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The sky was starless and dark, a swath of black silk.
It was as if even the moon knew that something was afoot, that trouble would find itself in the splendid halls of the Potter Manor and decided to hide in advance.
Her gaze was brought up to that endless abyss and she wondered if it was an omen of some kind.
A chill swept through her though the air was mild and soft, and she gathered her red cloak tightly around her.
Remain Inconspicuous, she thought sarcastically, eyeing her intricately laced red gown.
Her mother said she wanted her to blend in, but how on earth was she supposed to blend in when her gown looked like it was dipped in fresh blood?
She knew the party was supposed to be a masquerade ball, and that most people would be dressed in black, silver and gold, honoring Lord Charlus Potter, Lady Dorea Black Potter and their combined Black and Potter heritage.
Thank Merlin for her own elaborate Medusa mask of silver that covered everything but her scarlet-painted mouth.
When combined with her cloak, no one would figure out who she was – not that they would know anyway for if need be, she would charm, hex or maim anyone who dared be in her way.
The ball was in full swing when Tyra Gaunt stepped into the mansion.
Everything was decadent and opulent, with gilded chandeliers, expensive artwork depicting the rich Potter history and pearly marble floors.
There were well-dressed guests, most certainly belonging to the ton.
In every corner, house elves were carrying trays of firewhisky, Elven wine and appetizers. Music from Celestina Warbeck wafted throughout the halls, and everyone was laughing and talking.
It was a little too loud for Tyra’s liking, but it also meant that everyone else was similarly overwhelmed.
After wandering through the halls and into the lushly landscaped grounds beyond the house, she came across the staircase.
Instinctively, she reached into her cloak’s pocket and her fingers brushed against her beloved Yew and Phoenix Feather wand.
She gave it a squeeze, reminding herself of the reason of this venture and hoping to garner courage from it, then she straightened her shoulders and inhaled deep.
She loosened the firm grim she had on her magic and allowed it to roam around and look for potential…nuisances.
Tyra knew it would look odd if she got caught, after all she wasn’t invited for the annual Winter Solstice Ball the illustrious Potter family held every year.
Only those belonging to the upper echelons of their society were fortunate enough to get an invitation, that, and the Potters’ allies.
For a long time, her family name had carried weight: Old blood. Royalty. Might. But when the first dwindled, the others followed suit.
Tyra wasn’t one to accept failure without a last fight.
She was the rightful Heiress of Salazar Slytherin and the sole remaining carrier of his exalted blood and she would bring the name that was sullied for centuries to its past glory or die trying.
Only, she wouldn’t die. Not after tonight.
Before engaging in this plan, she did her research well.
Thanks to the books left by her grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt and the nights she spent breaking rules and swallowing all the information she could draw out of the gems hidden from sight in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts’ library, she learned all what she needed about her history, her birthright.
Sasha, Slytherin’s faithful familiar, helped as well, but the ancient Basilisk had started getting delusional decades ago and her memories were fractured and incoherent at best.
Her mother was a squib and couldn’t help much. Nevertheless, she was the mother she loved and held above all.
After her coward of a father left her mother, she was on the brink of perishing from the strain of her pregnancy and her strenuous living conditions, yet Merope true to her Slytherin roots and against all odds prevailed and fought for her unborn child.
Tyra’s stupendous magic helped and healed her conveyor from the womb and the bond that had been established between mother and infant became adamantine.
She had sought help from the matron at Wool’s orphanage and the muggle helped.
After she held her daughter for the first time, a new resolution took hold of the squib, non- consequential daughter of House Gaunt.
She had returned to the Ancestral House in Little Hangleton and demanded that her father acknowledged his granddaughter and the new bearer of Salazar’s venerated blood.
Marvolo had sensed the extent of the power the newborn possessed and even with his afflicted mind, he decided to embrace and nurture the new member of his family.
He welcomed his daughter back and did his best to right the past’s mistakes.
Morfin, dolefully, had been so far gone. The moment he learned the truth, his foggy mind started weaving deadly plans, his main purpose was seeking retribution for his sister’s treatment.
He had confronted the Riddles and killed them in cold blood, earning himself a lifetime sentence in Azkaban.
Her uncle hadn’t been strong enough to withstand the Dementors for long. He had succumbed to his death six months after his imprisonment.
To say they Gaunts had missed him would be mendacious and hypocritical.
Marvolo and Merope did their best to raise her and even with his mind decrepit because of age and inbreeding and his magic tottering, Marvolo managed to transfer all his knowledge to his granddaughter.
Finally the ailing old man succumbed to his age and decaying core and embraced death, after gifting her one last piece of information.
The Peverells…
After her grandfather’s demise, Merope became the only provider for the family of two.
The squib had summoned her courage and started her own business. She was a gifted potioneer despite lacking magic.
She had started taking small commissions from neighboring magical families and acquaintances and with the scanty amount of galleons she earned, she raised her daughter.
Tyra never resented her mother; she was her paragon of resilience, her one and only heroine and the person she worshipped.
Be that as it may, she wasn’t one to take things as they were and remain idle. The proud Slytherin blood that ran through her veins whispered dark promises of glory and tempting dreams and invaded her heart and her mind with glorious possibilities.
Electrified by the desire to succeed and excel and seared with curls of cold fire, she did her best and shed her sweat, blood and magic in her studies.
She became Slytherin House’s pride and joy and the undisputable Queen, which wasn’t surprising for it was her birthright, her legitimate place.
Yet it wasn’t enough, never.
She knew that something better was waiting for her somewhere out there and she wouldn’t rest until she got her hands on it.
She gained faithful followers who would never deny her a thing, their very souls included.
Her lips twitched as she remembered how eager Abraxas was to provide her with his personal invitation.
He was as steadfast as ever in his loyalty, knowing that his Queen will never lead her Knights astray.
Tyra knew it would look strange if one of the Potters noticed her, mainly her previous Hogwarts’ nemesis.
Better to start working and look for the item she risked so much to get her hands on.
The beguiling feeling of her ancestors’ magic pushed her to start walking and her ring pulsed with athirst energy, the Resurrection Stone looking for her beloved twins.
Tyra leaned against one of the windows, her magic embracing the cold, gelid Death Magic and fissures of lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the delicate features of a gorgeous woman with elysian features, peering at her from one of the paintings.
Meticulously, she lifted an eyebrow under her mask and the woman’s lips twitched.
Tyra swore that her eyes flashed blood red, reminding her of a similar set that looked back at her from the mirror whenever she was overwhelmed with a fierce emotion.
The lady sent her a sidelong glance and said:”Well done, crafty young witch.” She extolled shamelessly, a dangerous glint in her hazel eyes.
Not one to back from a challenge, Tyra bowed dutifully and remained quiet.
“What you seek is upstairs. The stars are aligned and you shall seize the night.” The small smile that graced the woman’s lips was graciously warm and Tyra wondered why she seemed idyllic at the prospect of a stranger being in the deserted corridors of what was supposedly the woman’s Ancestral Home, not to mention, how did she know about her plan?
As if grasping a piece of the thoughts taxing her mind, something no one ever managed to do considering she was a Mistress of the Mind Arts, the woman‘s doe-eyes glistened with amusement as she offered:”I am Lady Iolanthe Peverell Potter.”
Pulling her cloak tighter against her body, Tyra barely hid her surprise.
She should’ve heeded earlier signs that the woman in the painting was no ordinary one. It would have been wiser if she ignored her probing but now…
“You have nothing to fear My Heiress.” Lady Iolanthe soothed with her ethereal voice and Tyra nodded again and walked away, refusing to risk her safety again.
She heard the sound of rain coming outside in violent whooshes and she knew that the rich soil outside the manor would turn to mud by the time she left.
Another lightning bolt struck and she smiled.
For a curious reason, she loved storms.
Finally, after following the magic emitting from her quest and wandering through the endless halls, she came across what was undoubtedly Lord Charlus Potter’s personal office.
Of course he would keep the family’s treasure close. Who would trust the greedy goblins with Death’s handcraft?
Tyra hated that she had to steal what was rightfully hers. The Potters weren’t the only remaining Peverells like they thought.
‘Doing what makes other people uncomfortable, it’s what we were born to do’, her grandfather would tell her. ’It runs in the family. You can’t hide from your destiny.’
Yes, her destiny wasn’t to work for scraps at Borgin and Burkes antique shop because she was ‘Overqualified’ for all the Ministry positions she applied for.
However, she knew the real reason behind every rejection. She was scorned and belittled because of her family name and she would show them all the wrath of the Slytherin blood.
Sometimes Tyra wondered if her destiny was to end up just like her mother; alone and bitter.
At least she knew she would never fall in love, would never lose her senses in that way.
What wizard would ever understand her true self, anyway?
What man would ever look at her, the real her, and think she was more, much more than what met the naked eye?
No man.
She was not made for any man and she would never settle for nothing but the absolute best.
They would all want to lock her away, to clip her wings and possess her and she would never allow such travesty.
Tyra steeled herself, straightening her back. She had to focus. Right now wasn’t the time to get lost in her own mind when she was in the throes of the mission.
She waved her wand and the door opened soundlessly.
Softly, she closed it, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.
She was about to lighten up the room when a shiver rolled up her spine.
But even as she berated herself for her carelessness, she knew that the fault wasn’t hers.
The perpetrator was a master of disguise; he hid his magical signature impressively luring her into his trap.
Yet, as she told herself that, she stood her ground and refused to cower. She would fight whoever dared trick her.
Her skin prickled in alarm as two green gems gleamed in the barely lit room, thanks to the light coming from the lightning outside.
She couldn’t see the owner’s face but she could feel his anticipation, taste it in the air.
She realized that there was something particularly dangerous about this wizard and it had nothing to do with the dark aura surrounding him, now that his magic was no longer masked.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the intricate design of the mask the man lounging on the chair like a bored king was wearing.
A Wolf.
“You look lost,” a deep male voice said behind the mask as he stood languidly and headed her way with sure steps.
Tilting her head back, she looked at the half covered face. There was something familiar about his voice but she couldn’t place it.
Was he a Hogwarts’ schoolmate?
Probably. It had been years since she graduated and remained in contact only with her Knights.
When she looked closer, a smirking, sensual mouth and a square manly chin were visible.
Tall and muscled, he carried himself with an air of self-confidence and ease that made her pulse pick up with anger.
In the scarce light, his eyes gave an otherworldly green light, reminding her of the Killing Curse.
They were too keen and knowing for her liking.
‘’Who are you?” She inquired, her tone demanding attention.
A deep chuckle fell from his smirking lips:”You are one to ask, Red.” That voice and that seductive drawl had her hackles rise.
Nevertheless, Tyra Gaunt wasn’t one to refuse a sweet challenge; she lived for the thrill of danger and the taste of the forbidden.
“So, I got the right to call you Wolf. It’s only fair.” She drawled nonchalantly, buying some time while working out her next plan.
The wolf snorted:’’You’re an impossible woman, Red and I know that the word ‘fair’ doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.”
She cursed the moon again, for hiding and leaving her in such darkness. At least the lightning was a more faithful companion.
‘’I’m only impossible for those who plan to harm me or mine.” Tyra allowed truthfully.
For an unfathomable reason, she didn’t want to harm the wizard blocking the way leading to her treasure.
However, she knew she had to if he carried on with his word-games and wasted more of her precious time.
She was positive that he had an inkling of her intention. It seemed like he was waiting for her and it was no coincidence.
But who in Salazar’s Blood was he?
*̣̥☆·͙̥‧❄•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥˟͙☃˟͙‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥❄‧·͙̥̣☆*̣̥
The Wolf recognized her right away. Or, to be more accurate, he recognized her magic.
Wild and seductive and bringing up all the memories he had touched on from time to time, the ones that made him want to open his chest and hide her in his heart.
But those memories were never more than wishes and fantasies for he knew that the time was not right yet.
They had worked together few times in potions, and she was as aloof as can be.
He knew she thought he was an arrogant and bold Gryffindor, but so was she. She just liked to pose as better than everyone else.
At least he was secure enough to admit it, to come to terms with the fact that he was a proud Potter.
She liked to pretend she was just helping out her classmates, that she was the ideal student and the perfect witch, but the Wolf knew that she was one of the most ruthless women he’d ever come across,
And now she was here, in his den.
The Wolf smiled again.
It was rather garish, but he liked what she was wearing. It was in your face, the color of blood, a stain in the purity of the party and the Sacred Day.
She made it so she would be remembered despite working to remain inconspicuous.
He bit his lip for a moment, his eyes coasting down the perfection that was Tyra Gaunt.
She kept the red cloak around herself, however it didn’t do much in hiding her appeal.
Her ebony hair was long, spilling down her back and contrasting rather dramatically with the sea of red she was drowning in.
Tyra flashed a smile, perfect white teeth gleaming against her red lips.
Of course she didn’t like to play fair, and neither did the Wolf.
As much as he wanted to claim her, he knew there was a good chance she would try to kill him. And then what?
Then what indeed.
His Potter heart was too young to disintegrate and become one with the stars, not to mention he had an eternity with his Queen to look forward to.
She twirled her bone-white wand between her slender fingers and her lips alleged the sweetest words:”I won’t kill you if I don’t have to.”
Harrison’s eyes pinched shut under the mask savoring the feeling of Tyra’s aggravated magic.
It was so dark and smooth, so cold and merciless.
The long-awaited missing half.
He remembered the first time he crossed paths with the Queen and pieces started to come back together, like a puzzle taking shape.
He had tried to shift through the files of people in his mind, to figure out who she was to him.
Someone that ensnared his heart at once and set afire the Peverell blood filling his veins with life and magic.
Lives had drifted since the Master of Death embraced his Peverell magic and allowed it to stream down his soul, its rivulets trickling into his forlorn core.
He had it with Wixen’s treachery and avarice, had it with giving his all to the undeserving.
For once, he plumped for his own gain and Death, his loyal companion, had been eager to please.
He promised him the sweetest prize, the one he was denied in his first life and Harrison believed in him wholeheartedly.
He learned that they were star-crossed soulmates, two pieces of a whole doomed to wander listlessly until the curse lifted.
Tyra, for her repellent deeds had to pay with her life over and over again and Harrison had to watch and wait.
This life was her Seventh and he knew that the time was ripe for the reunion.
He had always been aware of her, feeling her pain and resolution like his own.
While he grew up as Lord Henry Potter’s youngest, the indulged brother of Charlus’ and the future Lord Peverell, Tyra went through too much, the road of absolution filled with hurdles and trammels.
But she prevailed, like he knew she would.
She was the unequalled Queen, the one fated to rise from ashes again like a Phoenix.
His Queen, his companion for all eternity.
Harrison simpered when she moved, deciding that the conversation was over.
She was as powerful as ever and the idea of a duel with her, for old times’ sake appealed to his senses. But he was impatient to end the charade and start living for real.
He cocked his head and showed his teeth:”Are you threatening me, Red? I am the big bad wolf. And I will eat you if given half the chance. You should’ve been more careful Red, wolves lurk in every guise.”
He savoured the way her magic flared and wasn’t startled when she grinned:”I’ll take my chances then, a wolf’s pelt sounds perfect for the winter’s chill.”
Harrison’s lips parted and he inhaled deeply, his heart thrilled and lost to the pleasure of their exchange.
His gaze traveled over her attire again nodding with appreciation. It was so fitting, his Queen would love to bath in her enemies’ blood perennially.
She gave him a scathing grin and stopped playing with her wand.
“We’ll both play and we’ll both win but I won’t let you carry out your plan, Red.” His chest rumbled with a delighted chuckle when a hiss left her lips.
He was used to the way she converted to Parseltongue whenever she was on the brink of losing her patience.
There were many times in the past she'd caught him looking at her like she was the dessert he couldn’t eat, forbidden and out of bonds.
She had sneered at those looks, raised her head high, and acted like he was beneath her. A worthless lion cub who wasn’t worthy of her time.
Lord Harrison Peverell was not that lad anymore and it was only fair he taught her so.
A bone-rattling peal of thunder split the sky in two and he took another step forward, making his intention clear.
“Take off your mask, Red.” He said, his tone pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent contest.
Her demeanor changed, one corner of her mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent his heartbeat into chaos:”You take yours first, Wolf.”
Harrison shook his head:"You shouldn’t fight against what you were born to be, and you shouldn’t fight against me. I promise that you’ll like the reward if you comply with my request.”
“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I like the fight and I don’t trust strangers, mainly rogue wolves.” There was a sinister edge to her tone, but there was no denying the thrill it brought to his bloodstream.
“As you wish.” He purred, before he brandished the Elder Wand.
She gave an alert gasp and he dazzled her with a victorious grin.
Harrison barely moved his wand and both their masks disappeared.
Tyra’s eyes were blood red, an occurrence that he happened when she was in the thrall of her Dark magic.
Her smile faded except for a lingering quirk at one corner of his mouth, which disappeared when her eyes moved from the wand and looked into his.
“Potter.” She whispered.
“Lord Peverell actually, Lady Slytherin.” He offered, amusement glinting in his eyes.
She nodded and tilted her head:”I was after the Cloak but I believe you exceeded my expectations, Lord Peverell.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, he bowed:”Why, I aim to please. I couldn’t leave my family’s Heirloom in Grindelwald’s filthy hands. The wand needs its Master.”
Tyra’s hand shot up and grasped the wand, her fingers covering his.
Both sighed when the Peverell magic seeped through their veins and bathed them in cold, dark bliss.
Harrison grinned and breathed:”I told you that the reward will exceed your expectations.”
“I beg your pardon then, my Lord.” She said with an overdone respect that hinted at sarcasm.
She lifted a well shaped brow and he snorted, and let out a ragged breath, willing the feral cold surrounding them to retreat.
Having Tyra there, in his home, so near, was the most exquisite experience imaginable.
His soul was a mass of aches, stabs, and cravings.
He had never felt better in his life.
His lids dropped and her eyes widened imperceptibly with surprise when she looked up at him.
He knew that his eyes were red as well, a Peverell trait he inherited considering how much his ancestors dabbled in Necromancy and Blood Rituals.
“We fit splendidly, Tyra.” He held his hand out to her and after a deliberate pause, she took it willingly.
The Gaunt ring pulsed with suppressed energy and she sighed, swaying slightly.
Harrison put his forehead over hers and whispered:”And lastly…”
The Invisibility Cloak shimmered around them, and both breathed raggedly:”Merry Meet Lady Peverell.”
She rose to her toes with a froth of laughter, her fingers caressing his cheek:”Merry Meet Lord Peverell.”
Instinctively, Harrison reached out and held her to his chest.
She excited him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve and making him believe he could set things afire with his fingers.
Galvanized into action by the twinkle in her eyes, he hauled her against him and kissed her with reserve.
He continued to kiss her softly, his mouth tender and hot as he tasted heaven.
Her arms slid around his neck and he felt her satisfied smile against his skin.
He had been bound by loneliness for eons, his wings clipped.
That moment however, under Death’s Cloak, The Master of Death experienced wild, barbarous and untamed fire.
He was finally free, his heart no longer burdened with the past’s wrongdoings.