"𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙮"
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IN WHICH ~ Jupiter Cassiopeia Lestrange thought she could escape her family's dark legacy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but in her second year, Tom Riddle's diar...
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"I'm not okay, I feel so scattered. Don't say I'm all that matters."
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Jupiter's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurred, the world a distant haze of light and shadow. Her body felt like it was anchored, crushed beneath the weight of the bed, and her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one a battle. The antiseptic smell hit her, sharp and sterile, a stark contrast to the warm light filtering through the tall windows. She was in St. Mungo's, but everything felt wrong—disconnected.
Her head pounded, a dull, relentless throb behind her eyes, and when she tried to move, pain shot through her body. Her shoulders and cheek ached where Greyback's claws had torn into her. The memory struck her like a hammer, cold terror flooding her veins. She could still feel his weight on her, his hot breath on her neck, the sickening pressure of his hands pinning her down. She wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in her throat, strangled by the trauma that clung to her like a second skin. The pain was distant now, dulled by the potions they had given her, but it was nothing compared to the horror replaying over and over in her mind.
She had survived. But at what cost?
"Ah, Miss Black," a voice broke through the silence. Calm. Familiar. Dumbledore.
Her eyes drifted to the end of the bed, where he sat, his usual twinkling eyes duller today, weighed down by a sorrow she couldn't place. She tried to sit up, but her body refused, sinking back into the pillows. The simple act of moving felt like too much.
"Take your time," Dumbledore said softly, raising a hand. "There is no rush. You've been through quite the ordeal. The hospital wing at Hogwarts was not suitable for your wounds, of course... I imagine your journey to St. Mungo's was not easy."
She blinked, her mind racing to catch up. The last thing she remembered was the battle—the chaos, the shouting, the terror of Bellatrix's curse. And then Greyback—his claws, his weight pressing her down. Her heart skipped a beat at the memory.
"Is everyone okay?" she asked, her voice hoarse and weak. "Harry? My dad?"
Dumbledore's eyes softened. "Everyone is safe," he assured her. "Thanks to your quick thinking and bravery, no one was lost."
Bravery. The word felt foreign, hollow. She didn't feel brave. She felt broken. She had saved Sirius, yes, but the memory of the green light flying past him haunted her. She had been too slow. If she hadn't acted when she did, Sirius would be dead, and it would be her fault. The thought made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
"How long have I been here?" she asked, forcing the words through her dry throat.
"Two weeks," Dumbledore said gently. "You were unconscious for some time. The healers have done their best, but there will be scars."
