I am neither a devil nor an angel but merely the object of my ambitions instead.
Dawn came through the murky waters the next morning. Slytherins had survived the night, yet day would test them further.
When Dorcus Meadows woke up, Freya Grey was straightening out her shirt. Her hair was pin flat down her back, and she wore the little necklace with a dainty triangle at the center. Sunday often led most students to walk around in their pajamas or jeans if they were off to Hogsmeade(though Dorcus knew that they were forbidden from that for now), but Freya dressed in a fine black sweater crafted for her body and a dark green skirt to match. She was dressed for battle. Her eyes were lined with kohl, and the touch of rose at her lips was her war paint.
Deatheater slut.
Dorcus watched her room mate closely and caught her eyes through the mirror. She offered a gentle smile, and Freya only made a soft chin bow in acknowledgment.
"Are you going to breakfast this morning?" The bronze-skinned witch got off her bed and stretched her bones.
Freya nodded, then her fingers stopped smoothing her top. "Would you like to join Regulus and me?"
Slowly, Dorcus stopped her stretching. She had not sat with the Slytherins for breakfast since her first year. Aside from the first feast of the year and meetings, she kept away from the house; however, Dorcus knew with every tear shed from a child, the house was not the problem. "Can Philly join?"
***
Winter air filled the fifth floor's corridor, and a young woman sat on one of the stone benches with her ankles crossed. A boy pressed his lips to her cheek and then pulled away. Once he was a fair bit down the corridor, the blonde girl lifted a brow. "No one likes snoopy little girls." Freya Grey came out from her spot behind a thick pillar. Narcissa Black scanned over her, then beckoned her over with a finger. Cautiously, the thin girl approached. As soon as she was an arm's length away, Narcissa grabbed her tie. "My mother would have slapped me for disrespecting a tie like that." With delicate, calculated fingers, Narcissa undid Freya's tie and started to re-tie it. Occasionally, she would glance at Freya and watch her expressions melt silently from one another until it landed on tentative curiosity. Amusement quirked Narcissa's lip. "Freya, was it?"
"Yes," Freya answered to the floor.
Lightly, Narcissa tilted Freya's chin and forced her eyes to hers. "You think your father would have taught you to look people in their eyes more."
"My father is dead," Freya replied primly, and Narcissa knew better than to react.
"And your mother?" The blonde witch kept her tone clean and clear. Emotions were an illness according to her family, yet Narcissa was overflowing with them constantly. When Freya did not answer, Narcissa started to fit together the pieces of the little girl in front of her. She finished the tie and saw how it rested on the shirt far too big for the bones it was draped over. A child. "Come with me." Shoulders straight, Narcissa turned her heel and did not wait for Freya to follow. To her surprise, Freya's gait was quiet, like a mouse scurrying beside her.
They went to the courtyard, where Narcissa would later sneak Freya into Hogsmeade. As they crossed paths with some boys, Freya curled into herself. The loud laughing boys jeering at one another starkly contrasted the curly-haired witch's fear. Instinctively, Freya scrunched her tie to make it less visible while they passed, and Narcissa felt a pang of remorse. Narcissa slowed to a halt and then turned to Freya. Her hand smoothed over the tie again.
Resetting her shoulders, Narcissa made a show of raising her chin and fixing her posture. "A lady may show humility, submissiveness, but fear is a fool's game. Keep your chin up when you walk."
Briskly, Narcissa started walking once more, and when the boys passed again, Freya did not flinch.
Many summers had passed, and Freya still did not flinch.
She may be a death eater slag, a Slytherin demon, and a devil incarnate, but she would take that all gladly interchange to never be a weak fool.
By her side was the Black Heir in a black cashmere sweater; Regulus had a natural princely way about him that was almost effortless against Freya Grey's calculated gaze. Necks craned over to them, and whispers were stirring in the air.
Slightly behind her was Dorcus Meadows holding Xenophilius Lovegood by the hand. Gently, he squeezed her hand, and she squeezed it back.
Finally, the spiral of rumors whittled down to one truth: a death in a nearby town. A muggle supporter visiting Hogsmeade. Not the killing curse, nothing so simple. They were set on fire and burned alive. According to the Daily Prophet, the death was not war-related. Hogwarts was safe.
None of their Gryffindor friends sat with them that day.
Dirty looks were shot like bullets to the Slytherin table during Albus Dumbledore's grand speech after breakfast. As usual, the headmaster had a different take than the Daily Prophet; whether or not it was more accurate depended. Information was as expected: a kind man, a gentle man, was murdered in cold blood because someone chose dark instead of light. His gaze rang strong on the Slytherins and was met with the usual apathy.
Freya wanted to burn him into ashes. But she only had a couple months left of school and did not want to spend them in Azkaban.
As the houses left the great hall in a thick file of students, a throb came from her shoulder from someone ramming into her. "Bitch." They coughed, and she heard chortles. In the herd, the person was faceless, and she felt Regulus's finger curl around her to soothe her. Jaw clenched, she turned the other cheek. They were irrelevant.
***
For Freya, she went on business as usual, which meant stopping by the kitchens for fruit and some research. She was even more cautious about her trail since she knew how the rest of Hogwarts got after these attacks. Violence had a way of inspiring more violence.
She snuck around like a mouse scurrying to get food; she was near the kitchens when she heard soft footsteps behind her. Frozen, her heart stopped for a second, but when she turned around, she was met with Sirius Black's body crashing into her. His arms enveloped her like a tight blanket, then pulled her into a random room away from prying eyes.
"Are you alright?" Hand on her cheek, his gaze scanned over her face with concern.
She let herself be held by him for only a moment before pulling back. "Yes."
"Freya."
Her throat tensed, then she shook her head. "I graduate soon. This whole thing will mean nothing to me soon."
His head tilted to one side, his strong grey eyes absorbing every inch of her expression. "Freya, how you feel matters now."
"That is a naive line of thought. I can not afford bread much less that." Freya mused, the light in her gaze flickering in and out. Forcing any emotion out of her throat, she moved her shoulders to straighten out, but her attention was transfixed on the dead air in front of her. "I have my duties."
"Why?" Sirius searched her face, his brows furrowed together. An anger dipped into his veins, that dangerous word thrown around in his history. He could hear his mother drilling on and on about how he failed; he had his duties, and his thoughts, desires, and emotions were frivolous. Marry well. Stay pure. Hate muggles. Be the best son possible to fulfill his duties to his house. And what for? To live long, unhappy lives and repeat the cycle over again. And again. And again. "Why do you need to do any of it? If it's your parents, damn 'em. Freya, will working a boring job at the ministry really make you happy? Dealing with pricks and liars all day. You'd go mad."
Her eyes closed softly, and a tired scoff left her lips. "I deal with pricks and liars right now. At least then I am getting paid."
Lightly, his fingers turned her jaw up to him, and he watched as her body, against her own mind, relaxed into his touch. But her gaze stayed on the floor, and he stroked her cheek tentatively with his thumb. "Look at me..."
Freya wished Sirius would not look at her like that. Her knees were weak, and her body wanted to collapse on itself. She was sure he wanted to say something; however, he just looked at her. Looked at her so deeply, like she was the only thing that mattered. "Life's not fair." Her words were quietly remorseful. "I can not act like it is. I can not will away bigotry or dissolve a war. I can only learn to run over stones."
The grey-eyed boy met her volume. "You are Freya Grey; you can do whatever you set your mind to."
For a second, they stayed like that. In each other's hands without prying eyes, silent, yet the air was anything but empty. Then, Sirius remembered there was a world around them and figured Freya would push him off any moment, so he stepped back. Though the second he did, she pulled him back by his sleeve. Once she did, she was shocked by her actions and let go. "Sorry."
He shook his head and moved back to his original spot. His arms opened to her, and as soon as they did, she dropped her head onto his chest, and he wrapped around her carefully. She did not cry, she did not sob, she only laid her head on him and smelled that sweet scent she knew to be borrowed shampoo from James and the smoke from his common room fireplace. Fingers wrapped around the fabric of his shirt, and she let out an exhale, letting the sensation of the pressure of a warm body hold her. She felt the vibrations in his chest as he spoke. "You can always rest with me when your feet tire of stones."
***
The two parted ways, and Freya spent an evening with the Hogwarts Elves. Fortunately, they didn't care what color her tie was. She returned to the common room with cake wrapped in a cloth napkin and a notebook full of ideas. Even as she walked, she could smell Sirius on her clothes and had the urge to never wash that shirt again.
She turned the hall and saw two boys with gold and red ties at the end of it. Instantly, her pleased expression shifted to Narcissa Black's high one. The boys loudly spoke amongst themselves, recognizing one to be something Boot and the other she could not place her finger on. Her attention was trained on the end of the hall, though her stomach turned.
Nearly halfway down the hall, they finally noticed her fully. Emerald skirt and all. Suddenly, they turned to whispers. Ignore them. Freya reminded herself. Violently, one with golden blond hair smacked his shoulder against hers. "Dumbledore should have had your whole lot killed." Jaw set, she continued past him, though they could easily spot her wince. "Not so brave when you're without Black, huh?" A brutal force pushed Freya's back forward, and her body fell forward on the stone floor. Needles radiated up her palms as she caught herself, and her knee stung in a way that made it hard to not show pain.
Her head turned up to them, her sharp eyes trained on the trio. Though his thin lips held their smug smile as the rest of his friends sniggered.
Holding her tongue, Freya reminded herself no one was worth the trip to Azkaban.
Once she looked away from the tall boy, she heard it before she felt it. The wet glop of spit hitting her cheek, she saw it slip and plop to the ground and heard their laughter.
Fingers curled into fists, and her blood turned into lava rage. Barely audible to herself, she murmured something into the air just for her. Incendio. Then, she heard them scream. Her eyes lulled up to them; the spitter's hair and sweater were on fire. A mess of red and yellow light while his friends scrambled for their wands. Quickly, one managed to put the fire out, and no permanent damage was left, but the spitter looked ready to pass out.
Fear coated his eyes as he saw her on the ground, her lips curled in a way that dared him to come closer, but he took several steps back away from her. "Bloody hell." He muttered, then took off dashing down the hall.
His friends stayed momentarily looking at her, and she did not back down from their stares. Then they left running, but not before someone shouted. "Psycho!"
"She's mental!" The other continued nearly knocking over Barty Crouch Jr., who had heard their friend's screams during his rounds and assumed they may have had something to do with the near balding boy with scorch marks on his white shirt.
"Careful!" He hollered after them out of habit, not wanting anyone to trip and snap their neck before him. But then, his attention landed on the crumpled girl, pulling herself to her feet. Barty was unsure what to ask since she seemed like the damsel and the danger. The thought made his pulse quicken in excitement. A chill ran up him, the demon in her slipping past her mask. His eyes searched for her wand but saw nothing in her fingers. Wandless magic. Marvelous.
Wiping off the glop of spit on her cheek, she exuded a presence that made the sun eclipse. "Transcription bores me." She said, void of emotion in her voice. Then her attention slid over to the son of the Council of Magical Law judge, and silently, she asked for her damnation, and Barty was more than happy to assist.
***
Monsters are spoken of as flat little things in time and space. They may have had a past, a parent, a human glimmer in them before they grew into their name. Then, from one moment to the next, they are a monster. A thin line is drawn between a young, bright, sweet child and a power-hungry creature.
Neither impression directly false; neither directly true. The monster and the child are one and the same thing. They encompass one individual in a knotted ball called a human. Something often forgotten is that the cruelest, most depraved acts on humanity were inflicted by someone incredibly, undoubtedly human.
Freya did not believe much in evil or good, many things were often neither or both in her eyes, but most importantly not her business.
She did not know how naive she was, how, despite her nature, she was still a rose in a thorny garden. No one did. No one except Regulus Black.
He met evil when he was only a child and called her love.
Evening came the next day, and he watched Freya sit beside Barty Crouch Jr. in the common room. Lightly, the charming boy with a charming smile placed his arm on the back of her chair and spoke to the others. And she sat there with her prim posture and foolish sense of power that came when her plans worked. Ensnared by that drug of a thing, she learned in those circles it was better to be seen than heard, and Regulus knew she was playing a game in her mind. A game she would inevitably win, for she was a clever girl. But she would never be smart enough for it because there was no winning. The game claimed any life that dared tempt it.
No matter how strong or intelligent, people were pawns in other people's chess boards. The powerful and the wealthy watched them move, futile, fickle little things, thinking they were victorious when they were going to be checked in two moves. Freya was running straight for the King, and soon her moves would be over— either she would be absorbed or banished from the board, but she would never win.
Sick to his stomach, Regulus took his chances with the Slytherin detesters and walked out of the common room.
Regulus was not free of his biases, no one was, but he had hoped that her time with the golden girls and boys would soothe her false ambitions. Yet, he knew the walls were pressing in on the school. Crushing pressure turned the castle to dust, turning it into his home. Bile rose in his throat at the thought. Freya Grey was going to be destroyed.
A good chunk of their friendship the first year was spent by Freya watching him draw. She would sit with a book the size of her lap, and within ten minutes, her attention would wander off her page onto his.
At first, Regulus would stop or stutter in his work, waiting for her comment on how it was foolish to draw sea creatures with stars or correct his form. She never did. She just watched, marveling at the process.
The drawings were shit. However, Freya never said a word all through that. Not a critique. Not a compliment.
At some point, Regulus purposely drew perfectly, yet dull, pictures or plain ugly drawings to see if she would say something. It was a year until she said a word about them during his second year. She sat beside him as he finished a drawing he had started at home. Realism. Architecture. Nothing wrong, just not his interest. And she watched for a minute, then said, "Where's the squid?"
He blinked, then combed to the back of his sketchbook where his less formal work was. Then, he presented it to her awkwardly. She took it and then gave a slight nod. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For showing me it."
"Did you like it?"
"I prefer your mermaid." She admitted.
Later that year, a Ravenclaw stole his sketchbook and threw it out the window after an attack. That same week, that same Ravenclaw broke their leg and fractured their nose, falling down the stairs. Freya did not say a word; it was assumed to be an accident because she claimed to be in the library during that time. However, the third strange incident befalling those wronging Regulus came about, and Regulus felt a moral obligation to tell her to calm down about it.
Then, of course, Narcissa warned Freya against getting involved in anything for her reputation's sake. Regulus was not privy to all the information Narcisa gave Freya, though he did notice the change in her physically. Internally, Freya felt the same, only she had better posture and a tongue so sharp that she learned to keep quiet for ease. An amusing sight for Regulus since he thought her anger was hidden only by glass, but others did not seem to think so.
Often, Narcisa hinted at marriage between the two. It would be better than most pure-blood marriages since they at least liked each other. Their sex life would leave much to desire for both of them since Regulus would only perform when required, and Freya never made any notion that she even thought about sex. It was not a terrible plan; only Regulus could never go through with it.
Freya deserved a shot at love even if he didn't have one. She deserved freedom, love, and life. Everything he could not.
This was why Regulus found himself heading to the library, where he knew a certain Head boy would be finishing tutoring younger years.
Wild curls in every direction, James pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, then shoved his papers into his bags. Monday looked far too good on him. Sleeved rolled up under his elbow and tie wrinkled and relaxed in his chest. Of course, his shoulders look amazing under his shirt. A smile played on his lips while he bid his final goodbye to the second years.
Oblivious to Regulus lurking around the corner, James Potter squeaked at the tall boy's sudden apparition. "Merlin, Reggie, you scared me."
"I have been thinking— Reggie?"
"That's what Marlene calls you. Figured I might try it out." James shrugged and was met with Regulus's silver eyes laying on him flatly. "No?"
Moving past the question for his sake, Regulus looked up to the sky and exhaled. "I have been thinking of what you said."
James leaned forward. "They did change the plates in the dining room, didn't they?"
Regulus hated how endearing the seriousness James's face was about his idiotic theory about the plates. "No. About Remus and Freya."
"Oh?" James's voice went up slightly; he had a bad feeling about the night Sirius and Freya spent together and hoped he would not give away the fact they had made out repeatedly.
Licking his lips, Regulus considered his words cautiously. "With my help, I believe we can help them... realize their potential feelings."
Suddenly, James's eyes lit up like a child on Christmas. "Does that mean you'll plot with me?"
"I'm hesitant to agree to that, but yes," Regulus said, watching James's lips morph into a broad smile. "You're not going to give a dumb code name, are you?"
"It's more than just code names, mate. I have charts." Clapping his hand on Regulus's shoulder, James was buzzing with the prospect, and Regulus despised how easily his mood rubbed off on him. There he was, giddy with glee, next to James Potter, playing matchmaker. His mother would be so proud.