DOROTHEA {fred weasley}

seventy one

Dorothea frowned when she looked in the mirror, often she couldn't recognise herself. Frequently cut or bruised from her duelling with the Dark Lord. She was getting stronger, at least, and she was sure that at some point that would matter. Death eaters treated her with mutual respect, now, and at dinner parties she sat closer to the head of the table than Ezra or his father did. 

She let her fingers dance over her once-perfect face. There was a scar stretching from her right eye down to her jaw, courtesy of the Dark Lord, of course. Bellatrix Lestrange had tried to heal it best she could under Clementine's instructions, but Dorothea knew it wouldn't go. 

Her room was bare, she never thought she'd miss the tiny Hogwarts dorms, but she found herself craving the constant contact and laughter and often frowned as she dwelled on the amount of times that she would charm her curtains closed. On her dressing table in the room that she shared with Ezra was The Daily Prophet, open to the sports pages. 

Oliver Wood took over a double page spread and Dorothea had spent forty minutes scanning the moving crowds in the stands to try to find a glimpse of Elvira. It hadn't been successful, so instead she sat on her bed, staring at Oliver Wood's triumphant grin.

He looked older, she'd only seen him last a few months ago, but he looked years older. She guessed that she probably did too. Her mind momentarily wondered if Fred Weasley looked any different but she shut that down immediately. Dorothea was good at repressing her thoughts of summer. Of Elvira and Fred in particular. He came into her dreams a lot, though. Tangled up in bed together, or their casual touches in front of friends. 

Ezra still touched her as though she were ice, very briefly and tentatively. Not even he loved her anymore. 

Always performative.

They were due to get married in the new year, less than three months away. Dorothea had refused to play any part in the planning, and Ezra was so busy at the ministry that the entire thing had been down to Clementine and Barnaby. The young witch had reluctantly agreed a date with Camille and Lilith to choose her dress, insisting that she would find one in Diagon Alley. 

She'd be able to see the shop, then. The Weasley's one. 

She'd read a lot about that and even now couldn't help but smile. Fred's name or photograph didn't appear once in the article and Dorothea suspected that that was some spell of Ezra's to try to erase Fred from her memory. 

Clementine also, somewhat fortunately, didn't seem to care at all about her wedding, nor her appearance. She reluctantly planned with Barnaby, being purposefully annoying by demanding all of the most expensive wines and decorations, but really Dorothea knew that all she actually cared about was the young witch being on the Dark Lord's good side. 

The Dark Lord had become preoccupied with breaking into Dorothea's mind (she was, according to Severus Snape, the best occlumens he had seen in years). Voldemort didn't seem in the least bit suspicious, though, that she was hiding anything from him. The witch was naturally unflinching, though, looking at him with the same innocent, unwavering, timid look that she wore whenever they were duelling.

Clementine clearly hadn't been told anything about her daughter's impenetrable mind either. Perhaps the Dark Lord knew that if Clementine Rosier was informed, she would drive the Dark Lord's little protegee insane, or worse, kill her, rendering her utterly useless to his cause. No, the Dark Lord didn't need to know any of Dorothea Rosier's thoughts. She was just a silly school girl, only a recent graduate. 

Clementine knew better perhaps but, her mother, as she always had been, was still insistent on Dorothea mastering the unforgivable curses, or as she called them - the integrals.