Alphard Black was absolutely, positively livid.

And yet, as he strode through the Ministry’s dreary corridors, looking like a hurricane in a perfectly tailored suit, he couldn’t help but smirk. How typical of him.

The Ministry of Magic was as dull and lifeless as Alphard Black remembered—more mausoleum than institution. He adjusted his emerald silk scarf, his expression one of barely concealed irritation, as he swept through the atrium like a storm cloud dressed in couture. It wasn’t just the suffocating bureaucracy or the perpetual gloom of the place that grated on his nerves; it was the fact that he was here at all.

This wasn’t how his week was supposed to go. He’d been frolicking—yes, frolicking—through the lavender-drenched countryside of France, charming the pants off anyone lucky enough to meet his eyes, with the wind in his hair and his beloved motorcycle purring beneath him. There were vineyards to visit, cobblestone streets to conquer, and beautiful women who practically swooned at his feet. France, as always, had been a delight.

And yet here he was, dragged back to Britain to deal with yet another exhibit in the museum of Brutus Weasley’s idiocy.

Alphard’s jaw tightened as he stepped onto the lift, the golden gates clanging shut behind him. Level Two. Magical Law Enforcement. The lift jerked upward, the mechanical groan a perfect metaphor for the Ministry itself: outdated, clunky, and wholly unnecessary in Alphard’s opinion.

The cause of his current frustration? Brutus Weasley—poster child for the terminally brainless. The boy’s lack of intelligence was almost a public service, a living warning to others about what happens when you attempt life without common sense. A year ago, Lord Malfoy had been abundantly clear: one more incident, and a blood feud would be the least of Brutus’s worries. But apparently, threats of annihilation had all the impact of a chocolate teapot on Brutus.

“Attempted assault against Lyra Malfoy,” Alphard muttered to himself, the words dripping with venomous incredulity. Lyra Malfoy! The girl wasn’t just the heir to one of the most powerful families in the wizarding world; she was also under the protection of House Slytherin and, apparently, House Peverell now too. Attempting to harm her was like sauntering into a dragon’s lair, covered in steak, and politely asking to be eaten.

The lift dinged, and Alphard stepped out into the bustling chaos of Level Two. His boots clicked sharply against the polished stone floor as he made his way toward the courtroom, his presence cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

His stride faltered, just for a moment, as a sharp crack echoed through the bustling Ministry courtyard—a noise that cut through the usual murmur of hushed conversations and clicking heels. A slap. A loud, unforgiving slap.

He turned instinctively, eyes narrowing, and what he saw made him pause, his gaze sharpening like a wolf spotting its prey.

Lady Peverell. There was no mistaking her, not with the unmistakable brooch pinned to her heart—the sigil of her house gleaming in silver against the dark fabric of her robes. The colors of House Peverell, a shade of midnight so deep it almost looked black, clung to her like an extension of her sharp, unyielding persona. She stalked away from the scene, fury emanating from her every movement, her back straight and her steps like the sound of thunder in a storm. She was a storm, and the way her robes swirled around her legs made it seem like the winds of vengeance were following in her wake.

But it wasn’t the sight of Lady Peverell that had caught his attention. No. It was what—who—was left in her wake.

Lord Slytherin stood there, his face turned to the side, the faint red mark from the slap still visible beneath his sharp jawline. He hadn’t moved. His posture was immaculate, every inch the aristocrat he was born to be. But his eyes… those eyes, the only part of him that betrayed any emotion, were carefully masked, hiding the shock that was swimming just beneath the surface.

Alphard couldn’t help but be intrigued. Lord Slytherin. If anyone else had dared lay a hand on him in such a manner, they would have been reduced to little more than ashes and broken bones before they even had the chance to register their mistake. And yet here he stood, unmoving, almost eerily still—his silence louder than any words he could have spoken. It was a reaction so… out of character for him that Alphard couldn’t help but feel the faintest prick of curiosity.

This was a man who, had anyone else struck him, would have summoned serpents from the ground and strangled the life out of them without so much as blinking an eye. But now? Now he stood there, the mark of Lady Peverell’s slap still burning on his cheek, his body rigid with the shock of it, yet utterly restrained.

Interesting, Alphard thought, his lips curling into a wry, almost amused smile. Very interesting.

There were so many questions swimming in his head. What had caused Lord Slytherin, the epitome of control, the master of his emotions, to react this way? What could possibly have prompted a response like this, or rather, the lack of it?

And then there was Lady Peverell herself. She was a force of nature, one Alphard had been quietly admiring from a distance, but this? This was something else entirely. To slap Lord Slytherin—publicly, no less, with no apparent fear of the consequences—she was clearly someone who knew exactly what she was doing, or perhaps someone who simply did not care.

As Alphard continued to watch the scene unfold, his mind began to work, analyzing, calculating. Lord Slytherin’s shock, Lady Peverell’s anger, the strange, almost unspoken tension between them—it was a puzzle, and Alphard’s mind thrived on puzzles.

“Well,” he murmured to himself with a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement, “This just keeps getting more entertaining by the second.”

The pieces were falling into place, but Alphard couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was at play here—something far more complex than a simple spat between two highborn families. He’d need to watch this closely. His instincts told him that there was more to this than met the eye.

The whispers started almost immediately, what happened was nothing short of a scandal, chaos and he thrived in chaos more than anything. But it was no time for gossip, he had a job to do and an idiot punish,
Clerks and junior attorneys exchanged wide-eyed glances as Alphard passed, his perfectly tailored robes billowing behind him.

He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the courtroom and stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The Weasley legal team was already there, their nervous energy palpable. Alphard almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

What did you think, boy? Alphard thought, his lips curling into a smirk. That this would end with a slap on the wrist? That your last name would save you? How quaint. It was almost adorable, really. Like watching a particularly dimwitted puppy gnaw on a cursed bone.

Alphard took his seat, the very picture of calm. He set down his leather briefcase with a deliberate flourish, the sharp click of the brass clasp echoing in the silent room.

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as he surveyed the Weasley legal team with the kind of icy contempt that could freeze a phoenix mid-flight. They couldn’t meet his gaze. Of course they couldn’t. They’d already lost, and they knew it.

As the judge entered and called the court to order, Alphard allowed himself one last thought before the proceedings began:

This isn’t just a trial, Brutus. This is your funeral. And I? I am your very charming, very sarcastic undertaker.

Marvolo’s fury was a living, breathing thing as he strode into the courtroom, his presence like a thundercloud rolling through the hall. Brutus Weasley had crossed a line, and Marvolo’s wrath was personal. Lyra was precious to him—far more than he could ever admit. She was one of the very few people for whom he felt something beyond obligation, beyond calculation. To think that someone had dared to hurt her in such a vile way made his blood boil.

Yet, as his sharp gaze swept across the room, it wasn’t Brutus who held his attention. Instead, it was Lady Peverell.

She was seated at one of the long, polished tables, her focus entirely on the parchment in front of her. Though she wasn’t the lead attorney on the case, she had taken it upon herself to pore over every detail. Her sharp wit and thoroughness were a force to be reckoned with, and it was clear she intended to leave no stone unturned.

Her focus was magnetic, her calm determination something Marvolo found both infuriating and intriguing. He walked toward her, his strides long and purposeful, but stopped short when he noticed something else.

She was small. So small compared to him. At 5’2”, her frame seemed almost fragile, especially when juxtaposed with his towering 6’4”. And yet, there was nothing fragile about Alexandrina Favreau. There was a steel in her posture, an unwavering strength that defied her size.

He came to stand behind her, close enough that his shadow stretched over her, but she didn’t flinch. Her pen continued to glide across the parchment, her gaze intent. He leaned down slightly, his sharp eyes skimming the words she was reading.

Then he saw it.

"Maybe if she became mine once, she’d love me, and even if she didn't, she would have been destroyed, what choice would she have if not marrying me?"

A scoff escaped his lips before he could stop it. The audacity of Brutus Weasley was nothing short of laughable. Alexandrina didn’t look up immediately, but he noticed the subtle tightening of her jaw, the way her shoulders tensed as if she were bracing herself. Finally, she turned to him, her expression calm but her arched brow silently asking a question.

“It’s foolish, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low, dripping with disdain. “What people do in the name of love.”

She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. “Love does make you blind, but I assure you, this isn’t love. It’s entitlement.”

“Entitlement, perhaps,” Marvolo murmured, straightening. “But he acted in the name of love. It only reinforces what I’ve always said—love is nothing but a weakness.”

Her eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of challenge sparking in their depths. “Love is not a weakness, Mr. Marvolo. Real love is a strength. If anyone knows that, it’s me.”

“Strength?” he echoed, his tone mocking. “Love clouds judgment, makes people reckless. How could that ever be a strength?”

Alexandrina regarded him for a long moment, her gaze steady. Then, with quiet conviction, she said, “If love were a weakness, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite himself. “And who gave up their life in your love, my little miss?”

Her composure wavered, just for an instant. Her eyes glazed over, and her lips parted as if she might speak, but no words came. Instead, her expression softened, nostalgia washing over her features like a tide.

Marvolo’s curiosity sharpened. Her silence spoke volumes, and yet it wasn’t enough. A Strange possessiveness took over him, he needed to know—who was she thinking about? What was the source of that look in her eyes? She was his, meant to be his after all.

Without conscious thought, his magic responded to his unspoken need. The faintest tendrils of Legilimency extended from him, invisible and delicate, like a spider’s web weaving its way into her mind. It wasn’t a deliberate act; it was instinct, a force he couldn’t restrain.

For a moment, everything seemed to still. The distant hum of conversation in the courtroom faded, the sharp sound of a gavel striking wood muted in his ears. Alexandrina’s breathing slowed, and Marvolo felt the first, faint flickers of her thoughts brush against his.

His heart beat faster, the anticipation coiling tightly in his chest.

What would he find?

The slap landed with a sharp crack, echoing in the silent hall like a gunshot. Alexandrina’s voice was low, venomous, and unsteady in a way only she would notice.

“Trusting you,” she hissed literally, her eyes locking with Marvolo’s for a single, searing moment, “was the worst mistake of my life.”

As Alexandrina moved away from Marvolo, every step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground beneath her feet was conspiring to drag her back to him. She held her head high, her expression carved into the cold, unyielding lines of defiance. But beneath the surface—beneath the mask she wore so well—something was breaking.

No, not breaking. Breaking would be too simple, too clean. This was worse. This was a fracture spreading slowly, invisibly, like the first crack in a sheet of ice before it shatters completely.

She didn’t understand it. The slap had been satisfying—a sharp punctuation to her fury, a way to tell herself that she was still in control. But now, away from him, away from the moment, she could feel it: the quiet. The silence inside her that wasn’t calm, wasn’t peace. It was a void. Heavy and suffocating, it pulled at her, filled her lungs with questions she couldn’t answer.

Why had she trusted him? Even for a second? Why had she let herself be vulnerable in front of him, of all people? Him.

Marvolo Slytherin. The name itself was a warning, a curse, a whispered threat in the dark. He was a man whose very existence was a contradiction—smooth silk draped over steel, charm wrapped around a blade. She knew what he was, what he was capable of. He was a monster wearing a crown, and monsters didn’t change.

So why, then, had she let him in?

Her eyes stung—not from tears, she told herself, but from something else. Something she refused to name. She blinked rapidly, masking the glassiness in her gaze, knowing that even a single slip would betray her. No one could see. No one could know.

And yet, even as she walked, even as she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, her mind betrayed her, replaying the moment she’d let her guard down. That brief second when she’d let him see what no one else ever had.

Fred.

The name alone was enough to make her falter, her chest tightening painfully, her breath catching in her throat. Fred. The man who had loved her despite everything. The man who had died for her, during the Second Wizarding War, during the Battle of Hogwarts.

And now Marvolo had seen him.

She had tried so hard to keep him buried—Fred’s memory locked away in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart. But in that moment, when Marvolo had breached her defenses, he’d found the truth. He’d seen the guilt she carried, the wound she never let heal.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as if pain might somehow anchor her, pull her out of this swirling mess of thoughts. But it didn’t. The war had taught her better than this. It had taught her that trust was a weakness, a liability she couldn’t afford. It had taught her that vulnerability was a death sentence. And yet—

And yet she had looked into his eyes and forgotten all of it.

For just one moment, one fleeting, traitorous moment, she had let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was something more. Something human. And it had cost her.

Her heart raced, a wild, stuttering rhythm that echoed in her ears, drowning out the world around her. She felt cold—freezing, as if someone had plunged her into a bucket of ice. Her skin prickled, her chest heaving under the weight of emotions she couldn’t name, couldn’t control.

Her steps faltered, just slightly, but enough to send a spike of panic through her. She straightened immediately, forcing her shoulders back, forcing her breathing to steady, forcing herself to look unshaken.

But inside, it was chaos.

She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut, the force of it leaving her hollow, aching, gasping for air. The image of Fred’s face flashed before her eyes—his smile, his laugh, the way he’d held her hand during their last moment together. She had failed him. And now, the man who had seen her weakness was the very one who had caused so much of her pain.

Why had she trusted Marvolo? Why had she even entertained the idea that he could be anything other than the monster he was?

Her head screamed for answers, but none came. Only the void.

Still, she kept walking. The court loomed ahead, the trial waiting to begin, and she moved toward it as if nothing had happened. Her jaw tightened, her steps steadying as she approached Lyra, who sat in quiet anticipation. Alexandrina lowered herself into the seat beside her, her movements deliberate, careful, calculated.

And then, in the stillness, it came.

That moment of realization.

She hadn’t just shown him Fred. She had shown him herself.

The thought hit her like a slap of her own, cold and unrelenting. She had let him see past her armor, past the carefully constructed mask she wore for the world. He had seen her pain, her vulnerability, the cracks in her foundation. And that was why she hated him.

No, not hated. That was too simple. Too clean.

This was something messier, more complicated. Something that made her want to scream and cry and fight and run all at once.

But she did none of those things.

She sat beside Lyra, her movements stiff and mechanical, her body on autopilot while her mind spun in endless circles. The slap had been supposed to end it. To sever whatever strange, inexplicable connection had formed between them. But it hadn’t.

Instead, it had only made the silence louder.

Because the truth—the awful, unbearable truth—was that Marvolo hadn’t reacted. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t struck back, hadn’t done any of the things she’d expected him to do. He had simply stood there, his face turned to the side, silent and still.

And that stillness...

It mirrored her own.

Her breath caught in her throat as the realization hit her like a punch to the gut. She was still connected to him, still caught in whatever strange, tangled web he had woven between them. She didn’t want to be. She wanted to hate him, to rip him out of her mind and leave him behind. But she couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, in the part of herself she didn’t want to acknowledge, she knew the truth.

She didn’t hate him.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DING-DING-DING!

YOUR AUTHOR LOVES TO CREATE DRAMA FOR NO REASON, I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT JUST AS MUCH AS I DO.

MARVOLO SAW FRED BUT WHAT EXACTLY DID HE SEE FOR HIM TO GO THAT SILENT.

WHAT MORE DRAMA DO YOU WANT?

IS IT THE BEGINNING OF THE GRAND AND COMPLICATED REVEAL? DO YOU WANT IT?

EXITED FOR THM TO GO TO THE NEXT STAGE*AHEM*AHEM*😏😏😏

ARE YOU LIKING THEIR CHARACTORIZATION?

WHAT PROBLEMS DO YOU THINK WILL LITTLE TOM CAUSE? APART FROM LOOKING FOR A MATCH FOR HIS PRECIOUS MAMA?

NEXT CHAPTER WILL PROBABLY BE THE TRIALS AND EXPLANATIONS.

I HOPE YOU WILL LOVE IT

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT, CAUSE IT MATTERS A LOT TO ME.

LOVE YOU ALL

XOXO

YOUR AUTHOR

AnjaniManda8