No letters, no calls, no visits. It’s been radio silence from the Slytherins all summer. Then, Death Eaters attack Diagon Alley during one of your trips.
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@kazuyamid-july in diagon alley and the sky sits heavy overhead, a bruised sort of grey that promises rain but never quite delivers. the air is thick with it—that waiting stillness before a storm breaks. the cobblestones are warm from the morning's brief sun, still holding onto heat even as the clouds roll in.
the alley itself is bustling, as it always is. mothers tugging children by the hand, witches burdened with packages, wizards lingering outside flourishing’s and blotts. the usual chaos. the usual noise. the usual everything Y/n had hoped would feel like comfort.
it doesn't.
Y/n wanders past the window of wiseacre’s wizarding equipment, catching their own reflection in the glass—a silhouette against the dimmer light of the shop interior. there's a display of self-stirring cauldrons in the window, gleaming and new, and Y/n stares at them without really seeing.
three weeks. it's been three weeks since the last letter.
pansy's had been short, clipped. so busy with mother's summer plans, you know how it is. blaise's had been polished, distracted. the continent is dreadfully dull without proper company. and then nothing. radio silence. not even a howler, which would have at least meant something.
Y/n shoves their hands into their pockets and keeps walking.
fortescue's is crowded when they pass it, the usual cluster of students hunched over ice cream sundaes and textbooks. a laugh cuts through the noise—bright, familiar in its cadence—and Y/n's head snaps toward it before they can stop themselves.
it's not who they thought. just some boy with sandy hair, shoving a spoonful of chocolate into his mouth.
Y/n looks away.
the alley stretches ahead, and Y/n lets their feet carry them without direction. past flourish and blotts, past the quidditch supply shop with its broom display spinning lazily in the window. a group of witches push past, giggling, and one of them bumps Y/n's shoulder without apology.
the sky growls overhead. low. distant.
and then—
the world cracks open.
the sound is wrong. too loud, too close. it doesn't echo like thunder—it splits. and the scream that follows isn't the cheerful kind.
Y/n's feet stop. every muscle locks.
across the alley, a shop front explodes outward in a shower of glass and splintered wood. black smoke billows in a thick, roiling cloud, acrid and chemical, and the scent of it hits Y/n's nose before the shockwave does—sulphur and burned cloth and something metallic underneath.
the screaming spreads like fire.
people are running. a woman knocks into Y/n's shoulder, sends them stumbling, doesn't stop. a man grabs his child and bolts, leaving a bag of groceries scattered across the cobblestones. a trolley overturns. someone is crying. someone is shouting death eaters, death eaters—
and then they come.
cloaks, black and billowing, spilling from the smoke like shadows given weight. masks—smooth, expressionless, awful. they move with purpose, pouring from doorways and alleys that were empty moments ago. one of them laughs, low and pleased, and it cuts through the chaos like a blade.
glass crunches under Y/n's shoes as they stumble backward. the crowd is a current, pulling, shoving, and Y/n's shoulder blades hit the wall of a nearby shop. hard. the breath punches out of them.
more explosions. somewhere to the left. somewhere to the right. the crack of apparition—more of them. appearing out of thin air, disappearing into the chaos. a bolt of green light sears past, and the witch next to Y/n screams, ducks, and keeps running.
the smoke is thicker now. it stings Y/n's eyes, coats their tongue. ash drifts down like snow.
Y/n's heart is a fist in their throat.
and then—
a figure emerges from the wreckage of the ruined shop.
the building is gutted, windows blown out, frame still groaning. smoke pours from the maw of it in gray-white plumes, and the figure walks through it like it's nothing. unhurried. certain. something tucked under their arm—a box, maybe, or a bundle of something stolen—and their mask catches the dim light, smooth and white and utterly blank.
it's the walk that does it.
Y/n's breath catches. their stomach drops.
that swagger. that arrogant, loose-hipped, unconcerned stride. the way they roll their shoulders. the way they tilt their head, just slightly, like they're surveying their work with satisfaction.
Y/n knows that walk.
they've seen it a hundred times. in the common room. in the great hall. on the quidditch pitch, when no one was looking and he thought he was being subtle. the confident, unhurried gait of someone who's never had to prove himself because he's always known exactly who he is.
Y/n can't breathe.
the figure doesn't look their way. doesn't stop. just keeps walking, disappearing into the smoke and chaos, and Y/n is frozen against the wall, heart slamming, mind a white-hot blur of no, no, no—
it can't be.
it can't be.
but Y/n knows what they saw.