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The Black Witch 16
🕑 Added 2025-12-11 09:32:58 +0000 UTCChapter 16 (~10k words):
– Amara –
Diagon Alley had descended into absolute, beautiful chaos.
The air itself seemed to scream as the cobblestones beneath my boots cracked and liquified under the sheer intensity of the magical onslaught. It wasn’t just a battle anymore, it was a slaughter, a masterclass in devastation that I was orchestrating alongside the maddest witch in Britain. The darkness of the night was torn apart by blinding flashes of violet, sickly green, and the roaring, consuming orange of the black-tinged fire I was pouring from my wand.
I didn't just cast the fire; I felt it. Thanks to my new talent, the flames sang to me, vibrating through the wood of my [soul-bound wand].
I whipped my arm in a wide, vicious arc, and a torrent of pitch-black fire surged forward like a living tidal wave. It crashed into the hasty shield charms raised by three terrified Aurors, shattering their defenses with the sound of breaking glass.
Their screams were music—high, desperate, and cut short as the fire engulfed them. I watched with a dark, heated thrill coiling in my belly as their robes ignited, the magical protection melting into slag against their skin. The smell of ozone and sulfur mixed heavily with the undeniable, copper-and-roast-meat stench of burning bodies. It was gruesome, it was horrific, and god help me, it felt intoxicating.
To my left, Bellatrix was a blur of manic motion. She didn't fight like a duelist; she fought like a dancer possessed by a demon. Her wild black curls whipped around her face as she pirouetted through a hail of stunning spells, cackling with a glee that sent shivers down my spine.
"Is that the best you can do?" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the roar of the flames. She flicked her wand with a nasty, stabbing motion. "Crucio!"
A heavyset wizard fell to the ground, thrashing violently, his limbs jerking at unnatural angles as he screamed until his voice cracked. Bellatrix didn't even stop to watch him suffer; she was already moving to the next target, firing a purple curse that caused a witch’s skin to turn necrotic and grey in seconds.
"Filth! Traitors! You dare raise your wands against my blood?" Bellatrix roared, her eyes wide and shining with feverish delight.
I ducked instinctively as a jet of red light sizzled past my ear, singing the ends of my hair. I spun on my heel, locking eyes with the Auror who had fired it—a young man, shaking, sweat pouring down his pale face.
"Bad move," I purred, though he couldn't hear me over the din. I thrust my wand forward. “Confringo!”
The blasting curse hit him square in the chest. There was a wet, heavy thud as his ribcage collapsed inward, and he was thrown backward through the display window of Flourish and Blotts. Glass shattered outward in a glittering rain, and books caught fire as his body landed in a crumpled heap among the displays.
The alley was emptying rapidly. The smarter civilians had vanished the moment the first Killing Curse was thrown. The foolish ones were probably dead or hiding behind overturned cauldron stacks.
But not everyone had fled.
Out of the corner of my eye, amidst the swirling smoke and flashing lights, I saw movement in the shadows near the entrance to Knockturn Alley. It was the vampire leader I had seen earlier—the blonde woman with the predatory smile. She hadn’t run. In fact, she looked like she was shopping at a buffet. With supernatural speed and grace, she darted out from the darkness, her pale hand shooting out to grab the ankle of a fallen Auror who was trying to crawl away, clutching a bleeding stomach wound.
He yelped as she dragged him effortlessly back into the shadows.
I caught a glimpse of her fangs descending, her eyes glowing crimson with hunger, before she vanished into the dark with her prize.
I smirked. Waste not, want not.
"Hold the line!" Amelia Bones screamed, her voice magically amplified, though I could hear the tremor of desperation threading through her command. She stood near the entrance to Gringotts, her monocle cracked, her grey hair wild and singed. "Form a phalanx! We have to contain them!"
"Contain us?" I laughed. I channeled my magic, feeling the reserves of my mana surge. I didn't use a spell this time—I just let the raw, destructive intent flow. I slashed my wand diagonally. A wave of concussive force ripped up the cobblestones, flipping them and hurling them at the remaining line of Aurors.
They scrambled, their formation breaking instantly.
It was over. They knew it. Amelia knew it. She looked around at her decimated force—more than half of them were on the ground, dead, dying, or writhing in the aftermath of Bellatrix's torture curses.
Amelia’s face twisted in pure, unadulterated fury, but she was a pragmatist. She grabbed the shoulder of the Auror nearest to her.
"Retreat!" she bellowed, her voice cracking with the weight of the defeat. "Emergency Portkeys! Now! Get out!"
One by one, the surviving Aurors grabbed at medallions, rings, or torn strips of cloth hanging from their belts. The air warped and twisted around them. With a series of loud cracks and swirling distortions of space, they vanished, spinning away into the safety of the Ministry, leaving their dead and dying comrades behind in the smoking ruins of the alley.
Silence slammed back into the street.
The only sounds left were the crackle of fires eating away at shop fronts, the groans of the maimed, and the heavy, ragged breathing of two victorious witches.
I lowered my wand, my chest heaving as the adrenaline began to recede, leaving my skin tingling and sensitive. I looked around at the devastation. Scorch marks scarred the brickwork of every building. Smoke billowed into the night sky, blotting out the stars. It looked like a bomb had gone off.
It was beautiful.
"Amara!"
The voice was breathless, high with excitement. I turned just in time to see Bellatrix Lestrange rushing toward me over the rubble. Her robes were torn in places, revealing flashes of pale skin, and there was a cut on her cheek that bled slowly, but she looked radiant. Her eyes were wide, blown pupils swallowing the irises, shining with a terrifying kind of pride.
She didn't stop. She slammed into me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me into a fierce, crushing hug.
"You were amazing!" she squealed, burying her face in the crook of my neck. Her hair was a wild, ticklish mess against my skin, smelling of ozone and dark magic. "Did you see them run? Did you see them break? Oh, my wicked, beautiful girl! You destroyed them!"
I stiffened automatically.
My body was used to Morgana’s touch—touches that were calculated, seductive, always leading to pleasure or power. Morgana hugged me to possess me, to turn me on, to mold me. Her hands would have been sliding down to my ass by now.
This... this was different.
Bellatrix held me tightly, her grip almost painful, but there was no sexual heat in it. Her hands were pressed flat against my back, clutching the fabric of my dress as if she were afraid I might disappear if she let go. She was shaking slightly, vibrating with the aftershocks of the battle and a manic joy that seemed entirely focused on me.
"Look at you," she murmured into my skin, pulling back just enough to frame my face with her blood-flecked hands. Her thumbs rubbed over my cheekbones, smearing a little soot there. Her gaze was intense, searching, and completely unhinged. "You have so much power. And it looks like you inherited my fire! You’re perfect. You’re absolutely perfect."
My [Cursed Knowledge] was screaming at me. This is Bellatrix Lestrange. She tortured the Longbottoms into insanity. She is Voldemort's most loyal fanatic. She is a monster.
But as I looked into those manic, dark eyes, I felt a strange, twisting sensation in my gut.
Wasn't I a monster too?
I had just boiled men alive in their own skin. I had slaughtered a magical bloodline and laughed about it. Standing here in the wreckage of Diagon Alley, covered in sweat and ash, with the most feared witch in Britain looking at me like I was the sun and the moon...
I felt a bizarre sense of belonging. And I guess she was technically my auntie or something… wasn’t she?
Slowly, hesitantly, I lifted my own arms and returned the embrace, wrapping them around her slender frame. I felt the heat radiating off her, smelled the scent of dark magic, ozone, and expensive perfume that clung to her. Even though I knew, logically, that I wasn't her daughter—that this was all a misunderstanding born of Dumbledore's paranoia—it felt oddly right.
I rested my chin on her shoulder, closing my eyes for a moment.
"Um," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended, stripping away the bravado. "Thanks for coming to help me…?" What else really was I supposed to say to her?
Bellatrix pulled back just enough to look at me, her hands moving up to cup my face. Her long, black fingernails grazed my cheeks gently, her thumbs wiping away a smudge of soot from my skin. Her expression was fiercely affectionate, a twisted kind of maternal love shining in her mad eyes.
"Of course!" she replied breathlessly, breathless with delight. "Mummy will always come when you call! We showed them, didn't we? We showed them all exactly what happens when they mess with the House of Black!"
The Aurors were gone, fled like rats, but that didn't mean we were safe. The Ministry no doubt had reinforcements. And we were standing in the middle of a smoking crater that used to be a shopping district.
"We should probably get out of here," I suggested, my voice rasping slightly from the smoke and the screaming.
I tried to pull away from the embrace, gently disengaging from the fierce, desperate grip Bellatrix had on me. It wasn't easy. She clung to me like a drowning woman, her fingers digging into the fabric of my black tank top, her nails scraping lightly against the skin of my back. When I finally managed to step back, putting a foot of distance between us, her expression crumbled instantly.
She pouted—actually pouted—her full, dark-red lips jutting out like a petulant child who had just been told playtime was over. Her big, dark eyes went wide and glassy, shimmering with a sudden, alarming vulnerability that was completely at odds with the carnage surrounding us.
"Leaving so soon?" she whined, her voice high and breathy. "But we were having so much fun! Did you see how they ran? Did you see the fear in their little piggy eyes?"
"I saw," I assured her, reaching out to brush a speck of ash from her shoulder. My touch seemed to soothe her instantly, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into my hand. "And it was beautiful. But the fun is over for now. If we stay, they'll bring more numbers than even we can handle right now. I'm good, Bellatrix, but I'm not stupid."
She opened her eyes, and the childish petulance vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp, predatory gleam. She looked around the ruined alley, her nostrils flaring as she scented the air.
"You're right," she conceded, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Smart girl. Clever girl." She turned her gaze back to me, and her expression darkened, twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated loathing. "Besides... Dumbledore will be gunning for you now. He won't let this slide. Not after what you did to his precious old friend." She took a step closer, her boots crunching loudly on shards of broken glass. "That bastard, Mad-Eye Moody," she spat the name like it was a curse, venom dripping from every syllable. "I heard what you did, my darling. I heard about the gift you sent to the old fool. Severing that scarred, ugly head and boxing it up like a birthday present?"
Suddenly, her mood flipped again, snapping from hateful rage to ecstatic joy so fast it was almost dizzying to watch.
"OH, I WAS SO PROUD!" she shrieked, lunging forward and slamming into me again.
This time, I didn't have time to brace myself.
She glomped onto me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body pressing flush against mine. She was surprisingly strong, her slender frame vibrating with manic energy. She buried her face in my neck, inhaling deeply, her hair tickling my jaw. "My daughter!" she crooned into my skin, her voice muffled and wet. "My wicked, wonderful daughter! To kill a famous Auror like that... to butcher Alastor Moody before you've even graduated from Hogwarts! It's legendary!"
I stood there, slightly stiff in her embrace, my hands hovering uncertainly over her back before settling there. The heat radiating off her was immense.
"I never went to Hogwarts," I said, my voice muffled against her wild curls.
Bellatrix pulled back abruptly, holding me at arm's length. Her eyes searched my face, confusion warring with curiosity. "What? Never? But... your power. Your dark repertoire of spells! Who taught you all that?"
I reached up and gently pried her fingers off my shoulders, stepping back to hop over a pile of smoking rubble that had once been a display of cauldrons. "I have a teacher. I'm the apprentice of a powerful dark witch."
Bellatrix scrambled over the debris after me, moving with a lithe, spider-like grace that was unsettling to watch. She landed lightly beside me, her eyes wide and glittering with renewed excitement. "Ooh?" she breathed, leaning in close. "A dark witch? A proper one? Is she famous? Do I know her? Is she one of the old families?" She grabbed my arm, her grip tight and eager. "Tell me! I want to know everything about you. I want to know every second of the life I missed. Who dared to raise my daughter when I couldn't?"
I glanced at her, noting the genuine hunger in her expression. It wasn't just curiosity—it was a desperate need to consume every detail of my existence.
"You probably do know her," I admitted, keeping my voice low as we hurried toward the edge of the Anti-Apparition wards the aurors had set up when they initially surrounded the night club. "In fact, I'm almost certain you do. But I'm not going to risk saying her name out loud here. Not with the Ministry dogs still lurking about."
Bellatrix nodded sagely, tapping the side of her nose. "Secrets. I like secrets. We can whisper them in the dark later."
We reached the boundary of the wards. "We should leave," I said. "My place is safer. We can talk there." I held out my hand.
Bellatrix looked at my open palm, then up at my face. A soft, fiercely affectionate smile transformed her features, making her look almost... sane. Almost. "Lead the way, my love," she whispered. She took my hand without a second of hesitation.
I turned on my heel, focusing on the destination—the penthouse suite in central London. The world twisted and compressed, squeezing the air from my lungs as darkness swallowed us whole. The sensation of Apparition was instant and jarring, a hook behind the navel jerking us through space.
With a loud crack, we materialized in the center of my temporary living room.
The transition was jarring. One second we were standing in a smoke-choked, rubble-strewn alleyway reeking of ozone and death, the next, we were surrounded by opulence. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Muggle London skyline, glittering with artificial electric lights.
Bellatrix stumbled slightly as we landed, releasing my hand. She spun around, her wand instantly in her hand, her eyes darting wildly around the room as if expecting an ambush. She took in the massive flat-screen television, the glass coffee table, the leather sectional, and the electric lamps. Her nose wrinkled, her upper lip curling back in a snarl of instinctive disgust.
"Ugh," she groaned, the sound vibrating in her throat. She lowered her wand but didn't put it away. She walked over to a lamp, poking it suspiciously with the tip of her wand. "Muggle filth...” She turned to me, her expression pained. "Why are we here, Amara? Why are we in a... a Muggle box in the sky?"
"This is where I've been staying," I explained, leaning back against the bar and crossing my arms loosely. "I decided to visit London for... personal reasons."
Bellatrix’s ears perked up at that, her head tilting sharply to the side. "Personal reasons?" she repeated, her tone thick with curiosity. "Like what? Hunting? Torture? Did you come to kill someone special?"
"Something like that," I said vaguely, not elaborating. I wasn't about to tell her about the Potters.
Bellatrix was volatile enough without adding the fact that I was actively plotting the downfall of the Boy Who Lived's family into the mix.
Bellatrix pouted, her lower lip jutting out again. She slumped dramatically onto the fancy Italian leather sofa, crossing her legs at the ankles and dropping her heavy combat boots right onto the pristine beige upholstery. She didn't seem to care—or maybe didn't even notice—that she was tracking blood, soot, and who knew what else all over the expensive material.
"Secrets again," she grumbled, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Mummy doesn't like secrets she isn't part of."
I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. The adrenaline crash was starting to hit me now, leaving me feeling heavy and drained. My muscles ached, and my brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Dealing with a homicidal, pure-blood supremacist witch who hated Muggles with a burning passion was definitely above my pay grade right now.
I didn't want to argue about politics or blood purity. I didn't want to explain why I was living in a Muggle penthouse. I just wanted to sleep.
"Right," I muttered, pushing off the bar. I kicked off my sneakers, wincing slightly as my feet hit the cool floor. "Look, Bellatrix, it's been a long night. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."
I turned and started walking toward the bedroom, not waiting for a response. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow I could figure out what to do with the Potters, how to handle the Ministry, and how to explain to Morgana that I'd accidentally adopted a Death Eater.
"Oh!" Bellatrix's voice piped up from behind me, bright and cheerful. "Me too! I'm absolutely knackered after all that lovely magic!"
I heard the distinctive thud of her boots hitting the floor, followed by the soft padding of bare feet. I glanced over my shoulder to see her skipping off the couch, following me like an eager puppy.
I stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, turning to face her. "Bellatrix," I said slowly, gesturing around the expansive suite. "This is a twenty-thousand-pound-a-night penthouse. It has three bedrooms. You can take any of the other ones. They're all made up."
She stopped in front of me, blinking those big, dark eyes. "Is that a lot?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. "Twenty thousand... pounds?" She said the word 'pounds' like it was a foreign concept she found distasteful. "I don't care about silly things like worthless Muggle paper money. It's all just kindling, isn't it?"
I suppressed a groan. "The point is," I tried again, "there's plenty of space. You don't have to—"
"I don't want space!" she interrupted, stepping closer until she was almost crowding me against the doorframe. Her intensity was back, that manic, desperate need shining in her eyes. "I just want to sleep with you tonight. I need to make sure you're real. I need to make sure I'm not dreaming again. If I wake up alone..." Her voice cracked, a flicker of genuine terror crossing her face. "If I wake up alone, I might burn this whole building down just to feel something."
I stared at her, feeling a pang of sympathy despite myself. Azkaban did things to people. Solitary confinement, Dementors... it broke minds in ways that couldn't be fixed with a potion.
She was clinging to me because I was the only solid thing in her world right now. But sharing a bed with Bellatrix Lestrange? That felt... complicated.
"We can't do that," I said quickly, grasping for an excuse. "I... I sleep naked. It's a habit. I can't sleep with clothes on." It wasn't a lie, exactly. I did prefer sleeping nude. But I hoped the nudity aspect might deter her, or at least make her uncomfortable enough to retreat to a guest room.
Bellatrix’s face lit up. She clapped her hands together, looking delighted. "Me too!" she exclaimed happily. "See? Another coincidence! It must be in the blood!"
Before I could process that, her hands flew to the fastenings of her tattered black dress. Her fingers, nimble and quick, undid the buttons and clasps. The heavy fabric slid off her shoulders, pooling around her feet in a dark puddle of silk and velvet.
I felt heat rush into my cheeks as I stared.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood before me, completely naked.
Her body was... incredible. I had expected her to be emaciated, ruined by her time in prison, but she was lean and toned, every muscle defined under pale skin. There was a thinness to her, yes—her ribs were faintly visible, and her hip bones jutted out slightly. But it wasn’t as bad as I figured it would have been. And despite everything—despite the madness, the cruelty, the years of torment—she was beautiful. Powerful witches aged differently, I knew that, but Bellatrix barely looked thirty. Her breasts were small but shapely, her waist narrow, her legs long and elegant. She stood there unabashedly, comfortable in her own skin, staring at me with an expectant smile.
"Well?" she asked, tilting her head. "Aren't you going to join me?"
My mouth went dry. My own [Major Sin of Lust] was humming in the back of my mind, appreciating the view despite the utter absurdity of the situation.
"Right," I squeaked. "Yeah. Okay." Feeling suddenly shy, I reached for the hem of my tank top. I pulled it over my head, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Then I shimmied out of my jeans and kicked off my panties.
Bellatrix watched me the entire time, her eyes roving over my body with a hunger that wasn't sexual, but was somehow even more intense. It was pride.
"Oh," she breathed, her voice dropping to a whisper. She reached out, her fingertips ghosting over the curve of my hip, then trailing up to cup my breast lightly.
It took everything I had to suppress the moan that almost slipped out, due to my insanely sensitive body.
"You are magnificent, Amara. Look at you. So perfect. You have my figure, you know? But better. So much better!" She stepped closer, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me against her. Her skin was cool against mine, a stark contrast to the heat I felt radiating from my own body. "Come on," she murmured, guiding me toward the massive king-sized bed. "Let's rest. We have a big day tomorrow. So many people to kill, so little time."
What was even her life?
She pulled back the covers and we climbed in. The sheets were cool and crisp, smelling of expensive detergent. Bellatrix immediately curled herself around me, her back pressing against my chest, pulling my arm over her waist so I was spooning her. She let out a long, contented sigh, nuzzling her face into the pillow.
"Goodnight, my dark little star," she whispered.
I lay there in the dark, the city lights filtering through the curtains, holding the most dangerous witch in Britain in my arms. Her breathing evened out almost instantly, slipping into a deep sleep.
"Goodnight," I whispered back to the silence. And against all odds, I felt my own eyelids growing heavy, the tension of the day finally bleeding away as I drifted off, wrapped around a woman who thought she was my mother, and whom I was starting to realize I didn't mind being close to at all.
– Amelia Bones –
Amelia Bones was not merely the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was, for all intents and purposes, the sole pillar holding up the crumbling edifice of the Ministry of Magic.
Ever since Cornelius Fudge had tucked his tail between his legs and vanished into the ether—his incompetence laid bare, his denial of Voldemort's return exposed as the catastrophic lie it was—the mantle of power had fallen squarely onto Amelia's shoulders. She was the Acting Minister of Magic, a title that felt less like an honor and more like a yoke of lead around her neck.
Tonight, that yoke felt heavier than ever.
The air in the Muggle Prime Minister’s office was stale, thick with the scent of old leather, polished mahogany, and something far more base—sweat and cheap perfume. Amelia materialized in the center of the room with a sharp crack that echoed like a gunshot, her grey robes settling around her with an ominous swish.
The Prime Minister jolted in his high-backed leather chair, his hands spasming on the desk surface. He was a portly man, his face flushed and glistening, his tie loosened around a thick neck.
"What in God's name—!" he spluttered, his voice cracking. "Who are you? How did you get in here? This is a private office!"
Amelia stared at him down the length of her nose, her monocle glinting in the low light of the desk lamp. She didn't miss the way he remained seated, his posture rigid and unnatural, his hands planted firmly on the desk as if to anchor himself. Nor did she miss the subtle, rhythmic thump-thump coming from beneath the heavy oak desk, or the way the Prime Minister's breathing was hitched and shallow.
There was a woman under there. Amelia didn't need Legilimency to know that. The man was likely midway through being pleasured when she arrived. Disgust curled in her stomach, cold and hard. The Muggle leader was indulging in base appetites while her world burned.
"My name is Amelia Bones," she announced, her voice clipped and devoid of patience. "I am the Acting Minister of Magic."
The Prime Minister blinked, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. He glanced nervously around the room as if expecting Fudge to pop out from behind the curtains. "Acting Minister? What happened to Mr. Fudge? He was... well, he was certainly less abrupt. And far less rude."
Amelia let out a short, harsh scoff. "That worthless fool abandoned his post the moment reality became too inconvenient for him. He ran away like a coward. I am in charge now." She took a step forward, her wand held loosely at her side but clearly visible. "And I require your immediate cooperation."
The Prime Minister's eyes darted to the wand, fear flickering behind his bluster. He swallowed hard. "Cooperation? What sort of cooperation? And put that stick away, madam. You're making me nervous."
"I need every Muggle authority in this country on high alert," Amelia said, ignoring his request. "I want a nationwide manhunt initiated immediately for a young woman named Amara Black. She is dangerous, highly volatile, and a criminal of the highest order. Much like her relative, Sirius Black was when we asked you to do the same thing a few years ago."
The Prime Minister's face went from flushed to pale in an instant. He leaned back in his chair, a flicker of defiance entering his eyes. "Now hold on just a minute," he argued, his voice gaining a shred of authority. "First of all, my predecessor faced a hellstorm of criticism for authorizing a manhunt like that years ago over an alleged mass murderer that half the country had never even heard of. It was a PR disaster." He shook his head vehemently. "And secondly, there is absolutely no way I am authorizing a witch-hunt—pun intended—against this country's newest Duchess! Do you have any idea what kind of scandal that would cause for my administration? The press would eat me alive!"
Amelia froze. "Duchess?" she repeated, her voice rising in incredulity. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about?"
"Duchess Amara Black," the Prime Minister said, looking at her as if she were the slow one. "She arrived from America just yesterday. Her title was ratified and recognized by the Crown immediately. She's nobility, madam. High-ranking, untouchable nobility. You can't just go arresting Duchesses willy-nilly!"
The absurdity of it threatened to make Amelia laugh, a hysterical, bubbling sound she ruthlessly suppressed. Amara Black—a Duchess? The audacity was staggering.
"That woman," Amelia hissed, leaning over the desk until she was inches from the Prime Minister's sweating face, "is the daughter of the Dark Lord himself! She is the spawn of the most evil wizard to ever walk the earth! Her blood alone condemns her. She should be executed for her lineage, let alone her crimes!"
The Prime Minister recoiled, but his defiance hardened into something stubborn and distinctly Muggle. He looked at her with open disdain. "You witches and wizards are truly barbaric," he sneered. "In the civilized world, madam, we do not execute people based on who their parents are. We believe in the rule of law. Innocence until proven guilty." He slammed a hand onto the desk. "I will not do it! I will not ruin my reputation and my career chasing after a Duchess on trumped-up charges drummed up by you wand-waving fools. We are not going to be threatened or bullied by your lot anymore—"
Something inside Amelia snapped.
The exhaustion, the fear, the endless nights spent holding the Ministry together with nothing but grit and duct tape—it all boiled over. She was done asking. She was done negotiating with lesser men who couldn't see the monster standing at their gates.
She raised her wand, the movement sharp and decisive.
"Imperio!"
The spell washed over the Prime Minister instantly. His eyes glazed over, the defiance draining out of them like water from a cracked cup. His expression went slack, his mouth hanging slightly open in a vacant, blissful smile. The tension left his shoulders, and he slumped back into his chair, utterly docile.
Amelia lowered her wand, breathing hard. "You will issue the order," she commanded, her voice cold and absolute. "You will mobilize every police force, every intelligence agency, every resource you have. You will hunt Amara Black to the ends of the earth, and you will not stop until she is in custody. Do you understand?"
"I understand," the Prime Minister droned, his voice flat and monotonous. "I will issue the order immediately."
Amelia stared at him for a moment, feeling a flicker of self-loathing that she quickly stamped out. It was necessary. It was for the greater good.
Then, a sound broke the silence.
A soft, terrified whimper from beneath the desk.
Amelia’s gaze snapped downward. The heavy oak desk was trembling slightly. The woman hiding there—the witness to everything that had just transpired—was terrified.
She had been careless. In her anger, she had forgotten the other person in the room. She rounded the desk slowly, her boots heavy on the plush carpet. She peered into the kneehole.
Crouched there, clutching her knees to her chest, was a young woman. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with disheveled blonde hair and smeared lipstick. She was wearing a secretary's skirt and blouse, both rumpled and disarrayed.
Her eyes were wide with terror, fixed on Amelia's wand. "P-please," the woman whispered, tears tracking through her makeup. "I won't say anything. I swear. Please don't hurt me."
Amelia looked down at her, mind racing. She could modify the woman's memory. A simple Obliviate would do the trick. She could erase the last ten minutes.
But Amelia hesitated.
Memory charms were delicate work. They required finesse, a gentle touch that Amelia, with her combat-honed magic, had never truly mastered. She was a hammer, not a scalpel. She was never very good at those kinds of charms, not that anyone working under her in the DMLE knew that…
And even if she did it perfectly, memory charms could be broken. They could be fought. If someone dug deep enough, the truth could be uncovered. This woman knew too much. She had seen the Acting Minister of Magic use an Unforgivable Curse on the Muggle Prime Minister. She was a liability.
And Amelia Bones could not afford liabilities. Not now. Not with Voldemort back and his daughter tearing London apart. The war had begun. And in war, there were casualties.
Amelia raised her wand again. Her hand didn't shake. Her face was a mask of grim, terrible resolve. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
And then, the green light filled the room.
– Nightwing –
"...We're too late," Batman said as they examined the Prime Minister's office.
Dick Grayson, clad in his Nightwing armor, grimaced beneath his domino mask. In the center of the room, sprawled awkwardly on the expensive rug, lay the body of a young woman. She was half-naked, her blouse torn open, her skirt hiked up around her hips. Her eyes were wide and glassy, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of frozen terror. There was no blood, no sign of violence, just the lifeless stillness of death.
And behind the massive oak desk sat the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
He wasn't dead, but he wasn't exactly alive either. He was staring blankly at the far wall, his eyes unfocused and swimming. A thin line of drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his silk tie. He was muttering to himself, a constant, feverish stream of words that made no sense.
"Capture her... Amara Black... at all costs... she will not get away... mobilize the army... mobilize the navy... hunt her down... hunt her down..."
Dick felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The man's mind was gone, broken and enslaved by magic.
"I will have every force in the country searching for her," the Prime Minister mumbled, his hands twitching spasmodically on the desktop. "She is a menace... a threat to the Crown... capture her... kill her..."
Batman moved past Dick, his cape swishing silently. He approached the desk with purposeful strides, pulling a small canister from his utility belt. "He's under the Imperius Curse," Batman stated, his voice flat. "His will has been completely subsumed."
Dick watched as Batman triggered the canister, releasing a hiss of odorless gas directly into the Prime Minister's face. The man's mumbling cut off abruptly. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forward onto the desk with a heavy thud, unconscious.
"Poor bastard," Dick murmured, feeling a pang of sympathy for the man who had been reduced to a puppet in his own office.
Batman didn't waste time on sentiment. He was already moving to the computer terminal on the desk, his gloved fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm accessing the security feed," he said. "We need to know exactly what happened here."
Dick joined him, leaning over Batman's shoulder as the screen flickered to life. The footage was grainy, but clear enough. They watched in silence as Amelia Bones appeared out of thin air. They watched as she terrified the Prime Minister, as she cast the Imperius Curse on him without hesitation. They watched as she discovered the woman hiding under the desk. And they watched as she murdered her in cold blood.
Dick flinched as the green light filled the screen, snuffing out the woman's life instantly. He looked away, jaw clenched tight.
"Disgusting," Batman growled, his voice thick with revulsion. "It's true. The magical government of this country is using mind control on the Muggle leadership to enforce their will. They operate outside the law, outside morality." He turned away from the screen, his expression grim beneath the cowl. "This doesn't make what your girlfriend did right, Dick," Batman said, his gaze piercing. "Amara Black killed people tonight. A lot of people from what we overheard when we were making our escape. That’s why we had to cut out of the ministry before we could fully finish our investigation into all of their crimes."
Dick nodded. Yeah, that had certainly been a surprise, but they did get a LOT of incriminating evidence the rest of the League would want to see. Also, before they left, they overheard a woman declaring she was going to pay a visit to the Prime Minister. They followed after her, but it's not like they could keep up with literal teleportation and got here to late.
Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair as he thought about Amara again. "I know, Batman. She killed Aurors tonight." He paused, looking back at the dead woman on the floor. "But at least... at least the people she kills aren't innocent. They're murderers themselves. Look at this." He gestured to the corpse. "Amelia Bones is the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. She's supposed to be the good guy. And she just executed a witness because it was inconvenient."
"That's a slippery slope, Dick," Batman warned. "Justification is the first step toward becoming what you fight."
"I know," Dick repeated, feeling weary. "I'm not saying she's right. I'm just saying... it's complicated. More complicated than we thought. What do we do now?" Dick asked, looking from the unconscious Prime Minister to the dead woman. "We can't leave him here like this. If he wakes up, he'll start a nationwide manhunt for Amara."
Batman turned to face the unconscious man, his expression calculating. "We can't break the curse ourselves, we don't have the magical expertise. But I know people who might." He paused, then made a decision. "We're going to extract him," Batman said. "We're taking the Prime Minister back to Gotham."
Dick blinked, surprised. "You want to kidnap a world leader? Bruce, that's... that's insane. Even for us."
"It's the only way to save him," Batman countered. "Zatanna can undo this mind control properly without scrambling his brain permanently. We can't trust anyone here." He moved to the desk, hoisting the heavy, unconscious man over his shoulder with effortless strength. The Prime Minister's head lolled limply. "We need to leave this country as soon as possible," Batman continued. “But make no mistake, this is not over. We will be back and put a stop to all of this madness now that we have all the proof we need.
Dick nodded slowly. He wished he could see Amara one last time before leaving, but he realized she’d probably not be sticking around much longer either. He’d see her again in Gotham soon enough.
– Amara –
I woke slowly, drifting up from the depths of a surprisingly dreamless sleep into a world of warmth and heavy, suffocating comfort.
The first thing I registered was the bright light, because I was too tired to remember to shut the curtains last night. The second thing I registered was a body pressed flush against my back, an arm draped heavily over my waist, and a rhythmic, hot breath puffing against the nape of my neck.
Bellatrix Lestrange was naked. And so was I.
Her body was pressed seamlessly against mine, spooning me with a possessiveness that apparently didn't sleep even when she did. I could feel the soft small swell of her breasts crushed against my shoulder blades, the nipples hard and pressing into my skin. Her stomach was flat and warm against my lower back, and her legs were tangled with mine beneath the high-thread-count sheets, her knee wedged intimately between my thighs.
My breath hitched. My succubus instincts, never one to let a sleeping dog—or Dark Witch—lie, woke up instantly. A hum of arousal started low in my belly, a traitorous, automatic response to the skin-on-skin contact.
It didn't matter that she was insane. It didn't matter that she was technically my "aunt" or that she thought she was my mother. My body just registered—naked body touching yours…
‘Okay, Amara. Don’t make it weird,’ I told myself, biting the inside of my cheek to ground myself.
I needed to get up.
I reached down, I lifted her wrist by fractions of an inch, holding my breath as she stirred. She let out a soft, murmuring sound—something that sounded disturbingly like "my star"—and nuzzled her face deeper into the pillow, her grip relaxing just enough.
I took the opening. I slid out from under the covers, shivering as the cool air of the penthouse hit my skin.
I padded silently across the carpet toward the bathroom.
I grabbed a bar of expensive, sandalwood-scented soap and began to scrub.
I rinsed off, watching the suds swirl down the drain, taking the last of the night’s chaos with them. I turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a fluffy white towel from the rack. I dried myself vigorously, rubbing life back into my limbs, then wrapped the towel around my body, tucking it securely over my large chest.
Leaving the bathroom, I moved into the kitchenette area of the suite.
I found the coffee machine and fumbled with the pods until I got it working.
I took a sip of the coffee, the bitter heat scalding my tongue pleasantly, and let my mind drift to the inevitable.
The Potters.
I had to go back. I had left in a spectacularly dramatic fashion—blowing a hole in their wall. They knew I had magic now. There was no hiding that. I had decimated their house elf and blasted my way to freedom.
So, the question was—Who goes back?
Do I return as Amara Black? Do I storm in there in my true form, horns out, wings spread, radiating dark power and sex appeal, and demand they kneel before me? It was tempting. God, it was tempting. I imagined the look on James Potter’s face if he saw what his "squib" daughter had actually become. I imagined Lily’s envy, James Junior’s lust and fear.
But then I shook my head, taking another long drag of coffee. No. That was sloppy. That was emotional. If I showed up as Amara, they would know everything. They would know I was a succubus. They would know I was powerful enough to be a threat, which would make them defensive, maybe even desperate enough to call Dumbledore immediately. And while I had enjoyed messing with Dumbledore by sending him a head in a box, I wasn't ready for a full-scale war with the Order of the Phoenix just yet.
Not while I was alone in London without Morgana.
Plus, there was something delicious about the continued deception I had been putting on for them.
They knew "Heather" had magic now, yes. But they didn't know what she was. They didn’t know I was the one who had burned Diagon Alley to the ground last night alongside Bellatrix. Ignorance was a weapon, and I intended to keep them unarmed.
"Heather it is, then," I muttered to the empty room, my voice flat. "Back to being the ugly duckling."
I finished the coffee in one long gulp, setting the mug down on the glass table with a sharp clink. I dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor, and stood naked in the center of the living room.
I closed my eyes and reached inward, finding that slippery, fluid sensation of my Metamorphmagus bloodline.
I hated this part. I focused on the image of Heather Potter. The girl I used to be. The girl I despised.
I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection in the darkened window. A stranger stared back. A plain, emaciated, slightly awkward girl with dull eyes and bad posture. "God, you're hideous," I whispered to my reflection. The voice was thinner, too—lacking the sultry, husky depth of Amara’s voice.
I went to my inventory, rummaging through the extradimensional space until I found the pile of "Heather clothes" I kept for these masquerades.
I pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants that were too short at the ankles and sagged in the crotch. I pulled them on, hating the cheap, scratchy fabric against my skin. Next came a faded, oversized t-shirt that had once been yellow but was now a depressing shade of beige. It hung off my diminished frame like a sack, hiding what little shape I had left.
I slipped my feet into a pair of worn-out sneakers, not bothering to tie the laces properly.
I walked to the center of the room, taking a moment to center myself. I pictured the wards around Potter Manor. I knew where the boundary line was now—I’d crossed it violently enough last night.
"Time to go home," I sneered.
I turned on my heel, focusing on the destination. The world twisted, compressing into a tight tube of darkness and pressure.
CRACK!
The world snapped back into focus, depositing me on the manicured grass just beyond the perimeter of the Potter estate.
I stood there for a moment, letting the nausea of magical travel settle, adjusting the oversized, scratchy t-shirt that hung off my frame like a shroud. It was humiliating to be back in this skin—this small, weak, forgettable vessel of Heather Potter—but the wand hidden up my sleeve, humming with a dark, predatory warmth against my forearm, was a grounding reminder of the truth.
I wasn't weak. And I certainly wasn't forgettable. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and stepped forward.
Passing through the wards felt like walking through a curtain of cold, electrified slime. I felt the magic ripple over my skin. I knew exactly what that sensation meant. Inside the manor, alarms were likely chiming, alerting James and Lily that their prodigal, disappointment of a daughter had returned from her little tantrum.
I crested the small rise in the lawn, the massive, sprawling structure of Potter Manor coming into view. It stood like a monument to arrogance. My eyes were drawn instantly to the side of the house, to the second floor.
A dark, jagged snort escaped me.
There, marred into the pristine stonework, was a gaping, ugly hole. The edges were blackened and crumbled, the result of my explosive exit yesterday. They hadn't fixed it yet. Maybe the magic I’d used—raw, angry, and tinged with my demonic heritage—was resisting their standard repair charms. Or maybe they just hadn't had the time.
I intended to walk straight to the front door, to march in there and finally teach them all a painful lesson, but first my eyes were drawn towards another nearby building.
I was looking at the barn. It sat a hundred yards away. I paused, my sneakers sinking into the dewy grass. That was where Lily had taken me yesterday. That was where she had preened and gloated, showing off her "pride and joy."
The Potter Hippogriffs. International award winners.
A slow, cruel smile stretched across my plain face. My revenge didn't have to wait until I was inside the house. It could start right here, right now.
Why should the Potters get to keep such magnificent creatures?
They treated everything living as property—me included. They saw a daughter and saw a broodmare to be sold to a decrepit old man. They saw a majestic magical beast and saw a trophy to be bragged about at dinner parties.
They didn't deserve them. I jogged toward the barn. The closer I got, the more the anticipation built in my chest, a hot, bubbling pressure that demanded release. I reached the massive double doors. They were heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands, likely locked with a dozen charms to keep thieves out and the "assets" in.
Yesterday, Heather had stood here meekly while Lily unlatched them. Today, Amara wasn't in the mood for keys.
I flicked my wrist, snapping my wand into my hand. "Alohomora Maxima," I whispered, but I pushed a surge of raw magic behind the words.
The sound was like a gunshot. The heavy iron lock mechanism didn't just click open—it shattered. The internal bolts were ripped violently from the wood, metal screeching against metal, and the massive doors groaned before swinging outward with a heavy, dramatic thud, bouncing against the exterior walls.
Inside, the stalls were lined up like prison cells.
Dozens of golden and orange eyes snapped toward me instantly. The hippogriffs were agitated, sensing the sudden violence of my entry, sensing the dark magic that clung to me like perfume.
I walked down the center aisle, my head held high, making no attempt to make myself small or non-threatening. I wasn't Heather the Squib here. I was the apex predator in the room.
At the far end of the barn, in the largest stall, stood the leader. Silverwing. She was breathtaking, just like she was yesterday. Her feathers were sleek and groomed to perfection, her eagle head regal and proud. She watched me approach, her large eyes unblinking, intelligent, and wary. She let out a low, chirping sound, shifting her weight. Her massive front talons dug into the straw.
I stopped ten feet from her. I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I held her gaze, pouring my intent into the air between us—not dominance, not ownership, but recognition. I see you, I projected.
Slowly, gracefully, the great beast bent her front knees. Her head lowered, the dangerous beak tucking toward her chest in a deep bow.
A thrill of delight shot through me. I dipped my own head in return, keeping my eyes locked on hers, mirroring the respect. "Hello, beautiful," I murmured, my voice echoing in the rafters. It was only as I straightened up that the glint of metal caught my eye.
I stepped closer, my brow furrowing. I hadn't noticed it yesterday—I had been too busy playing the part of the awestruck idiot, and Lily had been too busy blocking my view with her preening. But now, in the stark light of morning, it was undeniable.
Around Silverwing's neck was a collar. It was a thick, heavy band of cold steel, etched with glowing suppression runes. A heavy chain was welded to the front of it, running down to a reinforced iron ring bolted directly into the stone floor of the stall.
I looked around, checking the other stalls. They were all the same. Every single one of these magnificent, proud creatures was shackled. They were chained to the floor like common dogs, restricted to a few feet of movement, unable to stretch their wings, unable to fly unless their "masters" deigned to take them out for a show.
"Disgusting," I hissed, the word tasting like bile.
My grip on my wand tightened until my knuckles turned white. Of course. Of fucking course. The Potters didn't raise these animals—they imprisoned them. They broke them. They kept them on leashes so they could parade them around for status, stealing their freedom just like they had tried to steal mine.
I looked back at Silverwing. She was watching me, waiting. There was a heaviness in her eyes, a dull resignation that I recognized intimately. It was the look of someone who knew they were trapped.
"You hate it, don't you?" I whispered, stepping right up to the edge of her stall. I reached out, ignoring the danger, and ran my hand along the sleek feathers of her neck, just above the cold metal of the collar. She leaned into my touch, letting out a soft, trilling sound that vibrated against my palm. "You hate being chained up in the dark while they sleep in their silk sheets." I pulled my hand back and raised my wand. "Well," I said, my voice rising, sharp and clear in the silence of the barn. "I have some bad news for the Potters." I turned slowly, addressing the entire barn, looking into the eyes of every trapped beast. "How would you all like to be free?" I asked them, a savage grin spreading across my face.
Silverwing squawked, snapping her beak and tossing her head, the chain rattling violently. The other hippogriffs joined in, a chorus of screeches and the thudding of hooves against wood.
They understood.
"I thought so," I purred. I aimed my wand at the heavy steel collar around Silverwing's neck. "Diffindo!" I slashed my wand through the air with a vicious, cutting motion. The spell hit the steel collar with a shower of white-hot sparks. There was a screech of tearing metal, a loud PING, and the collar split in two. The heavy steel fell away, clattering loudly onto the stone floor.
Silverwing reared back, shaking her head wildly, her feathers fluffing out as she realized the weight was gone. She let out a piercing, triumphant shriek that made my ears ring, spreading her massive wings as far as the cramped stall would allow, buffeting me with a gust of wind that smelled of freedom.
I didn't stop there. I spun, firing spell after spell, moving down the line of stalls with manic speed.
One by one, the hippogriffs surged out of their prisons. They flooded into the main aisle, a chaotic, squawking river of feathers, talons, and muscle. They snapped at the air, stretching wings, testing their newfound liberty.
I stood in the center of the storm, laughing. It was pure chaos, and it was glorious.
Silverwing trotted out of her stall, shaking her mane. She came right up to me, towering over my smaller body. She lowered her head again, nudging my chest with her beak, hard enough to bruise, gentle enough to be a thank you.
"Go," I told her, pointing toward the open double doors where the sunlight was pouring in. "Fly. Get out of here before they come. And if you see any of them..." My grin widened, showing teeth. "Feel free to shit on their heads."
She let out a loud, barking cry and broke into a gallop.
I watched them go, feeling a vicarious lightness in my own chest.
I had just cost my "parents" a fortune in purebred magical livestock. I had destroyed their property. And I hadn't even stepped inside the house yet.
"Alright," I whispered to myself, turning my back on the empty barn and facing the manor again. "Round one to the squib..."
I stepped out of the barn with a wide, unhinged grin stretching across my face. It felt like my skin was too tight to contain the sheer, manic satisfaction bubbling in my chest. I watched the last hippogriff bank sharply against the wind and disappear over the line of trees, heading for the mountains.
Gone. All of them. Every single feathered, award-winning, galleon-generating asset of the Potter family was now free to shit on someone else’s lawn.
I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, twirling my black wand between my fingers. But the moment was shattered before I could fully savor it.
"Stop right there, Heather!" The shout was raw, cracked with sleep and panic, tearing through the quiet morning air.
My grin dropped instantly, twisting into a scowl of pure irritation. I stopped walking and turned slowly, deliberately, not bothering to hide the wand in my hand.
James Potter Junior stood about twenty yards away, panting heavily. He must have sprinted from the manor the second the alarms triggered. He was still in his pajamas—silk, obviously, probably worth more than everything I’d owned in the orphanage combined—but he’d thrown a robe on haphazardly over them. His hair was a mess, his chest heaving, and his face was a portrait of shock and incoherent rage.
But his eyes weren't on my face. They were locked on my right hand.
He stared at my wand like it was a venomous snake coiled around my fingers. His own wand was gripped so tightly in his fist that his knuckles were white, shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and fear.
"You..." He choked on the word, his eyes snapping up to meet mine. The betrayal in them was comical. "You fucking liar!"
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Good morning to you too, brother. Sleep well?" I surprisingly did last night…
"Shut up!" he screamed, taking a threatening step forward, though he stopped dead when I didn't flinch. "I can't believe it. I can't believe you tricked us all! You let us think you were a squib! You ruined all our plans for you!" His voice climbed an octave, trembling with indignation. "I let you watch me train yesterday! I let you stand there in my dueling room and watch me cast spells, and you just... you stood there and pretended to be impressed? You were laughing at me the whole time, weren't you?"
I almost snorted. That was what he was upset about? That I had bruised his fragile, overinflated ego by witnessing his mediocre spellwork under false pretenses? "James," I said, my voice dripping with bored condescension. "Watching you flail around with a wand wasn't exactly the highlight of my day. I was mostly trying not to fall asleep from second-hand embarrassment."
His face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. "You bitch! You think you're clever? Coming back here, playing the victim!?" He gestured wildly toward the empty, gaping barn doors behind me. "What did you do? Where are all the Hippogriffs?"
I glanced back over my shoulder at the empty barn, then turned back to him with a shrug. "Gone," I said simply. "I let them go."
"You... you what?" He looked like I had just spoken in a foreign language. "You let them go?"
"I set them free," I corrected, my voice hardening, losing its mocking lilt. I took a step toward him, and he instinctively took a step back. I felt the memory of my own childhood rise up—the small rooms, the feeling of being trapped in a life that didn't fit, waiting for someone to come and save me who never showed up. "I know what it's like to be trapped," I hissed. "I decided they didn't deserve that. And I decided you didn't deserve them."
James Junior stared at me, his mouth working silently for a moment. Then, the reality of the situation seemed to crash down on him. The color drained from his face, replaced by a look of sheer, panicked horror. "You... you have no idea what you've done," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Do you have any idea how much those hippogriffs were worth? Do you?"
"I'm sure they fetched a pretty penny," I said dryly.
"They were our best source of income!" he shouted, the panic turning back into rage. "Dad bet everything on this breeding season! We needed that gold! We're leveraging everything to keep the manor running, you stupid, selfish cow! You've ruined us!"
So it was true. The mighty Potter fortune was drying up. No wonder they were so desperate to sell me off to McFinnegan. I had just kicked the last crutch out from under them.
"Good," I said coldly. "Maybe now you'll have to get a real job."
That broke him. A guttural snarl ripped from his throat. He didn't think; he didn't warn me. He just lashed out. "Confringo!" He whipped his wand forward in a vicious motion.
My eyes widened slightly—not in fear, but in surprise. That wasn't a stunner. That wasn't a disarming charm. The Blasting Curse was dangerous—at this range, if it hit me in the chest, it could shatter ribs, rupture organs, maybe even kill me if he put enough hate behind it.
He wasn't trying to subdue his wayward sister. He was trying to hurt me.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw the spell leave the tip of his wand, a jagged bolt of orange, superheated light streaking through the air toward me. It was fast, fueled by genuine fury, but to my enhanced senses—sharpened by the ritual, honed by Morgana—it looked pathetic. It was sloppy.
I flicked my wrist, a sharp, precise backhand motion with my soul-bound wand.
Clang.
My wand connected with the bolt of the Blasting Curse mid-flight. I batted it aside like an annoying insect. The orange bolt careened wildly off course, slamming into the ground five feet to my left.
BOOM!
Dirt and grass exploded into the air.
James Junior stood frozen. His eyes were wide, staring at the crater, then slowly, terrifiedly, tracking back to me.
He looked at my wand, then at his own, as if he couldn't comprehend the magical physics of what had just happened. "H-how..." he stammered. "You... you just... that's an advanced deflection. That's Auror-level parrying. You were just supposed to be a squib!"
I lowered my wand slowly to my side, dusting a speck of dirt off the hem of my oversized, ugly t-shirt. I tilted my head, looking at him with a mixture of pity and predatory amusement.
"I told you, James," I said softly, my voice carrying easily across the distance between us. "You assumed a lot of things. You assumed I was weak. You assumed I was stupid." I stepped forward, closing the distance. He scrambled back, his wand shaking violently in his hand now. "You've been training in magic your whole life, 'brother,'" I mocked, spitting the word like poison. "You went to Hogwarts. You had the best tutors. You had Mommy and Daddy holding your hand every step of the way." I stopped ten feet from him, squaring my shoulders. I raised my wand, pointing it casually at his chest. The black wood hummed, hungry for more. "So come on then," I challenged him, my grin widening, showing too many teeth. "Let's see how good you really are compared to me…"
XXX
Comments
Christian E. Y.
I know it’s a cliché but I was hoping she’d at least introduce Bellatrix to this little invention called the hot shower. And I’m sure she’d enjoy learning about guns, nukes, and other such ‘useless ‘ muggle things.
Rycork
I congratulate the author: Amelia Bones doesn't appear often in stories, but when she does, it's almost always as a good guy. This is the first time I've seen her on the other side, and it's refreshing.
Schloppi
Oh god that Hotel is going to be ashes if she doesn't return before Bellatrix wakes up...
