ᴅɪsᴘᴇʟ ᴍʏ ʙᴏʀᴇᴅᴏᴍ | ᴍᴀʀᴀᴅᴇᴜʀs' ᴇʀᴀ

Epilogue 4: Peter and Eliza, October 1981

Eliza combed her overlong blond hair. It had grown so much that she could compete with Lucius now. Nearby, on a chair, was her favorite leather jacket. Eliza wore only a black tank top and pants. The dark mark shrouded her hand with frightening black patterns, intertwining with small, noticeable scars and scratches. It was a map of her body, and Eliza could tell a story about each of the marks.

She touched the mark with her fingertips, examining the motion in the mirror. It was taken only a few hours ago, the skin around still burning. Eliza looked straight into the eyes of her reflection.

Few could boast about it, few could look into their own eyes and not turn away from the demons inside. But Eliza overcame a long way, survived the famous killer potion that knocked down an enormous part of Hogwarts, the death of her aunt, entered the inner circle of Lucius and get into the front rows to the Lord.

Her facial features over the past three years have tightened as if someone invisible every day was working on her face, turning the shapeless stone into the mask. She became more and more like those with Yaxleys' blood flowing inside their veins, and less and less like her mother. Her relatives—the Yaxleys - did not intend to recognize her so simply, but Eliza knew that one day they would sink to her feet, and no one else would allow themselves to even hint she was half-blood.

At the graduation ceremony, Eliza asked the Sorting Hat a question.

"Why did you send me to Hufflepuff? The softest house?"

"It's the kindest house, girl. It's filled with people who can forgive. I saw hope and decided that Hufflepuff could eradicate the blackness within you, but this was not enough. Pity."

Well, this only once again confirmed that Eliza was on the right path since even Hufflepuff could not lead her astray.

Several years of training, working undercover and endless lies. The plan was ready a long time ago. The hardest thing was to learn Obliviate and Imperius, but Eliza coped with it. At first, she thought all this was only a tough craft that required diligence, and its primary obstacle was her connection to the past. But burning bridges was easy. Yaxleys' blood bubbled inside Eliza, muffling Killbrook's dirty blood, drowning out the voice of her conscience that resisted with all its might, tried to convince the girl that her actions were wrong, but soon it stopped reminding about itself.

Eliza stopped keeping touch with her father right after school. He lost himself into drinking, and Eliza no longer wanted to waste time rescuing a drowning man who did everything in his power to drown.

Together with Peter, they rented a tiny house near London with lush bright flowers on the windowsills, ivy-covered walls and a red-tiled roof. The house was so small, cozy and light-colored that Eliza was sick of it. She could afford bigger, more luxurious, grander, but could not explain to Peter where she had so much money from. And these compact rooms, cheap curtains, a wooden creaking bed and faded lights under the dusty domes of colorless glass infuriated her.

Eliza knew what she was capable of, and next to Peter she felt like he was pulling her back. Too kind, too naïve, too cute. Sometimes she looked at him, feeling warm inside, but then she reminded herself that he was Dumbledore's double agent, just like she was the Lord's.

She didn't enter the Order of the Phoenix, but Peter told her too much. He told her about his role, and, for some reason, she hid it from Lucius and the Lord. Sometimes she wanted to shout: wake up, Peter, this old man just uses you and will throw you out when you break! But she knew it was useless. Peter needed people, Eliza needed power, and this difference between them became more and more immense.

Eliza did not justify herself; she just went to meet her wishes and was ready to pay the price. And her wishes came true one by one, because they were paid for.