Trapped

Never coming back.

The memory shifted.

The heavy door creaked open, revealing a small, trembling house-elf. It stepped cautiously into the dimly lit room, eyes wide with dread. "Mistress," it whispered. "Mistress Isadora..."

She lay on the floor, unmoving, her skin marred with blood and bruises, her robes torn and stained. The elf gasped, scurrying to her side.

"Oh, Mistress," it sobbed, hands fluttering helplessly. "They hurt you—Mipsy is sorry, so sorry. Master Riddle... Master gave balm, shall I—?"

"Don't touch me with anything of his." Isadora's voice was hoarse, but steady. Cold. Final.

Mipsy recoiled as if struck.

In the Great Hall, silence fell like a dropped curtain. The students and elders stared, transfixed, at the scene unfolding on the enchanted screen. Abraxas Malfoy's brow furrowed, his expression unreadable. Orion Black exchanged a glance with Cygnus, both of them stiff with unease.

Tom Riddle stood in the shadows of the hall, watching—expression carefully blank, yet something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Why had he given her medicine? Why had he bothered?

He couldn't explain it. Not even to himself.

Mipsy knelt beside Isadora, voice shaking. "Mipsy tried to come sooner, Mistress. But Mipsy could not get through. They hurt you so badly..."

Isadora blinked slowly, as if calculating whether or not to waste energy on a reply. "Not your fault," she murmured. "Stop crying. It's pointless."

The elf hiccupped but obeyed, brushing a shaking hand over her brow, clearing blood-matted hair from her face.

The camera panned across the room. Blood smeared across the stone floor, her torn robes in disarray, a thin line of crimson trailing from her wrist to her palm. Her silence was not passive—it was a practiced, deliberate refusal to be reduced.

In the Hall, Euphemia Potter gripped Fleamont's arm. Lily stared, frozen, her lips parted in horror. "This poor girl," she whispered. "What was she enduring... all this time?"

On-screen, Isadora's gaze slowly focused. Her body remained weak, but her mind—sharp. Her voice, when she spoke again, was controlled.

"Mipsy."

"Yes, Mistress?"

"We're leaving."

The elf's eyes widened. "Leaving? Mistress... the wards... the Dark Lord's protections..."

"You'll break them," she said simply. "Prepare my things. Find Harry. We are done here."

There was no desperation in her tone. No pleading. Only a statement of intent, sharp and irrefutable.

"Mistress..." Mipsy trembled. "If we are caught—"

"We won't be."

"But if—"

"If we are," Isadora said, "then I will handle it. Now move."

There was no anger in her voice, only precision. Commanding, calculated. She did not waste energy on fear. She had measured her options, considered the risk—and made her choice.

Mipsy obeyed at once.

In the viewing hall, murmurs broke the silence. Even the most hardened among the old families were rattled. What kind of girl gave orders like that after a beating? What sort of logic endured pain without tears?

Tom Riddle's jaw was rigid, but his eyes betrayed him. He wasn't watching the girl now. He was watching something far more dangerous—resolve.

Why? Why hadn't he broken her? Why was his future self—Voldemort—feeding potions to someone who spat in his face?