Chapter Text

"I want to break free…"

Freddie Mercury’s voice, cutting through the static of the battered radio atop the fridge, mingled with the thick steam rolling out of the open bathroom door.

Nymphadora burst into the hallway, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. The towel rubbed furiously against her hair—today, a shade of 'electric bubblegum', as if to spite her entire noble lineage. She hurled the towel onto the back of a garishly red, ridiculously velvet sofa and immediately caught the rhythm.

"I want to break free from your lies!" she sang along, snatching a hairbrush from the cluttered coffee table. "You're so self-satisfied, I don't need you."

Magazines, crumpled newspapers, dog-eared books, empty wrappers—this chaos was her kingdom. There were no house-elves here to banish dust motes before they could even settle. No servants to sweep away dirt with a flick of a wand. Here, there was real, warm, vibrant life. Her life.

Nymphadora skated across the parquet in her woollen socks, wielding the hairbrush like a microphone. She felt like a rock star, a rebel, anything but the heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House.

"When I walk out that door. Oh, how I want to be free, baby!"

She spun on her heel, but the woollen sock treacherously snagged on a nail head protruding from the floorboards. The very nail she had sworn to hammer down for a month, and which now reminded her of its existence with vengeful persistence.

The world tilted. Nymphadora lurched forward instinctively, losing her balance, but a body drilled by years of hated etiquette and ballet lessons reacted faster than thought. In a split second, she twisted, turning a shameful fall into a dramatic, if somewhat absurd, pirouette.

She landed on one knee, arms thrown wide in a final chord, facing a non-existent audience.

"Thank you, Wembley!" she exhaled into the silence of the living room and laughed.

In the kitchen, something gurgled gutturally, then gave a loud, strained snort—the coffee machine announced its readiness.

Truth be told, this bulky Muggle contraption was absolutely abominable. It sabotaged the very process of brewing: water oozed through its leaky casing, and instead of a beverage, it produced a suspicious suspension. Nymphadora had bought this monstrosity at a car boot sale for a pittance for one reason only: it was a wild, acid blue with orange stripes. Its flagrant lack of taste was its only, yet indisputable, virtue.

Nymphadora grabbed her favourite yellow mug with "Hate Mondays" scrawled across it and poured out the blackish, oily sludge. Tiny cinders floated on the murky surface—the remains of what had once been coffee beans.

She took a large gulp and immediately grimaced. The bitterness scorched her tongue, tearing at her throat, but a contented smile spread across her face. No exquisite bone china, no family silver, and no perfect, elf-brewed mocha. This coffee was revolting. And she adored it.

Fishing a slice of yesterday’s pizza, bought from the takeaway round the corner, out of a greasy cardboard box, she clambered onto the wide windowsill. The radio was now playing a slow, languid tune that had replaced the energetic rock.

The glass separated her little world from morning London. Below, life flowed on—simple, noisy, and intelligible. Leaning back against the window reveal, Nymphadora drank in the details greedily.

Elderly Mrs Carroll from the ground floor was taking her corpulent cat out on a lead again, cooing something affectionately to it. Trays were already being carried out of the bakery directly below, and even through the closed window, Nymphadora fancied she could smell the warm, buttery scent of pastries, overpowering the lingering odour of cold pepperoni.

And there was Mr Thompson from the flat next door. Briefcase tucked under his arm, tie askew, hurrying towards his car, whilst his wife ran behind, shouting something and waving his scuffed brown shoes. Nymphadora followed his gaze down to his feet and giggled—the same tartan slippers. As always.

She watched this tableau every Monday, and it was beautiful in its stability. The world below buzzed, rushed, stumbled, and laughed—delightfully imperfect, alive. And in these morning hours, it belonged to her alone.

Finishing the last of her pizza, she hopped off the windowsill, her bare feet slapping loudly against the linoleum. The caffeine euphoria had faded, leaving the acrid bitterness of burnt beans on her tongue. Nymphadora winced, downed a glass of water in one go, and popped a piece of mint chewing gum into her mouth, chewing furiously to mask the taste of her little freedom.

The day promised to be perfect. No breakfasts in manor houses, no forced smiles, no "Nymphadora, sit up straight". She had returned from her trip a few days earlier than planned, which meant no one knew she was back in London.

She could browse the Muggle shops. Or pop into that new café on the corner. She needed to buy more paperbacks at the bookshop on Charing Cross Road, where the Muggle shop assistant was already used to the 'odd girl with the changing hair' taking five novels at a time and paying with crumpled notes. And in the evening… in the evening, she could go to a real cinema for the first time and try their famous toffee popcorn.

"Who shall I be today?" she murmured, stepping closer to the mirror.

It was absurd enough, and she always smiled bitterly at the thought: to feel real on the inside, she had to become someone completely different on the outside. Though if this was the price for freedom of thought and action, she could live with it.

Nymphadora bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. The darkness behind her eyelids became a canvas. She imagined the weight lifting from the roots of her hair, the strands lengthening, cascading down her back like liquid platinum silk, reaching her waist...

A sharp, imperious rap against the glass shattered the vision.

Nymphadora’s eyes snapped open. On the windowsill, shifting restlessly from talon to talon, sat Pixie. In the morning light, the pale grey barn owl appeared almost spectral, an ill omen.

She crossed quickly to the kitchen and threw up the sash. Warm, languid air spilled into the room, yet it could not thaw the chill of what she saw. Bound to the bird’s leg was a thick roll of parchment, secured with a crimson ribbon.

"A Prophet Special Edition?" Nymphadora’s voice faltered.

The morning papers were usually bound in drab grey twine—unobtrusive, so as not to draw Muggle attention.

"That’s rare… Has something happened, Pixie?"

The owl gave only a short, anxious hoot before fluttering over to the table where a treat awaited. But Nymphadora did not even spare her a glance. She slowly lowered the sash, turning the newspaper over in her hands as though it were a venomous snake.

Nymphadora loathed these Special Editions. They never bore good tidings.

Usually, they screamed of some Muggle-born scum who had allegedly tortured his Pure-blood wife with Unforgivables for hours, until she lost her mind. Of “righteous justice” dispensed without trial. Of the Dementor’s Kiss, delivered as a verdict right there at the scene of the arrest. And the hypocrisy of those final lines—that a little seven-year-old girl had now, “mercifully”, been handed over to the care of a true family, far away from her monster of a father.

A Prophet Special Edition always meant new decrees for “public safety”. Another coil of barbed wire. An ever-tightening collar around the necks of those deemed “undesirable”.

Nymphadora shook her head. This was no time for reminiscing.

She willed her hands to steady. Breath in. Breath out. Once more.

Her fingers tore at the crimson ribbon binding the scroll and unfurled the newspaper with a dry crackle. Her eyes scanned the masthead and froze, stumbling over the headline emblazoned in bold, screaming type. The letters seemed to dance, jeering at her.

June 6, 1994

HEIR OF HOUSE TRAVERS AND LADY BLACK ANNOUNCE BETROTHAL!

Nymphadora blinked. Then again. She re-read the phrase, hoping the letters would rearrange themselves, that this was some absurd misprint or a hallucination born of a caffeine overdose.

She knew of only one Lady Black. Of course, there was a chance that one of her dearest relatives had suddenly decided to rise from the grave. Or that one of them had sired a secret bastard back in the day. Or that Walburga’s entire Will had been a sick joke, and for the last four years, Nymphadora had been squandering another’s fortune and masquerading under a stolen title.

The young woman feverishly turned the page, hunting for the article. Her gaze snagged on a familiar, nauseatingly florid style—the Quick-Quotes Quill of Rita Skeeter.

Today, our exclusive sources have learned of a truly spectacular event! Dorian Augustus Travers has asked for the hand in marriage of the pearl of magical London—the heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black!

Perhaps the name of Mr Travers is not yet on everyone’s lips, for his family departed foggy Albion back in the early eighties, choosing sunny Romania for the sake of Lady Travers’ health. Young Dorian, having barely left his school bench, followed in the footsteps of his father (who heads the Department of International Magical Cooperation in Bucharest) and joined the Romanian Ministry.

However, steady yourselves, dear readers! Dorian has inherited more than just diplomatic talent from his father. He is an Apollo in the flesh! Broad shoulders, a statuesque figure, and a shock of dark hair, always slightly tousled, which only accentuates his rebellious spirit. And those blue eyes... One look, and you are lost. As young Lady Adeline G. confessed to me: "When I saw him for the first time, I thought an angel had fallen from the heavens..."

Nymphadora rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. She skimmed the lines, skipping the drivel, searching for a name. Another name. Any other name. Because this simply could not be.

And, of course, you ask: who has won this prize catch, this blend of steel and intellect? You won’t believe it! The luckiest witch of our generation. Yes, indeed, I am speaking of Nymphadora Black!

The world around her turned to cotton wool. The sounds of the street vanished. All that remained was the pounding of blood in her temples. She re-read the sentence three times.

We cannot help but rejoice at this union. Ever since the late Walburga Black passed the title to her great-niece, Nymphadora has been the most eligible match in Britain. Men queue up just to invite her for a dance, catching her every glance in the Ministry Atrium. And it is no wonder!

Lady Black is not merely a beauty. She is a Metamorphmagus, which, you must agree, is a highly piquant and desirable trait for any spouse (if you catch my drift, gentlemen). But above all is her heart of gold. Under her patronage, the psychiatric ward at St Mungo’s Hospital is flourishing!

Of course, behind this nobility lies a personal drama. We all remember the monstrous story of little Nymphadora and her father, the criminal who...

The newspaper slipped from her slack fingers. Nymphadora stared at the wall, struggling to draw a breath. Lies. Every word—a filthy, cloying lie, sold by the thousand.

What Dorian? What proposal? She hadn't seen anyone. She hadn't given her consent to anyone. She didn't even know what this Travers looked like!

“Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo…”

The opening chords, so familiar and so loathed, assaulted her ears. Nymphadora flinched as if slapped. The air in the room instantly solidified into concrete. Her lungs refused to work. The walls of the cosy flat suddenly began to close in, threatening to crush her.

She jerked her hand up. Magic, uncontrolled and sharp, tore from her fingertips, switching the station.

Silence.

And then some hard, rhythmic rock.

But her heart was already hammering in her throat, and her fingers had turned ice-cold. Nymphadora squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the floor drop away beneath her feet.

Inhale. No air. Exhale. Can't do it.

Her hand frantically fumbled beneath the collar of her T-shirt for cold metal—a small silver pendant. An anchor in a raging sea of madness.

"Always break a big problem down into small ones, Nymphadora," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And solve them step by step. Step by step."

She forced herself to take a deep breath. Her ribs ached, as if bound by an invisible corset, but the air got in.

Nymphadora waved her hand, cranking the volume to the max. Let the bass shake the walls. Let the neighbours bang on the ceiling. She needed to drown out the screams in her head. To displace the thoughts that prevented her from thinking clearly.

When her pulse slowed to an acceptable rhythm, she opened her eyes. Her gaze had turned hard, steely.

"Step one: study the enemy."

She snatched the newspaper from the floor and, vaulting over the sofa, dropped directly onto the yellow rug in the living room, crossing her legs.

Her fingers skimmed the lines, sifting out the waffle, the flattery, and Rita Skeeter’s poison. She needed facts. And she found what she was looking for at the very end.

…our sources close to the bride report that their eyes light up when they look at one another. Happiness to the young couple from me, Rita Skeeter, and all our readers! (And don't forget to invite me to the wedding!)

The realisation hit her like a bucket of ice water. Nymphadora tossed the newspaper aside and gave a bitter smirk.

Of course. "Sources close to the bride". In this viper’s nest, there are no secrets, only information sold at the right time. Someone in the family had sold her, without even notifying the goods of the transaction. And it could be only one person.

"Step two: prepare for the assault."

She sprang to her feet and strode into the bedroom. The wardrobe doors flew open, revealing her secret Narnia.

A riot of colour reigned here. Acid-yellow T-shirts, denim jackets with patches, skirts that barely grazed her knees, chunky knit jumpers in every colour of the rainbow. Clothes in which one could breathe. Clothes in which one could run, dance, and live.

Nymphadora shoved the few hangers holding the colourful garments deep into the back of the wardrobe. Her gaze landed on the "official" section. Black. Dark green. Midnight blue. The colours of mould, old money, and eternal mourning.

She hated these gowns. Hated the heavy velvet that tangled around her legs. Hated the whalebone stays that dug into her ribs, a constant reminder that a woman here was merely an ornament, an expensive trinket expected to remain silent and look dignified.

Her fingers fished out the customary black dress of a severe cut. The skirt wasn't too voluminous, the corset allowed for full breaths... She turned it over in her hands and, with irritation, tossed it back onto the rail.

"No," she hissed. "Too simple."

If she was going to war, she needed real armour.

After a few minutes of searching, she pulled it out. A gown of heavy, matte silk, black as a starless night. Intricate, heavy gold embroidery snaked along the wide sleeves and the hem of the skirt—an intertwining of blackthorn and ancient runes that flashed metallic with every movement.

Nymphadora squeezed herself into the fabric, cinching the laces at her back with a practiced, automatic motion. The air left her lungs with a hiss.

The reflection in the mirror changed. The cheerful girl vanished. A cold, flawless statue stared back at her. The dress fit like a second skin, ruthlessly accentuating her aristocratic gauntness and the fragility of her shoulders, yet the stiff corset and high collar forced her posture into steel rigidity.

She threw the robes of the same style over her shoulders to hide the trembling of her hands.

One final touch remained.

Nymphadora closed her eyes, concentrating. The platinum blonde she had worn for the last half-hour dimmed. Her hair flooded with a heavy, thick, ink-black hue. With deft movements of her hands, the unruly waves were tamed, gathered into a tight, impeccable bun at the nape of her neck. Not a hair out of place. Her face was open and impassive.

Perfect. Dull. Safe.

Touching the pendant hidden beneath the high collar of her dress one last time, she whispered:

"Step three: destroy the bastard."

The click of heels on black marble sounded like a metronome counting down a sentence.

Click. Click. Click.

Every step was measured to the millimetre. Back straight, as if a steel rod were lashed to her spine. Chin tilted at precisely the angle that allowed her to look down upon those around her effortlessly. Nymphadora Black did not walk—she cleaved through the space, and the very air seemed to part respectfully before her.

"Miss, apologies, your wand for registration..." The young guard, evidently a novice, made a fatal error by barring her path with his security probe.

The clicking of heels ceased abruptly.

Nymphadora turned her head slowly. Not a muscle in her face twitched, yet such glacial cold settled in her grey eyes that the lad choked on air. She said not a word. She merely stared. In that gaze lay all the centuries of arrogance of the House of Black, all the disdain for those who dared to waste her time.

The guard paled, realising who stood before him. He straightened frantically, lowering the probe with a trembling hand.

"Oh... Lady Black. My apologies. Do come through, of course."

The golden grilles swung open of their own accord, obeying the silent magic of the Atrium.

The Ministry greeted her with its customary hum and the scent of expensive wax, dust, and fear.

The vast hall teemed with activity like an anthill living by strict, invisible laws. Clerks in grey and black robes scurried between departments, clutching files to their chests like shields. Above their heads, interdepartmental memos flew like a flock of paper birds.

A little further off, by the fountain, stood a gaggle of officials. Their robes were cut from the finest silk, their posture betrayed their breeding, and teacups steamed in their hands. They laughed, discussing the latest gossip, oblivious to the bustle around them.

Nymphadora’s indifferent gaze slid over their faces as she continued on her way.

Fear here was palpable; it had seeped into the walls, into the air, into the narrow corridors. People lowered their eyes as she passed. They parted too quickly—not out of respect, but out of a desire not to be in her path. As if she were not a young woman, but something dangerous, with sharp edges.

A young lad by the lift—Muggle-born, judging by his threadbare robes and the insignia of a lowly rank—nearly dropped a stack of documents upon noticing her. He shot a glance upward, gave a curt nod, and immediately averted his eyes. He dared not look for longer than a second.

Once, back at the very start of her adult life, she had tried to be more human—smiling at clerks, saying "thank you", holding doors open. It had been a mistake. Her kindness scared them witless. Muggle-borns saw a trap in a Black’s smile, a mockery, a prelude to a strike. And Pure-bloods began to look at her with disgusted bewilderment, as if she were a lunatic.

So she stopped. Beneath a veneer of ice and snobbery, she could achieve far more. If they wanted to see a monster, she would be the most beautiful and terrifying monster in the building.

The lift doors slid open at Level Five, releasing Nymphadora into a cool, echoing corridor. Her heels beat a sharp, staccato rhythm on the floor, and her gaze, fixed on the distant mahogany doors, could have burned through steel.

"Miss! Miss, wait, you cannot go in there!"

A secretary scuttled out from behind a bureau—a diminutive, fussy little man with thinning, slicked-back hair and watery eyes. He resembled a mangy mouse that had accidentally donned dress robes. His name was Pickwick, or Puddle, or something equally irrelevant. He scampered in front of her, trying to block the path with his puny frame.

Nymphadora did not break her stride until her hand touched the gilded door handle.

"Miss Black!" the secretary squeaked, clutching his heart. "Lord Malfoy is busy at the moment; he needs to prepare for the International Conference! He has strict instructions..."

Nymphadora turned her head slowly. The look in her grey eyes struck him like a physical blow. She stretched her lips into a smile—sweet as treacle, yet cold as a glacier.

"Then he shall have to reschedule his preparations."

She shoved the heavy door open and entered without waiting for a reply.

Lucius Malfoy’s office was the embodiment of everything she loathed: oppressive luxury concealing a void. Walls lined with dark oak panelling, heavy emerald-green velvet drapes that admitted not a single ray of real sunlight. On the mantelpiece, in silver frames, stood moving photographs: Narcissa with her flawless coiffure, Draco with his practiced posture. A model family. A shop window display. Even the air here smelled of expensive parchment, wax, and hypocrisy.

"Nymphadora," Lucius’s voice sounded with a note of weary surprise. He sat behind a massive desk, not even lifting his head from his documents. His quill continued to scratch, tracing the elegant loops of a signature. "What an... unexpected pleasure. I thought you were supposed to be in France."

"Lucius," she replied with venomous courtesy, giving a curt nod. "I was fortunate enough to return early."

The door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the secretary’s squeak. Nymphadora walked to the desk and sank into the visitor’s chair, demonstratively without asking permission. She slowly smoothed non-existent creases on her black skirt, as if inspecting the quality of the fabric.

"I would be delighted to spare you some time, my dear niece, but as you can see..."

"Oh, do not worry, dearest Uncle. I shan’t take up much of your time," she interrupted, continuing to smile that same smile that made lesser men’s jaws ache. "I merely wanted to clarify one... nuance."

She retrieved the rolled-up Prophet from the folds of her robes and casually tossed it onto the desk. The newspaper skidded across the polished wood, knocking over a stack of perfectly folded reports.

Lucius finally looked up from the parchment. He shifted his gaze slowly to the newspaper, then to his niece. For a fleeting second, something akin to apprehension flickered in his cold eyes, but he immediately masked it with boredom.

"And?" He leaned back lazily in his chair, twirling the quill in his fingers. "What exactly has agitated you so much in the society pages?"

"Care to explain just why the bloody hell I am learning about my own betrothal from the newspapers?" Nymphadora’s voice dropped several octaves, turning into a serpent-like hiss.

Lucius sighed, as if she were a persistent fly interrupting his enjoyment of a symphony.

"Ah, that. A trifle."

"A trifle?!" She practically spat the word out.

"We have discussed this already, Nymphadora," he spoke slowly, as one would to an unreasonable child. "You are twenty-one. You are not getting any younger. Your peers are already nursing their second heirs, whilst you... You continue to play at independence. It is time to not merely contemplate the future of the House, but to secure it."

"And how exactly does that concern you?" She raised her eyebrows, mimicking his own arrogant expression.

"I warned you," Lucius set the quill down neatly, clasping his hands together. "If you would not attend to your own settlement, I would do so for you."

"Yes, I remember. And if memory serves, I politely invited you to go to hell back then. And I shall do so again with immense pleasure."

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The mask of boredom cracked, revealing irritation.

"Mind your tongue," he grated out. "I merely wish to remind you that I am your guardian. Head of your House by right of seniority, until you are wed. I am looking after your welfare."

Nymphadora laughed. A dry, barking laugh devoid of any mirth.

"Guardian? Looking after my welfare?"

Nymphadora's voice broke into a whisper, terrifying in its fury.

"Where were you, my precious guardian, when I was rotting alive in that crypt for two years, nursing a mad Walburga? When, in her delirium, she would grab my face and scream the name of her dead son?"

The chair flew back with a crash, slamming into the bookcase, but Nymphadora didn’t even blink. She loomed over the desk, leaning on trembling hands.

"Where were you that winter, when I, a sixteen-year-old girl, dug her grave in the backyard of Grimmauld Place? With my own hands, with a shovel, under an avalanche of snow, because the house magic blocked every spell I cast?"

Lucius remained silent, his face impenetrable, but the fingers clutching his quill turned white.

"Where were you when, at seventeen, I was drowning in parchment, sorting out the cursed inheritance and debts? You could have solved it with a single flick of your wand, a single letter to the Department of Mysteries! But for some reason, you were nowhere to be found."

She straightened, looking at him with undisguised revulsion.

"Where have you been these last four years, Lucius? I saw you only at balls and dinner parties. I smiled on your arm for the cameras, playing 'happy families' for the delight of the entire magical community. I always played along, didn’t I? That was our unspoken rule: I create a pretty shop window for you, uphold the reputation of the House, and you stay out of my bloody life!"

"How... expressive. Walburga would have been proud of your temper."

Lucius slowly, with emphasized precision, placed the quill on its stand. He raised his eyes to hers—cold, empty, devoid of any sympathy.

"You are right, Nymphadora. I have given you too much freedom. I allowed you to play at independence, hoping you would get it out of your system." His voice was quiet, yet all the more terrifying for it. "But now, I have come to my senses and decided to take your upbringing in hand personally. Before you completely destroy the reputation of our family."

"I will not marry him," Nymphadora cut him off. Her voice was firm, but inside, everything tightened into a knot of ice. "I will not do it. Cancel the betrothal, write a retraction, do whatever you like. I am not a chattel to be sold to Romanians for political leverage."

Lucius rose and slowly circled the desk. He moved with the grace of a predator that has already cornered its prey and is now savouring the moment before the pounce.

"You seem to have forgotten the world we live in, my dear niece," he stopped in front of her, looking down with cold condescension. "You have no voice. By law, I am the Head of your House and your guardian. My signature is already on the marriage contract. Your consent is a mere formality which I, out of the kindness of my heart, chose to dispense with, so as not to burden your pretty little head."

Nymphadora clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms.

"And if I say 'no'?" she hissed, tilting her chin up. "If I walk out into the Atrium right now and announce to the entire magical community that Lucius Malfoy is a liar who sells his own kin? If I cause such a scandal that not a stone will remain standing of your reputation as the perfect family man?"

The corner of Lucius’s lip twitched. Not in a smile—in a grim, barely perceptible smirk.

"Oh, certainly. You could do that," he said softly, stepping closer. "You could disobey. Throw a tantrum, disgrace the House, go against the family's will... Just like your mother."

The air was knocked out of Nymphadora’s lungs at the mention of Andromeda.

"It seems she did not end up all that happily," Lucius continued, enjoying the effect. His voice became soft, enveloping, like velvet soaked in poison. "A tragic fate. Rebellion comes at a high price, Nymphadora. A very high price."

He leaned in close to her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper:

"Though, I shall not conceal it... perhaps such a decision on your part would please me even more."

Nymphadora froze. The meaning of his words seeped into her slowly, like the action of a poison. Marriage to Travers was merely a profitable transaction for Lucius. But her open rebellion, her refusal to submit, would untie his hands. He would gain the legal right to punish her. To destroy her, to erase the filthy half-blood stain from the Black tapestry—legally, brutally, and with immense pleasure. And afterwards, to claim everything that belonged to her for himself.

For him, it was a win-win scenario. Either she became Travers’ obedient puppet, or a dead (or mad) martyr.

Lucius pulled back, looking indifferent.

"A reception in honour of your betrothal will be held on Friday evening. We shall expect you by seven, my dear niece."

"Go to hell," she threw back quietly, but so that every word cut into the silence of the office.

She spun on her heels and, with the grace of a furious feline, walked out, slamming the door a fraction louder than etiquette permitted.

Rage covered her eyes with a red mist. She marched down the corridor, seeing neither faces nor walls. She wanted to smash things. To raze this marble crypt, to wipe that smirk off Lucius’s face...

The impact was sudden. She crashed at full speed into someone’s chest—solid as a fortress wall, yet warm as living fire. Inertia threw her backward, but she was not allowed to fall. Strong hands intercepted her by the shoulders instantly, reflexively, holding her in place. Not roughly, but securely.

Nymphadora drew breath to incinerate the blind idiot on the spot, but the venomous words stuck in her throat. She looked up and met eyes the colour of a spring, cloudless sky.

Time stumbled and stood still.

The young man before her was tall. She even had to tilt her head back to see his face.

Chiselled features, a strong jawline, and thick dark lashes framing those unnaturally light eyes. He looked at her not with fright, nor with arrogance, but with disarming concern and a polite, genuine interest.

One ought not to be this handsome. It should be illegal in the Ministry.

Her anger, boiling like lava a second ago, suddenly collided with this tranquil blue and hissed, cooling down. She caught a scent—a subtle, barely perceptible aroma of sandalwood and thunderstorm. A scent that, for some reason, made her want to take a deep breath.

"My apologies, Miss," the voice was deep, enveloping, with a slight, velvety rasp. "I was unforgivably inattentive. Are you hurt?"

He did not remove his hands immediately. His palms on her shoulders were warm, and this heat seeped even through the thick fabric of her robes, calming the trembling in her body in a strange way. Nymphadora blinked, feeling the mask of "Lady Black" slipping, exposing just an ordinary, bewildered girl.

"I... no," she stumbled, cursing herself for this weakness. "I am fine. It was you... apologies. I wasn't looking."

She did not pull away. For a split second, she wanted to stay just like this—in the circle of a stranger’s arms, where she didn't have to fight her uncle, keep up appearances, or save the world.

The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying her face. A spark of recognition mingled with admiration flickered in his eyes.

"Nymphadora?"

The sound of her own name jolted her back to her senses. Coming from him, it did not sound like a sentence, but like a question. An invitation. She finally took a step back, forcing him to loosen his hold. The chill of the corridor immediately assailed her shoulders, making her regret the lost warmth.

She quickly plastered an expression of polite society courtesy back onto her face, hiding her embarrassment behind her customary armour.

"Have we met?"

"Not formally, no," he smiled. And at that smile—open, boyish, utterly unsuited to this stuffy place—her heart actually gave a flutter. Somewhere very deep down, beneath layers of cynicism. He inclined his head in a courtly bow: "Dorian. Dorian Travers."

The world collapsed for the second time that morning. The air in her lungs instantly turned to ice. The warmth she had felt a second ago was replaced by the searing scald of betrayal.

It was him.

The Dorian. The very 'Apollo' Skeeter had been extolling. The buyer to whom Lucius had sold her freedom.

And the most terrible part was that he really was as they had written, and she, like a complete fool, had just nearly melted in his arms.

Nymphadora straightened slowly, tilting her chin up. Her gaze, warm and bewildered just a moment ago, glazed over with frost. She shoved the attraction into the farthest corner of her mind and locked it away.

"Oh," she drawled. Her voice dropped low, mocking. "So, you are the fiancé?"

She saw his smile dim slightly, replaced by wariness. He was clever, this Travers. He sensed the shift.

Nymphadora stepped back towards him, deliberately invading his personal space. Her gloved hand came to rest on the lapel of his impeccable jacket. She felt his muscles tense beneath the fabric. He did not pull away, but he went still, like a predator encountering another predator.

She slid her palm down slowly, almost intimately, smoothing a non-existent crease on his chest. It was a possessive gesture, yet her fingers treacherously memorised how loud and steady his heart beat.

She raised her eyes to his, now swimming with liquid lead.

"You have excellent taste in clothes, Mr Travers. And your manners are impeccable," she whispered, looking straight into his soul. "It is a pity no one had time to inform you of one small detail."

She snatched her hand away abruptly and stepped back, as if he had become repulsive to her.

"Our betrothal is terminated."