❝𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝.❞
Jupiter Black has been isolated from the outside world her entire life up until the age of thirteen. During a duel with her mother, Jupiter tragically witnesses her death and flees from...
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𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 7
THE FORBIDDEN FORST IS DARKER THAN IT HAS EVER BEEN. The trees loom overhead like silent sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the sky, and the air is thick with the weight of something far worse than death. I stand within the shadows, unseen, watching.
In the clearing, he stands before her—the projection of myself. She is flawless, down to the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, the faint curl of her lips, the icy detachment in her eyes. A perfect replica, crafted from my own power, but I know better. I can see the emptiness beneath her skin, the hollow echo where life should be.
Theodora stands beside him, her figure poised and unreadable, but I know the way her fingers clench behind her back, the way her gaze flickers when she thinks no one is looking. She knows something is wrong. She feels it in her bones, the way I do. But she says nothing. She stands by his side, loyal, unwavering. As do I. As I must.
The Dark Lord's eyes narrow as he studies the illusion of me, his pale fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. There is something possessive in the way he looks at her—at me—like I am a precious thing that belongs to him, a piece of himself that must be preserved at all costs. Because I am.
A part of his soul festers inside me, tangled in my veins, whispering in my mind. I can feel it now, thrumming in time with my heartbeat, a dark and wretched tether that binds us closer than blood. He guards me with a quiet obsession, a possessiveness that is both protection and imprisonment.
"You are withholding something from me." His voice is silk wrapped around steel, soft yet unforgiving. It cuts through the stillness like a knife, and I watch as the projection's lips part to answer. "I have given you everything, my Lord." Her voice—my voice—rings out steady and composed. It is a lie. A beautiful, carefully crafted lie.
He steps closer, his wand hovering just beneath the illusion's chin, his gaze searching for something only he can see. "I wonder," he murmurs, "if you truly understand what it means to belong to me." The projection tilts her head, perfectly calculated, perfectly unafraid. "I understand," she replies softly. "I am yours." A smile, thin and cruel, flickers across his lips.
He believes it. Or perhaps he wants to. His obsession with me runs deeper than even he would admit. The knowledge that his soul lingers within me ties us together in ways that make him uneasy, that make him need me.
My mother stands still, watching, waiting. I see the faint tension in her shoulders, the way she holds her breath as Voldemort studies the illusion. She is his most trusted, and yet she knows that my place beside him is different. Sacred. A piece of his immortality walking in flesh and bone.
"I protect you," he says now, stepping back, his voice quiet but laced with an unspoken threat. "I have made you strong." His fingers trail through the air, as if tracing something only he can see. "But strength means nothing if you are hiding something from me." My projection does not blink. "I hide nothing, my Lord." His wand moves so fast I barely see it before the curse hits. Crucio.
The illusion drops to the ground, writhing, her body convulsing in silent agony. I feel nothing, and yet watching it—watching myself—makes my breath catch in my throat. I clench my wand tighter, forcing myself to remain still, to stay hidden.
My mother's lips part slightly, but she does not intervene. She will never intervene. She knows better than to question him.
He watches with those cold, pitiless eyes, waiting for the illusion to break, for something—anything—to prove his suspicions right. But she takes the pain without sound, without flinching. Just as I would.
The curse lifts, and the projection rises slowly, her face an unreadable mask. "I exist only to serve you," she says. "I am yours to command." Something shifts in his gaze, something dark and satisfied. He believes her. At least for now.
He turns away, his robes billowing as he moves further into the clearing. My mother hesitates for only a second before following, but I see it—the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the ghost of something too human.
When they are gone, I step back into the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest. How much longer can I keep this up? How much longer until he knows? I am his most treasured possession. And soon, very soon, he will realise that I am also his greatest threat.
