Deatheater Lovers {Alternate Endings}

five

The heavy wooden doors of the Riddle Mansion's main hall creaked slightly as Blair pushed them open and stepped back inside. The room, once crowded with cloaked figures, was now mostly empty. Only a handful of Death Eaters remained, engaged in quiet conversation with the Dark Lord himself. Lord Voldemort stood in the centre of the room, his cold, red eyes glinting with a sinister satisfaction as he spoke in hushed tones to those closest to him.

Blair hesitated at the doorway for a moment, her heart still racing from the events that had just unfolded. The Dark Mark on her forearm was still fresh, tingling with a sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. It was a symbol of her new allegiance, her power, her commitment. A mark of her loyalty to Voldemort and his cause.

But as her eyes scanned the room, they found themselves irresistibly drawn to the one figure who had occupied her thoughts far more than she would have liked to admit—her mentor. He stood slightly apart from the others, his tall, imposing figure draped in a dark cloak, his mask still firmly in place. He seemed to be watching her, even though his face was hidden, and she felt a shiver of something that was neither fear nor excitement run down her spine.

Gathering her composure, Blair walked towards him, her steps steady, her mind swirling with a mixture of emotions she struggled to contain. As she approached, he turned to face her fully, his presence commanding and yet... there was something softer in the way he looked at her, something that set him apart from the cold, unyielding demeanour he usually displayed.

"Blair," he greeted her, his voice low and even, though there was an undertone of something warmer. "How do you feel?"

Blair smiled, the expression genuine and unguarded. "I'm... happy," she admitted, glancing down at the Dark Mark that now adorned her forearm. "I've been waiting for this moment for so long, and now that it's here... it feels right."

Her mentor nodded, his gaze following hers to the mark. "You handled it well, better than most," he said quietly. "Not many can take that kind of pain without flinching."

"It didn't hurt," Blair replied, her tone laced with a hint of pride. "I suppose I was expecting something worse. But... I wanted it. That made all the difference."

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words, before his hand moved almost of its own accord. Gently, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his gloved fingers brushing against her skin for the briefest of moments. The touch was so fleeting, so delicate, yet it sent a ripple of warmth through Blair's entire being.

Blair's smile widened, a rare softness in her expression that was usually reserved for moments like these—moments when she allowed herself to feel, to let her guard down. But as her mentor coughed and took a deliberate step back, the warmth in her eyes faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of understanding tinged with disappointment.

She knew what he was doing, why he was distancing himself. It was necessary, especially in the presence of Voldemort. There could be no room for personal feelings, no space for anything that might be perceived as a weakness. Their loyalty to the Dark Lord had to come first, above all else. And yet... the thought of what might have been, of what they were both trying so hard to suppress, lingered in the back of her mind.

Voldemort's cold, calculating gaze had shifted from his conversation and now rested on them, his thin lips curving into a smile that did not reach his eyes. He had noticed the exchange, and there was a gleam of interest in his expression that sent a chill through Blair.

"Blair," Voldemort's voice cut through the quiet murmur of the room, drawing her full attention. "A word, if you will."

Blair straightened, masking any trace of the emotions that had surfaced moments before. She nodded respectfully. "Yes, my Lord?"