LOST IT TO TRYING

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amora huffed for what must have been the fifteenth time that morning as she flipped the page of her book, eyes darting over words, her brain not processing them. Her neck and her lower back hurt from sitting around all day, her eyes exhausted from being trained on pages, and her chest heavy with the anxiety of no progress.

She wondered what Moody and Lupin were doing. Whether they were anxiously awaiting a message from her, or if they would send her one first. She wondered if they were reading the Daily Prophet and keeping tabs on her. She racked her brain, but for her life, Amora could not figure out if she needed to find a way to communicate with them or if they would send somebody to her.

"Buckley." Malfoy stood in the library doorway, dressed in his black outing robes. He did not usually seek her out before he went to work. "I'm heading off. I have granted you access to Hogsmeade through the Floo. You need to pick out a dress for our outing tomorrow."

Amora raised an eyebrow. "Are you paying?"

Draco scoffed. "I alerted Madam Opal that you will be arriving at some point today— it's covered."

Amora hummed to herself and feigned disinterest, forcing her eyes back to the book, silently dismissing Malfoy. He hung around for only a moment longer before she heard him mutter a few things under his breath, and then he Disapparated away.

She grinned to herself a little, throwing the book onto the coffee table and darting across the corridor to her bedroom. Getting dressed did not feel like a routine, nor was it painstakingly boring. She pulled on one of the nicest dresses the girls had given her, and some comfy boots underneath that would defend her feet against the unevenness of Hogsmeade's cobblestone pavements.

Amora was sixteen the last time she had stepped foot inside Hogsmeade. Part of her was anxious to see how much it had changed under Voldemort's reign, but the larger part of her was thrilled at the thought of being out of the manor. The stuffy air, cold floors, and bleak colours were beginning to drive her insane— there was only so much walking around one could do before they had seen everything there was to see.

That was until Malfoy hopefully would leave a door unlocked one day, and then she might find something to make the intense cabin fever worth it.

Glancing at herself in the mirror, Amora hardly recognised the reflection staring back at her. For a moment, she stopped, studying the depth of her cheekbones and the sharpness of her jaw, wondering at what point during the war she had lost her teenage weight. Her hair had lost its shine and her hips had grown wider, her clothing accentuating the narrowness of her waist, a reminder that she was a woman now— even if she still felt like a terrified child sometimes.

Amora dismissed her sentimental wallowing— Merlin knows that was one thing she would not lose of her teenage self, no matter how much she often wanted to— and headed for the fireplace in the main living room. In a ceramic jar decorated with runes meant for protection during travelling, Amora sifted out a handful of sparkling green floo powder.

It had been years since she had Flooed anywhere. She had a feeling today would be nostalgic in many senses— it was the first time she could roam somewhat freely in the town beside her old school. It was the same town where Amora grew up having snowball fights with her friends, shopping with Pansy, and having Butterbeer dates with Malfoy.

Amora dismissed the last thought with a cringe on her face, stepped into the fireplace, and without hesitation, announced, "Hogsmeade!" Before throwing the powder down.

Amora blinked and reopened her eyes in the square. It was quieter than it used to be with not so many people roaming around, but it felt extremely familiar at first glance. Amora stepped away from the Floo Point, her heart hammering in her chest as she craned her head to glance around, sucking in a breath at all of the shops that had stayed the same, and all those that hadn't.

"Honeydukes." Amora's mouth fell open and she couldn't help but surge towards it.

The door jingled when she opened it and Amora immediately noticed a lack of customers. There was a lady in the corner with a small child picking out some lollipops and a couple of men who must have been in their early twenties by the fudge stand.

The aroma that hit her felt like Pansy buying Amora enough sweets to last her until their next Hogsmeade trip, or Leon buying chocolates that he would demolish in one sitting without giving so much as one to anybody around him. Echoes of laughter and chattering faded from her ears; the reality now was that children did not come flooding to Hogsmeade anymore.

"You're Amora Buckley," the shopkeeper, Mr Flume, said, smiling widely at her, chucking a striped tea towel over his shoulder and moving from behind the counter. His wife was nowhere to be seen— they had always run the shop together before. "I saw you in the newspaper the other day, you survived the attack."

Amora swallowed. "I, er, yes, I did."

"I see you are living with the High Commander now," Mr Flume mentioned, "Narcissa Malfoy was a frequent customer of mine for many years. She always bought her son sweet treats from my store to send to him."

Amora did not know what to say. She did not know what she was allowed to say.

"Are you shopping for the High Commander now?"

"I am, actually," Amora nodded, "Although I must admit, he did not ask me to come to Honeydukes today. I just couldn't help myself. I used to come here all of the time when I was at Hogwarts."

"Yes..." Mr Flume squinted at her. "Yes, I think I remember you. You liked the sugared butterfly wings."

Amora immediately felt the burst of sweetness in her mouth. She could hear the crunch in her ears, and feel the stickiness on her molar teeth. She had forgotten all about her favourite sweet treat.

"Here," Mr Flume smiled and walked around the counter to grasp a tin of butterfly wings. "Have them. Pick anything you or the High Commander may like. On the house."

Amora gasped. "I couldn't— I can ask Malf— the High Commander to pay you. Trust me, Mr Flume, he would not be going without."

"I'm sure," Mr Flume laughed and patted her shoulder. "Tell him it is a gift from me. After all, he contributes so much to the war effort. Such a good, brave young man."

Amora's stomach dropped, but her tight smile hardly faltered. She sent him a weary nod and laughed in a way that she hoped did not sound forced. It was almost easy to forget that Mr Flume had chosen this side of the war. She wished it didn't hit her like bricks, she wished it wasn't so hard to keep a straight face when all Amora wanted to do was knock some sense into him.

"Of course, Mr Flume," Amora agreed instead, "He's such a hard worker."

She did not feel as bad anymore as she grabbed a basket and began to fill it up. Two tins of sugared butterfly wings, plenty of saltwater taffy, some chocolate wands, a tub of jelly slugs... Her teeth ached at the thought already.

Her hand paused over the toffees. On the rare occasion that Malfoy bought himself something from Honeydukes whilst their group visited on a Hogsmeade weekend, he always picked the toffees. He would give her one and then smack at the hands of anybody else who attempted to take one.

Amora grabbed a box and put it in the basket before taking it to be bagged up.

"Such a sweet tooth you have," Mr Flume said as he bagged up her treats. "Ah, toffees. Mr Malfoy's favourite. A spectacular choice, Miss Buckley."

Amora hummed with a small smile. "They will keep him quiet, I suppose."

Mr Flume laughed. "You are funny, Miss Buckley. Please, feel free to stop in anytime you wish."

"Thank you, Mr Flume," Amora nodded, "I will see you soon."

"In His Shadow, We Rise."

Amora was immediate. "In His Shadow, We Rise."

Next on the agenda was Madam Opal's dress shop. A quaint store towards the end of the square, which still looked the same as it did before the war, except the dresses in the window were exclusively dark shades and variations of black. Amora pursed her lips and pushed the door open. It was empty aside from an older woman humming to herself behind the counter, the smell of perfume wafting up Amora's nose.

She swallowed, glancing around, eyes blinking at all of the dresses. The only time Amora had entered Madam Opal's dress was before the Yule Ball— she had come with Kathy and Hermione, both of whom were no longer on this earth. Amora felt cold at the thought. Parts of them were still here— she could see them gushing over dresses and their dates.

"Miss Buckley," Madam Opal smiled gently, swiftly moving from behind the counter and extending her hand for Amora to shake. "The High Commander let me know that you would be arriving. I hear that you have a public appearance to make tomorrow and you require a dress."

"Apparently that is the case," Amora chuckled, "I'm not exactly sure what's going to be appropriate or not. I might need a lot of your help."

"That is what I'm here for, of course." Madam Opal waved her hand dismissively. "I feel like I remember you, darling. Why is that?"

Madam Opal started to pour champagne into a flute glass, right to the top and then passed it to her. Amora took it with a grateful smile. This must be how the upper class were treated. She took a small sip— it was crisp and cold but made Amora's belly feel warm.

"I bought a dress from you for the Yule Ball, Madam Opal," Amora replied, "It was in my fourth year of Hogwarts which must have been— Merlin, about eight years ago now."

Madam Opal shook her head. "Time flies, darling! It gets scarier the older you get. Do you still have your dress?"

"No, Madam Opal." Amora cleared her throat somewhat awkwardly. "I'm a former Order member and we could not keep most of our belongings when we initially fled. As much as I loved my dress—"

"Which one was it?" She didn't so much as flinch at the mention of The Order.

"It was like this muted blush colour, and it had stars on it," Amora explained, "The sleeves were this amazing mesh material—"

"I know the exact one," Madam Opal sighed with a smile, "Unfortunately, all of my dresses are one of a kind, but that dress was special to me. I stitched each star by hand– no magic. It took me hours. I had it by the counter, did I not? I loved to stare at it all day."

Amora grinned, "Yes, it was here," she gestured in the area they stood. "It was so beautiful."

Madam Opal hummed and then went quiet for a moment. "I think I know exactly what you would like for your appearance tomorrow."

D.M + A.B

"It's darker, it's mature, it's everything!" Madam Opal gushed, "Nobody will question whether or not you are worthy of the High Commander, they will question if he is worthy enough of you!"

Amora giggled. "You're too kind, Madam Opal. Thank you so much for your help."

"It's nothing," Madam Opal huffed, moving behind the counter. "I'll give you a receipt for it— not that I expect to ever see it returned here. It was made for you, darling."

"Thank you, again," Amora beamed, and then perhaps dangerously added, "It was nice to talk to another woman, Madam Opal."

Madam Opal's eyes flickered. "I know," she murmured and reached across the counter to pat Amora's hand. "I know, darling. Come here."

She moved back around the counter and grabbed Amora into a hug. Amora melted into it, it felt motherly and made her feel young and protected.

"In His Shadow, We Resist."

Amora felt her heart skip a beat. It was as if a bucket of cold water had been chucked over her. She stumbled out of the hug, her eyes wide and her mouth nearly falling open. Madam Opal watched her wearily. Amora's heart was pounding— Malfoy told her there were Oathkeepers everywhere. What if she was one?

"You do not need to say anything, Miss Buckley," Madam Opal murmured, "I know somebody who isn't a believer when I see one. A lot of the ladies that come to my shop are sick of this."

Amora swallowed harshly. "I have no clue what you are talking about, Madam Opal."

She had a mission to complete; she couldn't do it if she was caught out by a dressmaker.

"I see," Madam Opal said disappointedly, "Well I have no idea what you are talking about either, Miss Buckley. You must have heard me wrong."

"I must have," Amora agreed.

Madam Opal grabbed something from behind the desk. "I think this clip would suit the dress perfectly, Miss Buckley. If you pinned your front pieces back, you would look incredibly elegant."

"Thank you," Amora accepted it, glancing down at the silver crescent moon.

"Whether you believe in the Dark Lord's cause or not, every woman deserves protection, Miss Buckley," Madam Opal said, "And if the High Commander attempts to beat or rape you, a prick of that clip will have him unconscious and Obliviated in moments."

"Malfoy doesn't— he wouldn't—"

"Usually, they don't at first," Madam Opal agreed, "Just keep the clip. Everybody knows of the High Commander's temper. I fear for you, Miss Buckley. You have a soft soul."

"Don't fear for me, Madam Opal," Amora told her sternly.

"Feel free to visit me anytime," Madam Opal's voice was perkier as she drifted back behind the counter, smoothing her hands over a mesh material she had been stitching on. "If you miss talking to other women, Miss Buckley, then I know a few that might love to talk to you."

Amora's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Goodbye, Madam Opal. In His Shadow, We Rise."

"In His Shadow, We Rise, Miss Buckley."

D.M + A.B

Amora could not stop thinking about Madam Opal's words for the rest of the day. She hung her dress on the front of her wardrobe, still concealed in its protective bag, and stared at it, her eyes burning at the lady's name on the front.

Amora was scared to ask her what exactly she had meant by resisting, though she had a very strong feeling she knew. She was scared it was a hoax, that perhaps Malfoy had paid Opal off to try and get Amora to confess she was a double agent. Maybe Madam Opal was an Oathkeeper.

What if Madam Opal hadn't been setting her up? What if there was a secret resistance of women who disagreed with Voldemort? Who had conformed to avoid rape and torture and murder?

Amora felt a crinkle in her pocket and pulled out the receipt Madam Opal had given her. Her eyes bulged at the Galleons at the bottom. Her Yule Ball dress had cost nowhere near the amount of this one— in fact, nothing Amora had ever owned had cost as much as this dress.

The most curious part of the receipt, however, was that it was not Draco Malfoy's name printed below, but Lucius Malfoy's name instead. Her brows furrowed, her lips parting. The heir himself stood in the doorway just as she held it up.

"Did you find a —"

"Does your father still pay for everything?" Amora asked him, "Do you not have access to your own vault or something?"

There was a few moments of silence. Malfoy blinked, his sharp features scrunching in confusion. He stepped into her bedroom.

"Excuse me, Buckley? What does it matter to you?"

"It's just—" She suddenly realised it was not her place to ask. "It doesn't matter, I was just wondering because of this receipt."

Malfoy snatched it from her hand. Amora shuddered when his finger very slightly skimmed the edge of her nail, the scent of his cologne stronger from how close he was to her now. She watched his silver eyes dart over the receipt.

"I didn't realise he never closed the tab," Malfoy shrugged, and scrunched the receipt, shoving it deep into the pocket of his robes. "Opal should have asked me for my billing address when I wrote to her."

"Why would he have closed it?"

Malfoy's eyes glinted. His face was hard. "Why do you think?" He spat.

"I don't—" Amora blinked, furrowing her brows. Her stomach dropped. "Is she..."

Malfoy laughed bitterly. "For fuck sake, Buckley! Are you seriously about to ask me what everybody already fucking knows?"

So Narcissa Malfoy had died then. Amora racked her head for a memory, a newspaper clipping, a voice over the radio, an announcement from Moody... There was nothing. Either she had forgotten or she had never known.

"I don't–" Amora shook her head. "I can't remember anything about your mother being in the papers, I didn't realise—"

"My mother is none of your business," Malfoy growled at her, "If you didn't know, now you do. And don't fucking mention it again."

Amora wasn't sure she had seen him lose his cool exterior so badly yet. She moved back nervously, the back of her eyes hot, and she swore she would die if she felt any tears well in her eyes.

She knew how he felt. For at least a couple of years afterwards, it felt as though there was a ticking bomb inside her chest, right where her heart should be, and it could blow at the slightest mention of her dead mother. Amora missed that woman terribly, more than she could her absent father, but, if she remembered correctly, Malfoy had been even closer to his mother than she had hers.

There were a few moments of silence. Malfoy's chest heaved. Amora looked anywhere but his face. She thought about what Madam Opal had said about Malfoy losing his temper.

"I found a dress," her voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't realise how much it cost."

Malfoy's lips pursed. "It doesn't matter," he said, slightly calmer now, and ran a hand through his white hair. "We'll need to run through a few things for tomorrow. I'll make some dinner."

D.M + A.B

Dinner was a quiet affair, with each enjoying a lamb shank, some creamy mashed potato, asparagus on the side, and a seat apart as always. Amora was pleasantly surprised by Malfoy's culinary skills this time around. For a brief moment, part of her wondered if Malfoy kept the house elves at his private beck and call for times like these.

"It's important that tomorrow, no matter what sort of questions the press shoots at you, you must keep calm," Malfoy said, pushing his plate away and dabbing the side of his mouth with his serviette. "Don't give me that look, Buckley. We both know what you can be like."

"What is that supposed to–"

"We both know what that means." Malfoy raised a brow. "I recall several instances during school where you turned up to classes with bruised knuckles."

Amora scrunched her face up. "Several? When? There was only one time when Leon upset me."

Malfoy stilled. "You honestly do not remember?"

She laughed a little. "Remember punching people at school? No, I—" It was as if the names were on the tip of her tongue all of a sudden. "Oh my gosh! I remember. Bones and Smith."

"I think there might have been a couple more," Malfoy shrugged and added quickly, "Why are you forgetting things that happened at Hogwarts? Shouldn't The Order have removed your memories of them?"

Amora thought for a second. "Perhaps I just forgot naturally. I don't think there's much else I don't remember. Time is a curse."

"So is Obliviation," Malfoy murmured, "That's beside the point though. They might ask you questions about the Order. You just need to answer as if they are the BMA themselves."

"I know what to say," Amora said, I trained for over a month for this. "I just want to know what to expect. Is it a press conference of sorts?"

Malfoy's hands clasped together above the table, slender fingers hooking together. "Not exactly. We'll make an appearance outside the Ministry for my father's speech. We will stop and talk to the Daily Prophet."

Amora hummed. "What is your father going to say, by the way?" She asked, "I mean, what was he expecting telling everybody that nobody had survived the attack? Did people not know I had been sent to the factory?"

"Well, I assume he will tell the press that it was to prevent fear-mongering, or that he had no idea himself. I'm not sure what his point is going to be. You were documented, there was an obituary with your name on it," Malfoy replied, "I'm curious about his angle."

"So you have no idea either?"

"None at all," Malfoy shrugged, "I'm sure his publicity team will have come up with something to sway the press. Anyway, we don't have to worry about whatever he says. He's there to handle the politics, we're there to—"

"Distract?"

"Precisely," Malfoy nodded, "Now you are getting the hang of it."

Amora cupped her hands around her mug of green tea to keep her hands warm. Despite the April weather warming the grounds, she couldn't help but wince every time her bare feet hit the floorboards of her bedroom, or gasp when she would walk past an open window. No matter how much she bundled herself up at night with the extra blankets, she couldn't quite manage to warm up.

"Can I ask what it is that you do as High Commander?" Amora asked, "You know, other than continuously save your father's reputation, of course."

"Why?"

"Curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Buckley."

"Yes well, satisfaction brought it back, Malfoy," Amora stabbed.

"Earn my trust," Malfoy replied, standing up from the table. "Maybe then I will keep you in the know."

He grabbed both their bowls and left the room. Amora glared daggers into the back of his platinum head, imagining the sharpest knife sticking through the centre of his broad shoulders. After all, that was what he had done to her before he had the nerve to mention trust. Amora wondered if he knew the meaning of the word. 

...

this chapter is a bit short but there's lots to think about! the next chapter will be malfoy and amora's public appearance, I'm so excited!!!! 

i hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading :)

dyiansobrien 

w/c: 3.8k