Trapped

Morons stick together.

A year ago, Harry's blind faith in Dumbledore had nearly cost him something more important than strategy—Isadora's presence.
He hadn't understood then. Not really.
But now, watching the memory play out before him like an old scar being reopened, the guilt carved fresh into his ribs.

She had come when he called.
Even when she had every reason not to.

Her family—steeped in legacy and lies—had every expectation of her loyalty.
Yet Isadora Rosier had stepped across the line for Harry Potter.

She hadn't asked for thanks.
She hadn't even told him how deeply it had cost her.

He had only seen her as someone distant then. Cold. Difficult.
But now he saw the truth—her silence had never been emptiness, only restraint.

Across the corridor, Sirius and Regulus exchanged a look. A rare moment of agreement.
Isadora's silence wasn't passivity. It was grit wearing a mask. They both knew what it cost to betray your family from within.

The memory flickered—

Isadora Flooed into the grand drawing room of the Rosier mansion, ash trailing behind her robes. The heavy doors shut like jaws around her.

Protocol took over.

"Father," she said with a stiff nod.
"Mother."

Dinner was as suffocating as expected. Gilded plates. Crystal glasses. Poisoned words.

Lord Rosier lifted his wineglass.
"Still fraternizing with the Potter boy?"

Isadora didn't respond immediately.

"The Potters never learn," he went on, voice laced with disdain. "His parents defied the Dark Lord and got themselves killed. Now their brat follows suit."

"Stay away from him," her mother added, tone brisk as if swatting away a fly. "He's a child wrapped in delusions of heroism. Not worth the dirt beneath your shoes."

Her fork paused mid-air. There was a flicker in her eyes—like ice cracking.

She set the fork down with a soft clink.

"Harry fought Voldemort when he was eleven," she said evenly, voice devoid of warmth. "No adults helped. Not really. He carries more weight on his back than all the other perfect little pureblood heirs could dream of."

The room chilled.

Her father scoffed. "You sound brainwashed."

Isadora didn't blink.
"I've met Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott, Zabini. Children acting out their parents' scripts. You don't want heirs. You want puppets. Since we were children, you hammered the pureblood ideals into us. Maybe you could've asked if we ever wanted any of this."

Her mother narrowed her eyes. "You sound absurd."

Isadora's smile was razor-thin.
"If you weren't all morons following a bigger moron, maybe the magical world wouldn't be crumbling beneath your feet."

A gasp escaped from the elf in the corner—almost comical.

Though not as comical as Tom Riddle's face hearing someone call him a moron.

Being worshipped and revered was the norm of his life. From a young age, admiration had followed him like a shadow.
No one had ever dared to call him that.

Until now.

But no one else laughed.

Lord Rosier set his wineglass down—not gently.

"Watch your tone," he hissed.

But Isadora didn't stop.
"You call Harry a blood traitor, yet you worship a half-blood. You've betrayed your own ideals—you just wear fancier masks while doing it."