Suddenly, a bodiless voice penetrates the blackness.
“Ah, Evander! We meet again.”
The man spins around; another figure has appeared. The silhouette appears to be twirling a wand absentmindedly between its fingers, and its demeanour seems smug.
“You!” Evander shouts in surprise and takes a startled step backwards, plunging his hand into his robes and withdrawing his own wand. The other person laughs - a terrible hollow cackling that chills Evander to the core.
“Me,” it agrees, its silky voice almost cordial, but thick with implications. With an abrupt flick of its wand, Evander is suddenly bound in ropes, his eyes bulging grotesquely as he struggles against the unyielding cords. Something cracks. The horrific laughter echoes around the alley again, before Evander’s tormenter focuses once more, its pale face contorted with hate and what seems to be a twisted sort of exhilaration.
“Crucio.”
Unimaginable, unfathomable pain shoots through Evander, but with an immense effort he keeps his lips pressed firmly together. Never before has being silent been so difficult; he is being scorched with white-hot pokers in every inch of his agonised body, but still no sound escapes him…
Finally, after what seems an eternity of torture, as black spots begin to erupt in front of Evander’s blurred vision, the ill-defined shape bends closer.
“I’ve been waiting for this for so long, you know,” it whispers conspiratorially, as though it is letting Evander in on a delicious secret. “Avada Kedavra, old friend.”
The burst of green light is the last thing that Evander sees, before death crashes down on him.
The weather was a shallow mockery of the bleak occasion; almost cruel, I thought, as I forced myself to place one foot in front of the other. In truth, it was a beautiful day, now coming to a close; swelteringly hot but for a pleasant breeze playing among the trees, the carefree twittering of birds constant in my ears. The sun was shining in all its splendour, spilling warm golden light over the neatly shorn clearing, and clouds were perched, fat and fluffy, in the pastel blue sky. However, for me, this day would forever be tainted by the loss that had removed something, inexplicably, from deep inside of me.
My mother, cloaked and veiled in black as I was, her long red-blonde hair - identical to mine - pinned up in a simple but severe bun, sniffed almost inaudibly beside me. On my other side stood my impassive father, whose stiff white collar just touched his chin, and to his left was my older and rather unpleasant brother Silvanus - though now his face was a mask of carefully concealed grief. My mother was towing my six-year-old sister, Druella, by the hand.
“Go on, Ysabelle,” my father ordered, giving me a small but firm push. I flinched at the sound of my name, but after a reassuring glance from the former, I took a deep breath and led the way through the tall, foreboding black doors into the sparsely populated chapel.
The five of us filed, heads bowed, into the first pew from the altar. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed my father giving a stiff nod to the priest, who began to recite meaningless memoirs. After a while, they drifted into the background - my concentration was now fixed on the gleaming mahogany coffin that lay, too still, in front of the priest. I wondered how he would feel, trapped inside that restrictive box; he had always been so energetic, so spirited… so alive. I dropped my gaze as tears streaked, unbidden, down my cheeks.
The face of my brother Evander - my favourite brother, although I tried to pretend differently - swam before my eyes. He would be leaving many broken hearts behind in life; he had always been handsome, with wide, piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, a mop of silky corn-coloured hair, and an endearingly lopsided smile. His winning personality had also earned him many friends and admirers. Evander had been one of the first Gryffindors in the Rosier bloodline - we mainly kept to Ravenclaw and, more specifically, Slytherin (my own house), as we were a typical pureblood family. I was resigned to the fact that after sixteen years, any word that I said against our “distinguished” family would reward me with a fierce slap, either from Silvanus or my father. Evander, however, had understood. Evander, who, I had to admit, I would be completely lost without.
More tears slid down my nose, and I reprimanded myself for my self-pity, slapping myself feebly on the wrist. Beside me, Mother caught my hand and squeezed it. I snatched a fleeting look at her, and saw that she was deathly pale, with dark rings encircling her watery eyes and black stains tinting her cheeks from her cosmetics. The sight scared me. This was my mother, the carefully emotionless wife of a Ministry official - and these silent tears were almost as bad as an outburst in her case. When I chanced a look at my father, on the other hand, his face was perfectly composed apart from the blazing of his black irises - the only betrayal of emotion. Druella’s expression was also detached when I looked at her… bored, even. I supposed she was too young to understand, but it still riled me, and my fingers itched to give her a swift slap. And Silvanus - he was almost as cold as Father, with just a few cracks in the sheen of his self-control. I realised, belatedly that he was now the man of the family, so to say. The thought was nearly unbearable. How I ached for Evander’s warm grin.
The sermon came to an unimpressive end, and the priest, with a grave flick of his wand, set the coffin and its contents alight. I closed my eyes against the furious blaze, too numb with grief to react more satisfactorily; it lasted only a moment, however, and in its place appeared a single black rose. A flower - all that was left of my beloved brother. I glowered, puerile, at it, feeling horribly and childishly cheated.
My mother stifled a sob beside me and I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, as Father stood up abruptly. He wordlessly summoned the rest of us to his side; Mother made as if to snatch up the rose, but her husband’s iron-clad grip on her forearm reined her in. Like an animal, I thought bitterly. Something that can’t think for itself.
Sometimes I hated my father.
We walked the short way back to our Gloucester manor in silence, only pausing to spend a respectful minute around the bleak grey headstone that, although my brother’s name was inscribed on its smooth surface, seemed so unreal to me. Any Muggles that we passed in the street gave us a wide berth; whether out of reverence for our obvious mourning, or the hateful glares that my father and Silvanus were shooting them, I didn’t know. I preferred to believe the former, but was fairly sure that the latter was more likely.
Night had fallen by the time we reached our concealed home, the house elves - Pokey and Irma - were standing deferentially in the hallway, hands clasped behind their tea-towel clad backs. Two large tears were sliding down Irma’s paunchy face and Pokey’s eyes were shining, but when Father shot them a look of disgust they immediately restrained themselves. Irma curtseyed and hurried to Druella’s side, removing her coat and tightly laced shoes. She handed them to Pokey who then began to brush them down.
“I… I think I might sit down,” my mother declared tremulously, sinking into a moth-eaten green armchair near the door, shutting her eyes as the chair creaked gloomily. We may have been rich once, but Father’s inheritance had long since dispensed, leaving us little in the way of replenished furniture. I knew for a fact that he could barely pay for our various tax expenses, let alone for building extensions.
Now he disappeared into the drawing room without a word, presumably to pour himself a brandy or six. I merely looked around despondently, thinking of how little colour the world held for me now, whilst Druella placed herself delicately on the first step of our ‘grand’ staircase. Silvanus tapped his foot absently, gazing at the once luxurious upholstery that, I supposed he thought, would soon be his.
“Silvanus, Ysabelle, Druella… it would be wise for you to get to bed now.” If I hadn’t seen her lips move, I wouldn’t have thought that it was Mother speaking - her voice was lifeless, somehow, as if that had died along with her eldest child. I hastened to obey, craving the solitude of my bed - none of us were particularly hungry, so dinner wasn’t important “ I bundled Druella along with me, but Silvanus stood stock-still, a murderous expression on his face.
“I’m eighteen, Mother,” he sneered, derisive. “And besides, I don’t take orders from you.”
“Just do it, Silvanus,” she replied with more conviction, as she pinched the bridge of her nose. A look of astonishment, closely followed by anger, flitted across my brother’s face, and without warning he strode forwards and slapped Mother hard across the face. I gasped, my horrified gaze on the raw red handprint emblazoned on her right cheek, but she didn’t react other than to plead weakly again.
“Please…”
With a snort, Silvanus turned away and swept out of the front door. It shut with a painful snap.
I regained my senses swiftly and continued to drag Druella upstairs with so much force that she tripped and banged her shins on the stone steps.
“Sorry,” I muttered, but didn’t pause. I was too lost in my appalled thoughts.
Later on - it must have been midnight, at least, long after an unabashed Silvanus had returned - when my pillowcase was soaked through with my tears, I heard raised voices downstairs. I tried not to listen, but this proved fruitless. I was now morbidly fascinated by whatever my drunken father had to say to my grief-stricken mother.
“Please, Altair…” My mother was pleading. I hated how she turned into a timid wreck in the presence of her own husband.
“How many times must I tell you, Lyra?” Father was making no attempt to keep his voice down and was now roaring at my mother, his words slurring slightly. “No investigation!” I heard something crack, and was sure that he had hit her.
“But-” Mother’s voice had dissolved into sobs.
“Quiet! Do you want to draw attention to our son’s murder? Our social status would be ruined, you idiotic wench!”
Wait… murder? I had been told that Evander had lost his life in a tragic accident… we all had, and I had had no reason to question this theory…
But what if there had been something suspicious about his death, something that had been dismissed? For instance, the fact that we weren’t allowed to see his body - even Silvanus had been deprived this ‘right’, something that had earned many days of angst - or the absence of details, such as how exactly Evander had died. I had automatically assumed that Mother had simply wanted to spare our feelings, but now the circumstances seemed different. I strained my ears, hungry for more information.
My bedroom door creaked suddenly, making me jump. The voices had now been lowered, but in the doorway stood Druella, looking lost and frightened in her oversized nightdress.
“Druella, go back to bed!” I hissed, still listening diligently.
“But I can’t sleep…” She looked upset.
With a sigh, I beckoned her over to me. She perched herself on the edge of my bed and I started absentmindedly playing with her long raven hair. It struck me how much Druella resembled Father and Silvanus; they all shared liquid onyx eyes, alabaster skin and sharp features. Mother and I (and Evander), however, were starkly different, with curly strawberry blonde hair, pale grey-blue eyes and wide heart-shaped faces. It had to be said that, as a family, we were all rather beautiful, if diverse.
The voices had now all but faded, but as I looked back on my parents’ row, I decided that I didn’t need to know any more. Rage swept through me like deadly venom, poisoning my every thought and tinting my vision red. One thing that I was absolutely sure of was that my brother had been murdered; another was that I was going to discover who had killed him, and get my revenge.