You Only Live Once

CHAPTER 45

Three months and eleven days.

The number echoed in Mira's head like the steady, maddening drip of water against the stone floor. One hundred and two days of darkness. One hundred and two days of starvation, of sharp questions, and the kind of silence that made you want to scream just to prove you still had a voice. It had been three months since she stepped out of Lily and James' house, the warmth of their laughter still clinging to her robes, only to never reach the gates of Potter Manor.

She closed her eyes and could still feel the cold snap of the Portkey she hadn't expected. She could still see the face of the person who had handed it to her. Barty. He had been her friend. They had shared secrets and jokes in the corridors of Hogwarts, yet he was the one who had delivered her directly into the hands of the Dark Lord.

Most days, she was left to rot in the damp chill of the dungeons. The routine was predictable in its cruelty: a single slice of stale bread and a glass of lukewarm water once a day. Occasionally, the heavy iron door would creak open, and she would be dragged upstairs for questioning. Voldemort wanted secrets she didn't have, but because he had branded her with his mark, the torture was never enough to kill. He saw her as an asset—or perhaps a trophy. She was kept just on the edge of breaking, but never shattered.

She hadn't seen a friendly face for what felt like a lifetime until Narcissa Malfoy appeared.

Narcissa was a ghost of silk and pale skin in the gloom of the cellar. She didn't come to mock or hurt. She came because of Regulus. It turned out that Regulus had spoken of Mira often to his cousin, and the moment Narcissa realized who was being held in the Malfoy dungeons, she had risked everything to make Mira's life bearable.

Narcissa often brought baby Draco with her. She was too terrified to leave him alone in the manor, fearing the volatile tempers of the Death Eaters or the Dark Lord himself. Watching Narcissa hold her son was a bittersweet torture for Mira. It reminded her of her own baby, of the soft scent of powder and the way tiny fingers gripped her hair.

"He won't eat" Narcissa had whispered one afternoon, her eyes rimmed with red as she looked down at a fussy Draco. "No matter what I try, he just cries."

Mira had leaned against the bars, her voice raspy from disuse. "Try sliced apples. Very thin. It's the crunch—babies like the texture when they're teething. It worked for my girl."

The gratitude in Narcissa's eyes had been more rewarding than any meal. From then on, they talked. They shared stories of Regulus—the way he used to hide his favorite books from Sirius, or how he looked when he was deep in thought. Narcissa even brought down old wizarding photographs, showing a younger, happier version of the Black family. Mira saw Sirius as a boy, laughing and defiant, and her heart ached for the man he had become, likely losing his mind with worry for her.

These daily chats were the only thing keeping Mira's spirit tethered to her body. So, when she heard the familiar echo of footsteps on the stone stairs, she sat up as best she could, a small smile forming on her cracked lips.

But it wasn't Narcissa.

"Teddy?"

Her voice was a mere breath. Standing at the foot of the stairs was the boy she had once loved with the fierce, uncomplicated passion of a teenager. But he wasn't a boy anymore. Theodore stood just a few feet away, looking worn and haggard. At only twenty years old, he carried the weight of a husband, a father, and a soldier. He looked like he had lived a decade in the few months she had been gone.

"Oh, Mira."

He moved toward the cell with an urgency that made him stumble. He dropped to his knees, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the iron bars. Mira was too weak to stand, so she crawled closer on the cold floor, reaching out to him.