Many whispered that Lenora Hawthorne was nothing more than an unassuming girl-a shadow among the ambitious and cunning. But those who truly knew her understood the truth: Lenora was no innocent. She had forged her path in darkness, her allegiance bo...
warnings: being kidnapped, caged or chained. wordcount: 4465
Chapter 19 | Trapped
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I DECIDED TODAY I WOULD START GATHERING the things I needed to begin the ritual for Lance. My eyes flicked over the list scrawled in my notes, the ink slightly smudged from my restless hands.
Lunar wolfsbane, taken under the full moon. Phoenix ash. Blood from the one performing the ritual. Mirrored moonlight.
I exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the parchment. The full moon was in four days, and I knew that gathering these ingredients would be no simple task—especially with Voldemort watching my every move.
The crescent moon pendant Mattheo had given me still pulsed faintly against my chest, its warmth a constant reminder of the invisible tether between us. I swore I could feel him through it—like an unspoken presence in the back of my mind, lingering in the shadows of my thoughts. It was maddening.
I forced myself to move, shoving the parchment into my cloak as I made my way toward the Slytherin common room. The corridors of the castle felt eerily quiet, the air thick with something unspoken. I was used to the whispers that followed me now—rumors, suspicions, warnings.
As I turned a corner, my breath hitched slightly. Mattheo stood by the fireplace, his frame bathed in the flickering glow of the flames. He looked like a devil carved from shadows, his sharp jaw set in stone, dark curls slightly disheveled. He hadn't noticed me yet, his fingers absentmindedly rolling a silver ring around his knuckle.
I knew better than to stop. I could have walked past him, ignored the weight in my chest, and kept moving. But something inside me—the same reckless thing that always burned too close to him—made me pause.
"You're brooding." My voice cut through the silence, sharper than I intended.
His dark eyes lifted to mine, unreadable. "Observant, as always."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the stone wall. "Let me guess. You're planning something, or you're regretting something. Or is it both?"
He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Regret is for people foolish enough to believe things could have gone differently."
I shouldn't have felt that in my ribs.
"How poetic," I muttered, shifting my weight. "What did regret ever do to you?"
Mattheo's gaze darkened, his smirk barely there. "It makes people weak. It makes them think they can rewrite the past if they just suffer long enough. You of all people should understand that."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to acknowledge how much truth was laced in his words.
"Speaking of suffering," he said, stepping closer, "you're up to something, aren't you?"
