Trapped

Marry ...

Her wand had rolled far across the floor, clattering beneath a settee—mocking her from afar. If her strength hadn't been leeched by the curse, if her limbs weren't shaking with the aftermath of dark magic, she would have raised it. She would've answered the senile old man's fury with fire of her own.

But she stood still.

Her mother's hand snapped out and seized Lord Rosier's arm. Her grip was tight, her voice tighter.

"Enough," she said coldly—not with grief, but with a contempt so restrained it trembled beneath the surface. "She still has a purpose to serve."

Lord Rosier didn't spare her a glance. His lip curled, a sneer of deep, patriarchal disdain. "Even the useless must fulfil their duty," he said. "As the daughter of the House of Rosier, that is final."

Isadora rose. No stumble, no wince. Blood trickled with elegance down her arm, soaking the silk cuff of her sleeve. Her every movement was calculated, pristine, as though pain could not touch her—or was too far beneath her to acknowledge.

Her voice sliced through the room like a northern wind.

"And what, precisely, is this duty?" she asked, head tilted, tone glacial. "To be a mindless doll passed from one madman to the next?"

A flicker of challenge passed between them. Her father's eyes didn't waver.

"As the only promising witch in this generation from a house of true blood," he said, "we have arranged your betrothal to the Dark Lord."

The words dropped like a guillotine.

Silence fell. Not a breath dared to follow. The room froze.

But Isadora did not.

She blinked. Once. Her expression didn't crack, didn't shift. The blood from her arm dripped in slow, steady rhythm. Her back remained perfectly straight.

Then she spoke, voice like the sound of ice fracturing under weight.

"You plan to offer me like tribute to a warlord. Charming."

All at once, chaos erupted in the viewing chamber.

Euphemia gasped, one hand clutching her chest. Lily's fingers flew to her mouth. Narcissa looked stricken, almost nauseated. Even Lucius stiffened as though chilled.

Sirius turned, fury sharpening his features. "He wants to marry her?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

But Isadora stood unmoved in the memory—like a queen on a battlefield, robes bloodied, crown unshaken. Regal even in violence.

Across the hall, Tom Riddle sat forward, eyes narrowing. His magic crackled faintly, just beneath the surface, disturbing the air like a storm about to break. No one else seemed to sense it.

He was not pleased.

Not because of the girl.

Because clearly it hadn't been his decision. If it had been, he would choose someone who aligns with his goals. 

"She would never bend," he murmured to himself, voice dry and sharp.

In the viewing hall, Barty Crouch Jr. leaned forward, speaking aloud without thinking.

"Is that what the Dark Lord wants? To marry... her?"

The room quieted instantly.

Sirius turned to him with a glare. "Are you saying she's not worthy?"

Barty faltered. Regulus, beside him, stepped in quickly.

"I think he means... she's the opposite of what the Dark Lord values. She stands against him. Against all of them."