it's human; we all put self interest first.
― euripides, medea

       NADYA REMEMBERS THE LAST TIME SHE STAYED IN THE BERKOV MANSION. 

Ivan had been staying in Bulgaria with his cousin — Nadya's uncle and aunt. She'd never met them before, of course, but she'd heard stories: they run naked through the hills, they're wild and crazy, you'll never be like them, darling. Ivan was the family disgrace, a child born out of wedlock (a mistake that was hastily remedied by the knife at the preacher's throat). Meanwhile, Nadya was the jewel of her father's affections, his lovely little Hope. They would dress her uplike children playing dolls, parade her before their friends and family, and while the adults drank wine and nibbled on their food, Nadya would sit on their plush cushions, nibble on her bread, and listen. 

The mansion had been filled with life, then. They had guests over almost every night — despite the economic crises, the Berkov's would always come out on top, no matter how many others had to be pushed back down. So Nadya would sleep on her velveteen blankets, let her mother press a soft, rose-smelling kiss to her head, and would always do what was expected of her. 

Her parents had died, result of a business deal gone wrong, and Nadya had been left with their fortune, shipped off to join her cousin in Bulgaria. Shamefully, she had liked it there — everything was simple, always black and white, right or wrong like a game of chess. There were no shades of grey, no lies and tricks to be wary of. 

     Now, the Berkova mansion  is empty and barren, like a field stripped bare. The rooms are left shrouded in darkness, and those that are lit are barely so, only brightened by the slightest, dimmest of lights. It's almost as if time is frozen — nothing has changed since she left the house ten years ago —  not even the furniture has been moved. Dotty, the old house elf, must've cared too much. There's not much dust, thanks to Dotty, but the poignant absence of any other living presence could not be more obvious from the unused bedrooms, the closed doors. The shadows dance over the walls like marionettes on strings, the ever-reaching darkness unflinchingly strong. 

      Nadya, seated on her bed, heaves a sigh. She barely recognises herself in the mirror anymore —  like a distorted painting, where all her features have been accurately sketched, but the paper has been torn apart and stuck back together roughly, awkwardly, with uneven lines and incorrect angles. It's not just that; she feels so hot all the time, permanently running a fever. As if her soul is burning in hell, and her body is racing to catch up, crumbling to ashes. 

       Shit, maybe she's just getting sick. She shouldn't be so dramatic, she reminds herself. We all know how that ended, last time you got like this. 

Her inner voice is right, however  much it ebbs away at her spirit and scratches away her delicately painted masks. All these dramatic thoughts are just her scrambled mind trying to make sense of that sudden emptiness in her heart, screaming out for some help in trying to keep her life afloat. It doesn't mean anything. She's the same as she's always been — she has a vague purpose, though no plan on how to fulfill it. She has all the riches she'll ever need, if you discount the fact that she signed a deal to sell half her belongings. But that wasn't an impulse decision — she hates all that stuff. It just serves as a reminder of everything lost. If Nadya has to see another one of Ivan's watches, or look at her mother's pearls, or trip over her father's cane, she might just scream loud enough to brink the house down in an earthquake of dust and cracked, broken, ruins. 

     She shakes away all those cluttered thoughts, closing her eyes as she takes a deep breath. The soft inhalation of air feels like ice water on her burning, ashen heart, but she'll take what she can get. Maybe the water will wash and scrape away at all the ash, until all that is left is a raw, functional organ. 

       Years ago, while Nadya was at Durmstrang and Ivan was at Hogwarts, they had written to each other in scrawling, idiotic calligraphy. Ivan had handwriting that looked to have been written by an idiot, while Nadya's was perfect print. It had been a comfort to her — tucked away in all those blank white crevices, Nadya had often felt cut off from the rest of the world, completely isolated and alone. It was like being stranded in the Arctic with only a flashlight, and all you could was trudge and trudge and take another step, and then another, thinking one more step, one more step. 

      Many students who attended Durmstrang shared that feeling. After all, Grindelwald felt so isolated he started a revolution, trying to integrate wizards and muggles together so they could all live in harmony and balance. 

When she phrases it like that, it doesn't sound so terrible. (Of course, Grindelwald was a monster and Nadya is revolted at the mention of his name.) 

       Anyway, the letters had become such an important part of their lives — not just to keep in contact, but as a record of everything they were doing, giving a purpose to every action they made — that they had continued the habit after graduation, once a week, every week. It was habitual. It was routine. And it was good. 

(Maybe Nadya wasn't so alone in the world after all.)

     So, sitting on her bed, the cushions arranged against her back in a throne-like style, Nadya grabs her quill and ink, tearing off a piece of parchment. Now, what to write . . . she chews the edge of her quill, a little ink spilling onto her lips and staining them black. The ink might be poisonous; she isn't sure, but she doesn't bother wiping it away. If she's going to die of ink poisoning, she might as well die there and then. No — Nadya thinks she'll die facing death right in the eyes, greeting him cordially, like the third brother in that children's story they were told, once.

       Dear Ivan, 

things have been odd since you left.  I feel . . . .

       Nadya pauses at her scratchy, calligraphic writing to chew her lip. How does she feel?

She feels like the Earth has been shoved and pushed off it's axis by a vengeful god. Like the ground is shaking and tearing itself apart, the oceans parting and acting out of order. The planets stop orbiting, the sun stops shining. Time standing still, everything frozen, except Nadya with her racing mind, her headache, her panicked thoughts. It feels like a half of herself has been ripped away, leaving only a bloody mess of skin and bones and ripped, torn skin, while her other half, the only member of her family she truly cared for, steps somewhere she can't follow. 

You could follow, her inner voice murmurs. And she could; Nadya doesn't fear death, it's just another adventure, another untrodden way for her to venture down. The road Robert Frost spoke of, the path she means to find. But first; there is work to be done. The pen reaches for paper, again.

      . . . it feels like death. Does all death feel like this? Is this how grief is supposed to fail? I don't feel sad, or upset, or anything like I'm supposed to. I just feel angry. How could this happen? 

       Right, that sounds like enough about her feelings. Nadya always used to start her letters with a paragraph about how she was feeling — Ivan would always mock them (apparently Nadya has a habit of being extremely detached from everything, like a string cut loose, stranded on an abandoned island), calling Nadya a fool. Don't think, just do, he would write. 

 — This time a little shakier, but quill meets parchment. 

      I wonder how it happened. Remember the Tale of the Three Brothers? Was it like that? Did death come for you at last, cloaked in invisibility, a wand you couldn't beat gripped in his right hand? Did you bargain with him, barter for more time? I would like to believe that; at least then it would mean you didn't leave voluntarily. 

       Don't worry, I know you didn't kill yourself. I know you never would — I know they're wrong about everything. The police, the Aurors, they all spout their bullshit and expect me to believe it because I'm a woman, because I'm not supposed to think for myself. They didn't know you like I did, they didn't understand you — I know I'm the only one who can do this, and I believe I can. "All things are possible to him who believes." — Mark, 9:23. 

      You always used to say: there's no justice in the world, not unless we make it. And I would always laugh at you, do you remember? I thought it was nonsense. Only now do I understand what you meant — perhaps you foresaw this day coming, perhaps you saw your own demise in a crystal ball or something. I understand now, I see everything so clearly, as if a film has been lifted from my eyes. They will get what is coming to them, all of them. You will have justice, even if I have to die to give it to you. 

        First, I will find whoever murdered you. And I will make them pay, I will wreak vengeance upon them, I will rip them apart and take away whatever they care for most, until they are begging for death. When they tire of dying, I will kill them again. When I tire of killing, they will die. 

     Second, I will tear apart these ridiculous, corrupted justice systems. They failed us once, during the war. They failed us again, with Grindelwald. They have failed me for the last time, and now I think it is time some reforms are set in place. The world would be a safer place. So — really, truly, I think I am helping people. They will be thanking me, before this is all over. 

       So don't worry. You will be at peace soon — and your murderers will be six feet under. I plan to — 

— There's a loud thud from the floor below, and then a curse, ripping through the fragile tranquility of the air. Nadya stills, partway through a sentence, something close to fear coursing through her body. Is this Ivan's murderer, here to finish the job? Is today going to end with a rope tied around her neck and a sickening snap, with her walking into the darkness? 

Confined in the sweet prison of her bedroom, Nadya resists the urge to charge downstairs. She's not afraid —  well, maybe she is a little bit. But doesn't she have a right to be? Berkova's are dropping like withered, desiccated flies these days, wings torn off by a particularly sadistic killer. 

She leans back a little more, onto those soft, comfortable, safe cushions. 

      She's being irrational, consumed by fear of ending up just like her cousin. Do you truly want to die here, cowering in your bedroom? No, she doesn't. Whenever she's imagined it, Nadya has died facing death's eyes without a hint of terror, posture secure, facade calm. She doesn't mean to live her life shying away from her problems like a Muggle, hiding away in her room and hoping that danger won't meet her. She is dishonouring Ivan —  Ivan, who would've wrestled with death himself, who would have spat and choked and cried blood just to survive. If he were here, he'd be ashamed of her. 

Despite the clarity of her thoughts, she can't help the thudding of her heart in her ears, echoing and loud enough to bring the house down. God help her, she can barely hear her own thoughts, heartbeats like a mantra: thud, thud, thud. The drums before a war, announcing the invading army's arrival. 

The floorboard creaks; she pauses, heart stopping, blood freezing. Nothing happens. Maybe she's imagining the noise. 

      Gripping her wand in one hand and a knife in another like a circus performer opening their throat to swallow flame, practically inviting danger, she pushes open the door to her bedroom, hoping —  praying that Dotty oiled the hinges. She must've, for door swing opens with terrifying stillness, inviting her to take a step out of her self proclaimed palace, and descend into the lower house.

The staircase is deserted, completely empty — a barren husk of what it should be. Each step is filled with tentative violence, walking on a tightrope pulled between murder and fear, ire and tears. Despite that all, every muscle, every hair on Nadya's body pulls taut, her instincts going haywire. The silence is too silent; the sound is too soundless, as they always are. Something is very wrong. 

She takes another few steps, bare feet pressing into the velvet carpet, the rough edges chafing her heels. From this new vantage point, she has a clear view of all the main windows — none of which are open. So how could anyone get in? There are Anti-Apparition charms cast all around the mansion, and the doors are securely locked and bolted with House-Elf magic — so much so that the mansion often feels more like a prison than a home. 

      By the time she has reached the bottom of the stairs, she has begun to wonder if she simply imagined the whole thing. Maybe that's what happens in grief; you imagine sounds that are not there, and see people who do not exist. Hear voices of the dead. Maybe she's finally losing her mind among all this chaos, maybe something in her has snapped for good and left her in abandoned shards. 

       But then there is a loud clatter, another curse. And the fear of insanity flies away, and the anger is back, louder, more furious than ever. A fire ignites in her stomach and her heart; all consuming wildfire, poisonous ire, irrational fury. This is her house, her castle, her fortress. Her fist clenches around the blade of the knife, and blood begins to drip onto the carpet. She barely notices, her hand completely numb with anger. 

      The voice speaks again, sounding young and inexperienced. Nadya raises her wand anyway and pushes open the door to the study. It used to be where Ivan (and Nadya's father, when she was very young) would work, but now it is just another deserted room, covered in dust, filled to the brim with odd ends that she hasn't figured out where to put. Some sort of disposal for everything she'd rather not see, a hurricane of messy organisation and panicked grief. And in the centre of it all; a man, back turned.

"Expelliarmus," she whispers, and his wand flies out of his hand, clattering onto the floor behind one of the lamps. He turns around so fast he almost falls over, tipping off-balance like an acrobat forgetting how to walk, teetering on the edge of self-destruction. 

        He's young — he could be her age, judging by the lack of facial hair and youthful haircut. He didn't fight in the war, she can tell — not for Grindelwald, not for the Ministry. If he had fought, he would be dead. "I—"

      "Who are you?" she seethes, pointing her wand at him. 

      He stares at it, almost turning himself cross-eyed, but opens his mouth to answer obediently. "I was — " 

      "Nevermind, I don't care," she interrupts, her rage simmering beneath her mask of calm, edging her on, urging her to do something. She feels all skittish, every moment of silence torture, every second of still wracked with pain. "What do you want?"

      He gestures around at the room filled with valuables; silver and gold and bronze, emeralds and sapphires and rubies. Maybe she should move this all to the Gringotts vault; it seems like a good idea. The mansion isn't as safe as she previously assumed. "Isn't it obvious?"

      At his wit, she grits her teeth, resisting the urge to lunge and scratch him across the face. Settling for a lesser torture, with a wave of her wand a thin line of red is struck along his cheekbone, looking remarkably similar to a scratch of her knife. He touches his cheek, looking utterly stunned as his fingers come away stained crimson red. "Why are you robbing me? Why not somebody else?"

He shrugs, though she can see him trembling. He's terrified, but futilely attempting to mask his fear. His courage is a front — that's all courage is, but his courage is more false and fraud than anyone else's. "I need the money." Of course. That's all it's ever about; money. "Someone told me someone rich lived here; a woman, living alone. Anti-Apparition charms were down.  It was supposed to be easy — I just walk in and take what I want."

      "Who told you so?" Another shrug. Another wave of her wand, another line of red. "I asked you a question."

       "I don't know — I — he had a cloak on, I never saw his face. He might've been disguising himself, I don't know. He was drunk in a bar, and I needed the money."

        "Did he give you a name?" The rage has begun to die down, replaced by something close to offense. She's glad she's calming down —  her hand is beginning to sting from the cut, covered in red. And — now she can think more clearly about what to do, what questions to ask. "Any kind of insurance? Any information at all?"

       The idiot shakes his head. Something inside Nadya dies a little, a piece of rotting shame and broken pottery. "It —it was just a job? Look, please don't hurt me. I'll leave you alone, I'll go, I'll never come here again, I swear, honestly. Just please, please don't — "

       "Are all Englishmen this pathetic?" she asks, mostly to herself. "Running away with your tail between your legs?" 

      He stiffens, but makes no move to contradict her — his eyes deep, endless spirals of panic. "Are you going to kill me?" 

      She doesn't answer. "What's your name?"

      "Rowle." 

       "Yes." 

       "Yes, what?" he asks, something akin to horror flashing over those skeletal husks he calls eyes. They're so black — Nadya has always found dark eyes attractive; there's something deep and defined about them. They have depth, inner thoughts and feelings — not just shallow fronts and drowning venom. But his eyes are just blank, nothing behind except empty space.

        "Yes, I'm going to kill you." Nadya smiles a wicked smile. He scrambles backward, knocking over a lamp — it clatters onto the floor, shards of glass scattering everywhere. One slips suspiciously close to her bare feet, scratching the edge of her toes. "You attended Hogwarts, yes? Slytherin, I assume? I remember you from the letters."

 "What letters?" he hisses, reaching for anything, a blade, a knife — Nadya flicks her wand, and his own snaps in half, revealing the dragon heartstring within. He looks truly scared then, paling, his eyes flashing watery. Something about taking a wizard's wand will always scare them more than anything else you could do — it's like stripping away their essence, slowly, painfully —  until all that is left is a useless, pathetic husk. "I didn't do anything, I swear."

       "You're rich," Nadya tells him — another wave of her wand, and his hands are bound. "You were friends with my cousin. You don't need the money —  no, you're looking for something — maybe you helped kill him, maybe you're covering up for someone, but you know something. About my cousin's murder." Realisation flashes across his face like a darkened shadow. Her scrambles backwards again. "So, yes, I'm going to kill you."

      "Ivan killed himself, he was crazy — " his voice cracks, tainted by guilt. He may as well have spelled it all out, every emotion written across his face. "Are you going to torture me?" 

       "No," Nadya tells him. "I don't do torture. And whoever you're covering for, you're clearly more scared of them than you are me."

       She sees it then — the acceptance of his fate, the willingness to make this dusty room his grave. Broken soldiers are the best soldiers — they have nothing more to lose. Whoever killed Ivan knows what they are doing —  knew exactly how this would end. So why did they bother with this ridiculous farce? 

His face hardens into stone, his eyes shutting tight as he waits for the killing blow, a hint of relief in a lifetime of pain. 

She waits a second before she casts it — just to leave him in some suspense. Give him time to stew, to wait, just to see if he'll snap. Maybe he'll regret it, maybe he'll say something profound that will spell out her success. "Any last words?"

      "Get it over with," he growls. 

      She shrugs. "Fine." 

      His eyes open in his panic, pure fear hidden within, creeping to the surface like a snake unleashing it's venom a second too late, coiling around his heart and squeezing, strangling. Terror screaming louder than everything else. "Wait — " 

       It's too late, her wand is already moving. There's a flash of green light, a thud that echoes through the house like Big Ben at night, chiming through the alleys of Central London.

 And then he is dead. 

                                             Silence. 

        "Dotty!"

       "Miss!" The house-elf Apparates in with a crack, bowing slightly at her mistress. She catches sight of the body sprawled across the floor, the blood-stained glass, Nadya's palm, dripping with red. Swaying like she's about to faint, she manages to form words. "What —  "

       "Dispose of the body," Nadya orders as politely as possible, ensuring her voice is as sweet as it can be, to soften the blow. "I'll be upstairs."

        "I — What — as you wish, mistress." She heaves a sigh. But she must be used to this by now. She probably just never imagined that Nadya would commit such a sin. 

     Now that Rowle is dead, Nadya feels this sense of satisfaction — as if she has ticked something off her to-do list, crossed out a name marked in red. She makes a mental note to write down every one of Ivan's old school friends that were mentioned in his letters — after all, they were such a tightly knit group that if one knew of his murder, the others must have. They are all guilty, or none are — and something tells her that is is the former. 

     She has a purpose now — a clear sense of direction, somewhere to go, a path to walk. She will write their names in Rowle's blood, and cross them off with something similar —  some grotesque way of marking exactly what Every one of those names will be crossed off from her vendetta soon enough — Abraxas Malfoy, Walburga Black. Rotten to the core, all of them. 

     But when Nadya enters her bedroom again,  she finds that her drafted letter to Ivan is nowhere to be found. 

a/n: this chapters not so good, but i hope you like it ! 

lyra