To Chrysanthemum Potter, the first few words say, and I have never hated my name more.

"You don't have to do this," Hannah says simply.

A dark, smoky eyeliner surrounds gold-flecked, brown eyes. With dark red lipstick gifted by myself last spring, heat-curled ringlets, and a sparkling, fitted silver dress, she looks beautiful. I admire my handiwork: the sparkling eyeshadow, the dangling earrings she borrowed from me, and powder blush I spread on her face.

"You can burn the letter," she continues.

My ring-adorned hand twitches in temptation. "I might. I should."

"Do you want to?" she asks, and I frown. "It's alright if you do, Anne."

Immediately, my lips tug into a frown. "Is she —?"

"Fine," Hannah inputs, her golden gaze softening at the slightest. "Neville and I went to visit last week. They invited us to their wedding, too, even if it's in two years. Organized gits."

"Congratulations," I mutter bitterly, still hopelessly spiteful at twenty-two.

She looks away. "Anne."

"You can go." At her unconvinced look, I continue. "Just because I have issues with Astoria, doesn't mean you should have them."

"We're friends," Hannah starts. "So Neville and I already told her no."

"That's —" I shut down the irrational happiness surging through me. "You didn't have to."

Hannah blinks. "She's marrying Draco Malfoy, Anne."

"I know." I glance at the letter, at the "You've been invited to the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy", because who does Draco even think he is for inviting me? "And I'll — I'll go. Tell them you're going, too."

"Anne," Hannah starts,

"No. She's your friend, too." I rub what was once my bruised wrists. "He gave her comfort and happiness, and now they're happy. I can be happy for a friend."

"I —" She sighs. "Alright."

"I want to see her again, too," I admit, "considering I haven't spoken to her in three years."

"Reasonably," she points out. "That's when they started spending time together."

I laugh, albeit a little coldly. "He had to go for my friend."

"He's a dick," Hannah says immediately. "We all hate him."

"Yeah," I say, tugging a strand of my hair. "We all do."

. . .

Draco Malfoy, frankly, is a lucky bastard.

Because unlike him, my money is dwindling. The Potter fortune is split between Harry and I, and soon it vanishes to nothing. I know my brother is funded by the ministry and would be paid for breathing, but I don't have the same liberties as him.

The needless vases and decorations go first. Susan and I host a yard sale, claiming that we're being generous, and use the cash to pay rent.

Then the only thing we can eat is mediocre bread and frozen pizza. All the appliances that I'm used to seeing — having grown up with a Muggle-supporting guardian — were sold for cash, so all we use are our wands.

We can barely invite people anymore, with the fear of Susan being laid off. I apply to jobs everywhere, and the only one I get into is one that asks to pay me both below minimum wage and under the table.

And then I get a letter from the Ministry, and it all falls apart.

"You don't have to do this," Susan tells me. Kissing the top of my head, my fiancée wraps her hands around my shaking frame, and that alone calms me. "You can deny it."

A new letter is in my hand, far more foreboding than a wedding invitation.

I clear my throat. "I should do it."

She makes a noise in her throat. "They gave you a choice. You can say no."

"We need the money," I counter, my own hands tangling themselves in her curls. It's only been a few weeks since Astoria and Draco sent the invitation, and now, this? "Darling, we're running thin, trying to feed everyone. Neville and Hannah need us too."

"They'll find jobs again," Susan practically pleads, breaking the hog to press a hard kiss to my lips. Her eyes bleed with sadness, and I so badly wish to close the wound. "Just don't go and risk your heart."

We want you to help round up the remaining Death Eaters, it said, to extract with any means necessary information that could benefit all of the Wizarding kind.

"I need to," I murmur, before pecking her lips with a sad smile. "Everyone we know got laid off, including ourselves. This is an opportunity."

"This will turn you mad," Susan warns.

"I know." A sigh escapes my throat. "So be it."

"Anne," Susan whispers. "I've seen it. Witnessing violence and committing it with no proper training will only harm you."

"It'll put food on the table," I insist.

But she's right.

I find one Death Eater, three weeks into the job, which requires me spending sometimes days away from my love. He yells, loud, about how he will raise the Dark Lord from the dead. And so I incapacitate him, drag him to Headquarters, and hear his screams coming from the interrogation room.

A part of me wishes to close my ears, but I bare it, replacing his face with Evan Rosier, and peace enters my mind.

My nights are filled with hazy scenarios about what could've happened in that room. And the Death Eater is wearing Draco's face: pale, brainwashed, and sneering. Blood leaks from a cut on his face, wands pointed, knives turned, and I wake up, panting.

He's fine, unfortunately safe with Astoria.

My wrists are no longer purple. I have nothing to fear.

Until I do, when I'm promoted.

And then it's me doing the torturing, keeping a neutral face until I break down in the custodian's closet. Thumbscrews, curses, and bloodied hands until one of them reveals information.

"Please," they'd beg, I'd look at my boss, he'd shake his head, and I'd continue.

Sometimes, I'm the one delivering the killing blow, and I watch their relieved faces slump onto the desk. My boss gives me a nod — out of respect or admiration, I don't know — before exiting the room. And I slump onto the floor and sob, before I smell death and rush out.

I keep my bile in my throat until I'm in the bathroom.

Because I am killing, I am harming, and it is all for my own survival. I tell myself that their screams put food on the table, that one day Susan will find a job and I can leave this place.

"You did wonderfully, Anne," my boss says one night, and I choke back a sob. "A bit messy with the blood, but the custodial service will take care of it."

I nod, accept the praise, and spend fifteen minutes silently sobbing when he leaves me alone.

Because I can hear the voices now, the "Help!" and the "I'd rather die" and the "Monster!" that circles in my head.

They're bad people, I tell myself, until it's a brainwashed sixteen-year-old with a reckless attitude that I refuse to look at.

He gives away nothing. I refuse to eat dinner that night, when all I can think about is his lifeless eyes.

And sometimes, they'd try to break free, and I'd return home with bruises, cuts, and once, even a half-healed stab wound that Susan almost fainted at.

Susan tries to touch me, to reassure me, but I see her face in theirs, and I can't kiss her without tasting the blood in my teeth, without my hands thinking that I need to kill kill kill, that everyone besides me is an enemy. She attempts to heal my wounds and wrap gauze around my bandages, but every day at work has the stitches ripped out and new wounds forming.

My gashes become too much for her, because one night, she gives me an ultimatum. Eyes trained at the wall behind me, she asks me to either keep the job or keep her.

"We need the money," I plead. "You got laid off last week. This is the only steady flow. We used Mum and Dad's fortune when we both had nothing — but now we —"

"Find something else!" she practically snarls, losing all her logic. "Anne, I can tell this is hurting you! You're not the same anymore!"

"I'll be better," I try to tell her, but she doesn't listen.

The next day, her items are gone and I'm alone. The house is empty without her laughter, her smile, her kisses, her touch. But I also feel my skin crawling at the thought of someone putting their hands on me, trying to heal (hurt) me.

Her lack of presence is aching, but I know I don't deserve it. I am monstrous, willing to hurt and steal and do anything if it means that she can live happily. Even if the blood won't leave my mind and even if every piece of food I eat is ending back in the toilet.

I try to tell myself that I'm not reverting back to my old self, when I really am turning into her. The pathetic girl who refused any help when all she wanted was for someone to hold her, brush the hair off her face, and tell her that she's worth it.

Only now, I believe I'm not, and the people around me don't, either.

"Welcome back," my boss tells me, two days after Susan leaves. The world keeps on moving, and so does he, a perfectly neutral tone with a fast-paced walk, passing a row of large windows. "Another beautiful day."

I look to the sun and see blood. "Indeed."

"Ready?" he asks, and when he receives no response, he continues to speak as if I don't matter. "Well, I am sure you are. For the past two days, you've been extremely diligent. Family issues?"

"Fiancée," I clarify, opening the door with a sigh. "Well, ex-fiancée."

"Hmm," he mutters. "I've always found engagements to be useless. You can be happy without the companionships of humanity."

"Fair," I say lightly, spotting a Death Eater with a head hanging low, staring at the interrogation table, sipping water. "You can be happy with it, too."

"Agree to disagree," he offers. "You have a job to do."

I nod, taking a seat in front of the blond Death Eater. "Greetings."

He lifts his head up, and I stifle a gasp. "Hello, Chrys."

"Since when were you brought in?" I ask neutrally, ignoring that I'm interrogating one of the most powerful men in the Ministry, thanks to his father's many connections. "I thought you ran a Muggle-born charity."

"They found dark objects in the library," Draco says sullenly, "and no matter how much we protested, I was brought here."

"Brilliant," I drawl, "and whose objects were these?"

He flinches. "I have no idea."

I narrow my eyes. Veritaserum may require the drinker to tell the truth, but the potion I spiked his water with is not that; rather, a slight discoloration appears at the collarbone.

"Mr. Malfoy, your father is in Azkaban for being a Death Eater." At his flinch, I let myself smile. "Your mother is currently enrolled in a six-year community service program for affiliating with Voldemort. You have nothing to lose."

"I have everything to lose," he counters, but when I say nothing, he sighs. "They are my father's. You have people to confirm it."

I turn to my boss, giving him a meaningful look. "Do I?"

"You do," Draco confirms. "They're not mine."

"He's not lying," my boss says, despite the fact that I'm aware. "You're done for the morning, Anne. Head out to lunch and be on stand-by."

"Thank you, sir." I stand up, before facing Draco. "Congratulations, by the way. Hurt her, and I'll be happy to interrogate you again with more ... violent methods."

"You do that often, then?" he asks casually.

"Help!" the Death Eater screamed last night, and I know that on my deathbed, I'll be dragged down to hell with the hands I murdered.

I flinch. "You are a prisoner of the Ministry until you are cleared. I am asking the questions, and you are required to answer truthfully."

"So, that's a yes," he drawls.

I force myself to stare at him. "And if I do? It's far worse for you, then."

Victorious at his flinch, I leave the room, hair flowing behind me. Despite my cool exterior, my hands continue to shake, my face then convulses into a look of disgust, and I find myself crying alone in my home.

After all, what do I have left, besides the shadow of who I used to be? It's not like I enjoy her company, anyway.

notes / i promise there is a part two + that anne and susan aren't apart forever, I SWEAR!