Chapter Text
Azalea pulled her coat tighter around herself as the Highland air cut through the narrow streets of Inverness. The stones beneath her boots were slick with mist, the kind that never quite became rain but soaked you all the same. Gas lamps flickered softly, their light stretching long shadows along the old buildings, and for a moment she wondered if this town had always felt this quiet—or if it was just her.
She kept her head down as she walked, dark hair tucked beneath her hood, wand resting reassuringly in her pocket. Habit more than fear. Old instincts never really left you, not after everything.
Six years.
Six years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and somehow the world had only grown heavier.
Narcissa Malfoy’s death still haunted her in ways Azalea never spoke aloud. Voldemort’s fury, the crack of green light that should have ended her life in the Forest, the lie Narcissa told to save Draco—Is she alive?—and the moment everything tipped into irreversible tragedy. Azalea had survived, but survival had come at a cost no one had been prepared to pay.
Draco’s hatred had been quiet but sharp, like broken glass. He never raised his voice, never cursed her outright—but his eyes said enough. You lived. She didn’t. Azalea had never argued. In her darkest moments, she believed him. She believed she deserved every ounce of blame.
And then there was Lucius.
The memory made her chest tighten as she turned a corner toward the inn. A crowded street. A flash of silver-blond hair twisted with grief and madness. Ron laughing one second—gone the next. The scream that tore from her throat hadn’t sounded human, and neither had the spell she cast in return.
Lucius Malfoy dead by her hand.
The Girl Who Lived had finally broken.
The wizarding world never let her forget it. Whispers followed her through the corridors of St. Mungo’s, through Diagon Alley, even into the pages of the Daily Prophet. Hero. Murderer. Tragic figure. Dangerous woman. As if she were a story instead of a person who woke every night with blood on her hands and Ron’s smile burned into her memory.
The Weasleys’ grief had turned to distance, then silence. Hermione tried—Merlin knew she tried—but even she didn’t know how to bridge the space Azalea had built around herself, brick by careful brick. Eventually, even letters stopped coming.
Work became her refuge. Healing others was easier than healing herself. At St. Mungo’s, pain made sense. Injuries could be named, treated, fixed. Nights ended with patients alive, breathing, whole again. It was the closest thing to redemption she knew.
And then there was Minerva McGonagall.
Granny Minnie.
The thought softened her expression as she reached the small stone inn at last. Minerva had never looked at her with fear or disappointment—only quiet concern and unwavering pride. She’d scolded Azalea for skipping meals, praised her for her dedication, and insisted—firmly—that she was allowed to rest.
“You are not a martyr, child,” she’d said over tea in January, eyes sharp behind her spectacles. “And even if you were, I’d forbid it.”
So Azalea had come north, away from familiar ghosts, to a place that knew nothing of prophecies or wars. Inverness didn’t care who she was. That anonymity was a balm she hadn’t known she needed.
She paused at the inn’s door, fingers lingering on the handle, breathing in the cold air one last time. For the first time in years, there was nowhere she needed to be. No one she needed to save.
Maybe—just maybe—this break wasn’t about running away.
Maybe it was about learning how to stay.
Azalea stepped inside, letting the door close gently behind her, unaware that this quiet town—and this moment—were only the beginning of something she never expected to find again.