hold in her pocket.

o.O.o

'Congratulations Ron and Hermoine - New Prefects!' read the banner hanging over the dining table, which was full and plump of more dishes than she could count - a good portion of which had been cooked by herself.

Work she had eagerly thrown herself into full force, taking up the task Mrs. Weasley set upon her with a nearly disturbing fervor.

She couldn't help but feel disappointed that she had nothing to do now that dinner was done, hands aching with the need to wash and chop and fry.

"I thought we'd have a little party," Mrs. Weasley was saying to those that had only just arrived, "Your father and Bill are on their way, Ron, I've sent them both owls and they're thrilled!"

Feeling a little sick, she casts her eye around the room at the guests who were already piling their plates with food.

"Oh, Alastor, I'm glad you're here! We've been wanting to ask you for ages - could you look in the writing desk in the drawing-room and tell us what's inside it? We haven't opened it just in case it's something really nasty."

"No problem, Molly…"

Feeling a little awkward, she grabs a tankard of butterbeer and retreats into a corner. There was no getting out of this one, Mrs. Weasley had made obvious, and even hiding away in the kitchen was out of bounds.

"Fourth prefect in the family!"

Ron was preening at the attention, badge polished and shining on his chest.

"Well, congratulations," said Moody, "authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn't have appointed you…"

It was then that Mr. Weasley and Bill came bustling in the door, Mundungus trailing behind them.

Would he come looking for it?

She drowns the thought out with a large gulp of butterbeer and watches as Mundungus evaded Mrs. Weasley's efforts to have him remove his suspiciously lumpy coat.

"Well, I think a toast is in order," Mr. Weasley was saying, grabbing a tankard of his own and lifting it high, "to Ron and Hermoine, the new Gryffindor prefects!"

Everyone applauded and drank their butterbeer with gusto, moving to the table and heaping a number of portions onto their plates. Victoria, blaming her lack of hunger on the cooking she did earlier, did not join them.

"No one would have made me a prefect," Sirius said, face lit up with a grin, "I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge."

He was in an uncharacteristically good mood, digging into this chicken pie with fervor and throwing an arm around Lupin with a barking laugh. Pleased, she was sure, that Harry proved himself to be more like James than he'd thought. He'd even joined Victoria in cooking earlier, making the excuse that since Mrs. Weasley was out, he couldn't possibly force her to cook everything by herself.

"I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends," said Lupin. "I need scarcely say that I failed dismally."

Conversations petered away into different sections, turning from what was a group effort into individual-based interests.

Ron was chattering away at anyone who would listen about his new broomstick, quoting different articles he'd read and comparing it to lesser models with a feverish sort of glee. Granger was talking passionately to an indulgent looking Lupin about elf rights and Mrs. Weasley, exasperated, was arguing with Bill about his ponytail.

Harry and the twins were crowded closely to Mundungus, whispering in hushed tones and exchanging galleons quickly, scattering before Moody - who was sniffing a turkey leg with great suspicion - noticed them.

Victoria, forgotten as usual in the mass of people, could finally feel herself start to relax.

She'd gotten her booklist by owl earlier today and with it came the knowledge that school, at last, would be starting up again soon. There was no denying that she would miss the Black manor, with its dusty rooms and endless tomes and haunted portraits, but there would be great relief in finally getting away from this family.

This family with too big hearts and endless smiles and tragedy on the horizon-

"What's that you've got there Mad-Eye?" Sirius says, making Victoria's stomach churn.

She's decided to change things, but can she really? Could she prevent what was to come?

Not caring what Mrs. Weasley would think, she pushes away from her seat and hurries into the hall, eyes burning with what has to be exhaustion.

Exhaustion, exhaustion - she was just so tired from all that cooking.

Turning a corner, she runs headfirst into someone frozen stock-still and clatters back onto the ground.

"Mrs. Weasley?"

It was Potter, staring in shock at something she couldn't see.

Maneuvering onto her knees, she peeks out from behind him-

"R-r-r-r-riddikulus-s-s-!"

Crack.

Bill, spread eagle on his back, stares at them with dead - dead, dead, dead - eyes. Mrs. Weasley was sobbing so harshly she could only wheeze out her spell once more.

" Riddikulus!"

Mr. Weasley-

Dead, dead, dead-

She's dead, isn't she? A corpse puppet, dancing on strings, held aloft by gnarled skeletal hands-

"Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!"

She's hoisted onto her feet by someone from behind, but she only registers the feeling with faint shock.

There's an emptiness in corpse Harry's eyes that reaches out and twists itself into her. It resonates from deep in her chest outward, flowing through her veins and swallowing her whole.

Empty, empty, she feels so empty-

Crack.

"What's going on?"

She's lead too far into the room and -

Crack.

There's oil on canvas, dripping down, down, down beyond the sharpness of an odd type of smile. How could she have ever forgotten this face?

"You are a masterpiece."

It takes a step forward, reaching out-

She feels sick repulsion worm it's way up her throat - she could make ants burst beneath skin, puss corrode anything it touches, and oh how powerless she is before this thing - and she can't move for a long, terrible moment.

It's held there, in the air, his horribly bloody hand.

" ﾘｬdt蕘ie? "

The repulsion escapes in the form of a hideous scream that tears and gnashes her throat to shreds.

How stupid, she thinks as she flees the room, haunted magic chasing her down, how stupid can she be?

There's a whispering in the back of her mind that she can't focus on, the words too jumbled and rotten.

He's there, he's there, he's there-

It's rattling on and on and she can't see beyond the spinning floor. She doesn't think. There's a horrible racket outside the noise of her head and she has only a moment to think she should probably apologize for the mess she's undoubtedly leaving in her wake before her stomach finally upends and spews - blood? What else could it be? - sickly sweet - butterscotch, butterscotch, butterscotch - butterbeer all over the floor.

'Did you miss me?'

She clunks into a room messily and slams the door behind her.

'Of course you did.'

Her vision is hazy and she can't hold herself up anymore.

'I love you, you know.'

o.O.o

She was covered in his oil.

From head to toe she was smothered in it, in bright honeyed color that spoke of simpler times; of smiles long gone and words left unspoken.

The fire within her has dwindled down into these dregs of ember and coal, grief pulling her from all sides and spitting on her flame, leaving her gasping - desperate - for air.

Each breath she chokes on is full of only responsibility.

Guilt.

You could have prevented this.

How fierce she had been, how full of life. She watched him pull ivory and amber and twist them into strokes of life, brushing emeralds into the sky.

You were a coward and now - when it's too late - you choose to act?

Square one, again.

If only, if only, she could be so brave.

o.O.o

The water is warm on her body.

Victoria, Victoria, Victoria, Victoria-

The tiles beneath her feet are a strange yellow-green color, hiding the pristine white they must have been at some point. This entire house must have been pristine, at one point, and what a strange thought that was.

Beyond the din of the water her clothes were scattered across the ground, tossed aside in a mad haze of desperation. Attempting, somehow, to claw out of her own skin. She keeps her mind pointed and sharp, keen on the ceramic lines and smooth glaze that was chipping steadily away.

Even a momentary dip in concentration sends her into shudders, chest tight, and heaving with a hysteria she didn't know she was capable of. He's there - he's there - in the corner of her mind's eye and she can't do it. She can't turn away. She can't even begin to face the pain that is surely in store for her.

So she focuses on the tiles and sits, wrapped up tight in her own arms, underneath the warm spray that will surely wash her sins away.

Her skin was raw. She doesn't know how long she's been here, only that she came to furiously scrubbing away at every inch of herself in near-boiling temperature, muttering up a storm. The water hurts where it hits, but it's a welcome pain.

Distracting.

Thin ceramic neatly separated by canvas, oil dripping through the lines, and the emptiness between stars.

Familiar.

Every once in awhile there's a knock on the door, a calling of a name.

Hers?

She's not sure.

But she sits there until the water is uncomfortably cold, until her teeth are clattering and the burning in her eyes has gone down. Only then does she get up, dripping and trembling, to wrap a towel around herself.

She feels small - too small, this isn't her body she's just too small - in the soft material.

It's a distant sort of knowledge, what happened to her.

"It's a boggart. Want me to take care of it?"

She feels detached from her skin. Rubber - her skin was rubber and she was merely a puppet occupying it.

She's slow to dry herself, eyes cast firmly to the floor. Her robes are a mess, reeking of sweat and vomit, and she shrugs them on with little care.

The locket sat, rusted and filthy, on the floor just adjacent to where she had been; mocking her, somehow, and her pain.

She picks it up, eyes catching on the oil beneath the gems, and slips it over her head.

When she leaves the room Diggory is staring out at her through the mirror - red, red, red eyes - and the thought of going back to her own bed makes her feel sick.

The walls, icey, were twisting down around her as she pattered barefoot down the hall. Whoever was checking on her so frequently before was gone now and only silence remained in their wake.

She doesn't want to be seen.

She just wants everything and everyone to go away.

Teetering on the edge of madness once again she closes her eyes, clutches the locket in her hand, and disappears.

o.O.o

Hope the wait was worth it. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter.

dev-fiction. tumblr. com

-Dev.