❝ STEPPING, I'M STOMPING, I'M ALL GONE. ❞ ☓ 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭
this book has been fully re-edited and its original name being "his destructive little wildfire" but as it was created in 2021 and was hor...
"looks like you two won't be up to anything horrid this year."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
xx. thestrals word count: 4.9k
DELEINE WALKED QUIETLY THROUGH THE CROWDED TRAIN STATION, her eyes scanning the sea of faces around her. They were finally heading back to Hogwarts, and while she should've been relieved, there was something about the station that felt eerier than before. She let out a slow breath, her usual indifferent expression firmly in place.
That was until she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she saw no one—until she turned the other way, spotting the twins laughing to themselves.
"Very funny," she said dryly, though George wasted no time in slinging an arm around her shoulders.
"Oi, you're never in the mood for a bit of fun, are you?" Fred teased, his grin as cheeky as ever.
"Not this year," Deleine muttered, her voice flat as she turned back toward the entrance. As they approached the train, she felt it—the weight of everything she'd been avoiding. The thick, heavy energy of grief seemed to cling to her, creeping up as soon as she saw the scarlet engine, ready to whisk them away once more.
Being back at Hogwarts was bound to dredge up memories of last year, the kind she'd rather leave buried. Everything felt different, so far removed from the stifling air of Grimmauld Place, yet somehow just as heavy. It wasn't the same, but the ache remained.
George glanced over at her, noticing the shift in her mood, and pulled her in closer. They climbed aboard the train together, Fred following closely behind, but for once keeping quiet.
"You reckon this year'll be better?" George asked softly, pecking the top of her head as they found an empty compartment.
Deleine shook her head ever so slightly, her eyes distant. "Not likely," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. But despite her words, she stayed tucked under his arm as they walked, George's presence grounding her just enough to get by.
Deleine kept the straightest face imaginable as they walked through the station, her eyes flicking around at the subtle, lingering glances. The recognition was always there now, and it was rather humiliating. Being acknowledged as a Black—*a proper Black*—was awkward enough, but the whispers about being Voldemort's daughter? That was a whole different mess. Not that everyone believed that bit, of course.
Before any of this kicked off, no one really knew what had happened to Marelia Black. The Order had made sure her death was quiet, so quiet that most hadn't even realized she'd ever had a daughter. It was unbelievable enough to think Marelia had secretly had a child with Tom Riddle and that he had possibly killed her for it.
