DOROTHEA {fred weasley}

seventy four

In married life, the days bled into weeks, each one a stark, suffocating replica of the last for Dorothea. 

The Nott manor was less a home and more a mausoleum, filled with echoing silences and the stale scent of old money and dark magic, she almost missed the Rosier Manor, at least she had Missy there.

 Her training sessions with the Dark Lord had become more frequent, more demanding. He demanded proficiency, a ruthless application of curses she abhorred. The air in his presence crackled with an evil that felt like a physical weight, pressing down on her lungs, stifling her spirit. She was forced to cast, forced to witness, forced to internalize the very essence of what she despised. Each session left her feeling dirtier, more hollowed out.

Ezra was never in, nowadays. She knew they were expected to produce an heir but there was absolutely no chance of that happening any time soon - not that she was complaining. He had started to spend a lot of time with Camille, her cousin. She couldn't have cared less if she tried.

He had lost his former strength, though, he had become a shadow of his already austere self. He moved through the manor like a phantom, his eyes distant, his jaw constantly clenched. He was given a 'task' by the Dark Lord, a mysterious assignment that consumed him entirely. He would disappear for days, returning pale and withdrawn, his robes occasionally singed, a faint, metallic scent clinging to him. 

He wouldn't speak of it, his lips sealed, his mind locked away behind a wall of grim determination. Dorothea tried, once, to ask him about it, to offer a moment of shared burden, but he had simply stared through her with cold, blank eyes. "It is not your concern, Dorothea," he'd snapped, before retreating to his study. 

The silence that followed was louder than any shout, reinforcing her utter isolation.

Snape, ever the phantom, would appear in her private study after her more brutal sessions with the Dark Lord. He would brew her calming draughts, offer dry, pointed advice, and in his own peculiar way, reassure her. "You are stronger than he knows, Rosier," he'd murmured one evening, his voice low, his dark eyes scanning her pale, drawn face. "More resilient than you give yourself credit for. Do not let his poison seep into your core. Remember who you are. And what you truly despise." His words were a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. He understood, to a degree no one else could, the intricate web she was caught in. Yet still, he denied knowing anything about her letter to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had told Severus that he was speaking with the Order, trying to get their support for helping the girl. Some were proving difficult to sway, apparently. 

Easter arrived, bringing with it a flurry of forced gaiety amongst the pure-blood elite. The Nott manor hosted a lavish, suffocating party, filled with the self-important chatter of Death Eaters and their families. Dorothea, dressed in heavy, restrictive robes, moved through the crowd like a spectre, her smile a brittle mask.

It was in a quiet alcove, away from the drone of conversation, that she found Theo Nott, Ezra's younger brother. 

Theo, always more quiet and thoughtful than Ezra, seemed even more withdrawn than usual. He sat nursing a glass of firewhisky, his gaze fixed on the ornate tapestry depicting the Nott family tree.

"Theo," she murmured, slipping onto the plush settee beside him. "How's Hogwarts? I envy you, still being there. But I must admit, it's nice having you hope."

He started, his eyes focusing on her with a rare flicker of genuine emotion. "Dorothea," he nodded, greeting her with a genuine smile. "School is okay. You look... well." It was a lie, and they both knew it.

"And you, Theo," she replied, her voice soft. She watched him, his fingers anxiously tapping his glass and his eyes darting around, landing on Draco and Lucius Malfoy more times than once. "You seem... troubled."