I had to cut this chapter in half due to how long it was. make sure your read part 1 first.
......
He went on like that for a few minutes—standard textbook dueling spells, mostly. Stunning, disarming, shield charms when the dummies fired back at him occasionally.
His form wasn't terrible. He'd clearly had good instructors, and years of practice. But there was a hesitancy there. A rigidity. He moved like someone who'd been told his whole life he was destined for greatness and was terrified of fucking it up. Sweat started dampening the back of his neck, darkening his hair near the roots. His breathing grew heavier, more ragged, and his wand movements got a fraction sloppier.
He must not have a large pool of mana at his disposal to draw from. Daphne and Astoria could both cast a lot more magic before they would tire themselves out…
I stood quietly by the wall, carefully maintaining the slouched, awkward posture of Heather Potter. Every few spells, I mumbled quiet words of encouragement—just loud enough for James Junior to hear, but quiet enough not to distract him.
"You're amazing," I whispered softly, widening my eyes with feigned awe as he cast yet another standard dueling charm. "I've never seen magic like yours before. It must be so wonderful to be this powerful!"
Each small compliment I fed him visibly inflated his already considerable ego. His shoulders straightened a little more after every praise, his wand gestures grew more exaggerated and dramatic.
Yet despite his steadily swelling pride, I could see the cracks forming beneath his carefully rehearsed bravado. His breaths grew increasingly ragged, and a tremor had begun to creep steadily into his grip on his wand. His movements were no longer crisp and confident—instead, they bordered on sloppy, each spell carrying less precision and force than the last.
Perfect. He was tired, off-balance, and vulnerable—exactly where I wanted him.
I took a tentative step forward, wringing my hands together nervously, eyes cast timidly toward the polished floor. "James… can I ask you something?" My voice was hesitant, deliberately uncertain, as if I feared he might snap at me.
He exhaled sharply, turning toward me with clear annoyance etched across his features. "What now, squib? I've already let you watch me practice, what more do you want?"
I flinched slightly, pretending to gather courage before meeting his gaze directly. "I-I just…" I stumbled artfully over my words. "No one has ever told me how Sirius died. No one ever explained it to me. He was… he was the only person who was ever kind to me..." I let my voice waver convincingly, my eyes shimmering slightly with unshed tears that added an authentic layer of vulnerability to Heather's façade. "Could you—could you please tell me what happened?"
James Junior's arrogant expression faltered briefly, a flicker of genuine conflict flashing behind his eyes. But it only lasted an instant before he scoffed dismissively, averting his gaze in a sudden show of irritation. "My parents said I'm not allowed to talk about that with anyone," he snapped tersely. "Especially not with you!"
My throat tightened momentarily with real anger, but I swallowed it down quickly, forcing my voice soft again. "But… he meant a lot to me, James. Can't you at least tell me something? Anything at all?"
He glared at me in frustration, jaw clenched, clearly annoyed by my persistence. Finally, he snapped, "It doesn't matter anyway. Sirius turned out to be nothing but a fucking traitor!"
The words hit me like a slap across the face. Anger burned bright and hot beneath my skin, my fingers curling involuntarily into tight fists at my sides. "W-what do you mean?" I forced myself to ask quietly, even as rage clawed violently at my chest.
James Junior turned fully toward me now, sneering openly with bitter contempt. "Everyone knows now! He hid the fact that Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange had a daughter. Hid her existence from everyone, even from Dumbledore! Even from his best friends!" He practically spat the words out, eyes narrowing in disgusted accusation. "And then that twisted bastard made her his heiress, instead of our family! Mom and dad said I would get access to Black Manor and all the money in their vaults, but it all got taken away before I could get it! Not even the useless goblins could get any of it back!"
I almost laughed at the sheer stupidity and irony of his words. There was no secret daughter of Voldemort and Bellatrix—there never had been. It was just an absurd conspiracy concocted by that fool Dumbledore who obviously was far too paranoid for anyone's good…
Oh right, we sent moody's head back to Dumbledore underneath that fake persona so maybe they actually had some actual basis for believing the conspiracy…
But James Junior wasn't done, his anger spewing venomously outward. "He probably planned to sacrifice you to that dark bitch in some horrible ritual—after all, you're just a squib, completely useless. Honestly, you should be glad he's dead."
My heart lurched painfully in my chest, genuine hurt mixing violently with the already boiling rage. How fucking dare he speak about Sirius that way!? Sirius had loved me, had cherished me like no one else ever had—certainly not the pathetic excuses for parents standing at James Potter Junior's side!
Still, I forced my face to remain carefully neutral, to mask the cold fury bubbling dangerously beneath my skin. "Oh," I whispered softly, voice deliberately meek and wounded. "I—I didn't know…"
"Well, now you do," James Junior snapped impatiently, wand jerking irritably toward the door as he turned sharply away. "I can't believe they lost the Black Manor before I got a chance to raid it. Imagine all the valuable magical artifacts and family treasures we missed out on. What a fucking waste..."
Every single muscle in my body tensed violently at his callous, greedy words. I wanted to see him screaming, choking, writhing on the floor, his pretty, arrogant face twisted with agony. But I couldn't let that happen—not yet.
"Come on," James Junior snapped irritably, already heading toward the heavy door. "Breakfast should be ready soon, anyway…"
He pushed roughly past me, not bothering to glance backward as he strode briskly toward the corridor. I forced myself to slowly unclench my fists, breathing deeply through the roiling anger that burned within my chest.
Maintaining Heather Potter's pathetic disguise required immense self-control, more than I'd ever anticipated…
….
Breakfast was significantly more subdued than the drama-filled dinner had been last night. James Senior barely looked up from his plate the entire meal, distractedly shoveling food into his mouth like it offended him. Eventually, he stood up abruptly, tossing his napkin onto his chair with a dismissive flick.
"I need to prepare," he announced gruffly, exchanging a tense glance with Lily that immediately piqued my curiosity. They shared some unspoken secret, some knowledge hidden behind careful looks. "Our guest arrives later today," he added cryptically.
James Junior pushed his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. "I'll be in my room," he said with a bored drawl, standing slowly as if even the act of moving was a tiresome burden. "Training this morning was exhausting." He strode away without a backward glance.
Now it was just me and Lily, left sitting alone at the enormous table as multiple house elves scurried around us, clearing away plates, bowls, and empty cups with remarkable speed and quiet efficiency.
The Potters obviously had a substantial number of elves—I'd counted at least ten so far—which hopefully explained why none of them had noticed yet that Flipsy had permanently vanished.
I pushed the half-eaten remains of my breakfast around my plate, the silence growing increasingly uncomfortable as Lily watched me with that carefully neutral expression she so often wore. "You know," Lily finally said softly, breaking the heavy silence. Her voice was gentle and sugary, almost sickeningly so. "You didn't get a proper chance to see everything yesterday, sweetheart."
I forced my face to remain passive, meek, lowering my eyes submissively toward my plate. "I… suppose not."
She smiled warmly, pushing back her chair. "Why don't I show you around properly? I wouldn't want you accidentally wandering somewhere dangerous." Her voice dropped slightly at the end, an unmistakable condescension seeping through. "We wouldn't want you getting hurt, now would we?"
My jaw tightened briefly, hidden beneath my carefully maintained mask. A small part of me wanted to snap at her, to let her see just how capable—and dangerous—I truly was. Instead, I bit back the angry retort, choosing instead to force a timid smile and a soft, obedient voice.
"Okay… m-mom," I murmured, intentionally adding a small, shy stutter at the end.
The reaction was instantaneous. She practically beamed at me, unable to disguise just how much hearing that single word had satisfied her ego.
God, she was so easy to manipulate. It would've been amusing if it wasn't so infuriatingly pathetic.
Maintaining the Heather persona was proving more challenging by the minute. It felt like wearing a heavy, suffocating costume, one designed specifically to constrict my true self. Yet at the same time, I was grudgingly discovering that I was an exceptional actress.
Lily led me outside into the fresh morning air, stepping gracefully onto the sprawling grounds of Potter Manor. I followed quietly behind, shuffling slightly and keeping my posture deliberately hunched.
First, she showed me the flower gardens. A vibrant expanse of meticulously maintained blossoms spread out before us. Roses, lilies, tulips, and other exotic magical plants bloomed abundantly.
Lily gestured proudly around the lush display, pausing occasionally to name certain flowers, clearly eager to impress me with her knowledge and taste.
But all I could see were empty displays of wealth, expensive blooms cultivated purely for status rather than genuine appreciation.
Next, we approached a large greenhouse constructed of polished glass. Lily stopped abruptly before its entrance, turning sharply toward me with a warning expression.
"You must never enter here alone, Heather," she instructed firmly, voice tinged with condescending concern. "Some of these magical plants are extremely dangerous, and without any magic…" She trailed off, looking pointedly at me with pitying eyes…
I forced myself to nod meekly, ducking my head submissively. "I understand. I'll stay away," I promised softly, though privately I made a mental note to thoroughly investigate the greenhouse at the earliest opportunity. Maybe I should raid the place before I leave?
Morgana would appreciate magical ingredients.
Satisfied, Lily smiled brightly again, resuming her elegant stroll across the immaculate lawns toward a large, large barn set a short distance from the main house. The heavy wooden doors creaked gently as Lily pushed them open, revealing an interior that instantly captured my genuine awe, despite myself.
Natural sunlight streamed gently through wide-open windows, casting warm rays onto the barn's inhabitants.
"Holy shit!" I breathed softly, momentarily forgetting Heather's reserved facade as genuine wonder filled my eyes. Standing proudly before us were several massive, regal creatures—hippogriffs. Each creature stood impressively tall, their powerful bodies blending seamlessly from majestic eagle heads and wings into the muscular frames and strong hindquarters of horses.
The hippogriffs immediately eyed us warily, sharp golden gazes narrowing skeptically as they assessed our approach. Several spread their wings slightly, feathers ruffling warningly.
Lily stepped confidently forward, bowing low toward the nearest hippogriff—a magnificent, pure-white creature with gleaming silver talons and piercing amber eyes. It watched her closely for a long moment before finally inclining its proud head respectfully in return.
Smiling triumphantly, Lily straightened and reached out boldly to gently stroke the creature's feathered neck. She glanced smugly toward me, clearly relishing the opportunity to showcase her magical superiority.
"These," she announced proudly, voice dripping with arrogant satisfaction, "are the Potter hippogriffs. Our family's pride and joy!"
I forced my expression back into Heather's timid awe, eyes wide with feigned admiration as I stepped hesitantly closer. "They—they're amazing," I whispered softly, playing up my shy reverence.
Lily nodded approvingly, seemingly pleased by my submissive praise. "Yes. Our family has raised hippogriffs for generations, passing the tradition carefully down from father to son." She paused, lips curling slightly. "Well, until now, at least."
Her pointed words weren't lost on me. Heather—weak, squib, unwanted daughter—would never inherit this precious tradition.
But I, Amara, found myself genuinely fascinated by the majestic beasts despite my dislike of Lily herself.
Tentatively, I approached the same pure-white hippogriff, keeping my posture hunched and submissive. Carefully mimicking Lily's earlier movement, I bowed respectfully, lowering my eyes deferentially. Several long, tense moments passed before the creature slowly returned my gesture, inclining its regal head gracefully.
When I straightened again, it stepped forward unexpectedly, beak gently nuzzling against my shoulder. A surprised laugh escaped my lips before I could stop myself, the sound genuine rather than feigned.
Lily's eyebrows raised slightly, clearly startled. "Hmm. She seems to like you. That's surprising," she said, her voice subtly colder, clearly disappointed by my success.
I smiled shyly, gently stroking the hippogriff's soft feathers. It leaned happily into my touch, visibly relaxing under my fingertips. Perhaps it could sense the powerful magic concealed beneath Heather's carefully constructed facade, recognizing me as a fellow magical being worthy of respect. The idea filled me with smug amusement.
"They seem very intelligent," I murmured softly, keeping Heather's voice quiet and respectful. "How long have you cared for them?"
Lily quickly brightened again, clearly delighted by the chance to brag further. "Oh, they've been in the Potter family for centuries. They're incredibly valuable creatures, especially pureblood lines like ours. This one here—Silverwing—is our finest. She's won several international awards."
"That's incredible," I whispered shyly, letting admiration fill my voice. Lily clearly thrived on praise, her ego swelling visibly with every word of my carefully chosen flattery.
"Oh, it certainly is," Lily continued enthusiastically, launching into a self-indulgent monologue about the prestige and wealth associated with Potter hippogriffs, utterly oblivious to the disgusted contempt hidden carefully behind Heather's wide-eyed awe.
Lily eventually led us back to the manor after we had spent more time with hippogriffs. I actually enjoyed it, to be honest.
Although, the whole experience had felt distinctly like she was buttering me up for something. Every instinct within me was whispering a warning—that other shoe was about to drop, and soon.
A grim part of me almost welcomed it. The sooner their façade shattered, the better.
At least for my mental health.
Although, if any psychiatrist wanted to diagnose me at this point, they'd probably demand I be immediately committed to a padded cell. The thought almost made me chuckle. Not that they'd ever be able to hold me, of course, but the image of some pompous psychologist scribbling down a diagnosis of "violent, hedonistic sex demon with homicidal tendencies and deep-seated mommy issues" was perversely amusing.
I shook my head slightly, dispelling the distracting thoughts as Lily guided me down a long, lavishly decorated corridor to a private changing room. The room was surprisingly cozy—warmly lit, walls lined with intricately carved wooden panels, expensive tapestries draped elegantly across open surfaces.
Lily ushered me inside, gesturing eagerly toward an ornate dressing table beside a large, full-length mirror.
On the table was something I hadn't expected—a genuinely beautiful dress, crafted from rich, vibrant red silk. It shimmered softly under the gentle candlelight, each thread meticulously embroidered with delicate golden patterns along the hem and neckline. I could immediately see it was perfectly fitted to my current body shape, down to the inch.
Clearly a custom-made piece.
"Heather, darling, isn't it lovely? We had this dress custom-made just for you, straight from Madam Malkin's finest! It's a very special present—your very first real Potter gown!" She paused, letting the words sink in, then waved a dismissive hand toward my deliberately ugly clothing. "You don't need to wear those awful clothes anymore, sweetheart. You're a Potter now."
Interesting. I noticed she carefully didn't say "You're Lady Potter."
A subtle but crucial distinction.
Yet, I didn't mention it aloud. Instead, I nodded shyly, feigning a cautious excitement. "T-thank you, Lily—I mean, mother," I murmured softly, letting just enough nervous gratitude slip into my voice to satisfy her ego.
"Now," she said briskly, stepping behind me, gently placing her hands on my shoulders. "Go ahead and put it on, dear. I'm here to help you, if you need it."
Without waiting for further prompting, I slowly began stripping out of the intentionally hideous clothes I'd chosen this morning. I acted embarrassed, keeping my eyes shyly lowered, as if ashamed of the emaciated, awkward body I presented to her. Lily watched carefully, her green eyes sharp, observant, openly taking in the unpleasant sight of Heather's pale, too-thin frame, her brow briefly creasing in mild distaste.
"Oh, darling," Lily said quietly, voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy as she gently brushed her fingers along my exposed collarbone. "Those horrid muggles clearly never fed you properly. But don't you worry—now that you're home, we'll make sure you eat properly and put on some healthy weight. We have plenty of house elves to prepare all your meals."
I nodded timidly, forcing a faint blush of embarrassment onto my pale cheeks. "Th-thank you, Mother."
Lily handed me the dress with a proud flourish. "Now, let's see how lovely you look in Potter colors."
I stepped carefully into the gown, letting the luxurious red silk cascade softly over my hips and torso. The fabric felt like a caress against my skin. Lily stepped forward eagerly, gently helping adjust the gown's fit, her fingers brushing lightly along my waist and shoulders as she straightened seams and smoothed out wrinkles.
It was all extremely maternal, intimate, and utterly nauseating. I swallowed the sudden wave of disgust and forced a shy smile to linger uncertainly upon my lips.
Stepping back to admire her handiwork, Lily studied me critically. Then, nodding decisively, she retrieved her wand from a pocket of her elegant robes, aiming it deftly toward my flat, dull brown hair.
"Hold still now," she murmured, tone warmly encouraging. "I'll fix that awful hair in just a moment, sweetheart."
She flourished her wand with practiced precision, murmuring incantations under her breath. Magic immediately flowed forth, weaving through my tangled strands of hair like an invisible comb, tugging gently as it transformed messy locks into sleek, lustrous waves. Within seconds, Heather's dull hair had become shining and beautiful, cascading gracefully around my face and shoulders.
"There we go," Lily said softly, admiration shining in her green eyes. "Much better, isn't it?"
I turned slowly toward the full-length mirror, my breath momentarily hitching at the unexpected transformation staring back at me. Heather Potter actually looked… lovely. The red gown accentuated my delicate curves beautifully, the gold embroidery glinting softly beneath the candlelight. My hair framed my face gently, softening my sharp features and giving me a fragile, youthful innocence I hadn't thought possible with this disguise.
For a fleeting second, a wave of bitterness rose sharply in my throat. This was exactly the kind of care and affection Heather should have received her entire life.
Instead, I'd grown up starved, neglected, beaten down.
Lily stepped closer, smiling brightly as she gently laid a slender hand against my cheek, her touch warm and deceptively tender. "You look absolutely lovely, Heather. Like a proper Potter daughter should."
I lowered my gaze submissively, playing my role. "Th-thank you, Mother. But… Why are we doing this right now?"
Lily's smile softened as she tilted my chin upward gently, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "Can't a mother simply wish for her daughter to look as beautiful as possible?"
"Yes, of course," I mumbled, blushing shyly under her intense scrutiny. "It's just… it feels sudden."
Lily sighed softly, her thumb lightly brushing along my cheekbone in a carefully soothing gesture. "Darling, you're finally home. After so many wasted years apart, I just want to make up for lost time. And later, we're having a very important guest over to meet you."
Ah. There it was—the other shoe dropping with an audible thud.
I forced myself to look innocently curious. "A guest? Who is it?"
Lily's smile became slightly strained, though she tried to mask it quickly. "Just someone who I'm sure will be very happy to meet you, sweetheart…"
…We left the changing room and wound through several lavish hallways. Lily steered me gently yet firmly onward, her thin hand gripping my elbow in a way that felt deceptively maternal, but beneath it lingered a quiet tension, almost desperate in her eagerness.
She paused at a set of double doors. Her grip tightened subtly, and I felt her nails press lightly through the thin silk sleeve of my new gown as she pushed open the doors. My heart sped up with wary anticipation as she tugged me forward.
Inside the lavish room was James Potter Senior, seated rigidly on an armchair.
Beside him was a stranger, an elderly wizard. Most wizards aged gracefully—skin smooth and supple well beyond a century—but this decrepit old creature clearly had not. His gnarled hands trembled, blue veins bulging beneath skin that resembled tattered parchment. His head was mostly bald, save for a few sparse wisps of grey hair scattered unevenly across a liver-spotted scalp. Sunken eyes glittered beadily from beneath thick, wrinkled eyelids, and his thin lips stretched into a grimace-like smile upon seeing me enter.
Lily's hand tightened around my arm, forcing me a step forward into the open, her voice bright and falsely cheerful as she introduced us. "Heather, sweetheart," she purred, "allow me to introduce you to Lester McFinnegan! Lester is a dear friend of the Potter family—he and your great-grandfather were close confidants back in the day."
Her words dripped honey, but the slight hitch of desperation beneath told me something unpleasant was coming. My stomach twisted uneasily, dread pooling slowly within me as Lester McFinnegan's gaze slid openly up and down my slender frame, pausing lecherously at my small breasts and hips beneath the thin fabric of my gown. His tongue darted briefly out, licking dry lips in a way that made bile rise sharply in my throat.
"Eh," the old wizard rasped disdainfully, voice hoarse and gravelly with age, "she ain't the prettiest Potter bitch I've ever laid eyes upon, that's for damned sure." He chuckled roughly. "But I s'pose the lassie'll suffice for wife number fourteen. At least she's young. Better hope she breeds better than she looks, James."
Wife number fourteen? Breeding? What twisted nightmare had these fucking people planned for me!?
James Senior shifted in his seat and nodded up and down. "Of course, Lester," he replied stiffly. "We fully understand your expectations. Rest assured, Heather has been kept pure and untouched. Her virtue is guaranteed! We know how important such assurances are to you."
McFinnegan snorted rudely, skepticism flickering behind his faded eyes. He leaned forward, bones creaking audibly beneath his robes as he jabbed a crooked finger in my direction, not even bothering to disguise his salacious stare. "Ye'd better be sure, Potter," he snarled suspiciously. "I won't have no trickery, ye understand? This marriage is purely business. I'll be paying handsomely for this little broodmare—but I expect me money's worth."
Lily forced a polite laugh, the sound strained yet carefully refined. She moved fluidly to my side, slender fingers squeezing my shoulder reassuringly—but it felt more like a subtle threat, warning me against protesting any of this. "Oh, Lester," she said warmly, her smile brittle at the edges, "I assure you, Heather has remained untouched. She was raised by the muggles—isolated and away from anyone who would touch her."
My thoughts raced in chaotic disbelief, a tempest of emotions swirling violently beneath my carefully maintained facade.
All this time, this sickening charade of family affection—the Potters' desperation to reclaim me after years of abandonment—was nothing more than a prelude to selling me off as breeding stock to this decrepit, disgusting old man.
I actually felt dizzy and beyond disgusted.
Ignoring my stunned reaction completely, James Senior nodded again, gesturing toward a polished desk where rolls of parchment lay scattered. "Shall we discuss the terms of the contract, then? The bride price, provisions, and conditions?"
McFinnegan grunted, hauling himself slowly to his feet. He shuffled toward the desk, yellowed fingers shaking slightly as he reached out, greedily stroking a bulging coin pouch at his waist. "Aye, let's get this settled, Potter," he rasped. "I've waited long enough. Tomorrow, we'll make the girl mine officially!"
I sank numbly onto a nearby velvet couch. I watched with quiet horror as my "parents" and McFinnegan eagerly discussed my worth as though I were cattle—bartering bride price, fertility provisions, inheritance claims, and safeguards for "failure to produce suitable heirs." The old bastard chuckled greedily, eyes continually flicking toward me, as if already imagining the grotesque wedding night he planned.
My hands shook lightly as I sat frozen, struggling to comprehend the sheer depth of their cruelty and greed.
Weren't the Potters wealthy already? Had the loss of the Black inheritance truly hurt them this badly, that they would sell their own daughter into a revolting marriage with this decrepit fuck?
The fact that they thought so little of Heather—that they saw me as nothing but a pathetic, useless squib worth only the bride-price I could fetch—burned bitterly inside me, kindling fresh rage.
Lily turned suddenly toward me, smiling brightly as if this were a joyous occasion. "Sweetheart," she cooed, voice dripping fake warmth, "isn't this exciting? Lester is going to provide you with a life of comfort, security, and purpose! He'll give you everything you could ever want!"
McFinnegan leered openly from beside her, one hand rubbing the sagging skin at his throat while the other still cupped his coin purse obscenely. "Aye, little girl," he croaked gleefully, eyes roving hungrily down my trembling body again. "I'll take good care of ye. Keep ye fed, clothed, and bred often. Make no mistake, yer little cunt will earn its keep in me bed."
My jaw tightened violently, fingernails digging sharply into my palms. The blatant depravity of his words snapped me abruptly back from my shocked stupor, cold fury replacing numb disbelief.
Yet, for now, I swallowed back my rage, lifting eyes deliberately wide and fearful toward Lily, voice meek and trembling slightly with perfect submissiveness. "Yes, mother," I whispered. "I… understand..."
The facade that Lily and James Potter had put on had finally, irrevocably shattered.
The filthy old bastard's sunken eyes slid over my form one last disgusting time before, thankfully, he apparated away with a sickening crack.
My breath came in short, sharp pants as James Potter Senior turned slowly toward me. "You worthless, disgusting girl," James Senior snarled venomously, advancing slowly toward me until I could feel the heat of his furious breath on my face. "It took a lot of fucking effort to put this arrangement together, and you are not going to ruin our payday, you stupid, worthless bitch!" His face twisted with disdain, his voice dropping to a low, hateful whisper as he leaned even closer, each word slicing cruelly into me. "You will marry that ancient bastard and pump out his disgusting spawn until the day he finally croaks, because that's all your useless cunt is good for. You're nothing but breeding stock, Heather. Be grateful anyone even wants you at all."
I stared numbly into the cold, merciless eyes of my birth father—barely comprehending the vile words he spat so easily at his own "daughter."
He turned sharply on his heel, storming from the room without another glance back, slamming the door loudly behind him.
"Bitsy!" Lily's artificially sweet voice called immediately, breaking through my stunned paralysis. "Come here and take Heather back to her room right this instant!"
With a soft pop, the small house elf appeared nervously at my elbow. Her huge eyes gazed anxiously up at me as her small hands twisted anxiously together.
Without a word, I allowed her trembling hands to guide me gently from the vile meeting room, feeling numb and distant, as though I were watching my own actions from far away. She guided me silently through endless lavish hallways, up flights of ornate stairs, and back into the lavish prison masquerading as my bedroom.
Bitsy quietly shut and locked the door, lingering nervously near it, clearly ordered to stand guard.
Sitting heavily onto the edge of the plush bed, I stared blankly at the hideous red and gold décor, my chest heaving painfully with barely restrained emotions. Had I ever felt such intense fury, betrayal, and disappointment simultaneously before?
It was difficult to say, but the boiling rage within me was nearly overwhelming, consuming my thoughts.
Eventually, my gaze slowly shifted toward the nervous house elf still guarding the door, large eyes watching me fearfully, clearly terrified I might snap and attack her at any moment. Taking a deep, calming breath, I spoke softly, voice carefully neutral.
"Bitsy," I said gently, forcing a weak imitation of Heather's meek, hesitant voice. "Tell me, please—where exactly does Mr. McFinnegan live?"
Bitsy blinked nervously, obviously startled by the unexpected question. She hesitated briefly, shifting from foot to foot, her tiny voice trembling as she reluctantly answered. "Master McFinnegan lives far up north, Miss Heather, deep in the Scottish Highlands," she squeaked anxiously. "He be havin' a huge manor house—more a castle, really—on a big ranch, near Loch Eilt. Very hidden, very secret. Bitsy knows exactly where it is…" She trailed off uncertainly, glancing anxiously toward me for approval.
My lips curled slowly into a cruel, satisfied smirk as I calmly rose to my feet, turning deliberately to fully face the frightened creature. "Thank you, Bitsy," I purred softly, allowing the mask of Heather Potter to melt away instantly.
The face of Heather rapidly shifted. My true, stunning succubus body emerged. The gown that wasn't meant to contain my curves and bust immediately tore in multiple places.
Bitsy stumbled backward in terror, tripping over her own tiny feet and falling heavily onto the carpet, her trembling hand pointing accusingly toward me. "Who—who is you!? You is not Missy Heather! What did you do to Miss Heather Potter!?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I calmly raised one hand, fingers snapping sharply once. The sound echoed softly through the room.
Instantly, Bitsy's small body erupted violently into crimson flames, an agonized shriek tearing painfully from her throat as she flailed wildly in panicked desperation. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air as the flames consumed her tiny form mercilessly, reducing her rapidly to ash upon the lavish bedroom carpet!
I didn't feel even a flicker of remorse.
Two large, leathery black wings unfurled majestically behind my lower back, stretching luxuriously outward, while my sinuous tail flicked languidly behind me as well. Two white horns emerged smoothly from my raven-black hair, curving elegantly upward atop my head.
I summoned my wand to my hand and pointed at the nearest wall. Unlike yesterday, today I could sense the wards around the house were all up, they didn't want me escaping.
"Bombarda," I whispered softly and watched the wall explode. I spread my wings and flew out the hole, ignoring the panicked shouting I heard coming from behind me.
I would be back, but I had a few things to take care of first…
– Amelia Bones –
The air stank of death and destruction, clinging to Amelia's robes like an oily shroud as she strode across the blackened earth.
What had once been an expansive manor and flourishing livestock ranch was now reduced to ruin—a field of smoldering rubble, still crackling with lingering traces of dark magic.
Amelia's lips pursed in grim determination as she surveyed the horrifying carnage. The earth itself seemed scarred. Scattered among the debris lay twisted, burnt husks of once-living beings—humans and house elves alike.
Whoever had done this had not spared a single soul.
"Fucking Merlin," Amelia hissed under her breath, gripping her wand so tightly her knuckles whitened. "What monster did this?"
Aurors bustled about, anxious under her steely glare.
"Dawlish," she snapped, gesturing him forward with an impatient flick of her wand hand. "Get over here now and report."
The Auror approached hurriedly. "Madam Bones," he began quickly, stumbling slightly over his words under her harsh scrutiny, "We arrived about forty-five minutes ago. By then, the compound was already ablaze. We've been working frantically to contain the flames, but…" Dawlish gestured helplessly to the devastation around them. "There was nothing we could do to save it. The place was an inferno long before we arrived."
Amelia's eyes narrowed, lips thinning into a dangerous line. "Any idea what caused this?"
Dawlish swallowed visibly, hesitating a fraction before replying. "Witnesses—well, there weren't many, mostly villagers far away—they reported flashes of black fire. Based on the residual magic lingering around here, it's almost certainly Fiendfyre, Madam. Whoever unleashed it had terrifying control and immense power!"
"Fiendfyre," Amelia growled, disgusted. She'd seen its effects before—vicious, uncontrollable magic, infamous for consuming anything in its path, flesh, bone, stone, metal. Only the darkest, cruelest witches and wizards dared wield such a curse, and even fewer had the skill to direct it. "This was a deliberate massacre."
Auror Savage hurried over, face covered with ash and sweat. "Madam Bones," he reported breathlessly, bowing quickly. "We've done a full perimeter sweep. Every house elf, every servant, all livestock… there are no survivors. We've lost them all."
Amelia's stomach twisted violently at the confirmation, bile rising sharply in her throat. "Every single one?" she pressed, voice taut with restrained fury.
"Yes, Madam," Savage answered somberly, wiping sweat from his soot-streaked forehead. "Including Lord McFinnegan himself. We found his remains near the manor's main fireplace, completely burned away to ash."
"Damn it," Amelia cursed bitterly. Lester McFinnegan had been a repulsive man, certainly—greedy, lecherous, arrogant. But he'd also been one of Wizarding Britain's most influential meat suppliers, a crucial piece in the delicate web of magical commerce. His death, coupled with the total loss of his operation, would cause painful ripple effects across Britain's entire economy.
It would take years—decades, perhaps—to fully recover. Not to mention the political fallout.
"Has anyone claimed responsibility?" she asked sharply, scanning the charred horizon with angry, narrowed eyes. "Any Dark Marks, letters, statements? Anything to indicate motive?"
Savage shook his head firmly. "No, nothing like that yet. But…" he hesitated, glancing uncertainly toward Dawlish, whose expression grew markedly anxious.
Amelia stiffened, sensing something significant in their exchanged looks. "But what? Spit it out, Savage."
He swallowed again, visibly nervous. "The magic, Madam. It's incredibly strong—so saturated, so dark and intense that our trackers are already picking up residual magical signatures. Whoever cast this spell was powerful, but also careless. They threw around enough Dark Magic to leave a clear, trackable signature!"
Amelia's eyes flashed sharply. Finally, something useful! "And where exactly is it pointing?"
Dawlish straightened hastily, clearly eager to prove himself useful once again. "Our initial tracking charms pinpointed a trail heading directly toward London, Madam Bones. The residual magic traces are exceptionally potent, and with a little more time, we'll soon be able to determine precisely where this dark fiend originated from!"
"London," Amelia repeated grimly, weighing the implications carefully. "So close to home. Too bloody close."
She turned abruptly toward the smoldering ruins, her lips curling into a thin, deadly smile. Whoever had dared unleash this monstrous devastation had made a catastrophic mistake. Amelia Bones would find them, drag them into the light, and deliver the harshest justice Wizarding Britain could administer!
"You keep tracking, Dawlish," she commanded, voice dripping icy authority. "I want coordinates on my desk within the hour. This bastard is not slipping through our fingers."
"Of course, Madam Bones," Dawlish replied fervently, bowing once more. "We'll not rest until they're caught."
"Good," Amelia snarled, turning sharply away from them both, gaze sweeping one final, disgusted glance across the charred landscape.
– Bellatrix –
Bellatrix Black was confused.
She hated being confused. Thinking hurt. It got in the way of the things she preferred—screaming, burning, watching people twitch under Cruciatus. But after what Snape had just told her, her brain refused to stop chewing on it.
Apparently, she had a daughter. With the Dark Lord?
And that supposed daughter had murdered Alastor Moody and mailed his severed head to Albus-fucking-Dumbledore!
Snape's exact words echoed in her mind as she stalked the length of the drawing room at Malfoy Manor.
"Dumbledore has gone to ground, Bellatrix. Someone sent him Moody's head in a box. According to certain… discussions in the Order, the culprit calls herself Amara Black. The old man is rattled enough to believe she's the child of the Dark Lord and… you."
The way he'd said you with that faint, curled lip had almost earned him a Cruciatus on the spot.
She remembered how the conversation had started.
Snape slipping in through the side entrance of Malfoy Manor, damp from the rain, reeking of Muggle London and cheap pub smoke. He'd found her in one of the lesser parlors, lazily tormenting an unfortunate house-elf with small, experimental hexes while she waited to be summoned to the Dark Lord's side.
"Snivellus," she'd greeted him with a wide, toothy grin, twirling her wand between ink-black fingers. "Come for a friendly visit or did Saint Dumbledore finally set you free from your leash?"
"Don't call me that," he'd hissed automatically, then his eyes had flicked toward the closed doors, ensuring they were alone. "I came to speak with you. Alone."
Her grin had widened. "Ooh. Secrets. How naughty." She'd paused, eyes narrowing. "This isn't another lecture about 'reckless behavior,' is it? Because if you say one word about 'jeopardizing our position,' I'm going to feed you your own tongue."
"This concerns you directly," he'd answered tightly. "And him." The way he'd said him—the tiniest dip of his head, that mix of devotion and bitter resentment—told her exactly which him he meant.
That had been enough to make her listen—for a bit.
"Get to the point," she'd snapped, flicking a final jinx at the elf and watching it convulse once more before going limp. "I'm bored."
So he had. Moody. Murdered. Head delivered to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's conclusion: "She must be his. Tom's. And Bellatrix's. No one else could raise such a creature."
Bellatrix had burst out laughing at that, sharp and delighted, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.
"Oh, that is rich," she'd cackled, grabbing the front of his robes and dragging him closer, her manic eyes glittering into his. "So the old fool thinks our Lord went and knocked me up behind his back? And that we made a little monster so dreadful she sent Moody's head by post?" She'd shaken Snape once, hard, just for the pleasure of it. "Why didn't anyone tell me I had a daughter, Severus? I would've sent her a birthday card."
"You really don't remember," he'd said quietly, studying her face. He hadn't even flinched at her grip. Annoying, that.
"Remember what?" she'd snapped, letting go of him with a shove.
"That there was a period," he'd said slowly, "shortly before the first war ended… when you disappeared. Around 20 years ago, you were gone for months…"
She'd frowned. Confused. Irritated. "Yes, I was on assignment," she'd said sharply. "Secret work for the Dark Lord. None of your business."
"You were gone for almost a year, Bellatrix," he'd pressed, voice low. "When you came back, you were… altered. And he ordered you to obliviate yourself immediately after reporting in." His eyes had narrowed slightly. "He ordered me to oversee it."
She'd never questioned it. If the Dark Lord ordered her to cut out pieces of herself, she did it. Happily. Her mind belonged to him. But now… now there was this.
"Why are you telling me this?" she'd demanded, eyes narrowing. "Why not tell the Dark Lord first? Hm? Trying to curry favor?"
Snape had gone very still. "Because," he'd said finally, very quietly, "I want to know what you'll do with this before he does."
Then he'd left, robes snapping behind him as he stalked away, leaving her alone.
Bellatrix had spent the hours since oscillating between delight and irritation.
On one hand, the thought of a daughter vicious enough to decapitate Moody and mail his head to Dumbledore made her chest fizz with pride. That was art. That was style. That sounded exactly like something she would do!
On the other, if she had a daughter, where the fuck was she? Why hadn't she been told? Why hadn't she been allowed to train her properly? To watch the first time she cast Cruciatus, to see that beautiful mad light in her eyes!?
She hated not knowing. Hated that there were pieces of her own life she couldn't reach, because the Dark Lord had deemed them unnecessary. He always had his reasons. She trusted him. She worshipped him. But that didn't mean she couldn't be annoyed.
She prowled across the length of Malfoy Manor's grand corridor now like a caged predator, dark hair swinging in wild curls, her black robes swirling around her ankles. Family portraits watched her warily from the walls, Malfoy ancestors frowning down at her with tight-lipped disapproval.
"Bellatrix?"
She spun at the sound of footsteps pounding across the marble. Lord Parkinson—plump, sweating, moustache twitching in panic—was barreling down the corridor toward the Dark Lord's closed chamber doors. He nearly crashed into her as she stepped directly into his path.
He halted with a squeal of shoe leather, face going pale beneath his thinning hair. "M-Madam Lestrange," he stammered, bobbing a quick, clumsy bow. "Forgive me, I—I have urgent news for the Dark Lord—"
Bellatrix cocked her head and smiled. "Oh? Do you?" she cooed. "And what sort of news is so important you think you can go banging on his door while he's… occupied?"
She let the last word drip with insinuation. Parkinson glanced nervously at the carved doors and swallowed. "It's—my daughter, my lady," he blurted. "Pansy. She—she was in Diagon Alley last night and—and she says she met—"
He faltered under Bellatrix's gaze. She took one slow step closer, wand twirling idly between her fingers. "She met who, Lord Parkinson?" Bellatrix purred. "Use your words. I promise I won't bite." She bared her teeth again.
He flinched. "L-Lady Amara Black, my lady," he blurted. "Pansy was at some—some nightclub, the Cauldron's Kiss, and she swears she met the new Head of House Black. Young woman. Very… intimidating. And Pansy said she introduced herself as Lady Amara Black."
Amara. The name hit Bellatrix's chest like a thrown dagger—sharp and satisfying. Her daughter's name is Amara Black?
"That's a good name," Bellatrix murmured, almost to herself. Her fingers tightened briefly around her wand.
Parkinson blinked. "I—er—yes, my lady. And—and given your noble House, I thought the Dark Lord would want to know at once that the young Lady Black is in Britain, socializing with our children—"
"Oh, quite," Bellatrix said sweetly. "What a loyal little rat you are, scurrying straight to him with your news."
His chest puffed slightly at the faint praise. "Of course, my lady. I live only to serve—"
"And such service deserves to be… handled properly, don't you think?" she went on, cutting him off. She took another measured step, now close enough that he had to crane his neck down to keep looking at her. "You wouldn't want to barge in on our Lord when he's… busy, would you?"
Parkinson's eyes widened. He shook his head so fast his jowls wobbled. "N-no, of course not, I—I hadn't thought—"
"Obviously," Bellatrix said dryly. She reached up and patted his cheek with mock affection. "So here is what you're going to do, Lord Parkinson. You are going to toddle home, tell your precious Pansy she did very well, and then sit by your fireplace and drink something expensive until you forget you ever had the impulse to bother him with this."
"But—my information—" he protested weakly. "I thought—"
"I will tell the Dark Lord myself," she lied smoothly, letting her eyes go wide and earnest. "Personally. I'm sure he will be… very interested. And he'll know who to reward for it." She smiled. "Won't that be lovely?"
Greed flickered in his eyes, chasing away hesitation. "Y-yes, my lady. Of course. If you… if you think that best."
"Oh, I do," she purred. "Run along now. Before I change my mind."
He bowed again—lower this time—and scuttled away, his polished boots clicking a little too quickly as he vanished down a side corridor.
Bellatrix watched him go, the smile sliding off her face the instant his back was turned. The air in the hallway suddenly felt sharper, colder.
Amara Black. Her daughter. And the girl was in Diagon Alley last night?
She turned slowly toward the closed doors leading to the Dark Lord's chamber, feeling the familiar pull. She could go in now. She could kneel on the cold stone and tell him everything.
Moody's head, Dumbledore shaken, Amara Black. In her mind, she could see his eyes light up with that rare, cruel amusement when something genuinely surprised him!
He'd be pleased. Or furious. Or both. Either way, it would be glorious.
And then what? If this girl was their child—if Snape and Dumbledore were right—what would he do with that information? Use her? Mold her into another weapon? Maybe he'd be threatened by her power, and want to snuff her out?
Bellatrix—she would not allow that!
She found herself shocked by that very thought! The thought of betraying her lord and master… and yet, wasn't blood supposedly always thicker? That's what her family always taught her anyways. It was the reason she spared Sirius Black's miserable life after defeating him in the ministry of magic. And then she was shocked when his supposed best friend James Potter cast the killing curse at Sirius' back, and then blamed HER for it…
Bellatrix shook her head, focusing on the more important thoughts. Her daughter showed up in Diagon Alley last night, which meant she might be there tonight as well! Bellatrix spared one last glance at the Dark Lord's office before she turned on her heel and left…
– Amara –
Congratulations! You have exterminated an entire magical bloodline with fire! Your talent [Adept Flames] has been deemed insufficient for your accomplishment!
Your talent has been upgraded!
[Daughter of the Eternal Fire!] You are now completely immune to damage from all fire in existence. Holy fire, or even the hottest flames of the Nine Hells are open to you! All fire magics sing to your call!
…Last night, I'd thought I needed a big distraction from my thoughts. Tonight, I needed a fucking erotic distracting miracle.
The rage was still there, simmering under my skin like banked coals, but the sharpest edge had dulled after I'd turned McFinnegan's estate into a smoking crater and erased him and his disgusting bloodline from the map.
Had I gone off the rails a bit? Yes. Did I regret it? Not really.
If anything, I regretted not making it hurt more.
I knew Dick would be disappointed if he ever found out what I'd just done—which was exactly why I had zero intention of mentioning it. Some things heroes didn't need to know. Let him keep believing I was on the border of redeemable, it made him easier to work with. And to kiss.
I cut through the cool night air and stepped back out onto the familiar cobbles of Diagon Alley.
Tonight's outfit was very different from last night. The dress was white, short, and so indecent it barely qualified as clothing by some people's standards. Slits climbed high up both sides, baring long stretches of thigh with every step. The front crossed low over my chest, two slim panels of fabric curving around my breasts and leaving generous arcs of sideboob and toned stomach on display before meeting in a knot at my waist. The back was almost nonexistent—thin straps, bare spine, the dress clinging to my hips and ass like it was painted on.
I could feel eyes on me long before I reached Cauldron's Kiss. Hungry, curious, covetous. Men, women, things that were neither, all turning their heads as I passed.
I needed that. I needed to drown tonight in heat and noise and touch before my thoughts dragged me back to the image of Lily's delighted little smile as she sold me like livestock.
The club loomed ahead. The line snaked down the street—young witches and wizards dressed in their best, clustered in laughing clumps, trying not to look pathetic as they pretended not to care how long they'd been waiting.
The same half-giant bouncer guarded the door, leaning against the stone archway like a granite statue. When his gaze landed on me, his posture changed instantly—eyes widening, shoulders squaring, arms dropping away from his chest. The flush that hit his cheeks was almost adorable.
"Evening," I purred as I approached, giving him a slow once-over. "We doing the line thing tonight, or are we pretending I'm above such petty mortal concerns?"
It was barely a joke. He swallowed hard enough I could hear it.
"R-right this way, Lady B-Black," he stammered, stepping aside so quickly he nearly tripped on his own feet. His gaze dropped, then jerked back up, clearly fighting the urge to stare too openly. "Welcome back to Cauldron's Kiss."
Huh? He knew my name? That was interesting but hardly concerning at the moment. I flashed him a lazy smile and slid past him, feeling his eyes burn into the back of my thighs before the door closed behind me.
The music hit like a physical force. Bass thrummed through the floorboards and up my legs, lights strobed overhead in dizzying cascades of color—violet, emerald, gold. Wards shimmered subtly along the walls, keeping spells from going too wild.
Tonight the place felt even hotter, even more crowded. Bodies moved everywhere—pressed together on the dance floor, crushed in clusters around the bar, tangled in the darker corners where the light didn't reach and no one was really pretending to just be talking.
Once again, it was perfect. I think I really liked nightclub life like this. No wonder that bastard Lucifer decided to open his own…
I scanned the club as I moved deeper inside, letting my hips fall naturally into the rhythm of the music. I didn't need to look long. Dick's dark head was easy to spot near one of the side walls, where the worst of the crush eased a little. Ginny and Hermione were with him, exactly where they should be. My mood lifted a notch just seeing them.
Yes. I was absolutely getting my distraction tonight.
XXX
Thanks for reading!!! You can check out more of my stories on my profile.
Do you also want to read chapters ahead of my posts on this site? You can!
You can check me out on "Pat-reon.-com / Starwaves" to support me and read ahead of everyone else!
Right now, this story is on Chapter: 19 over there!