Entitled

Chapter 136*

The moment you apparate to the wizarding park, you immediately sense that something is off. The usual warmth and light you had hoped for are nowhere to be found. Instead, the park is shrouded in an unnatural darkness, as if the very sun itself has been blotted out. The trees cast long, eerie shadows across the ground, and the air is thick with an unsettling stillness that makes your skin crawl.

You pull the twins closer, their tiny forms nestled safely in your arms, and begin to walk, hoping that the movement might clear your head and shake off the oppressive feeling that clings to the park like a damp fog. The crunch of leaves underfoot is the only sound that breaks the silence, and even that seems muted, as if the world around you is holding its breath.

As you walk, you can't help but feel a deep sense of frustration and unease. You had hoped this outing would offer a brief respite, a chance to bask in the sun's warmth and breathe in the fresh air—an opportunity to momentarily escape the suffocating atmosphere of the manor. 

But even here, in what should be a sanctuary, you find no solace. It's as if the darkness that surrounds Voldemort has seeped into every corner of your life, extending its reach far beyond the walls of his domain.

The twins seem content, oblivious to the gloom that weighs heavily on your shoulders, but it's not enough to calm your racing thoughts. The exercise helps a little, the steady rhythm of your footsteps grounding you in the present moment, but it doesn't dispel the growing dread that lingers in the back of your mind.

You realize that this darkness, this absence of light and warmth, is a physical manifestation of the control Voldemort exerts over you. It's a reminder that even when you are seemingly free, you are still very much under his influence. The thought sends a chill down your spine, and you pull the twins closer, feeling the need to protect them from an enemy that isn't even visible.

After what feels like hours, though it's likely only been a short time, you come to a stop on a bench, sitting down with the twins and holding them close. The absence of sunlight and the pervasive gloom make it hard to find the peace you were seeking. You feel the weight of your situation pressing down on you more heavily than ever.

But you refuse to give in to despair. This outing might not have provided the escape you wanted, but it's given you time to think, to solidify the resolve you've begun to form. You may not be able to control the world around you, but you can control your response to it. You can continue to push for small victories, to find ways to carve out moments of freedom and autonomy, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

As you search for a quiet spot to nurse the twins, you find a secluded area beneath a large oak tree. The gnarled roots form a natural seat, offering a sense of comfort and grounding despite the unsettling darkness that surrounds the park. 

As you settle down and begin nursing the twins, the enormity of your situation suddenly hits you—you don't have your wand. The realization sends a wave of anxiety through you, the stark reminder that you are unprotected and vulnerable without it.

Your father still has it in his possession, and you let it go in a moment of trust—perhaps an act of necessity, or maybe even as a way to appease him. But now, as you sit under the oak tree with the twins in your arms, that decision weighs heavily on you. Yet, you force yourself to push the thought aside for now. This moment is about your children, about providing them with the care and attention they need.

The act of nursing, so simple and nurturing, allows you to momentarily disconnect from your worries. As the twins feed, their small, steady breaths and the warmth of their bodies against yours begin to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind.