DOUBLE UPDATE: CHAPTER
BEFORE THIS

OCTOBER 1st, 1996

The hills beneath stretch far enough to reach the sea. Rosalie had never been fond of the hidden home, not since she saw it two years ago. A small place, with two flights and many windows. She stood at the edge of a cliff, held up by soil that has existed for centuries. The home is not too far, but it exists as an ant from where she stands. Shrouded in darkness and in the light of the moon, a thousand stars above screeching for her to leave.

The edges began giving away as she pressed her boot down in a stretch. She knows this feeling well, she used to explain it in great depth to her father's. The one where she wavers at the edge and the soil begins to give away, where her stomach drops down to the earth's core.

She retreated back a step, but had half the mind no to. Some nights she thinks it would be easy to let herself fall from a high place, allow her body to be returned to the world that birthed her. But she never goes through with it. Perhaps she is a coward after all if even she cannot commit herself to death. A fool's way, Sirius would say. A cowards way, Walburga Black screams into her father's veins.

Once she did try though, and failed.

There was nothing but dread to follow. Heartache in her fathers eyes. Desperation in Sirius's voice. Achinging in Remus's touches. Since that day, she has tried to stay away from the edges that tempt her. She doesn't look at the kitchen knives. She tries to not think about pill bottles. All because she does not want to be reminded of urges that no one should hold inside themselves.

Her hands snaked their way back into the pockets of her trench coat. The house lights flickered on in the distance, and she knows who is inside. The Order used it for meetings every so often. Just as they used houses all over Scotland and England. Never able to stay in one place, as restless as the phoenix in which they gained their namesake.

Something she can relate to: a restless soul. Something Remus says is a Black family trait. She doesn't know how to feel when he brings up her family line. They are better off dead and rotted in the ground, Sirius snapped when she asked after he had one too many drinks. People stared at her because of a simple surname, and people hated her for it too.

She feels the weight of her ancestors though. They press down on her shoulders with a million bricks. They lurk in the shadows, cursing her existence. They talk of a girl who will restore honor, while the others tell of a girl who will be nothing but a fabled tragedy in the history books.

Black's were born with greatness bred into their veins, yet they all died the same way. She knows there is no outrunning fate, that the family madness will consume her soon enough. She just hopes that when it does, it consumes her whole.

The lights turning off in the distance dragged her into reality, where the autumn air is brisk and the night feels empty.

A crack, like a thunderclap, rang in her ears.

"I checked the house," said Moody, using his staff to come to a halt next to her. His stubby fingers adjusted his glass eye onto the side of her face. She doesn't look too well, that much is certain. "You alright, kid?" he asked.

She hummed and nodded up to the darkened sky. Only a squib would deny the darkness hanging in the air. It has wrapped itself into the grass, around trees, and laced itself into the clouds. If the Gods are watching, she hopes they know there is a man who wants to be one of them. She prays, often, that the Gods will strike him down for it.

"Oh, I know." Moody grumbled and spat at the ground, as if cursing the Dark Lord by doing so. "Mother nature has fallen ill to his existence, that bastard. Even the animals are stirring in their cages, horses shrieking in their stables."

"It is nature's battle cry," she vowed. "They know real war, real bloodshed is coming. It will not be a game of men, but one of everyone. The dead speak about it, they know they will have more joining them down below."

"Thousands, I think. Thousands the first time, a thousand more will go this time."

Rosalie gazed over at the wizard with sharp eyes before focusing back on the unlit wooden home. "Do you ever think how it always men starting wars? In our world, in the muggle world, in every part of the world? They seem incapable of settling for what they have, hungry for power in ways that will never last."

"Nothing lasts, Kid. Not love. Not family. Not money. Men know that, it's why there's always another man rising from the shadows in an attempt for the one thing that can: power. Why do you think they are incapable of holding it for a long time when it is truly possible to do so?"

"Because they are men. Blinded by their egos, never to see out of their own beliefs. Some of the greatest dynasties have fallen over a man's incompetence of thinking of himself on the same plane as others. Each and every time, men become so blinded by the power they gain, that they fail to realize when it is slipping through their fingers until it's too late. Us women are way too tactical to make the same mistake."

Moody chuckled and began tapping the ground with his staff. "You're a smart girl," he said. "Let us hope you never decide to take on the world for your own sort of crown."

"If Dumbledore keeps sending me on missions, I might attempt to as revenge," she forced the joke out of her lungs, and it worked. Moody grinned and laughed some more, murmuring about what color crown he would give her. She would never understand why she was so good at this; taking the few that never seemed to laugh and making them topple over with joyous sounds. She wonders when someone will do the same for her.

But she cut him off, sudden coldness of ice in her voice, "Where is the rest of the Order?"

"Oh Black, I'm afraid the others do not know about this mission. That includes your fathers, keep it that way."

"Why, might I ask?"

"Because," All the humor is gone from his body. He nudged her elbow, cursing beneath his breath before, "You have some Deatheaters to kill, and Dumbledore doesn't want the rest of the Order to know it. They're all a bunch of idiots, thinking they can win this without taking lives-well, you know what I say to that? It's all lies. The Deatheaters made their choice, you don't waste time putting them in a pearly cell. You arrange their early meeting with the Gods. Let them be judged for their crimes by a higher power."

"And why does this fall on me and you?"

"On you tonight, not me. And because you swore an oath. You're damn more powerful than any bastard we've got on our side. You'll make it out okay, you're good at surviving."

Her eyes fall closed with the wind howling inside her ears.

"You suspect me to take on and kill a bunch of Deatheaters by myself?"

"No. You can kill them all. You can kill one. Or you can just send a message. Whatever you do is your choice, but there's only going to be three coming." He turned toward the witch that had tried slowing her thoughts down, placing a scarred hand on her bicep. "Rosalie, Dumbledore is testing you. He knows you can easily take on three. How you choose to handle this is up to you, but do it right. Do it with a sharp mind. Hold no remorse. If you weren't killing them, they'd be killing you."

"And how do we know for sure it's only three?" Her eyes remained closed with each deep breath. "Explain it all again, all the details. Everything, I need to know everything."

"Severus gave them the house address so he could keep blending into the mix. You-know-who decided yesterday he would only need to send three since the house is empty until the next meeting. He's hoping to find some of our plans inside, some information we may be storing. They won't be suspecting an attack, and if you allow them to live to tell the tale, well then Severus's life won't be at stake since you-know-who believes you to be on a revenge path for what he had his Deatheaters do to you. He'll think you have been stalking his armies, you get the rest, eh?"

"Ah..." Rosalie scoffed and shoved his hand off of her with a cruel stare. "So it is not just about Dumbledore needing someone with a supply of power, or someone to do the dirty work. It is about using me to keep Snape's life safe?"

Moody scowled at her, shuffling toward the cliff's edge. "Your father has filled your brain with idiocy when it comes to Severus. That man is good." He glanced over the drop below before sparing her another glance, "This is war, be useful or get killed. The Gods didn't bless you with power for nothing."

"Not complaining, Mad-eye. Merely making an observation."

"No. No, you never have been one for complaining, have you?"

"I believe it is of no use." Rosalie declares this as her truth, her principle. "The Fates place us where they wish."

"That they do, Kid. That they do."

Moody disappeared right after with a flash of white and a crack, gone and out of sight.

The attack began soon enough, and Rosalie stayed atop that cliff as her eyes turned up to the gray skies. Five thick streams of inky smoke began flying toward the home. Trees shrieked in the forest behind her, crows flanked from their branches, and sudden thunder created a melody above.

The trails of smoke clogged together in the form of a black cloud on the front porch before the shadows rolled away to reveal five cloaked men. She cannot see their masks from here, but she can make out the shape of their bodies.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And then she apparated herself, her limbs twisting through time and space. She landed in the wet grass, a yard away from the rickety wooden steps. The cloaked figures whirled around, eerie in their standing ensemble. Faces covered by skull masks that had been white with silver details. On the platform above their heads tilt, wands whipped out from their hips.

They know who she is by one look of the dark hair, there is no need for introductions.

Although the masks are meant to distort their voices into a demonic sound, she knows it is Yaxley who spoke up, "Put that silly wand down, Black."

She glanced down at the wand in her left hand before lifting her chin high. "You first, Corbin, and I might just let you take me to your little false God. Maybe I'll even take your place by his side. How much do you think it would take to convince him to dispose of you?"

"Crucio!" one shouted, forcing her wand to raise and defect the bolt of red.

"You fool!" another snapped, "She isn't to be killed!"

The silent Deatheater in the center of them all took a step down, wand kept by his side. "Rosalie, Rosalie," this one's voice did indeed sound like that of a demon. "Put the wand down and let us have a talk."

"Come closer first," she dared.

"What do you take me for? A fool? Put the wand down."

She has danced with men enough to play their games, to use her femininity and youth to an advantage. Let the world see you as a sheep, devour them as a wolf. They will always doubt her because of what is between her legs, and she knows these types of men. Ones who will suspect her to be a scared little girl in the face of evil, a part she has learned to play well as a jester.

Rosalie made a loud sound of offense for them all to hear and kneeled down slowly in her defeat. She placed the wand into the grass, droplets of the morning rain coating her fingers.

The footfalls on the steps grew and became rapid at her actions.

By the time she began to stand, they were all circling around her with wands raised. Straightening her spine, she spun, searching for depth of the masks that were mockingly terrifying up close with inspection. Regardless of the hair standing up on the nape of her neck, she had not been tortured by men in masks. Lucius and Theodore Sr made sure she could see their faces, wanting to scar her for life.

Therefore, if the masks were not something of the devil's creation, she has no other reason to be so unsettled.

But she is.

"Little little Black,"

"Where's your father now?"

"Will it be your beast of a father or the blood-traitor father that comes to save you?"

"You know I heard something about how bad Bellatrix messed up Sirius..."

Their voices all clumped together like a horde of the dead, their motions around her blurring. It made her head spin, eyes flicking back and forth as they morphed into one entity in her mind, no detail separating any of them.

But they came to a halt, and Rosalie swallowed to rid herself of a sand filled throat.

"Lucuius and Theodore told us what they did to you," one murmured, and she felt sick at the hissing voice. "They did more than torture you, didn't they? Let us see-"

"No!" she screamed, pulling her left arm into her chest.

Maniacal laughter rang out as the man's leather hands yanked her arm into his vice hold. Her entire body shook and another hand slammed into her spine in the form of warning.

The witch did not try pulling her arm free again.

The sleeves over her left forearm were yanked up and she whipped her chin in the opposite direction as they all closed in to get a look. She did not want to see the cursed knife's handiwork. Carved into her skin was the mark that laid against every Deatheater around her, but instead it was crafted with deep scars, her skin still barely able to thread together.

'If you refuse to join us, then I will just have to mark you as one of us.'

She does not remember who said it, the day that she was tortured. Whether it was Lucius Malfoy or Theodore Nott Senior, but she remembers the process all too well. The weight of their body on her own. Her shirt sleeve being cut open. She remembers the knife being driven into her skin over and over, crafting each intricate detail of the dark mark. Not a scream left her, every part of her body too broken from how many curses had been used. But she did stare at the concrete next to her head, tears running down her face.

"Oh...they marked you as one of us alright."

"What a shame," said another grating voice by her ear. "Such pretty skin ruined."

She kept her chin turned away from the exposed skin, eyes held up to the skies. "What a shame," she mocked back, "That all of you powerful men fall into a bow for a halfblood. I could cut my veins open, show you how pure my blood is compared to your Dark Lo-"

The smack landed across her cheek before she knew it was coming. Her head whipped down, blood filling inside of her stinging cheek. She spat the crimson substance by their feet, her head shaking.

"I'm tired of this charade," was all she announced before her free hand lifted in the air. The night rumbled in response. Air grew suffocatingly thick. Storm clouds paused. Shrieking from the forest snaked its way through the grass, flowing into the ears of the Deatheaters and bringing them down onto their knees.

Lightning struck behind the home, but she paid no mind to nature's unforgiving state. The masked men were gripping at their own heads with leather fingers, kneeled in the grass-their circle around her staying intact. She brought her hands out by her stomach, inhaling the pine as she casted pain into the guilties bones.

Then, the night fell completely silent. The wind seemed to stop flowing. The brush of tree leaves locked into a standstill. No more whispers of the earth's retribution, only groaning and moaning of aching from men who had dared to think her vulnerable.

"Let this be a reminder that I do not take orders from any of you," she said, carefully moving within the circle. Their groans did not worsen, but stayed the same, making it impossible for any to speak. Although they could stare up at her, a snarl beneath their covered mouths, and their pupils dilated in agony.

She took that moment to merely stare back, trekking her gaze over the different shades of blue, green, brown, buried within the eye-holes of the masks.

"I want you to give Voldemort a message for me," she began, calmness strengthening her voice. "Tell him that if he wants me, he'll have to get me himself." Her body continued moving within the circle, "Tell him that I only care about two people, my fathers, and they will happily die before they succumb to him. His tactics are useless, his men are weak, and he is once again being outsmarted by a woman much younger."

Rosalie stopped once making another full circle, halting across from the Deatheater that had forced her sleeve up. Frankly, she was exhausted from hearing them all groan. "Let us make this quick," she chirped, hands staying steady with flowing magic. Her body leaned toward the glaring brown eyes beneath the skull. "Yes, I believe I will take your head and let your friends carry it back to your master as an indicator of how serious I am. Sound good?"

At once, the man tried fighting the spell, causing him to thrash on his knees. She clenched her left hand into a fist, shooting a severe sort of white knives into each of their veins that she had held back. The men fall deeper into the earth, crouching over with nails scraping on their black hoods. Screams left their lips, ear-piercing and close to a shriek.

She could not deny that hearing their pain brought her comfort.

The witch willed her mind to keep the spell up as she began bringing her hands together with a curse of latin beneath her breath. In mere moments, she began pulling her palms apart, blinding white smoke flowing between and materializing with the further her hands spread.

When the smoke finally took form, her hand grasped at the hilt of a machete.

The men, too blinded by a new level of pain and ripping at their own cloaks, did not notice the weapon in her hands.

And in the stillness of the night, and amongst screams existing as the only macabre tune, Roalie Black reared back the machete before swinging the steel into the throat of the man that had revealed her scar. His head flew off into the grass, blood spraying the others and her boots. In the face of evil she had now done, the witch took a deep breath as the body sat on its knees with no head, chopped flesh of the throat disgustingly on display.

A pant left her lips and she lifted a leg, kicking the body backwards with her heel. That is when she dared to look away, to glance down at the silver blade coated in crimson.

The screams became as silent as nature made the night in her ears. Her hands shook as she brought the machete in and lifted up the bottom of her trench coat, wiping the ill-fated blood away. Suddenly, her legs felt shakier than her hands, and the weapon fell into the ground.

With the joy of hearing suffering gone, she did not waste another second. She raised her arm and pushed it down, a ripple of blue exploding out from her body and past the circle.
All fell quiet as the spell crashed into the Deatheaters, knocking each of them out into a lulled sleep. Their bodies fell, some piling into the other, few falling backwards.

Rosalie inhaled the freshly returning air, as the sounds of nature returned into their usual state. The wind howled, the trees began to flow once again, and the clouds above rumbled with a real storm. She tipped her head up and closed her eyes. Her job here was done. And every part of her yearned to go back home, not Hogwarts, where she could sink into her bed with the comfort of a million blankets.

Leaves crunched, and crunched.

Her eyes snapped open and her head turned to the left, where a Deatheater landed more than ten feet away. Taller than most, cloaked in the darkness of black, face shrouded in the same darkness, but with the mask of death. Their wand was whipped out by their side, and they took merely three steps forward with the most pompous walk one would ever witness. She could recognize his movements anywhere. For Draco Malfoy was a hard man to miss, even beneath the disguise of evil.

His mask was silver.

Another crunch of leaves sent her head turning the other side. This Deatheater did not move from their spot. Just as tall. Just as menacing. Just as much covered in the darkness provided by a false god. She looked between them, and she knew the other was Theodore Nott. The tug at her gut. The burning of her hand marked with lines of a vow. The spin of her head. The dizziness of their presence. All of this, every detail, tells her who the two masked men are.

His mask was scorched black.

A giggle slipped past her lips and the slumped bodies around her faded from her mind. Stepping out of the circle, and toward the stairs to the front porch, she shook her head with more laughter. "Oh how sweet is this," she muttered to herself before climbing the steps.

Once on the porch, she faced the grass lawn, finding the two men in the same position, but with masked faces turned toward her new placement.

"Well?" she called out, slowly backing up towards the door, "If you want to play boys, you'll have to catch me."

The Deatheaters do not move.

She giggled again, and bolted inside the house, slamming the door behind herself. Down the slim corridor she ran, heading right toward the spiraling staircase at the end.

Just as her fingers touched a cooled wooden handrail, an explosion so powerful went off that she fell into a bend with her nails digging into the wood for support.

Her heart raced like a wildfire as she turned, only to find one of the masked figures on the porch and the shattered front door that now laid in the corridor. As if her heart could handle going any quicker, one of them shot through the house in their mist of black smoke, tearing through walls and leaving her to cover her face with an arm to prevent any of the woods hitting her.

Before the dust could even begin to settle, she used the handrail to push herself up, ascending the stairs with new found energy.

On the second floor, the dust was just as thick, making the witch stop and cough at the heaviness that filled her lungs.

She could hear footsteps though, and they were hauntingly slow, but closing in. And in an attempt to continue winning this little game of chase, she rushed forward into the corridor, barely able to see.

When two hands grabbed onto her arms, she screamed at the top of lungs in terror before she was pressed against a hard surface.

As she panted, the dust cleared enough for her neck to crane up and find a dark and twisted masterpiece of a mask. She gasped this time, the sight of the man covered by a hooded cloak, and his leather covered hands sliding up her arms was much more unsettling with mere inches between them.

Another set of hands latched onto her hips, and that's when she realized what surface she was pressed up against. She turned her head to find yet another masked man, staring down at her and forcing her body against his own.

The one in front of her slid his leathered encased hand onto the side of her neck, forcing her to look at him and him only.

"I'd appreciate," she breathed out, feeling her heartbeat inside of her ears, "If you would unhand me."

Those eyes, even in the dark, she could see the depth of the ocean before her.

"Nott," she muttered up to the towering figure.

The Black mask, she should've known.

His head cocked to the side, and she swallowed at how the sight made her stomach flip. "How do you know it's me?" his voice shot out like gravel, his fingers flexing on the side of her neck.

"How you love to grab onto my neck." Breathlessly, she smiled and tipped her head back against Malfoy's chest, eyes still trained on Nott. "And how Malfoy's hands have a tendency to travel onto my hips."

"What did we say about staying safe?" Nott growled.

Rosalie licked her lips, still breathless, and turned her head up and backwards to look at Malfoy. His mask was different, not just a different color, the carving of a skull no doubt, but the details were not even similar. "Are you mad at me too, Malfoy?" she whispered.

His head tilted this time, down at her, and she felt the wind be knocked out of her lungs at the steel eyes standing out amongst the silver covering his face. "Well..." he began in a low tone, "I s'pose we could punish you, but I'm beginning to think you would like that too much."

Her eyes grew wide.

She wished to have a mask to cover her own face now.

"Of course we're fucking angry," Malfoy suddenly snapped, making her jerk, "Your life is ours to take, not one of those men out there."

Nott's hand yanked on her neck, forcing her attention onto him once again. "You are foolish," he spat, "You are to stay out of Deatheater business. Do you know how they talk about you in those meetings? They might want you dead, but you have no idea how sick they are. What they would they do if..." he trailed off, knocking his own head to the side for a moment.

"Dangerous games..." Malfoy murmured, his hand trailing up onto her stomach, "They have bad outcomes."

"I don't take orders from either one of you," she hissed.

Their hands became a mix as she was pulled off Malfoy's chest and pressed against a splittering wall, her head knocking back in pain. She wished she never saw Nott's arms caging in one side of her while Malfoy caged the other. She wished they never stepped so close. She wished she never opened her eyes to find two looming Deatheaters.

Because her heart had never beat this quick. Her breath had never been taken away so fast. And her stomach had never filled with dread so intensely.

On instinct, she inched up the wall, hoping to create a distance that was not possible.

"Why..." she choked out, "Why are your masks carved differently? I...I don't mean the color either."

"Do you truly want to know?" Nott asked. She forced a half-nod. He smirked beneath the mask, and said, "Each mask is the skull of the first muggleborn every Deatheater has killed."

She gasped out, "No,"

Nott laughed and she came to understand right then, that he was nothing but a sick psychopath. "Oh yes," he said, his amusement bringing him full of life.

Malfoy reached out and ran his covered knuckles beneath her jaw. "So tense little Black, are you scared?"

"I'm," she breathed out, her eyes fluttering shut every other second.

"I'm?" Nott spoke cruelly, reaching out his own hand to press against her chest with such roughness she gasped. "Oh..." he mused, feeling every erratic beat of her heart. "I cannot even begin to imagine how much adrenaline is pumping through your pretty little veins right now."

"Nott," She could barely breathe. Barely keep her eyes open. "Nott," She reached for his hand, but her fingers were limp around his wrist. He kept his hand there, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration.

Malfoy trailed two fingers onto the pressure point of her throat, pressing in and leaning closer as he got his own feel of her heartbeat. "Gods," he cursed. "You like this, don't you Black?"

"I don't," She shook her head, but her heavy breathing betrayed the lies. "I only feel disgust for this. For you two. I," she trailed off. "I never..."

"Let's test that theory," Malfoy said.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, Malfoy bent down and leaned in, stealing her breath away completely as the cold metal of his mask, the arch of the carved lips, brushed against her own.

"If there wasn't something between our mouths," he murmured, eyes piercing into her own, "What would you do?"

Although it proved hard, she forced herself to mutter back against the fake mouth, "I'd slap you in the face." She switched her eyes up to Nott who watched intently. "And then I'd kill him."

Malfoy laughed in a way that could only be laced with evil as he pulled back up to his full height. She looked between them, and did not know how to act for once in her life.

The masks that should cause such fear and sadness, caused a completely different emotion. One she was ashamed of, and one she hoped they couldn't see through her eyes.

Nott hissed, the mark beneath his sleeve burning. "They're going to wake up," he said, more serious than she had ever heard before, bending down and wrapping his arms around the witches waist. He slung her over his shoulder and ignored her yelp.

"Make sure you hold onto her," Malfoy said. "In the most annoying way, she's a fighter."

"Put me down, you little insolent prick!"

Nott grunted, keeping one arm around her body. "She's the most irritating person alive, that's what she is."

"Excuse me?!"

But then they were gone, and her body turned into the same dark smoke of a Deatheater as they busted through the roof of the home.

It hit her all at once.

They were taking her to Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord did not want her dead, therefore they would still get that honor in the future. They were going to take her to their 'master' and lay her at his feet on a silver platter.

When they landed and the smoke fell away, she was beating on his back mercilessly. "Dont," she pleaded loudly, "Don't you fucking dare do this to me-"

"Black!" Nott grunted and threw her off of him, leaving her stumble back in the weeds. "Do what?" he snapped, "Save you from a house that's about to be flooded with Deatheater's?!"

She pushed away her curtain of hair, but they still could not see her face as she kept stumbling until colliding her spine with a tree. Looking around, she realized they had taken her to a field covered by weeds. "I thought," she sucked in a sharp rush of air, "I thought you were taking me to Malfoy Manor."

Malfoy scoffed, "What did my manor do to you?"

"Don't worry Black, you're not the type of girl either of us would take home," Nott said, one corner of his lips twisting up beneath the mask.

Her body shook and she relied on the tree for balance as a hand came up to cover her mouth, hiding a cry. Only when she tipped her head back and the moonlight shined on her face did either of them see the tears streaming from her closed eyes. Then, her shaking body.

Malfoy ripped off his mask without a thought in his brain and hurried over to her. "What is it, Black?" His voice came out hoarse, his eyes frantically searching her face.

The witch shook her head, refusing to open up her eyes as the panic made her chest tighten. She sank down against the tree until she was sat on the ground with her knees pulled up.

Nott cursed his brain and himself as his body worked against him to tear off his mask. Just as Malfoy kneeled before her, Nott found himself falling into the same position. She covered her face up with her hands, refusing to let them see her this way.

Malfoy did not hesitate to place his hand on her shoulder. "You need to breathe," he demanded harshly.

Nott looked over at him as if he were the stupidest human alive before shaking his head. "Are you trying to make it worse?" he snapped.

"I'm trying to make her feel better," Malfoy hissed, his hand unknowingly tightening on her shoulder.

The two men glared at one another.

But before it could last, or blow up, her voice broke through, "Just-just leave."

"Yeah," Malfoy grunted, "That's not happening." He tore her hands off of her face with enough force that she could not fight back.

Her eyes, bloodshot and watery, landed on the head of white hair that was no longer hidden beneath a hood. By the Gods, she would have swore the look on his face could have been mistaken for concern right then. He did not realize he was squeezing her hands, but she was not going to tell him either.

He was warm. He was stable. He was calm. He was everything she wasn't at that moment.

More tears fell as her chest ached.

Nott's gloves were ripped off and her blurred gaze drifted over to him as the rough pad of his thumb swept beneath her eye with a gentleness she did not think him capable of. "Listen Princess," he began, "You are going to breathe or so help me in the name of your fabled Gods, I'm going to force air into your lungs."

"How do you plan on doing that, huh?"

Their eyebrows both lifted at her managing a breathy response, humor clearly laced in her jab. Draco bit down on his lip to conceal any sign of him finding it humorous, and Theodore simply allowed a wryly smirk on his own mouth.

"I could kiss you," Theodore offered, taking care of swiping his thumb beneath her other eye, "But I don't think either of us would like that very much."

"In the name of my Gods," she choked out, her head tipping back, "I'd rather have my body burned alive than kiss either one of you."

Malfoy laughed, genuinely laughed, and grabbed onto the side of her head. "There she is,"

"Here I am," she breathed out with eyes closed, placing her hand over Malfoy's.

Abrupt as ever, Theodore pressed two fingers into the side of her neck.

"Nott!" She gasped, attempting to inch away.

He shushed her with furrowed burrows. "Be quiet, I'm trying to make sure your heart is beating normally."

"It was just a panic attack," she assured, until realizing. Here she was, bent down on the ground with their hands on her. With her enemies hands on her. Enemies hands that were stained with the blood of innocent lives, faces that were moments ago covered in a mask of death.

Rosalie shot up so fast that she wobbled, and before either of the men could blink, she apparated away.

*

Theodore and Draco both stayed equally
as silent as the other when standing up and knocking the dirt from their robes. The dread that has always been present in their lives came right back. Neither of them would dare to breach the subject of what just happened, or how they acted to the witch that had become the most agitating part of their existence.

"Come on," Theodore said, preparing to fly away once again. "We need to go see what she did with all those bodies in front of the home."

In the grass below the porch steps of the home that now existed as rubble and splintered wood, four Deatheaters were pulling themselves from the ground.

Curses were shared, shouts of hate all for the Black witch who had wounded the egos of proud men. If anything, Theodore found it humoring, and Draco clearly did too as they neared.

"Malfoy! Nott!" one screamed, and turned toward them without a mask to reveal Corbin Yaxley.

Theodore pushed the hood off his head of curls once reaching the group. "Hm. Guess she didn't kill you all? Should I celebrate?"

Mulciber's lips curled in spite of the boy's forever reek of sarcasm.

"Oh don't look so down Mulciber," Draco said, patting the man's shoulder as he passed by. "You only got out-smarted by a witch two times younger than yourself."

"What are you lot doing here?" Yaxley snapped.

"Well, Snape suggested you all might need some help." Theodore brisked his way by the four living that had grouped into a standing row together. Behind them, he halted, only momentarily before crouching down at the headless body that Draco was knelt by.

His eyes moved to the severed head with a mask no longer across its face. Reaching for the thick dark hair, Theodore pulled the head up from the ground. Blood dripped down, and the eyes of the dead man were opened wide.

The most manic of laughter poured out of Theodore's chest as he turned the head toward himself.

"I think I know how his head was cut," Draco said, standing up with a bloodied machete in his hands.

Theodore took one look at the weapon before falling further into laughter.

"What is wrong with him?!" Yaxely shouted.

"I don't know," Draco glanced at Yaxley, voice blank, "Maybe I should take off your head and see if he keeps laughing."

"It's Jugson," Theodore laughed. "Who killed Jugson?"

"Black," Augustus hissed. "She used that machete and took his head right off his shoulders."

"No she did not," Draco corrected. "You think Black killed a man?"

Theodore could not laugh any harder.

"Ignore them," Augustus said to the others. "Go in the home, see if you can find anything."

"Draco," Theodore called. He turned the severed head toward Malfoy, and then opened the dead man's mouth with ease, making it look as if Jugson was speaking. "Now be nice Malfoy, Jugson is saying goodbye to you."

Draco inhaled deeply and turned away, tossing the machete to the ground. "You need psychological help," he shouted.

*

The Malfoy Manor drawing room was dark as the night skies that showed through the grand windows towards the thirty-foot high ceilings. But illumination did come from the roaring fire beneath a marble mantlepiece surmounted by a gilded mirror.

No other light.

No other people, except the Dark Lord who stood in front of the flames.

A chorus of 'my lord' rang out as men gathered behind him in the drawing room. The Dark Lord did not turn, his eyes fixated on the flames.

"Did you gather any useful information?"

"There wasn't much, my lord," said Yaxley.

"That little witch showed up," Augustus spat, unable to contain his anger. "She murdered Jugson and then forced us all to sleep. Draco and Theodore came, but they showed up well after we began to wake."

The Dark lord remained quiet as he sipped from his glass. Tension fell across the room, none knowing what sort of anger he would cast onto them.

"And how did Rosalie manage to murder someone?"

"My lord," Theodore said, stepping forward. The Dark Lord turned around with a blank expression before his eyes landed down onto the severed head Nott held by the hair. "They said she used a machete, but I don't believe Black would do such a thing."

The Dark lord tilted his own head, staring into Jugson's expressionless eyes.

"She's many things, but not a murder," said Draco.

"No?" The Dark Lord laughed. "She severed his head clean off, what does that make her? A Saint? Or are you suggesting one of my own did this?"

"They could have," Draco announced without a care. "I do not believe that little girl did this. We've went to school with her for years."

"She did." The Dark Lord had the ghost of a smile across his lips, "I looked into Yaxleys mind, I just saw her do it." He slid a hand atop of the marble mantlepiece and turned back to the fire. "Black's are famously insane, she is no exception. All it takes is one little-" The flames roared to life, "-Push. The sooner each of you understands you are not playing games with an innocent girl, the easier it will be to get her on our side."

"She had a message for you, my lord," Mulciber began, "She said that if you want her, you'll have to get her yourself. And that-that Jugson's head was meant to show how serious she is."

The Dark Lord had a cold laugh leave his chest as he patted the mantlepiece, "She is a prickly woman, is she not?"

"She's a cunt," Yaxley spat.

Theodore rolled his eyes and tossed the severed head into the fire. He stepped up beside the Dark Lord, grabbing the poker out of its rack. "Yet she's more powerful than you will ever be, Yaxley," Nott said, falling into a bend and pushing the head deeper through the flames as laughter came from the other men.

But the Dark Lord raising a hand silenced them all.

"I will get her myself. Now...tell me what you found in that home."

By the time Draco and Theodore were permitted to leave, they took slow steps striding down the stairs outside of Malfoy Manor. Hands stuffed into their pockets as if on a stroll, but faces both consumed in thought.

"Are you thinking what I am?" Theodore asked, breathing in the cool air with a single plan in mind.

"He's not getting her," Draco affirmed.

"No," Theodore lifted his head, sparing Draco a glance. "No, he's not."

_________________________________

A/N: hello my loves!! these chapters have been in the drafts for a few days, i just wasn't really feeling them and wanted to rewrite them but decided against it once i got home from my bday dinner and realized how long it's been since I updated

-i love these crazy men‼️‼️‼️

-okay but on a real note things will be picking up quickly from here and focused more so on them all connecting in a deeper way with some Theo and Draco povs ( and smut but who cares lol)

-there's also some meaning behind the masks being different colors that will be explained later

-theo is absolutely batshit insane in this and i can't wait to show that more 😀😀

-is there anything you guys want to see? idk i always feel like asking that

anyways, memes:

Draco and Theo preparing to force Rosie between them every chance they get:

Theo thinking of all the different ways he will stalk Rosie tomorrow:

Draco figuring out every single detail of Rosie's day because he will lose his mind if he doesn't:

Theo and Draco when Rosie says they can't stop her from seeing Adrian:

Rosie when Theo and Draco had the masks on:

Draco when Theo started playing with Jugsons head:

Them realizing Rosie did in fact take off his head:

xx bri <3