LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER SEVEN

Amora's body felt as though it weighed a tonne. Her neck and her back hurt, but it was merely a dull ache compared to the stabbing in her chest and the swirling pools in her stomach. They threatened to rise up and up, out of her mouth. She kept her lips pursed and squeezed her eyes shut. It might have been hours she had been in the container, but it could have also been minutes. It felt like years.

It was humiliating to admit to herself that, despite being sent on such a high-stakes mission, Amora was too scared to open the door and discover the aftermath of the suicide bombing. She had seen dozens of dead bodies— perhaps more than a hundred over the last five years— and her imagination conjured up the worst possible ones, replacing their faces with the girls outside.

Amora squeezed herself into the tiniest corner of the small container. Perhaps she could have fit one more person in with her. Maybe if one of them had sat on the other's lap and rested their head on the other's shoulder. They could have made something work. She ran her hands through her hair and pulled, whimpering.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kathy.

Amora swallowed thickly and attempted to Occlude. Her barriers failed to build, crumbling as fast as she tried to place the bricks. It was no use. She was too emotional— too on edge. Her brain was scattered. It was as if her body wanted her to feel this. It felt as though this may be the punishment for not saving everybody else.

Her hand was placed against the metal lock, and she feebly pushed it open. It was caught against something. For a split second, she nearly screamed and gave the door a hard shove— physically deflating when it pushed whatever had been blocking it out of the way. She screwed her eyes shut when she felt the cold draft waft in, leaving goosebumps over her skin and whipping behind her sweaty neck. Amora counted to three in her head and crawled out of the tight space.

Sunlight forced her eyes to squint. It was her first time seeing natural light in nearly three months. It streamed through the caved-in roof, wooden beams and plasterboards dangling from the parts that weren't covering the floors, ready to fall any second. Debris covered every surface, the desks filled with potions and magical ingredients gone as if they had never been there in the first place.

Amora shivered in the cold, her arms wrapping around her body in a tight hug, nails digging into her flesh and leaving behind bloody crescent moons. She dug harder. Her eyes drifted around, terrified of seeing one of the girls, and yet almost hoping she would. She wasn't sure there would be anything left of their bodies, even if she could see them below the piles of ash and remnants of the factory. The walls had caved, creating a huge open space and she could see into rooms they were not allowed in. There was nothing left of those either.

"Hello?" Amora called, her voice catching and shaking. "Is anybody there?"

She was met with birds squawking nearby. She glanced back up at the hole in the roof, shielding her eyes with a hand, and saw crows sitting above, looking down at her. Amora listened out, swallowed by the silence that followed. Nobody called back to her. Not a single voice or human movement could be heard.

Amora pushed through the debris, standing on a board of wood, and wading through the bricks, until she made it to the gap in the wall. Her hands held on, immediately coated in red brick dust. She swallowed as she took her first step onto the grass outside. It was long, the frost of each blade tickling at her ankles.

The air was crisp. It bit at her cheeks, watered her eyes, and froze the tips of her fingers. Still, she found herself with her knees on the frosty ground, her hands covering her mouth, her head ducking again as she tried not to scream. All she wanted to do was to cry. Her throat hurt too badly from doing it before.

There were popping noises behind her, that familiar magical sound of Apparation, and Amora turned, almost numb to the erratic pounding in her chest. Her shaky hands steadied on her knees, and her eyes, tired from sobbing, widened at who she saw.

"Minister Malfoy— a survivor."

Among five Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy turned his head over his shoulder. His features were as sharp and pointed as the Daily Prophet captured them, his long ice hair neatly behind his back, a deep contrast to the black robes over his body. He held his cane in one hand, a hot drink in the other— as if he was merely stopping by. As if dozens of people had not just been brutally murdered.

His beady eyes burned into her, his entire face narrowing, and he stormed forward, stomping until he abruptly stopped directly in front of her. Amora was forced to crane her neck and look up at him.

"Former Order member Amora Buckley... lone survivor of a mass killing at the only Cauldronworks which supplies potions for the front line," Minister Malfoy stated as if reading a headline. "Doesn't sound too good, does it?"

Amora opened her mouth. Only stammers came out. She willed her hands to stop shaking.

"I didn't—" Amora cleared her throat. It was hoarse and painful. "I didn't do anything."

"Then perhaps you could explain to me, Miss Buckley, why everybody is dead aside from you?" Minister Malfoy scrunched his nose at her. "You only arrived here a few weeks ago, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Amora said, "But I... It wasn't me. It was a rebel. It was– it was Deadman's Draught."

"An Order member?"

"No!" Amora exclaimed, but then she thought for a moment. How could she possibly know if the woman had been an Order member when she had forgotten so many things without realising it?

She furrowed her brows. "I don't think she was, anyway. I don't- I can't remember. I just remember the Order was strictly against Deadman's. I remember the rebel attacks a few years ago. Laverna— was her first name. It doesn't ring a bell. I don't– She didn't recognise me. Or she didn't say anything. Unless she was Obliviated, too– I can't—" Embarrassingly, Amora felt her eyes grow hot with tears. "I don't remember."

Minister Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Right. Dolohov, Rowle— take this one to the infirmary. Interview her whilst she's being checked over."

"But, Minister, do you not think the girl could lie?" Dolohov offered timidly, edging forwards with a grimace, his eyes darting between Minister Malfoy and Amora.

"Look at her," Minister Malfoy scoffed, "Her eyes are so swollen from crying that you'd think a potion exploded in her face. Besides, Buckley here is correct— Deadman's Draught is not the Order's style. Have somebody at the BMA grab Laverna Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is's records and look into whichever rebellion group she may have come from."

"The Daily Prophet is going to arrive in a few minutes, Minister," Another Death Eater said, "Do you want the girl in the photos?"

"Hmm..."

"Minister," a man pushed his glasses further up his nose from beside him. "For now, I advise you to keep the girl's survival out of public knowledge. A media outcry about the Bureau of Magical Allegiance not being able to do its only job of keeping out rebels and traitors may cause you to receive some backlash. So early on in your run as Minister may prevent you from being reelected. If the rebel is dead, we can put all of the blame on her— and we no longer have a problem. I advise we focus on rebuilding our warehouses and asking everybody and anybody to contribute to the war effort from their homes. Allow them to perhaps ship their potions to the Ministry to aid the war. It makes it far easier for the public to digest, and suggests a positive action plan."

Minister Malfoy stood there for a moment, eyes narrowed as he nodded. "Yes. Yes, I quite agree. Excellent idea. Take the girl away now, Dolohov."

Amora watched as the man, who appeared to be an advisor of some sort, took Minister Malfoy's hot drink and handed it to somebody else. He began to smooth down the elder Malfoy's robes, ensuring he looked perfect for the camera due to turn up at any minute.

A hand under each of her arms painfully yanked her from the icy floor. Amora's gaze burned into the collapsing building, her bottom lip trembling as she thought about Kathy. She would be just another name among the dozens killed in the suicide attack– if they even bothered to print the name of everybody murdered. Events like this often brushed 'useless' victims under the rug and created anti-Order propaganda, whether it had been them or not.

The Apparation left Amora nearly sick as she crumpled to a reception room floor. Her hands and knees were cold against it, her stomach churning, her head spinning. Apparation weakened her further, moulding her into a rag doll that the Death Eaters hoisted back up, paying no attention to the sweat covering her greying skin.

"Minister Malfoy has personally requested she be checked over immediately," Dolohov said to the receptionist— a woman in her forties— whose eyes widened at Amora. She nodded quickly, standing up and coming around the other side of the desk.

Her hand delicately touched Amora's shoulder, and she pressed the back of her hand to Amora's forehead. Her frown of concern filled Amora with the same feeling she had when she would have dreams about her mother coming back. The idea of a mother taking care of her and looking after her. The suggestion of having her childhood back— if only for a moment.

"Oh, darling, you're burning up," the receptionist muttered, "You two can sit outside here, I will show her to a doctor."

"We are not letting this one out of our sight," Rowle growled, his grip on her shoulder nearly making her wince. "Former Order member– this one. Not to be one hundred percent trusted."

"The BMA trusted her," the lady said pointedly, raising a sharp eyebrow at him.

"We are to interview Buckley on what happened to her," Dolohov spat, and there was a finality to his tone that had the receptionist shrinking back. "Must I inform Lestrange one his wives is talking back to Death Eaters? You are lucky he has allowed you to keep your job."

Mrs Lestrange— though from the look on her face, Amora felt wrong mentally referring to her as this— grimaced, shaking her head. She sighed heavily and straightened herself, smoothing her dark robes. Her crimson lips pursed together.

"Room two."

"That's all we needed," Rowle grumbled and Amora was shoved towards a narrow corridor filled with dozens of doors.

Dolohov forced open the door. Amora nearly tripped over her own two feet, glancing nervously around the doctor's room. The doctor himself sat at his desk, sipping on a hot drink.

"She survived Deadman's Draught," Dolohov said, "Minister Malfoy wishes for her to be looked over. You are sworn to secrecy, yes?"

"I took a vow," the doctor nodded, placing his mug on the counter and heading over to her with an unsure expression on his face.

"Good. We are going to ask her a few questions," Dolohov drawled, sitting back on one of the chairs.

"Her name?" The doctor asked.

"My name is Amora Buckley," she replied, accepting his hand as he helped her to sit on the bed. "I'm twenty-one. Pureblood."

The doctor remained silent as he started to cast spells over her that would check her vitals. His wand released a shimmering translucent colour that seemed to absorb into her skin, runes appearing in the air that Amora could not quite decipher. The doctor seemed to be taking a mental note of them.

When Dolohov asked, Amora told him the entire story, though she left the part out where she intended to steal a healing potion for Kathy. Her voice shook, her hands trembling. She wasn't sure how long it had been since the explosions. When Rowle told her it was two hours ago, Amora was moved to silence for a while. It felt like both days and minutes ago. She could not believe Kathy had been dead for less than two hours. That felt like an eternity already.

"There is nothing wrong with her," the doctor announced, "She's suffering no effects from the Deadman's Draught. Hiding in a dragonsteel container was very clever. Her heart rate and blood pressure are quite high. I put that down to stress and trauma."

"Thank you, doctor," Dolohov said, "Rowle, go and send a patronus to the Bureau of Magical Allegiance. Let them know we have a Pureblood lady in need of a place to stay."

Amora's blood turned to ice. Cold hands gripped her and shook her awake. She realised very quickly that Kathy's death had taken up so much of her thoughts, that she did not properly consider what might happen to her next. Amora had been mostly convinced that she would be accused of leading the attack.

She was faintly aware that Rowle had left the room and Dolohov was talking to the doctor about her, but everything sounded underwater. Amora struggled to swim to the surface. Weights tugged at her ankles and water started entering her lungs.

"Hey," Dolohov snapped his fingers in front of her face, so furious-looking that it couldn't have been the first time he'd attempted to get her attention. "Fucking breathe. The doctor said you are fine."

Amora's hand rested on her chest above her heart. She swore she could feel it protruding past her ribcage. She tried to listen to Dolohov. Nothing was wrong with her— this was a part of her mission. If she was outside of the factory, she would be able to gather intel for the Order.

The Order. Her friends. For Lupin and Moody and—

And who else?

Amora's hand was on her throat in an instant, soothing the lump there, her eyes stinging with tears. The panic was beginning to externalise itself– she knew she would start crying if she did not find a way to mediate the feelings swirling in her chest and her stomach.

Pansy! That's her name. Pansy. Pansy. Pansy. My best friend in the entire world. Pansy Par— Pansy. Pansy Parker... No, Pansy Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson with the dark hair and the pale skin. She's equally as terrifying as she is amazing. Pansy.

Something was wrong with her memories. It was the same feeling as trying to remember the names of people you had not seen since you were a child. Where their name is on the tip of your tongue, or you can see a name but cannot put the face to it. She had never forgotten for so long before. It was never Pansy she forgot.

"Buckley!" Dolohov smacked her across the face.

Amora cried, holding a hand to her stinging cheek, wincing as the tears finally trickled down. The doctor did not bat an eye as she crumpled off of her seat and onto the floor. Rowle stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, lip curled.

"Calm the fuck down," Dolohov hissed in her face. "You have nothing to worry about. You've already been snatched up."

Amora's nose scrunched, her hand trembling as she wiped her tears, attempting to put on a brave face. "Snatched up?" She repeated.

Dolohov chuckled. "You must be special, Buckley. You are wanted by the High Commander."

D.M + A.B

Amora was all too aware of how dystopian the entire ordeal was. She was taken to the Refinement Ward at the Ministry of Magic, where a couple of younger witches worked on scrubbing her up for the High Commander. Not once did they look her in the eye as they washed her hair or cleansed her face. They did not have to ask her dress size before they were helping her into a dark green dress, modest and yet somehow flattering, bell sleeves thankfully comfortable.

She glanced at herself in a mirror and realised that they were attempting to make her look as magical as possible. Amora had never felt more like her mother, who often wore traditional witches' clothing, as she did now. Her dark hair tumbled down to near-enough her waist, shining and slightly wavy, and they had even charmed her cheeks to look slightly rosy.

"Do you know the High Commander's real name?" Amora asked the girl working on Amora's nails quietly when Rowle left the room for a bathroom break.

The girl did not look up at her.

"I won't say anything," Amora whispered, "I'm just... nervous. I'd like to be prepared. Is he old?"

The girl's gaze flickered up at her and then immediately back down to the nails. Each expert stroke of the small brush painted Amora's nails the darkest shade of black.

"Is he horrible?" Amora whispered, "I mean, I assume he is considering the High Commander is in charge of the army. His attacks on the Order and..." she panicked for a moment, "Were well-thought-out and necessary, don't get me wrong, and must have come from a place of careful consideration, but could be very... bloody. Does he have other wives? Do you know?"

The girl gave Amora a frustrated look and jabbed her finger at her lips. Only then, as Amora studied the girl's face carefully, did she see the gold shimmers at the corners of the girl's mouth. Amora peered closer, her dark eyes widening, her face contorting into an expression of horror.

They were magical stitches.

"Oh Merlin," Amora whispered, her heart sinking in her chest. "I am so sorry."

"Don't be," the older girl scoffed, lifting a piece of dark mesh in her hands, and examining it through the light pouring into the large window. She started to adjust it on the mannequin wearing another dress Amora would be given. "It's her own doing."

Amora's eyes flickered to the girl. She was frowning now, her brows furrowed to form a 'v', her hands trembling when she adjusted them over Amora's. Still, her application was flawless. She had recovered quickly.

"What did she do?" Amora murmured.

"She broke the rules," she replied bitterly, stabbing a pin through the mesh, connecting it to the top of the dress's corset. "One must not speak ill of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord is the reason we have freedom of speech. He may take it away from us just as easily, should we not be grateful for it."

Amora swallowed. "I see."

"In His Shadow, We Rise."

She looked at Amora expectantly, her face contorting when, for a split second, the brunette girl was dumbfounded.

"In His Shadow, We Rise," she repeated, and hoped that was the right thing to do.

When the girl nodded and proceeded with her work, Amora felt herself relax slightly. Her heart tugged at the silent tears strolling down the other girl's cheeks.

D.M + A.B

The manor Dolohov and Rowle brought Amora to was as large as it was grand. Dozens of large windows with dark accents glowed back at her from the long driveway, the dark weather nearly making it seem warm and inviting. Amora wasn't sure if it was four storeys high, or if she was going to walk into ceilings as tall as the ones at Hogwarts. It was gloomy and proud.

Whoever lived there had generational wealth. Most likely a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Amora thought of all of the old men who were a part of it. Their slimy hands were adorned with signet rings, ready to grope whatever they deemed theirs. If Amora had learned anything, she knew that when men were this rich, they believed everything belonged to them.

It would be a lie to say she was not feeling anxious. Nevertheless, her back was straight, her chin high, her chest out. She pretended she had a friend or a sister beside her– one that would tell her to remain calm and to not show whatever man living inside that manor an ounce of fear. Amora wished she did not have to do this alone.

Just like the gates down the stretch of driveway, the main doors opened by themselves, slowly and almost eerily. Amora did not breathe as a foyer was revealed, dimly lit with lanterns and oil lamps, clean and grand. She wandered in and could not help but crane her neck upwards, admiring the huge chandelier hanging directly above her.

"This is you," Dolohov said.

Amora turned back to face them, almost anxious for them to leave despite their cruel nature and obvious dislike to her, because that would only mean somebody new would attempt to bully her into her place. However, they did not wait for her to say anything and within seconds they had Apparated out of the house. Only then did the front doors slowly slide shut, stopping the draft coming in.

Amora hugged her arms and looked around the foyer for more clues. There was not an ounce of personality anywhere. No flowers, no details on the rug below her, no photos, tapestries, portraits, crests.

There were no feminine touches. Amora wondered if that meant the High Commander did not have another wife. The bartender's wife had told her that it would be easier if they did. She supposed it meant less attention would be on her. Amora wondered if the High Commander had this entire house to himself or if he lived with anybody else. Not even a house elf had approached her yet.

Amora stood for about a minute before she wandered into the room directly next to the foyer. It was not separated by a door but a large archway. A fire crackled inside. It was a living room of sorts, though Amora's eyes immediately caught the bookshelf on the wall right beside her. Her gaze flickered over the titles– all non-fiction much to her dismay– but her fingers traced the spines anyway. Not an inch of dust on any of them.

She delicately pulled one out, admiring the familiar weight in her hands, opening it and lifting her nose to it, inhaling the familiar scent of books. It felt as though she were in the library at Hogwarts, or in her dorm room, reading until the sun came up, passing out and dribbling into the pages.

Her heart stopped when she heard quiet footsteps approaching from behind. She was quick to place the book back in its rightful place but wasn't quite stealthy enough. It missed its spot, clattering to the floor with an echoing bang. Amora winced, scrambling to grab it.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Amora froze at the figure standing in the archway. He was tall, looming over her, cloaked in dark robes. The fireplace lit up his pale, pointed features, not enough to warm the white hair on his head. Silver burned into gold for the first time in five years.

His voice hit her like a hex. She nearly choked.

"How predictable, Buckley," Draco Malfoy said, his long fingers dancing across the frame of the archway he stood inside. "Already with your head in a book."

Amora's lips parted, but nothing came out. How could he look the same and yet so different? His voice was deeper— no, darker. His chest was broad, his hands massive. His face had lost any youthfulness it once had, his hair slick back with far less oil than he'd used as a young boy. Some fell in front of his face.

Draco reached down and grabbed the book off of the ground. He flipped it over to read the cover, raising an eyebrow at her before he put it back in its rightful place.

"I thought you didn't like Ancient Runes," Draco hummed.

Amora swallowed. She wasn't sure if she was slightly relieved to see him or furious. Five years had gone by and her grudge against him had hardly diminished. Yet here he stood, talking to her as if the last time she had seen him, he hadn't been crying when she had caught him in the act of letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts at the age of seventeen. As if he hadn't completely betrayed her or stood in the background of the Daily Prophet's coverage of her mother's brutal death or lied about —

"You're quiet. That's new," Draco said, his tone mocking. "Cat got your tongue, Buckley?"

The urge to swing for his jaw was undeniable. Her fists clenched, her nails digging in and temporarily bringing her back down to earth. She imagined staining his pale nose with crimson blood, or kicking him so hard in the crotch that he was a gasping and sobbing mess. Then she would ask him if he could have predicted that.

"What a surprise," Amora replied drily, "It's been a while."

Draco nodded. "Hm. It has. When I heard you'd defected, I hardly believed my ears. When I heard you'd gotten yourself blown up, I thought that sounded more like it— clumsy Buckley and all of that— and yet here you stand in my home— very much alive."

Amora shrugged, her glare burning daggers into him. "I'm not sixteen anymore. I wouldn't consider myself clumsy."

Draco scoffed. "Oh. Were you merely practising your juggling skills with my books, then?"

The dark-haired woman felt her skin grow hot. Her lip curled. She thought her nails may be drawing blood in her palms. All she wanted was to wipe the cocky smirk of his face. She stepped back when Draco moved forward, his face turning cold, features dark.

"I don't know what you think you are doing here, Buckley, but this is not your world," Draco hissed, "You do not belong here. I do not doubt that the uncontainable sense of heroism you have was fueled by volunteering to do some spy work for the Order, but the game is over. Apparate back now and I will have it seem you were killed in that explosion."

Amora tried to hide the slight surprise she felt. She wanted to accept his escape offer so badly. However, she had a duty. She had not come this far to back out now.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Malfoy," Amora replied darkly, "If you doubt my loyalty, send me back for the BMA to interrogate me again. I am sure once I am proven loyal a second time, a different man will host me in his home quite happily."

Draco's jaw clenched. He huffed out a breath from his nose. His large hand moved upwards as if to run through his hair, but he stopped himself at the last second.

"Get yourself familiar with the house, then," Draco replied, "Your room is the first door at the top of the stairs. If I catch you snooping through my belongings, I will not hesitate to put you in your place, Buckley. I do not take lightly to traitors."

Amora nearly both laughed and screamed at the irony. He was the traitor.

He stormed from the room, robes billowing behind him, a trail of his cologne filling her nose. Only when she heard the echo of a door slamming a few seconds later did she kick the armchair beside her as hard as she possibly could. And then, she collapsed into it, her hand on her pounding heart.

Amora had found herself in the snake's nest. Just where the Order wanted her. 

...

he's baaccckk!!!

I'm so excited to write draco again!!!! 

thanks so much for reading everybody, I hope you enjoyed it!!!

dyiansobrien

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