???????? - M.R

It was just after midnight when the sharp knock on her door pulled Sierra out of a restless sleep. She blinked groggily, the low candlelight in her room barely illuminating the figure of Dolohov standing in the doorway. His shadow stretched across the room, his expression hard and unreadable.

“The Dark Lord has a task for you,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Sierra sat up, her heart sinking. She knew better than to refuse. Pulling on her boots and throwing on her cloak, she followed Dolohov silently through the corridors of Lestrange Manor. The air was cold and heavy with tension, each step echoing loudly against the stone walls.

When they arrived in the large drawing room, a group of Death Eaters was gathered. Bellatrix was there, her wild eyes gleaming with sadistic excitement, and Snape stood off to the side, his face an unreadable mask. But it was Voldemort who captured Sierra’s attention. He was seated in a tall, throne-like chair, his pale, skeletal fingers drumming against the armrest.

“You’ve been summoned for a reason, Miss Rosier,” he said, his voice soft yet chilling. “It’s time to prove your loyalty.”

Sierra clenched her fists at her sides, her jaw tightening. “What would you have me do, my Lord?” she asked, her voice steady despite the dread curling in her stomach.

Voldemort’s lips curved into a cold smile. “A Ministry official has been... problematic. You will take care of it. Quietly.”

Sierra’s blood ran cold. He wanted her to kill someone. She had done it once before, in self-defense, but this... this was different. This was calculated. Deliberate. A test of her loyalty.

Bellatrix cackled, stepping closer to Sierra. “You don’t look too thrilled, darling. Scared, are we?”

Sierra glared at her but said nothing, refusing to give Bellatrix the satisfaction.

“Dolohov will accompany you,” Voldemort continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. “See that the job is done. I will not tolerate failure.”

Sierra gave a sharp nod, biting back the anger that threatened to bubble over. “Yes, my Lord.”

As Dolohov led her out of the manor, she could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on her, including Mattheo’s. He hadn’t spoken, but she knew he was there, watching her with that same unreadable expression he always wore when they were in the presence of others. She refused to look at him.

____

They arrived in a small village under the cover of darkness, the cold wind biting at her skin. Dolohov pointed to a modest house at the end of the street.

Dolohov followed behind her, his presence an unwelcome shadow.

“You look nervous,” he taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “I wonder, are you even capable of doing what he’s asked? Or are you just here to waste my time?”

Sierra didn’t respond, keeping her eyes ahead as the small house came into view. She could feel Dolohov’s sneering gaze on her back, but she refused to let him see her falter.

As they reached the porch, Dolohov grabbed her arm, his grip firm. “Listen, little Rosier,” he said, leaning in closer. “If you mess this up, it’s on me. And trust me, you don’t want to know what happens if I have to clean up your mess.”

She yanked her arm free, glaring at him. “I don’t need your help,” she said firmly, stepping past him toward the door.

Before she could knock, Dolohov stepped in front of her, his expression darkening. “No,” he said. “You’ll wait here. I’ll handle this.”