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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September 10th, 1980
The wind curled like a whisper through the overgrown grass, bringing with it the sharp scent of damp earth and decay. Petrichor shot through Avery's nostrils as she and Regulus stepped on the edge of the familiar field once again. Behind them, Pandora and Dorcas surveyed the desolate landscape with a quiet wariness.
"She lives out here?" Dorcas whispers, frowning.
"Wouldn't you?" Pandora replies under her breath, eyes fixed on the dilapidated hut Merope Gaunt lives in. "If you wanted to be forgotten."
"Careful," Avery murmurs. "She hears everything."
Regulus stepped forward first, boots crunching softly against gravel and bone-dry weeds. "Mrs. Gaunt," he calls, his voice low but clear. "It's us."
The four paused as a faint clicking noise echoed from within the shack. A moment later, the door creaked open and they were faced with a pale, sharp-featured old woman.
"You brought others," Merope says, her gaze flicking sharply to Pandora and Dorcas, lingering on them with a guarded expression.
"They're friends," Avery says quickly, her tone defensive. "We wouldn't bring anyone who means you harm."
Pandora stepped forward, her posture respectful but unwavering. She held out her hand towards Merope with an ever-polite smile.
"Good evening, Mrs. Gaunt," she says warmly. "We've heard quite a bit about you. I'm Pandora Lovegood—a close friend of Avery and Regulus."
Merope's eyes lingered on Pandora's outstretched hand for a moment before shifting to the girl beside her. Dorcas gave a short nod, her hands at her sides. There was a quiet steel in her eyes—calm but not easily intimidated.
"Dorcas Meadowes," she says simply.
Merope didn't take Pandora's hand nor acknowledge both of them, but by the way she stepped back and pulled the door open a little wider, Avery saw it for what it was: a silent allowance and trust. The four stepped inside.
Merope clutched her cardigan tighter and moved toward a corner cabinet, seeming to be in the middle of something as she retrieved a chipped, blackened tin.
Avery speaks first, "You still speak Parseltongue, don't you? We need your help to open this locket."
She reached into her coat and drew out Salazar Slytherin's locket. The dull gold glinted faintly in the dim light. The moment Merope's eyes landed on it, something changed in her. A glimmer—not quite recognition, not quite longing—lit her expression. She stepped forward slowly, as if pulled by some invisible thread, and reached out with trembling fingers.
"It was his," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "My father's. How did you get our family heirloom?"
Avery hesitates, then answers carefully. "Your son took it and twisted it. We're trying to undo the damage."
