LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER FOUR

They didn't let her say goodbye. Or at least she couldn't remember them letting her say goodbye. She could hear sobs echoing in her eardrums if she concentrated hard, but she didn't know if they had been hers or somebody else's. If that had been ten minutes ago or if it had been ten hours ago.

They had left her nothing but the clothes on her back and her wand. Amora grabbed it out of her pocket, pressing her body against the wall of the building behind her as two drunken men stumbled past, cursing and leaning on one another, unrecognisable with their dark hoods pulled upwards. She exhaled as soon as they had disappeared, white whisps forming clouds. She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and looked around.

Diagon Alley was unrecognisable. Filled with dark magic, bleak colours, and Voldemort propaganda, it was no longer the place every witch and wizard had grown up loving. The only windows glowing light were the pubs dotted down the cobblestone street. It was not lively like it had been before the war. There was no music, no laughter. If it was all happiness had been sucked from the earth and banned entirely.

Amora willed herself to push away from the wall. She was scared— terrified, even. If something went wrong, Amora did not know what to do. She thought as hard as she could, she tried to remember where to Apparate— where there was a headquarters, a friend's house... However, there were huge gaps, blank slates, and pieces that couldn't be put together in the puzzle.

"One... two... three."

Amora's hands shoved herself off of the wall. She began to walk, straightened her back, and kept her chin high. There was a part she had to play. It was what she had been training for nonstop for nearly a month now. This was everything she had been anticipating. She was not Amora, Order member, part of the resistance, or a Pureblood traitor. She was Amora the Death Eater apologist, the Pureblood supremacist, the one who wanted revenge against a resilience that did not look out for people like her.

The new Amora moved over to the Leaky Cauldron and pushed open the door like a regular, strolling inside. She closed the door behind her quietly and immediately noticed she was different to everybody else inside. The pub was bustling with wizards of all ages upwards from seventeen, but not a single witch took space on a stool. The only lady stood behind the bar, tucked behind her husband, her pale face solemn as she dried glasses by hand. When her eyes landed on Amora, she paused, her mouth dropping open a little, and she nudged the large man beside her.

Amora tried not to flinch. She subtly gritted her teeth together on one side and forced her feet over to the bar. It was busy with men attempting to get a drink. She hardly had to look around to notice that most of them were drunk beyond proper comprehension, bleary-eyed and stumbling over words. It was a Tuesday night. Her first theory was that these men were coping with their anxieties over the war the only way they knew how— by drowning them. Amora had no sympathy for them.

She wondered how many of the men in here were Death Eaters. How many of them had dressed up in their dark cloaks and masks and tried to kill her at some point or another? Had any of them killed her friends before? Neville?

"I've never seen you around here before."

Amora glanced at the man who had taken a seat on the barstool next to her. He was older than her by a few years maybe. Sometimes it was hard to tell how old somebody might be because war made you look older than you were. She didn't recognise him from school. He had dark hair, the iciest of eyes, and pale skin. Dark gloves covered the hand nursing a glass of Firewhisky, his lips pursing together as he turned his body to drink her in.

"It's my first time," Amora replied and looked him up and down also, her nose crinkling for a second. He wasn't ugly— he was quite attractive— but she needed to be intimidating if she wanted to survive this world.

"Not very ladylike of you," he replied and sipped his drink before placing it onto the bar top. "Though I don't quite mind that. You're a bit of a rebel, aren't you? Coming out drinking."

"I haven't had anything to drink yet," Amora hummed.

The man's face lit up into a smirk and he was quickly snapping a gloved finger at the man behind the bar. "Two more Firewhisky's." He looked down at her. "What are you doing out here? Does your father know you're out past curfew? Or husband?"

"I'm not married," she told the man, "Nor do I have a father. I guess that makes me a free woman?"

He whistled at her and barked a laugh. "Very good. I like that. My name's Caspian. Yours?"

The bartender put the glasses down before them and eyed Amora suspiciously. She guessed he had no problem serving her if somebody paid for her. Either that, or he had summoned someone to come and get her and she would be taken in the next minute or so. Either way, it was what Amora wanted. She wanted the context of this new Wizarding World— not what propaganda said it was like, but what it truly was— and she needed to be taken in by the authorities to devote herself to the cause.

"Amora Buckley," she told Caspian, and slid her hand into his, shaking it. "Thanks for the drink."

"Buckley sounds familiar," he said, "Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

"Of course," Amora scoffed, "I need to ask you... Where are all of the women, Caspian?"

Caspian laughed, but his face faltered upon realising her serious expression. "How do you not know?"

"I've been rogue," Amora told him, "I like to do my own thing. I've been tempted to come back for some time now. I've realised my politics align much closer to that of the Dark Lord's than the Order's."

"Shit," Caspian cursed, lowering his voice and moving closer to her. "Fuck. Really? You serious?"

Amora nodded. "I'm waiting to be captured and taken in," she told him, rolling her wrist to stir the ice in her drink, then taking a large gulp. "So I can start my new life here. Join the cause."

Caspian grabbed his drink, wide eyes not leaving hers, drinking and drinking until it was gone. He slammed it back onto the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're brave," he chuckled, though there was certainly a lack of humour there. "But welcome, I guess. I could take you to the BMA before someone summons them here and makes a scene if you'd like."

Amora thought for a moment. "Can I ask you questions on the way?"

"Yeah," Caspian chuckled. "Why not?"

"What's with the lack of women, then?" Amora said, climbing off of the barstool, trying to ignore the stares burning into her. It had been a lot easier when she'd had her back turned to them. They weaved in and out of the crowds to head for the doors.

"It's part of the Purity and Preservation Act," Caspian said, "No women allowed out past sundown. For your own safety, of course. I work for the Wizengamot, actually. I was a part of the legislative assembly that—"

As they reached the front doors, two large men shifted to stand in front of it, wands drawn and their grips tight. They wore hard looks, structures tense and spread so neither could even think of squirming around. Amora's instinct was to reach for the wand she had in her pocket, but the last thing she needed to do was start a bar fight before handing herself over to the Bureau of Magical Allegiance. It would make her case a lot harder.

"Not so fast," the one with dark hair growled at her. "What's a lady like you doing out so late, hm? Is your patriarch aware you're roaming the streets and breaking—"

"It's Buckley!" Somebody shrieked, "From school. Amora Buckley."

Amora's head whipped around, her heart freezing in her chest. She didn't recognise the voice of Graham Montague, but when he stood right behind her, she recognised his face all too well. A Slytherin student a few years above, he'd asked Amora to the Yule Ball when she was fourteen and he was seventeen. He had a violent streak when it came to Quidditch games. Woman or not, everybody on the opposing team had to be made aware of his temper.

"My, my," Montague snickered, and his hand grasped her face. Amora tried to wriggle out of his hold. He felt like he had the right to grab her. He thought because he could that it was his right. "What a sight for sore eyes you are, Buckley." He dug his fingers in and made her cry out. "Maybe I'd fuck you if you weren't such a filthy fucking blood traitor. What the fuck are you doing here?"

You could have heard a pin drop. People watched as she squirmed in his grip. Another man came up behind her and stripped her of her wand, holding it away from her as if she stood a chance against a pub full of armed men. At least they weren't underestimating her, she supposed.

"I'm not a blood traitor," Amora hissed, her hand reaching up to grab his wrist. "Let me go. Caspian here was taking me to the BMA. So I can officially declare myself."

"No need," the bartender said, pushing through the crowd. "I've already called them. Let her go, Montague."

He magically bound Amora's wrists behind her back, and Montague roughly released her, her cheek and jaw aching, stinging like his fingers were still digging in.

"Maybe I would fuck you then," he laughed. There seemed to be roars of agreement, laughter everywhere, louder and louder, and Amora realised she had faced magical creatures with claws and sharp teeth and wizards with a million tricks up their wands, but never had she been as scared as she was there and then, surrounded by a hundred men, mocking the thought of raping her.

A hand smaller than the rest grasped her bicep and tugged her backwards. Amora's head flicked around quickly, eyes wide and horrified, and she hated how they could see what their words were doing to her, but she immediately felt a sense of relief upon seeing the bartender's wife. Her face was stern but her eyes didn't quite match. At least she was a woman.

"You can wait in the back," she said, pulling Amora away, calling over her shoulder, "Show is over gentlemen. Return home to your wives if you're in the mood to fuck somebody. Otherwise, you have each other."

There were a few laughs, but most of the noise that Amora heard over her blood rushing in her ears contained those of protest and annoyance. Amora was sure the bartender was even cursed out and threatened by a few of them. She trembled as the lady took her through one of the doors, the noise immediately drowning out. She pushed Amora through a narrow corridor, scattered with shoe racks and coats and photo frames— the pub owners' home, she realised.

"Sit," she ordered once they reached the kitchen. "You want some water?"

Amora placed herself on the hardwood of one of the dining chairs. She nodded at the lady. Her dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and her bony hands were also slightly shaky as she whizzed around the small kitchen area, nearly knocking a glass over as she grabbed one straight off the dishrack. She turned the tap on and filled it nearly to the top with cold water. She held it out and huffed when she remembered Amora's hands were tied behind her.

"Open your mouth then."

Amora did as she was told, her lips parting slightly, welcoming the cold water the lady carefully tipped in. She nodded when she was done, water beads dripping down her chin and dampening the top of her shirt. The lady put the glass down on the table and sighed.

"Bloody sods out there. Can't keep their grimy hands to themselves. Even the ones with wives," she spat.

"What is the preservation act?" Amora asked her, her fingers fiddling with the wooden grooves of the chair behind her. "That man— Caspian— he was saying that was why there are no women out. Why are you out?"

The woman scoffed. "The Purity and Preservation Act. That's been in place for about a year now. You better get used to it if you're integrating here. Better find yourself a nice husband if you don't have a daddy. Or I've heard of a few high-up men that have several wives. That might be easier. Less pressure on you, that way. Or go and work in the factories."

Amora's heart thumped loudly. As far as she remembered, Moody and Lupin had told her nothing about this act. They had said nothing about the sexism these women were facing— or that men had found a way to have complete and utter control, not only over Muggleborns but even their Pureblood and Halfblood women.

"I– I don't understand," Amora's voice cracked. Send me back. Please. Someone send me back. "What is it exactly? What does it mean?"

"It means women are protected by their patriarch. You must consult your patriarch before you go out of the house, and definitely, no going out past sundown or partaking in dangerous acts like drinking. They need to keep an eye on us. Make sure we aren't getting into trouble," the lady told her. "Pureblood and Halfblood women must be preserved. Without us, there are no children. No children, no future."

The air was caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Amora's eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape. There was none. They had her wand. Her hands weren't free. She couldn't remember where to Apparate. She had nobody here. She wanted to go home— whatever that was, she couldn't remember. She had a feeling it involved Pansy. Amora wanted Pansy.

"That's..." Amora whispered, "That's not protecting. That's controlling."

The lady sneered in her face. "Still think this is what you want?"

"Why are you allowed in the pub?" Amora asked her, "Are there loopholes?"

"Why am I allowed out there?" She chuckled bitterly and grabbed a glass of wine that had been left on the table. Amora noticed the glass bin to the side was filled to the bin with identical bottles. "Because men don't care to 'protect' you if you have no use to them—"

Suddenly, there were four cracking sounds and the tiny kitchen was filled to the brim with people. The lady's husband opened the door at the sound and sent his wife a look. She followed him out of the room like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Amora pursed her lips as she looked at the men in the dark cloaks. They did not wear masks, but Amora didn't recognise any of the older men.

One reached out a gloved hand and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet. "State your name and your reason for being on the Dark Lord's territory."

"My name is Amora Buckley," she said as confidently as she could. "And I wish to declare myself at the BMA as a follower of the Dark Lord."

D.M + A.B

Amora had no way of figuring out where exactly she was. The Bureau of Magical Allegiance could be in London or it could be somewhere in the middle of the country– she had no way of telling. She had been Apparated there, searched manually and with magic, and forced into what appeared to be the old Azkaban uniform. Amora knew that if Leon or Blaise had been there, they probably would have made some joke about the Death Eaters' recycling at the very least.

It was scratchy and slightly too big for her, and the lack of shoes meant her feet were freezing on the marble flooring beneath her. The interior was grand, almost reminding Amora of the Gringotts bank. Huge pillars made of marble held up high ceilings, archways embedded with jewels twinkling and chandeliers hanging and glittering like mirror balls. The rooms were large and spacious, a few desks dotted around with wizards sitting behind them, pressing the keys on typewriters and reading piles of books.

Her hands had been chained in front of her now, which helped with her balance at least. Not that they allowed her to walk alone. A Death Eater had a hand on her shoulder at all times, roughly tugging her this way and that way. They forced her into a seat opposite the man at the end of the room. He was clearly the most important— the obnoxious hat on top of his head was a different colour to the other men's, jet black rather than dark grey, and his desk sat at the very back of the room, directly in the centre.

"Name," he droned without looking up at her.

"Amora Buckley, sir," she said. Amora took a moment to read the gold plate on his desk. V. Mordain.

Slowly, he peeled his eyes from his work and looked at her. "Oh," he pulled his glasses down his nose slightly. "You're a spitting image of your mother."

Amora scrunched her nose and huffed. "I get that a lot."

"You don't sound too pleased, Miss Buckley," Mordain replied, "Now... What business might a member of the Order of the Phoenix have at the Bureau of Magical Alliance?"

"Former member," Amora emphasised. She knew not to overdo it, though the ball of anxiety in her stomach was nearly forcing words out her mouth and putting twisted expressions on her face— like a lying child trying to prove to their parents they were sick.

Subtlety is key— Moody had said so himself. She remembered all of their lessons. I can always tell when somebody is lying to me. Spewing rubbish and pulling faces. Talking too much. Saying a whole lot of nothing. Make a point, let them read between the lines, Buckley. Don't beg them to believe you. Not only is it unbelievable, but it makes you unlikeable. You won't make anybody even want to believe you.

"Former member," he hummed, "And when did you officially retire from the Order, Miss Buckley?"

Amora furrowed her brows. "I... I can't remember exactly."

Mordain sat up, blinking, staring at her expectantly. "You don't remember."

"I think I was Obliviated," Amora confirmed, "I... I don't even remember the last thing I should remember. Just Order members barging into my room. Their faces are blurry. I don't even recognise their voices. Then that's it."

"Right," Mordain said, "Since you are claiming Obliviation has taken place and you are a former member of the Order, I will save us both some time and send you to the Ministry Verification Centre. I must take some personal details, but I assume you cannot remember them. Correct, Miss Buckley?"

Amora frowned. "How am I supposed to know what I remember or don't unless you ask me?"

Mordain stared at her for a second longer and dabbed his lips with his tongue before glancing down at his sheets of paper. "Very well. Age and date of birth."

"Twenty-one. Second of August 1980."

"Address?"

"I don't have one. Not that I remember."

He scribbled something on his paper. His quill scratched at her brain.

"Next of kin?"

Amora nearly laughed. "I think you know the answer to that one."

The man raised his eyebrows and read aloud as he wrote, "Mother deceased. Father?"

"Also deceased."

"Apologies for your loss, Miss Buckley."

This time, Amora did laugh. It came from a place of spite and hatred. She hoped it didn't come across that way. "You don't mean that," she said.

"It's protocol," he agreed and ticked another box on his paper. "Blood status?"

"Pureblood," Amora said, "The Buckleys are in the Sacred 28, you know. As are the Diggorys— my mother's side."

"Congratulations," Mordain said sarcastically, "Though the Buckleys are about as traitorous as the Weasleys. Now, that is all the information I will need from you at this point in your application process. My colleagues will take you to the verification facility. You've arrived at an awkward time. They are shut until the morning."

"Right," Amora nodded, "Well, thank you, Mr Mordain. It was nice to meet you."

"Yes. Likewise, Miss Buckley. Best of luck with your application."

If the rest of the process was like its first part, she guessed she would get by perfectly fine.

D.M + A.B

Amora felt she may have been wrong to feel slightly optimistic. She was not whirled into a basic room with privacy like Moody had told her she would be. Instead, Amora had been shoved into what appeared to be some sort of prison cell. With no window, she had three concrete walls and another one made of bars, a rickety single bed in the corner, and a toilet on the other side. Her blanket was so thin it was transparent and she had no pillow or other possessions inside.

She spent the night tossing and turning, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the creaks and groans of the bed beneath her weight. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, her eyes wet for one minute and then unfocused as she disassociated for hours on end, hardly blinking at the wall. The prison cell somehow reminded her of what she thought might be Order headquarters. She couldn't quite remember the room she had stayed in. Still, the wailing sobs echoing down the hallway immediately gave her a sense of nostalgia that was undeniably related to a memory that had been taken from her.

Suddenly, the sound of metal rapping on bars jolted her upright. Amora realised that she must have fallen asleep for a moment or two, although she couldn't recall the peacefulness of finding sleep, which frustrated her to a new level. She felt exhausted as she sat up, pushing her mop of hair out of her face, furrowing her brows at a man who stood outside in dark robes.

"Amora Buckley." He huffed, "You're the talk of the town. The Daily Prophet is dying to know what you are doing here."

"I'd love to know what I'm doing in this cell, too," Amora replied as fiercely as she could. She hoped her voice did not waver and give her away. "After all, I thought I was trying to prove my allegiance to the Dark Lord's cause— not handing myself over as a prisoner."

"The Warden does not take lightly to people who talk out of place, Miss Buckley," the man warned her in a growl. "I suggest if you would like to keep your place in the line, then keep your mouth shut and just nod."

Amora furrowed her brows. "My place in line?"

He scoffed a laugh. "You are eighty-three in the queue of people trying to prove yourself worthy. The Inquisitor of Allegiance is very clever, but he cannot make miracles happen. Currently, cases last anywhere between a day and three days. So if you are fortunate, you will be here for eighty-three days. If you are unlucky, you might be here for..." he thought for two seconds, "About two-hundred-and-fifty days. Which is how many months? I'll let you figure that one out. You have enough time."

Amora's lips parted, her face dropping, her heart sinking. There was no way on this earth she was going to be stuck in this cell for nearly three months at a minimum. She quickly tried to do the maths in her head. Two-hundred-and-fifty divided by thirty. Her brain was too jumbled, she had too many other thoughts. She glanced at the bed. At the toilet. She felt the aches in her back and her neck already. How cold this place was.

"But– but I was told that the process was lengthy but comfortable—"

"Yes, for those who the Inquisitor believes. We do try to make those people as comfortable as possible. However, if the Inquisitor of Allegiance has reason to believe that you may have an ulterior motive, then you are sent here," He said and glanced down at the papers in his hands. "As it says here, 'Amora Buckley sent to Ministry Verification Centre at approximately 11:21 pm on the 4th of March 2002 due to suspicion of compromised integrity'."

Suspicion of compromised integrity.

"Because I was an Order member," Amora realised, "Does the fact that I was found guilty of defecting from the Order not mean anything?"

"The Inquisitor of Allegiance decides whether you are guilty or not," he replied, then he moved to the next cell and woke them up with the clanging of metal on metal.

Amora pursed her lips and moved back onto the bed. She curled herself into the corner of the walls, making herself as small as possible, cradling her legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes, her hair forming a protective curtain around herself. She felt weird not having her wand with her, and her magic side could practically feel the wards up. Even if she was good at wandless magic that wasn't a basic levitation spell, she had a feeling there was no way of getting out of this one.

Besides, she wasn't allowed to 'get out of this one.' Amora had nowhere to go, nobody to turn to. Too many people were relying on her now. She felt angry that relaying information to the Order would take so long. Two hundred and fifty days divided by thirty told her she may have up to eight months in this cell, waiting and waiting and waiting to be interrogated.

She was terrified that she might forget everything that she had been taught. If time didn't make her forget, perhaps the isolation and lack of enrichment would. This was most likely also a method of breaking them down. Amora attempted to mentally prepare herself for how hard this was bound to be. Occlumency might just be her best friend in here. If she could just mentally take herself somewhere else, then she would be able to survive the mental warfare.

Did Moody and Lupin know about the people who got sent away due to 'suspicion of compromised integrity?' Was that something that they had kept from her? Were they aware that it would take this long? Even after the eight months was up, she would have to find Draco Malfoy again and try and get information from him. Amora didn't know if any of this would even work. If this would all be worth it.

She took a deep breath and glanced up when a tray was shoved under the bars. Amora glared at the grey gruel sitting in a puddle and a piece of stale bread beside it. There was a metal cup of water and a wooden spoon. She crept over, sitting down beside it and pulling the tray onto her lap. She picked up the bread and knocked it three times against her tray. It echoed back. Amora poked at the puddle with her spoon and it spilt straight off, some of it going into her cup. She grimaced, holding it to her nose the best she could and sniffing. It was almost like porridge. Amora couldn't stomach it. Instead, she grabbed her water and gulped it down. Somehow, it managed to taste awful— like plastic and the metal of the cup containing it.

A sudden crashing sound made Amora flinch. Her tray fell off her lap, the porridge-like liquid spilling into the hallway beyond her bars. Her heart pounded, her ears pricking as she heard a woman begin to scream. She howled and sobbed in a way that Amora knew could only be down to magic. She stood up, wrapping her hands around the bars, pressing her face to it, desperately pushing as if she would be able to stick her head out of it.

"Please!" The woman begged through sobs. "I am not a blood traitor! I do not sympathise with those Mudbloods! I would never!"

Amora could hardly make out a man's voice over the lady's noises. She knew he must have cursed her again because her screams grew even louder. They were so shrill that Amora moved back to her bed, horrified, nearly plugging her ears with her fingers. She wrung her hands anxiously and closed her eyes.

What had she gotten herself into? 

...

hello everybody! i hope you enjoyed this chapter! i really enjoyed writing it. i promise you are getting closer and closer to draco again. the slowburn is going to be worth it!!! 

thanks so much for reading <333

dyiansobrien 

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