After Lord Voldemort's attack, the Nordic vampire clan's numbers had been cut in half.
The Nightveil Elixir had long since worn off. The survivors had no choice but to return to the cavern, where only glittering piles of ash remained—what was left of their kin. In grim silence, the vampires collected the remains, scooping the fine, luminous dust into jars, vials, goblets, anything that could contain it. The Saints moved among them, quietly transfiguring the mismatched vessels into proper stone and silver urns.
The witches and wizards harvested more animals. The vampires needed to replenish their strength before returning to hibernation, but not before a bittersweet celebration. They mourned the destroyed while the living clung to the hope that they might remain Earth-bound for centuries more. Music drifted from a charmed record player, low and mournful at first, then slowly swelling into something almost defiant. Venison was served to the humans. Vampires and Saints intermingled as if the two groups had been allies for years. Surviving such devastation forged bonds faster than any Ministry-declared treaty.
Further down one of the main tunnels, in a smaller, quieter chamber, Stellan and Cassie sat across from one another. The raven-haired witch had agreed to let him feed. She didn't examine how offering her blood to the ancient creature had become familiar and reposeful. In the wreckage of the night, she sought any form of connection.
"Look at me," Stellan said softly.
Cassie shook her head once, then obeyed. It was useless to hope he would not sense her despondency or see the tears already glistening in her eyes. She shivered as he gently took her wrist, turned her arm palm-up, and studied the pale skin as though surveying something precious and fragile. She did not expect him to tear his gaze from her veins and meet her eyes again.
"What troubles you, Cassiopeia?"
A single tear slipped free as she tried—and failed—to smile. "Everything."
"You worry for Diolinda's safety."
"Not really," she said flatly. "I'm sure she's already dead."
His ice-blue eyes remained locked on hers. He sighed, soft and almost human. His hand still circled her wrist as the bond between them hummed like a live wire.
"You can still try to save her."
"Can I?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "My Saints are exhausted. The ones that survived, that is."
"True." Stellan never sugar-coated anything. She both appreciated and despised it. "Then you must make peace with your loss."
"As you have?" The snark slipped out sharper than she meant it to.
The usual flicker of amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, unyielding stare. "If you live as long as I have, you will learn that despair accomplishes nothing."
Cassie ripped her arm from his grasp. She was surprised he allowed it with the mounting hunger already darkening his expression. "You sound like Severus," she snapped.
"Not a bad thing, I presume. You clearly value his convictions."
"I do," she said. "But how am I supposed to keep defending his actions when my own followers watched him fight for the dark side?"
"You are their mistress and they your subjects. You hold the authority over them, including their misinformed opinions."
Cassie growled in frustration and surged to her feet. The ancient vampire remained seated, but his icy gaze never left her. "You say it like it's that fucking simple!"
"It is."
"Stop it!" she shouted. Stellan didn't flinch as she turned on him, fire in her eyes. A white current of magic sparked across her fingers and crawled up her arm. "Stop acting as though none of this matters—like what they think and feel is irrelevant!"
"Of course it matters," he replied evenly. "But to win a war, you must set outside influences aside. They create only uncertainty you cannot afford."
"How?" she demanded.
"It does not matter how. You must do it."
Cassie stared at him. How could he speak of such things so calmly? He had told her about the difficult decisions he had made to keep his clan safe and the mistakes that had cost lives. He had lost many because of poor judgment. And still he spoke as if none of it touched him.
She stepped closer and thrust her arm toward him. The magical current had faded. He took her wrist again without hesitation.
"Just get it over with."
Stellan grasped her wrist again. It had been a long time since he had bitten her without first glamoring her, and without the haze of compulsion, the pain of his fangs piercing into her flesh tore a sharp cry from her throat. A small part of him sympathized. The greater part of him relished the sound.
He felt the way the agony became cathartic for her—the faint tremor of her lips, the tears that slipped down her pale cheeks. She whimpered when he sealed his mouth over the wound and drew deeply, pulling her blood into himself in long, deliberate pulls.
Then he released her arm and rose in one fluid motion. Cassie looked up in confusion, but only a heartbeat later he drove her back against the cavern wall. She yelped as jagged stone bit into her spine, but he did not pause. One hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head sharply to the side before his fangs sank into the soft skin of her neck.
"Get off me!" she snarled, pounding a fist against his shoulder. But the vampire bonded to her knew she didn't need to stop. She longed for the singular, overwhelming claustrophobia of being claimed by an apex predator—the racing heart, the helpless shudder, the pure animal focus that left no room for anything else. For long minutes nothing could reach her. Not Diolinda's likely fate, not the anguish of Severus's choices, not the weight of leadership. Each drop that left her body and slid down Stellan's throat stripped another layer of resistance until she stopped fighting and simply endured, and then accepted, the raw intensity of it.
He stopped well before her strength left her. As he licked the punctures closed, sealing the wounds, he kept his arms locked around her, holding her tightly against him. He sensed she wasn't ready to be released.
"You're all right," he murmured against her ear.
Cassie buried her face against his chest and finally let the dam break. He tightened his hold as sobs wracked her body, silent and violent, the only sound in the small chamber the distant music of the survivors and the soft, steady drip of water somewhere deeper in the tunnels.
Only when she stilled did he loosen his arms and step back, leaving her standing on her own feet once more. She was emptied, raw, and, for the moment, a little less alone.
Stellan watched the last of the tears dry on her cheeks. He could still taste her blood, still feel the frantic rhythm of her pulse against his tongue. For dark creatures like him, comfort was never entirely selfless. He had given her what she needed, and in return he had taken what he required. The exchange was clean. Ancient. Proficient.
Out of respect for their connection, he did not tell her that. They returned to their followers together in tempered silence.
~*~*~*~*~
One by one, the Death Eaters Apparated in front of Riddle Manor, their arrival marked by sharp cracks echoing off the weathered stone. No triumphant procession or boastful declarations of victory followed. They returned to Little Hangleton broken.
Several stumbled across the courtyard, leaning heavily on one another. Blood saturated the robes that had once been immaculate. One wizard clutched a ruined arm to his chest, while another limped so badly his companion had to half-carry him through the gates. The smell of burnt flesh and lingering magic followed them into the house. Behind them came Voldemort. He had released his grip from Diolinda's hair as soon as his feet touched the ground, and two able-bodied Death Eaters bound her without needing to be commanded.
The Dark Lord walked beneath the towering archway on his own. No one got close enough to see what the battle had done to robes were torn along one side, the fabric scorched and stiff with dried blood. A thin cut ran from his temple down toward his cheek, and one hand remained curled tightly at his side. His serpent-like face remained perfectly composed as he crossed the threshold into his ancestral home.
The Death Eaters hurried into the entrance hall, instinctively keeping their distance from their master. No one wanted to be the first to speak or acknowledge that they had been beaten.
Voldemort's crimson eyes swept across the gathering. Several of the black-clad wizards flinched as the great doors slammed shut behind him. For several moments, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the occasional moan of agony. Then his servants moved through the intricately decorated rooms in a practiced, well-rehearsed order. They guided the wounded toward chairs and benches. Some had to be lowered to the floor. The air was filled with the telltale pink and violet hues of healing spells.
Severus went to the kitchens to fetch the curative elixirs he knew so well. Most of them had been brewed by him, but the Dark Lord had tasked Kalina with keeping their stores stocked.
His silver mask hid his surprise as he spotted his former apprentice. She was tending to Dorian Blackthorn's gaping thigh wound, stitching it shut with her wand and a carefully whispered incantation. He brushed past her without acknowledging her, then handed out vials of Restorative Solution to those crying out for his help.
Eventually, the drawing room quieted. The worst of the bleeding had stopped, and the pain was sufficiently numbed. Only then did Severus let his eyes drift toward the center of the room.
Their prisoner knelt between Amycus Carrow and Lucius. Her wrists were bound behind her back, and blood stained one side of her robes. Her dark hair had come loose during the battle, hanging in tangled strands around her face. A bruise darkened her jaw, and another began to form beneath one eye. But she was smiling, not broadly or foolishly. Just enough.
Voldemort's gaze settled upon her, and Diolinda met his eyes without flinching. For the first time since fleeing Iceland, something resembling satisfaction touched his expression.
"I'd almost forgotten you were here," he said softly, stepping closer. Diolinda said nothing. Around them, the Death Eaters grew still, anticipating their master's next move. "My daughter has cost us dearly. But perhaps the night has not been entirely wasted."
Severus had no idea how skilled Diolinda was in Occlumency. It no longer mattered. The Dark Lord ripped into her mind like a wolf tearing open a screaming doe's belly. She wailed loud enough that the sullen Death Eaters quickly reanimated. After a few minutes, they took it upon themselves to open bottles of wine. Any Death Eater of sound mind would jump at the chance to turn the Saint's torture into something resembling a celebration. Those who didn't would be suspected of sympathizing with the enemy.
"You, witch," Travers said, pointing to Kalina. "Rustle up some food! I am famished."
Kalina kept her eyes glued to her feet. She wasn't used to obeying anyone but Voldemort when he was in the room, but after a few long seconds, she slipped into the kitchens. The Dark Lord was too preoccupied with torturing the witch at his feet to notice what Travers had commanded. She only hoped that the feast she prepared would please him.
Severus drank three goblets of wine before the meal was served. It made the room around him sway when he turned his head, but it did little to dull the horror mounting in his chest as the activities around him escalated. Diolinda's voice had grown hoarse from her incessant screaming as they passed her around like a platter of hors d'oeuvres.
Voldemort seemed determined to break her. He let his Death Eaters continue as they pleased, even as Kalina served the meal. As she placed a steak weeping red juices onto Severus's plate, he kept his eyes forward. He fought against the instinct to glance at the blonde witch. Any look or acknowledgment between them might be heavily scrutinized by the Dark Lord, seated directly to Severus's left.
Severus did not miss that Darragh Prince had claimed a spot on Voldemort's other side. He did not want to imagine the terrible things he had done in a few short weeks to earn such an honor. Even Barty, who had just satisfied his carnal urges with Diolinda and shoved her unceremoniously into Amycus's greedy hands, appeared to notice the change in pecking order. Panting from his recent efforts, he fixed his wild eyes on Darragh as he took an empty spot much further down the table.
"You are not inclined to partake in such activities, Darragh?" the Dark Lord mused before taking a bite of meat.
The Pureblood Prince smirked as his dark eyes fell on Kalina, who still served the others. She winced as Diolinda screeched in pain, but kept spooning potatoes onto empty plates even as Amycus bellowed with laughter and nearly knocked the bowl from her hand. "On the contrary, my Lord. I just have an appetite for something different tonight."
Voldemort's crimson eyes followed Darragh's stare, and he chuckled lowly at the implication. Severus wanted nothing more than to leap to his feet and place himself between Kalina and the monsters that surrounded her. Even as bile threatened to rise to his throat, he fought to maintain his composure.
The Dark Lord waved his hand dismissively. "You have proved your worth. I have no problem with it." Severus watched as his cousin drained the last of his wine and stood. He seized Kalina's wrist and yanked her away from the table. The bowl and spoon dropped from her hands and clattered noisily to the floor, and Voldemort clicked his tongue in amusement as Darragh dragged the terrified witch from the room. "And here I was expecting a show," he said. The wizards around him laughed.
Time passed slowly. A few hours into the nightmarish activities, Severus felt like he could leave without being reprimanded. As he told the Dark Lord he would be returning to Ottery St. Catchpole, he thought leaving Riddle Manor would be easy for once.
He also assumed that Diolinda would be held captive just as Kalina was. Tonight, his deductions were wrong. His departure was interrupted after he took only a few steps from the table.
"Oh, Severus, before you go," Voldemort said lazily, "Dispose of Cassiopeia's lieutenant." The room stilled. Those who had noticed the pattern of Severus participating in the expected atrocities as he pleased were now fixated on the interaction.
Severus bowed. He wished he had kept his mask on, hoping his surprise was not obvious as the Dark Lord stared at him. "My Lord, I am ready and willing to do whatever it is you command of me."
Voldemort scoffed. "But?"
"But," Severus started slowly, "In the interest of keeping Cassiopeia's trust - "
"I am more than aware of our past attempts to keep my heir's confidence in you," Voldemort hissed sharply. "I did not request your opinion. Do it."
Severus rose to his full height and pulled his wand from his robes. Diolinda lay at Crabbe's feet, but Barty wasted no time inserting himself into Severus's predicament. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Diolinda's hair before yanking her to her knees.
She was in the same position that Voldemort had her in before taking her from Iceland. In those moments, Severus had wished that the Dark Lord would simply kill her. It would have avoided the exact horrifying situation they were now in.
Diolinda, on the brink of losing consciousness, slowly recognized what was happening. When understanding finally reached her, she did not frantically search the room for someone who could save her. She looked only at Severus.
He did not look away. He owed her that last, minute measure of respect. "Traidor malvado," the Saint hissed. Evil traitor. Severus raised his wand, intending to cast the Killing Curse and be done with it.
"Make it interesting," the Dark Lord said.
Severus did not hesitate as he aimed his wand at Diolinda's chest. With a careful twist of his hand, a small tuft of purple burst from the tip and settled over the witch's sternum before swirling into a deadly, twisting funnel.
Her death was not quick. Her heartbeat climbed to a deadly rhythm and then slowly fell. She gasped in pain, and sweat covered her skin as the Infarcire Curse took hold. Severus hoped, as Diolinda's impending demise ticked closer, that this was at least more merciful than the countless other hexes another might have chosen.
He did not look away as the witch who had devoted herself to his wife drew her last breath.
~*~*~*~*~*
Lucius had missed dinner at Malfoy Manor for the fourth night in a row. His wife and son didn't know the Dark Lord had demanded his presence to plan the attack on the Nordic clan. The house-elves had prepared an inordinate amount of food regardless. The long dining table groaned under silver platters of roasted venison, cheese breads still steaming from the oven, and sautéed vegetables glistening with butter—enough to feed ten.
A thunderstorm raged outside. Even through the thick walls and vaulted ceilings, the rain hammered against the windows in a relentless barrage as Draco took his seat. Narcissa sat opposite him, luminous in shimmering light-gold dress robes that caught every flicker of candlelight. Abraxas was joining them tonight. Draco was grateful, at least, that his grandfather had the decency to send a letter announcing the visit. It gave him time to steal a few careful sips of Grimfang Gin before the old man arrived.
The howling wind rose to a shriek as the front doors opened. Draco and Narcissa hardly needed the formal announcement, but Tinsel the house-elf never strayed from protocol.
"Master Grandfather Abraxas, father of Master Lucius and grandsire of Master Draco," she squeaked, bowing so low her upturned nose scraped the marble. She muffled a cry of pain when the white-haired wizard knocked her aside with his silver cane.
"My son is absent," Abraxas said, silver eyes flicking from Narcissa to Draco.
Draco held his tongue as a dozen snide remarks formed and died on his tongue. Getting through this dinner would require silence and a bowed head. Still, he didn't miss the irony when his grandfather claimed Lucius's chair at the head of the table.
At least Lucius could no longer use a visit to Abraxas as an alibi. He would have to invent a different lie, even if Draco saw right through it.
"There is no telling when he will return," Narcissa said smoothly. "He requested that we not delay dinner."
Tinsel stood on tiptoe to fill Abraxas's goblet with blood-red wine. She barely dodged his hand as he swatted at her instead of simply telling her to stop.
"And where is Lucius so late on such a dreary evening? You did tell him of my letter, yes?"
Narcissa's smile was cordial and brittle. "Of course, Grandfather Malfoy."
"You did not answer my first question."
She locked eyes with her fifteen-year-old son for the briefest second. It was a silent warning that Draco immediately understood.
"He is attending to a matter of significant importance, I'm sure."
"So important that he did not tell you?" Abraxas drawled, taking a long drink. "Or am I the one being left in the dark?"
Narcissa's smile faltered. "It is not my place, nor anyone else's, to demand explanations he does not choose to give."
A sneer curved Abraxas's mouth. He was about to retort when Draco ventured to cut the tension.
"I made prefect, Grandfather."
The old man's jaw tightened. Silver eyes locked onto Draco's, at least no longer boring into Narcissa.
"That half-blood from Cokeworth decided you are worthy, is that it?" The disdain dripped from every syllable. Draco did not look away.
"He, along with Dumbledore," Narcissa answered swiftly.
Abraxas let several silent seconds pass, considering. At last, he let out an amused huff and turned his attention to the venison on his plate. "I suppose I should regard Snape's opinion with higher value now that he has somehow managed to marry Cassiopeia." He chewed, swallowed, stabbed another chunk of meat. "Not that I am any more convinced of her judgment."
"Yes," Narcissa said, draining her goblet and gesturing for a refill.
"I have half a mind to send her a Howler for not inviting me to the festivities. Were there many guests belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"
"It was a small ceremony." Narcissa exchanged another glance with Draco.
"Then which families were represented?" Abraxas demanded. "Selwyn? Rosier? Travers?"
"None of those," Draco replied too quickly. His uncertain voice earned him a sharp, suspicious look. He forced himself to meet his grandfather's stare again.
"Was the Malfoy name represented?" Abraxas hissed.
"Yes, Draco was there. He carried the rings—" Narcissa began.
Abraxas slammed his hand onto the table. Plates jumped. Goblets rattled.
"But not you? Not Lucius?"
"No, Grandfather Malfoy," Narcissa answered quietly.
Abraxas's nostrils flared, and one corner of his lip curled. Narcissa seemed to shrink under his scrutiny.
"Why would you expect them to be there?" Draco said, his own voice startling even him. "You know as well as we do that Cassie doesn't align with your views."
Narcissa stared at him, lips slightly parted.
Abraxas rose. Draco suddenly felt grateful for the length of the table still separating them. The elderly wizard's expression was terrifying enough from several chairs away.
"Our views," Abraxas hissed.
"Yes, of course," Draco answered quickly.
Abraxas began a slow, deliberate circuit around the table. Draco summoned every scrap of bravery he had to keep from leaning away from the stooped, advancing figure.
"I have half a mind to wonder why you were allowed there when your parents were not," Abraxas said, voice low and venomous.
"He and Cassie see each other at Hogwarts, Grandfather Malfoy! They have a cordial relationship—"
"Something you should prioritize!" Abraxas suddenly shouted. Spittle struck Draco's cheek; he did not wipe it away. "Have I not told you countless times to make amends with the Dark Lord's daughter? To ensure your favor in her eyes?"
Something in Narcissa snapped—perhaps the shouting, or the implication that she had failed when it came to her niece. She rose to her full height.
"Do you know what they call her? Have you heard the nicknames she has earned within our circle?" Abraxas blinked, waved a dismissive hand as Narcissa continued. "Queen of Muggles and Mudbloods. Empress of Half-Breeds. Whore of the Half-Blood—"
"I have heard all of those!" Abraxas roared. "And yet it does not change the fact that she has been traipsing across the globe gathering allies!"
"She will not join the Dark Lord. She has made that perfectly clear—"
"If she does not, it is beside the point!" Abraxas sneered. "If she manages to defeat him, the Malfoy name shall be erased from the histories. Do you understand?"
Narcissa gaped.
Draco was so engrossed in the argument that he did not notice Lucius's entrance until his father's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"That is treason, Father." Lucius stood in the doorway, rain-saturated hair plastered to his skull, silver mask dangling from one dragon-hide glove. As he stepped further into the room, he left a trail of bootsteps in dried blood. Narcissa gasped when she noticed.
"Father—" Draco started.
"Upstairs, Draco. Now."
The command was low and icy. Draco, heart hammering with questions, did not hesitate. He rose and left. Shouting followed him up the staircase—Abraxas's furious roar, Lucius's colder replies. A part of him wanted to linger and listen, but the reprieve of a separate floor was too appealing. Any interaction with Abraxas was unpleasant, but tonight had been something else entirely. Desperation had laced the old man's insistence on protecting the Malfoy name. His words had been raw, almost frantic.
Draco entered his room, slammed the door, and flopped back onto the bed. He stared up at the silver-and-green canopy, listening to the muffled argument below and the thunder outside. After a few moments, he stood.
He crossed to the bureau, yanked open the sock drawer, and pressed his palm to the tiny trap door at the bottom. It recognized his flesh and sprang open. The golden Grimfang Gin flask waited beside a neat stack of hidden letters.
Draco lifted the topmost piece of parchment, scrawled in Granger's familiar, precise handwriting, and tipped a measure of gin into his mouth. The burn was sharp and welcome. Term started in a few days. He wondered if she felt the same restless anticipation as he did.
His gaze drifted to the Slytherin prefect badge resting atop the bureau. Silver accents shimmered in the firelight. He pictured Hermione's badge—scarlet and gold, the polar opposite of everything his represented—and smiled at the thought of her chin lifting, her voice firm, telling the younger students to listen because she was now a prefect.
But he had another reason to celebrate their appointments as prefects.
With Cassie dismissed from her professor's assistant post, Draco would no longer have a convenient classroom to steal time with Granger. The badges would grant endless excuses to be out after curfew, to linger near each other's common rooms, to walk the corridors with purpose.
They would have to be extremely careful. The argument still raging downstairs grimly reminded him of the consequences his family would face if the truth of his blossoming romance ever came to light. Yet Draco had spent the summer mapping every secret passage he knew, every blind corner, every forgotten alcove. If the coming term demanded deception and midnight wanderings, he was ready.
He folded Hermione's letter carefully, returned it to its hiding place, and took another slow swallow of gin. Outside, the storm showed no sign of breaking. Neither, he suspected, did the one gathering between father and son within Malfoy Manor's walls.
~*~*~*~
Severus was dismissed from Riddle Manor only after Voldemort was satisfied that Diolinda was dead. To his dismay, the Dark Lord called to him one more time before he exited the room. "Be sure to tell Cassiopeia," Voldemort instructed with glee in his voice. Severus knew better than to argue.
The unrelenting storm seemed to follow his movements to Ottery St. Catchpole. Rain still dripped from the cottage eaves when he ascended the front steps.
The small home he shared with his wife felt heavy with urgency when he arrived. Cassie was pale, a clear sign Stellan had fed from her, but she moved through the cozy rooms with purpose, gathering supplies. There was no time for a proper display of affection or to express the gratitude that the other one was unharmed.
"Did you drink an antivenom?" were the first words out of Severus's mouth. Cassie glanced up at him as she strapped her wand holster to her thigh.
"Haven't had the chance," she said. "I've only just gotten back."
"And where do you intend to go so hastily?" he implored. He stowed his Death Eater mask in his robes. He feared seeing it so soon after the battle would only ignite her anger.
"To Little Hangleton."
"Cassie - "
"I don't have time!" his wife exclaimed. "Romily is gathering the Saints that weren't in the battle. The others need to rest, need to heal - "
"So do you," Severus interrupted.
"They're expecting me in minutes."
"I implore you to listen to me," he pleaded. Severus recognized her animosity as she met his gaze. She was determined to go to Riddle Manor to save Diolinda. He didn't expect to have to tell her this so soon after they reunited.
"This is not up for negotiation." She turned away to grab her traveling cloak from its hook. Boros looked up from his place by the hearth, waiting for her command.
Severus inhaled sharply, then grasped Cassie's shoulders. He turned her to face him fully. She needed to focus on him, to hear him, to understand. He would not let her attack the Riddle Estate in such haste and put herself in danger for nothing.
"It's too late," he said quietly. Cassie's eyes stayed glued to his. He wasn't sure she had comprehended what he had said.
"I have to go," she repeated. This time, the words were not pressured. They merely came out in a whisper.
"She's dead, Cassie. Diolinda is already dead." Her mouth fell open and tears formed in her eyes. He knew she had been expecting that news, but it hurt no less. "I killed her on the Dark Lord's command."
She stepped away from him, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Tears now began to flow freely down her face. Severus reached out to comfort her, an instinct that he would never shy away from. She sidestepped away from his touch.
Her hand left her mouth, and she lowered it, although her fist was clenched at her side. "Why are you telling me this?" His expression faltered, but hers did not. If anything, she seemed to grow even angrier.
"Because the Dark Lord commanded it."
Severus despised every second of this. For the first time in their short marriage, he wondered whether they could truly survive the war and what repercussions would follow. As he looked at his wife, it was all he could do not to break down, fling himself to his knees, and beg her forgiveness. But she wouldn't respond well to that, not when she stared at him, venom spewing from her blue eyes.
Every fiber of his being wanted to stop her as she stormed through the front door and walked away. He didn't, not because he feared she would curse him.
He feared that their next argument would be their undoing.