Stars vibrated in the inky black sky like fluttering fireflies. The thin nail of a shy moon, unable to show itself in all its fullness, embraced a lone star, brighter than the others. The entire celestial vault shone with a remote and suggestive beauty, but Alya couldn't admire it. The view of the night sky was concealed from her behind a thick blanket of intertwining branches, which had become familiar to her.

Alya was - or, rather, she was dreaming of being - inside the uncultivated garden that surrounded the house of her dream friend, Merope.

Alya walked uncertainly, occasionally stumbling through the scattered weeds. Although she was aware that she was inside a dream, every sensation, smell and noise seemed extremely real to her: the scent of moss, the crunching of dry leaves shattering like fragile crystals under her feet, the dense silence that enveloped her, the subtle rustle of Merope's robe as she walked resolutely a few metres ahead.

Alya cast furtive glances in all directions around her. She was a little afraid of the deep darkness around her. It was the first time Merope had led her outside her small, cramped home. Everything looked grim and dangerous. Even though Alya's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, the dark outlines of the trees with their twisted trunks seemed to take on the appearance of disturbing monstrous figures. Alya had to appeal to all her common sense not to fall into the traps that the night held for her. They are only trees. They are only trees, she was repeating to herself like a mantra.

Merope, who walked in front of her like a guide, didn't look intimidated at all. After all, it was her garden. The two young girls had slipped out of the house and had already walked a few metres, leaving the gloomy house behind them. Merope seemed determined to get as close as possible to the gate. When she finally stopped, Alya looked behind her: the old wooden door was still clearly visible, although shrouded in the darkness of the night. One could still see the corpse of the dead snake hanging from a rusty nail. Alya was horrified every time she saw it.

"Is it really necessary to always keep that junk there, hanging by the door?" Alya asked with sophisticated disgust, worthy of a noblewoman. Her words sounded like a breathy whisper in the ancient language of Parseltongue. She and Merope always spoke Parseltongue when they met.

"My brother Morfin put it there. And my father demands that it is immediately clear to which family this property belongs. It is a warning to unwanted visitors." replied Merope simply, looking at Alya with her squinting eyes, which looked in two opposite directions. Her cheekbones had become more prominent and pronounced since the last time Alya had seen her, a sign of excessive thinness. The patched and tattered robe that fell broadly down her body was unable to hide Merope's bony figure. The older the girl grew, the greater the sense of resigned defeat that accompanied her. If a stranger had happened to be there at that moment, he could easily have mistaken Merope for a ghost.

"By the way, aren't you afraid that your father and brother might find out that you left the house in the middle of the night?" asked Alya worriedly.

"Don't worry about them. They're both outside right now. A punitive expedition. A Muggle dared to call my father an 'old nutter' -- he didn't take it well." explained Merope with a distressed air. "They'll definitely be back very late," she added prominently.

Alya shuddered at the thought of what Merope's two despicable relatives might have done to the poor Muggle.

"On the plus side, we can enjoy the whole house and the whole garden. Finally, we can do whatever we want!" exclaimed the slender Merope enthusiastically. She spread her arms wide as if she wanted to embrace every inch of her miserable, abandoned yard. A picture came to Alya's mind of a puny bird preparing to fly for the first time. She was filled with a sad sense of compassion. Was this what the existence of her mysterious dream friend was like? Rare and longed-for glimpses of freedom, carved out in the lonely moments when her brother and father went to the village to unleash all their evil on innocent Muggles?

At that moment, Alya noticed that from one of her friend's hands dangled the porcelain doll with golden hair. The same one little Black owned in Grimmauld Place, abandoned to dust, on a shelf in her room.

"And what are you going to do here?" Alya asked, looking around with the same expression of veiled disapproval that her mother Walburga would have had at the sight of such a place.

"Dancing!" replied Merope, clapping her hands in front of her face, ecstatic.

"What?" echoed Alya, stunned.

"Dancing. Learning to dance, actually. I've never learned," Merope said simply. Alya was unable to reply, so interjected was she. Dancing in the middle of the night, in the dark, in a garden full of weeds, risking to be discovered by two shady wizards prone to painful punishment, was certainly not the answer she had expected.

"Can you dance, Alya?" asked Merope, drawing Alya out of her considerations.

"Uh? Ah, yes, of course. My mother has been giving me lessons since I was a little kid." she replied caught a little off guard.

"Then you can teach me. You will teach me, won't you?" pleaded Merope to her in a childish voice.

Alya answered her with an unconvinced look, turned away from the gate. She feared the return of her brother and her friend's father. She didn't want to risk being attacked for some silly dance steps!

"I taught you to speak Parseltongue," Merope insisted, noting Alya's indecision. This last comment had the desired effect, for finally Alya said with a resigned sigh:

"Alright, alright! I'll teach you a few steps."

"How nice! Thank you!" squeaked Merope joyfully.

"We'll need suitable music, though --" commented Alya, half-heartedly, weighing with her eyes the gloomy condition of the place she was in. Surely, she would have preferred to give dance lessons in a sumptuous room with a marble floor and sparkling lights, like the one present at Arcturus Black's Manor. Unfortunately, around little Black there was nothing but an expanse of dry earth, rotting foliage and dense darkness.

"Don't worry about it. I had already thought of that," Merope replied in a practical tone, pointing her wand at the doll she had momentarily leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. She mumbled an incantation that Alya couodn't understand and the scarlet, rose-shaped mouth of the enchanted doll began to move as if to speak. However, from the false lips came not words, but soft musical notes intoning a waltz. The melody soon spread throughout the courtyard, hovering over the thick trees and the two girls like mist.

"Much better!" commented Alya, a little satisfied. Then she assumed a standing stance, resembling a soldier at attention.

"The secret to dancing a good waltz is the steps. They are few and simple, but must be learnt to perfection. They must become a daily movement, like breathing or drinking a glass of water." she explained with her chin up, flaunting a stern tone, trying to imitate that of her mother, Walburga. Merope listened to her with deep attention, watching her in complete trepidation.

Alya loosened her body from the rigidity it had assumed and plunged into the dance, positioning her arms in front of her, embracing an invisible partner. One, two, three. One, two, three. Her feet moved light and fast, riding the notes. Alya floated elegantly and gracefully, as if she were a simple extension of the melody itself. Her every movement merged with the music. Alya loved to dance and every part of her body expressed it loudly. In that moment she felt free, happy, forgetting even the gloomy place where she was. She even forgot Merope's presence, until Merope began to clap her hands ecstatically, full of admiration.

"Oh Alya, you dance so divinely!" laughed Merope. Alya smiled smugly.

"Now you try! Come on, get up!" Alya urged her.

Merope got to her feet, shaking off some dried leaves that had stuck to her robe. She reached Alya trotting like a cheerful schoolgirl on her first day of school.

"First, it's necessary to have good posture. Don't stand hunched over like an old hag! Chin up, back straight, chest open," Alya scolded her, trying to straighten Merope's hunched shoulders, which were too used to being closed in on themselves like a protective shell. With her index finger she pushed her friend's stubby chin up a little.

"Your whole body must express beauty, pride, regal elegance. Think of yourself as a lady or a princess!" Alya tried to encourage Merope, noticing her sense of bewilderment at assuming a posture that communicated any self-assurance.

"I 'm the complete opposite of a princess," sighed Merope sorrowfully.

"Well, then pretend to be one!" retorted Alya, winking at her.

"The steps are quite simple. The important thing is to follow the tempo marked by the music and, for that, you need a lot of practice." she explained "Look how I do it -- one, two, three. One, two, three," Alya showed the movements again, slowly.

"Now you try it!" she finally said, moving a couple of metres away from Merope so as to give her space to move.

Merope began to paw uncertainly on the hard ground. Her arms swayed terribly.

"Just concentrate on your feet, Merope! We'll deal with the arms later," Alya advised, standing by a tree, arms folded. Her glittering grey eyes minutely observed her friend's every movement.

However, Alya's suggestions weren't very effective; Merope moved ungainly, unsure of every step, visibly wobbling. She seemed to be in a field full of eggs, which absolutely must not be stepped on. Alya tried to help and encourage her, counting and clapping her hands, in rhythm with the melody the doll kept singing without ever stopping. For a moment, Merope looked up at her friend, perhaps seeking approval. But she stumbled, tripping over her own steps and falling awkwardly to the ground. Apparently, what seemed simple and natural movements to Alya, required more effort than expected from Merope. Alya couldn't hold back a giggle as she saw the funny tumble of her clumsy friend. She remembered the rare times when she too, as a child, had stumbled in her dance steps and how her mother had severely punished her, with that obnoxious - and painful - bamboo pole with which she used to impart discipline in the Black house. The terror of being beaten by that thin but merciless stick had been instrumental in honing her dancing skills, little Black thought. However, Alya didn't feel like imparting Walburga's cruel method on poor Merope. Her life was already miserable and painful enough.

"I'm such a mess. I'll never learn!" exclaimed Merope despondently, as she struggled to get up, massaging her lower back.

"Don't beat yourself up! I told you, didn't I? You need practice. You need a lot of practice," Alya consoled her, friendly. "Come on, try again!"

Merope got to her feet again, looking sad. There were more dance steps, clumsy, indecisive. More tumbles. More distressed sighs. In fact, Alya had to admit to herself that her friend seemed to be hopeless at dancing. But she didn't tell her. She assumed that learning to dance, or at least to move gracefully, must be something very important to her.

After about half an hour of wobbly steps and ruinous falls, Alya decided it was time to take a break.

"That's enough for now. Let's get some rest!"

The two friends sat down next to each other, under the tree on which Merope had placed her porcelain doll. For a few moments, they stayed in silence, enjoying the gloomy stillness of the place, listening to their breaths that merged with the silence of the night. Alya silently thanked her dream friend to be next to her. Without her, that remote and desolate place would have seemed frighteningly eerie. With Merope, however, she felt calm and felt no fear. However, she could not help but wonder how anyone could live in such a place. Yet Merope seemed to be so attached to that house, that garden, that place almost forgotten by the world, as if she could belong nowhere else. Her slender, distressed figure looked a faithful reflection of the neglect and sad sense of abandonment that seeped from the property. Or, perhaps, it would have been more accurate to say that it was the worn-out appearance of Merope's dwelling that faithfully reflected the miserable state of disrepair in which her family found itself.

Alya turned towards Merope, feeling a strong sense of pity. She observed her ungraceful profile. Her friend's gaze seemed lost in some distant thought, blankly contemplating a distant point beyond the thick blanket of trees that surrounded the garden. Her eyes shone with a light Alya had never seen. Dreams? Hope? Alya couldn't define it.

"Over there is a small hill overlooking the entire village. At the top stands a beautiful mansion. The Riddle mansion. The Riddles are the lords of the village. They own almost everything in the area. Except this property," Merope said out of the blue, with a dreamy expression. She seemed to be talking more to herself than to Alya.

"Are they wizards, too?"

"Oh no, they're Muggles. Everyone here is. Only my family possesses magical blood." replied Merope, maintaining a blank look.

"They despise us, you know -- they don't know we're wizards, of course, because of the Magic Restriction laws in Muggle Territory. But they consider us different, weirdos. Villagers often insult us when they walk past our house, and I always hear them through the kitchen window. 'Demons, scum, trash' is what they call us."

"That's why my brother and father went out tonight. They want to show them who the real scum is." Merope's tone was flat, as if what she was telling about didn't concern her.

"I'm sorry, Merope. My parents have imposed protection spells on our house to make it invisible. I think they want to avoid such acts. We also live in a neighbourhood full of Muggles, although every now and then, muggle children throw stones at our walls or windows. My brother Sirius has always found it amusing. For me, instead, it's really annoying. My parents go into a rage every time. The only reason they don't react is because they are afraid of the Ministry's reaction. They want to save face and keep the family honour high," Alya explained, trying to make Merope understand that she partly knew how she felt. But Merope didn't seem to listen to her at all. Her gaze wandered further and further over the horizon.

"The Riddle' son also often passes here, in front of my gate. Every day. He must take this route to go to the village or back to the mansion. He's got a beautiful black horse." Merope's voice no longer sounded as sad and distant as before.

A note of childish glee had crept into her words. Had it not been for the darkness that enveloped her, Alya might even have noticed the slight blush that flushed Merope's cheeks as she pronounced the words Riddle's son. However, Merope couldn't hide the glint of desire that appeared deep within her black pupils. And it was finally clear to Alya what the crux of that strange speech was.

"Do you like the Riddle' son? A Muggle guy?" asked Alya, dumbfounded. If there was one person who was in the least ideal position to have a crush on a Muggle, it was certainly Merope. Her family, her father, and her brother would certainly not welcome such news.

"I can't -- I can't help it," murmured Merope, sinking her gaunt face between her bony fingers. She took to sobbing, guilty of her own feelings.

"Oh, Merope... You are the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, the greatest pure-blood wizard of all magical lineages! To have a crush on a Muggle... that's absurd! It's so unbecoming! Just think how your father would react if he knew --"

"He must never find out! He would kill me. He would kill Riddle!" cried Merope terrified. Then she burst into tears, returning to her sobs, her face hidden between her knees. Alya looked at her dejectedly. She didn't know how to cheer her up.

"And... this Riddle you like so much, does he know about your feelings for him?" she tried to ask.

Merope's wet face resurfaced shyly, barely shaking her head.

"No, of course he doesn't! Every time he walks past our house, I hide. I don't want him to see me. I don't want him to look at me with the same disdain with which he observes the snake hanging at the door, our uncultivated garden --"

"Merope, don't be silly! You are not like the snake on the door!"

"Oh, Alya, look at me! I look like an old rag! He, on the other hand, is so handsome, elegant. He belongs to another world!"

"Well, of course he does! He's a Muggle, you're a witch --"

"I'm out of his league!"

Suddenly, Alya was seized by an epiphany.

"That's why you wanted me to teach you how to dance! To get the handsome Riddle scion to notice you!" she exclaimed forcefully, like a detective unmasking the culprit of a crime. Merope nodded.

"I thought, if he saw me more graceful - the Riddles often give dances in their mansion," stammered Merope. She had made herself small, as if she wanted to sink into the hard earth, as she confessed her hopes to Alya. Her hands, too thin, pressed her knees tightly against her chest. Once again, Alya saw her as a fragile little bird and again felt a twinge of pity.

"Then you'll have to practise hard if you want to learn to dance like a real lady," Alya remarked, reverting to her practical dance-mistress tone. She turned a complicit smile on her friend. Merope felt a little galvanised. She smiled in turn, full of gratitude.

"You are the only person I have told. The only friend I have." she said, finally, with sweetness mixed with a note of resignation.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I'm good at keeping secrets." replied Alya, trying to dilute the heavy atmosphere of sadness that had descended upon them. "Come on, get up, and let's get back to work. You need to practise!" he encouraged her.

Alya and Merope returned to their dance steps. Alya, elegant and refined, Merope clumsy and awkward. She couldn't avoid more falls. Crystal-clear laughter, revealing renewed glee, rose above the canopies of the twisted trees.

Suddenly, Merope's smiling face stiffened as if petrified. Her eyes, which had been looking in opposite directions, opened wide in fright.

"What is it?" asked Alya alarmed. But Merope did not answer. She looked terrified at the darkness beyond her friend's shoulder.

"WHO IS THERE?" suddenly roared a hoarse man's voice. Alya recognised the hissing sounds of the Parseltongue, the same ones she and Merope had been conversing with all night.

"M-my f-father -- he has returned." said Merope, trembling with terror. Her voice choked in her throat. Meanwhile, the man's heavy footsteps trod the ground, trampling noisily on branches and leaves, which creaked as if to warn of impending danger. Other, lighter, but equally menacing footsteps followed her father's.

"Quickly hide!" intimated Merope, looking at Alya with a decision he had rarely seen on her face.

"No way! I won't leave you alone!"

"He must not find you here! I don't want him to hurt you!" said Merope imperatively. She pushed Alya with unexpected force, given her slender, twiggy arms, throwing her into the darkness behind a large tree trunk.

"Ah, it is you little scum unworthy of your blood!" thundered Merope's father, emerging from the shadows. A malevolent grin appeared on his uncouth and unpleasant face.

"What are you doing out of bed? Eh?" he ranted, roughly unsheathing his wand, pointing it at his daughter who was trembling with fear in front of him. His anguish was such that he could no longer speak.

Merope stood, motionless, hunted like prey by her hunter. The gentle melody sung by the porcelain doll abandoned beside the tree was the unlikely background to this grotesque scene.

"What is this? Have you slipped out of bed to dance with dolls, you filthy nutcase?" her father mocked her, with an increasingly malicious expression. A cruel giggle sounded behind the uncouth man's back. Morfin, Merope's brother, had also joined them.

"Morfin, shut that thing up!" the father peremptorily ordered the boy behind him. The latter obeyed instantly: he swiftly waved his wand and the dulcet music died away, the doll emitted an eerie, choked gasp.

"Excellent! And you --" he hissed, turning back to Merope, staring at her with wicked eyes that betrayed a perverse satisfaction. "-- You had better teach yourself what the rules of this house are!"

"Father, p-please, I-I didn't -- I didn't do anything --" the daughter murmured pleadingly, returning her father's pitiless gaze with pleading, terrified eyes.

"CRUCIO!" shouted the uncouth man in the language of humans, without mercy. The garden, where until a few minutes before the sweet melody of an old waltz was spreading, was filled with Merope's screams of pain. An agonising sound that seemed to penetrate the bones of Alya herself, hidden in the darkness of the night, only a few metres away. The girl could not bear the cruelty inflicted on her poor defenceless friend. Unable to stay hidden and watch - and, above all, listen to those screams of suffering - without doing anything, Alya drew her wand, ready to pounce on the despicable man Merope called father. It was a very strange feeling: at the exact moment Alya was about to make the leap, something yanked her backwards. An invisible but powerful force dragged her away, far away. Images of the twisted trees and the uncultivated garden began to swirl, figures to blur, until they were lost in total darkness, much denser than at night. Finally, Alya woke up. However, Merope's cries of pain still echoed in her ears. But there was nothing she could do now.

***

3rd November, 1973. Hogwarts.

"Merope! Merope! Leave her alone!" Alya muttered in despair, trying to wriggle out of the mysterious grip that had violently awakened her.

"Alya, calm down! It's me. Reg! Wake up!" the familiar voice of her younger brother brought Alya back to reality. She opened her eyes and saw the profile of Regulus, who was staring at her very worriedly.

"Reg! I where--? Oh, I was dreaming," she sighed a little relieved. She struggled to sit up and realised she was in the Slytherin common room. She recognised the crackling of the fire dancing inside the marble fireplace, next to the black leather sofa where Alya lay. Regulus was crouched beside her.

"Dreaming! Don't minimise it! You were in the grip of nightmares. You were flailing and screaming like a madwoman! You even scared the first-years!" said the boy, casting a scornful glance at a small group of terrified kids holed up in the corner of the room.

"Hey, you! Go take a hike!" ranted Regulus at them. The small group of children didn't let him say it twice, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

"What cowardly brats! Getting scared like that, over two screams," Alya commented, clucking her tongue in disapproval. She reached for the jug of water placed permanently on the coffee table in front of the sofa and filled a crystal glass. Her mouth was muddy and her throat dry. She doubted that she had limited herself to a few screams, but didn't dare ask her brother for details.

"More than the screams, Alya, I'd say it was the language you used that terrified them," Regulus said, suddenly lowering his voice, even though there was no one left in the room but the two of them.

"I'm used to your little shows in Parseltongue by now and at home we're all - well, almost all if you count Sirius - proud of that gift of yours but -- here at Hogwarts -- you know it's different,"

"It's not something I can control, Reg!" blurted Alya. Regulus was on the verge of countering, but let it go.

"Are you fine?" he merely asked, noticing his sister's pale, sweaty face.

"Yes, Reg, I'm fine. It was just a nightmare. It's over now," Alya tried to reassure him, regaining her regal Black demeanour. At that moment, the girl noticed that her brother was not wearing the black school outfit, but the silver-green uniform of the Quidditch team. She remembered that the match between Slytherin and Gryffindor had been held that morning.

"You, rather, how was the match?" she asked, mentioning the clothing Regulus was wearing.

"The match? A disaster, I don't want to talk about it. We lost," huffed the little boy angrily.

Alya took another sip of water without commenting. She knew what that defeat meant for Regulus.

"That Potter! Damn him! He blew the Snitch out from under me. If only I didn't risk expulsion from the team, I'd throw him off his ridiculous broomstick at the first opportunity!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

'That one is so full of himself that he would bounce off his own ego unscathed. It's not worth it, Reg!" joked Alya, mockingly. Regulus allowed himself a bitter smile.

"And think Sirius is always trotting after him. The two little friends! Always strutting around. I can't stand it. I can't stand them!" again Regulus' voice was flooded with anger and frustration.

"Reg, forget about Sirius. You know what he's like -- "

"He put that arrogant Potter on a pedestal, while us, his family, his real family -- he despises us!"

"He always has." commented Alya, laconically.

"He keeps dishonouring us!" retorted Regulus, his clenched jaw looked like granite.

"Now you sound like mum!" mocked Alya amused.

"Doesn't it bother you?" blurted Regulus, in the same imperious tone as their father, Orion.

Alya turned serious again.

"Of course it bothers me. I can't stand Sirius's blowhard attitude. I'm just saying it's not worth it, getting angry like that. As I've said many times before, whether he likes it or not, Sirius is a Black and always will be. One day, perhaps, he will remember that," she sentenced in a definitive tone.

"It will be as you say. Anyway, I'm tired. Since you're fine now, can I leave you alone? I think I'll go get some rest,' Regulus said, supported.

He took left his sister in the common room and went to take refuge in his room at the men's dormitory. There, he could brood in peace over all the possible revenge he could hurl at Potter, the boy who had stolen not only the Snitch from him, but also his older brother's affection.

In September, Regulus had joined the Slytherin Quidditch team, as a Seeker, and from that moment on, Regulus seemed to have the sole objective of defeating James Potter. As Alya well knew, such competition had little to do with sport: Regulus had never forgiven him for being Sirius' best friend. The latter regarded him as a brother and Regulus couldn't stand him. He was his real brother and Sirius barely spoke to him. Alya sensed how much Regulus had to suffer, although he was too proud to admit it. A Black never shows his weaknesses. And Regulus perfectly represented every quality expected of a worthy descendant of their ancient and noble family. But Alya could see every bulwark of sadness and suffering behind that thick armour of cold pride with which Regulus faced the world. She too, after all, suffered in silence from the contempt Sirius held for her. For the distance he placed between him and the rest of the family.

One day he will remember that he is a Black, she had stated earlier. However, Alya wasn't convinced. She had only said that to abate Regulus' anger. But she hoped, strongly. She really hoped for the return of her twin brother.

Alya gave herself a quick tidy up and made her way out of the common room. Apparently she had slept most of the day, she didn't want to waste the rest of the time lambasting Sirius' reprehensible behaviour towards her family. There was already enough noise in her head. She clutched the crystal glass again and drank all the liquid. In vain.

The cold water was unable to drown out Merope's screams of pain, which had been echoing insistently in her ears ever since she woke up.

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A/N:

Hi Beauties!

I'm sorry for taking so long to post the new chapter. It was a little bit longer to write than the previous ones.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it ♡!

Kisses,
Vale