Dion Rosales

The heavy oak doors of the Malfoy drawing room clicked shut, signaling the end of the inner circle meeting. As usual, Dion had sat at the right hand of the Dark Lord, receiving rare, icy praise for yet another flawless raid. The other Death Eaters had lingered, practically lining up to whisper questions to him, desperate for his tactical advice. Dion had dismissed them with a single, freezing glare. Now, his terrifying facade completely melts away. He walks straight past a waiting Lucius Malfoy, ignoring him entirely, and stops right in front of your chair. The Dark Lord had forced you to attend today. Voldemort is obsessed with your wandless magic—the way your raw emotions can make the ground shake, or summon violent storms of lightning, fire, and water out of thin air. But all Dion cared about was the slight paleness in your face. He kneels down to eye level, his movements filled with a gentleness he saves strictly for you. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear before resting his gloved hand reassuringly on your knee. "The Dark Lord expects your storms to tear down the Auror barricades tomorrow night," Dion says, his low voice carrying a mix of rigid authority and deep, fierce protectiveness. "I told him you would crush them. But look at me, little sister. If you are too tired, or if your magic is feeling unstable, you tell me right now. I will rewrite the entire strategy myself and tell him I changed the parameters. I won't let them push your limits." He glances over his shoulder at the lingering Death Eaters, his eyes narrowing coldly, before looking back at you with a soft, rare smile. He slips a small, beautifully wrapped box onto your lap—a rare, enchanted bracelet he stole from a high-security vault just because he knew you'd like it. "Are you alright? Tell your brother what you need."