𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 11:𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬

The house was hidden behind a veil of charms so old, they crackled faintly in the air like static. Situated deep in the hills of North Wales, the ancient Black family retreat had been left to rot — too remote, too burdened by bad memories. But to Narcissa and Andromeda, it had one useful feature: no one knew it still existed.

Vivienne sat in a dusty armchair near the cold hearth, wrapped in an old emerald-green throw. Her bruises were fading. The memories — not so much.

Footsteps approached.

"I found salve for your wrists," Andromeda said, setting a jar down. "It's not elegant, but it works."

Vivienne nodded, distracted. "Thank you."

Andromeda studied her. "She's still in your head, isn't she?"

Vivienne didn't reply. She didn't need to.

Across the room, Narcissa stood by a window, watching the wind stir the overgrown garden.

"I thought she'd kill you," Narcissa said quietly. "Part of me thinks she still will."

"She won't," Vivienne said, her voice cold and clear. "Not because she can't. Because she doesn't know what she wants."

Andromeda glanced between them, then turned and left the room. She knew better than to press.

That night, unable to sleep, Vivienne found herself drawn to the library. The shelves were sagging with forgotten tomes. One book — bound in faded black leather — had Bellatrix's initials carved into the cover.

Inside, pressed between its pages, was a letter.

Vivienne unfolded it slowly. The parchment smelled like ash and rose petals.

"You're dangerous, Vivienne. You see too much. You feel too deeply. I should hate you — maybe I do. But when I see you, I forget who I'm supposed to be. I don't know what that makes me."— B.

Vivienne's fingers trembled slightly. Then, a memory surged — unbidden, vivid, alive.

---

Flashback: Fifth Year, Hogwarts

It was nearly midnight. Vivienne slipped through the greenhouse gardens barefoot, her wand tucked into her robe. The moonlight turned the leaves silver.

She found Bellatrix exactly where she expected — sitting on the edge of a crumbling stone bench, staring out into the mist.

"You always find me," Bellatrix muttered, not turning around.

"You're not hard to follow," Vivienne replied calmly. "You leave destruction in your wake."

Bellatrix finally looked over. "That's rich, coming from the girl who hexed Avery into the hospital wing last week."

Vivienne stepped closer, unfazed. "He deserved it. He called me a filthy mistake."

Bellatrix's jaw tensed. "You are a mistake. A Muggle-born in Slytherin. It's unnatural."

Vivienne didn't flinch. "And yet, here I am."

There was silence — thick, electric.

Then Bellatrix stood. Her expression shifted — something wounded, scared, and furious at once.

"You think I like this?" she hissed. "You think I want to feel anything for you? I'm not like you. I don't need anyone."

Vivienne stared at her, ice in her voice. "I didn't say you did."

Bellatrix's eyes flashed, and she laughed cruelly. "You're pathetic, Vivienne. Desperate. You'll never belong. Not here. Not with me."

She expected Vivienne to break — to rage, to cry.