Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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August 13th, 1979
The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the forest in long amber shadows. The leaves above glowed gold and green, swaying gently in the breeze, but the path beneath Avery and Regulus remained hushed and cool, packed with old roots. They walked without speaking, trying not to disturb whatever might be listening.
The Varnholdt emerged without ceremony, nestled in the crook of a grove of twisted birches—just as Avery remembered it from last year. The manor had once been grand, but time had worn it down to something ghostly. Ivy clung like veins to its crumbling stone walls, and shattered upper windows caught the evening light in jagged slivers. A lone shutter swung on rusted hinges, knocking gently in the wind with the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
The two stepped through the creaking gate and walked up the weedy stone path. The front door gave easily, groaning as it opened inward with a scraping sound. Dust swirled in golden beams of evening light that poured through the cracks in the ceiling. The entrance hall was stripped and hollow. Ancient sconces clung to the walls while the grand staircase slanted to the side, half-collapsed. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as they crossed to the hearth in the drawing room, its stones chipped and moss-covered. Above it, carved faintly into the lintel, was the rune.
"This is it," Avery said, half to herself.
She raised her wand. Regulus mirrored her. The moment both wand tips hovered near the rune, the air shifted. Together, without speaking, they touched the rune. The magic answered instantly; the floor beneath the fireplace shimmered and light traced old lines in the stone, forming a precise, spiraling pattern. Then, slowly, an object emerged from the center of the hearth—hovering, suspended in golden light.
It was a mirror, round, silver, and scratched with age. Its surface wavered like heat over stone, distorting slightly—yet when they leaned closer, their reflections stared back with perfect clarity. Their faces hovered just a second too long after they moved, like the glass itself was reluctant to let them go. Avery's eyes in the mirror looked slightly older while Regulus's reflection didn't blink when he did. He stepped forward, drawn to it like a moth to flame. But before he could reach out to touch it, her hand caught his wrist.
"Wait."
Avery stepped in beside him, not letting go. She tilted her head, studying their shared reflection. It looked back at them with the same breathless pause that clung to the air. She already knew there was magic inside it without having to think. Moments like these always brought Dumbledore's words back to her: "Magic leaves traces, if you're present enough to feel it."
"I think it's a Portkey, Reg," Avery said, voice low, eyes still locked on the glass.
He glanced at her, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. Neither of them moved. The silence stretched, heavy and waiting.
Finally, Avery swallowed and took a breath. "Together?"
Regulus nodded slowly, as if accepting a challenge. His fingers twitched toward the mirror—but he didn't touch it. Avery reached out, hesitating a fraction of a second before her fingertips grazed the frame. The metal was cool beneath her skin. She looked up at Regulus, searching for any sign to stop or go.
