𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 cursed heiress celeste malfoy
finds herself torn across two battles
of horror and humiliation.
━━ ❝ They both left the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating. ❞
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❝ I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black ❞
― Sylvia Plath
The seventh floor was deserted. There was no trace of life, no evidence that anyone was there. The entrance to Dumbledore's office was open ― that menacing hippogriff still standing guard. Its right wing was raised, revealing a spiral staircase up the headmaster's tower.
Celeste had climbed it and found the room empty as well. Where had everyone gone?
She stood at the center of the oval room, wary of all the whimsical machines and artifacts surrounding her. There were bronze globes and silver trinkets. Sterling stars hung from the midnight ceiling with tiny faeries fluttering through them. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient books, thrumming with power and promise.
But where would a prophecy be put?
She walked behind the grand desk, cautious not to touch anything. There was nothing but some blank pages and worn quills. Her heart hammered, betraying her thoughts. If she was caught, what could she possibly say?
If Celeste was bound by an oath, was this really considered treachery?
That sweet, cruel voice lingered by her ear. Certainly, it said. You're a liar and a traitor. Thief too, it now seems.
She clenched her jaw, pulling open the first drawer of the desk. Nothing. Then the second, which held nothing but some pots of ink. The third contained limp scrolls, bound by twine or ribbon. They made her heart leap ― until she realized they carried no whispers of magic.
The fourth and fifth drawers held nothing of note. The sixth was the same, stuffed with several boxes of pumpkin pasties. Celeste was losing patience. Where else might they be?
She aggressively yanked on the seventh drawer when a brilliant flash of aquamarine illuminated the room. Rolling around in a silver tray, a glass ball pulsed with light and the sound of secrecy. It was filled with mist or liquid, the gleaming threads coiling and twisting through the space. Gingerly, she picked it up.
A voice of a different world hissed in her head at the touch and it began to speak. The voice was gentle, but not kind.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ― and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."
