prologue.

             ALISTAR BELVOIRÈ WAS A FOOL. At least, that's what Iridessa thought of him. Perhaps it was because her father seemed to despise her and her sisters with every fiber of his being. Heloise Avery and Alistair Belvoirè had three children—three daughters, to his endless disappointment. They'd endured more than just a few cold, loveless nights for three straight years, driven by his desperate need for a son—a proper heir. He made no secret of his bitterness, grumbling about it with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.

   But guess what Alistair didn't get? 

   A son.

   And it gnawed at him every second of the day. Every time he looked at his daughters, it was as if a mirror reflected back his failure, and Merlin, did he loathe them for it. In his mind, daughters were good for one thing only—marriage. The eldest, Gwen, was to be pawned off the moment she left Hogwarts.

   She swore to Iridessa and their younger sister, Lucinda, between clenched teeth, that the second she graduated, she'd be gone. She wasn't about to sit pretty and let some pure-blood twat decide her fate.

   "Run, that's what you do when you've got no other way out," Gwen had muttered, eyes sharp like cut glass, her voice thick with resentment. And Iridessa knew it was the only thing they could ever do—run. 

   Their lives weren't simply gilded with luxury and privilege like other pure-blood families. Behind the silk and grandeur, their home was nothing but a cage, their father a tyrant who would rather lose his name than leave it to a girl. And for that, Alistair Belvoirè was nothing but a fool.

   She was being raised by a fool. Her mother had fallen in love with a fool. And her mother—well, she was a fool, too. Everyone around them, fools. Idiots, really. That's how Iridessa saw it, and she hated them for it—every clueless one of them. They moved through life blind to everything that mattered, and it grated on her nerves. The oblivious, the ignorant, the ones who simply couldn't see—they made her blood boil.

   How could anyone stand to live like that?

   There was nothing Iridessa hated more than being at home. She despised her parents, and as much as she loathed Hogwarts, it was her only escape. It was the only place she could breathe, away from the suffocating grasp of her family. Every moment at home was a reminder of how much she resented them—her father's cruelty, her mother's hollow indifference. It was the little things that wore her down, the barbaric little things they would do or say. 

   Alistair wasn't just abusive; he was the devil himself. He didn't raise his voice, he cut with it. Didn't lay a hand on them— or a spell in anger without reason, but when he did, it was with cold, calculated precision, meant to hurt in ways that lasted. And their mother? Bloody useless. Every time, she'd just clutch their faces gently, her voice soft as she looked them in the eyes, and say, "You knew better than to do that, dear." Then she'd walk away, leaving them drowning in their own misery like the spineless, pitiful woman she was.

   Iridessa had been slow to realize it, but the truth was there all along: her mother was mad as a hatter. Every bit as twisted as their father, just in a more cowardly way. Heloise Avery Belvoirè didn't deserve her life any more than the man she married deserved respect.

   "They're all bloody barbaric," Iridessa muttered under her breath. Every last one of them. And yet, she knew—Hogwarts was the only way out. It was the only place where she had even a shred of freedom, and that was all that kept her tethered. For now.

   Whenever Iridessa left for Hogwarts, her mother's parting words were always the same: "Fetch yourself a husband while you're at it." As if that was all life had to offer them beyond their education—marriage, an escape from one prison into another. But Iridessa never paid her any mind. Why would she?

   She hadn't the faintest idea how to talk to boys. At school, she was known for her coldness, much like those who came before her. She'd sit in class, arms folded, eyes sharp, glaring at anyone foolish enough to look her way.

   She didn't give anyone a reason to approach her—least of all a boy. And though her beauty was undeniable, her demeanor was enough to send most running. Her mother had no clue that until Iridessa left Hogwarts, she'd never find a husband. And if she did, it would probably be forced upon her, rather than chosen willingly. Maybe she'd end up taking Gwen's advice and run far away, out of reach of their father's grip.

   But the thought of leaving Lucinda behind to fend for herself gnawed at her. It was mad, really—leaving her sister to face their parents' cruelty alone felt wrong, like abandoning a part of herself.

   So, was there really a way out?

   Not likely. For now.

   All Iridessa could do was take the little escapes where she found them. Hogwarts offered some respite, especially in the company of her small circle of friends: Cressida Malfoy, Alexor Yaxley, and Zahira Zabini. They were all Slytherins, all pure-bloods, and rather than mingle with those who feared or despised them, they had each other. Their bond was tight-knit.

   Though Iridessa couldn't tell if they all generally cared for each other or if they hated each other. Regardless though, they enjoyed the company.

   Iridessa's life was already a mess of contradictions, tangled in ways she couldn't begin to untangle. She hated it more than words could convey—Hogwarts, her home life, all of it. Complicated, confusing, and utterly exhausting. So imagine her utter disbelief when, during the first week back for fifth year, Sirius Black had the nerve to ask her out.

   It wasn't some grand gesture or heartfelt confession, either. No, he'd sauntered up, all swagger and smirk, and dropped the question as casually as if he were asking for the time. And his reason? Her smile. A smile he'd caught a glimpse of—barely a second long—when she'd been cruelly mocking him for even having the gall to walk up to her.

   Her shock must've been obvious.

   This was Sirius Black. Someone who was practically glued to James Potter's side. And here he was, standing in front of her, looking her dead in the eye and asking her out. Asking her out, after they'd spent the better part of the last few years taking the piss out of her, poking fun at her for being quiet.

   She stared at him, incredulous, her mind racing. This couldn't be real. Was it some sort of joke? It had to be, right? Because the idea of Sirius Black, of all people, genuinely fancying her seemed more impossible than anything else.

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