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This is the first book in my series about my original character, Druella Black II. It takes place in an alternate universe of Harry Potter. While parts of the books and films remain, much has been reimagined to suit this story. This will be in third-person shifting from characters, but the main protagonist is Druella Black II.

My goal is to move away from the typical “tragic upbringing” narrative. This is not simply a story where Druella is mistreated and then kills everyone in a fit of vengeance. Instead, it explores the idea of love as the most potent magic, twisted, darker, and toxic. But there's still love since others surround her.

So, there's one question for this fanfic: a mother's love is the most powerful magic of all in the Harry Potter universe. Well, the question is: what if the most powerful magic of all is the most poisonous?

Yes, Druella has been abused, but she doesn’t become a one-note avenger. She is an anti-hero or a reluctant hero. Her pain shapes her into someone who can wound the world in quieter, more insidious ways. This is a story of how love, when warped by control and obsession, can both nurture and destroy the world.

In this timeline, Bellatrix was released from Azkaban far earlier. She is not the restless figure seen in the original books and movies; Helena Bonham Carter portrays her as a calculating, manipulative woman whose devotion to her daughter is absolute. She left Rodolphus, reclaimed her maiden name, and became Matriarch of the Noble House of Black. Druella is her pride and obsession.

The story will be darker than the original series, and its characters more complex. Here, love can save—but it can also bind, and sometimes it is the very thing that must be escaped.

Narcissa's personality is also slightly different, reflecting more of her sister's influence. The two sisters work together closely in this story, creating a dynamic that adds depth to their characters.

Before diving into the story of Druella Black II, it's important to consider several key points. Druella, an original character, is named after her grandmother, who in the canon books is the mother of the well-known figures Bellatrix and Narcissa. 

The narrative primarily adopts a third-person perspective. While Druella serves as the central character, the viewpoint occasionally transitions to other characters, offering greater insight into their thoughts and feelings, thus enriching the storytelling experience. Humour is woven throughout the narrative, ranging from relatable real-life moments to jokes intended for a more mature audience. Moreover, elements of more adult content distinctly differentiate this tale from the original books while still maintaining a consistent tone.

The personalities of the characters and elements of the fan fiction will be drawn from both the books and the films. It will not be exclusively based on the movies; instead, it will feature similar scenes and character personalities that reflect those from the books.

In terms of character appearances, most characters will closely resemble their portrayals from the Harry Potter movies. For example, Narcissa Malfoy takes inspiration from her depiction in "The Half-Blood Prince," characterised by her iconic platinum blonde hair and black streaks, and this continues throughout the rest of the series. This sophisticated and aristocratic look complements her poised demeanour.

Druella's dynamics with her professors add depth to her character interactions. Her relationship with McGonagall mimics the clash of strong personalities found in Harry's dynamic with Snape, tempered by a mutual but grudging respect. Snape, in this narrative, takes on a mentor role, balancing his sternness with unexpected moments of guidance and support, mirroring McGonagall's influence over Harry. On the other hand, Druella and Dumbledore maintain a distant and tense relationship, with minimal interaction as she sees through his manipulative facade.

As for the themes and warnings within the story, it is important to note that there are no inappropriate relationships, especially between Druella and Draco, who are cousins. Additionally, the narrative explores themes of infantilization, showcasing overprotectiveness and control, such as instances of forced bathing, which highlight complex dynamics of involuntary care without veering into sexual abuse. The story is meant for mature audiences, featuring darker themes and intricate relationships.

Worldbuilding and plot development reveal that the story begins during "The Chamber of Secrets," marking Druella's first year at Hogwarts. This alternate universe will weave an alternate ending to the established canon, extending through "The Deathly Hallows" and potentially beyond (not sure yet). Canon scenes are reimagined and expanded, altering them to align with this unique narrative while deliberately incorporating rare or unusual events that diverge from real-world norms, all integral to the story.

As a labour of love, this fanfiction is a work in progress, with the writing process focusing on frequent edits, updates, and spontaneous additions as the narrative evolves. As such, attention to detail and refinement play a crucial role in its creation. If you're not one to follow along with the journey, then this isn't for you. Character pairings may differ from canon, thoughtfully chosen to enhance the themes and dynamics of this alternate universe, making the storytelling even richer.

Druella Black II and the Slytherin Prodigy

Druella Black II and the Secrets of Azkaban (Not finished)

Inspiration for this fanfic is The Prince of Slytherin.

The books and movies of Harry Potter inspired the book (Peacock and HBO Max), and Fantastic Beasts inspired the fanfic alongside the Harry Potter books.

Movies and TV shows that inspired the fanfic Peaky Blinders (Netflix), Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (Netflix), Stranger Things (Netflix), and Agatha All Along (Disney+). Marvel, My Hero Academia (Yes, I like anime), The Promised Neverland, (Disney+) Penny Dreadful (Paramount Plus), Supergirl (TV Show Netflix) and The Crown (Netflix)

YouTubers who inspired me as well.

Movie Flame

Harry Potter Theory

Chanwills0

Harry Potter Folklore

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⚠ Content Warnings – Please Read With Care ⚠

This chapter contains mature, intense, and emotionally heavy material. If you are sensitive to any of the topics listed below, please read gently, skip freely, or take care of yourself first. Some scenes are vivid. Others are quiet but deeply unsettling. You are never wrong for stepping away.

Themes include:

• Child abuse (physical, emotional, psychological)
• Public humiliation, degradation, and forced submission
• Non-consensual infantilization/regression
• Manipulation of identity, memory, and will
• Gaslighting and psychological control
• Injury, blood, and magical trauma
• Verbal abuse and emotional cruelty
• Captivity and coercion under the guise of care
• Distorted power dynamics (family, mentorship, authority)
• Brief mature/sexual themes (non-explicit)
• Exploration of trauma, survival, and loss of control

This is a transformative fanwork intended for mature readers (18+). It does not glamorise harm, but it does portray it. Resistance, recovery, and rebellion thread through—but the descent is real.

If any of this feels personal, triggering, or overwhelming:
Pause. Skip. Or stop.
Fiction can wait. You matter more.

🌍 International Support Resources
If anything in this work resonates too closely or leaves you distressed, support is available. Below are verified, free, and confidential resources by region:

UNITED STATES
• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233
• Text “START” to 88788
• thehotline.org
• Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

UNITED KINGDOM
• National Domestic Abuse Helpline: 0808 2000 247
• nationaldahelpline.org.uk
• Samaritans: 116 123
• samaritans.org

CANADA
• Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868
• Text CONNECT to 686868
• sheltersafe.ca

AUSTRALIA
• 1800RESPECT: 1800 737 732
• Lifeline: 13 11 14
• 1800respect.org.au

GLOBAL
• Child Helpline International
• UN Women Global Helpline Directory
• Checkpoint Mental Health Directory

Take care of yourself first. Always.
This story will be here if and when you return.

Chapter Text

It all began with a nine-year-old witch named Druella Black.

She came from wealth, from legacy, from bloodlines steeped in magic and myth. Born on December 23, 1981—just two months after the fall of the Dark Lord—Druella lived at Malfoy Manor, a sprawling estate nestled behind iron gates and a sea of white peacocks. Her world was one of marble halls, enchanted chandeliers, and rooms large enough to echo. She lived alongside her mother, Bellatrix Black; her aunt and uncle, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy; and her older cousin, Draco.

Draco Malfoy, her prideful cousin, was quite the opposite of her. While he would rather boast and brag. She would rather remain hidden and quiet. Reading her books in peace. Draco was a year and six months older, and while the two were often seen together, their closeness came with thorns. There were days they were inseparable—laughing, scheming, racing broomsticks through the rose-lined paths of the gardens—but other days, Draco would sneer, jealousy flickering in his cold grey eyes at her green eyes. He had noticed it even before he could name it: Druella the young, quiet, innocent one, was powerful. Too powerful.

She was already weaving magic without a wand by the time she was three. At first, it was innocent—floating toys, glowing butterflies. But then it grew into something more. She could conjure light from her fingertips, twist vines into crowns, and make shadows dance with a single glance. It scared people. Even some of the adults. It made them whisper. She almost read a few guests' minds at a young age. A few of the nasty incidents when she was younger were among the other ones.

The world outside the manor was wide and endless—or so Druella Black believed. But for now, her world was a garden.

She was only nine years old after all. A nine-year-old with hair the colour of raven feathers and eyes the colour of deep-cut emeralds, too bright for someone who spent most of her days behind ancient stone walls. There was a softness to her still, untouched by the sharpness of the world she’d been born into. A scatter of freckles dusted her pale cheeks and nose, like constellations across porcelain, lending warmth to her otherwise striking features. Her smile—when it came—was rare, but real, like sunlight breaking through the London fog.

But today, that smile bloomed like one of her beloved flowers.

Druella woke early, before the manor did, slipping from the nest of crafted blankets, velvet and lace her aunt insisted was a proper bed. The manor, cold and sleeping, didn’t even notice the patter of bare feet down the hallway. She crept like a shadow through the corridor, checking every corridor she walked past, tall portraits that blinked awake too slowly to stop her.

Outside, the garden greeted her like an old friend. Her long pale green dress swept dew from the grass, and a woven basket dangled from her wrist. The moment the sun touched her skin, she exhaled. She was free, for now.

The garden behind the manor wasn’t part of the original grounds. It had grown from her own hands, from enchanted seeds she’d begged off a wandering greenhouse witch who one day Druella planted in secret with dirt under her nails and determination in her bones. Here, petals changed colour with her moods, vines curled protectively around her when she cried, and the trees whispered things only she seemed to hear.

She hummed softly as she moved among the flowers, plucking blossoms for the crown she was weaving—sunblossoms for joy, forget-me-nots for dreams, starbells for the night thoughts she never dared to say aloud. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, drawn to her fingertips like it knew her name before she did.

Books and botany were her treasures, and between them, Druella, a bright young girl, had already learned to read more languages than most grown men could pronounce. But out here, she didn’t need parchment or spells. Just sun, soil, and the promise that maybe, one day, there would be more than this.

More than locked gates and careful rules. More than hushed conversations behind doors.

She didn’t yet know who she would become. But in this moment, with flowers in her hair and hope blooming in her chest, Druella Black was simply a girl with magic in her hands, wonder in her heart, and the quietest, fiercest longing to see the world beyond the garden wall.

She was just placing the final blossom into her crown when she heard it—the crunch of gravel beneath impatient shoes.

Druella's smile faltered. She quickly frowned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Uh oh,” she murmured. “Drake.”

Sure enough, the sound grew louder. And then:

“Ellie!”

His voice, sharp and self-important, sliced through the garden like a blade trying too hard to be taken seriously.

Druella winced before she turned.

Draco Malfoy, ten years old and already dressed like a miniature lord, stomped toward her with his chin held high and disdain in his eyes. He scowled at his cousin, her bare feet, and wild hair.

“You have to come back,” he snapped. “Mother said not to wander off again. I’m going to tell her.”

Druella ignored him. “But look what I did.” She held up the crown, the flowers glowing faintly in the sunlight—until, with a flick of her fingers, the petals turned black as night.

The magic shimmered through the stems like paint in water.

Draco flinched. He didn’t like being shown up least of all by her.

“Freak,” he spat. “You’re a ghost in this house, Ellie. You don’t even act normally. Father said you don’t act like the rest of us. You don't act right. You're odd."

Her hands clenched around the crown. Her throat felt tight, but she said nothing.

“I’m going to tell Father you used wandless magic again,” he continued. “You’re cursed. You’re just some shy little nothing girl. Come here!”

He lunged forward to grab her wrist, but Druella jerked back and ran, curls bouncing as her feet hit the soft grass.

Draco took off after her. “You’re a freak, Ellie! A freak!”

She darted into the hedge maze, knowing it better than he ever would, having explored the maze more times than she can count. But just as they rounded a corner, something shifted.

The air changed.

The birds stopped chirping. The wind pulled sharply and still. And the sound of steps—softer than Draco’s, slower, far more deliberate—echoed behind them.

Draco stopped short.

Druella did too, her breath catching.

A shadow fell across the path. Long, still, and unmistakably human.

A figure stepped into view. Steps were heard. Slowly. Silently.

Tall. Black-cloaked. Frizzy and wild hair, a dark wave. And dark brown eyes like ancient wells—endless, watching.

It was none other than Druella's mother.

Bellatrix Black.

Her face was unreadable. Not angry. Not cold. Just… blank. Cold marble shaped into a woman. And yet behind the stillness, there was danger. A coiled, patient sort of fury.

Draco paled.

“Mother?” he breathed.

But it wasn't his mother.

It is his aunt that's approaching them.

And yet the fear in his voice betrayed him. He took one slow step back.

“Druella,” Bellatrix said at last, her tone even. Not soft. Not sharp.

Just enough.

Draco looked between them—between the crown in Druella’s hands and the woman who had just appeared like a warning whispered from a darker time.

Then, wisely, he turned on his heel and ran.

Fast.

Druella stayed still, clenching the crown.

Bellatrix walked closer, heels silent on the path, her eyes drifting down to the flower crown in her daughter’s hands.

Black petals. Slightly wilted at the edges from the burst of magic. Raw. Untamed.

Bellatrix’s face remained blank. Until—

She raised one hand.

With a whisper of a spell, she conjured a single black blossom from thin air and gently, with surprising precision, tucked it into the crown.

“Your wandless magic is stronger,” she murmured.

Then she smiled.

Not a madwoman’s smile. Not yet.

But something quieter. Stranger. Something rare.

It was the smile of a mother who saw a reflection of herself in her child, and didn’t fear it.

She crouched, her long skirts pooling around her like ink, and scooped Druella into her arms. The child curled against her with the ease of someone who knew she was safest there.

“Come, my little Black Blossom,” Bellatrix whispered, kissing the top of her daughter’s head.

That was her name for her. Always had been.

And whatever the world might say of Bellatrix Black—mad, wicked, feared across continents—none of it lived in the way she held her child.

There was no fire. No wrath.

Only possession. And love.

Fierce. Twisted. Unrelenting. But real.

Druella rested her head on her mother’s shoulder as they walked back to the manor. The crown of black flowers shimmered faintly in her hand, and her small smile returned, quiet, content.

She was her mother’s blossom. And whatever the world demanded from her, one truth remained:

Malfoy Manor would never let her go.

Druella was not like other children.

From the time she could walk, her footsteps carried power. Magic didn’t flicker from her fingers—it surged. Not the innocent kind of magic other children had. No floating toys, no glowing butterflies. When Druella wept, the chandeliers flickered. When she laughed, the ivy on the manor walls bloomed out of season. And when she stood still… the world listened.

She didn’t understand it. Not yet. But it followed her—this quiet, wild thing in her veins.

And it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Bellatrix carried her daughter back through the hedge gates with effortless poise, the crown of black flowers nestled against Druella’s curls like a shadowed halo. They crossed into the open courtyard, the manor looming ahead like a slumbering beast.

The grand doors opened before them.

And out she came.

The lady of Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa Malfoy.

She was everything her name promised—imperious, refined, and utterly untouchable. Her presence was like silk stretched over steel. She didn’t walk, she arrived. And when she did, the world remembered its manners.

Her hair—once the golden veil of youth—was now deliberately parted, a sweeping display of contrast: pale as moonlight cascading over one shoulder, and raven-black streaks pinned into place like a widow’s mark. It wasn’t fashion. It was declaration. It told the world: I am a Black. And I married a Malfoy. You may address me as both.

No bangs softened her features. Her face was sculpted into sharp elegance, every line precisely defined. Her robes were deep forest velvet, shot through with silver thread like frost over pine. A serpent clasp coiled at her waist, and above it gleamed the Malfoy crest, polished to a mirror-shine. Pearls adorned her ears. Diamond rings winked from gloved fingers. She was the very image of Old Magic—rich, cold, and calculated.

And her heels.

Click. Click. Click.

Druella would later associate that sound with many things: dread, comfort, reprimand, tea time. It was the sound of her aunt’s love arriving—beautiful, smothering, and absolute.

Her heels clicked sharply on the marble as she stepped into the courtyard. Then she stopped cold.

Druella barely had time to brace herself.

“Where were you?” Narcissa’s voice was that of a woman trying—trying—not to shout. “I was heading to your bedroom to wake you for tea, and you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere.” Her eyes darted between Bellatrix and Druella, but her fury was contained, turned inward like heat in fine porcelain. “Do you have any idea how long I looked for you?”

Druella flinched.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “She was picking flowers.”

But Narcissa wasn’t listening to her sister.

She was already on her knees before the child, brushing mud from the hem of Druella’s dress, her rings cold against the girl’s skin. “You went out barefoot?” she said in disbelief, lifting Druella’s foot in her palm like it were made of porcelain. “Druella, darling, this is not some field trip—this is your health.” She looked up with burning concern. “And your cheeks—have you been crying again?”

“No,” Druella lied. Too quickly.

Narcissa’s face froze. Her eyes flicked to the child’s wrists—just a glance. Just enough.

She stood up sharply.

Behind her, there was a sudden pop. A House Elf appeared, trembling.

“Dobby,” Narcissa said without turning. “Why does the sitting room resemble a woodland burrow?”

“D-Dobby rearranged it earlier, Mistress—”

“Then rearrange it again. I want the lilacs gone. And bring me a flannel—she’s dusty.”

The elf scrambled away.

Narcissa’s fussing didn’t stop. She adjusted Druella’s hair, re-smoothed her dress, and reached for her hand again, inspecting her fingernails with unsettling delicacy. “You’re filthy,” she murmured. “Truly, it’s a marvel. You’ve turned a ten-gallon petticoat into a goblin’s napkin.”

Bellatrix sighed. “You really ought to let her hire her own elf soon. She’ll be ten in December. Ancient, really.”

“She is a child,” Narcissa snapped, standing once more. “And she’s my responsibility.”

“Cissy—” Bellatrix began.

But Narcissa had already turned.

“All house-elves. Here. Now.”

With a flurry of pops, the manor’s elves assembled.

“I want her room examined. Thoroughly. Top to bottom. If anything looks disturbed, I’ll enchant the walls myself.”

Bellatrix frowned. “She made a flower crown. She’s not scheming a rebellion.”

“She flinched when she heard gravel,” Narcissa said coldly. “She thought someone was coming. That wasn’t about Draco. That was fear.”

Druella stayed silent, her bright mind already spinning—too bright for her age. She understood things too quickly. Felt too deeply. It was her curse and her armour.

Narcissa’s face finally softened.

She leaned down and drew Druella into her arms. This wasn’t an inspection—it was possession.

“You don’t have to lie to me, darling,” Narcissa whispered. “I’ll protect you. From anyone. Even family.”

Druella didn’t answer.

But she leaned into the embrace, as if the layers of silk and perfume and panic were the safest place she knew.

And Bellatrix—still holding the crown her daughter had made—watched the scene like a queen at war.

Druella was their treasure.

And in a house like Malfoy Manor—

Treasures were locked away.

Later that afternoon, Druella was allowed into the gardens again—barefoot, as always, when Narcissa wasn't looking, with a woven basket swinging from her hand. The sun filtered through the tall hedgerows, dappling her pale green dress in patches of gold. She moved like something out of a fairytale, humming softly as she plucked petals and twirled between the wild lavender and blooming bramble. Druella looked at the gate eyes widened, wanting to cross it. 

From the high windows of the drawing room, two shadows stood in silent vigil.

“I swear she’s hiding something, Bella,” Narcissa muttered, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her gaze never left the garden below, where Druella knelt to coax a stubborn blossom to bloom. “She flinches when I come too close. She always looks like she’s listening for footsteps, even when there are none.”

Bellatrix leaned against the frame, her expression unreadable. “I’m well aware,” she said quietly. “But she’s nine, Cissy. Whatever it is, it’s probably something childish. A secret journal. A spell she knows she’s not supposed to cast. We’ve kept her here for a reason. She has magic in her blood—enough to fracture glass with a thought. But she’s still a little girl. She must not know the truth of our past. She's a little girl, she is to remain pure."

Narcissa’s jaw clenched. “She’s not just a little girl. She’s different.”

They both watched as Druella twirled in the sunlight, her curls bouncing, her feet brushing the earth with each step. Wherever she moved, the garden shifted. Dark flowers unfurled in her wake—petals ink-black, violet, bruised plum. The colour of old secrets and whispered curses. The soil bloomed for her. Responded to her.

“She’s dangerous,” Narcissa whispered, but there was no fear in her voice. Just awe. Just love—twisted with worry, threaded with pride. The kind of worry only a mother can carry. The kind of pride that aches, knowing the world will one day try to take it all away.

Bellatrix didn’t answer at first.

She simply watched the girl dance, her fingers tapping once against the glass. A faint smile pulled at her lips—unusual, soft, unsettling in how it almost reached her eyes.

“She’s ours,” she said finally.

And in that word was every answer. Every unspoken promise.

Ours.

To protect. To raise. To control, if need be. To keep.

And in Malfoy Manor, that was all that mattered.

Narcissa—refined, elegant, composed—became impossibly overprotective the moment she laid eyes on her niece. While Bellatrix saw Druella’s power as something to be sharpened and trained, Narcissa saw something fragile beneath it. Something that had to be guarded, cradled, swaddled in love.

“She’s not just powerful,” Narcissa would often say. “She’s delicate.”

And so, she treated her like a porcelain doll. She bathed Druella herself every evening with lavender and rose oils. She brushed her long black curls into soft waves and dressed herself by hand. As if Druella couldn't be trusted with even a House Elf. If Druella sneezed, tea was summoned. If she sighed, a cushion appeared beneath her. If she frowned, Narcissa would cup her chin and ask with gentle urgency, “What’s wrong, love? Are you in pain? Did someone upset you?”

Bellatrix watched all of it with a crooked smile.

“You fuss over her too much,” she’d tease.

“And you don’t fuss over her enough,” Narcissa would retort, arms folded, chin tilted proudly.

At night, sometimes, Bellatrix would lie beside her and whisper tales of great witches, of legacies and shadows, of the power buried in their bloodline.

“You’ll be greater than I ever was,” she’d say. “You’ll change the world, Black Blossom.”

And in the mornings, Narcissa would fuss over her with robes and ribbons, reminding her to eat slowly, walk carefully, and never speak unless spoken to.

“You must present yourself well,” she’d say. “You're a Malfoy by household, a Black by blood. You are perfection, and perfection must be maintained.”

Between them, Druella learned two things: that she was precious, and that she was dangerous.

And both things were true.

She had inherited a current of Dark Magic so potent, so primal, that it whispered through her bones like a secret waiting to be spoken. Her first magical outburst had occurred as a baby, but it was when she turned three that things began to shift. She couldn't remember what it was, but all she knew was that Bellatrix was amazed. It was a moment that scared Draco and fellow children, but Bellatrix and Narcissa were the only ones impressed.

One afternoon, Draco’s friend Gregory Goyle—dull, brutish, and eager to impress—had torn apart a painting Druella had spent days crafting. Something in her snapped. Her magic surged from her like a tidal wave. The lamp above them shattered, exploding in glass and fury, raining shards that nearly struck Goyle in the face. He screamed. Druella stood still, expression blank, the echoes of the blast vibrating in her chest… and she felt no guilt.

It was only later, after the reprimands began—after Narcissa’s tight-lipped fury, Lucius’s glares, and Draco’s silent stares—that the weight of what she had done began to settle over her like ash. She was made to return a small trinket she had taken from Goyle—a charm bracelet, nothing more. The punishment wasn’t about the object. It was a lesson. A reminder. That power without control was dangerous.

They became decent friends after that.

But that was only the beginning.

There were other incidents. Unspoken, mostly, but never forgotten.

Moments when emotion swept over her like a storm cloud, and something inside her broke loose. The garden caught fire once, just from a scream. On another occasion, a room she’d locked herself in pulsed with energy until the sconces warped and the air shimmered. Some objects she made vanish entirely. They returned days later, deformed, twisted as if caught in the grip of something not meant to be touched.

One morning, a peacock startled her. She froze it mid-stride. It didn’t move again for three hours.

It wasn’t madness. It wasn’t darkness—not exactly.

It was chaos.

Wild, repressed, unnatural chaos.

It bubbles. It cracks. It tears through the seams of the soul.

Still, Bellatrix and Narcissa adored her.

But greatness came with shadows. You never know what's behind closed doors.

Narcissa was right, Druella carried a secret that no one—not even her mother or her aunt—truly saw. Her days were filled with supervision, careful lessons, soft affection… and quiet pain.

Lucius Malfoy, obsessed with legacy and lineage, treated her coldly from the start. He praised Draco endlessly, paraded him like a prince, but for Druella, he had only scorn. And worse.

Draco knew.

He always knew.

He heard the shouts behind closed doors. Saw the flinches. The stiffness in Druella’s walk after certain afternoons. The bruises that didn't quite vanish under charmwork. But he never told. Not because he didn’t care—but because he was afraid.

Lucius had ways of making silence seem like survival.

When no one was watching—when Dobby was the only soul in the room—Lucius would strike her. He would take his walking staff, a cold, silver serpent twisted into the handle, and bring it down sharply against her legs or back for small infractions. A wrong answer. A magical accident. A defiant glare.

"You're not even mine," he hissed once, after she mispronounced a Latin incantation. "You should be thankful you're here at all."

She never told anyone.

Lucius had warned her: if she ever spoke, Dobby, her favourite House Elf, would suffer. And Druella believed him.

So she smiled. She played the piano when Narcissa asked. She practised her curtsies. She buried bruises beneath enchanted sleeves and coats too warm for the weather. And when Bellatrix tucked her in at night and kissed her forehead, Druella curled into her mother’s arms, longing for the safety she pretended she already had.

Druella loved her aunt deeply. But she wished she weren't treated like a five-year-old. One reason she didn't dare tell her was that she was afraid of what her uncle was doing to her.

Her bedroom, by Malfoy standards, was modest. Tucked away on the children's wing floor, away from the main family wing. She had once shared a nursery with Draco, back when they were small. But she was moved—reassigned, as Lucius coldly put it—without explanation. Narcissa insisted it was for her health. She said it was quieter. Safer. Trying to make her feel better, but Druella didn't mind.

But even a very young age, Druella had sensed it wasn’t really for her. It was for him.

And yet, she never said a word.

She kept her secrets.

Even when Draco mocked her for her powers, even when he called her ghost girl or freak or whispered, “spare” when no one else could hear, he always liked to push her buttons, liked to see if he could make her flinch. It made the guilt in his stomach quieter—the guilt that came from knowing his cousin had something he didn’t. Something in her blood. Something he couldn’t name, but hated all the same.

When they were younger, Draco and his little circle of playmates would shove her in the corridors, laugh if she tripped, call her names just sharp enough to sting but soft enough that Narcissa wouldn’t hear. And when they were alone, Draco never softened. He was always cruel. Always a brat.

Still, Druella stayed silent.

She walked barefoot in her garden. She whispered to the flowers that shimmered black when she touched them, petals darkening like ink under her fingertips. She trained quietly under Bellatrix’s watchful eye, learning to control the dangerous, beautiful thing blooming in her chest.

And if the walls flickered with magic when she passed, if the candles bent slightly toward her—well, no one ever dared to ask why.

From the cracks in the doors, she pieced together stories. About battles. About Bellatrix and Lucius, about the Dark Lord. Whispers of power and legacy, spoken like myth. She never heard the ugly parts—only the fragments told in Pureblood parlours that he was a wizard who stood tall against the Ministry. That he demanded respect for Purebloods. That he was defeated by a baby. That the boy was called Harry Potter. That he lived.

Draco always rubbed it in.

“At least I might be friends with him one day,” he’d sneer, puffing out his chest. “Potter. The Boy Who Lived. He’s famous. Everyone will want to know him. But you? You’ll be nothing. Just a shadow. Just ghost girl.”

He would grin then, the kind of grin only boys with too much pride can manage. “Imagine it—me, sitting with Harry Potter. And you? You won’t even be allowed near him.”

Druella would always roll her eyes and then leave him.

"Deadly brat." Druella hissed, very annoyed.

Sometimes, Druella wished she could be like that. Loud. Wanted. Certain.

But instead, she played her part.

Quiet. Careful. Watching.

And somewhere deep inside, waiting.

She would obey. She would learn. She would survive.

And one day soon, her adventure would begin—full of danger, rebellion, love, and heartbreak. Magic would rise in her, uncontrolled and untamed, and she would have to decide what kind of witch she truly wanted to become.

The future was coming. And it would not ask for permission.

“Hogwarts is too soft,” Lucius said coldly, his voice echoing through the drawing room. “Durmstrang offers a more rigorous approach. Draco would thrive there. And Druella’s talents could finally be shaped properly. Karkaroff would see her potential immediately.”

Narcissa’s response came fast, sharp enough to cut glass. “No, Lucius. Neither of them will be setting foot in that place. Hogwarts is where they belong. Where they’ll be safe.”

Bellatrix leaned against the fireplace, her voice quiet but edged with steel. “Druella is powerful, yes. But she won’t be moulded by men with agendas. She’s not your daughter. She’s mine.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to her. “And your constant coddling of her will leave her soft. Durmstrang would give her structure. She needs discipline.”

Narcissa rose to her feet, her tone deadly calm. “Don’t ever use that word with her again.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “Why not? She’s out of control. You shelter her so tightly she can hardly breathe. You both treat her like a precious gem instead of what she truly is: dangerous.”

“She’s not yours to speak about,” Narcissa said, her voice rising, cold and furious. “You have no say in Druella’s future.”

“Cissy,” he snapped, “I’m her guardian by household—”

“No, you're not,” Bellatrix said darkly, stepping forward. Her wand glinted beneath her sleeve, but it was her voice—low and lethal—that held more threat than any spell. “You forget yourself, Lucius. We may live in your home, but that doesn't make you her master.”

She took one more step, towering now in presence if not in height. “By the laws of the old houses, you and Cissy may ward her, but custody follows blood. Lineage. The parent. Her father is gone. I am her mother. And as the Matriarch of the House of Black, my word decides her fate. Not yours.”

“She is not your heir. She is not your anything. She is mine. And no law, no tradition, no contract places her in your hands.”

Lucius faltered. Bellatrix’s stare didn’t waver.

“You don’t even like her,” she continued, voice sharpening. “You’ve never looked at her with anything but disdain. You’ve never lifted a hand to help her—only to hurt. And you think that gives you the right to decide where she’ll grow? What she’ll become?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Narcissa cut in—her voice nearly shaking with fury. “You think we haven’t noticed the way you look at her? You think I haven’t heard the things you say when you think no one’s listening?”

“She’s not your daughter. She never was. And you will not decide her future.”

The room fell into a dense, suffocating silence.

Lucius looked away.

There was no argument to make. No denial that would hold.

Everyone in the room already knew the truth.

He didn’t care for Druella.

He never had.

Draco was the heir—the golden boy. The one Lucius shaped in his own image. Druella was an inconvenience. A powerful inconvenience that terrified him, because he could not control her.

“If that’s how you both feel…” he muttered, hollow now, and then sighed. “Then Hogwarts it is.”

He turned and left the room without another word. Without a glance back.

Just beyond the door, tucked in the shadow of the corridor, Druella stood frozen, her heart pounding.

She had listened to every word.

Bellatrix’s claim—her ownership, her fury. Narcissa’s fierce defence. The raw, open truth of Lucius’s rejection.

And while she didn’t move, a part of her deep inside unfurled—quietly, slowly, with something like strength.

She wasn’t his to break.

She never had been.

She belonged to Bellatrix.

And Bellatrix would never give her away.

She felt a strange mixture of emotions: relief… fury… shame… and something deeper.

She wasn’t surprised. Not really.

Lucius never looked at her like family.

But Narcissa did. And so did her mother.

“Let him sulk,” Bellatrix muttered, smoothing her robes as the door shut behind Lucius. “He’ll forget about this by morning.”

They didn’t know Druella had been listening.

But she had.

And for the first time in a long while, she believed them.

Lucius might still be in the house.

But he no longer had power over her.

Still, when Draco’s Hogwarts letter arrived, a sharp pang of envy pierced Druella’s chest. She wouldn’t be going—not yet. Her eleventh birthday was still months away, tucked just behind winter’s shadow. Forcing a graceful smile, she congratulated Draco with all the composure expected of a proper Black.

But her mother noticed. She always did.

“Druella,” Bellatrix murmured, pulling her aside with a rare warmth in her voice. “I’m proud of you for supporting your cousin. It’s good to be patient.”

Druella nodded stiffly, though a quiet ache remained beneath her poised exterior.

Bellatrix’s hand lifted, tilting her chin gently, her dark eyes searching her daughter’s face. “I’m proud of you, my Black Blossom, for holding your head high despite how you feel.”

Druella hesitated, then whispered, “Mother?”

Bellatrix waited.

“What if people… what if they make fun of me because of you?” she asked, her voice cracking as she avoided her mother’s gaze. “Because of our family.”

Bellatrix’s face softened, then darkened.

She pulled Druella close, wrapping her arms around her with fierce possessiveness. “No one will touch you. No one will dare. You are mine, Druella—mine. And I will protect you from the lies people tell.”

Her tone dipped, more conspiratorial now. “People fear what they don’t understand. They whisper ‘evil’ when they see power. But don’t forget—we were on the right side of history. We fought for the future of magic. The world just wasn’t ready for us.”

Warmth bloomed in Druella’s chest again. She nodded, the comfort of her mother’s voice wrapping around her like a spell.

That comfort faded the moment they reached Platform 9¾.

The station was a flurry of sound and motion—trunks clattered against cobblestones, owls hooted from their cages, and steam curled from the crimson train like dragon’s breath. Children dashed past in polished shoes, robes flapping, and parents leaned in with last-minute advice. Druella stayed close to her mother, fingers clutching the edge of Bellatrix’s cloak like a lifeline.

“Stay with me,” Bellatrix had whispered. “Don’t wander off.”

But when her mother stepped away to help Draco with his trunk—arguing, as always, with Lucius about how things should be done—curiosity tugged at Druella’s feet. It pulled her toward the unknown, like a charm cast without warning.

She drifted through the crowd, eyes wide. So many faces—strangers, yes, but with stories already forming behind their eyes.

A girl with buck teeth and a frizzy halo of brown hair stood nervously near a luggage cart, gripping her parents’ hands like she was afraid they’d vanish. Druella watched her for a moment, intrigued by the girl’s intense expression, like she was cataloguing every rule before setting foot on the train. "I wonder if she’ll be my friend one day," Druella thought. Something about her felt important.

Near her was a red-haired girl, roughly Druella’s age, clinging to her mother with quiet excitement. The older woman smiled warmly when she caught Druella looking and gave her a kind nod. The girl, however, blinked at her warily, already sizing her up.

"That one will be trouble," Druella thought. Something passed between them—unspoken but sharp. Not hatred. Not yet. But friction. Rivalry, even before names had been exchanged.

Across the bustling platform, steam curled around polished shoes and chattering families, but one girl stood apart like she already owned the place. She was pale, all sleek edges and chin-held-high pride, with long brown hair falling perfectly down her shoulders, not a strand out of place. Freckles dusted her nose—an unexpected trait, almost charming if not for the smug curl of her lip.

She clutched a silver-topped trunk that gleamed unnaturally clean, her fingers adorned with rings far too expensive for someone her age. Her back was straight, her stance careful and poised, like she’d practised it in a mirror. There was something serpentine in her gaze, sharp and slow-moving, as if she were assessing who was worth speaking to.

A flock of girls trailed behind her, giggling too loudly, mimicking her expressions without understanding them. Druella watched from a few feet away, arms crossed and brow furrowed, eyes narrowing.

"Huh," Druella muttered to herself, tilting her head. "Is that what passes for popularity now?"

But then she froze.

The memory came rushing in—her mother’s cold smile, her aunt’s tight voice, and the suffocating perfume of Amaryllis Parkinson as she stepped into the manor, uninvited but somehow always welcome in that Pureblood sort of way. A Rosier by birth, a Parkinson by marriage—Amaryllis carried herself like royalty, clutching her daughter’s hand like a precious ornament. Her son, Patrick, trailed behind with a look of bored disdain, as if even he couldn’t stand the theatrics.

Druella remembered it well. She'd only been seven the first time she saw Pansy strut across the marble floors of the manor like she owned them. That girl—this girl—had turned to her, eyes raking her over like she was less than the carpet beneath her feet, then shoved past her without a word. Druella had fled to her room and locked the door. She stayed there most of the visit. Bellatrix wouldn’t let her near them anyway. Not after Pansy made Druella cry and then laughed about it in front of the House-Elves.

Now, years later, Druella saw her again, and her stomach turned—not with fear, but with loathing laced in family ties.

“Oh no,” Druella breathed. “It’s her.”

And as if the name itself were a summoning charm, Pansy Parkinson turned, flashing that same insufferable smirk she’d worn since childhood. Her long brown hair shone in the morning sun, her pale, expressionless face tilted just enough to catch the light. She clutched a silver-topped trunk and wore velvet gloves, and a green dress as if she thought the train was a bloody gala.

“Oh, this?” Pansy purred, lifting her arm to display a regal-looking tawny owl. “Mother had her specially delivered from Goldfangs’—only the best, of course. A gift for my first year. She said I needed something refined. I mean, honestly, the owls from Eeylops? They look like they were bred in a barn.”

She laughed daintily, as though she hadn’t just insulted half the platform.

Beside her, a tall boy in Ravenclaw robes leaned against a trolley, clearly fighting the urge to vanish. With a Prefect Badge, Patrick Parkinson—her older brother—had the tired expression of someone used to this kind of behaviour.

“Patrick!” Pansy called, still admiring her reflection in the glass. “Did you remember my backup shoes, or do you want to carry me when these get scuffed?”

Patrick gave her a flat look. “You packed seven pairs, Pansy. You’ll survive. I have other things to worry about than your shoes. Do it yourself.”

She didn’t even turn. "Boys are so hopeless.”

Druella resisted the urge to gag. Druella quickly hid.

Pansy continued, eyes glittering as she eyed the crowd. “I mean, really—just look at that boy over there. Does he not know his own size, or did someone put a shrinking charm on him out of pity?”

The girls beside her giggled obediently.

Druella crossed her arms.

Her cousin hadn’t changed. Just the owl, the clothes, and the price tag. Underneath it all, she was still the same nasty, snide little snake that used to whisper cruel things and shut Druella in the cupboard while pretending it was a game.

And this year, she was going to Hogwarts.

And Druella was staying behind.

Druella turned again, avoiding her cousin's eyes, then catching sight of a boy with glasses, clothes far too large, and an expression far too small. He moved like someone who didn’t quite know where he was allowed to exist, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself invisible. Beside him, a snowy owl turned its head—dignified, regal, watching the chaos with far more composure than its owner.

Druella’s breath caught.

She knew who he was.

The Boy Who Lived.

Her mother had spoken of him often, in hushed, intense tones—not with hatred, but with something more curious. Awe. Fascination. There was a reverence in Bellatrix’s voice when she told the story, as if the boy had done something mythic, even if it meant the great Dark Lord’s fall.

“He didn’t kill the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix would say, brushing Druella’s curls by the fire. “He survived him. That’s rarer. Stranger. The Dark Lord’s magic—our magic—it left a mark on him. That boy is more tangled with our legacy than he’ll ever understand. He was gifted by the Dark Lord. With power beyond the ordinary.”

Druella had imagined him like a statue in a book—radiant, powerful, strange.

But now, here he was. Small. Real. Wandering the platform in borrowed clothes, looking like he belonged to no one.

And she couldn’t stop staring.

She watched him board the train, swallowed quickly by a flood of red-haired boys with loud voices and crooked grins. He didn’t look powerful. He looked lost.

She tilted her head.

"Maybe we could be friends," she thought.

Not knowing—couldn’t possibly know—how far that thought would stretch.

A sharp, wet thump hit her dress.

A toad.

Druella let out a piercing shriek. “Ugh! Get this ghastly creature off me!”

She flailed wildly, backing away in horror. The toad blinked at her, unmoved. It had landed squarely on her chest like some cursed omen. Her heart thundered in her ears—she hated frogs. Always had. Ever since that one summer a frog had leapt into her bath when Narcissa was cleaning her and refused to leave, Narcissa scrubbed her till she smelled like lavender and roses for weeks she’d never recovered since.

She stumbled backwards, just as a freckled boy rushed toward her, waving his arms.

“I’m so sorry! Trevor just—he always runs off—”

In his panic, he yanked with his wand that spark flew—and Druella was knocked off her feet, landing hard on the platform. Her curls fell into her face, her dress rumpled and stained.

The boy winced. “Are you alright?” he asked, holding out a hand.

Druella stood, brushing herself off with the frozen dignity only a child raised in a manor could manage. “Your creature has very poor manners,” she muttered, voice trembling—not with anger, but genuine fear. 

The boy clutched the toad to his chest. “I—I didn’t mean for Trevor to jump on you. Honest.”

Druella’s scowl softened slightly at his obvious distress. “I just… I don’t like toads,” she admitted under her breath. “They're slimy. They leap without warning.”

“I’m Neville,” he offered, his awkward grin trying to smooth the moment. “Neville Longbottom.”

“I’m Druella,” she replied cautiously, blinking. “Are you… going to Hogwarts?”

He nodded. “First year.”

A flicker of longing crossed her face. “Not yet. I’ll go in a few years.”

Neville smiled. “Well, maybe we’ll run into each other then. You seem… nice.”

"Could I call you Dru? Or Ella for short."

"Well, my cousin calls me Ellie, so I guess. So Ella? You look like a Nev."

Neville blinked, "Huh, never had that type of comment. Mostly just my gran preparing me for Hogwarts. She's always tough, you see. But you are nice and all."

She blinked, startled by the compliment. “Thank you. You seem to be as well. Perhaps Mother may like you if I introduce you.”

But the moment cracked like glass.

A stern voice rang out. “Neville! There you are!”

A tall, severe-looking woman in a green cloak stormed over. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw Druella.

“You,” she hissed. “You’re Bellatrix Black’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Druella’s stomach dropped. “Yes, I—why does it matter?”

“Why does it—?” the woman’s voice sharpened. “Your mother is the reason my son and daughter-in-law are in St. Mungo’s. She tortured them into madness!”

Druella stepped back, her throat tightening. "What? What are you talking about? Madness?"

“You and your kind are a disgrace to wizardkind!” the woman snapped. “You’re cursed, just like her! The Lestrange Bloodline is cursed; they always meet a sticky end, just like your father. Your mother left him to break the curse. For you? Look at you—the spitting image of that wretched creature. Mark my words, Neville—this one will grow up just the same.”

Neville stepped forward. “Gran, stop—she didn’t—”

“I’m just a child,” Druella whispered, her voice small, her fingers curling tightly in her sleeves as if that might anchor her.

“She’s a Black!” Augusta Longbottom spat. “If worse, a Lestrange! That’s all the proof I need. You may have the surname Black, but curses always find a way.”

And that’s when the air turned to frost.

A hush fell. The shadows shifted.

“Druella.”

The name was spoken low and cold, yet unmistakably hers.

Druella turned around just as her mother appeared, stepping forward like a storm given form. Bellatrix’s cloak swept behind her like smoke, her boots striking the stone with finality. Her wand hand twitched at her side, her eyes fixed on Augusta like a blade honed on rage.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t even look at Neville.

She reached forward, fast and without hesitation, and scooped Druella into her arms.

“I told you not to leave my side,” Bellatrix muttered fiercely, clutching her daughter to her chest. “You barely leave the manor, and this is why.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mother, I—”

“Shhh.” Bellatrix pressed Druella’s head into the curve of her neck, one hand smoothing over her curls. “You don’t need to explain, darling. Mummy’s here. You’re alright.”

Druella shook, her small hands clinging to the velvet of Bellatrix’s robes as hot tears slid down her cheeks. Her breathing came fast and shallow.

Bellatrix turned to Augusta slowly, like a predator pivoting on a single thought.

“You stay away from my daughter,” she said, voice like stone cracking. “Your words cause damage. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make my child cry.”

“She’s your spawn,” Augusta snapped. “And you think I’ll let her near my grandson?”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed. "You should be very afraid of me, Longbottom.”

“Bella,” Narcissa’s voice floated in from the crowd, calm but strained, “not here.”

But Bellatrix didn’t lower her wand. She didn’t put Druella down. She held her tighter, like a dragon curling around her treasure.

Then, just as she began to turn, a voice rang out mockingly.

“Hey, Druella! Do yourself a favour and run away from home!” a boy jeered from the platform.

Bellatrix paused.

Her grip on Druella tightened. One look—just one—and the boy vanished behind a crowd of petrified students.

She turned back to Druella, her expression softening only for her child. “We’re going home,” she whispered, as if she could will the world away. “We’re going back to the garden. I’ll buy you something beautiful. You don’t need to be near these animals.”

Druella buried her face deeper into her mother’s chest. She could still feel the sting of Augusta’s words. Cursed. Just like her.

She didn’t know what they meant—not really.

But she knew how they made her feel.

Like she was something monstrous.

And as Bellatrix swept them both out of King’s Cross with her daughter clutched tightly to her, Druella cried for the first time in months.

Not because she’d fallen.

But because someone had looked at her, and only seen the blood in her veins.

Hogwarts Express

Neville stumbled down the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, cradling Trevor in both hands and still blinking like someone had just cast Lumos straight into his brain.

He’d been quiet for most of the walk to the train, unusually distracted—because that girl was still in his head.

Not just any girl.

The girl with eyes like moss under frost. With hair so black it looked blue in the sunlight. That smile was awkward, but I liked him—the girl who had been carried off like a princess from a cursed fairytale.

Neville turned the corner, lost in thought, his cheeks still pink, his steps a little too light for someone with his track record of bad luck.

Then—

Wham.

He bumped square into a bushy-haired girl with an armful of books.

“Watch it!” she huffed, more startled than angry.

Neville stumbled back. “Sorry! Sorry, I—” He blinked at her, dazed. “Today I met the girl of my dreams.”

She paused, staring. “What?”

“She was... perfect,” Neville said breathlessly, like he was in a daze. “And terrifying.”

The girl frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, not her,” Neville said quickly, hands up. “Her mum. Her mum’s the terrifying one. You know, the actual psychopath who nearly murdered my parents. Right. That one.”

The girl’s face shifted into something between confusion and concern.

“But the girl,” Neville went on, unfazed. “She wasn’t like that. She was soft-spoken. She smiled at me. My toad, Trever, jumped on her dress.”

The girl opened her mouth and closed it again.

Neville sighed, staring dreamily down the corridor like it might replay the moment if he just looked hard enough. “I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.”

“...Right,” the girl said slowly, clearly rethinking her route. “Good luck with that.”

Then came the drawling voice from behind them.

“Oh, I doubt it,” Draco Malfoy sneered, shoving past with two boys trailing behind him. “You're speaking about my cousin?”

Neville turned, startled. “Cousin?”

Draco smirked, pausing just long enough to enjoy the reaction. “Won’t be here this year. She starts in a few years. But let’s be honest—someone like you?” He gave Neville a slow once-over, from his scuffed shoes to his toad clutched to his chest. “Fat, clumsy, and from a broken family line? You’ll never get near her. My Aunt Bella would roast you alive before she’d let you near her Black Blossom.”

Behind them, the bushy-haired girl gasped. “That’s awful!”

Draco’s eyes slid to her, unimpressed. “And what’s your family name?”

She blinked. “Um… Granger. From London.”

“Granger?” Draco repeated, voice curling with suspicion. “Never heard of it.”

She straightened slightly. “We’re—my parents are dentists.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, smug. “So no magical heritage, then. Figures. Father warned me about people like you. Tell me, what Muggle school did you go to?”

The girl flushed but lifted her chin. “It’s none of your business.”

Draco sneered, but made no move to argue. With a toss of his head, he turned on his heel. “Whatever. I’ve got better people to find. Potter’s somewhere on this train—I intend to introduce myself.”

He stalked off with Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him.

Neville let out a breath, glancing sideways at the girl.

“You okay?”

She nodded stiffly. “He’s just… a jerk.”

Neville gave a tired smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

Trevor squirmed in his arms again—and promptly leapt.

“Oh no—Trevor!”

The girl darted after the toad, nimble despite her books. “Got him!”

Neville stared. “Wow—you’re brilliant.”

She grinned, a little breathless. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Neville Longbottom,” he replied, cheeks pink.

But even as they settled into the nearest compartment together, Neville’s mind drifted back to the girl he’d seen earlier.

Black Blossom, Draco had called her.

And though he didn’t understand what that meant...

But at least for now, he is going to see that strange girl again.

Malfoy Manor.

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor glowed dimly under enchanted candlelight. Outside, the summer was ending in stillness—trees unmoving, sky holding its breath. Inside, Narcissa paced the length of the rug, her heels clicking softly on the marble, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might crack under the weight of her worry.

“She’s not ready,” Narcissa said again, her voice lower now, but no less fierce. “She still has baby teeth, Bellatrix. She barely eats when she’s upset. She gets sick easily during winter, and Hogwarts winters are brutal—Scottish stone and high towers. What if she wanders off? Hogwarts is huge. She'll be alone. I won't be there to help her.”

Bellatrix sat across the room, one leg folded over the other, her head resting against her hand. For once, she was the quieter of the two.

“She’s already doing fifth-year spells,” Bellatrix said. “I bet she speaks Latin better than most Ravenclaws. We could even make arrangements for her regarding Hogwarts. You’ve seen her, Cissy—she stays up reading those old chapter books and mythic novels I buy her. She begs for bedtime stories and poems, then reads ahead without telling us. She doesn’t just want to learn—she craves it. She dreams of that castle. She counts the days.”

Narcissa stopped pacing.

“She draws Hogwarts in her notebooks, she draws the school on the computer with her chalk,” Bellatrix continued, more gently now. “The towers. The library. That bloody lake. She’s not scared of it, Cissy. She wants it. She wants to be there.”

Narcissa’s hands tightened. “I know. I know. I see it in her eyes. But it terrifies me. Because she’s different, Bella. She’s the last child in this family who still believes in wonder. If they crush that…”

“They won’t,” Bellatrix said, sitting forward now. “Not if we walk her in ourselves. Not if we show them exactly who she belongs to. She’s not going in weak. She’s going in to watch. Named. Loved. And if she gets lost, we'll be there to help her find her way again.”

“She’s not like Draco,” Narcissa murmured. “He relished being the centre of attention. She… she folds when people raise their voices.”

“She’ll learn,” Bellatrix said. “And more than that—she’ll rise. You just have to let her.”

Narcissa turned, blue eyes sharp. “You want to throw her into a castle full of strangers, many of whom know exactly who she is? You want to see her on the front page of Witch Weekly because someone sees the Dark Mark on your arm and links it to her? She'll be rejected because of your past. You saw the way Longbottom was. People will reject and make her fall.”

“She’s already being whispered about in the Prophet,” Bellatrix countered. “She’s a bright girl. A girl raised in seclusion. Draco is already on the way. If we don’t send her, it’ll look like we’re ashamed of her.”

“I’m not ashamed—”

“I know that,” Bellatrix said quietly. “But they don’t know that.”

Barefoot, hair messy and oversized flowy nightgown dragging behind her, Druella stood in the doorway holding a book and a stuffed animal. Her eyes were wide, unsure.

“Am I still going to Hogwarts? I really want to go.”

Both women looked at her.

Narcissa rose immediately and went to her, cupping her face. “You are. But we’re walking you to Kings Cross. No matter what, you won’t be alone.”

Bellatrix stepped forward, smoothing down the back of her daughter’s wild, wavy hair. “And anyone who tries to make you broken, or ashamed, or like you don't belong."

She bent close, nose to nose.

“I’ll curse their bloodlines into dust.”

Druella blinked. “Even the Gryffindors?”

“Especially the Gryffindors,” Bellatrix said with a wide grin, caressing Druella's cheek.

And Narcissa, reluctantly, nodded.

“But you must write to us. Every week,” she added. “No excuse, you will write."

“Can I have my own pet?” Druella asked, already hopeful. "A cat? But I know Uncle doesn't want me to have a cat. Maybe a snake? Uncle sends snakes, maybe I can take one of them?"

Narcissa kissed her head. “We’ll see.”

Bellatrix looked over at her sister with a crooked smile. “Look at her. Not even sorted yet, and already negotiating.”

Druella looked between them both, the weight of their concern pressing against her heart.

She didn’t understand the politics, or the legacy, or the stakes behind her name.

"Why don't we have a chat, Druella?" Bellatrix said as she picked Druella up, leading her away.

She took Druella to her bedroom.

“You must never wander away from me like that again,” she said sternly, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “You’re too young. You don’t understand how cruel the world is—not yet.”

Druella sat quietly on the settee, curled in on herself, her dress wrinkled from travel. Her fingers toyed with the hem as her thoughts drifted back to the platform. That woman’s words still clung to her like cobwebs.

Bellatrix crouched beside her, brushing Druella’s curls back with a gentleness that didn’t match her reputation. “They fear us, Black Blossom,” she said softly. “Because they know what we are. Because they lost.”

Druella hesitated, then whispered, “Why did you do it? To Neville’s parents.”

Bellatrix didn’t flinch. Her expression remained calm, calculated, even—but there was a flicker in her eyes. Not regret. Never that. But something else. Something protective. A shielded truth, veiled in loyalty.

“There was a war,” she said softly, her voice like a lullaby laced with poison. “And in war, we do what must be done. Things others are too afraid to carry out. I followed orders—to protect magic. To protect our kind.”

She paused, glancing at Druella with a tenderness that was as rare as it was chilling.

“There was a prophecy,” Bellatrix continued. “About two children. We thought it meant Harry Potter… and Neville Longbottom.”

“Really?” Druella asked, curiosity slowly replacing doubt.

Bellatrix gave a small nod. “Their parents were given a choice. They could have surrendered the children to the Dark Lord. But they refused. The Potters died for it. And little Harry… well, he lived. He survived. Defeated the Dark Lord. And the Longbottoms—” her voice sharpened just a touch, like a blade slipping from silk, “—I went after them. And for that, I was locked away in Azkaban.”

She leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from Druella’s face. “But I escaped. I got out. And then… I had you. You are the reason I endured that prison.”

Druella blinked, struggling to reconcile the mother before her with the stories she’d heard. “But… they say you tortured them.”

Bellatrix cupped her daughter’s face, her eyes glowing with fierce devotion. “People always twist the truth when it suits them. They rewrite the past to make sense of what frightens them. I did what I believed in. Not out of cruelty, but conviction. To build a world where you could be born. Where magic still has power.”

She paused, her voice darkening just slightly. “And the Longbottoms? They've never forgotten. Just like we haven’t. Our families… we’ve been at odds ever since. Think of it like the Malfoys and the Weasleys—bloodlines at war. It’s a feud now. Deep. Generational. You’ll understand in time.”

Druella swallowed hard. Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Yes, Mother.”

That was all she needed.

She believed her mother.

Every word.

"Um, Madam Longbottom said that the Lestrange line is cursed," Druella asked curiously. 

Bellatrix turned.

"What does that mean?" Druella asked.

Bellatrix’s voice dropped to a low hum, her fingers trailing through Druella’s hair as if weaving the tale into her very scalp. The room seemed darker now, as though the shadows themselves leaned in to listen.

“Yes… it’s real. The Lestrange line wasn’t always cursed. They were once a proud, noble family. Obsessive, yes. Powerful. But there was a brilliance in their madness. Too much brilliance, perhaps. Magic like that… it attracts the wrong kind of attention.”

Druella clutched her stuffed cat tighter, eyes wide, voice barely above a breath. “What happened to them?”

Bellatrix smiled thinly, a glimmer of nostalgia—or was it bitterness?—crossing her face.

“It began centuries ago. One of the earliest Lestranges—Cronus Lestrange—delved too deep into something he shouldn’t have. Blood rituals. Forbidden charms. He was obsessed with binding his family’s power forever, ensuring that no Lestrange would ever be born weak. But magic like that always costs something.”

“What did it cost?” Druella whispered.

Bellatrix leaned in close, her breath warm against Druella’s cheek. “Sanity. Love. Legacy. The curse twisted his wish. Every Lestrange would indeed be powerful—but at the expense of peace. No, Lestrange would never die quietly. All Lestranges would face a horrible fate. A sticky fate. Their brilliance would burn them alive from the inside out. Some went mad. Some vanished. Others… were used by greater powers and discarded.”

She paused, her hand resting over Druella’s heart. “Rodolphus was marked by it. His brother Rabastan, too. You never met them. You wouldn’t have wanted to.”

Druella frowned. “So if I had been born with the Lestrange name…”

“You’d have been doomed,” Bellatrix finished softly, without hesitation. “That’s why I left the name behind. Why I left Rodolphus behind. You don't carry his surname, and that is your salvation.”

Druella furrowed her brow. “But… if I’m not cursed, why do people still look at me like I’m dangerous?”

Bellatrix gave a laugh, low and amused, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s temple.

“Because danger runs deeper than blood, little blossom. The world sees your magic and they tremble—not because of your name, but because of your potential. You are not cursed, Druella. I choose you.”

Druella blinked, turning the words over like marbles in her hand. “Madam Longbottom said curses always find a way.”

Bellatrix’s expression hardened, her tone turning sharp. “Madam Longbottom is a bitter old relic from a broken world. She fears what she can’t control. She clings to the past like it will keep her warm. But the future doesn’t belong to her—it belongs to you.”

There was a silence then, thick with something unsaid.

Druella nestled closer, one small hand clutching Bellatrix’s robes. “What happened to the first Lestrange? The one who made the curse?”

Bellatrix’s eyes glittered. “He vanished. Into the Void, they say. Some believe he’s still there… trapped between worlds, feeding the curse like a leech. Others say he became part of the curse itself—his soul forever bound to his descendants. But it doesn’t matter now. That bloodline will end.”

She brushed Druella’s curls again, her voice low and final.

“And you, Druella Bellatrix Black, will be the beginning of something new.”

Druella cradles her stuffed cat, which she named Lucky.

Later, they sat together on Druella’s bed, side by side in the quiet. The fire had dimmed to a soft glow, casting long shadows across the walls. Bellatrix leaned back against the headboard, an arm resting behind her daughter. Druella scooted close, her blanket tucked around her legs. A smile on her face as she looked at her.

Her green eyes lifted to Bellatrix’s face—wide, trusting, full of warmth.

Bellatrix looked down at her, and for just a moment, the edges of her expression softened. She reached out and pulled Druella in, cradling her against her side. Druella nestled close, laying her head on her mother’s shoulder.

Their eyes met once more—green and brown, innocence and fire. A perfect mirror of blood and bond.

“I love you, Mother,” Druella whispered.

Bellatrix pressed a kiss to her forehead, her voice low and certain. “And I love you, my Black Blossom. Always.”

And in that moment, with the manor silent and the fire low, Druella didn’t feel afraid of the world outside.

Because she believed her mother.

And she believed that love would be enough.

"I won't let you go," Bellatrix whispered, pulling Druella in an embrace.

"Ever."

Chapter Text

When Bellatrix came home one evening, she greeted her daughter with a small smile and handed her a book.
"I got you a present," she said.
Druella took the book eagerly, nodding as she opened it. It didn't take her long to realise it was about He Who Must Not Be Named. The text was dense and complex, but Druella was determined to read it from cover to cover.

That year, Druella spent most of her time in silence, retreating to her room. The library became her sanctuary, brimming with books about Hogwarts and its rich history. She envisioned herself walking through the castle’s halls, forging friendships and mastering defensive spells. Each page she turned fueled her anticipation for her first term.

However, Narcissa had other plans. She insisted that Druella take piano lessons, refusing to let her practice alone. Narcissa would sit beside her, watchful and precise. With her wand resting gently against Druella’s back, it wasn’t a threat but a constant reminder to maintain perfect posture.

"Straighten your back, dear," Narcissa directed, her tone both gentle and authoritative.

Druella complied, adjusting her position on the bench and returning to her playing. The music was soothing, yet Narcissa’s constant corrections grated on her nerves. Nothing ever seemed good enough. Narcissa was always quick to point out mistakes or intervene when Druella felt capable of managing on her own. Even simple tasks like laundry were taken out of Druella’s hands—Narcissa insisted on handling them, while Draco was expected to manage his own responsibilities, a duty he often grumbled about. Despite her well-known status and Pureblood wealth, Narcissa still hovered over Druella, treating her like fragile glass that could shatter at any moment.

She gave Druella everything, including an abundance of stuffed animals and dolls—gifts that seemed more fitting for a much younger child. Narcissa showered her with more gifts, more attention, more affection, as though Druella was perpetually in need of being cared for, of being protected.

When Bellatrix wasn’t around, Narcissa’s behaviour intensified. She would dote on Druella, making unnecessary noises as she kissed her cheeks or adjusted her appearance as if Druella were still a tiny tot. Narcissa would tuck her in at night with the care and tenderness of someone much younger, as though Druella wasn’t capable of doing it herself. Bellatrix, on the other hand, allowed for more independence. Bellatrix, however, was always there for her daughter, her presence unwavering and fierce.

Bellatrix's love for Druella ran deeper than anyone realised. She was more than just a mother—Druella was her whole world, her everything. Only a few had witnessed the softer side of Bellatrix, as she allowed anyone to see how deeply her obsession with her daughter ran. But behind closed doors, when Druella was a baby, Bellatrix would often sit by Druella’s crib, her gaze filled with an intense, almost possessive love, as she watched her daughter sleep peacefully. The rare moments when Bellatrix’s heart softened were cherished by no one but Druella.

Bellatrix was fiercely protective. She would never let anyone or anything come near Druella, willing to do anything to ensure her safety. At night, when the world outside felt distant, when the manor seemed still, Bellatrix would sneak into Druella's room, careful not to wake her. She would lie down beside her, arm protectively around her daughter's waist as she stroked her hair gently, her fingers moving through it with tenderness.

As she settled beside Druella, Bellatrix whispered her voice barely a breath against the room's stillness. “You’re safe,” she murmured, kissing Druella’s temple. “No one can ever hurt you. No one will hurt you, Black Blossom. Not while I’m around.” She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh as her eyes softened, her gaze never leaving Druella’s peaceful face. “I’ll protect you forever, and I'll do whatever it takes. You’re mine, my little girl. You're mine, my everything. Always.”

Sometimes, Bellatrix would hum softly, a lullaby only Druella could understand, soothing her into a peaceful sleep. Her fingers would trace the outline of Druella’s cheek, the gentle caress a promise of unwavering devotion. “Sleep, darling,” Bellatrix whispered again, her voice tender and loving, “You need your rest... and I’ll keep you safe in these arms of mine.” The words hung in the air, a deep vow that seemed to resonate within the room's walls.

In those moments, Bellatrix’s obsession was not violent or dangerous but deeply comforting. She would whisper to Druella, her words too soft for anyone else to hear, as if promising her daughter that she would always be protected and loved. Bellatrix’s eyes would soften, filled with a quiet adoration as she pressed another kiss to Druella’s forehead, her love radiating like a shield around her. Even when she wasn’t physically present, Bellatrix's protective instincts were never far—Druella was her most precious thing. Bellatrix would stop at nothing to keep her safe, even if that meant isolating her from the world before she went to Hogwarts.

Though intense, Bellatrix’s love for Druella was always tender. She was a mother—but more than that, she was a force of nature. A woman who would kill, burn, and destroy for the sake of the one person who truly mattered to her.

Narcissa, meanwhile, was far more calculated. Her obsession with shielding Druella extended well beyond the home’s stone corridors. Druella wasn’t allowed to play with children Narcissa deemed "unfit"—which, in her view, was nearly everyone. The only ones ever permitted near her were Crabbe and Goyle, and even that came with strict supervision and rules.

“Druella,” Narcissa would murmur, her voice velvet over steel, “you’re a girl. You mustn’t waste time with silly boyish nonsense. There are things proper young ladies simply do not do.”

And so, Druella was left to her own company.

The nine-year-old spent much of her time in the small garden near the elves’ kitchen—one of the few spaces in the manor that felt like hers. Her hands, small and careful, were often dirty with soil as she dug little beds for flowers that never quite grew the way she hoped.

One morning, as she pressed a flower gently into the earth, she spotted Dobby passing by.

Without hesitation, she picked a blooming daisy and held it out to him.

Dobby blinked, startled. Slowly, a crooked smile spread across his face as he accepted the flower with trembling hands. Then he vanished, hurrying off—back to the wrath of Lucius Malfoy.

Druella watched him go, her eyes drifting past the hedges to the wrought iron gates in the distance. The sky above the manor always looked a little too grey.

She looked at the House Elves bustling around the back doors and whispered, “Oh, House Elves... how do you stand being here your whole lives?”

Her hands moved back to her flowerbeds, adjusting a row of blooms. Her green dress swept the dirt as she knelt, her hair pinned into an intricate crown braid by Narcissa’s hand that morning.

“How I long for a companion,” Druella murmured. “Someone who chooses me. Not because of blood or duty. But just because they want to.”

She sighed, getting to her feet, wiping her hands on her dress before taking a bit of chalk from her pocket. On the stone path beside the garden, she began to draw—smiling suns, stick-figure girls with flowers, little hearts and stars. Things she wished the world held more of.

“Maybe one day,” she whispered, watching the chalk dust flake off into the breeze. “Maybe one day… someone will see me.”

She paused, staring through the gates again.

“I just want to be loved,” she said, voice nearly lost to the wind. “More than what my family gives me. I want to meet people who don’t care about the Black name.”

And then, quietly, Druella returned to her chalk drawings and her garden, pretending—just for a moment—that the manor didn’t have walls.

She let out a soft sigh, her heart swelling with a strange, innocent kindness.

“I wonder when I’ll go to Hogwarts,” she murmured to herself, brushing her fingers along the chalky stone.

But before her daydream could drift too far, footsteps echoed from the stone corridor behind the garden.

“Come, love,” Bellatrix’s voice rang out, soft but commanding. “Let’s go paint.”

Druella turned as her mother approached in long, silken robes that shimmered black and emerald. Her curls were pinned with silver combs shaped like serpents. Bellatrix extended her hand—not with patience, but expectation. Druella took it.

As they walked together through the hedged paths toward the manor’s art room, Bellatrix cast a sharp, cold look at the House Elves lingering near the garden gate. Her eyes narrowed in silent warning, a message only they seemed to understand. The Elves quickly busied themselves, avoiding her gaze.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of old parchment and fresh oils. Canvases lined the far wall, some half-finished, others brilliant with colour and chaos. Bellatrix rolled up her sleeves, setting out their brushes and paints with ritualistic precision.

“Your garden is beautiful,” she said, selecting a deep red pigment.

“Thanks…” Druella muttered, dipping her brush in blue.

“What did you do today?” Bellatrix asked, her tone airy but alert.

“I played with my dolls… read more of that book on runes. It’s really interesting.”

Bellatrix’s smile was subtle but satisfied. “Good girl. The ancient scripts will serve you well.”

With practised ease, she scooped Druella into her arms mid-brushstroke and carried her effortlessly through the corridor, up the winding stairs. They reached the private library, a towering room drenched in velvet and candlelight.

“Here’s a good one,” Bellatrix murmured, plucking a thick tome from the shelf and tossing it to her daughter. Druella caught it without flinching.

“And another—this one’s even better.”

Again, Druella caught the book. Her eyes lit up.

Later, they retreated to the potion chamber. Crystal vials glinted in the dim light. Bellatrix worked with careful control, slicing ingredients like a conductor commanding an orchestra. Druella watched, wide-eyed, as colours shifted and mixtures hissed. Bellatrix guided her hand gently, murmuring instructions like incantations.

Narcissa entered then, poised, immaculate as ever. She lingered in the doorway, watching the two of them with a strange mixture of approval and envy. Bellatrix glanced over her shoulder but said nothing. Her focus remained entirely on her daughter.

Druella smiled as she successfully cast a small charm, the potion bubbling perfectly.

As Bellatrix dried Druella’s hands from potion splatter, the door opened again.

“Ah ah CHOO!”

The sneeze echoed.

Narcissa appeared in an instant, a blur of her blonde and black hair and full-blown concern. Her heels clicked urgently against the tile.

“Druella!” she gasped. “You’re getting a fever. You're going straight to bed.”

Druella blinked. “But it’s not bedtime yet… and it's still daylight out.”

“I don't care. You know how sick you get,” Narcissa fussed, already pressing her cool hand to the girl’s cheek. “Absolutely not. You’re warm. You’re going straight to bed.”

Before Druella could protest again, Narcissa had already scooped her up into her arms, her hands holding Druella still despite her shrieks.

Bellatrix raised an amused brow but said nothing.

“You must rest,” Narcissa insisted, carrying her down the hall. “I’ll bring Nyssa. And your blanket. And your tea. And I’ll stay beside you until you’re asleep.”

She pressed a flurry of dramatic kisses to Druella’s forehead as they reached the bedroom. Druella groaned softly in protest, already being tucked under sheets far too early, a stuffed animal was placed delicately in her arms.

Bellatrix lingered in the doorway, arms folded, watching it all with a dark sort of fondness.

This was the rhythm of Druella’s life: one mother to fill the day, another to smother the night.

But always, always… she was never left alone.

Draco, in contrast, was left to fend for himself in his more independent manner. While Narcissa often fussed over Druella, Draco was expected to manage on his own, and his complaints only seemed to reinforce Narcissa's different treatment of them. Narcissa, though, still saw him as her baby boy, but Lucius was the one who spoiled him the most. Despite her own wealth and status, Narcissa’s actions toward Druella were fueled by a deep sense of protectiveness, seeing her as fragile and in need of constant care.

At dinner, the conversation revolved entirely around Draco—his grades, the subjects he was studying, and his accomplishments at Hogwarts. Druella remained silent, her presence barely acknowledged.

She missed Draco terribly when he was away. The days felt endless, and she spent most of them buried in books, trying to feel connected to him. She read everything she could about first-year subjects and even ventured into fifth-year material. The more she read, the more determined she became to excel. She wanted to make her family proud, to be the kind of witch they would admire.

Without a wand, Druella had to get creative. She used a branch from the garden, pretending it was a wand, and practised the techniques she'd read about. Sometimes, she combined her pretend spellwork with dance moves from her lessons, spinning and twirling as if casting powerful magic. It was the only way to prepare for the day she would finally have a real wand in her hand.

Her tenth birthday arrived on December 23rd, just before Christmas, and with it came Draco's return home. Druella was quiet when Lucius was glad he returned, and Draco had his pride in check again.

Later that day, Druella overheard a conversation between Narcissa and Draco. "Draco, I must express my disappointment in your failure to befriend Harry Potter, as both your father and I wanted you to," Narcissa said, her voice sharp with disapproval.

Draco’s face flushed a deep red at the mention of Harry Potter, and his embarrassment was palpable. Druella smiled to herself, recalling all the times Draco had boasted about wanting to befriend The Boy Who Lived, now blew to his pride. She and Dobby listened closely, standing quietly in the shadowed corridor.

"I shall personally look into Harry Potter and his little group myself," Narcissa continued, her tone cold and calculating. "I find his friend group rather interesting. A Pureblood, a Half Blood, and a Muggleborn all in one group. I intend to ensure that the Malfoys will learn more about The Boy Who Lived."

Draco shot back defensively, his words dripping with disdain. "Mother, he's friends with a Mudblood. She's—"

Narcissa interrupted sharply, her voice ice-cold. "That doesn’t matter. I will handle the situation with those kids, Draco." Her gaze turned to him with an edge of reprimand. "You know better than to speak to me in that tone."

Draco scoffed, defiant. "Oh, please. You let Ellie talk to you that way."

Narcissa’s expression tightened, her voice hardening. "Well, she’s fragile, Draco. She doesn’t know what’s best for her."

Druella scoffed quietly at that, rolling her eyes. "As if."

Narcissa turned her gaze to Draco, her eyes narrowing with a mix of authority and disappointment. "Don’t you speak to her like that again. You want to push her away, fine. But I will not let you disrespect her like that."

Draco muttered, "Her and Aunt Bella, they're turning into those pathetic Weasleys. Blood Traitors."

Narcissa’s silence was suffocating. When she spoke again, her voice was controlled but full of steely resolve. "You shall not speak of your aunt and cousin in that manner again, do you understand?" Her tone made it clear she wasn’t asking.

Draco pouted, his defiance faltering under his mother’s unwavering gaze. He nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Narcissa nodded in return, her face unreadable. "Good. Now forget those comments. You do well to remember that Bella and I are in charge of Druella’s wellbeing, not your father. How Bella raises her daughter is no concern of Lucius's. I am her aunt, and I will raise her as I see fit."

Druella listened intently, the sharp words stinging more than they probably should. Narcissa’s overprotectiveness was smothering, but there was no denying that Narcissa treated her as if she were her own, as if she were truly her baby, as much as she did Draco.

Narcissa’s voice softened with a note of finality as she continued, "She is not ready to face the world until we say she is ready. She needs my care and guidance, no matter the issue. She’s my baby."

Druella scoffed again under her breath, but her discomfort was tempered by the fact that Narcissa was speaking with an undeniable maternal possessiveness.

Narcissa turned to Draco, her expression hardening again. "And so are you, Draco. You are my son, no matter what your father says. Even though Druella isn’t my biological daughter, she is still my baby, like it or not."

Draco’s annoyance flickered, but he nodded, sensing the unspoken weight in his mother’s words. Narcissa’s gaze lingered on him, ensuring he understood the importance of what she had just said. The underlying message was clear: she would not let anyone—least of all Lucius—undermine her role in Druella’s life.

The moment lingered for a beat, and then Narcissa stepped toward Draco, pulling him into a hug. It was a comforting gesture, but there was an undeniable possessiveness in the way she enveloped him. He accepted the embrace reluctantly, but there was a small, almost imperceptible softness in his shoulders as he allowed it.

"Don’t worry, dear," Narcissa whispered confidently, her voice steady and maternal. "Mummy will take care of it, like I always do."

Druella watched from her hiding spot, the tension in the air thick with Narcissa’s unyielding determination to control the fates of her children—her biological son and her niece alike. The distinction in how Narcissa treated them, the unspoken expectations she had for them, was glaring. And while Draco was often the focus of her frustrations, it was Druella who was constantly reminded that no matter what, she would always be a part of Narcissa’s world, whether she wanted to be or not.

Druella spun around in shock, her heart racing as she caught Bellatrix's mischievous grin.

"Black Blossom, always the little spy!" Bellatrix chuckled, her voice filled with playful mockery. Druella froze for a moment, but before she could respond, Bellatrix scooped her up effortlessly, dashing through the manor with laughter echoing off the walls.

"The Boy Who Lived!" Druella's thoughts raced, a mix of admiration and thrill coursing through her. The idea of being at school with him, even if she was a term behind, sent a wave of excitement crashing over her. Just the thought of meeting him herself one day ignited a spark of joy in her heart!

For the rest of the holiday, he barely acknowledged her presence, not even on her birthday. She didn't understand why. They had always been close, yet now it felt like she didn't exist to him.

On the morning of her birthday, Druella tried one last time.

"Hey, do you want to play?" she asked hesitantly as she approached him.

Draco didn't look up from his desk. "Would you leave me alone? I'm busy," he muttered.

Her eyes drifted to the empty surface in front of him. "You don't look busy," she said cautiously.

Draco's temper flared. He stood abruptly, grabbed her arm, and dragged her to the door. Without a word, he shoved her out and slammed it shut.

Swallowing her hurt, Druella made her way to the sitting room, where her mother was waiting to celebrate. The gifts were thoughtful—a black cloak, elegant black dresses, and a few books on dark magic. But one gift stood out from the rest.

Her mother led her into a smaller, quieter room and handed her a small box. Druella opened it to find a necklace inside, a black stone set in a delicate silver chain.

"This necklace has been in our family for centuries," her mother explained, fastening it around her neck.

"It was crafted for one of our ancestors and has been passed down to the eldest daughter ever since. When a daughter turns eleven, her mother gives it to her."

Her mother adjusted Druella's hair, her hands gentle as she stood back to admire her. They both faced the mirror, and her mother rested her hands on Druella's shoulders.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured, lifting Druella's chin. "Embrace your name, love. Don't forget who you are."

Druella smiled faintly, her mother's words settling into her heart. They embraced, and for a moment, the weight of the necklace felt less like a burden and more like a connection to something greater than herself.

Bellatrix adjusted the necklace around Druella's neck with a satisfied smile.

"I named you after your grandmother, who gave me this necklace when I was your age," Bellatrix explained, her tone unusually soft. "Now it belongs to you."

Druella turned to the mirror, her reflection illuminated by the glow of the ornate pendant. She felt a swell of pride as she admired the family heirloom resting against her chest. This was more than a gift—it was a legacy. From that day forward, she wore the necklace every day.

Her family heritage was something Druella had always taken pride in. One day, it would fall to her to carry on their traditions and achieve the impossible. Uncle Lucius often spoke of blood purity, stating with certainty that Mudbloods should learn their place. Druella had never met anyone who wasn't a family friend, and all of them were purebloods. Her mother made sure of that. Bellatrix constantly reinforced the importance of their lineage and insisted Druella live up to her name.

"You must be the best, my little sorceress," Bellatrix would say, her sharp gaze pinning Druella in place.

Yet Bellatrix's lessons were complicated. She often whispered that Muggleborns and Half-Bloods weren't to be treated unfairly, despite her disdain for Muggles themselves. Druella didn't always understand her mother's reasoning, but she obeyed. Bellatrix, though, still tends to call Muggle-borns Mudbloods out of habit, but Druella doesn't use the word despite her uncle's views.

"Don't let Lucius or Draco know you agree with me," Bellatrix warned one evening. Druella nodded, though she privately felt there was little risk of that. To her, Muggles were revolting, their world devoid of magic and purpose.

Despite the expectations placed upon her, Druella knew her mother loved her. Bellatrix and Narcissa spoiled her, though their care came in different forms. Narcissa was warm and doting, while Bellatrix's affection came with relentless pressure. Bellatrix taught her manners, ensuring she was always grateful, but Druella often felt she had no room to decide anything for herself.

Her mother wanted her to be just like her. Bellatrix Black and her only child, the assumed heir to the Noble House of Black. Druella knew she looked like her mother, and Bellatrix loved that. She made sure Druella understood that it wasn't just their resemblance that mattered—it was their shared potential.

"You'll be the greatest witch this world has ever seen," Bellatrix would say, her voice brimming with conviction.

Druella believed her mother knew what was best, even if she didn't always like being sheltered. Druella touched the necklace, the cool metal grounding her. She knew exactly what was expected of her, even if the weight of it sometimes felt overwhelming.

When Draco had been a jerk the entire time, snapping at her and avoiding her company. Had something happened at school? Was he angry with her? She couldn't make sense of it, and his behaviour gnawed at her.

One afternoon, Druella couldn't hold back her questions any longer. She approached her mother cautiously, her voice hesitant.

"Mother, why did you name me after Grandmother?"

Bellatrix stood abruptly, her piercing eyes locking onto Druella. For a moment, Druella froze, unsure if she had crossed a line. But then Bellatrix's expression softened. She moved closer, brushing a hand over Druella's cheek.

"Because I wanted that name to mean something good," Bellatrix said, her voice firm but gentle. "To bring redemption to it."

Druella's chest swelled with pride. She smiled faintly as Bellatrix cradled her face in both hands.
"Soon, you'll be the greatest witch this world has ever seen," her mother cooed, her tone brimming with confidence. Druella felt her cheeks heat under the praise.

When Draco began packing his bags to return to Hogwarts, Druella noticed but didn't acknowledge him. Instead, she stayed with her mother, soaking in her words. After Draco left, she retreated to her room and settled by the window. It was her usual spot when she felt sad.

Outside, snow blanketed the trees in the forest, and the peacocks were nowhere to be seen. Druella pressed her fingers against the icy glass, watching the flakes drift down. The house felt emptier without Draco, but her thoughts lingered on his recent coldness. She rested her chin on her knees, her breath fogging the window as she whispered to herself.

Narcissa and Bellatrix went into Bellatrix's chambers. Bellatrix went to her closet and grabbed one of her prized possessions. She opened it, and the pocket watch was ticking. Bellatrix's gaze focused on the clock ticking. Her eyes were fixed on the ticking. The pocket watch is made of black enamel, featuring an engraving of Bellatrix's initials, BB, adorned with small black diamonds. The chain is made of gold.

"Is it almost time, Bella?" Bellatrix's grip on the watch tightens. "Indeed, her time is approaching."

Narcissa's eyes locked onto Bellatrix. "Dumbledore is such a fool."

Narcissa's voice took on a calculating tone. "And Harry Potter...he's still just a boy, unaware of the destiny that awaits him."

Bellatrix's gaze gleamed with malice. "But soon, Druella will begin her journey at Hogwarts. I will ensure her place in the school."

"She is only ten, Bella."

Bellatrix closed the pocket watch, turning to her sister. "Cissy, I'm well aware we both are aware that is meaningless. Besides my application for the Matriarchal Delegate of the Wizengamot. That will give me more power, but I must handle the Longbottoms again."

Narcissa nods, "Yes, it will, it's approaching. Draco will lead his cousin in her first year. I will make sure she will be acquainted with Harry and his little friends. Draco may not have succeeded in it, but no matter, my little niece will. She has charm and politeness that make her a good friend. Even a Black will befriend him."

Bellatrix's lip curled out of a wicked excitement "The time is approaching." She grabbed a few of her belongings "Cissy, I need you to take care of Druella. I won't be home until August. I have to go and find something and possibly someone, and besides, I could use the trip."

Narcissa nodded "Of course, besides, you know I love spending time with my niece."

Bellatrix grinned while packing "Oh yes, I am well aware, I'm sure you're excited since I won't be home."

Narcissa rolled her eyes "Bella, you know I am trying to keep her safe."

Bellatrix laughed, "Oh, I know you treat her like a fragile little piece of glass. I have been guilty as well, but you are on a new level."

Narcissa stomped her foot "Bella! You know I'm trying to help! She needs our protection! I know she doesn't agree with my methods, but I know what's best as well as you do!" She spat out her face red.

Bellatrix starts laughing at her sister's frustration "Cissy, I know I'm just pulling your leg. You helped us when we needed it most. We had a deal anyway. When I'm not home, you can decide what's best for her. I trust you will keep her safe."

Narcissa calmed down after that.

"Soon, Cissy, her journey in Hogwarts will start."

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor, January 1st 1992

One day, Bellatrix took Druella to the forest, where the fire games began again. Druella followed her mother to a particular tree she didn't like and thrust her torch into it, watching as flames began to crawl along its bark. "We have a twisted sense of humor," Bellatrix cackled, her voice sharp and wild, a sound that always made Druella's chest tighten with a strange mix of pride and unease.

Druella darted off, her boots crunching over leaves and twigs, to another tree, kicking it hard before retreating to watch the flames consume it. She found the forest soothing, especially at night when the shadows danced along with the firelight. Fire was soothing, too—chaotic, wild, alive. She spent countless evenings like this with her mother, burning tree after tree until the air was thick with smoke and heat. They were careful not to let Narcissa or Lucius find out; neither her uncle nor her aunt approved of their little pastime. But Bellatrix always told Druella it was their private passion, something that belonged to just the two of them.

Bellatrix reveled in the time spent with her daughter, guiding Druella through the intricate world of magic. From an early age, she had taught her the formidable art of Occlumency, instilling a sense of control and sophistication in her mind. “Remember, my dear,” she emphasized, her voice carrying the weight of their lineage, “blood purity is paramount, but unlike some, I believe that magic itself holds the key to our family’s greatness. Purebloods like us are destined for greatness, Black Blossom.”

Druella nodded, absorbing her mother's teachings, a blend of pride and obligation swelling within her. Bellatrix’s smile widened, revealing a captivating charm, as she continued, “However, we must always present ourselves well. We don’t use the term ‘Mudblood’; I must admit, it slips out at times. You, however, must refrain from such language. You’re soon to attend Hogwarts, where you'll encounter many Muggle-borns, and it’s essential to maintain our decorum.”

As Druella listened attentively, Bellatrix continued her lecture with the poise of a true matriarch. “We must uphold our family name. The Blacks have a rich history, and although many have oppressed Muggle-borns in the past, our goal must now be to gain their favour.” Druella nodded again, her mother’s wisdom sinking hard.

“Now, you must understand,” Bellatrix said, emphasizing her point with assertiveness. “If you befriend The Boy Who Lived, civility towards Muggle-borns is not just commendable, it’s necessary. Your Aunt Cissy’s charitable works have garnered us respect and influence within the Ministry.”

Druella could see the seriousness in Bellatrix’s eyes. There was an underlying tension regarding Lucius. “Lucius continues to be stubborn, exerting his influence over Draco. The bickering between him and Cissy has been unbearable,” Bellatrix remarked, her tone shifting toward exasperation. Druella replied, “Yes, it is Mother.”

She hesitated, pondering whether to mention Lucius’s stubbornness, but Bellatrix pressed on. “If it weren’t for Cissy and her charities, our family would lack the stature we enjoy today.” Druella raised an eyebrow at this, curious yet respectful as Bellatrix adjusted her unruly hair, a sign of motherly affection amid a stern lesson. “You’ve just turned eleven; there’s no need for you to fret over the complexities of adult matters yet.”

With a dramatic gesture, Bellatrix pointed upward, reinforcing her point. “You are well-prepared for the Wizarding World and its politics; you understand our place in it.” She emphasized “our” with pride and certainty. Druella nodded, feeling an overwhelming trust in her mother’s guidance.

Despite all the love and instruction showered upon her, Druella harboured a deep yearning to leave the confines of the manor. With Draco away, she felt a strange sense of solitude creeping in, even though she often found his snobbishness insufferable. He was, after all, her cousin, and despite their differences, a part of her cherished him deeply.

When Druella was younger, her curiosity about Rodolphus Lestrange had been insatiable. “Mummy,” she once asked, her voice small as she sat cross-legged on the grand rug in her bedroom, “what was my father like?”

Bellatrix, seated in an armchair with a glass of wine in hand, froze. For a moment, her dark eyes flickered with an emotion Druella couldn’t place. She set the glass down with a deliberate clink, crossed the room, and knelt to her daughter’s level.

“Your father?” Bellatrix’s voice was calm, but it carried an edge. She reached out, tucking a stray curl behind Druella’s ear. “He was nothing, Druellie. Rodolphus was unworthy of the Black name, unworthy of me, and certainly unworthy of you.”

“But… wasn’t he great, too?” Druella pressed hesitantly. “Uncle always says bad things about him. I want to know more about him. He says my father—”

Bellatrix’s expression darkened, and she placed a firm hand on Druella’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” she interrupted, her voice now sharper. “Rodolphus Lestrange was nothing but a deadbeat. A weak man who couldn’t stand on his own, let alone be a father to you. He’s no concern of yours.”

Druella’s lip quivered. “But I don’t even know what he looks like…”

When she was little, Druella once drew a picture of her family: herself, Bellatrix, and a man she imagined was her father. She proudly approached her mother, holding up the parchment with a bright smile.

“Look, Mummy!” Druella said excitedly. “It’s us—me, you, and… my father. I thought maybe he’d look like this.”

Bellatrix took the parchment from her daughter’s hands, her expression unreadable as she studied the drawing. The man Druella had sketched stood tall beside her and Bellatrix, a vague and faceless figure with a smile. Bellatrix’s hand tightened around the edges of the paper, her knuckles whitening.

“This… this thing is supposed to be your father?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

Druella blinked, sensing the sudden shift in her mother’s mood. “Well… yes,” she whispered.

Bellatrix didn’t answer. Instead, she tore the paper in half, ripping through the figure of Rodolphus with precision and fury.

“Mummy!” Druella cried, her voice trembling.

“Incendio!” Bellatrix hissed, pointing her wand at the torn half. Flames erupted instantly, consuming the part of the drawing where Druella had envisioned her father. Bellatrix spat on the burning paper, her lip curled in disgust.

“There,” she said coldly, watching the flames turn the paper to ash. She stomped on the charred remains with her black leather boots, the Black family crest catching the light as she ground the ashes into the floor. “That removes the unwanted.”

“No more of this nonsense,” Bellatrix had said firmly, crouching to meet Druella’s wide, tear-filled eyes. “You are not his. You are mine, Druellie. Mine and mine alone. That’s all that matters.”

“But what if he gets out of Azkaban one day?” Druella had asked between sobs.

Bellatrix snorted, an unladylike sound, and embraced her daughter tightly. “He won’t be. He is no one, Druella. No one of importance. You do not need him. You have me, Aunt Cissy, Draco… and, unfortunately, Lucius.”

As Druella grew older, Bellatrix’s narrative about her father became more pointed, and her disdain for him became more explicit. “Rodolphus,” Bellatrix would spit his name as though it were a curse, “was a spineless man. A coward hiding behind his family name, his wealth, and his wife, me, the only valuable thing he ever had.”

When Druella asked why they had married at all, Bellatrix’s lips curled into a sneer. “He was useful for a time,” she admitted. “But when his weakness showed, I knew I had to rid myself of him. A Black does not settle for mediocrity.”

Draco’s boasts about Lucius only deepened Druella’s insecurities. While Draco was lavished with praise and promises of a grand future, Druella was reminded of her father’s failings. Lucius rarely missed an opportunity to belittle her, often comparing her to Rodolphus.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” Lucius sneered on more than one occasion. “Just like your father. Weak, pitiful, and a disappointment.”

It hurt, but over time, Druella began to internalise her mother’s perspective. Rodolphus wasn’t someone to mourn or wonder about—he was a shadow, a failure, a relic of the past.

“I don’t care about him,” Druella had declared to her mother one day, her voice tinged with defiance.

Bellatrix had smiled at that, a rare, genuine expression. “Good girl,” she’d murmured, brushing her daughter’s hair. “You’re a Black, Druella. You don’t need anyone but me. Remember that.”

And Druella did. She stopped asking questions about Rodolphus and stopped daydreaming about what it might be like to have a father. Bellatrix’s constant assurances—and Lucius’s sharp words—had built an image in her mind of a man unworthy of her love or attention.

She handed Druella a gift, and it was a stuffed cat. Druella grabbed it.

"Nyssa," Druella said, naming the stuffed animal. 

Malfoy Manor, March 1st, 1992

One night, Bellatrix sat Druella down with an air of seriousness that made the girl’s stomach churn. Something about her mother's calm composure felt off—too deliberate, too quiet.

“I’ll be gone for a while this time,” Bellatrix said, her voice soft but carrying that dangerous undercurrent Druella knew too well. “There’s an opportunity… one I must take.”

Druella stiffened. “What kind of opportunity?”

Bellatrix reached into her cloak and retrieved a folded parchment. She held it delicately between two fingers like it was both sacred and fragile.

“A seat has opened in the central chamber of the Wizengamot,” she said, her dark eyes fixed on her daughter’s. “Not just any seat—the seat. The one our family has claimed for generations. With Walburga Black gone, it must be filled again. And there are whispers… they want a woman to represent the balance. It's down to two families.”

“Who?” Druella asked, though she already suspected.

“Me,” Bellatrix replied with a cold smile. “Or Augusta Longbottom.”

Druella's face twisted in disbelief. “The boy I met at Kings Cross? Neville Longbottom was it? Neville’s gran?”

Bellatrix’s lips curled. “Yes. That gran. The Ministry thinks she’s respectable. Conservative. Harmless.” She scoffed. “She’s even hosting bloody charity teas and playing the martyr card. But I’ve already launched four charitable initiatives through the Black Family Trust. Infrastructure, orphan outreach, and magical renewal funding for post-war victims. If the Ministry wants optics, I’ll give them a spectacle they'll never forget. I won’t let some senile toad in a feathered hat wear the Black name down with neutrality and nostalgia.”

Druella tried to follow it all, but her voice cracked with something more personal. “How long will you be gone?”

“Until August,” Bellatrix said, gently brushing a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “I’ll need to complete formal trials, sit for examinations, and serve as a provisional delegate. It’s rigorous, but it’s necessary. You don’t win legacy—you earn it.”

Druella’s stomach twisted with dread. “Please don’t make me stay with Aunt Narcissa. She treats me like a baby. She’s Mother Hen and crazy. I don’t want to be stuck with her for six months!”

Bellatrix sighed and knelt down, taking Druella’s face in her hands. “Don’t call her that. She loves you in her own way. Yes, she’s controlling, and yes, she’ll hover—but she’ll keep you safe. That’s all I care about. You will behave. You will endure. Or there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”

Druella’s lips pressed into a line as she nodded, though her chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid.

Bellatrix gave her a faint smile and stood, checking her pocket watch before slipping it back into her robes. “I’ll be home, don't worry,” she said, and something softened in Druella’s eyes.

“I can’t wait,” Druella murmured, clinging to the words like they were a promise.

After her mother left the room, Druella wandered back to her bed and sat in silence for a while before crawling under the covers. She stared out the frosted window, her breath fogging the glass.

“I’ll have to be careful while she’s gone,” she whispered. “Uncle will have a temper again… and Aunt Narcissa will watch me like a hawk. If I mess up, she’ll take away what little freedom I have left.”

She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to be brave.

She had six months to survive.

But if her mother could conquer the Wizengamot?

Then maybe Druella could learn how to fight her own battles, too.

Even if it's her overbearing aunt.

Or her awful uncle.

For the first few weeks, Druella kept to herself as much as possible. She locked her bedroom door whenever she could, avoiding Lucius' wrath and Narcissa's watchful eyes. When her mother wasn't around, she avoided meals at the table because of Lucius, which led to her being thin. Most days, she stayed in her room, staring out the window or sleeping late into the morning. The forest outside the gate looked more inviting than ever, but Narcissa would never allow her to roam freely. She doesn't even let her out of her sight when Druella is not in her bedroom.

Druella missed her mother terribly, and though she hated to admit it, she even missed Draco. At least he didn't hover over her like Narcissa did. Draco had his own faults—he was spoiled and arrogant, always flaunting his father's name. "Just wait until my father hears about this!" she had overheard him boast many, many occasions. It made her roll her eyes every time.

She glanced down at the soft bunny toy Bellatrix had left on her bed, pushing it away with a frown. Draco might be pampered, but Narcissa didn't baby him the way she babied her. Druella wasn't Draco's equal in Narcissa's eyes—she was something fragile, something to be coddled. It was suffocating.

Lucius, meanwhile, barely acknowledged her existence. Druella felt no connection to her uncle, and his treatment of Dobby filled her with silent disgust. Watching him abuse the house-elf left a sour taste in her mouth. Draco had been influenced and believed his father's views, but Druella had no intention of following suit.

She glanced at her reflection in the frosty windowpane, her thoughts drifting back to her mother. Bellatrix told Druella she had worked hard to rebuild the Black family name. The feud between the Longbottoms and the Blacks was something Druella had never known before: Druella and her mother are very close as Druella hardly had friends her own age. One boy she even understood as a friend, and Gregory Goyle, whom she calls Greg. Though Druella loved her mother deeply, she didn't want to rely on her legacy and protection forever. She wanted to carve her own path, to succeed on her own merits.

Even as Narcissa's overprotectiveness grated on her nerves, Druella reminded herself to endure it. This was just a phase—something to get through until her mother returned. Until then, she would stay in her room, keep her head down, and wait.

Druella lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, when a soft knock came at the door. She groaned inwardly as a familiar voice called out.

"Oh, my little Druellie, please unlock the door," Narcissa sang in her irritatingly sweet tone.

Druella ignored her, turning her back toward the door and folding her arms tightly. She heard the handle jiggle, followed by Narcissa's voice again, this time with an exaggerated lilt. "Oh, Druellie, come out and play."

"No! Leave me alone!" Druella snapped, her voice sharp and unyielding.

But Narcissa didn't budge. "Come now, Druella. We can have tea and biscuits, we could also play dolls, I know you still do, you can't fool me," she coaxed, as if Druella were a little child.

Druella clenched her fists, her annoyance growing. She wasn't falling for it. Not this time.

Outside the door, Narcissa's voice softened. "Druella, sweetheart, you can't stay in there forever. Who will take care of you?"

Druella pulled her chest high and acted with a sense of dumb awkwardness. "I can!" Druella shot back, her voice cracking with frustration.

"You?" Narcissa asked.

"Yes!" Druella spat. "I can take care of myself."

There was a brief pause before Narcissa responded, her tone patient and maddeningly condescending. "Oh, no, no, no, dear. You can't you need me. You need my guidance. Your mother isn't home right now." Her words felt like needles poking at Druella's pride.

"I don't need you," Druella muttered under her breath, but Narcissa continued as if she hadn't heard.

"But you do I remember when you used to cling to your mother before she left. Crying your little eyes out," Narcissa said, her voice taking on a nostalgic quality. "But I always calmed you down, didn't I? And we had fun together."

Druella's face burned at the memory. She hated that it was true. Back when she was younger, her mother's departures would leave her inconsolable, and Narcissa would scoop her up and soothe her, distracting her with activities to cheer her up. Having her play with Nyssa (Druella's stuffed cat) always calmed her down after very bad nightmares she had. The embarrassment of those moments now only fueled her frustration.

Her arms tightened across her chest, knuckles pale against the fabric of her sleeves. Her eyes stung, but she blinked quickly, forcing the tears to stay hidden. She wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not where Narcissa might see.

Outside the door, there was a long pause—then a soft sigh.

“I’ll leave you alone for now,” Narcissa said quietly. Her voice, for once, held something less sharp. Something almost like… regret. “But I will be back soon.”

The sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor.

A moment later, there was a faint creak as the door clicked open again.

Druella stiffened, bracing herself.

But it wasn’t Narcissa.

It was Dobby.

She let out a quiet breath and smiled, her posture loosening with instant relief. “Dobby,” she whispered.

The little elf shuffled inside, eyes wide and glistening. He held something in his trembling hands—an awkwardly folded napkin shaped like a flower.

“Mistress told Dobby to come cheer you up,” he said nervously, ears twitching. “She said... Mistress said the young miss looked very sad.”

Druella nodded slowly, her throat tight. She turned to her flower stand—tiny pots lined up on the windowsill, each one hand-painted and slightly chipped. She plucked a daisy, its petals freshly bloomed, and returned to him.

“For you,” she said gently, placing it in his hands.

Dobby’s eyes grew even wider.

“I wish I could give you clothes,” she whispered. “Real ones. So you’d be free.”

Dobby clutched the flower to his chest, overcome. “Miss Druella is very kind,” he said, voice shaking. “Too kind. Dobby doesn’t deserve—”

“Yes, you do,” she interrupted softly. “You do deserve it, and you do so much for our family. For me. I think that if you have a House Elf who does your chores at least treat them with kindness. No one agrees, but I feel that.”

And for a brief moment, in that quiet room filled with wilted petals and afternoon light, Druella forgot the pain on her back. The ache in her chest. The loneliness she never dared speak of.

Because someone had come just for her.

Even if he wasn’t allowed to.

Druella listened to the sound of her aunt's retreating footsteps, relief flooding her as silence returned to the hallway.

Later that evening, raised voices echoed through the manor, rattling the chandeliers and shattering the fragile calm.

Druella flinched beneath her blanket as the familiar sound of her aunt and uncle’s argument spilt through the corridors like smoke. It was becoming routine—louder than the tick of the grand clock in the foyer, sharper than any spell.

Stay in your room when they fight.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind again, a soft warning layered with quiet knowledge.

She did as she was told. Always.

Bellatrix never intervened. She preferred to let her sister and brother-in-law clash behind closed doors. “Let them burn, darling. It's not our fire to put out,” she had once said with a smirk. "I'd rather see the show go on."

But even Druella, at her age, could tell something in Narcissa had begun to crack.

The shouting escalated.

“I’m not being foolish, Lucius!” Narcissa’s voice rose sharply, rich with anger. “You’re the one grasping at old power, trying to revive a name that’s falling apart!”

Lucius's voice snapped back, cold and biting. “I’m trying to protect this family! Not parade around sympathising with traitors and playing politics with Mudbloods!”

“You’re not protecting anything,” Narcissa hissed. “Not me. Not Draco. And certainly not Druella.”

That name caught Druella’s breath. She pressed her face deeper into her pillow, listening, heart pounding.

“Ever since Bella left, she won’t even come out of her room anymore!” Narcissa shouted, her voice cracking with frustration. “Do you know that? She hides behind silence, in her closet, behind her books, behind her dolls and stuffed animals, behind every little excuse—and you don’t even notice!“

“I’m not the one coddling her like she’s some fragile porcelain doll,” Lucius barked. “She’s weak because you made her weak. If she’s hiding, it’s because she knows she’s not strong enough. And she never will be!”

“She’s eleven years old!” Narcissa screamed. 

A beat of silence.

Then—crack.

A vase, likely. Maybe a decanter. Druella flinched as the sound echoed up the stairs.

“She misses Bellatrix,” Lucius snarled. “That’s who she listens to. Not me. And certainly not you.”

“I raised her with Bella,” Narcissa hissed, voice deadly now. “I stayed up with her during her night terrors. I taught her to read runes. I brushed every knot out of her hair, cleaned every scratch she came to me with while you sat silent in your study pretending she didn’t exist.”

Downstairs fell still for a moment—then Lucius growled, “You’re out of line.”

“No, Lucius,” Narcissa snapped, voice like frost, “I am your wife!”

From her doorway, Druella peered out, her small hands gripping the frame. At the far end of the corridor, Dobby trembled near a pillar, his eyes wide.

“Come on,” she whispered.

The house-elf scurried to her side, and she ushered him into her room like a secret.

She pulled out the bandages and potions she had hidden in her drawer—not because anyone was hurt tonight, but because the ritual comforted her. Dobby accepted them quietly, as if the gesture alone meant safety.

“They’re just shouting,” Druella murmured, more to herself than to Dobby. “That’s all it is.”

But inside her chest, that wasn’t all.

She was hiding. Not just from the argument, but from him. From the silence between strikes. From the way his gaze made her shrink, even when he said nothing at all.

Narcissa didn’t know.

She couldn’t.

She thought Druella stayed in her room because she was shy. Quiet. Strange.

Not because she was afraid. 

She was scared of coming out

Druella sat down beside Dobby and drew her knees to her chest, letting the sounds from downstairs blur into a dull hum.

Just another night at Malfoy Manor.

"Here, Dobby. Hurry, take the potion," she said softly, her hands gentle as she helped him drink the calming liquid.

Dobby looked up at her with gratitude. "Dobby is lucky to have you."

Druella smiled faintly, her voice steady. "Of course, I'm not going to let you get hurt by Uncle."

"Dobby is thankful," Dobby replied, his voice shaking slightly as Druella began tending to his injuries.

Just then, Druella heard Lucius's voice from down the hall, cold and commanding. "Druella, if you're treating Dobby again—"

Druella panicked as she heard footsteps pounding down the hallway.

She yanked Dobby into her closet, clutching his arm with urgency. "Hide, quick. Please," she whispered, heart racing.

The closet door barely clicked shut when Lucius burst into her room, the door he opened slamming against the wall with a sharp crack.

"Druella," he barked, his cold voice cutting through the air. "Are you playing with the house elf again?"

She turned, standing between the closet and her father, her small fists balled at her sides. "I—I wasn’t playing," she said, voice shaking. "I was just... talking to him."

Lucius’s lip curled. "Talking. To. Him," he repeated with mock disbelief. "What next? Sharing tea? Teaching him manners?"

"Just stop being mean to him!" Druella cried. "He's not bad! He's not a thing, he's a person!"

Lucius arched an eyebrow, the sarcasm dripping from his tone. "A Person? Druella, don't be obscured, he's a creature. A servant. He doesn't need your silly compassion or your little daisies and drawings."

Her cheeks flushed hot. "You're wrong! He smiled today. I gave him a flower, and he smiled. Doesn't that count for something?"

Lucius let out a cruel, humourless chuckle. "Oh, how charming. My niece—the little elf whisperer. Perhaps next you'll be knitting socks for the whole lot."

Druella’s voice grew louder with emotion. "He’s always scared! He flinches when you come near! That’s not how you treat someone!"

Lucius's expression darkened, his voice sinking into a growl. "You’re too soft. You waste your days in the garden, talking to elves and scribbling chalk like some foolish Muggle-born brat."

“I’m not wasting anything!” Druella shouted, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. “Mother says I’m clever, and magical, and kind! She says I should care about people, not just blood!”

Lucius stepped forward slowly, his footsteps deliberate, his presence looming. “And your mother is a madwoman,” he hissed. “You're a child, Druella. Do you really believe love and kindness will shield you from the kind of magic that tears souls apart?”

She trembled, but didn’t step back. “I just… I just think it shouldn’t hurt to be nice,” she snapped, voice shaking. “Why do you make it sound so wrong?”

Lucius scoffed, but something in her words lingered a moment too long, just long enough to make the silence stretch.

Druella’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she refused to look away. In that moment, she clung to the one truth she had—something Bellatrix had whispered to her once while brushing her hair: that kindness wasn’t a total weakness. That even in the dark, a kind heart could still matter.

"But kindness isn't as bad. I don't understand you. Why must you be so mean?" Druella asked pleading him.

"Because kindness is a weakness, and you’ll never be strong if you keep pretending everything and everyone deserves your pity!"

Druella stared at him, heart pounding. "You're wrong. Toujours Pur isn’t about cruelty. It means always pure, doesn't it? It should mean pure of heart, too. I don’t want to be like you."

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “You don’t want to be like me?”

“No!” Druella snapped, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to yell at people or scare House Elves or hit—"

But her words were cut short.

The staff came down with a sudden, sickening crack across her back. White-hot pain exploded through her body as she cried out, stumbling to the floor, her palms scraping against the stone.

Lucius stood over her, seething.

“You dare defy me in my own house?”

She curled slightly, trembling, breath caught in her throat—but still, she lifted her chin, defiant even from the floor.

“You’re just… mean,” she gasped, voice hoarse. “To everyone. Even Draco. You twist him up and call it love.”

Lucius’s face contorted in fury. He raised the staff again.

“You ungrateful little demon. Bellatrix has ruined you with softness.”

The second blow struck her ribs. She coughed, biting back a sob. Her body folded inward, but she refused to cry—not yet.

“You’ll understand one day,” he hissed, looming over her. “Everything I do is for your own good. For the good of this family.”

“No,” Druella spat, her voice weak but burning. “You just like hurting people and calling it tradition.”

Lucius’s eyes flashed.

The third strike was the hardest—her shoulder, this time. Her body shuddered from the force of it, her braid falling loose against her cheek.

He stood over her, breathing hard, the staff still trembling in his grasp.

Druella, barely able to sit upright, glared up at him through strands of hair. Her lip was bleeding. Her chest heaved. But her voice—ragged as it was—still had teeth.

“I hope one day... someone stronger than you comes along and undoes everything you've ever done to me.”

Lucius stared at her, stunned into silence by the audacity of her words.

He sneered. “You speak like a child. You are a child. You'll see one day.”

Then he turned and left, robes sweeping cold air in his wake.

She was left alone, curled on the cold floor, her body aching—but her fire still alive, deep in her chest.

She didn’t understand the twisted pride of bloodlines. She didn’t understand what made cruelty feel like a form of power.

But she understood something else.

That kindness shouldn’t be punished.

That real strength didn’t come from fear.

And that if she ever grew up to be anything—

—it would never be like him.

As the silence settled over her room, Druella felt the weight of everything press down on her. The argument, the pain, the hurt, the resentment.

Dobby, who had quietly emerged from the closet, walked up to her, offering comfort in the form of a warm hug. Druella welcomed it, needing the support. She let her guard down, just for a moment, before she pulled herself back together.

"I hate those outbursts, I hate getting beaten", she muttered under her breath. "But I can't let it break me."

She took a deep breath, wiping away the tears she refused to let fall, and with Dobby by her side, she returned to her bed. Grabbing Lucky, she hugged him tightly, her body swaying gently as she hummed the lullaby her mother used to sing to calm her.

As the melody filled the room, Druella's racing thoughts slowly quieted. "In the darkness deep, where shadows roam... I'll keep you safe, my child, my home..."

She whispered the words, drawing comfort from the song as her eyes fluttered closed, the pain of the day temporarily forgotten, though not gone.

Druella woke to the sound of her door unlocking, and before she could fully rouse herself, she felt someone walking into the room. Her vision was blurry as she lay on her stomach, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Aunt Narcissa," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Shh, Druella dear, go back to sleep," came Narcissa's soothing voice. She moved closer, gently pulling Druella's arm back to her side, and placed a warm hand on her back, urging her to stay in bed. "You're safe, Druella. It will be just the two of us. Now, go back to sleep, go to your dreamland."

Druella felt her aunt's hand stroke her hair, and the comforting pressure on her back lulled her further into relaxation. Narcissa whispered softly in her ear, "I will keep you safe. You'll be amazing at Hogwarts." She pulled the covers up around Druella's shoulders and hummed a gentle lullaby, which sent the young girl back into a peaceful sleep.

One afternoon, the manor was far too quiet.

Druella stood in the drawing room, her bare feet cold against the polished floor, holding her arm where the dog had bitten her. The blood had already dried—angry teeth marks welting purple beneath it. She hadn’t even cried out when it happened.

She hadn't dared.

Lucius entered slowly, the heavy door creaking behind him.

“What the hell happened to your arm?” he asked coldly, eyeing the torn sleeve of her nightgown.

“Your dog bit me…” she whispered, barely audible.

“You let my dog bite you?” His voice dropped, but the menace rose.

“I didn’t mean to—I was just walking near the study. I wasn’t trying to—”

The slap came faster than her thoughts. It cracked across her face with such force her head snapped to the side, a small gasp escaping her lips.

“You filthy little parasite,” Lucius growled, advancing.

Druella stumbled back, one hand on her cheek, eyes wide.

“You’re spying again, aren’t you? What did I tell you about sneaking around during meetings?”

“I thought…” Her voice trembled. “Since Mother gets to be in the meetings, and since I’m ten now—Draco was able to when he turned ten—”

Lucius grabbed her by the front of her nightgown and yanked her forward. The fabric tore a little at the collar.

“Well, you are not Draco!” he spat, his face twisted with fury. “You are nothing. You are a burden. A stain on this house. A mistake.”

Druella whimpered, her legs shaking beneath her.

Lucius shoved her violently. She hit the floor hard, landing on her side. Her ribs ached, and the breath was knocked out of her. She tried to sit up, but a sharp kick to her side drove another cry from her lips.

“Stay down!” he barked. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!”

She nodded rapidly, too afraid to speak. Her eyes blurred with tears, her cheek stinging, the welt from the slap already starting to rise.

“Speak, you little freak.”

“Y-Yes…”

“Yes, what?”

“…Yes, sir.”

Lucius loomed above her, breathing hard. “Your mummy won’t be home for now. And you will stay out of my sight, or I’ll have the dogs finish the job. Do you understand me now?”

Druella didn’t move. She barely breathed.

Then, from the hall—

“Is everything alright over there?” Narcissa’s voice called sharply.

Lucius froze. His expression twisted in an instant into a calm, pleasant sneer. He bent slightly, putting on his most polished mask.

“Oh, this clumsy girl,” he said with mock amusement, glancing over his shoulder as Narcissa entered. “Always bumping into furniture, aren’t you?”

Narcissa’s heels clicked against the floor. Her eyes flicked from Lucius to Druella, who was now trying to sit up, trembling, her lip split and blood trickling from her nose. She couldn’t look at her aunt directly.

Narcissa’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing at first.

“Druella,” she said gently, approaching. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up and have some tea, shall we?”

Druella rose shakily, her knees weak. Her little fingers clutched Narcissa’s robes, burying her face against her side like a ghost of a girl who’d been torn and stitched back together too many times. Her eyes were hollow, her shoulders tight.

Narcissa wrapped a steady arm around her niece, not realising she was shielding her from further horror. As they walked away, Druella’s small body leaned fully into her—quiet, withdrawn, silent.

Lucius watched them go, his smile dropping as soon as the door shut.

And Narcissa, though she said nothing, cast one final, wary glance behind her.

Something wasn’t right.

Days later, one evening, Druella hid in her closet, a small shelter she had created with books and a cushion where she could read in solitude. But after some time, thirst drove her out of her hiding spot. As she reached the door, she was caught by Narcissa, who smiled at her gently and said, "Come now, let's have supper, or the food will get cold."

During dinner, Druella remained quiet, picking at her food without speaking. After a while, her aunt noticed her silence and asked with concern, "Do you need me to cut the meat for you?"

Druella's patience thinned, and she retorted, "No, Aunt Narcissa, I'm fine." Narcissa didn't push further, though she sat beside her as they ate. Despite her wariness, Druella noticed how her aunt's presence had an odd comfort to it, even if she still kept her distance emotionally.

When the meal came to an end, Druella pushed her plate away and muttered, "Thank you for having me, Aunt Narcissa. I'm going to bed."

As she moved away from the table, the low murmur of her aunt and uncle's conversation caught her attention. Hidden just out of view, Druella listened quietly as they spoke. "She's a wreck. She won't even come out of her room," Lucius' voice was gruff, tinged with frustration.

Narcissa's reply was calm but firm. "She needs my protection. I was fortunate to find her outside her room earlier."

Lucius muttered again, "She refuses to leave her room after our arguments. She's so stubborn. She's so foolish, not like us. All I do is help her up when she is clumsy, and now she hides in her room like an ungrateful child. I told you what happened; she fell, and I helped her up. I had Dobby keep an eye on her."

"Leave her alone. I will handle the situation," Narcissa said quietly, her tone resolute, as she dismissed Lucius with a finality that Druella didn't quite understand, but it comforted her all the same.

Druella stayed still, her thoughts swirling in silence, as she felt the weight of her aunt's words. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind her that, for now, she would be safe.

Druella rolled her eyes and walked back to her room. As she entered, she froze, spotting a stranger standing there by her shelf. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice laced with confusion and defiance. The man held up the book her mother had given her—a book on werewolves.

Before Druella could react further, he cast a spell. "Stupify."

The force of the spell knocked her to the ground. She quickly scrambled to her feet, her mind racing. She glanced out the window, and there he was, running away with her book. Without thinking, she leapt out of the window, chasing after him.

"Stop!" came the familiar voice, but Druella didn't care. She was focused solely on the thief.

"Dobby has to watch you, miss! Dobby will get in trouble if you go!" Dobby pleaded, attempting to catch up to her.

"Not now, Dobby!" Druella snapped, pushing him aside.

She heard him protest and call out for her aunt and uncle, but she ignored him as she sprinted deeper into the forest, faster than she had ever run before. Her legs moved instinctively, hitting rocks and twigs without slowing her down. It felt incredible, the wind rushing past her as she chased the man. "Give me back my book!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, the words almost becoming a primal yell.

Her pace quickened, and she pushed through every obstacle in her way. But just as she was gaining on him, the man stopped and turned to face her. He cast another spell, and pain shot through her leg. "Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded, collapsing to the ground as the injury sent a wave of agony through her.

"Don't stand up, your leg is injured," he warned coldly. "Walking will only make it worse." But despite the excruciating pain, Druella tried to rise, determined to continue the chase. The man, however, disappeared into the forest with her book, leaving her helpless on the ground.

Frustration built up inside Druella as she screamed into the night. She couldn't believe it. She was so close, yet so far from getting her book back.

Just then, Narcissa arrived, rushing to her side. "What are you doing out here? Oh no, your leg!" she exclaimed, seeing the injury.

Druella quickly explained the situation, but all Narcissa seemed to do was fuss over her. "This is not good, Druella. Your leg is broken." She knelt beside her niece, her voice laced with concern but also a trace of irritation.

Narcissa's hands were gentle as she worked with her wand, creating bandages to wrap around Druella's leg. But she couldn't help but scold her as she worked. "Druella, this is why you shouldn't be out here by yourself. You don't know how to take care of yourself. This broken leg proves it. You are not ready until I say you are ready."

Druella lowered her head, pouting in frustration. "But you never let me go outside," she whined, her voice tinged with the resentment that had been building in her.

Narcissa shook her head in exasperation. "I have my reasons, Druella."

"But Mother lets me go outside!" Druella protested, a sharp edge to her voice.

"Your mother isn't here, so I am in charge while she's gone," Narcissa responded firmly, her fingers moving deftly as she finished bandaging Druella's leg. "You need to be safe. It's for your own good."

Druella groaned in frustration, but Narcissa didn't seem to notice. She continued to coo in that annoying baby voice that always made Druella feel like she was being treated like a child. "Oh, Druella, you get so grumpy when you're tired," Narcissa said softly, almost patronizingly.

Druella tried to stand, but her leg hurt too much. Narcissa finished wrapping the bandage and assured her, "Oh, my poor niece. Don't worry, Aunt Cissy's got you. You need me, love. I will protect you. You're not ready for the outside world—not until Bella and I say you are. But don't fret, everything will be okay. I will care for you while you recover."

Before Druella could protest again, Narcissa cradled her in her arms, lifting her like a small child. "Come on, sweetheart," she hummed softly, walking back toward the manor. Druella felt the softness of her aunt's fancy green coat, the gentle scent of her perfume, and noticed how perfectly styled her aristocratic blonde hair with black streaks was. Narcissa always looked elegant, and in that moment, her image filled Druella with a mix of resentment and helplessness.

As they passed through the forest, Druella glanced at the trees, her mind still on the thief and her stolen book. "I will find him one day. I'm going to get those back," she muttered, her eyes hard with determination.

Narcissa, noticing her niece's expression, said in a calming tone, "It'll be fine, love. Don't dwell on this. For now, no more going outside. You will stay inside the manor, where you will be safe and comfortable. You were a naughty girl, Druella, disobeying me like that. Look at the result—your leg is broken. Until it heals, you'll stay in your room. It's for your own good."

"But Aunt Narcissa—" Druella started to protest, gripping her aunt's coat desperately.

"No, Druella. You are staying in the manor where I can keep an eye on you. You need my care now more than ever," Narcissa said firmly, silencing her.

Druella groaned, her frustrations boiling over. She already had limited freedom when her mother wasn't around, and now it felt like her aunt's paranoia had reached new heights.

In her mind, Druella's thoughts swirled with frustration. This isn't over. The thief might have gotten away with her book for now, but she wouldn't stop until she found him and took it back.

As Narcissa continued carrying her, she spoke once more, her tone authoritative, "This is not up for discussion, Druella. I'm in charge of you. Until your mother comes home, you will listen to me. Understand?"

Druella nodded silently, pouting in frustration. She felt like a whiny toddler, treated as if she couldn’t take care of herself. Narcissa always treated her as fragile, and when her mother wasn’t around, she had free rein to do so.

“You understand, don’t you?” Narcissa asked sweetly, though her voice held a dangerous edge. “You’re not ready to take care of yourself, much less be out in the world on your own. When you go to Hogwarts, I’ll still be checking on you with Bella. You understand, don’t you?”

Druella turned her face away, muttering, “Yes, Aunt Narcissa.” The words felt hollow, automatic. She didn’t believe them—but Narcissa didn’t ask for truth. Only compliance.

Narcissa beamed at the answer, satisfied. “Lovely. Now that that’s settled, let’s get you upstairs, love.”

As she carried Druella across the manor’s gleaming floor, Druella’s eyes caught sight of Lucius berating Dobby. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING HER!” he roared, his voice slicing through the air as he kicked the house-elf hard in the ribs.

Druella flinched. Guilt twisted in her stomach. She hadn’t meant to get Dobby in trouble—but there was no stopping it now. Her attention shifted, momentarily, to the lingering thought of the thief. I’ll find you, she promised silently. I’ll get my book back.

Then everything stopped.

Narcissa froze mid-step.

Her head turned slowly toward her husband. Her voice dropped an octave—calm, deadly.

“What did I tell you about beating Dobby?”

Lucius barely had time to turn before her hand cracked across his face.

The sound echoed through the entrance hall like a spell gone off.

“I SAID—” she slapped him again, harder this time, “—YOU DON’T TOUCH HIM WHEN I’M STANDING RIGHT HERE!”

Lucius recoiled, jaw tight, stunned and silent.

But Narcissa was just getting started.

She shoved him hard against the wall, her hands trembling, eyes wild. “You should’ve been watching her too! But you don’t, do you? You never do! You sit in your study like a statue while I raise Draco and care for her like she’s mine!”

Lucius tried to speak, but another slap stopped him.

“You’re pathetic,” she spat, her voice breaking. “You’re an embarrassment to this family. You want to rule it, but for five minutes, you can’t even watch a child. Without her jumping out the window to chase after a thief over a mere book. She flinches every time you come into the room."

She drew her wand now, not to hex, to hold. A statement.

“If you ever put Druella or Draco in danger again, I swear, Lucius, you won’t be able to crawl out of your own name.”

Druella, trembling in Narcissa’s arms, couldn’t look away. Her heart raced. Her breath hitched.

And then—

Narcissa turned toward her.

Everything changed in an instant.

Her expression softened, sickeningly fast. A smile crept across her face, too calm, too sweet. “Oh, darling,” she said, noticing the tears beginning to slip from Druella’s eyes. “Look what he’s done now. Look at you—you’re crying. Again.”

She turned back to Lucius, voice ice and venom. “This is your fault. You’ve upset her—my sweet girl!”

Her fingers caressed Druella’s cheek as if nothing had happened moments before. “It’s alright, my Pureblood Princess. Aunt Cissy’s got you now.”

And then, to Lucius, like a curse: “Stay out of our sight. Until she goes to Hogwarts. I will be the only one caring for her until then. You’ve done enough.”

She walked away carrying Druella without another word.

Once in Druella’s room, the shift was complete. Narcissa set her down gently in a high-backed chair, brushing her hair behind her ears and checking her scraped leg.

Her tone was stern, but now laced with syrupy affection.

“This is exactly why I keep you inside, darling,” she scolded gently. “You can’t take care of yourself. You’re far too precious. You want to explore? You come to me. You ask me. And I'll decide.”

Druella wiped her eyes with a rag, still trembling from everything she’d seen. Narcissa crouched beside her and began brushing her curls back, pulling them behind her ears.

“Oh, don’t cry now. Auntie Cissy’s here,” she whispered. “It's just you and me tonight. We don’t need anyone else, do we?”

Druella nodded, barely.

Narcissa cooed, smiling down at her with glassy warmth.

“We’ll stay here. We’ll keep you safe. And I’ll always be here to take care of everything.”

And with that, the manor settled back into silence—smothering, gilded silence—leaving Druella wrapped in Narcissa’s arms, somewhere between comfort and captivity.

Druella stared at the floor, ignoring her aunt's words. Narcissa continued, her tone firm yet sweet. "You shouldn't be chasing after those book thieves. It was just one book that can easily be replaced. You could've gotten hurt. See? This proves my point. It's not safe for you to go out on your own."

“Do you think we should worry about that man?” Druella quietly asked.

“I’ll triple the wards but they merely took one single book. You shouldn't of ran after him going into the forest like that? Not very wise Druella. The book can be replaced you can't.”

Druella felt bad for doing that and was quickly silent Narcissa would handle the wards.

Narcissa paused, her gaze softening and clasped her hands.

"So, let's make a deal. You'll stay inside, and I'll take care of you. You'll be safe and sound, okay, my little Druella?"

Druella hesitated for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "Yes, Aunt Narcissa." Narcissa's face lit up with joy at the response.

"Thank you. Now, let's get you out of these clothes, dear," Narcissa said, her voice suddenly light. She moved to unbutton Druella's dress with practised care, her touch gentle but precise.

Druella blushed, feeling uncomfortable but unable to do anything about it. Her aunt's concern was overwhelming, and despite her protests, Narcissa continued to undress her, checking for any further injuries. When she noticed a cut on Druella's side, her voice softened even further.

"Oh, don't worry, darling. Aunt Cissy will fix you up," she murmured, kissing the spot softly before slipping the nightgown over Druella's head.

Druella tried to squirm, still feeling the sting of discomfort. "Please stop. I'm not a child," she muttered, trying to pull away.

Narcissa held her firm, her voice calm. "Shh, dear, don't fuss. I've got you," she whispered, her breath warm against Druella's ear. "Just relax for me; let me take care of you. You get so grumpy when you're tired. You need your rest."

Druella protested weakly, "I'm not five, Aunt Narcissa." But her words were quiet, drowned out by the comfort of her aunt's touch.

Druella tried to get up but immediately fell, clutching her injured leg in pain. Narcissa sighed, clearly exasperated, but she knelt down to her level, her face softening. "This is exactly what I mean, Druella. You can't take care of yourself right now. You're injured. You need me."

"I'm not a child!" Druella cried, trying to pull away, but her leg ached too much to fight back.

Narcissa's grip was firm as she scooped Druella into her arms. "You're my little niece, and I'm here to take care of you. You need me right now. So let's get you all settled in."

Druella blushed, feeling helpless as Narcissa tucked her into bed. The blanket was wrapped around her neck, and Hazel, her favourite doll, was placed beside her. But Druella refused to look at her aunt, rolling to the side to avoid her gaze.

But Narcissa was relentless, gently adjusting Druella back to her original position. "Oh, I remember when you were just a little girl, Druella," she cooed, her voice filled with nostalgia. "You were so tiny and delicate, just like a little doll. I used to dress you in the most adorable little outfits, and you would smile for me. We had so much fun together."

Druella felt a pang of irritation at the memory, but Narcissa continued, undeterred. "And now, look at you. You're growing up so fast, but you're still my precious little girl. Soon, time will be to fast and you'll go to Hogwarts, and you'll make the whole family proud."

Narcissa leaned in closer, her hand brushing Druella's hair. "Sleep tight, my little Druellie. May all your dreams be sweet and lovely."

Despite herself, Druella felt a strange comfort in her aunt's words. The softness of her voice, the warmth of her touch, had a way of enveloping her in a sense of protection. But she couldn't help but wish Narcissa trusted her more.

As Narcissa left the room, Druella lay there, her mind still focused on her plans. I'll find him one day, she thought, her determination stronger than ever.

Later, Narcissa returned, bringing her breakfast. "Alright, here's some food. You need to eat," she said, setting the tray down beside the bed.

Druella tried to sit up, but Narcissa's hand was firm on her shoulder. "No, lie down. You need to rest. Trust me."

Druella sighed and lay back down, still trying to push the irritation aside. Narcissa gently lifted her leg, checked the bandages, and placed it on a pillow.

"Thank you," Druella whispered, her voice faint.

Narcissa smiled softly. "This potion will help with the pain and help you heal faster." She handed Druella the vial, watching as her niece drank it obediently. The pain began to subside, and Druella felt more at ease.

"Just stay here, Druella. The windows are charmed so no one can get in again," Narcissa said, her voice full of reassurance. "You're safe now, and I'll take care of you. Just trust me."

Druella had no choice to nod to her. But she does love her aunt, and she is glad Lucius isn't around, too busy in his study.

Druella always thought of Hogwarts as a Paradise that she can escape to by two months she wasn't able to go the next year. She hates having to wait for another year. Druella wanted to get out of the manor and away from Lucius. 

Druella had no idea the lucky blessing she would get by just one decision by those with higher power.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor, May 15th 1992

Druella lay in her bed, still in a haze of sleep, when Narcissa burst into the room like a storm. Her voice rang out, unrelenting: "GOOD MORNING, DRUELLIE!"

Druella's eyes snapped open, squinting at the blinding light pouring through the windows. "Please leave," she begged, but Narcissa was undeterred, her smile stretching wider as she flung open the curtains with enthusiasm.

"Rise and shine, little one! It's a perfect day for an adventure!" Narcissa's voice was sugary sweet, but it grated against Druella's raw nerves. The sunlight was almost blinding, and Druella yelped, covering her eyes.

"Too bright!" she groaned, trying to curl into the blankets, but Narcissa was relentless. She grabbed the covers and yanked them off, her laugh echoing in Druella's ears.

"Wake up, Druella! Time to get up, sleepyhead!" Narcissa continued, shaking her gently as if she were still a toddler. The way she treated her, as though she were five years old again, made Druella's frustration grow.

"Go away," she muttered, but Narcissa simply ignored her.

"Come on, love. I've got big plans for us today!" Narcissa's voice was like honey, sweet but overpowering, as she handed Druella a piece of paper with her carefully planned activities.

Druella glared at the paper, then back at Narcissa. "I am not having a tea party with my stuffed animals," she growled.

Narcissa's hands fluttered around Druella as though she were some precious child. Her touch was gentle, but it felt suffocating. "Don't be like that, dear," she cooed, patting Druella's back as if to calm her. "You'll see, it'll be fun."

"I'm not a child," Druella muttered under her breath, standing up and trying to shake off the incessant care.

Narcissa, however, wasn't done. She gently guided Druella to the vanity mirror. The touch of Narcissa's hand on her wrist felt like a vice, but it was filled with care, as if trying to hold onto her forever.

Druella slumped in the chair, her exhaustion weighing heavily on her shoulders. "Just let me sleep," she begged, but Narcissa wouldn't hear it. She tilted Druella's head upward, her fingers caressing her face with an unsettling gentleness.

"Sit up, dear. We need to get you looking presentable," Narcissa insisted, her tone playful but firm.

Druella groaned, feeling every inch of her rebelliousness grow. "Stop," she muttered, wanting nothing more than to escape this relentless attention. But Narcissa simply smiled, her eyes twinkling as she began brushing Druella's tangled hair. Every tug on the brush made Druella wince, but she remained still as her aunt worked, despite her protests.

"You're not looking your best today, dear," Narcissa observed, her tone unbothered as she continued her task. "In a few years, you'll be a teenager, and you'll want to make a good impression, won't you?"

Druella felt a surge of frustration rising within her, but she was powerless to stop it. Narcissa had her firmly in her grip. She let out a soft, defeated sigh as Narcissa continued brushing her hair, pulling out the knots with a precision that was almost too caring.

"Please leave me alone," Druella muttered, her eyes half-lidded as exhaustion clawed at her, but Narcissa only patted her cheek.

"Don't worry, my Pureblood Princess," Narcissa said in that sickly sweet tone. "I'll take care of you."

Druella's frustration bubbled under the surface, her mind screaming for release, but Narcissa's presence was like a weight on her chest. There was no escape, not when Narcissa's attention was so unwavering, so suffocating.

Once the brushing was finished, Narcissa's grip on her wrist was once again unyielding. "Let's get you cleaned up, dear," she said, her voice soft but authoritative as she guided Druella to the bathroom.

"I'm too old for this," Druella thought bitterly, pulling away slightly, but Narcissa simply smiled, her eyes glinting with something unreadable as she locked the door behind them, casting a charm to ensure no one would disturb them.

Druella's heart raced as she realised what was happening. She didn't want this. She didn't need it. But Narcissa's fingers, though gentle, gripped her wrist with unshakable force.

"Let's get your hands clean first, dear," Narcissa murmured, her voice as smooth as silk. She began to wash Druella's hands, her touch almost soothing, but it only made Druella feel more trapped.

"I don't need this," Druella whispered under her breath, but her aunt didn't seem to hear. She only continued with the same motions, making Druella feel both like a child and an object to be managed.

When Narcissa spoke again, her voice was almost sing-song as she guided Druella toward the bath. "Time for your bath, my sweet Druella," she cooed, her eyes shimmering in a way that made Druella's skin crawl.

"I'm not a child!" Druella almost shouted, but the words stuck in her throat as Narcissa moved closer. Her fingers unbuttoned Druella's nightgown with an unsettling precision, and before Druella could react, the garment was floating away with a flick of Narcissa's wand.

"Please, Aunt Narcissa, don't!" Druella begged, trying to cover herself, but Narcissa simply chuckled softly, her eyes gleaming with unsettling amusement.

"Oh, Druella, you're so modest," Narcissa teased, brushing a lock of hair from Druella's face. "I've seen it all before."

Druella's face burned with humiliation as she was lowered into the bath. Narcissa's touch, though gentle, felt invasive, each stroke making her feel more and more like a doll being dressed and cleaned at her aunt's whim.

Narcissa worked the soap into Druella's skin, her hands moving over her with a tenderness that felt almost patronising. "We need to get you clean, dear," she said softly, her voice low, soothing. "You don't want to be dirty, do you?"

Druella closed her eyes, trying to block out the sensation of Narcissa's hands moving over her body. The scent of soap filled the air, but it did nothing to calm her.

"You're so clean now, Druella," Narcissa said, almost proudly, as she rinsed the shampoo from Druella's hair. "I'm so proud of you, my little one." Her voice was syrupy sweet, but Druella could feel the unsettling affection seeping through each word.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Narcissa wrapped Druella in a towel, her hands briskly drying her with magic as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

"You're so beautiful when you're clean," Narcissa cooed, her voice heavy with unsettling adoration. "I'm so proud of you."

Druella tried to shrink away, but her aunt's embrace was unyielding, a vise that held her tight. There was no escape.

Once Druella was wrapped in a robe, she tried to retreat to her room, but Narcissa's grip tightened on her arm. "No, you are staying with me. Let's go," she insisted, leading her toward the living room.

They settled on the couch, and Narcissa's tone remained light and cheerful during the conversations, and the days fell into the same routine. Narcissa had Druella practice the piano again, followed by hours of painting, reading about spells in the library, and various activities meant to keep her distracted. But that day, as the sun began to set, she led Druella outside to the garden tables.

"Isn't this nice?" Narcissa asked, settling down with a cup of tea. "Taking a break outside your room?"

Druella sipped her tea, glancing around at the peacocks strutting in the yard. "Yeah, it is nice," she murmured, her attention drawn to the birds.

Narcissa watched her, eyes flickering with something calculating. "I know you miss your mother," she said softly. "I miss Draco too. So it seems you and I should hang out while they're gone."

"Yeah, it does get lonely while they're gone," Druella replied, her thoughts elsewhere, still distracted by the peacocks.

Narcissa didn't let the silence linger for long, her voice suddenly sharp. "Druella, look at me."

Reluctantly, Druella turned her eyes back to her aunt. "Uh, yes, I am lonely without them," she said quickly, her gaze shifting again, trying to avoid the intensity in Narcissa's eyes.

Narcissa smiled knowingly. "Yeah, it can be. Difficult, especially with Lucius—he's such a drag."

Narcissa looked at her niece, then continued, "You know Draco has been writing an awful lot. Complaining about the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. He complains about him an awful lot."

Druella didn't know how to respond to that, but she did add, "Yeah, he wrote to me too I think Harry is popular with the headmaster."

"Mm, he can pick his favourites," Narcissa agreed, her voice cool. "After all, he was a Gryffindor when he was at school."

Really?" Druella asked loudly.

Narcissa nodded and sipped her tea. "He hated Slytherins and always assumed they'd go bad. Not all of us are bad, though; just look at me." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, a look of satisfaction crossing her face. "Taking care of you, raising you like my own, making sure you're safe, well-fed and loved. Bad people don't take care of their children. But Dumbledore assumes that all Slytherins go bad."

"Yeah, that's annoying and unprofessional," Druella muttered, agreeing but not entirely sure why she was.

Narcissa's smile grew, a touch darker now. "You see, it's probably time he steps down."

Druella's confusion deepened. "What are you talking about? Besides, he won't step down willingly."

Narcissa gave her a pure, calculated smile, a hint of pressure in her gaze. "Well, he could be forced to."

Druella blinked, eyes narrowing in curiosity. "How?"

Narcissa leaned in slightly, her tone lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "There was a troll in the dungeon. It wandered into the girls' restroom. One first-year girl almost got killed." She paused for effect, watching Druella's eyes widen. "The poor girl was homesick, crying for hours in the bathroom. She cried because the kids were mean to her. A poor Muggle-born was overlooked and treated unfairly. Poor child doesn't understand the superiority of our world. No one bothered to check on her. Word is, she was sobbing in there, left completely unprotected. A troll could've killed her, and Dumbledore left two first years to fight it. Another first year could've been killed."

Druella nodded slowly, her disgust palpable. "Yeah, that's dumb. That girl could have died. He doesn't care about the well-being of students if that's the case."

Narcissa came closer, her voice low and venomous. "He has put the students at risk for years, Druella. He hasn't changed." Her hand settled on Druella's shoulder, her fingers cold and firm. "But we can do something about this."

Druella looked at her aunt, her eyes suddenly sharp with understanding, and Narcissa smiled, a grin of power. "We can bring him down."

Druella blinked, something dangerous lighting up in her. "We could work together on this," she agreed, her voice quiet but certain.

Narcissa's smile widened, pride gleaming in her eyes as she scratched Druella's back gently. It felt good, soothing her. "We will take him down. And when he's gone, Hogwarts will finally have someone who actually cares for the school."

Druella couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief in her aunt's words as if something had clicked into place. Narcissa continued, her voice dripping with dark sweetness. "You can bring me any information, anything bad happening at the school. You tell me, and we'll ensure the students are safe. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Druella's mind raced, and a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. "Yeah, that would be good."

Narcissa's eyes gleamed with approval. "Good, we're both on the same page now," she purred. "We'll show them our family's power and all will be well in our world."

Druella smiled back, her gaze locking with Narcissa's.

"We'll show them the Malfoys and the Blacks, combined power. We'll show them all."

Druella nodded at her aunt, not knowing much outside of the manor, she knew she wouldn't be going for another year. Druella didn't think to much of it at the moment.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the manor's stone walls, Narcissa quickly selected a nightgown for Druella, insisting she wear it before bed. Druella complied, slipping into the soft fabric, though she felt an odd sense of detachment. As she crawled into bed, Narcissa's hand gently pressed against her back. She began to hum, her voice a soft, comforting melody. Druella closed her eyes, her body melting into the warmth of her aunt's presence. The steady hum and the gentle touch lulled her into a deep sense of calm.

Narcissa's routine was unwavering. Day after day, she had Druella by her side, humming to her, comforting her, and ensuring she never felt alone, not even for a second. Druella feel weightless, her body unwinding as her mind fogged over. It didn't take long after Narcissa's hums to cause a hypnotic melody a deep relaxation spread through Druella's limbs, and her consciousness began to fade. The trance-like state took over, making her feel as though she was floating, far removed from reality.

One day, while Narcissa was humming and Druella sat in a relaxed stupor, Lucius entered the room. He paused, seeing his niece in such a state of trance, her head resting against Narcissa's shoulder as she hummed to her. Concern flashed across his face, and he asked, "Is Druella doing okay?"

Druella blinked slowly, her mind clouded but not entirely distant. "What's going on?" she asked weakly, confused by the interruption.

But Narcissa, without missing a beat, silenced her. "I told you not to bother me when I'm with Druella," she said, her tone sharp and possessive.

Lucius looked at her, a flicker of concern still on his face. "What's happening?" he asked again, his gaze moving between Druella and his wife.

Druella tried to get up, to speak more clearly, but Narcissa gently but firmly pushed her back down. "Just stay here, Druella," she insisted, guiding her niece back into the trance-like calm. With a soothing hum, Narcissa held Druella close, wrapping her arms around her and rubbing her left shoulder in small, circular motions. She murmured softly to her, "Just relax, my darling. It's alright."

Lucius, looking more uneasy by the moment, watched as Narcissa continued to hum, her voice lulling Druella further into the fog of the potion's effects. Narcissa finally snapped, her patience running thin. "You've upset her. Now look what you've done."

She glared at her husband, giving him a cold look. "Leave."

Lucius, taken aback, hesitated before turning and leaving the room without another word. As the door closed behind him, Druella tried to speak, but Narcissa's finger pressed against her lips. "Shh," she whispered, "it's okay. Just stay with me."

Druella nodded, Narcissa's humming resumed, a soft, soothing rhythm, as she pulled Druella closer to her. The gentle strokes on her back and shoulders made her feel safe and comforted. It wasn't long before Druella drifted off, her head falling against Narcissa's shoulder. Narcissa smiled softly, the warm embrace a contrast to her calculating mind. "There we go," she whispered, her voice filled with affection. "I love you so much, Druella. Remember that."

Druella's days were often spent in a blur of strict routine, always under the watchful eyes of Narcissa. She had learned long ago that her movements and actions were carefully monitored, and that stepping out of line was not something that would be tolerated. Despite the suffocating atmosphere, there were moments when Druella tried to break free, to understand the world outside the Malfoy estate, but it was always short-lived.

Malfoy Manor, June 31st 1992

As Draco returned for the summer, the house seemed to buzz with more energy. Narcissa had already prepared Draco's favourite meals, and the family had gathered to greet him. However, Druella's attention was pulled away from the commotion when she spotted a boy with glasses and a white owl. She couldn't help but admire the owl; it was magnificent, its snowy feathers standing out among the crowd.

Her curiosity, though, didn't go unnoticed. Draco's sharp voice cut through her thoughts. "Don't look at that, Potter. He's bad news."

Druella's gaze flickered to the boy and, with a quick glance at his forehead, she realised who he was. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. She instinctively scowled at him, her disdain clear. Draco's grip tightened on her arm as he dragged her away, his words sharp. "I told you not to look at him."

Druella, confused by Draco's insistence, glanced at him as they moved away from the train station. "What's wrong with him?" she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Draco, still irritated, muttered, "You don't get it, do you? He's trouble, Druella. Just... trust me."

For the remainder of the evening, Druella couldn't shake the image of Harry Potter's face, but Draco's presence and stern words kept her focused on other things. At dinner, Draco was once again agitated, snapping at his uncle for his grades. "It's not my fault," he argued bitterly. "That Mudblood always had better grades than me."

Lucius was quick to reprimand him, but Narcissa intervened smoothly. "Let me handle this, darling," she said, her voice soft but firm.

Draco stormed off, his temper flaring, and Druella was left to her thoughts. It was clear that his frustrations were growing, but she couldn't find the empathy for him that she once might have. She could understand his irritation, of course—his grades, his position in the family—but she couldn't fully relate. After all, she was constantly under the same scrutiny, but her existence seemed to matter far less to others.

The tension in the house only increased when Draco's friends arrived. Goyle, ever the charmer, approached Druella as she sat in the corner, reading. His voice carried an almost rehearsed tone as he complimented her, "Hello, Ella-Bella. You look very pretty today."

Druella didn't even spare him a glance, her expression cold. "Don't call me that, Gregory. Drake please, come and get him," she demanded, her words biting.

Draco appeared promptly, his voice sharp. "Goyle, if you're going to flirt with her, wait until I'm in the room." Druella raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Seriously?" she muttered, her eyes narrowing as she watched Draco. He smirked in response. "Yeah, I like seeing him flirt with you. Too bad your leg is better now."

Druella didn't answer but stood abruptly, closing her book with a snap. "I'm done. Just go complain about Harry," she said, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

She made her way outside, the tension in the air still thick. She spotted Dobby in the garden, looking distressed. Approaching him cautiously, she asked, "Did Uncle beat you again?"

Dobby quickly shook his head, but his voice was urgent. "No, no, Dobby must warn Harry Potter! Potter is in grave danger!"

Druella's eyes widened, and she quickly shushed him. "Be quiet, Dobby. Uncle will hear you, and he'll get mad at both of us. I don't want you getting beaten again."

"Dobby needs help, Druella. Potter is in danger!" he repeated, voice trembling with desperation.

With a sigh, Druella looked around to ensure no one was listening. The last thing she needed was to draw attention. "Shh," she whispered. "I'll help, but you need to be careful. Uncle will yell at me again, and we'll both be punished."

Dobby nodded gratefully. "Mistress Druella is kind. Dobby knew you'd help."

She hesitated for a moment before reaching the garden. "Go," she said quietly, pressing it into his hand. "Go apparate find number 4 Privet Drive. It's not a great place, but I heard small rumours that he lives there."

Dobby's eyes lit up with gratitude. "Please, Druella, come with Dobby!" he pleaded.

Druella shook her head firmly. "I can't. You know how it is. I can't leave without permission. If I leave, I'll never hear or feel the end of it."

"Please, Druella," Dobby insisted. "I need you to lead me there."

"I can't," she said again, regret flashing in her eyes. "Just apparate and go. It's better this way."

Reluctantly, she handed him the address and watched as Dobby disappeared from the garden. She felt a moment of relief wash over her, knowing she hadn't been caught, but also a tinge of guilt for not being able to help more.

As she returned to the manor, Druella couldn't help but think about Harry Potter and his life. The Muggles were beyond her comprehension. She knew her family despised them, and she understood why. Muggles, in her mind, were pitiful creatures who could never understand the beauty of magic. They led dull, monotonous lives, devoid of the wonders that magic offered. She couldn't fathom how someone like Harry Potter could come from such a place, and she certainly couldn't understand how he was able to survive it. The thought of the Dursleys disgusted her. The Muggle world was cruel, and she was grateful to be far away from it.

As the evening wore on, Druella returned to her room, her thoughts heavy. Narcissa had just taken Draco to a separate room for more private discussions, and Druella had been left to her own devices.

Dinner that night was typical, with Draco complaining about Harry Potter and his supposed "favourites" at Hogwarts. "That Potter and that filthy little mudblood were Dumbledore's favourites," Draco muttered, barely looking up from his plate. "I had to go to detention with them. It's unfair! She shouldn't even be at that school with her parents being Muggles."

Lucius, as always, was quick to agree. "He's right. It's disgraceful."

Narcissa did her best to calm Draco, her voice smooth and persuasive. "Don't worry about them, Draco. We'll make sure things work out." But Druella knew this was far from over.

At the table, she caught Draco's eye as he sulked. "I love you all," he said half-heartedly, his tone filled with frustration.

Druella, already bored of his endless complaining, turned her attention to her food. "Aw, how touching. I'm out." She stood and walked away before he could respond.

One evening, after dinner, Draco found his way into Druella's room. The two of them sat on her bed, talking in hushed voices. Draco couldn't let the subject of Harry Potter go.

"Why does that Potter get recognised for everything?" Draco grumbled, his hands tightly gripping the edge of her bed.

Druella rolled her eyes, though she didn't meet his gaze. "I'd be upset too if I got detention for trying to help a teacher. At least I know if I'm going to be out of bed, I won't get caught." She paused for a moment. "But he did kill a teacher last term, that's impressive, one who tried to bring back Voldemort killed by The Boy Who Lived."

Draco snapped at her, hitting her lightly on the head. "Don't say that name, you know better than that."

Druella smirked, unfazed. "Yet I don't understand why Voldemort is his name."

Draco gave her another light smack on the head, a frown spreading across his face. "Don't say his name! It is the Dark Lord or He Who Shall Not Be Named."

Druella teased, her smirk widening. "Voldemort."

Draco's frustration grew, and he hit her head again, his face reddening. Druella giggled, enjoying the irritation she was provoking. "Voldemort," she said again, just to get under his skin.

Their laughter was cut short by the sudden sound of banging on the door. Narcissa's sharp voice filled the space. "Druella Bellatrix Black! Stop this foolishness!" The door swung open, and Bellatrix stood there, her face a mask of stern disapproval.

Druella, still grinning, tried to reason with her aunt. "Aunt Narcissa, I'm just teasing Draco."

Narcissa's expression hardened, and she pointed a sharp finger in Druella's direction. "Well, you better not act that way at Hogwarts. You call him the Dark Lord or He Who Shall Not Be Named at Hogwarts. I'm warning you now, if I find out you called him by his name there, I'll take you straight home! You'll never hear the end of it if I find out! Got it?"

Druella rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yes, Aunt Narcissa."

Narcissa's patience was clearly wearing thin. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Oh, this child. Stop saying that! People will judge you. We don't need that in our family. Do you understand what's at stake? You are the heir to the House of Black! You can't be saying this! It will make you and our family look bad. You are the legacy of our family. Do you understand that, Druella?"

Druella lowered her head, her eyes focused on the floor as she muttered, "Yes, Aunt Narcissa."

Narcissa exhaled slowly, a small but satisfied smile creeping onto her lips. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page now. I better not catch you saying that again." She turned to leave, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Draco snickered behind Druella, unable to resist. "Oh, shove it, Drake," she muttered back at him, a playful glint in her eyes. They both laughed, but Druella knew she wouldn't push her mother's limits again. Bellatrix wasn't a woman to be trifled with, especially when it came to the family's reputation.

And so, as the evening faded, Druella settled back into her room, her thoughts swirling. She had learned to navigate her family's complex world—one where power, obedience, and survival were key. She wasn't sure where this path would lead her, but she knew she had to keep her head down, listen, and do as she was told.

Druella sat in the dimly lit room, the distant sound of shouting echoing from the other side of the manor. The argument between Narcissa and Lucius was growing louder by the minute. She could barely make out the words, but she knew it was another of their heated exchanges, filled with threats and power struggles. Her thoughts drifted to the conversation she'd had with Draco earlier.

"Cool, I got to sneak there when I have the chance. I can practice my spells in there," Druella had said, excitement in her voice as Draco spoke about the Forbidden Forest.

Druella continued her goal and explained. "I know many spells, even ones I'm not going to learn in class. I should go in there and practice when no one's looking," she had responded, confident in her abilities, though aware of the dangers.

Draco had laughed at her, shaking his head. "Ellie, no, you will deal with monsters in there. On top of that, you would get caught."

"I'll be careful," Druella replied, rolling her eyes. "It'll be fine."

Draco's expression hardened slightly. "I don't like Potter. He's just annoying; good thing Father will get me on the team."

Druella couldn't help but roll her eyes at Draco's attitude. "You know I don't support that; bribery shouldn't be allowed."

Draco smirked. "Druella, we're wealthy. We can afford the best."

Druella's gaze narrowed. "I believe that we shouldn't be defined by wealth. Mother tells me that to live up to the Black family."

Draco snickered. "Aunt Bella can be naive about her choices. Father doesn't like how she raised you. He thinks she made you soft. And he's right, you know? You are too soft."

Druella rolled her eyes, dismissing his words. "Uncle can have his opinions, but mother and I will not be a part of it."

"Father knows what's best," Draco retorted, clearly unimpressed by her response.

"Whatever, believe what you want," Druella shot back, not caring to engage further.

The two fell into an uncomfortable silence for a moment, the weight of their family dynamics hanging in the air. Finally, Druella broke the silence, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "I hope I don't get put in Gryffindor."

Draco snorted. "Right."

Druella frowned slightly. "I don't know how I will handle going to Hogwarts. Aunt Narcissa and Mother always take care of me."

Draco snickered again. "Especially Mother. She always treats you like a small child. I'm surprised that she isn't going crazy fussing over you. She always fusses over you. I don't understand why she isn't as crazy about me as she is about you. Sometimes I wish she'd be that way to me."

Druella looked at him, her confusion clear. "No, you don't. You have friends. I don't have any female friends. There were a few girls, but you remember they bullied me severely. Then Mother stood up for me. I love her for that, but Aunt Narcissa didn't let me play with them anymore. I got stuck in the manor when Aunt Narcissa was in charge of me."

Draco listened quietly, clearly processing her words.

The sudden, loud arguing between Lucius and Narcissa interrupted their conversation. It was the same old shouting, accusations, and threats that had become all too familiar over the years. Druella sighed, knowing it would go on for hours.

Lucius's voice was raised, full of anger. "It'll be a good year. I hate Dumbledore; I have a plan."

Druella winced as she heard Narcissa's slap, Lucius. Narcissa's voice followed, sharp and commanding. "Good, you know to let me parent them. I'm not going to let that old man run that school."

Druella groaned, trying to block out the noise, but it was impossible. The fighting escalated, with Narcissa's voice rising in fury.

There was another slap, followed by her aunt's voice. "You better be careful. You know what will happen if those kids get hurt. We have illegal dark artifacts. The Ministry has new laws against them. So, how are we supposed to deal with the new raids in place by the foolish Weasley? What if they find them?"

Druella's stomach twisted. Her family was involved in something dangerous, and she had no idea what it all meant.

"I'll sell them before they come. I’ll go to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley," Lucius promised.

Narcissa's tone softened but remained stern. "Okay, the plan better work. We can't get caught with those artefacts. I swear to you, whatever you're trying to do the children better not get hurt from whatever you're doing!”

Druella could hear the tension thick in the air as they continued to shout. She shut her eyes, her body tense, wishing for it to stop. But it didn't.

After a while, Draco quietly entered the room, his face drawn with frustration. "Can I sleep in here tonight?"

Druella didn't hesitate, making space for him in her bed. "Of course," she whispered, though her mind was still clouded with the events she had just overheard.

As she lay beside Draco, he muttered quietly, "I hate it when they fight."

"Me too," Druella replied softly, closing her eyes as she tried to ignore the noise from the other room.

Draco continued, his voice low. "They’re trying to get Dumbledore's job."

Druella sighed. "I heard but we have to be careful. We want this to happen."

"I don't know how I deal with them," Draco muttered. 

Druella stared at the ceiling, her mind racing with the implications of the conversation. But before she knew it, she was drifting off to sleep, the sounds of her family's bickering fading into the background.

As Druella slept, the dream took her.

She found herself wandering a strange, colorless place — endless halls bathed in cold, pale light.

Ahead, standing by a worn chessboard, was a boy about her age. His skin was almost translucent, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression careful — too careful.

“Do you want to play chess?” he asked quietly.

Druella hesitated, but then nodded.

They sat. The pieces moved with faint, mechanical clicks.

As they played, Druella’s eyes drifted to the room beyond him — a small, barren bedroom. A narrow bed. A battered desk.

From somewhere far away, she heard the faint laughter of other children — but it sounded wrong, hollow and cruel.

“There’s others here?” she asked softly.

The boy placed a pawn down with a sharp click.

“I don’t like them,” he said, voice flat. “They’re mean.”

Druella lowered her head, the familiar ache in her chest stirring.

“Yeah… me too,” she muttered. “My cousin and his friends are mean to me.”

The boy paused, studying her with eyes that felt too old for his face.

“Your uncle,” he said carefully.

It wasn’t a question.

Druella froze, staring at him. “How do you know?”

Wordlessly, he pointed at her arms. Druella looked — and gasped.

Bruises bloomed across her skin, ugly and dark, marks she hadn’t noticed before.

The ground beneath her feet tilted. Darkness licked the edges of the dream, thick and choking.

The boy stood, walking slowly around her in a tightening circle.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous now.

“What?” Druella croaked, trembling. “I don't understand what are you asking me?”

“To be pushed around?”He leaned closer, voice dropping into a whisper meant to slice her open.

“To be hurt? Forgotten? Alone?”

He circled her like an Auror interrogating a criminal, his footsteps soft and accusing.

“There are things you don’t understand,” he said, almost sadly. “Things they don’t want you to understand.”

More bruises bloomed across her arms and legs, crawling up her skin like vines.

“I hope,” he said, stopping in front of her, “that you find the love and peace you need.”

His voice cracked slightly, a strange bitterness hiding underneath.

Druella fell to her knees, clutching her arms, tears pouring down her face.

The boy crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the cold of him.

He leaned in and whispered: “Tell them.”

The bruises pulsed darker, the darkness closing in.

“Tell them.”

The words echoed around her, growing louder, harsher, inescapable.

“Tell someone the truth.”

Druella screamed silently into the dream — but the boy only stood and watched, his pale face unreadable, as the darkness swallowed her whole.

“Tell them,” his voice repeated, a final whisper in the blackness.

“Tell them the truth.” He walked over and held her shoulders his eyes in pure horror.

“TELL THEM THE TRUTH! SOMEONE ELSE WILL FOR YOU! BE PREPARED FOR THE TRUTH TO BE KNOWN!”

Druella’s eyes were widened in confusion. “The truth is that releasing the shackles holding your magic. The shackles will break.” He warned and leaned to her ear.

“Get ready for what's to come.”

Druella shook herself awake, and Draco looked at her. Druella’s head was fussy, with no memory of the boy and his careful kindness and warning.

“You ok?” Draco asked, and Druella turned and nodded quietly.

Draco was still awake, lying next to her, his eyes tired. "They were screaming. I couldn't sleep. They've been fighting for hours, and you were sleeping peacefully once again."

Druella yawned, feeling groggy. Her hair was a mess, and her body felt heavy from the lack of proper rest. "I guess I just... tuned them out."

Draco chuckled softly. "You slept so peacefully when Mother came to check on us. You so peacefully once more."

Druella smiled sleepily, rolling over to face him. "I guess I can sleep through anything."

She closed her eyes again, feeling her body relax into the bed, her mind still drifting with thoughts of her family and the chaos that was sure to come.

Chapter Text

August 1st, 1992 — Malfoy Manor

The dining room of Malfoy Manor was stiff with tension, as it often was. Narcissa sat with impeccable posture, slicing through a piece of roast as she watched Druella, who sat on the edge of the long table, legs swinging idly. Nyssa—the faded stuffed cat—was clutched tightly in her lap, her thumb grazing its worn ear.

Lucius, across the table, scowled at her again for no reason in particular. Narcissa didn’t hesitate—she elbowed him beneath the table with a sharp, pointed jab.

"Eat, Druellie, or you'll waste away," Narcissa chirped, placing a neatly cut bite on her plate.

Druella didn’t respond. She quietly picked at her food after Narcissa cut her meat for her. At the same time, Draco and Lucius discussed the Crabbe family in low tones, as if the girl seated near them was invisible.

Then—a sudden, thunderous knock echoed through the hall.

A moment later, the dining room doors burst open with a force that sent a gust through the candles.

Bellatrix Black stood framed in the doorway, cloaked in royal violet trimmed with silver.

Her hair tumbled in wild curls down her shoulders, her wand glinting from her belt, and a smirk played across her lips like victory.

“I. DID. IT.” she declared, her voice ringing through the manor like a fanfare.

Every head turned, startled, then silent.

"You got it?" Narcissa asked, her tone instantly brightening with genuine delight as she stood.

“Yes. Yes!” Bellatrix beamed, throwing her arms open. “The seat is mine. Madam Longbottom threw a full-scale tantrum—gowns flying, voice cracking—but the chamber chose me. My popularity, my merit, my legacy—Black blood prevails.”

Druella didn’t wait. She bolted from her chair.

“MOTHER!” she cried, launching herself across the polished floor and straight into her mother’s arms.

Bellatrix caught her easily, holding her tight as the girl buried her face in the velvet folds of her violet robes. For a moment, she said nothing—just closed her eyes and held her child close, her gloved hand gently stroking Druella’s back.

Lucius made a sound of disgusted disapproval, muttering something about “immature dramatics.”

Druella remained pressed to Bellatrix’s side, even retreating behind the long fall of her mother’s cloak as though hiding in safety. Bellatrix frowned faintly at the gesture but said nothing—her arm circled protectively around her daughter’s shoulders.

"Come, my Black Blossom," Bellatrix purred, her voice low and indulgent, “Let’s have something sweet to celebrate, shall we?”

“She hasn’t finished her dinner,” Narcissa reminded her, ever the guardian of rules.

Bellatrix smirked without looking back. “Then give it to Lucius’s dogs. They’ve already chewed through enough scraps of power in this house.”

Lucius’s face flushed, but he said nothing.

Bellatrix turned, her cloak sweeping behind her like the train of a coronation gown. She led Druella from the room with her head high and her daughter tucked under her arm like a prize—no, like a legacy restored.

Behind them, Narcissa smiled faintly and sipped her wine.

Earlier That Day – Wizengamot Chamber

The chamber was tense as the final vote was cast.

“Motion accepted. Lady Bellatrix Black shall claim the vacant central seat as the new Matriarchal Delegate of the Wizengamot.”

A thunderclap of enchanted applause echoed from the rafters. Violet-robed members stood in formal recognition as Bellatrix swept forward, her violet cloak trailing like the shadow of a dynasty.

From across the aisle, Augusta Longbottom stood abruptly, her expression livid.

“This is an outrage!” she barked, feathers on her hat quivering with indignation. “That woman is mad! She’s a former Azkaban inmate! She shouldn’t be allowed near a lawbook, let alone help write it!”

Bellatrix turned slowly, the barest arch to her brow, her posture composed and lethal.

“Careful, Augusta,” she said silkily. “You sound bitter. That isn’t very... dignified.”

Gasps murmured through the chamber. Augusta flushed.

“I served this country! I lost my son and daughter-in-law to the war she helped start—”

“And you lost the vote,” Bellatrix cut in, cold and regal. “Let that be your last public tantrum, or the court will question your suitability to remain as anything.”

She didn’t raise her voice—but she didn’t need to. The power in the room had shifted.

The Head Arbiter put her wand against her throat.

“Order. The vote has passed. Let it be recorded.”

Augusta stared, breath heavy, hands trembling.

No one rose to support her.

She left without another word.

Later – Longbottom Estate

The door slammed with enough force to rattle the sconces.

“Stupid Black family,” Augusta Longbottom hissed, throwing her feathered hat across the hallway.

“Gran?” Neville peeked out from the sitting room, his voice tentative.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped, brushing past him. “That madwoman slithered her way into the seat with charms and charity balls. And no one had the spine to stop her!”

“But… I thought you said she wouldn’t—”

“She wasn’t supposed to win!” Augusta snapped. “They let her in because she wore a bloody velvet dress and smiled at the right fools!”

Neville flinched as she stormed up the stairs.

“Gran, I—” he tried again.

She stopped at the top, eyes blazing. “She made me look like a fool in front of the Wizengamot. Called it a tantrum. And they laughed. Do you know what that means, Neville?”

He shook his head slowly.

“It means,” she hissed, voice low and burning, “that the Noble House of Black has won again. And they’ll make sure the rest of us never forget it.”

She slammed her bedroom door behind her with a final, angry snap.

The sound echoed down the staircase like a thunderclap of defeat.

Neville stood at the foot of the stairs for a long time, blinking at the empty hallway, then slowly turned and dropped back into the parlor chair like a puppet with its strings cut.

He stared at the wall, dazed.

“…Oh,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “The psycho earned the seat…”

He hesitated, then sighed.

“…And that girl of my dreams came out of her.”

He sank further into the cushions, groaning softly.

“I talked to her for five minutes.”

Treaver the toad croaked from the fireplace.

Neville groaned again and dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m doomed.”

August 3rd, 1992 — Malfoy Manor

Outside Druella’s window, the hedges of the Malfoy maze twisted under grey skies, still and silent. She sat curled in her window seat, a book balanced in her lap, but her eyes hadn’t moved in minutes.

From the corridor came voices—soft but tense.

“I’ll admit to some confusion when I read your letter, Mr. Moore,” Narcissa said carefully. “She’s always been intelligent, but I never expected her to be considered for... this great honour.”

They paused just outside the door.

“There are bruises, cuts bandages had to be wrapped.” Narcissa added, her voice quieter. “She says she fell. Lucius says the same. That’s all I’ve been told. But afterward—she won’t speak. She just… stops.”

A beat.

“She’ll be very guarded.”

Then, a knock.

“Druella, your mother’s coworker is here to see you.”

Druella looked up slowly.

A tall man stepped in with a kindly smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Druella.”

She didn’t respond—just watched him closely as he sat at the chair beside her bed and began fiddling with a puzzle cube.

He patted the mattress beside him.

Reluctantly, Druella joined him.

“Can you solve this?” he asked.

She examined it. Turned it once.

“Yes.”

“I’m Mr. Moore. A Pureblood, your mother is very close to.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you from another country?”

“No,” he answered too quickly.

“Hmm.” Her tone was oddly polite, almost rehearsed. “You have a common surname. Not much is known about the Moore’s but I think there's a women named Jennifer Moore—she works for the Gringotts finance. I remember Lucius’s allies don't like her. She's a Muggle-born, never married yes? I'm guessing you're her brother? Cousin? That’s why you’ve got that name.”

Mr. Moore froze.

Druella didn’t look smug. Only observant. Too observant.

He cleared his throat and tried to continue.

“Did you enjoy the biscuits your aunt brought earlier?”

Druella tilted her head. “There weren’t any.”

“No?”

“She doesn’t give me sweets until after lunch,” Druella said calmly, eyes returning to the cube. “Says I’ll spoil my teeth before lunch. She thinks I have a delicate stomach.”

Druella stopped for moment “she's not wrong I used to get sick easily when I was younger. So no she wouldn't take the chance to get me sick again.”

Then she returned to the cube again.

The man watched her hands as she flicked a mirror on the wall without touching it. It cracked cleanly down the centre.

“May I borrow your wand?” she asked suddenly.

He hesitated, then passed it to her.

“Repario.”

The mirror knit itself back together with a faint shimmer. Druella studied the wand.

“Willow. Unicorn core.”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“I could tell. I’ve been reading Ollivander’s lineage records.”

His lips parted slightly, stunned.

Druella returned the wand without ceremony. “Finished,” she said, handing back the puzzle.

He took it, but before he could rise, she looked at the bed.

“Sir,” she said, eyes on the small leather pouch resting near his seat.

“Yes?”

“Did you leave that for me—or are you testing me?”

He paused, watching her.

“I assumed,” she continued, “if it were meant for me, you’d have said so. But you didn’t. So I won’t touch it. I don't know what it is it could harm me.”

Mr. Moore was quiet. He took the pouch and slipped it into his robe with a nod. “Thank you, Miss Black.”

Before he could say more, a scream echoed from the garden.

Druella jumped to her feet and ran to the window. Outside, Lucius’s monstrous dog was barking and scrambling in the grass, chased by a massive green serpent, fangs bared.

The dog slipped, skidded into the hedge, and vanished. The snake slithered toward the house—but when it saw Druella, it paused, tongue flicking.

She opened the window, leaning out slightly.

The snake hissed low.

“Feral animal,” she muttered—not about the snake, but the dog.

She reached a hand down and stroked the serpent’s head.

That was when Lucius stormed around the corner, face flushed with rage. He grabbed the snake roughly by the neck.

Druella backed up instinctively, her heart pounding.

The vase behind her trembled—then shattered in a blast of magic she hadn’t meant to release.

Lucius slipped violently, crashing to the stone path with a furious curse. The snake recoiled and darted away down the corridor, vanishing like a shadow.

“You wretched girl!” Lucius spat, soaked and furious. “That snake would’ve sold for hundreds of Galleons—it’s gone now!”

He surged forward, hand rising to strike.

But he stopped.

Mr. Moore was still in the room.

The man stood frozen, gaze flicking between Druella, the shards of the vase, and Lucius's livid face. A slow, heavy silence fell.

“This meeting is over, sir,” Lucius snapped through clenched teeth. “You’ve seen enough.”

Mr. Moore hesitated—just long enough to meet Druella’s eyes.

Then he scribbled a single word across his parchment, firm and deliberate:

Approved.

He turned and left, the door closing with a soft, final click.

And then the silence was shattered.

Lucius struck her across the face with a sharp crack, knocking the breath from her lungs. She yelped, stumbling.

Then his hand twisted in her hair.

She screamed and clutched at his wrist, legs scrambling for footing, crying out—“Stop! Let go!”—but he didn’t.

He dragged her across the polished floor like she weighed nothing.

He threw her into her room.

She hit the floor hard.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Druella didn’t move.

Her small fingers clenched at the cold stone beneath her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps.

No one came.

Not this time.

Not again.

Outside, the manor was still. The halls were as silent as always. No one would know. No one would speak of it. There were no witnesses to bruises behind ornate doors.

There were Ministry Raids, and Druella stayed on the floor, eyes widened, making not a sound.

Officials were there but were quickly cleared off by Lucius Malfoy's luck.

She was alone.

She whispered it aloud, like it might make it less true.

“I hate him…”

A small crack sounded beside her.

Dobby.

The elf knelt beside her, his ears drooping, a tea towel still wrapped around his shoulders like armour he didn’t have.

He said nothing. Just reached out and gently patted her back with one long, careful hand.

Druella didn’t move for a long time. Her lip trembled. Her head bowed.

Her thoughts spiralled like smoke.

She just wanted to go.

To leave.

To run far, far from these walls.

From this life in shadows.

From the man behind the door.

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

Then, softer—

“…but I don’t think I have one here.”

And still, Dobby stayed beside her, quiet and still.

He didn’t speak.

But he stayed.

And somehow, that mattered.

Time passed. The candles shifted on the wall. The chill of the floor crept up into her bones. She hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Her muscles had locked in place, frozen in fear and something heavier—something that settled like dust in her lungs.

Then, gently, Dobby placed something soft against her chest.

It was Nyssa.

The worn little stuffed cat with button eyes and singed fur—her most precious thing, gifted from Bellatrix, and she kept it ever since.

Her fingers wrapped around it, slow at first, like they were remembering how to hold anything.

Shaking, Druella pushed herself off the floor and climbed onto her bed. She sat against the pillows, still hugging Nyssa, rubbing the patch between the ears with absent strokes.

She stared at the far wall, hollow and still.

Dobby lingered at the door, wringing his hands.

“Dobby must go now,” he said softly. “To Privet Drive. To check on Harry Potter. Dobby thinks… Harry Potter may have left his home.”

Druella blinked slowly.

“Oh,” she murmured.

“Dobby will come back,” he added, voice firm. “Dobby promises.”

There was a long pause.

Then, barely above a breath:

“Okay.”

Dobby turned to go—but her voice stopped him.

“Why?” Druella asked, her tone distant, almost hollow. “Why did you do that?”

He looked back, confused. “Do what?”

“Interfere with Harry’s life,” she murmured. “Mess with the letters. Interfere with Hogwarts. Everything.”

Dobby’s ears drooped.

“Dobby only wanted to protect Harry Potter. To stop him from coming back to school. To keep him safe from what is coming.”

Druella hugged Nyssa tighter.

“Well…” she said numbly, “Anywhere’s better than here.”

Dobby didn’t reply. He just nodded, eyes damp, and vanished with a soft crack.

The room fell silent again.

Druella remained curled on the bed, one hand gently resting atop her old stuffed cat, as if it were the only thing still tethering her to the world.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

However, somewhere behind the thick glass, the world was changing.

August 11th, 1992 — The Wizengamot Chamber

A gavel slammed hard onto the high table.

The sound rang like thunder through the glass-domed hall of the Wizengamot, silencing the hushed murmurs below.

At the very front, cloaked in shadow and enchantment, sat the Matriarch’s Throne.

And on it: Bellatrix Black.

No longer a prisoner. No longer the unhinged laughing terror whispered about in war stories.

Now she sat like a monarch.

Her robes were layered in black with green undertones, the fine stitching charmed with movement—serpents that shimmered with each breath she took. Her wand was holstered at her hip, never hidden. A single obsidian ring bore the crest of House Black: coiled, enduring, absolute.

The chamber feared her—but they also respected her.

She had clawed her way into the very system meant to condemn her. And now, she ruled it.

At the centre stood a pale young man, wandless, trembling beneath the scrutiny of the court.

A robed official cleared his throat. “You have been brought to this bench for the third time. Theft of magical artefacts. Violation of the Ministry’s fine for an unregistered Apparition. And now—wand theft.”

Murmurs.

From the high bench, Bellatrix watched him with slow disdain.

“You may speak,” she said coolly.

“I—I was desperate,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

Bellatrix leaned forward.

“Desperation is not a defence. If it were, Azkaban would be empty.”

The man opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

Bellatrix’s voice sharpened. “Wand theft is a desecration of magical identity. A thief of soul and blood. And this is your third offence.”

She rose.

The shadows shifted with her.

“I move for six months in Azkaban. No visitation. Wand ownership banned for five years following release.”

A few seats shifted in discomfort.

Lucius Malfoy, seated near the lower bench as Governor, said nothing—but his clenched jaw betrayed his disapproval. He had lobbied for leniency. Again, he’d been ignored.

Bellatrix scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on Lucius for only a second—long enough.

“Let this serve as precedent,” she said. “Under my Matriarchal authority, justice shall no longer kneel before bloodlines or bought influence. We enforce the law. Even when it displeases the old guard.”

The gavel cracked down.

“So ruled,” the judge announced. “Six months Azkaban. May God have mercy on your soul.”

The man was seized.

He thrashed, shouting in desperation—until his voice cracked into venom.

“You hypocrite! Lestrange! You served the Dark Lord—you wear his mark—killed for him!”

Bellatrix remained seated, unfazed.

“You sat in a cell! You were only released because of your sister! And now you judge me?” he roared. “Now you wear law robes and speak of justice? You promoted stories that Muggle-borns stole magic from Purebloods! You’re a fraud, Lestrange! A FRAUD!”

The Aurors dragged him back as his words echoed.

Bellatrix didn’t flinch.

She gave a single cold glance, her voice like silk pulled across steel.

“If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve carved it from your ribs. And it's Black, not Lestrange.”

The man shrieked a final insult, but he was gone before it reached her ears.

Bellatrix slowly resumed her seat, one gloved hand smoothing the hem of her robe with ceremonial precision.

The room exhaled.

Then came her whisper:

“Next.”

The Board of Governors rose.

A greying wizard with a lion’s-head pin stood and cleared his throat.

“We bring forth an educational matter. A request approved by the Board—majority vote.”

Lucius Malfoy, still seated among them, stiffened.

“A child. Not yet eleven. Turned ten late last year. She qualifies under the Arcanum Clause—prodigy potential. Evaluated privately.”

Whispers.

“Clause Eight?” “A girl?” “Ten?”

The wizard continued, “She is the daughter of a figure present today. Born December 23rd, 1981. Advanced in reading, theory, and wandless control. She has passed the preliminary prodigy trial.”

He looked up.

“Matriarch Black may know her.”

Bellatrix was already standing.

“My daughter?” she announced. “Druella Bellatrix Black the Second, is that who you speak of?”

He nodded.

The silence snapped.

Gasps. Whispers. A few leaned to whisper across benches.

“That’s Bellatrix’s child?” “I thought she was raised in secret—” “Is this allowed?”

Lucius stared ahead, unmoving, while his coworkers spoke.

“We request confirmation for the chamber to allow her early admission to Hogwarts for the 1992–1993 school year. Under probationary clause.”

Wands lifted—one by one. Most turned violet in favour.

Lucius’s did not.

Bellatrix looked only forward, eyes glinting like candlelight behind stained glass.

“I accept,” she said.

“She will attend.”

The vote passed.

Applause. Hesitant. Then steady.

Bellatrix didn’t smile for them.

She smiled for herself.

And somewhere far away, lying quietly in bed, her daughter hugged Nyssa the cat and stared out her window—unaware of the storm her name had just become.

August 13th 1992, Malfoy Manor

Druella went outside to tend to the garden, joined by Narcissa. As they worked together, Narcissa commented.

Narcissa's face fell slightly. "It's a shame Draco wasn't kind to Harry," she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Druella sighed. "Yes, I know. We've heard about it since he came back. I'll have to hear it again next summer."

Narcissa continued, "I heard about how his family, the Dursleys, treats Harry."

Druella turned to her aunt, puzzled. "What?"

"They used to make him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs," Narcissa explained, shaking her head. "It's cruel to treat a child that way."

Druella's expression changed, a mix of horror and anger crossing her face. "Why would they do that?"

Narcissa shrugged, her own frustration evident. "I don't know, but it's unforgivable."

Seeing the anger in Druella's eyes, Narcissa placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know you think I'm overprotective, and you don't always get along with Lucius. But we give you a good life, Druella. I made sure Bellatrix stayed with us after you were born so you could have a normal life."

Druella looked down at the ground, her thoughts troubled. Narcissa continued, "You should try to befriend Harry when you go. I know you two would make great friends. He has a lot of friends already—maybe you should give it a try."

Druella hesitated, her voice quiet. "But they're Gryffindors. Uncle and Mother have always been sceptical about them. Mother never lets me wear red or yellow clothes." A tear almost slipped from her eye. "What if I end up in Gryffindor? They would reject me."

Narcissa smiled gently, her voice reassuring. "Don't worry about that, Druella."

Druella nodded in agreement, feeling a little lighter.

Bellatrix watched as Narcissa and Druella conversed, noticing the hint of worry on Druella's face as she mentioned Gryffindor. It was only natural, she thought. The idea of her precious Black Blossom being sorted into that house—a house so beneath her—didn't sit right with Bellatrix. Her beautiful, brilliant daughter should never be among the trivial Gryffindors. She would not be counted among them.

Yet, Bellatrix could see Narcissa's reasoning in encouraging Druella to befriend Potter and his friends. If others were quick to call Druella a blood traitor, so be it. She was Bellatrix's little Blood Traitor. And perhaps, it was a label she'd have to wear. But not Longbottom. That boy was a waste of a wizard, and his family—well, they still haunted her. The memory of his parents never stopped tormenting her, not since the day she had cast the Cruciatus Curse on them. It had been necessary, part of the plan. It had led to Azkaban, but Bellatrix would do it all over again if it meant protecting Druella.

She had been carrying Druella even then, all those years ago, when she was in Azkaban. Even in the darkest depths of that hell, Bellatrix had protected her fiercely, using every ounce of magic at her disposal to shield Druella. 

To ensure her safety and future, Bellatrix had begun teaching Druella Occlumency at a young age. It was necessary to keep prying minds at bay. Druella's power was formidable, already capable of resisting most, though not yet enough to block Bellatrix and Narcissa. But that was fine. Bellatrix was confident that soon, Druella would be strong enough to outstrip them all.

Bellatrix’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the front door.

Her gaze narrowed.

Only a handful of people dared knock on her door.

She moved with purpose through the halls of Malfoy Manor, every step echoing with restrained annoyance. When she opened the grand doors, her irritation deepened.

Professor McGonagall stood on the stone threshold—upright, stern, and irritatingly unshaken.

"I expected one of the professors might come," Bellatrix said coolly, folding her arms. “Dumbledore rarely resists meddling.”

McGonagall gave a polite nod. “I’m here to deliver Druella Black’s Hogwarts letter. Per the Headmaster’s request.”

Bellatrix extended her hand, sharp and commanding. “I’ll see that she receives it.”

But McGonagall didn’t move.

“With respect,” she said carefully, “Headmaster Dumbledore insisted I give it to her directly. And explain.”

Bellatrix’s lips thinned. She hated this. Hated being bypassed. Still, she stepped aside, jaw tight.

Narcissa appeared before McGonagall had even stepped inside, her arms crossed, expression unreadable but cold.

“Oh,” she said flatly. “Minerva.”

McGonagall offered a crisp nod. “Narcissa.”

Bellatrix turned sharply and vanished down the corridor.

“Druella!” she called. “Come here. Now.”

Druella appeared moments later, quiet and guarded as always, clutching a small book to her chest. She stopped short when she saw McGonagall.

“Hi,” she said warily.

The professor offered her a small, polite smile. “You must be Druella. I am Professor McGonagall. Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

Druella’s eyes flicked to her mother and aunt, both of whom stood behind the professor like silent sentinels.

Bellatrix gave a slight nod.

“She’s here to give you something, love.”

McGonagall reached into her cloak and handed Druella the envelope. Her name was written in green ink with perfect precision:

Miss D. Black
Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire, England

Druella opened it with careful fingers, pulling out the parchment and reading the words slowly:

Dear Miss Black.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

Her eyes widened slightly.

Then her brow furrowed.

She looked up, confused.

“…But I’m not eleven.”

McGonagall’s professional smile faltered just enough to show the tension underneath.

“No,” she replied. “You are not. But your name appeared on the Register, and an appeal was made. The Board of Governors, after extensive magical evaluation and… influence”—her eyes briefly darted to Bellatrix—“have approved early admission.”

Druella blinked, confused. “So I’m going early?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said plainly.

“I don’t understand,” Druella admitted, her voice quiet but direct. “Why?”

“You were tested. Quietly,” Narcissa said from behind her, stepping forward at last. “Privately. At the Manor. Do you remember? That man—Mr. Moore. He was no tutor. He was there for the Board.”

Druella’s face fell.

“I thought he was a friend of Mother’s…”

“He was,” Bellatrix said evenly, “but not just that. He wrote the final recommendation.”

Druella looked back at McGonagall. “So... I passed something, and now I’m going to Hogwarts? Before everyone else?”

McGonagall gave the smallest nod.

“You’ve been accepted under the Arcanum Clause. Very few qualify.”

“But… people won’t like that,” Druella said, not whining—just stating it.

McGonagall hesitated. “They may not. But Hogwarts makes exceptions for exceptional students.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, Druella smiled.

It was small. Fragile. But real.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, still uncertain, but grateful.

Bellatrix’s hand came to rest lightly on her daughter’s shoulder, her voice softer than usual.

“You deserve it.”

McGonagall turned to leave, but Narcissa followed her to the door.

“Don’t try anything political with her,” she warned. “She’s not a tool. She’s a child.”

McGonagall didn’t answer. She simply nodded, her face tight.

As the door shut behind her, Druella stood staring down at the parchment.

“I’m going to Hogwarts,” she whispered to herself.

Bellatrix smiled faintly. “Yes, darling. And the world will never be the same.”

Narcissa’s heels clicked lightly as she stepped closer, her voice calm and precise.

“So, we have a small plan, Druellie.”

Druella looked up, already frowning slightly. There was calculation behind her eyes, the early sharpness of someone who paid attention far more than she let on.

“This year?” she asked carefully. “I’m not even eleven yet.”

“Exactly,” Narcissa said. “You’re going early, and that makes you visible. That’s a risk—but it’s also a great weapon. And I want you to listen closely.”

Druella tilted her head. She was young, yes—but her eyes didn’t flicker. She listened.

“If you hear anything bad,” Narcissa continued, “about good old Dumbledore… rumours, mistakes, whispers—anything—”

“I tell you first,” Druella interrupted. “Before anyone else hears it.”

Narcissa paused, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Very good.”

Druella nodded once, solemn and obedient on the surface—but something behind her eyes gleamed faintly. She was thinking. Already wondering what counted as “bad.” Already calculating how much she could observe without being noticed. She was already aware that people underestimated quiet girls.

“Yes, Aunt Narcissa,” Druella replied calmly. “I’ll listen carefully.”

And she would.

Not because she fully understood the stakes—

But because she was beginning to understand that information was power, and power kept people like Lucius away.

She folded the letter again, gently, and tucked it under her arm like a sealed agreement.

One step closer to the world that had hurt her.

One step closer to mastering it.

Druella couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She was going to Hogwarts. Early.

Of all things.

She sat at her window that night, legs tucked beneath her, parchment still clutched in her hands as if it might vanish. The letters shimmered slightly in the moonlight—real, solid, undeniable.

This was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Nothing could top it.

Not even Draco, who had looked at her with thinly veiled irritation when he found out. His eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but the message was clear: You’re not supposed to come yet.

That only made her grip the letter tighter.

Lucius, of course, said nothing at all. Just offered her a lingering glance over his teacup, eyes flat and unreadable. The same cold look he gave everything that didn’t directly benefit him.

Behind closed doors, he told her other things. Quiet, venom-laced things. Things meant to unravel her.

Words she couldn’t repeat.

Words she didn’t want to remember.

But she was leaving.

She was going.

And Bellatrix—Bellatrix celebrated. Spun her in the parlour like a doll. Laughed with wine in her hand and pride in her voice. Even if Druella didn’t feel like she’d earned it. Even if she wasn’t sure she believed she deserved anything.

Still… she smiled.

Because more than anything—more than the letter, more than the robes, more than the odd, fluttering feeling in her stomach—she was happy to be leaving the manor.

Happy to escape its heavy walls and colder silence.

Happy to be gone from Lucius's footsteps on the stairs. From the way the doorknob clicked just before his shadow spilled across the floor.

At Hogwarts, she’d have a room with people in it. A schedule. A wand.

She’d have books and a desk and rules and professors.

And for once—somewhere to be that wasn’t here.

Somewhere that wasn’t just survival.

She stared back down at the letter, the seal of Hogwarts glowing faintly under the candlelight, and whispered,

“Nothing will ruin this. I won’t let them.”

Then she folded the parchment carefully, pressed it against her chest, and closed her eyes.

She would make Hogwarts hers.

Even if she had to fight for every step.

Narcissa watched her niece from across the room, sipping her tea with that same calm precision she used in battle—never spilling a drop, even in war.

Her expression was serene, but her mind was already turning.

Bellatrix entered, her boots tapping the floor with a subtle confidence. She gave Druella the briefest glance before joining her sister by the window.

Narcissa didn’t look at her. She simply lifted the porcelain teacup to her lips, one eyebrow arched.

“You know,” she began, her tone light, almost lazy, “I had half a mind to pursue Headmistress once. I did my studying, unlike some.”

Bellatrix chuckled lowly.

“Draco made an attempt last year,” Narcissa continued. “Tried to tell me after the troll incident, if you can believe it. Typical.”

She gave a sniff and finally turned to her sister, her smile tight and knowing. “But you know what I think, Bella? We use our little Druellie.”

Bellatrix tilted her head with interest.

“Oh, not for anything drastic,” Narcissa said smoothly. “She simply observes. Spies, if you want to be vulgar about it. Reports back. Dumbledore can’t be trusted, not after last year—imagine allowing a Defence professor with a Dark Lord in his turban. Utterly irresponsible.”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh, brushing her hand along the edge of the mantle. “Oh, Cissy, you’re devious.”

“Don’t flatter me. I’m practical,” Narcissa replied, voice smooth and cold like glass under velvet. “We let Druella make her friends. Blend in. But she’ll be watched. If anything unusual happens again, we’ll know. And Dumbledore? One more mistake, and he’s finished.”

Bellatrix gave a sharp grin. “Well then. Let her go. But let her be ours.”

Narcissa clinked her spoon against the side of her teacup, her gaze distant. “Oh, she already is.”

“And I didn’t even have to pull any strings,” Bellatrix added smugly, lifting her cup with flair.

“Yes, of course. Though I’m not exactly fond of her leaving home at ten years old,” Narcissa murmured, her tone softening ever so slightly. “You know how frail she is. She doesn’t even wear shoes outside.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. You underestimate her,” Bellatrix waved off.

“You overestimate her,” Narcissa countered, setting her cup down with precision. “She’s brilliant, yes. But too soft in some ways. Still… she’s got that mind—quick, calculating. If someone guides her right, she could become something dangerous.”

Bellatrix chuckled. “She’s already dangerous.”

“And Dumbledore?” Narcissa went on. “If he tries to pull another stunt—”

“Oh, Dummydore?” Bellatrix scoffed. “That senile peacock with his half-baked morality and lemon drops? Please.”

Narcissa allowed herself a cold smile. “He won’t see her coming. She’ll smile. Listen. Observe. And when the moment’s right—she’ll strike. Quietly. Efficiently. With evidence.”

“She’s yours,” Bellatrix said. “Trained like a little dagger in silk gloves.”

Narcissa looked down into her tea, her reflection cold and clear. “I do believe in Draco. He’s capable—he’s just been led astray by my husband’s idiocy. But Druella? Druella doesn’t just follow. She learns. She sees what’s broken and begins fixing it in her head. She was made for this.”

Bellatrix raised her cup. “To the next generation, then.”

Narcissa tapped hers in reply, her voice cool and sure.

“To the girl who will outmanoeuvre a headmaster.”

In the Library, Druella sat curled in the chair, a book balanced on one knee; her stuffed cat, Nyssa, was tucked under her arm like a fragile promise no one could take away. She tried to lose herself in the words, but they blurred. She thought of McGonagall’s cool, disappointed eyes.

She hated it. Hated being seen like that. But a part of her clung to it, too. Because at least McGonagall saw her.

She didn’t hear him until it was too late.

"Druella Black!"

Druella jumped, hands shaking, trying not to be seen.

“Did you tell that woman anything about our family matter?”

Druella jerked so hard that the book fell. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, staff in hand, dogs at his side, their teeth bared. She felt her breath catch.

“I asked you a question, girl,” he repeated, voice like a knife.

The dogs growled.

“No,” Druella whispered.

“No, what?” His eyes narrowed.

“No, sir,” she corrected quickly, voice cracking.

He crossed the room in two strides and slapped her so hard her head snapped to the side. The cat plush tumbled to the floor.

“Good,” he hissed, grabbing her dress and dragging her forward until her feet scraped the carpet. She winced, clawing at his wrist.

“Because if you ever tell anyone—anyone-I’ll give you a beating you’ll never forget.”

“Yes, sir,” she managed, tears pricking her eyes.

He let her go roughly, shoving her back. She stumbled over her fallen Nyssa and landed hard on her knees.

He looked her up and down with cold disgust.

“Look at you. Filthy little urchin. Snot-nosed disgrace. Don’t you dare cry.”

She wiped her eyes fast, trembling.

“I wouldn’t tell,” she choked out. “Even... if… if I make friends… I think they’d love me.”

Lucius laughed, a terrible, mocking sound.

“Love?” He sneered. “Who’d love a dowdy little nothing like you? Who’d want to be friends with a plain-faced scullery rat?”

She swallowed hard.

“Gregory Goyle, maybe? Even he’d think twice.” Lucius mocked.

Druella let out a strangled noise and dropped her gaze, tears sliding down.

Lucius leaned in close enough that she smelled his cologne and the sourness of his breath.

“Remember this,” he said low. “You’re a wretched little mistake I should’ve tossed out the window when you were a baby, crying so hard every single night. You still cry like a baby. You’re lucky your aunt cares about you, or you'd be gone. I'm glad you'll be out of here early so I don't have to pretend to tolerate you.”

The dogs snarled at his feet, eager for a command.

“Now get up. Go sulk or play with that ugly, raggy cat you drag around. The family has a meeting, and you’re not to be seen or heard.”

Druella sniffed, picked up Lucky with shaking fingers, and scrambled up. She didn’t dare look at him again as she scurried toward her bedroom. She felt the dogs’ eyes on her back, teeth bared, as she shut the door behind her with a quiet click—and finally let herself sob.

In her bedroom, Druella lay curled on her side, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The lamplight burned low. A doll rested in the crook of her arm. A few stuffed animals sat neatly lined up along the edge of the bed, untouched, all brand new and stiff with price tags, Narcissa had ordered removed.

She didn’t reach for them. She didn’t dare.

She lay perfectly still, breathing slowly and shallow, staring at the wall the way she always did after Lucius left the room. Her cheek still burned faintly where he'd struck her.

Then the door creaked open. Druella jumped. She instantly covered her face with her arm, heart hammering.

A small figure squeezed through—a house elf, ears twitching, eyes shrewd and sharp.

Hubble.

Lucius’s favourite elf.

Druella never trusted him. She knew he was the one who always watched her too closely, reporting every sulk and every tear to Lucius like a loyal, nasty little spy. It had been that way ever since she'd chased down that book thief in the forest beyond Dobby's watch—Lucius hadn't let it go. Hubble had kept extra careful watch on her ever since, exactly as Lucius wanted.

Hubble smiled, though it was more of a grimace stretched across his wrinkled face.

“Yo, Druella. Relax. It’s just Hubble,” he said, tone falsely friendly, sing-song, condescending. “Hubble’s just making sure you’re okay in here?”

He moved further into the room without asking, blinking around at the untouched toys.

“What’s this? Haven’t touched any of your new toys?” he asked, voice dripping with mock hurt. “After Hubble bought them just for you?”

Druella’s breath caught. Her eyes widened, a cold fear crawling up her back.

She remembered when they’d shown up in her room—a whole box of them, bright and garish, not the kind of toys she liked at all. Hubble had beamed as he presented them, Narcissa standing nearby, watching. Druella had seen Narcissa’s narrowed eyes, the flicker of suspicion there.

Narcissa hated Hubble. She always had. She told Druella once she didn’t trust the elf one bit—said he had a ‘mean streak.’ She thought he despised Druella and wasn’t subtle about it. Bellatrix even told her to stay away from the elf herself.

But Lucius adored the creature. Always had. Always protected him. Always will. Hubble never got beaten the way other elves did. He was smart enough to keep Lucius happy—and clever enough to try pleasing Narcissa just enough that she wouldn’t get rid of him outright. He was always the one who didn't have to work as much as the other elves. Being Lucius's favourite after all made him quite snobby and lazy. More as a butler telling the other elves what to do and keeping the house under control. He sure won Lucius and Draco well for ordering the elves to Draco's delight.

And now he was trying to win over Druella, too. Trying to look like the good, loyal elf who just loved the precious Malfoy niece.

She didn’t buy it.

“Wouldn’t hurt to let your guard down a little, you know?” he mused aloud, picking up one of the stuffed animals and pressing its head with a squeak.

He dropped it on the bed and looked at her hard.

"Look happy," he thought privately, "or Hubble will be the next elf Narcissa kills, you little brat."

He wasn’t stupid. He knew Narcissa was just looking for an excuse to punish him, to be rid of him forever if he so much as made Druella cry.

So he’d begged Lucius for permission to buy toys for Druella, to look good. Lucius had agreed easily—anything that shut the child up, anything that kept Narcissa off his back for five minutes.

Hubble forced his best grin and reached out, patting Druella’s dark hair, his hand gentle but possessive, his claws scratching lightly against her scalp. She shuddered.

“See? Hubble’s not scary,” he crooned.

Druella flinched and clutched her doll tighter, eyes wet, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t even breathe loudly.

Hubble clicked his tongue and drew back, inspecting her.

“Anything Hubble can bring you?” he asked, tone suddenly sharp around the edges, like he was testing her.

She didn’t speak.

“Ah,” he said. “No worries. If Hubble’s in the way… Hubble will leave you alone.”

He turned smartly and walked out, shutting the door behind him with an audible click.

Druella lowered her arm slowly. She blinked at the empty room, the stuffed animals lined up like mocking witnesses. She turned her face into the pillow, hugging her battered stuffed cat Lucky—one of the only things she trusted—and closed her eyes.

She didn’t make a sound as she cried herself to sleep.

The next morning.

Hubble the House Elf shuffled through the wizard toy shop, the permission tag on his neck, permission to be out of the family home alone. He cast narrow glances at the busy aisles, nervously fingering the coin in his little fist.

He hated these errands. But he needed to look good.

Hubble approached the counter, clearing his throat.

“Er—Hubble is looking for one of those popular dolls,” he muttered.

The witch behind the counter gave him a polite smile. “Oh? Which one did you have in mind?”

Hubble scratched behind his ear, twitchy. “Um… don’t know… one of those witches? Popular ones?”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “Those are all sold out.”

Hubble clicked his teeth, cursing under his breath.

It was then that a man stepped up beside them, tall, thin, draped in a black cloak that billowed like a living thing. Sallow skin, hooked nose, dark eyes glittering like chips of onyx.

Severus Snape, the Potions Professor at Hogwarts, followed the House Elf, seeing the bass permission tag.

He held out a small stuffed rabbit, grey and floppy-eared. His voice was soft and cold as he addressed the elf.

“These,” he said, “are quite popular. Children seem to like them.”

Hubble hesitated, glancing at the rabbit, then at Snape.

He froze. Snape was looking straight at him.

Snape’s dark eyes bored in, unblinking, dark as a bottomless well.

Legilimency.

Hubble felt his mind scraped open.

He saw a bedroom at Malfoy Manor. A trembling little girl with tangled black curls hugging a battered stuffed cat. Her wide green eyes were wet with fear.

Hubble entered, holding out a bright, new stuffed animal with forced cheer. The girl recoiled, clutching her old stuffed cat tighter.

Then another scene—blisteringly sharp, burned into the elf’s memory.

A tall woman with wild black hair and sharp cheekbones. Bellatrix Black. Her eyes ablaze with fury as she snatched Druella away from the elf’s grasp, the child whimpering, eyes wide with terror.

Bellatrix’s hand struck the elf hard enough to make his ears ring, her voice a vicious snarl.

“Don’t you ever touch her like that again!”

The stuffed animal he’d brought was flung into the fireplace, flames crackling and spitting as it burned to ashes. Druella clung to her mother’s robes like a lifeline, her face buried against Bellatrix’s chest.

Bellatrix bent over her protectively, kissing the top of her tangled black curls, her voice low and urgent, murmuring something only Druella could hear. The girl’s shoulders shook as she sobbed, but there was relief there too, and the sound of her mother’s steady breathing.

More images came. Softer, warmer.

Bellatrix and Druella are in a quiet room, washed in candlelight. Bellatrix painting black flowers on an old canvas, her brush strokes elegant and sure. Druella watched in rapt fascination, her stuffed animal forgotten in her lap.

Then Bellatrix pressed one of her own wands into her daughter’s small hand, guiding her grip, correcting her stance. Druella whispered an incantation and sent a bolt of green light sparking from the tip—her precision shockingly good for a child. The child reads day after day powerful, advanced books far beyond her age. She read them presisly. Then a shreak came. The girl duelling elegantly and strategically cast a powerful spell.

"Protego." The girl chanted, protecting herself.

Bellatrix laughed, delighted and unrestrained. Her face—so often twisted in madness—softened, pride in every line.

Safe, Snape realised. Safe with her mother.

But the next memory turned darker.

Lucius Malfoy is standing over Druella. His staff rested across his shoulder with casual menace, his voice slick and poisonous.

“Grubby little thing,” he was saying, lips curled in contempt.

Druella shrank away, tears streaking her cheeks, her mouth pressed shut to stop the sobs.

And Narcissa—Narcissa was in another room entirely, fussing over Draco’s robes, her voice warm and lilting, oblivious.

Bellatrix was gone elsewhere that day.

Lucius smiled. A slow, cold, triumphant smile that made Druella tremble harder.

"Obliviate." He quietly chanted.

Then, Narcissa finally came in, eyes widening at the sight of her niece on the floor.

Lucius’s voice turned mild in an instant.

“She fell again, clumsy little thing.”

Narcissa knelt immediately, scooping Druella into her arms, her voice turning baby-soft.

“Oh, there now, love, you’re all right, Auntie’s here…”

She pressed Druella’s head against her chest, stroking her hair, never realising the way Lucius’s eyes watched, gleaming with quiet victory.

Snape felt a sour taste in his mouth.

She didn’t know. She really didn’t know.

Narcissa was fussing, cooing, and treating the girl like she was small and helpless. Believing her niece simply fell, because that was the easier truth.

Bellatrix would have seen. But Bellatrix hadn’t been there.

He pulled back from the memory, blinking.

He understood.

And it made his stomach turn.

His expression didn’t change. He let the images fade. He understood.

Lucius’s elf, spying. Buying toys to save face, to fool Narcissa, to keep Lucius’s favour.

And the girl, Druella Black. Bellatrix’s daughter. Eleven years old. Going to Hogwarts this year.

Snape’s black eyes flickered.

He thrust the rabbit into Hubble’s hands.

“Take it,” he said shortly.

Hubble blinked. “Er—Hubble will. Thank you, sir.”

Snape nodded once and turned, cloak flaring, moving toward the door.

As he stepped into the street, he let out a slow, steady breath.

“She’ll be at Hogwarts,” he thought, eyes narrowing against the morning light.

With Bellatrix around, she’s safe enough for now. Dangerous, yes—but safe. And powerful. She’ll be taught well. No one will break her if her mother has anything to say about it.

He walked away without looking back.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley, August 19th 1992

Narcissa wouldn't let Druella or Draco out of her sight. She stayed close to them, her piercing gaze flicking between the two as if daring either to step out of line. "Where is Dobby?" she snapped at Lucius, her tone sharp enough to make Druella flinch.

Lucius replied evenly, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "He had no permission to be out. When he returns, he's ironing his own hands."

Druella's cheeks burned at the mention of Dobby. She hoped no one would discover her role in whatever trouble the elf had caused. Meanwhile, Draco was practically bouncing with excitement over his new Nimbus 2001 he's getting. Druella listened as he explained how it would secure him a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team—though she suspected it was less about skill and more about influence.

Soon after, the family made their way to Diagon Alley. On the way, they stopped briefly, and Druella caught sight of a girl standing nearby with Druella brought Lucky. Curious, she stepped closer.

"What's your name?" Druella asked bluntly, her sharp voice startling the girl.

The girl hesitated before answering, "I'm... Alex."

Druella tilted her head, eyeing Alex critically. "Are you a Muggle?"

Alex frowned, clearly confused. "What's a Muggle?"

Druella stifled a laugh, smirking. "Oh, nothing."

Before the conversation could continue, Bellatrix's commanding voice interrupted. "Druella, come here!"

Druella glanced back at Alex with a sly grin. Feeling mischievous, she discreetly conjured a feather that floated into Alex's hand. "For luck," she said with an almost mocking sweetness before darting back to her mother.

"Who was that?" Bellatrix asked, her tone sharp as ever.

Druella shrugged, rolling her eyes. "Just some Muggle asking for directions."

Bellatrix’s lip curled slightly, but she merely said, “All right. But when we get to Diagon Alley, behave yourself.”

“Yes, Mother,” Druella replied softly, falling into step beside her, her small hand resting briefly against the black folds of her mother’s robes.

As they stepped into Diagon Alley, the usual hustle stuttered. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a chill wind. Druella could feel them—eyes trailing her every step, mouths murmuring too low to hear but loud enough to wound. She held Lucky tightly to anchor herself.

“Is that Bellatrix’s daughter?”

“She’s got her look, doesn’t she? The hair, the way she walks—Black blood, no doubt about it.”

“But the eyes… those aren’t Bellatrix’s.”

“She’s a charming little thing. Pale, delicate. But there’s something… unsettling.”

“She looks sweet. Poor child. What a mother to be born to.”

And then—quieter, but not quiet enough—

“Bellatrix’s monster.”

Bellatrix stopped mid-step, her body coiling. She turned slowly, dangerously, her eyes alight with something darker than fury.

“Stop talking about my daughter like that,” she said, voice low, venomous.

The alley froze.

“My daughter,” Bellatrix hissed, “is not a monster.”

Her tone shifted, still fierce but layered with something rarer—something fiercely maternal. “Don’t you dare judge her for my past.”

The crowd remained silent, stunned. A few had the sense to look away, their judgment shrivelling under the sharpness of her voice.

An older man, dressed in worn Ministry robes with a faded pin on his collar, cleared his throat. “She’s right,” he muttered. “The child didn’t choose her parents. Let her grow.”

Druella stood still, the weight of the onlookers’ eyes like cold hands pressing against her skin. She’d heard them before—more than they realised. The mutterings, the soft condemnations spoken just loud enough to hurt. She’d heard them compare her to her mother—always her mother. However, they would always add something else. Something… off.

Her hair, loose today, spilt over her shoulders in wild, layered curls—not ringlets like Bellatrix’s signature style, but still unmistakably inherited. The curls were dark, glossy, beautiful—but untamed, too easily tangled if left unattended. They framed her face in a disarray of shadowed silk, as if echoing the unpredictability beneath her stillness.

She had her mother’s darkness in shape, but not in rhythm. Bellatrix’s hair roared like fire. Druella’s whisper was like smoke.

Some in the crowd stared too long at the girl with the sharp green eyes and untamed curls. They whispered not just about her lineage but also about the strange stillness she carried when she wasn't speaking—the quiet way she stood, the way her gaze seemed to pierce and linger without meaning to.

Too composed, they thought. Too aware.

Bellatrix noticed the stares and gently smoothed a hand over her daughter’s hair, fingers untangling a curl to remind the world: this one belongs to me.

Bellatrix’s expression melted into something warmer as she turned and crouched slightly beside her daughter. Her hand found Druella’s chin, tilting her face up. “Don’t listen to them, darling. You are not what they say. You’re my Black Blossom. A rare thing—growing brighter every single day.”

Druella nodded slowly as Bellatrix pulled Druella's curls off her face. The corner of Druella's mouth curving into the smallest, most sincere smile.

The crowd had changed around them. Some whispered again, but the tone had shifted—bewildered, surprised.

“I never thought I’d see Bellatrix coddle anyone.”

“Look at her. She’s… gentle with her.”

“They say motherhood changes people. Maybe it’s true.”

A few nodded. Others still stared warily at the girl with those oddly bright green eyes, but there was a flicker of something too still behind them.

Bellatrix caught the looks and held Druella’s hand tighter.

Let them stare, her eyes seemed to say.

Let them see.

And Druella, for once, let herself be seen—exactly as she was.

Druella hugged Nyssa firmly.

"Your aunt will take you to get your new robes," Bellatrix informed the girl.

Druella rolled her eyes at the mention of her aunt, then gave a reluctant nod. She was uncertain, though she knew to keep her mother's confident gaze. "Yes, Mother."

Bellatrix's smirk deepened as she gave Druella's hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. "Good girl. Now, do try to survive your aunt's antics. I'll be back before you know it."

Her tone was affectionate, though it carried a trace of mischief, laughing as she turned and strode purposefully toward the wand shop, her robes sweeping dramatically behind her. Druella watched her go, rolling her eyes, mixed apprehension and trust flickering in her expression before Narcissa ushered her toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Narcissa, ever poised, immediately took Druella's arm and led her toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Come along, darling. A proper fitting is essential. We'll ensure everything is perfect for your first year at Hogwarts."

The moment they stepped inside, Narcissa took charge, her commanding presence filling the room. The whole ordeal, she perched elegantly in a plush chair, crossing her legs as if she were surveying her domain, her sharp blue eyes following the poor seamstress's every move.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," Narcissa interrupted within seconds, waving her manicured hand dismissively. "The hemline must be even, not a single thread out of place. My Druella deserves perfection. This is her first year at Hogwarts, and it must be absolutely special for her."

She rose gracefully, brushing invisible lint off Druella's shoulders before smoothing the fabric herself. "Druella, stand up straight. You're a Black. Presentation is everything."

Druella flushed, her cheeks burning as Narcissa fussed over every detail. The neckline, stitching, and drape—nothing escaped her aunt's sharp, judging scowl at the seamstress.

"Please ensure that it's tailored correctly to her delicate figure," Narcissa instructed sharply, speaking to the Malkin as if she were a servant. "This fabric must flow, not cling. And for Merlin's sake, reinforce the seams; I refuse to have anything substandard touching her skin."

Druella squirmed as Narcissa adjusted the fit herself, tugging gently at the fabric while whispering, "Oh, stop fidgeting, darling. This is for your own good. You must look your best."

"Aunt Narcissa..." Druella muttered, lowering her head, her embarrassment growing.

Narcissa ignored her, tilting her head as she examined the fit critically. "Hmm. No, this won't do. The black needs to be deeper—something more suited to her complexion." She gestured toward another bolt of fabric. "Bring that one. Yes, that shade."

Madam Malkin nodded hurriedly, pulling out the requested fabric, but Narcissa wasn't finished. "And remember," she added, her voice laced with superiority, "this is for Druella Black II, my niece. A Black commands elegance and precision in everything. Do not disappoint me."

Druella felt the heat rise to her cheeks as Narcissa continued to fuss. Her aunt straightened her posture with a gentle nudge and brushed her untamed curls behind her ears. "Honestly, Druella, you'll thank me for this later. Proper attire reflects the proper figure. We expect the best because we are the best."

By the time the fitting was complete, Druella was utterly drained and humiliated, though Narcissa seemed entirely pleased with herself. Druella now wore her first set of Hogwarts robes, glancing down at herself as her cheeks blushed deep red.

"Perfect," Narcissa declared, clasping her hands together with satisfaction. She shot a pointed glance at the seamstress. "And I trust the rest of the robes will be ready the next time we return?"

Madam Malkin nodded quickly, her gaze flickering nervously toward Druella. Druella quickly grabbed Lucky from the chair, and Narcissa's tone softened slightly, but her authority remained firm as she ushered Druella toward the door. "Come, Druella. We must not dilly-dally; there's much more to prepare."

As they stepped outside, Druella couldn't suppress a groan, her head dipping low in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. Narcissa held the rest of Druella's robes as she pecked Druella's cheek. Druella hoped her mother would return so that she would save her from Narcissa's constant fussing. Adjusting the sleeves of her new set of school robes. Her cheeks were flushed from Narcissa's fussing. Before she finally went into the shop to collect the rest of the robes.

Druella was so relieved she barely noticed the two girls approaching—a flame-haired girl with a spring in her step and bright brown eyes, followed by another with thick, wind-tossed curls held back by simple clips. The second girl’s hair reminded Druella faintly of her own on bad days, after hours of running around with the House Elves and one of Bellatrix’s sharp lectures about “wandering off with the help like a raggamuffin.” Still, her curls were tamed, and she carried herself with quiet confidence that made Druella instinctively wary.

“Hi there!” the red-haired girl said brightly, her voice loud and chipper in a way that grated.

“Um… hi,” Druella mumbled, shrinking back slightly, gripping Lucky tighter in her arms. She wasn’t used to talking to other children—especially not ones who hadn’t been vetted by Bellatrix or Narcissa.

“You a first-year?” the redhead asked.

“Yes,” Druella said softly, not meeting her eyes.

The girl with the curls stepped forward, more gently, with a smile that wasn’t forced. “I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, offering her hand.

Druella hesitated. Granger. The name froze her in place. She’d heard it—dozens of times—spoken with disgust by Draco, whispered by House Elves, even mentioned once by Lucius in that clipped, disgusted tone he reserved for things beneath him. A Muggle-born. A know-it-all. A problem.

But this girl didn’t look like a problem. Just… kind. Too kind.

“I’m Druella,” she said at last, her voice careful, guarded. She didn’t take the hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Before Hermione could reply, the red-haired girl butted in.

“She’s so formal!” Ginny Weasley said with a laugh, elbowing Hermione. “What are you, royalty or something?”

Druella didn’t answer.

Druella blinked, stunned by the casual cruelty in the girl’s tone.

“Where’s your mum, anyway?” Ginny asked with forced brightness. “Or your dad?”

"She went out likely to help my cousin or fetch my supplies."

"So you're alone?" Ginny asked nastily.

“No, of course not, my aunt’s getting the rest of my robes inside,” Druella said carefully. "My mother will be back soon. She never likes me away from her for too long. She is nervous about me going by myself. But Mother will make sure I'm safe."

“And is your dad here?”

“No.”

“So where is he, then?”

There was a beat.

“In Azkaban,” Druella said quietly.

Ginny blinked. “Oh. Well… sorry,” she muttered, clearly not meaning it.

Druella’s spine stiffened, but she forced a nod.

Hermione stepped in. “Ginny—” she said warningly, but Ginny talked over her.

“I just hope I don’t end up surrounded by snooty Slytherins,” Ginny continued breezily. “Gryffindor’s where I’m going—brave, strong, and loyal. Not sneaky or cruel. You wouldn’t want to end up in Slytherin, would you? Unless, of course, you’re trying to keep the family curse going.”

Druella’s grip tightened on Nyssa’s worn ear. “I do hope I’m in Slytherin,” she said, calm but proud. “I think they’re brilliant.”

Ginny scoffed, arms folding. “Brilliant? Right. Most of them turn out evil, just like your—”

“Not all Slytherins go bad,” Druella said firmly, her voice lifting just slightly, though a tremor ran beneath it. “They’re clever. They’re strategic. They survive. That’s not evil.”

Ginny smirked. “That’s exactly what an evil person would say.”

Hermione cut in, her brow furrowing. “Ginny, stop. You don’t know her.”

But Ginny wasn’t done. “I’m just saying. She talks like she’s already plotting. That whole snake house always does.”

Druella’s face went red, but not with shame. With fury. Quiet, reined-in fury.

She spoke low and clearly. “Every house has its flaws. Gryffindors rush into danger without thinking. Ravenclaws hide behind pride. Hufflepuffs are too loyal to people who don’t deserve it. Slytherins… we plan. We learn. We endure. That’s not evil.”

Ginny hesitated, caught off guard.

Druella took a breath. “I want to be in Slytherin because I want to win. Because I want to prove that being ambitious doesn’t mean being cruel. It means not letting anyone else decide who you are. Even if your mother was someone the world once or still fears.”

The girls looked at each other dead in the eye.

Ginny tilted her head and gave her a long look. “Wait a minute, Druella—I know that name. You’re a Black, aren’t you? That explains it. Pale as a ghost, those black tangled curls unkept? One who'd hold a finger in a cauldron, but still acting like you’re better than everyone else. And green eyes? Bit off, isn’t it? Most Purebloods don’t have green eyes.”

"I wouldn't do that," Druella said quietly. "My mother, Bellatrix, taught me right."

Ginny blinked. “So you are her daughter?”

Before Druella could answer, a firm voice cut through the tension.

“Ginevra Weasley.”

A red-haired, plump woman who was likely Ginny's mother had appeared, arms crossed. Her tone was cold. “That is enough. You will not talk to another child like that.”

Ginny turned red, mumbling, “I was just—”

“No.” her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You were being unkind. I won’t hear another word of this.”

Ginny fell silent, biting her tongue.

Hermione stepped forward gently, offering Druella a smile. “That was very brave, you know. I like what you said.”

Druella didn’t smile, but her chin lifted just a little. “Thanks.”

Hermione seemed nice, but Druella didn’t trust easily. She wasn’t sure she even liked Hermione yet.

Ginny's mother walked up to Druella. "Oh, I am so sorry for my daughter's behaviour," she said, offering Druella a polite smile.

Then her smile brightened. "Have you seen a boy in glasses? He didn't use the floo powder correctly. He's supposed to be with us, but we can't seem to find him."

Druella raised an eyebrow before responding politely, "No, ma'am, but I will certainly keep an eye out and let you know if I do."

Her eyes lit up with appreciation. "Oh, thank you so much," she said warmly. "You seem like such a nice young lady."

Druella felt a bit taken aback by Molly's cheerful and bubbly demeanour, but smiled in return, finding her friendliness quite refreshing.

At that moment, Ginny rolled her eyes as her mother turned to grab her arm, giving her a stern look. "You'll apologise right this instant."

Ginny squirmed under her mother's gaze, muttering reluctantly, "Sorry, Black."

Molly didn't seem completely satisfied, but she sighed and gave Druella another kind smile. "I hope she hasn't caused too much trouble. First-year nerves, you know how it is," she said, her tone light and apologetic. Druella nodded, agreeing. "Yes, that's understandable," she mumbled, returning to her shy demeanour and trying to end the topic, though it was clear that Ginny would be hearing more about this later.

Turning back to her daughter, Molly tugged her away firmly. "Come along now, young lady. And don't let me catch you being rude again!"

Ginny cast one last glance over her shoulder, her smirk replaced by a slight pout as she allowed herself to be led away.

"Thanks for sticking up for me," Druella mumbled to Hermione, her voice barely audible as she dipped her head slightly in a half-hearted bow.

To her astonishment, Hermione stepped forward and gave her a brief, reassuring hug.

Druella froze, her eyes wide with shock. Physical affection wasn't something she was used to from strangers—or even most family members. The only ones who she allowed were her mother and aunt. "Please don't," she stammered, stepping back quickly, her cheeks burning.

Hermione didn't seem offended, only nodding with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. I guess I got carried away. You'll do fine at Hogwarts, Druella. If you ever need help, just find me."

"Druellie, dear, are you alright?" A familiar voice.

Narcissa.

Druella wasn't sure if she was in trouble or not because Hermione Granger, the girl Draco spoke ill about, was talking to her.

Druella hesitated, unsure how to respond, but before she could say anything, her feet moved instinctively toward Narcissa. Clinging behind her aunt's robes, she peeked back at Hermione, who gave her a smile.

Narcissa immediately crouched down, wrapping a protective arm around Druella. Her sharp blue eyes turned to Hermione, her expression smooth but tinged with a hint of condescension. She studied Hermione for a moment, looking at her from her dirty shoes to her hair, her gaze cool, almost as if she was observing her. Narcissa then turned to Druella, who was hiding behind her, gripping Nyssa tightly before shifting her attention back to Hermione.

Her lips curved into a polite smile, though it held a subtle edge. "Well, hello there," she said, her voice sweet but laced with an underlying tone of superiority. She took a perfume from her handbag, reading the label with a practised motion and spraying it on her wrist. "You must be Hermione Granger. I've heard so much about you," she added, her tone polite but carrying the weight of someone who was used to meeting people of a certain standing.

Hermione hesitated, clearly taken aback by Narcissa's warm yet commanding presence. "Oh, um, yes, that's me," she said, trying to sound confident despite her nerves.

Narcissa smiled, though the expression felt almost predatory. "How wonderful," she said smoothly, stepping closer to Hermione. She extended her hand, and Hermione reluctantly took it. Narcissa's smile widened, but there was something unsettling about it, a mix of politeness and something colder beneath the surface.

"Hmm, you have a little something on your shirt," Narcissa remarked, her voice sugary sweet as she reached toward Hermione's shirt. Hermione, feeling uncomfortable, instinctively took a step back.

"I'm fine, I don't know you," Hermione protested, her tone firm as she tried to distance herself.

Narcissa, however, didn't relent. She continued to smile, her gaze never wavering. With a soft sigh, she sprayed herself and Druella with perfume, the scent wafting through the air.

"Don't you worry, my little Druellie," Narcissa cooed, her voice gentle but with an underlying possessiveness. "I won't be as embarrassing as you say I am. You need friends. You won't be lonely. Auntie Cissy's got this handled."

Turning back to Hermione, Narcissa smirked, a glint of superiority in her eyes. "My baby boy tells me you're quite... remarkable," she said, her voice laced with an almost teasing tone. She sprayed more perfume on herself, her smile deepening as she added, "Although he wouldn't admit it himself."

Hermione nodded awkwardly but quickly.

Narcissa's gaze never wavered, her pale blue eyes locking onto Hermione's with an almost hypnotic intensity. "Now allow me to introduce myself properly," she said, her voice polished and smooth, placing a hand delicately on her chest as she closed her eyes, showcasing her elegance in a manner befitting a Pureblood matron.

"I am Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy, the Patriarch of the Malfoy family himself. The Malfoys, of course, have considerable influence within the Ministry." Her fingers glided through her sleek, blonde hair, the gesture deliberate and captivating.

"Now, my husband may hold... certain views about witches like you," she continued, her voice softening just slightly with the words, though there was a barely perceptible edge. "Views that, I must admit, I don’t necessarily share... though I can understand why he would."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, brow furrowed, but Narcissa smiled and gently placed a hand over Hermione’s, disarming the moment. Her touch was featherlight, her charm almost palpable, radiating warmth and a soft, perfumed presence that clung delicately in the air like a memory.

"But I, myself, have been involved in numerous charitable endeavours," she said with effortless grace, tilting her head slightly. "You see, I do believe in giving back to our world. I've hosted winter charity auctions for St. Mungo’s every year since 1985. I've chaired the Black-Tie Broom Gala—perhaps you've heard of it? It raised over 200,000 Galleons for magical orphan relief. I've spearheaded funding for the Magical Displacement Initiative after the Diagon Alley collapse in '79'.

Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorially now, and she added, “I personally opened the South Wing of St. Mungo’s for Muggle-born care—yes, the very one renamed after me. The sponsorship for orphaned Witches and Wizards. And just last spring, I held the Moonlit Bloom Ball for spell damage recovery. Oh, and I sit on the committee for the Artisans of Arcana Society. They host galas every season to support underfunded magical artists.”

“You’ve done all that?” Hermione asked, curiosity slipping through her cautious posture.

“Oh, quite a bit more. I've been the patroness of the Magical Literacy Fund for underprivileged wizards and witches, especially those raised in Muggle homes. We've donated toys and books for them for years. And I regularly donate to the Hogwarts Underserved Scholarship Program. I even funded the Magical Acculturation Initiative for transitional Muggle-born families. Further explaining to Muggleborn parents the Wizarding World. Finding out their child is magic sure shocks them. So the best process needs to be fulfilled.”

Narcissa leaned in slightly, her expression serene. “My dear girl, never underestimate a woman who understands both power and grace. Wealth is just a tool—how you use it defines your legacy.”

"That's amazing," Hermione said, eyes widened in a smile, very impressed with her.

“Why, thank you,” Narcissa purred, her voice velvet-smooth as she reached out to brush a stray lock of Hermione’s hair behind her ear—a gesture so maternal and unexpected it sent a quiet chill down Hermione’s spine.

Druella, standing nearby, watched in silence. She had never realised the sheer extent of her aunt’s public outreach. She had always known Narcissa commanded admiration—but she had never seen it wielded so... gently.

“Despite my status, and the fact that I am, of course, unbelievably wealthy—” Narcissa’s voice dipped with playful irony as she leaned in closer, her perfume sweeping around them like a soft enchantment—“you may simply call me Narcissa.”

Hermione blinked, startled by how quickly Narcissa closed the distance between them, but couldn't help smiling back. "Okay... Narcissa," she said, testing the name as if it were fragile.

Hermione nodded, though her heart fluttered with a strange mixture of reassurance and apprehension. There was something magnetic about Narcissa's presence—something that made Hermione want to believe every word, even as a small voice in the back of her mind told her to be careful.

Hermione's gaze lingered, her mind replaying their interaction, the name Malfoy rang a bell to her, then the realisation.

Her face paled.

"Wait." Hermione let go of Narcissa's grasp, who looked at Hermione confused, who was staggering away slightly. "You're... Draco Malfoy's mother?" she stammered, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

Narcissa turned back with a serene smile. "Oh yes," she replied, her tone honeyed with amusement. "I understand he can be... unique," she added, waving a hand as if to dismiss the thought entirely. "But I assure you, darling, I am not like him. Nor am I like my husband." Her gaze sharpened slightly, narrowing on Hermione with an intensity that made the younger girl grip her bag a little tighter.

Narcissa's smile widened as she gently clasped Hermione's wrist with her elegant fingers. Her touch was calm yet reassuring. "I want you to understand something, Hermione," she said softly, sincerity shining in her eyes as her voice dropped to a murmur.

She placed her own hand on her chest. "My intentions are pure. You can trust me."

For a fleeting moment, Hermione gazed at Narcissa, who expected a response. Hermione wanted to believe those words. Something in Narcissa's eyes—warmth, or perhaps something far more calculated—drew her in. "I... I think I can trust you," Hermione murmured, returning the smile, though it felt tentative.

"Ah, there we go," Narcissa purred, brushing her thumb over Hermione's wrist with the casual confidence of someone used to having control. Hermione glanced down at her wrist, feeling reassured by Narcissa's motherly touch. "See? There's no need to be so tense."

Narcissa's smile and gaze swept over Hermione, appraising her appearance with careful scrutiny.

"Your hair, dear," Narcissa said after a pause, her tone smooth but edged with condescension.

"It's rather... untamed, isn't it? A bit of refinement would suit you beautifully."

Hermione flushed, lifting a hand instinctively to her curls. "I... I'm fine with it, thank you," she said firmly, hoping the subject would drop.

But Narcissa chuckled, a lilting sound that somehow felt dismissive. "Oh, sweetheart, you're still so young. There's so much you've yet to learn about what truly suits you."

Hermione bristled but bit back a retort, her polite smile tightening as she tried to keep her composure.

"And clothing?" Narcissa continued smoothly, her tone turning almost conversational. "I know of some lovely boutiques nearby. Perhaps I could take you shopping, find something exquisite to refine your look."

Hermione shot a glance toward Druella, hoping for some intervention, but the girl remained silent, toying absently with the black diamond necklace resting against her chest. Hermione sighed, realising she'd have to fend for herself.

"Thanks, but I'd rather stick with what I have," Hermione replied, her voice trembling slightly but resolute.

Narcissa's smile didn't falter, though her eyes flickered with something colder for just a moment. "Of course, dear," she said, her hand lingering on Hermione's wrist for a beat too long. "You're simply adorable when you try to be independent."

They continued to gaze at Druella as she remained partially hidden behind Narcissa. Without warning, Narcissa gently seized her, perfectly manicured hands resting firmly on Druella's shoulders, pulling her into the conversation.

"Oh, my apologies, dear Hermione," Narcissa said smoothly, her voice like honey. "I almost forgot to introduce you. This is Druella, my adorable little niece. My sister, Bellatrix, and I have raised her together. We've always made sure she's well-cared for."

Druella stayed quiet, her eyes darting nervously between Hermione and Narcissa. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her black dress, the weight of the heirloom necklace around her neck suddenly oppressive. Narcissa noticed the trembling and allowed a softer, almost pitying smile to curve her lips.

"My apologies," Narcissa said again with an exaggerated sigh. "She's quite shy, you see. We've kept her sheltered at home for so long, and now she's about to start her first year at Hogwarts. And only at ten years. She's bound to feel a bit homesick. I worry about her a great deal being out there on her own."

Hermione's expression softened as she looked at Druella, her initial wariness fading into empathy. "Oh, I understand how that feels," Hermione said kindly. "Last year when I first found out I was a witch, everything changed. It was overwhelming to leave my old life behind. My parents are still adjusting to this world, but they've been very supportive." She paused, her gaze searching Druella's face for any flicker of recognition. "It can be tough at first, but Hogwarts... it really does start to feel like home when you see it as such."

Druella wanted to respond, to say something kind or even just polite, but her throat tightened. Draco's warnings about Hermione echoed in her mind. He had told her that Hermione was too nosy, too eager to dig into matters that didn't concern her. The last thing Druella wanted was to anger Draco or make the wrong impression in front of Narcissa.

The conversation faltered, and Druella's desperate gaze landed on the sign for Flourish and Blotts, its windows gleaming with rows of new books. Hermione noticed the glance, her eyes lighting up. "Would you like to go there with me?" she asked, her tone hopeful.

Druella instinctively shook her head. "No... I'm good," she mumbled, her eyes flicking toward Narcissa for support. Instead of backing her up, Narcissa's grip on Druella's back tightened slightly, pushing her closer to Hermione, despite Druella's fear and slightly digging her legs into the ground.

"If this is about Draco," Narcissa murmured in a voice meant only for Druella, her gaze narrowing slightly. That's his issue, not yours. You're not beholden to his petty grudges. You need to make friends, Druella, and it doesn't matter to me—or to your mother—who those friends are. Just go with her."

Hermione glanced between the two of them, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern, clearly sensing the tension. Narcissa's smile returned, all traces of pressure tucked neatly behind her polished, aristocratic poise. The transformation was seamless—her warmth now radiant, her tone rich with practised grace.

"Go on," she said smoothly, her voice dropping into something soothing, almost like a spell. "You'll thank me later, darling. Just trust me."

Reluctantly, Druella nodded, her movements mechanical, and Narcissa finally released her arm. She gave her niece the gentlest nudge toward Hermione, as though handing her over like a precious doll. The older girl watched Druella with cautious encouragement, a small, uncertain smile on her lips. She noticed Druella clinging a stuffed cat clearly showing the girl was scared. But Druella’s feet moved on their own.

“Now Hermione,” Narcissa said, her tone rising like a delicate waltz, “Since I've heard so much about your academic record. I expect great things from you. A mind like yours is far too rare to waste. I do hope you’ll consider attending my Autumn Lecture Series one day—so many brilliant young witches attend. All the Ministry daughters do.”

Hermione blinked, stunned. “I—wow, I—thank you.”

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled, perfectly timed. “You’re very welcome, dear. And should you ever wish to borrow some first editions, I have an extensive private library. It’s curated, of course. A family collection dating back to Morgana's era. I’d be more than happy to arrange access, should your studies require it.”

Hermione’s jaw actually parted a little. “That’s… that’s incredible.”

“Knowledge is just as powerful. As well, you know, power,” Narcissa said with a silken smile. “Though the two together,” she added with a light chuckle, “can be quite unstoppable.”

Hermione nodded, dazed and awed, fully enchanted. Druella, quiet and statue-still beside her, watched Hermione fall under the same spell everyone else did. It was always like this. The way her aunt could turn any conversation into an invitation to admire her, admire the Malfoy name, admire her charity, her elegance, her resources.

Even her warmth, though surely calculated, felt real.

Druella said nothing, her fingers gripping the edge of her stuffed animal. She didn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. She already knew what Draco would say. But Aunt Narcissa’s voice echoed louder in her mind this time.

Behind them, Narcissa called out sweetly, her voice trailing like silk through the late-morning air, “Have fun, children! Druella, take your time, but stay close with her.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder, smiling. “She’s... amazing,” she said, almost dreamily.

Druella gave a faint, short breath—something between a laugh and a sigh. It wasn’t warm. “You don’t live with her,” she murmured, barely audible.

Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”

Druella shook her head, unwilling to dig into the exhausting reality of her aunt's overbearing coddling. Silence hung between them, punctuated only by the soft clatter of their shoes on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Hermione asked, her tone curious but not unkind.

Druella hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods.

Hermione adjusted the stack of books she carried, smiling again. “That’s okay. Some of the best people don’t.”

They passed the windows of Flourish and Blotts, the sun glinting off the glass. Hermione slowed her pace just a little.

“Do you like reading?” she asked, gently this time, like offering a hand without holding it too high.

Druella’s fingers twitched slightly, and she gave the faintest glance up. “Yes,” she said, soft as a thought. “A lot.”

Hermione lit up. “Same here. I practically live in the library at school. There’s a section for everything—history, theory, obscure potion ingredients, even spellcraft philosophy. It’s the best place to hide and still feel brilliant.” She grinned. “Maybe we could sit together sometime... read together?”

Druella's lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. She didn’t answer right away, twirling Nyssa, but then gave a tiny nod, her voice so quiet it was almost missed. “That sounds... nice.”

As they walked, Druella's curiosity led her to glance at the shopfronts, her gaze darting from apothecaries to wandmakers. "Is it true," she asked suddenly, "that Hogwarts has spells to make the ceiling look like the night sky?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, it's enchanted to reflect the sky outside. It's beautiful—especially during the feast."

Druella's attention was easily redirected, her focus flitting between storefronts. At one point, she paused in front of the apothecary, the jars of strange ingredients sparking her curiosity. "Ooh, apothecary!" she exclaimed, stepping toward it.

Hermione grabbed her wrist, laughing. "The bookstore, Druella. Focus—we need to get your supplies first!"

Hermione offered a reassuring smile. "Your aunt seems nice."

Druella gave a humourless laugh, her tone sharp. "Don't assume my whole family is nice. You already know my wonderful cousin. Just wait until you meet my uncle."

Hermione looked at her, puzzled but still optimistic. "Oh, Druella, I’m sure he’s—"

"Fine?" Druella interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Sure, fine." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Let’s just say if you meet him, I’ll give you signals.”

Hermione chuckled uneasily, sensing there was more beneath Druella’s sharpness than she understood. “Fair enough.”

Druella’s voice lowered as they neared the shopfront, her tone suddenly more cautious. “And… don’t say my family name in there, please. Not in the store.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Alright—why?”

“I want to make friends,” Druella said quietly, eyes flicking to the crowd. “Real ones. Not ones who smile because they know my last name, or worse, back away because they do.”

Hermione looked at her for a long second, then nodded gently. “Alright. Just Druella today.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. "Perhaps Ella, because Druella's a rare name."

They reached Flourish and Blotts, and Hermione’s parents were waiting just outside. Druella’s steps slowed slightly when she realised they were Muggles. Their friendly smiles were warm and inviting, but it caught her off guard.

As Hermione beamed with excitement, she introduced her friend, Druella, with a bright smile. "This is my new friend Druella!" she said cheerfully, but she couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed when her dad, Mr. Granger, chimed in. "Hi, I’m Henry Granger! And my wife, Emma, is over there. We’re thrilled to meet you! It’s about time Hermione made a female friend; she could really use one!"

Hermione's cheeks flushed as she rolled her eyes at her dad's playful teasing.

Druella smiled politely but seemed a bit unsure, as if trying to grasp the quirks of Muggle life.

"So, what do you do?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity, mixed with a hint of confusion as she navigated this new social terrain.

“We’re dentists,” Henry Granger replied cheerfully.

Druella tilted her head. “What’s a dentist?”

Hermione’s mother smiled gently. “We help people care for their teeth.”

Druella’s brow knit. “And… how do you do that?”

“We use tools to clean and repair teeth—like drills and scalers to remove decay,” Henry explained cheerfully.

Druella blinked. “You… drill people’s teeth?” she echoed, eyes wide in horror.

Emma smiled warmly. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, dear. It’s all for their health.”

Druella’s expression turned suspicious, her voice hushed but serious. “That sounds like some sort of… Muggle interrogation technique. Are you torturing people for information?”

Hermione’s father smiled kindly. “We use tools to clean and repair teeth, like drills and scalers to remove decay.”

Druella blinked slowly. “…You drill into people’s mouths?” she asked, visibly horrified.

“Yes, but only to help—”

Druella took a step back, her voice barely above a whisper. “So it’s true. Muggles do torture each other. Is that… is that how you extract confessions? Do you ask what they did wrong before you attack their molars?”

Hermione nearly doubled over, choking on a laugh. “No! Oh my God, Druella—no! It’s not an interrogation!”

Druella folded her arms, eyes still wide and suspicious. “But you use sharp metal tools. You drill inside their faces. That’s not healing. That’s a cursed artifact pretending to be medicine.”

Henry chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”

Druella wasn’t finished. “So… do you numb them first? Or do you just cast a silencing spell and hope for the best?”

Hermione grabbed her firmly by the wrist, dragging her toward the shop. “Okay—no more dentist talk. Absolutely no more. Ever. You’re banned from asking any more questions.”

Druella glanced back one last time at Mr. Granger, warily. “He seems nice… but I know he has pliers now.”

“Yes,” Hermione muttered, sighing as they disappeared into the shop. “And I’m never letting you near a toothbrush aid.”

Inside, the air shifted—dust, parchment, and magic wrapped around them. Shelves towered with spellbooks and magical theory. Druella’s shoulders dropped, her gaze softening.

Hermione beamed. “This way! I’ll show you The Standard Book of Spells—first-year edition. It’s not bad, but I already read the second one too.”

Druella followed with a hesitant smile, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. For now, she wasn’t the girl with the strange name or the old bloodline. She was just a girl in a bookshop, learning new things—and possibly rethinking everything she thought she knew about Muggles.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Druella felt a small spark of warmth. Narcissa's earlier words echoed faintly in her mind: "You need friends... It's his problem, not yours."

For once, Druella allowed herself to believe it might be true.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley, August 19th 1992

Hermione tugged Druella through the bustling crowd toward her friends. Druella held Nyssa (her stuffed cat) She noticed Harry Potter, the stories she'd heard growing up, whispered in the shadows of the Manor, had painted Harry as something of a mythical figure—this almost untouchable hero. She remembered seeing him at Platform 9 3/4. But now, here he was, standing in front of her: a real boy with messy hair and bright green eyes. Druella's heart pounded as she stared at him, still half-convinced she was dreaming.

She froze so suddenly that Hermione nearly stumbled.

He wasn’t a story anymore. Not a whispered warning in darkened drawing rooms, not a hushed legend told around the Malfoy Manor’s hearth while adults drank and pretended not to watch her listen. Ones that she heard from her cousin and Dobby. He wasn’t the impossible boy who defeated the Dark Lord.

He was real.

He had messy hair that looked soft, green eyes too bright for the grim world she knew, and an awkward stance that spoke of someone still learning how to be seen.

“Harry,” Hermione called, impatient. “Come on—this is my new friend. Be nice.”

Harry turned and offered an uncertain but genuine smile. Druella felt her breath catch.

She swallowed, fingers twisting Nyssa’s ear.

“Y-you’re… Harry Potter?” she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

He blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Druella’s eyes dropped to his forehead. The scar was there, pale and lightning-shaped, every bit as terrible and beautiful as she’d imagined. Proof of all the stories. Proof someone had survived.

Her fingers twitched to reach out and trace it. She didn’t even think.

Hermione’s hand closed on her wrist like an iron shackle.

“We ask before touching,” Hermione scolded quietly, eyes flashing with that bossy, older-sister sharpness.

Druella flinched, yanked her hand back as though burned, and her face went scarlet.

But she didn’t let the moment die. She swallowed again, meeting Harry’s eyes—really meeting them.

“May I?” she asked softly, voice trembling. “Please?”

Harry hesitated. His green eyes weren’t cruel, but they were cautious. He glanced at her stuffed cat, the tight, nervous clutch of her fingers, the desperation behind her question.

He shook his head slowly.

“I’d rather not,” he said, gently. “Sorry.”

Druella blinked hard. Her heart sank, but she forced herself to nod.

“Right,” she managed. “I’m sorry too. I… didn’t mean to be rude. I just… wanted to know it was real.”

Harry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He watched her for a moment, seeing the fear behind her stiff posture, the bruised shyness she tried to hide.

“It’s real,” he said softly. “I wish it wasn’t. But it is.”

Their eyes held. Something silent passed between them—an understanding that neither really knew how to speak aloud.

Hermione’s grip on Druella’s arm softened. She cleared her throat, suddenly less sure of herself.

Harry glanced at her and back at Druella.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Druella lowered her eyes, pressing Lucky closer, her voice small but certain.

“Ella,” she said. She didn’t give her full name. Not yet.

“Just Ella.”

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes kind.

“Well. It’s good to meet you, Ella,” he said.

For the first time that day, Druella felt something like warmth stir in her chest. She shifted Nyssa so she sat more comfortably in her arms and let herself offer the smallest, most fragile smile.

“Good to meet you, too.”

Druella turned to the red-haired boy standing beside Harry. He had a friendly, open face dusted with freckles, and a mischievous glint in his eye. But what caught her attention was the small, dingy rat perched in his cupped hands.

“You have a rat?” she asked, tilting her head with cautious politeness. “That’s… cool.”

The boy’s grin widened immediately. “Yeah! He’s been with our family for ten years.”

Druella blinked. Ten years? That was old for a rat. She leaned forward slightly to get a better look.

Scabbers’ beady black eyes glistened as they met hers. He didn’t squeak or shift nervously the way normal rats did. Instead, he just watched her, unmoving, as if evaluating her in turn.

Druella’s stomach tightened. Something about the animal felt wrong. Like it was listening. Understanding.

She fought a shiver.

“Wow,” she said after a moment, forcing a polite little smile. “He must be really healthy to have lasted that long. Most rats don’t live that long at all.”

Ron blinked. “Er… yeah, I guess. He’s tough.”

Druella narrowed her eyes just slightly at Scabbers. The rat didn’t blink.

“That’s… strange,” she added softly, voice dropping. “But definitely better than frogs or toads. I hate toads. Slimy things.”

Ron laughed, relieved. “Ugh, me too. Mum tried to get Ginny one, but she screamed and let it go.”

Druella didn’t laugh. She was still watching the rat.

"I don’t think that’s trustworthy. Not one bit."

But she forced herself to let it go, pushing the creeping unease aside. After all, it was just a rat. It had to be.

Ron followed her gaze and noticed she wasn’t smiling. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“He’s harmless, you know. Just lazy.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she replied automatically, voice softer now. But she didn’t look convinced. Not one bit.

Then Ron squinted at the worn plush she held close. “What’s that?”

Druella blinked, momentarily startled, before hugging Nyssa tighter to her chest.

“Oh. This is Nyssa. It was a gift when I was really little.” She traced one frayed ear with her thumb. “She’s battered, but… she’s my favourite. I’ve always kept her. I learned to stitch her up myself.”

Ron smiled, a bit more gently now. “Oh. That’s… nice.”

Harry leaned in to get a better look, curiosity flickering in his green eyes. “She does look battered,” he said carefully.

Druella managed a thin, sad little smile, glancing down at the old, much-loved cat.

“Yeah…” she murmured. “But I don’t mind.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Neither of them teased her.

Instead, Harry’s voice was soft when he spoke next.

“I think it’s good you kept him all those years,” he said. “Shows you take care of what’s yours.”

Druella’s fingers tightened on Lucky. She met Harry’s eyes for a long moment and nodded, silent but grateful.

The red-haired boy narrowed his eyes as he studied her. "Wait... have I seen you somewhere before?" His voice had shifted, his tone now a little more cautious.

Panic surged through Druella, and she could feel her shoulders tense. Before she could think of a response, Hermione smoothly interjected. "Oh, Ronald, her cousin is at Hogwarts," she said, her voice light and breezy, as though they were talking about the weather. "You might have seen him around the castle. And your sister Ginny is starting the same year as Druella."

Ron looked at them both with suspicion, his gaze flickering between Druella and Hermione. Druella could feel his eyes probing her, searching for something, and it made her uncomfortable. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to be interested in a nearby stack of books.

As they moved deeper into the bookstore, Druella couldn't help but glance back at the rat one last time. Its small, gleaming eyes met hers, and for a split second, she could have sworn it knew exactly what she was thinking. A shiver ran down her spine.

As Druella wandered through the bustling bookshop, her gaze was drawn to the centre of the room, where a dramatic spectacle had taken shape.

Druella started to move forward, eyes narrowing, she was bumped around Druella, unaware of her surroundings, when a hand suddenly gripped her arm. Druella turned, startled, and found herself staring up at a plump, flushed woman with determined eyes.

"Other people are coming, dear," She said briskly. "Just stay close with me—you'll love this."

It wasn’t a question.

"Wait, who are you?" Druella asked.

She didn't answer. She didn't know who she was. With her red hair, she could tell that she was the boy's mother. She didn't know if to stay away or not. Still, there was no hostility in her grip, only a strange insistence… and concern.

Before Druella could quietly step away from her, she felt a hand gently wrap around hers—the plump, red-haired woman still held it, her tone softening into something kind and curious.

“I’m Molly Weasley, love,” she said warmly.

Druella blinked, startled by the contact. The Weasleys were the Malfoys' worst rivals, she heard Lucius scream about some new law because of them. She knew Lucius would be furious right now. But her fingers didn’t flinch, but there was a stillness to her—a studied, rehearsed calm. She didn’t recoil, but she didn’t lean in either. Her posture remained perfect, every movement small and precise, as if any wrong step might invite trouble. It was how she had been trained.

A tall, freckled man stepped up beside Molly, his presence calm and open. He had the same red hair as the boys, but there was something gentler about him—less frantic. “And I’m Arthur Weasley,” he said with a small nod, offering his hand. “You must be one of the new first-years.”

Druella hesitated. She looked at the hand. Then at the face behind it.

They were being kind. Not the performative kind she was used to—the political masks worn by pure-blood society—but something gentler. Warmer. They weren’t looking at her like a name. Or a title. Or a danger. Just… a child.

Tentatively, she reached out and took Mrs. Weasley’s hand, barely touching it. Then she shook Arthur’s hand, her voice small and polite. “Um… Ella. It’s… nice to meet you.”

Arthur’s eyes softened with recognition. “Wait, yes it is I know that face. Have I heard about you? Wait a second you're Druella Black? Don’t you live with the Malfoys? Aren't you Lucius and Narcissa's ward? You're starting a year early."

Druella let out a small nod. "Yes, my mother and I live there. She takes care of me. I am Druella."

“Druella?” Molly repeated with a smile. “That's such a beautiful name.”

At once, Druella stiffened—just slightly. Her fingers tensed, her gaze flicked to her son, who was still busy fumbling in his pockets, mercifully not listening. Her breath hitched, but she swallowed it down and leaned in ever so slightly toward Arthur, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, sir… but please don’t say it out loud. I don’t want… everyone to know yet.”

Arthur blinked, taken aback by the quiet urgency in her voice. But he nodded with immediate understanding, his tone matching hers. “Of course. Your secret’s safe with me.”

He leaned down a little, eyes kind beneath his spectacles.

“Names don’t make people. What you do—that’s what matters the most.”

Druella didn’t smile, not really, but something in her shoulders eased. She gave a small nod. It was the kind of answer she’d never heard from an adult before.

“Well, here’s the thing, dear,” Molly added gently, squeezing her hand just once before letting go. “You may have heard things about us—we’re used to that. But let me assure you, we’re not what your uncle or aunt might have said we are.”

Druella didn’t answer at first. Her eyes flicked downward, then slowly back up. She didn’t know if she could trust them. But… they didn't judge her. They didn't ask her to explain. And they didn't look at her with fear.

So she nodded. Just once. Careful. Quiet. Like a child used to surviving by listening more than speaking.

“Well,” Arthur said with a small smile, his tone as warm as tea on a rainy day, “I think you'll do just fine, Druella."

And for the first time since she’d arrived in Diagon Alley, Druella let herself believe he was right.

“Make way! Make way, please!” shouted a Daily Prophet photographer, elbowing his way through the crowd, a flash camera the size of a Kneazle cage swinging from his neck.

"Excuse me, little girl, this is for the Daily Prophet," he barked, waving her aside as Hermione was pulled toward her parents.

Mrs. Weasley instinctively reached out, tugging Druella gently out of the fray just as the flashbulbs started to explode. Druella stumbled back into Ron, who grunted but said nothing as they were pushed toward the edge of the chaos.

And then it happened.

Gilderoy Lockhart stepped in, showing off his teeth. He was wearing the best clothes only a great author could buy. He had flawless wavy blonde hair and blue eyes that Druella could see would make witches faint just looking at them.

From the looks of Molly and other witches in the bookstore? He looked as though a male version of a Veela that Druella read in her books. 

To her, Lochart looked as though some naive prince who'd make women love him, wanting to be his princess. 

But then Lockhart looked around, showing off his perfect white teeth, and then he stopped, and to others, time simply froze by his movements.

Druella blinked, baffled. "Is this... normal?" she muttered the boy, who only groaned in response.

She glanced at Lockhart’s sparkling smile and those absurdly white teeth. A dark little thought slithered into her mind. "I hope those teeth do get drilled someday during an interrogation, those Muggles do. They’ll find out his secrets when they drill them. Maybe Hermione’s parents will do it. I hope they do it slowly. Very slowly.

Harry froze—his face drained of colour like he’d just been named Head Boy of a circus. His eyes widened in visible panic.

"Harry Potter?" Lockhart asked in utter disbelief, as if he had discovered a phoenix.

Before he could speak or run, a photographer pounced. "Harry Potter! Excuse me, madam." Snatching his arm like a prized item off a sale rack. With a dramatic flair, Lockhart yanked Harry in front of the camera as if he were showing off a collector’s item.

"Nice big smile, Harry. Together, you and I rate the front page." Lockhart said excitedly.

Druella raised an eyebrow among the crowd. Molly praised Lockhart as though he were some prince she wanted to sleep with.

She was married, so it was less likely that it would happen.

Boy Druella hoped that wouldn't happen.

Harry looked absolutely mortified, his jaw clenched so tightly it could’ve cracked.

Druella didn’t know much about Wizard media, let alone Muggle, but at that moment, from the look of Harry's face, she was almost certain getting your photo taken by the Daily Prophet felt worse than any dentistry.

Lockhart cleared his throat with a theatrical flourish and launched into his monologue. “Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary moment this is? When young Harry stepped into Flourish and Blotts this morning to purchase his copy of Magical Me, he had no idea—”

Druella’s eye twitched as she watched the crowd practically swoon around the man in sky-blue robes, whose perfectly white teeth seemed to sparkle every time he smiled.

She slowly turned to the red-haired boy standing beside her, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“He looks like he’s in actual physical pain from smiling that hard,” she whispered, her tone dead serious.

The Weasley snorted before he could stop himself. “Yeah, that’s Lockhart for you.”

Druella tilted her head, arms folded, observing the man’s glossy curls and self-satisfied smirk.

“Honestly,” she continued dryly, “it’s like everyone here sipped a love potion spiked with that cheap beer from that pub. What’s it called again? The Leaky Cauldron?”

The Weasley boy’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Druella folded her arms, eyebrow arching. 

“Merlin's beard, they’re all mad,” she said airily. “Staring at him like he’s the great and powerful Merlin himself. Look at Harry. He’s obviously uncomfortable.”

He turned to glance at Harry, who was trying—and failing—to get away from Lockhart.

“He is,” the boy agreed, suppressing a grin.

Druella leaned closer, lowering her voice even more.

“And that hair?” she added, gesturing subtly at Lockhart’s ridiculous golden waves. “That’s clearly not natural. He probably bottles his own brand of hair potion in his basement like a deranged prisoner who escaped from Azkaban. I’d bet you five Sickles he tests it on himself and tells people it’s imported from right from France.”

Ron finally let out a real laugh, loud enough that Harry looked over in confusion.

“Merlin,” the boy wheezed. “You’re funny.”

“Thank you,” Druella said primly, trying to hide her own small smile.

He cleared his throat, still grinning. “I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

Druella hesitated, hugging Lucky a little tighter before nodding.

“Um… Ella,” she said quietly. “Just Ella.”

She made up the name on the spot, hoping he wouldn’t recognise her real one. Druella wasn’t exactly common, after all.

Lockhart, of course, wasn’t finished—not even close. With a dazzling grin and a theatrical swirl of his cloak, he gestured to a teetering display beside him. “He’ll be leaving today,” he announced, voice booming, “with my entire collected works—” He then slumped a pile of books on Harry's arms with a smile and everyone looked at Lockhart like he gave him the key to his Vault with all of his gold to an orphanage. “—free of charge.”

He made a sweeping motion toward the pile like he was unveiling buried treasure. “Ten dazzling volumes of triumph, tragedy, and all my accomplishments,” he declared, his voice practically echoing off the walls. “And don’t forget, Magical Me is celebrating its twenty-seventh consecutive week atop the Daily Prophet bestseller list!”

The crowd reacted like he’d just cured dragon pox and kissed a unicorn. Applause broke out—mostly from witches clutching receipts and fluttering like startled pigeons, their eyes fixed on him as if he’d descended from the heavens, a cloud of enchanted cologne and perfectly styled hair that would make Draco himself jealous.

Druella clapped once. Then once more. Then stopped.

“These people are mad,” she said flatly.

Ron nodded grimly.

“Are wizarding men usually this... loud?” Druella asked.

“You mean dramatic?”

“No,” she said, eyes scanning the shop full of starstruck faces. “I mean, trying to seduce half the room using hair volume and book discounts.”

Ron made a strangled noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. “Yeah. That’s just Lockhart, alright. Like I said, Mum fancies him.”

Druella eyed the woman nearest her, giggling, swaying slightly, clutching a signed copy to her chest like a love letter. “I think she’s picturing him shirtless in a buttercup field,” she muttered.

Ron turned a little green.

“My mother would adore him,” Druella added casually. “She likes loud men. So long as they don’t try to tell her what to do.”

Ron looked horrified. “She would?”

Druella nodded, her eyes drifting back to Lockhart as he waved to the class like a pageant queen. “But still—Lockhart?”

As he grinned and bowed theatrically, as many were clapping and praising him, Druella muttered under her breath, “He’s going to be my professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts? What a joke. He’d deliver a full monologue before even blasting the hex.”

Ron snorted. “What a prat.”

Druella gave a faint smirk. “My mother says men who talk that much about themselves usually have nothing to say. Big words, empty truths. Sometimes, a pretty face can fool even the brightest minds. Especially the girls and witches in this store who only see a grin and think it means something.”

She glanced across the room, squinting at a red-haired girl sitting beside Hermione, looking dreamy. "Is that your other sister? I met Ginny, what about her?" she asked Ron, arching a brow.

Ron blinked, confused. “What? No—I do not have a second sister. That’s Susan Bones. She’s in our year. Hufflepuff.”

Druella tilted her head, unimpressed. “Huh. Couldn’t tell. All that red hair—it blends.”

Ron frowned. “Bit rude, isn’t it?”

Druella shrugged. "Bit honest. I haven't been socialised much.”

And Harry, oh poor Harry, was still holding the mountain of books like a sacrificial lamb. Druella didn’t envy him.

She shook her head, brushing past Ron with a sigh. “I’m going to get some books real books. I’ll be back in a few.”

Slipping away from the noise and glitter of the book signing, Druella wandered into the quieter aisles of Flourish and Blotts. Her eyes scanned the shelves with practised precision—not for flashy titles or celebrity nonsense, but for content that mattered. Real knowledge. Real magic.

She paused before a worn leather-bound tome labelled Mischief and Mastery: An Unofficial Guide to Advanced Spells. Advanced Magical Enchantment for Muggle Objects: Next to them, a book on spellcraft theory caught her attention. They were all dense. Complex. Worth her extra galleons.

“These will do,” Druella murmured to herself, running her fingers over the pages. “I’ve already memorised the First Year curriculum. I’d rather spend the term learning something new.”

From across the shop, Ron watched her with a bewildered expression. “This has to be the weirdest book signing of my life.”

Druella didn’t hear Ron. She was already flipping through a chapter on wandwork techniques, eyes sharp, mind hungry.

A grin appeared on her lips.

“Can’t wait for Mother to pick me up so I can finally get my wand,” she murmured, clutching the books as she made her way back toward Hermione.

Hermione blinked when she saw the titles Druella was carrying—dense volumes on advanced spell theory, mischief magic, and wandwork precision. Her brows furrowed.

“What are those?” Hermione asked, incredulous. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

Druella barely glanced up. “Yes. My cousin already told me what’s covered in First Year.” Her voice was even, almost bored. “I know what they’ll teach. I observed. I listened.”

She paused, then added with a faint shrug, “Why waste time repeating things I already know when I could be learning something useful?”

Hermione stared at her, speechless for a moment.

Druella’s lips curled ever so slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Just a flicker of satisfaction.

Druella watched the interaction between Molly and Harry.

"Harry, you give me those and I'll get them signed."

Harry handed her the book, and Druella shook her head in disbelief.

Druella walked over to Ron and whispered to him.

“Ron, I promise from personal experience you'll leave with secondhand embarrassment and a potential crush from your mother,” Druella replied without missing a beat as she was walking up the stairs. Then, with a pointed glance toward Molly Weasley, she added, “If you can’t tell, she’s currently trying to get Harry’s books signed… so she can flirt with Lockhart while pretending it’s for her adopted son.”

Ron turned red. Again.

Druella shook her head, then grinned in amusement.

She glanced once more over her shoulder.

Lockhart was still smiling—still basking in the glittering spotlight of his delusion.

Molly was chatting animatedly at the signing table, practically swooning as Lockhart complimented her hair while scribbling his name across another book cover. Meanwhile, Harry stood stiff beside them, and a half-plastered polite expression stuck on his face like it had been petrified there.

Druella tilted her head. “If you notice, Ron, your mother is not just buying his books,” she muttered to Ron. “She’s helping him escape a life sentence.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

Druella gestured subtly toward Lockhart. “He’s completely insufferable, yes. But men like that don't survive alone. Not really. She’s giving him what he wants—adoration, attention, someone who laughs at his foolish jokes. She’s handing him his pedestal, and Harry Lockhart wants him to be the perfect sacrifice to keep him there. Molly wants to feel special. He gets to feel famous. And Harry—The Poor Boy Who Lived? Well, he gets dragged along for the ride.”

Ron frowned and looked back at his mum, who was now batting her eyelashes a little too much.

Druella’s gaze didn’t waver. “She’s not helping Harry. She's helping herself. And she’s taking his place to do it.”

Ron looked mildly horrified. “You really see all that, Ella?”

Druella shrugged. “If you were raised by my family. You learn to read a room fast.”

She turned away, already halfway down the Defence aisle, eyes scanning for something that wasn’t dripping with glitter and ego.

With one last glance at Harry, his face twisted in equal parts horror and good manners, Druella chuckled softly.

Even in the middle of a crowded bookstore, the Boy Who Lived couldn’t escape being everyone’s favourite puppet.

Still, appearances mattered.

And Narcissa had made that very clear.

And Druella was done pretending not to notice the strings.

So with a resigned sigh, she grabbed the school books she needed. Druella took her place in the queue leading to the front table. A long, velvet rope guided the line toward Lockhart’s flashy signature station, where he continued posing and scribbling autographs with a smile that had likely been hexed into permanence.

By the time Druella stepped forward, Lockhart barely looked up at first—just another young admirer waiting to squeak his name in her book.

But then he noticed her.

“Well, you look rather dashing, are you a Pureblood?” He asked with a bright, polished smile, smoothing back his blond curls in a way that suggested the compliment might’ve been directed at himself, too.

Druella nodded at him but did not mention her family name.

“I knew it! You’d look like a Pure-blood, alright. And those eyes—striking! Emerald, aren’t they? Rare in the Pureblood families. Most have dark eyes. But yours? Quite enchanting. Do you know what side of your parents you got them from?”

Druella blinked, caught off guard. She offered a tight, awkward grin. “Yeah. I have green eyes. And um… no idea where they came from. Probably my father's side,” she said flatly, shifting the stack of books in her arms like a barrier. “I’m just here to buy some school books.”

Lockhart’s smile wavered for half a second, but he recovered instantly. “Ah! Of course you are,” he said grandly, still leaning in just enough to make her uncomfortable. “Might I recommend Holidays with Hags? Or perhaps Gadding with Ghouls? You strike me as someone very clever, well-read… destined for her very own chapter one day.”

Druella blinked again. “Uh, yeah. Right. Sure. I’ll get right on that,” she said, her tone as dry as dragonbone.

He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice like he was sharing some profound secret. “And your name, dear?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. There it was—that edge in his voice. Like he wasn’t really talking to her, but to a name he hoped would earn him an exclusive headline later.

“Druella,” she said simply, her posture straightening out of habit.

Lockhart repeated it with a puzzled, performative smile. “Druella… charming. Quite old-fashioned. Noble, perhaps?"

“Probably,” she said, tone clipped. “It tends to run in the family, so yes.”

He squinted at her now, like he was trying to trace her face through the fog of scandal archives or aristocratic dinner parties. He could go to just to impress this young girl. But just as he opened his mouth again— 

“Excuse me—” a new voice broke in.

A photographer, slightly sweaty and clearly flustered, stepped between them, blinking beneath the weight of his camera rig. “Pardon me, little girl—my mistake. This is for the Prophet—wait… wait, are you—Druella Black?”

Druella’s stomach dropped.

“Um… yes?” she said reluctantly, fingers tightening around the edge of her robes.

The man nearly dropped his camera. “Merlin’s breath—so it’s true then? You're the one they’ve been whispering about?” His words tumbled out in a mix of fear and awe. “People said she was finally letting her go, after all these years—Malfoy Manor, locked away, never seen at any of the galas, not even at the solstice gatherings. And now—off to Hogwarts at ten?”

Druella didn’t respond. She just took half a step back, shifting her books and Lucky in her arms like a shield.

Lockhart, who had been smoothing his hair for the fifth time in a minute, perked up immediately at the sound of “Hogwarts” and “Black.” His eyes gleamed with interest.

“Oh? A Hogwarts student? Well, that is delightful!” he exclaimed. “A feature, perhaps? A quote for the Prophet? A photo?”

The photographer wasn’t listening to him. “They said she turned eleven last December. The whole family's been keeping it hushed up, but now it’s confirmed. Rumours are that she's the one who will be the future Matriarch of the House of Black. Bellatrix Black's daughter. You’re really going to Hogwarts this year?”

Druella nodded and gripped her books and Nyssa tightly.

Lockhart leaned closer, tone suddenly conspiratorial. “Bellatrix’s daughter, eh? I daresay this year's going to be very interesting. I’m starting as the new Defence professor, you know.” He gave her a dazzling smile as if that would somehow matter.

Druella blinked at him like he’d just offered her a broom with no handle. “Congratulations,” she said awkwardly, tone dry.

“She’s the child of Bellatrix,” the photographer muttered to Lockhart, barely able to contain himself. “The only one, no press. We all saw pictures of her just never the real deal. The girl’s a ghost. Until now.”

Druella’s shoulders stiffened. Her voice came quieter this time, a little flatter. “Yeah, my mother she's just very overprotective. The manor is a grand property, not like a prison as some people see it."

The photographer blinked, then scribbled something quickly into his notebook. "Yes, Bellatrix Lestrange always has been."

“Her surname is Black. She divorced my father after the war,” Druella added, her voice more composed than she felt. “She uses her maiden name. Officially.”

Lockhart tilted his head, curiosity replacing his usual arrogance. “Well, that does change things,” he mused aloud, sounding far too pleased. “A young Black joining Hogwarts under my tutelage? I dare say that’s something for the books. And your mother? Oh, I hear so much about her.”

“She’s just protective,” Druella said suddenly, her voice clipped. Her polite smile had thinned to a knife's edge. “She wouldn’t want me taking pictures with strangers.”

She fumbled slightly as she laid the Galleons Narcissa had given her on the counter—each one counted precisely, polished to a shine. Her parcel of books was handed over, bundled in neat brown wrapping.

The photographer was still trying to ask another question. Lockhart was already halfway into suggesting a co-authored memoir.

But Druella was already turning away.

“Good day, to you, sirs,” she said crisply.

As she turned the corner of the bookshop aisle, clutching her parcel tighter than necessary, Druella whispered under her breath, “Mother’s going to murder them if that ends up in the paper.”

And she wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking.

As she walked, she exhaled through her nose. Her face was calm, her expression composed.

She hadn’t meant to say all that.

She hadn’t needed to.

Because now, even with only a few words, the whispers had started.

And that… was the beginning of a problem.

And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Trigger Warning:
The following chapters contains graphic depictions of child abuse, blood, and verbal assault. It may be distressing to some readers.

Please take care of yourself—your mental health matters. If this content feels overwhelming, consider stepping away before continuing.

Druella exhaled as she caught up with Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys just as they were leaving Flourish and Blotts, Ron still grumbling about Lockhart and Ginny trying not to give her a dirty look.

“My my, I hate the press,” Druella muttered under her breath. "I was just asked questions that I will not say right now."

Harry shot her a sympathetic look. “Yeah, welcome to the club.”

She shook her head. “I hope I never have to deal with them again.”

Hermione glanced sideways, a little sceptical. “You might not have a choice. You’re... well, who you are.”

Druella shrugged, trying to brush it off, but deep down, she already knew Hermione was right.

"You seem nice, Ella," Ronald said.

Before she could respond, a familiar, drawling voice sliced through the crowd, stomping from down the stairs.

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?” Draco Malfoy said as he strode toward them from up the stairs, his shoulders back, chin high, and trademark sneer firmly in place.

His eyes narrowed at Harry like he’d tracked mud into his drawing room. “Famous Harry Potter."

He mocked close to Harry's face. "Can’t even go to a bookshop without making the front page.”

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Ginny stepped forward with sudden fire and a bitter tone.

“Leave him alone.” She warned him, looking him dead in the eye.

Draco raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Oh, look. Potter’s got yourself a girlfriend?”

Ginny’s face flushed, but before she could reply, Draco’s eyes flicked to the side—and landed on Druella. He looked genuinely surprised to see his cousin there.

“Ellie,” he drawled, stepping closer. His voice was smug and possessive, like an older brother catching his sibling stealing a sweet.

“What are you doing with them?” Draco demanded, eyes locked on her alone.

Druella’s shoulders stiffened. She shot him a glare sharp enough to slice parchment. “Drake, I was trying to keep my name off public records for five minutes.”

“Wait—Drake?!” Ron’s voice cracked as he spun to face her, eyes wide. “Ella, you’re related to him?”

Druella sighed, the weight of inevitability crashing onto her shoulders. “Yes. He’s my older cousin. His mother, Narcissa Malfoy, is my mother’s younger sister. She married into the Malfoys.”

She paused, then added flatly, “And my mother and I live with the Malfoys. It’s… complicated.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, nearly stumbling backwards. “I knew I recognised you. You’re Druella Black II. Your mum’s Bellatrix. You told me your name was Ella.”

“I lied,” Druella corrected coolly. “I used part of my name so no one would figure it out yet.”

“You lied to me,” Ron said accusingly.

“I was hoping to keep my name private—until my dear cousin here ratted me out.”

“Now they do,” Ron shot back.

Druella’s lips thinned. “Thanks, Ronald Weasley. Excellent discretion.”

Ron backpedalled, face red. “No, I just—It’s just—you’re allowed out? Like… in public?”

Hermione elbowed him hard.

Druella rolled her eyes. “I’m going to Hogwarts now. I guess that counts as ‘out,’ doesn’t it?”

Harry gave her a sideways look. “Didn’t know Malfoy had a cousin.”

Ron muttered, “She doesn’t act like him. At all.”

“Thank Merlin,” Druella deadpanned. “Although Aunt Narcissa does try to make me act like him. All posture and perfect vowels.” She gave a small shrug. “But she fails. Every time.”

Draco scoffed, and his arms were folded. “She’s a Black. She should act like it.”

Druella raised a brow. “Says the boy who got us both kicked out of piano lessons because he cried when he couldn't reach the high notes.”

Ron snorted. “Seriously?”

“Oh yes,” Druella said with faux solemnity. “He was so dramatic, Aunt Narcissa refused to let him back in. After that, she only taught me.”

Draco’s face flushed red.

“And then my mother took over,” Druella added with a small sigh. “Ballet, etiquette, duelling stances. You know, the usual mix of elegance and the potential murder in the worst case scenario.”

Harry laughed. “That tracks.”

“Though I’m still not sure whether they wanted me to be a lady or a duelist in heels,” she muttered. “They didn’t exactly ask.”

Ron tilted his head. “So you live with the Malfoys? Like—every day? With him?”

“Sadly,” Druella said. “It’s me, Mother, Aunt Narcissa, Uncle Lucius and Draco. I haven’t spoken to a kid my own age in ages unless you count extended family and Draco's guards Crabbe and Goyle, Vincent and Gregory, they mostly grunt around like his guards. They grunt along with their leader, who grunts the loudest.”

“I do not grunt,” Draco snapped.

“You do, Drake.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop calling me Ellie.”

Ron blinked. “Wait, you call him Drake?”

Harry turned, eyes wide with amusement. “And he calls you Ellie?”

“It’s a hostage agreement,” Druella muttered dryly. “We don’t talk about it.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with fascination, clearly loving every second of this. “Well, you seem like you turned out fine.”

Druella raised her eyebrows. “Oh, sure. I was homeschooled for ten years by a Pureblood perfectionist who alphabetises spellbooks and colour-codes teacups. Or decorates the manor in a perfect state. Treated like I’m still five years old. If I sneeze, she pulls out three potions, two blankets, she made herself, like I’m about to collapse on the floor.”

Ron paused. “Bloody hell.”

“And that’s just Aunt Narcissa here is more,” Druella added, unimpressed. “She fusses. My aunt? She’s obsessed with etiquette and image. The fine things in life."

Harry tried not to laugh. “That sounds... intense.”

Ron, who’d been standing there absorbing every word, finally muttered again, “Bloody hell…”

Druella shrugged. “My mother? Doesn’t kill people anymore—just intimidates them into wetting themselves. Makes sure I'm safe, of course, even my cousin is scared of her at times. Holds me still in the worst days, like nightmares or worse. She calls me her Black Blossom. Would protect me from anything if it were so much as a whisper. You should have seen her outside earlier. Like I said, she intimidates them into wetting themselves. So yes Ronald, this is me being very well-adjusted in life.”

Harry snorted. “I like her.”

Ron glanced at Harry, eyes still wide. “She’s terrifying.”

Druella flushed, but the smirk tugging at her mouth said she didn’t mind.

Her secret was out. Her name. Her family. One that she wished people would know until after October. The kind of whole ancient, cursed package.

So much for subtlety.

But maybe… that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Draco, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“She seems nice,” Harry said, loud enough to be heard and with the kind of smug grin that practically invited violence.

Draco's head whipped around. “Watch it, Potter,” he hissed, eyes narrowing. “Stay away from my cousin.”

Druella let out a long, theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes hard enough to shift the gravitational pull of the room. “Draco, please. You don’t even stay away from your own reflection.”

Ron barked out a laugh. Hermione bit her lip to hide a grin.

Harry looked at her, amused. “You’re aware you’re the most honest person I’ve met today, right?”

Druella shrugged. “I’ve had eleven years to practice. It’s either be blunt or get steamrolled.”

She hadn’t meant for them to know everything—not on the first day.

But as she glanced at their faces, no one looked scared. Just surprised. Maybe a little impressed.

And for the first time, Druella didn’t feel like the strangest thing in the room.

Just… part of it.

And for once… she didn’t feel entirely alone.

And honestly? She was starting to enjoy the company.

But then Lucius Malfoy appeared and used his staff to grip Draco's shoulder, the fangs halting him mid-motion. Draco stiffened, his face set in a rigid expression, as his father coldly moved him aside with a slow, casual shove of his staff.

"Now, now, Draco, play nicely," Lucius instructed in a sharp, commanding tone. Draco stepped back immediately, the authority in his father's voice leaving no room for defiance. He lingered behind, silent, his eyes downcast as Lucius began to walk past him—past Hermione—eyeing her with disgust.

Druella’s breath caught in her throat the moment she saw him.

Her steps froze mid-motion, but then she forced herself forward, moving quickly to stand beside her cousin, as if proximity to Draco might somehow protect her—or him. Her face had lost its colour, her usually sharp green eyes now wide and glassy, trembling beneath pale lashes. Her lips parted just enough to show clenched teeth, as though caught between wanting to speak and not daring to. A thin bead of sweat formed near her temple. Her black hair had fallen forward, strands sticking slightly to her face.

She didn’t look at Lucius directly.

She couldn’t.

The moment his presence filled the space, the confident way she once stood—chest slightly lifted, back straight—vanished. Instead, she looked like she’d been turned to stone from the inside out.

Hermione noticed immediately. She turned, her expression flickering with concern as her eyes met Druella’s. That haunted look in Druella’s face—she recognised it. And it made her stand just a little closer.

Lucius approached smoothly, his icy gaze sweeping across them all before resting with false familiarity on Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” he drawled, offering a smile that was all sharp edges. It made Druella flinch, her hand tightening on Lucky and the books, as if fighting the urge to pull her hair over her face.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” His voice was velvet-wrapped venom. “Lucius Malfoy.”

"We meet at last." Lucius mused, extending a hand to him.

Before Harry could respond, Lucius acted, gripping his hand, moving to his wrist. "Forgive me," he said with a smirk, pulling Harry forward and raising his serpent-headed cane to inspect the infamous lightning bolt scar without waiting for permission.

“Your scar is legend,” Lucius remarked smoothly. “As is the one who gave it to you, of course.”

Druella’s breath hitched—but then, without warning, she found herself blurting out: “H-he told me he doesn’t feel comfortable with someone touching his scar, Uncle.”

Her voice trembled. Her eyes didn’t leave the staff. But it was there—guts. Buried under fear like a flicker of fire in a fog.

Hermione glanced sideways at her, a subtle smirk of approval playing at her lips.

Lucius’s eyes, however, narrowed. His grip on Harry’s arm tightened just slightly, a brief flare of displeasure flashing through his otherwise unreadable face.

“Voldemort killed my parents,” Harry said suddenly, yanking his arm back. His voice was firm, unwavering, facing Lucius head-on. “He was nothing more than a murderer.”

Druella raised an eyebrow at the mention of Voldemort.

The Dark Lord did that?

Druella tilted her head, confused; she was close to asking him.

But Lucius’s smile faded into a cold, dismissive hum.

“Hmm. You must be very brave to utter his name... or, very foolish.”

Hermione stepped forward, composed as ever, her chin high. “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.”

Druella gave her a small smile, faint but real. For just a moment, she forgot about the hand that used to strike, the voice that used to bark her name with venom.

Lucius’s expression soured as his gaze shifted coldly to Hermione.

“And you must be Miss Granger,” he said, tone dripping with disdain. He looked at Draco, and he nodded, saying yes without words.

Druella only stood there. “Yes, Draco has told me all about you… and your parents.”

His eyes flicked toward the nearby couple—the laughing Arthur Weasley with tousled red hair and a shopping list in one hand. “Muggles? Hmm.”

Druella’s smile faded, but she didn’t flinch this time.

Hermione stood her ground, and Druella stood beside her—not strong, not fearless… but standing.

Hermione’s chin lifted slightly, but her hands were balled into fists at her sides.

Lucius didn’t give Hermione another glance. His gaze swept next to Ron, and his siblings paused with a faint smile on his lips.

“Let's see red hair. Hand-me-down robes. Vacant expression…” Lucius said with smooth, scornful rhythm. “You must be the Weasleys."

Ron’s face went scarlet in an instant, his ears burning with fury. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came.

Draco snorted beside his father, visibly delighted. He nudged Druella with an elbow, expecting her to share in the amusement.

But Druella said nothing despite her cousin's quiet pressure. Harry couldn't help but notice how Druella looked. It looked to him like she knew something no one else did. One minute, she went from talking back to her cousin to standing beside him as soon as his father arrived.

Something wasn't right.

Her posture was stiff, lips were pressed into a neutral line. She looked at Draco, then Lucius, then at the floor. Quiet. Guarded.

Lucius’s pale hand reached toward Ginny’s cauldron, and with calculated flair, he plucked a tattered book from the top of the pile. He turned it over with two fingers, like it might leave a stain. "Secondhand?" he asked, his voice thick with disdain. "How quaint."

He dusted off his sleeves, though there was no visible dirt, and offered the book back, but he pulled it up with a mock flourish. “Tell me, does your father collect Muggle rubbish for sport, little girl? Or is it just a family tradition now—to be poor and be proud of it? Could he not afford a proper book, little girl?”

Lucius turned to Druella and Draco, then, as if presenting his case. "You see, Weasleys, I ensure that my son and niece receive only the best. Presentation is everything. One must maintain a certain standard.”

Druella, who had been quietly observing, clutching her stack of books with the same deadpan expression she usually reserved for Draco’s whining, finally moved.

Then, inspired by her new friends, Druella stepped forward—braver than she meant to be—and spoke.

“Uncle,” she said, her voice calm but tight, laced with nerves and faint stutters. “With all due respect, Mother and Aunt Narcissa bought my supplies. Not you. You only paid for Draco’s.”

The words cracked across the room like thunder.

Draco blinked, his mouth falling open. He hadn’t expected her to speak, let alone challenge Lucius. His pale eyebrows shot up, stunned.

Lucius turned slowly, like a serpent catching scent. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on Druella. For a moment, the world seemed to still.

Then, he stepped forward, his jaw clenched. His cold voice cut through the air.

“You dare speak to me like that?”

Ron stifled a laugh behind his hand, nudging Harry, who looked both shocked and faintly impressed. Even Hermione’s eyebrows lifted, eyes darting between Lucius and Druella. She took a small step forward, protective on instinct.

"Sorry, Sir," Druella mumbled to him.

"Speak up, girl." Lucius hissed, gripping his staff

"Sorry, Sir," Druella said louder and closed her eyes, expecting another beating.

Arthur Weasley approached with a tired but kindly smile, sensing the tension. “Children, it’s mad out here—let’s go outside, shall we?”

But Lucius turned his venom elsewhere.

“Well, well, well… Weasley Senior,” Lucius sneered, voice thick with pure loathing.

“Lucius,” Arthur replied shortly, glancing toward Druella, then back at Lucius. He didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes.

“Busy time at the Ministry, Arthur?” Lucius continued, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “All those raids. I do hope they’re paying you overtime.”

He still held Ginny’s tattered book with disdain, pinching it between two fingers like it might stain his gloves.

“But judging by this,” he sneered, “I’d say not.”

His pale gaze dropped to Ginny with eerie calm, a cruel smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

“Tell me, child—would you rather live in a fine manor with me, or with some poor family like this one?” His voice turned almost sing-song, patronising. “My wife would simply adore you. She’s likes having a sweet, quiet, bright little girl in the house.”

Then he tilted his head ever so slightly, his smirk deepening.

“Just ask Little Miss Sunshine over there,” he drawled, gesturing with a lazy flick of his serpent-headed staff toward Druella, without even bothering to glance her way, as if she were part of the furniture. “Her perfect little niece. Bellatrix’s daughter, of course. You'd all be surprised at how she cares for her. Pathetic really. But Narcissa—my dear Cissa—insists on calling her a daughter, too. Isn’t that precious?”

His tone soured on the last word, twisting affection into mockery.

“She’s always fluttering after the house-elves, barefoot, scribbling chalk spells on the floor like some bubbly-happy toddler and painting with her mother in that garden they grow. Reading in my library all day instead of playing with Draco and his friends. Dancing around the ballroom like she’s been bred for it, like she’s starring in some tragic little fairy tale. She sits with her legs tucked in like a broken bird.”

He gave a dry, mirthless chuckle.

“My wife calls it grace. I call it pitiful.”

He finally turned, letting his gaze rest on Druella with slow, deliberate cruelty.

“She asked me on more than one occasion if she could have a pet. She asked for a cat. A cat, can you believe it?” His lip curled in distaste. “I told her every time—I wouldn’t have some clawed, hair-shedding little demon ruining my carpets. And certainly not near my two fine dogs—purebred, hand-selected from a line I had specially imported. If it were Draco, my son, I'd say yes, because he wouldn't want a cat. I got him an owl a few years back. At least he wanted an owl like all the kids did. But no, she wanted a cat of all things. But I told Sunshine no, and she just nodded, like she always does, acting as if that’s normal. As if being denied is all she’s ever known.”

He let that hang, then sneered again.

“Ah, yes, Sunshine,” he said softly, with acid. “Little Sunshine. Merely fragile. Obedient. Empty.”

A pause. Then the final cut.

“My wife’s teacups have more character than her.”

He straightened his coat and exhaled slowly through his nose.

“No wonder Draco never mentioned her to anyone during his first year. Not even once. And believe me… if that girl were worth remembering, he would’ve.”

Silence pressed in like a weight.

Hermione looked stricken—not from disbelief, but outrage. Her fists were clenched at her sides, white-knuckled.

Harry’s jaw locked, teeth grinding. A quiet fury simmered behind his eyes.

Ron blinked in disbelief. “You’re bloody mad.”

And still, Druella stood there, secretly wanting to do something to Lucius.

She didn't know what.

But she wanted to do something.

Still. Quiet. Holding it all in like a ship with patched sails from a storm.

Lucius, smug, adjusted his cuffs as if his words hadn’t cracked the air around them.

Arthur Weasley had gone silent, but the way he looked at Lucius now—his stare fixed, his mouth taut—promised something was coming.

Something long overdue.

Harry’s eyes narrowed sharply, his jaw clenched.

Hermione’s mouth opened slightly—outrage rising like fire under her skin.

Ron made a noise halfway between a snort and a growl. “You lot are unbelievable.”

Ginny glared up at Lucius, her cheeks flushed not with embarrassment but fury.

Lucius didn’t care.

He lifted his chin with practised arrogance, like he’d won something.

But then, he hadn’t noticed the way Druella’s shoulders stiffened. Or how Hermione instinctively stepped closer to her. Or the way Arthur Weasley’s patience had begun to crack.

Arthur’s face darkened. His jaw twitched. His hands balled into fists at his sides. But when he spoke, his voice was soft—gentle—and aimed at only one person.

“Druella,” he said quietly, kneeling slightly to her level, his tone lined with genuine concern. “Are you alright? You seem… shaken. Would you like me to get your mother? Or perhaps your aunt? You don’t have to stay here like this.”

Druella blinked up at him.

Arthur’s voice softened further. “I could ask Molly to sit with you for a bit. She’s just over there. Or if you'd prefer, I could Floo Bellatrix myself. No child should be spoken to like this, let alone be treated like furniture.”

Lucius’s head snapped around.

The change was instant, like a viper disturbed mid-coil.

His pale eyes locked on Druella.

And only Druella.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He studied her—her flushed face, the hair clinging to her damp cheeks, the subtle tremble in her shoulders. She looked faint, frightened, her chest rising too fast—and still, she didn't dare step away.

She couldn’t.

Lucius’s voice dropped like a blade.

“You’ll not involve Bellatrix,” he hissed coldly, directing the words at Arthur but keeping his gaze fixed on Druella like a hawk pinning prey. “And she doesn’t need Molly Weasley fluttering over her like some mother hen. I will decide how she's handled. Not you, Weasley.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed. Then, with a swift, startling motion, he seized Druella’s wrist.

His voice lowered, venom seeping through every word. “Druella Black, what are you doing with these people? Have you forgotten who you are? You are not to associate with their kind, especially her—” he glared at Hermione, “—a filthy little girl with no place in our world. Draco warned us about her. About all of them.”

Druella flinched but didn’t look away. She said nothing at first.

But then, her chin lifted, just slightly.

Her green eyes simmered with something beneath the surface. Something heavy. Something inherited.

Wrath. The kind of power Bellatrix had called.

Lucius didn’t like that look.

But this time, she didn’t shrink.

And neither did anyone else.

Druella glanced at Hermione—who raised her eyebrow, unshaken—then turned back to Lucius.

Her voice trembled, but it was steady enough. “F-for your information, H-hermione Granger is very kind to me. If she and Draco have issues, that’s between them. I won’t be caught in the middle of their feud. I’m allowed to choose my friends.”

Lucius’s eyes widened.

Arthur tried again, his voice tight. “Children—let's go. Now."

But Lucius raised his voice suddenly, the cold mask gone, replaced by something wild.

“You stupid, weak, good-for-nothing little girl!” he screamed.

The whole store seemed to go silent.

“I raised you better than this!” he bellowed. “And this is how you speak to your blood? Your family? You shame the name Black every time you open your mouth! You're pathetic! Your mother’s made you into a fragile, snivelling disgrace!”

Druella flinched, her shoulders trembling, but she stood her ground. Her eyes were wet but defiant.

“My mother,” she said slowly but firmly, “told you before that you need to stop talking to me like this.”

Lucius’s face twisted with fury, his hand twitching toward his staff, causing Druella to flinch.

Her uncle’s rage erupted.

“Your mother?” he spat, voice rising. “Oh, you foolish, worthless girl! You're a freak! Associating with the Weasleys—my rivals! With Miss Granger and these people? Have you completely lost your mind? After everything you were taught?! Oh, it's Bella again! You always hide under her robes when she's home! Have you lost you're mind like the Lestranges' curse?”

Druella said nothing. She didn’t argue. She turned her head, choosing silence over conflict, choosing survival.

But that only infuriated him more.

Without warning, Lucius tightened his grip on her wrist and yanked her closer, hard enough to make her stumble. His fingers clamped down with punishing pressure, and she flinched—her eyes widening at the intensity of the pain.

“Look at me when I speak to you!” Lucius barked, his voice cracking across the shop like a whip.

Druella obeyed but with no emotion. Her expression was hollow, numb—she had expected this. She was used to it.

Hermione stepped forward without hesitation, her voice high and sharp. “Hey! Let her go!”

“Stay out of this, girl!” Lucius snapped, raising his free hand just slightly—an awful moment where the gesture hung in the air like a threat. Druella froze, her breath caught in her throat, bracing for what might come.

But the strike didn’t land.

Instead, Lucius dropped his hand to his side and leaned in, his fury now more focused and calculated. A sadistic smile ghosted across his lips as he watched Druella struggle not to cry.

“You need to understand, Druella,” he whispered darkly, close enough for her to feel his breath. “This weakness you cling to—it’s an embarrassment to our family. You think Bellatrix and Narcissa raised you to be some quivering little ghost? And here you are… shivering. Whimpering. Like a common Muggle girl who’s lost her mummy.”

Druella winced, her face flushed with shame—but still, she didn’t speak.

People in the store had stopped. The room was no longer bustling. Customers—Purebloods, Half-bloods, Muggle-borns—all stood frozen, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. Even Gilderoy Lockhart had fallen silent, awkwardly fiddling with his quill as he watched from behind his display table, too self-absorbed to intervene but very much aware.

Lucius leaned even closer, voice a low, venomous hiss as Druella's eyes widened.

“I couldn't care less about people staring. You are a Black, not some snivelling, spineless creature. Act like it. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

Druella’s throat tightened, but she found her voice. “I… I am my own person,” she whispered. “Not a copy of Draco.”

Lucius laughed coldly—no joy, no humour—just disdain.

“When will you stop acting like a timid, pathetic little girl?” he hissed. “Your cousin has surpassed you in every way. Why can’t you be a normal girl?”

His voice sharpened, loud enough for the entire store to hear.

“You’ll never be like him! He has the right idea! You? You don’t even have a father. So don’t expect me to fill the role.”

Druella’s eyes filled with tears. She gave a slight, broken nod.

Lucius snarled. “Stop crying. What’s wrong with you? You Snot-nosed disgrace.”

His voice boomed across the shop.

More people turned to look. A young witch near the back covered her mouth. A wizard put a protective hand on his child’s shoulder. No one dared move. The fear of who Lucius Malfoy was—and what he could do—kept them frozen.

Druella stood still. She said nothing. Her face was pale, her tears silent, her expression void.

But Hermione stepped forward again, her voice now glacial.

“Wow,” she said. “The way you talk to your niece—unbelievable. No wonder Draco’s so full of himself. I see where he gets it from.”

Ron couldn’t help himself. “Blimey, you're mental. It must run in the family.”

Lucius's head whipped toward Ron, eyes blazing.

But before he could respond, Arthur Weasley's firm voice cut through the tension as he stepped forward, his expression hardening with authority. "Malfoy, I don't care how you run your household, but you will not treat Druella like this in public—or anywhere else."

Lucius froze, his lips curling into a sneer, the anger in his eyes intensifying. "You think you can tell me how to discipline this mistake, Weasley? Stay out of this."

Arthur didn't flinch, his tone unwavering. "Perhaps her mother would like to hear how you're handling her daughter. I should Floo her right now.”

Lucius’s sneer twisted into something crueller—colder—like ice cracking beneath polished marble. His face, pale and patrician, darkened with rage.

He turned to Druella. “Haven’t you embarrassed this family enough?” he snarled, voice low but venomous.

“Look at yourself. Associating with filth, running your lip, defying me in front of strangers.”

Druella didn’t answer.

She could have. A thousand retorts burned on her tongue, waiting to be flung like knives. But she swallowed them whole.

Because yes—she was hurt. That much was true. But she wouldn’t say it.

Wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

So she stood there, silent. Her sleeves curled tightly in her fists. Frozen. Not from fear. From something deeper. Something older.

Because in that moment, something shifted.

She realised words could cut deeper than curses. That the way he spoke—like she was already broken—could be turned back on him.

She’d seen others do it. Harry. Hermione. Even Ron, in his own clumsy way. Speak like they meant something. Bite with their words. Live without permission.

Why can't she do it too?

Her lip trembled—but not from weakness. Not from shame. From the weight of holding back something sharp. Something was blooming inside her like steel.

She took a deep breath.

Then raised her chin.

Met his eyes.

Her eyes hid inner rage.

And then she spoke with bitterness.

“You couldn’t have done it yourself, Lucius Malfoy.”

Quiet. Steady. No plea. No fury.

Just glass.

Cold and precise.

Like a blade slipped between ribs in a ballroom. The kind of cut that doesn’t bleed right away.

For a single heartbeat, the shop stilled.

Even Draco had blinked, his breath catching.

But then—

The staff struck.

There was no warning. No pause.

Lucius didn’t think. He just acted, driven by blind rage.

The silver serpent-headed cane cut through the air with a hiss of movement and a crack like thunder.

Druella screamed.

Not a sharp cry—no. It ripped from her chest like something primal. A short, high, awful sound. She hadn’t expected it—hadn’t thought he would really—

Somewhere near the back of the shop, past the stunned and still crowd, a man lifted a camera slowly, deliberately, with the nametag Harvey Crispin.

His floating notepad had been scribbling in frantic shorthand ever since the voices started to rise. He had sensed the shift—an instinct more than a decision—and readied his camera before the blow came.

He had caught it.

Click.

The moment the cane connected.

Click.

The sharp recoil of Druella’s face, her scream frozen in time.

Click.

The blood on her lip, her hand flying to catch it, her green eyes wide and hollow with shock.

Click.

He didn’t wear vibrant robes like the other customers. His coat was plain grey. His hair was a bit unkempt, blond curls falling into blue eyes that were wide and focused, burning with something quiet and sharp.

“Her family will want to see this,” Crispin muttered, lowering the camera, breath shallow from the adrenaline. He didn’t sound smug. He sounded... certain.

Not gossip.

Evidence.

A scandal wrapped in truth. A reckoning in high resolution.

The shutter had captured more than violence. It had captured power, breaking.

A name like Malfoy drawing blood from a girl like Druella Black—a child of a legendary house, and a cursed house, struck in public, and still standing.

“There’s going to be a story,” the man whispered, eyes gleaming behind his lenses. “A real story.”

He glanced down at the notepad still floating beside him, which curled at the edges as if anticipating what it would carry. A headline not just to shock—

—but to shake.

Chapter Text

The blow struck across her face, slicing clean through the edge of her bottom lip. One of the serpent’s silver fangs—cold, cruel—left a cut that bloomed instantly red.

She staggered back, gasping, crashing into a nearby shelf. Her breath fled from her lungs. Books tumbled around her like broken bones, the wooden frame shuddering under her weight. Her hand flew to her mouth—too late to stop the sting, the warm rush of blood spilling between her fingers.

The taste hit her next. Metallic. Raw.

A thin line of blood carved its way down her chin, a crimson streak painting her skin.

The shop remained frozen.

Even Draco went pale. Not at the violence but at her. At what she’d said. At the audacity of it. That she stood back. That she dared.

The blood dripped.

Druella clutched her lip with one trembling hand, trying to stop it from reaching the ground. Her knees bent slightly—not from choice, but instinct. A warning from her body that something had just broken.

On the other hand, holding Lucky like a healing potion.

And still, she didn’t collapse.

Time didn’t move for her—it hung, like fog clinging to bone.

She stood there, shaking, her heartbeat in her ears, loud and fast and alone.

The silence was deafening. No one moved. No one breathed.

Children watched. Customers stared. Some horrified. Some curious. Some are unable to look away.

Eyes locked on her.

Pity. Shame. Fear. Disgust.

But not a soul stepped in. And yet—she didn’t scream again.

She didn’t cry.

She breathed. Fast. Sharp. Shallow.

Blood painted her fingertips, her jaw throbbing like a war drum.

And then—slowly—Druella lifted her gaze.

Her hair had fallen forward, black strands darkened with blood. Her green eyes rose like embers through ash, scanning the room, watching the watchers.

She simply stood, bleeding, trembling, but upright. A small, carved statue of defiance.

Lucius was standing over her, unrepentant. Cold. Brutal.

The distance between them wasn’t just physical—it was legacy laid bare. A Malfoy standing above a bleeding Black.

But then time seemed to freeze back into place when the aftermath reactions started.

“Did he just—?” someone whispered to another.

Some kids were crying as their mothers had to cover their eyes.

Hermione gasped, her hand up to her mouth.

Harry’s eyes went wide with horror. “He struck her—he actually struck her!”

“Hey!” Ron shouted, shoving past two bystanders. “Don't you hurt her like that! You can’t—she’s a kid!”

“That’s abuse!” Hermione cried, her voice cracking.

Lucius turned his back, unmoved, his robes sweeping behind him like a velvet curtain closing on a scene he didn’t care to finish watching.

And then—

“…Abuse?”

The word came from Druella.

Soft.

Small. A whisper wrapped in disbelief.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t crying. She was… confused.

Like the word didn’t fit.

Like it wasn’t meant for her.

Her eyes fluttered over to Harry, blinking slowly and dazed, as though the world had just tilted sideways beneath her feet.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Abuse? That’s something from stories. From books. It’s what happens to people far away… not here.”

The word sat awkwardly on her tongue—like it didn’t belong to her, like it was something she’d read in the margins of someone else’s life.

She said it again, quieter. “What are you speaking of? Abuse?”

Harry took a step closer, his voice tight but steady. “Ella… that was abuse.”

She stared at him.

Not in defiance.

Not in anger.

But in a kind of stunned confusion, like he’d just spoken in a language she didn’t quite know how to translate. “But... that’s just what he does. When I talk too much. When I answer back. When he’s in one of his moods.”

Her voice was almost apologetic. Like she was trying to explain away thunder for the rain’s sake.

Harry’s fists clenched. “That doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t make it not abuse.”

Druella slowly touched her lip, blinking at the red smear on her fingers as though it had appeared from nowhere. It wasn’t just blood. It was evidence. Proof that the stories she thought only existed in fiction had been happening to her all along—and no one had told her. She didn't tell her aunt or mother. Because she thought it was normal. Thought if she did, then no one else would get hurt.

Harry stepped closer, gentler now. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. A real family doesn’t hit you. They don’t hurt you and then blame you for bleeding.”

Druella looked at him.

And in her eyes was something rarely seen.

Not fire. Not defiance. Not even anger.

Just a quiet, crumbling innocence.

“I thought abuse meant… bruises that never go away. Or… being locked in rooms,” she whispered. “I thought it was worse than me. Worse than this. I-I don't understand.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, the understanding clawing its way into her chest. She could recite every name in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, translate a dozen ancient runes, and discuss magical theory far beyond her year—but no one had ever taught her this.

That pain could wear a familiar face.

Those monsters didn’t always look like monsters.

“Abuse?” she said again.

Not as a question.

As a realisation.

And this time, the word stuck.

It echoed—not just through the shop, but through something deeper. Through the strange and trembling architecture of her mind. Like a bell finally being struck in a place no one had ever dared to ring.

She looked around.

Everyone was watching.

Some students pale. Others stunned. The air felt glassy—frozen. Even Lucius had faltered. For a second—just one—he stood motionless, spine rigid, his eyes cold but caught.

Druella, standing there bleeding, lip split, with trembling hands and too-wide eyes, suddenly looked like a girl who had just been told that gravity wasn’t real. Like everything she’d used to measure the world-every rule, every structure—had been a lie dressed in velvet and polished shoes.

Because for the first time in her life…

She knew.

She knew what it was. What it had always been.

And no one could take that knowledge back.

She touched her lip again. Her fingers came away red.

She didn’t look at them.

Instead, her gaze drifted up—slow, dazed—toward the man before her. And her voice, when she spoke, wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud.

It was just… lost.

“Why did you do this?”

Lucius stared at her, unblinking. Fury twitched at the corner of his eye, but his mouth remained pressed into a cruel line.

Druella blinked slowly. She tasted copper where she'd bitten her lip.

“Do you… do you love me?”

It slipped out like breath in winter. Fragile. White and cold.

A hush fell over the entire shop like a suffocating spell. Even the rustle of pages stopped.

She hadn’t asked to be cruel. Or dramatic. She hadn’t weaponised it.

She’d asked because something in her—a tiny, battered, starving thing—still hoped the answer might be yes.

Lucius didn’t even blink.

His face remained polished marble. Immaculate. Unmoved.

But his silence hit her like a hammer.

A refusal.

A rejection so absolute it didn’t need words.

For the first time, Druella didn’t flinch from fear.

She flinched from clarity.

And the cold truth settled like lead in her chest.

Lucius’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the sleeve of her brand-new school robes. His fingers bit deep into her arm, twisting the fabric painfully.

Her new books crashed to the floor with dull, heavy thuds.

He yanked Nyssa—the battered stuffed cat Druella loved so much—from her arms with a vicious, scornful flick.

“No—don’t—!” Druella cried, stumbling after him, blood trickling from her split lip.

She dug her feet in the ground, but Lucius’s grip was iron. Her shoulder slammed into the doorframe.

“You’re making a scene,” she hissed, humiliated, voice cracking as her eyes brimmed—but stubbornly refusing to fall.

Lucius rounded on her. His voice was poison.

“You are the scene!” he spat.

And then he did it.

He held up Nyssa by one frayed ear, between his thumb and forefinger, like something dirty.

Druella reached out, eyes wide in horror.

“Don’t please—”

Lucius turned lazily to the crowd, lips curling in cold amusement. He flicked his wand with vicious precision.

“Incendio.”

The spell hit Nyssa square in the belly. The old fabric went up in a sudden, hissing whoosh, flames consuming the stuffing in seconds. Charred cotton floated to the floor like black snow.

“NO!” Druella screamed. "NYSSA!"

She lunged for the burning toy, but Lucius shoved her back so hard she fell against a shelf.

Her cut lip split wider. Blood smeared her chin.

The entire shop froze in stunned horror.

Harry’s green eyes were wide, disbelief and sick anger twisting his face. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes shimmering with tears she couldn’t hold back. Ron looked like he was going to be sick.

Arthur Weasley’s face was thunderous, red blotches burning high on his cheeks. He took a step forward, fist clenched. Molly’s mouth was pressed in a trembling line, eyes darting between Druella’s tear-stained face and the blackened scraps of the toy on the ground.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Lucius’s grip on Druella’s arm tightened even more, making her wince.

“Stand up,” he hissed. “Stop crying. You’re humiliating yourself.”

But Druella wasn’t even crying. Her eyes were dry, wild, and empty. Her lip quivered, and she was bleeding on the ground. She was shaking all over.

Lucius ignored the crowd, dragging her toward the door as if she weighed nothing at all.

Her shoes scuffed and squeaked on the polished floor. Her hair fell in tangled ropes over her face.

Books lay abandoned on the ground behind them.

People parted silently in horror, making a path.

“Disgusting,” someone whispered.

“Is she alright?”

“That poor girl—”

But Lucius didn’t stop. He hauled her out of Flourish and Blotts like she was a sack of filthy laundry.

Outside the glass, Harry watched them go, fists clenched, teeth bared.

Hermione turned away, face wet.

Ron whispered, voice shaking with rage, “Bloody monster.”

And no one would ever forget the smell of burnt fabric that lingered in the air—sharp, sour, and heartbreakingly final.

And then—outside—the violence escalated.

He shoved her back against the shop wall with a thud, his cane clattering to the stones. One hand slammed onto her shoulder. The other raised high—

Crack.

The second slap landed across her other cheek.

Gasps. A scream. Someone dropped a bag. A witch cried out and covered her child’s eyes.

Hermione made a noise like choking. Harry’s fists curled at his sides, frozen with horror.

And Druella?

She stumbled.

Hit the wall.

Her knees nearly buckled.

Blood smeared down her chin.

But she still didn’t cry.

She looked at him. Right in front of him.

Not like a child.

Like someone seeing a monster in its true form.

And then—quietly, weakly, heartbreakingly—she whispered:

“You don’t, do you? You never loved me. You don't love me.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched. His breath flared, but he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say a word.

And the silence confirmed everything.

"You’re nothing but a disappointment," he hissed instead, grabbing her by the chin and forcing her to look up. “I won’t let you embarrass me any longer. Do you understand? You’re worthless. You're nothing. And if you ever defy me again—”

“You’ll what?” she interrupted quietly. Her voice wasn’t defiant. Just… hollow.

Lucius faltered for a fraction of a second. That stillness again.

And that was when she knew.

He could hurt her.

He could humiliate her.

He could try to own her.

But he would never, ever love her.

And now… she no longer needed him to.

Druella’s breath caught as he shook her—her body jolting like a ragdoll. His grip on her robes was vice-tight, ripping it and cutting off circulation, and she stumbled with each pull. Her shoes scraped the cobblestones, but she didn’t cry out.

The silence was worse than any scream.

Lucius raised his other hand—a warning in his posture, a promise in his eyes. Druella stared, bracing herself. Her heart pounded like a drum in a locked room. She knew that look. The cold glint. The calm before the storm.

And then it came.

His fist slammed into the side of her face.

A crack of flesh and bone.

Her head snapped sideways, stars exploding behind her eyes. She didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Her teeth bit into the inside of her cheek until the taste of blood filled her mouth. Her knees buckled—but she stayed upright.

Lucius's expression barely flickered. If anything, he seemed satisfied.

She was trembling. Bleeding. Unsteady. And he still wasn’t done.

“You’re nothing but a disgrace to our name,” he spat, voice venom-thick. “A fragile little brat who clings to her freak mother and parades around like she’s special. You're not special. You’ll never amount to anything.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Her cheek throbbed. Her vision swam. But still, she kept her head bowed—not in submission, but in survival.

Every step he took, dragging her forward, was a reminder. Of what he saw her as. Of what she could never be to him.

His hand bruised her wrist, bone grinding beneath his grip. Her feet barely kept up with his strides. She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. The crowd didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered except the cold truth still echoing inside her:

"He will never love you. And that is not your fault."

Behind them, Draco followed.

His footsteps were uneven. Hesitant.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop his father.

Didn’t reach for her.

But his eyes, wide, ashamed, and flickering between them, said everything.

He was scared.

He was sorry.

And he was too much of a Malfoy to do anything about it.

Hermione watched in shock as Lucius dragged Druella out of the shop, his grip on her was firm and unrelenting. He shoved her forward slightly as they passed through the door, his sharp voice carrying back into the shop, even as they left, how he destroyed her favourite toy. The way he spoke to her—it wasn't right.

Hermione picked up the remains of Lucky, then turned to Harry and Ron, her voice firm with resolve. "I can't let this go on; I'm going to find her aunt."

Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out of the shop and scanned the bustling street. People milled about, their conversations creating a loud hum, and Hermione had to focus hard to cut through the noise. She weaved through the crowd, determined to locate Druella's family.

As she rounded a corner, she bumped into someone hard. She stumbled back slightly, glancing up to meet the intense gaze of a tall woman with dark hair, whose presence sent an immediate chill down Hermione's spine.

"What are you?" the woman asked coldly, her tone sharp and accusatory.

Before Hermione could stammer a reply, a familiar voice intervened. "Oh, Bella, you'll have to forgive her," Narcissa Malfoy said smoothly as she approached, her elegant presence instantly diffusing the tension. "She didn't mean to."

Hermione looked at Bellatrix and asked frantically, "Are you Druella's mum?

Narcissa chuckled lightly. “Yes, dear, she is. Intimidating, isn’t she?”

Bellatrix’s gaze snapped to her sister, visibly annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, hush,” Narcissa murmured, then turned to Hermione. “Let me help you up.”

Hermione backed away she ran so quickly her breath was ragged, face pale as parchment.

“Mrs. Malfoy—something happened. With your niece.”

Narcissa, ever the picture of serene control, turned toward her, brows raised in polite mildness, the ghost of a smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” she said lightly. “She’s only adjusting to school nerves. I’m sure it’s—”

“No,” Hermione snapped, voice cracking with urgency. “No—listen to me. Your husband struck her. In the mouth. She was bleeding. He screamed at her. He burned her stuffed animal in front of everyone.”

She lifted the charred, mangled remains of Nyssa, the burned fabric blackened and foul-smelling.

“He set this on fire with a spell. While she was begging him not to.”

The smile on Narcissa’s face cracked. Fissures of ice spread through her gaze.

Bellatrix turned very slowly. Her head tilted like a predator scenting blood.

“What?” Narcissa asked softly, voice suddenly brittle.

Bellatrix’s voice was little more than a ragged whisper.

“He hit my baby?”

Hermione swallowed hard, her eyes wet but fierce.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shaking but unyielding. “He punched her in the face. She was bleeding—blood on her lip, her chin. She was crying, trying to keep up as he dragged her out by the wrist. Her robes were ripped. Her books fell. He shouted at her like she was nothing.”

She pushed the ruined stuffed cat forward.

“Look. This is what’s left of Nyssa. She was screaming for him not to burn it. He did it anyway. He set it on fire in front of all of us. Harry, Ron, and I tried to stop him but—”

Arthur Weasley stepped forward then, voice firm and grim.

“It’s true,” he said heavily. “I saw it. I tried to step in. Molly did too. He was out the door before I could get my wand up. It was deliberate. He hurt her. Any one of us will swear to it.”

Molly Weasley, standing behind Arthur, was pale and shaking with fury.

“I saw the blood,” she whispered hoarsely. “She was so small. He grabbed her like she weighed nothing. I’ve never seen anything so… so wrong in my life.”

Another voice piped up—a clerk from Flourish and Blotts, wringing her hands.

“I—I saw it too. He hexed the toy. The poor girl screamed. Everyone was staring.”

Hermione turned back to Narcissa, her voice lowering to something quiet but cold.

“She didn’t even look surprised when it happened,” she said. “She screamed, but she didn’t look surprised.”

That landed like a killing curse.

Narcissa’s face drained of every drop of colour. She staggered where she stood, clutching the edge of the table.

“You mean…” Her voice trembled. “She expected it?”

Bellatrix’s gaze was fixed on the charred ruin of Nyssa. Her fingers trembled violently as she snatched it from Hermione’s hands. She turned it over as if she might somehow piece it back together. The blackened fabric crumbled under her grip.

Her breathing was ragged, unsteady.

“She loved this,” Bellatrix rasped. “She slept with it every night. He burned it in front of her.”

Hermione didn’t look away.

“She begged him not to. She screamed. He ignored her. He enjoyed it.”

Bellatrix’s hand flew to her mouth, a strangled noise escaping her.

“She never told me,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I thought she was just shy with him. Nervous. I thought—”

“Neither did she tell me,” Narcissa said faintly. Her voice was hollow, a glass bell cracking under strain. “I knew she was hiding something. I knew. But I never expected… this.”

Hermione’s lip trembled.

“She didn’t know the word abuse. She asked Harry if it was abuse. Like she’d heard it before but didn’t understand it.”

Silence fell like a shroud.

Narcissa closed her eyes. Her jaw worked. Her fingers dug crescent moons into her palms.

"Merlin, I'm naive," Narcissa mumbled, shedding a small tear.

Bellatrix let the charred remains of Nyssa fall to the floor. It landed with a dead, final sound.

Then she looked up.

A tear came out of her eye, shocking the crowd with her compassion for her child.

A mother's love.

Her eyes were dry. Burning.

“I am going to kill him,” she said, voice low, shaking with lethal promise. “He hit my child. He made her bleed. He burned her friend in front of her. I will rip him apart.”

“Not yet,” Narcissa hissed, grabbing Bellatrix’s arm with white-knuckled force. She was shaking too, her voice splintering at the edges.

Bellatrix didn’t speak. But her eyes were already far away. Calculating. Dangerous.

The crowd was frozen in horror.

And somewhere in the shadows of that moment, every single person watching knew one thing for certain:

The next time Lucius Malfoy dared to look either woman in the eye—

He would not walk away untouched.

The stuffed animal was being left behind on the ground.

With that, she swept away, her robes billowing like a storm cloud, Bellatrix following closely behind her, the dark energy of her anger pulsing in every step. Their shared fury filled the space where they once stood, and it was clear that Lucius Malfoy was about to feel the consequences of his cruelty.

As they disappeared into the crowd, Ron stood awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, still processing the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Hermione folded her arms as Harry walked over to her, his brow furrowed. "Do you think we can trust Druella?" he asked.

Hermione nodded firmly, her resolve clear. "Yes. Even if she's Draco Malfoy's cousin, we'll make sure she doesn't end up like him."

Ron frowned. "But what if she's placed in Slytherin?"

"She might be," Hermione admitted. "But we'll accept her anyway. She's so shy and quiet. I think if we help her, she won't turn out like Draco. Or worse."

Harry nodded reluctantly. "I suppose so."

Hermione straightened her posture, her determination only growing stronger. "It's settled then. Slytherin or not, Druella is our friend."

They all nodded in agreement, but Hermione's thoughts lingered on Druella. There was something about her—something fragile, hidden beneath her quiet demeanour—that made her worry for the young girl.

Just then, Hermione caught sight of the dark-haired woman again. Bellatrix was smiling faintly, and the sight sent an involuntary shiver down Hermione's spine.

Hermione's eyes were widened at her.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked her.

Hermione quickly came back to reality and grabbed Ron's arm. "Come on, let's go check if Druella's ok."

Ron's eyes went wide with terror. "No! Don't make me talk to that girl's mum!"

Rolling his eyes, Harry tugged him along. "Let's go."

Hermione followed with a bemused expression, while the twins laughed at Ron's protests.

Just outside the crowd, Lucius stood with practised poise, his expression as polished as always—until his fingers dug too hard into Druella’s shoulder, guiding her away from the onlookers with faux concern.

The moment they turned the corner behind a stone pillar, his hand snapped forward and shoved her hard into the wall, pinning her small wrists above her head. The impact rattled her teeth. She didn’t cry out. She’d learned not to.

“You’re pathetic,” he spat in a whisper, his voice a knife pressed to her throat. “Always snivelling. Always trembling. Do you think people pity you? Do you think they don’t know you’re just a weak, pitiful mess? You shame this family every time you breathe.”

Druella didn’t respond. Her lip throbbed from the earlier blow—split, crusted with blood. She could taste it again now, warm and bitter.

But this time… something inside her clicked.

Cold.

Still.

Lucius leaned in, breath sour with fury. “You’ve got those bloody Gryffindors watching you like you’re a little lost creature. Do you want them thinking you’re some—victim?”

His grip tightened. Druella didn’t flinch. Her wide green eyes slowly narrowed, flat as glass. There was no tear. No tremble.

She looked up at him with something he’d never seen in her before.

Hatred.

True hatred.

And then she said it.

Not shouted. Not wept.

Just said it—calm, certain, final.

“I hope you die.”

Lucius blinked.

He hadn’t expected words like that from her. Not her. Not the little girl he thought he’d broken.

The slap came instantly, harsh across her face.

Her cheek exploded with pain, but she didn’t cry out. She didn’t move. She just stared back at him with that same eerie calm.

“You little brat,” he hissed. “Cissa’s made you soft. That’s what this is. She’s ruined you. A disgrace. Just like your mother.”

Druella eyebrows turned and leaned in closer, voice still soft. “Then why don’t you tell Aunt Narcissa that yourself?”

"She's right behind you." Druella informed him.

Lucius paused.

And then he realised.

Her eyes weren’t locked on him anymore.

They were staring past his shoulder.

He turned.

Chapter Text

Narcissa stood behind him, her expression unreadable, her arms crossed like a storm wrapped in velvet. Her eyes dropped slowly to where his hand still clutched Druella’s wrist.

Lucius loosened his grip at once, slipping on that perfect mask. The doting uncle. The misunderstood patriarch.

“There we are,” he said, tone warm, brushing Druella’s hair from her face with mock affection. “You poor thing. Always tumbling. She tripped, Cissy. Ran into a display—ripped her robes, caught her just in time, didn’t I, sweet girl?”

Druella didn’t answer.

She stared through him now.

“See?” he continued, arm tightening ever so slightly again. “She’s just scared. It’s all been a bit much for her today. She’s so sensitive. You know how she is, Narcissa.”

Narcissa didn’t blink.

She stared directly at Lucius’s hand.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Lucius faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Now, Narcissa, don’t overreact. You know how she gets—”

“I said let her go.”

He dropped Druella like she burned him. She staggered backwards, her knees buckling slightly. Narcissa took a slow step forward, eyes on her niece’s lip, then back at Lucius.

“That nice girl Hermione told me what you did,” she said evenly. “And the Weasleys told us. Harry Potter, several witnesses confirmed it on our way here.”

Lucius scoffed. “I raised my voice when I caught her with a Mudblood. That’s all. She tripped and—”

“You split her lip,” came a growl.

Bellatrix emerged from the shadows like a firestorm let loose. Her wand was already drawn, her eyes burning like coals under a winter moon. Her hair wild, her cloak fluttering, she looked like a curse wrapped in velvet.

“You touched my daughter?” she hissed, voice quaking. “You dare to burn her friend. You dare—dare lay hands on her?”

“It was a misunderstanding—” Lucius tried, but Bellatrix’s glare cut the words from his throat.

“You struck her in public, you burned her stuffed animal,” Narcissa added coldly. “And you lied about it. Just now. You lied to my face.”

“She’s delicate,” Lucius said quickly, grasping at anything now. “She cries easily. I was only trying to guide her—”

“Guide her?” Bellatrix spat. “She flinches when your name is said aloud. She cowers in hallways. That isn’t delicate. That’s fear. And you caused it.”

Lucius’s charm cracked.

“She needs structure!” he barked, reaching again—grabbing Druella by the wrist, pulling her forward like a ragdoll as Druella struggled and her eyes widened in horror as his hands were on her shoulders. “She’s an unstable little thing, a curse, and I won’t have her tarnish my family—”

Druella sat down on the ground again, trembling, and her lip quaking.

Then she sobbed. Sobbed as if it was the first time this was ever exposed.

"Stop crying." Lucius snapped.

Time seemed to freeze as everyone watched the girl cry. Arthur looked torn, seeing this girl who should be his enemy's child, shaken and abused. And the worst part her mother just found out. 

And she looked at Lucius like she wanted to strike him just for making her cry.

But finding out she was abused.

She wanted to do much more.

Druella covered her face, crying. Lucius tried to reach her, but Arthur blocked him again.

And then—

Footsteps. Fast. Hesitant.

"Ella..."

She uncovered her head and looked up.

Harry stood above her, backlit by the sun slanting through the cobbled street. Her eyes are puffy, looking at his green eyes. She expected something more negative. More rejection for her family, her cousin, and her life. 

But to her shock, they let out a small smile. His hand was outstretched, palm open. A silent offer.

She blinked at it.

Why? Why him?

Why didn't he leave her?

Shouldn’t he hate her? Shouldn’t he walk away?

But he didn’t. He stayed.

And when she hesitated—heart pounding, unsure if she was even allowed this—he didn’t flinch.

He simply said, softly, “Come on.”

Druella reached out.

Their fingers met.

He pulled her to her feet, slow and careful like she might break if he moved too fast.

And for a moment—just a second—she felt like maybe the world hadn’t collapsed. Not completely. Maybe she wasn’t as alone as she'd thought.

She was left in a state of shock by this boy.

The Boy Who Lived. 

Had every reason to hate her.

Had every reason to leave her.

To reject her.

But he didn't...

She didn't know what she was feeling.

Safe?

Protected?

Loved?

Belonging?

Accepted?

Accepted by one who should've seen her as an enemy. He only smiled at her a true smile then other kids have given her. She shed another tear, unsure how to respond. So she was silent, but she finally started to see that he was like her hero.

But the moment was over quickly when Lucius came back, pushed Harry off, and was furious at Druella.

Druella struggled against Lucius’s iron grip as his fingers dug into her arms, bruising deep. His face loomed above hers, twisted in fury, his pupils tinged red with rage.

“Oh, you little brat,” he hissed, spit flying. “You think you're clever? You think you're strong?”

Blood from her split lip had reached her chin, trailing down her throat like war paint.

“You won’t destroy this family,” he snarled. “You stupid, worthless child.”

Druella’s voice was weak, trembling—but still there. “You already did.”

His eyes narrowed.

The slap came fast and brutal.

Her head snapped to the side, dark curls whipping across her face.

“You’re making a scene,” she mumbled through a shaky breath, the taste of blood thick in her mouth.

The second slap was louder. Cruel.

A child in the crowd screamed and ducked behind their parent, unable to watch.

Lucius grabbed Druella again, shaking her. “Ungrateful little snake! You want to humiliate me in public? You want to play victim?”

"You're humiliating yourself."

She tried to look up, dazed, dauntless—but he struck her a third time before she could speak.

She screamed this time.

And that was the last straw.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” bellowed a voice like thunder.

The crowd parted as Arthur Weasley surged forward, eyes blazing, face dark with fury. He didn’t hesitate. He slammed both hands into Lucius’s chest, sending the man reeling backward into a shop wall with a thud.

Lucius gasped, stumbling, rage flashing across his face—but Arthur stood like a wall between him and the girl.

“You don’t lay hands on a child,” Arthur growled. “Not here. Not ever again.”

Lucius spat, dishevelled now. “This is a family matter!”

Arthur’s glare sharpened. “No. This is abuse. And the whole of Diagon Alley just saw it.”

Lucius looked around for support—but the faces in the crowd were blank, cold, watching. No one moved. No one spoke.

He was alone.

Druella had crumpled to the ground, knees drawn up, blood staining her chin and robes. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, dazed.

Then they locked on Arthur.

She blinked at him like he wasn’t real.

Not because he was strong.

But because he was kind.

Lucius lunged, furious, trying to shove past—but Arthur turned swiftly and swept Druella up into his arms.

She didn’t fight it.

Her head fell limply against his shoulder, her fingers twisting into his robes. She was so light. So small.

And she wasn’t crying.

Not yet.

She just stared, wide-eyed and silent, breathing in ragged gasps.

Arthur turned and strode across the cobblestones toward the only person who might hold this girl together.

Bellatrix.

She stood frozen at first—eyes locked on Lucius, jaw clenched, wand trembling in her hand. But when she saw Druella in Arthur’s arms, she broke into motion, hands already out.

Arthur passed the girl into her grasp.

Bellatrix held Druella close, her arms coiling tightly around the girl’s trembling frame. She pressed Druella’s head to her chest, fingers trembling at the back of her skull.

“My girl,” Bellatrix whispered. “My poor, brave girl…”

Druella didn’t answer.

Didn’t lift her head.

She buried her face in her mother’s robes—

Narcissa stepped beside them, reaching to touch Druella’s hair. She looked back at Lucius, furious, humiliated.

“We’ll handle it from here,” she said. And her voice left no room for argument.

Narcissa's eyes locked on Druella. In an instant, she was kneeling, cradling Druella’s face between her hands.

“Oh… my sweet girl,” she breathed, her voice quivering. “Look at me… look at me.”

Her thumbs wiped at the tears beneath Druella’s eyes, her fingertips lingered just beneath her pale green eyes as she looked at Druella's scared, trembling body, as part of her half-adult and half-baby teeth showed. Narcissa inspected and saw the swollen lip. The blood. The dazed shock in her niece’s expression. Her own composure cracked.

“Did Lucius do this? He struck you here?” she asked, her fingertips behind Druella's eyes while stroking her cheeks, but though her eyes had already drifted toward Arthur, because she knew the answer. She saw it on every face. She saw it on Harry’s. On the Weasleys'. And on her first new best friend, Hermione Granger. The one who told Narcissa and Bellatrix the truth. The truth was out now, and time won't turn back to stop it.

Lucius isn't getting away with it. 

Not this time.

This time, Lucius hadn't done it in secret.

This time, the whole world saw.

Narcissa inhaled sharply, her jaw tightening, Druella still in her arms. “Bella,” Narcissa said in a low voice. “We’ll handle this.”

Bellatrix had stepped closer now. Her presence was coiled, lethal.

“You laid hands on my daughter,” she said coldly. “And you burned her toy. You did it in front of everyone. You can't hide it anymore; everyone saw it. You made a scene, now you can't hide it from me. I know now.”

She drew her wand and pressed it under Lucius’s chin, not caring who saw. “And if you do it again,” she dared him, “and I’ll take your fingers first.”

Narcissa placed a steadying hand on her arm. “Bella. Not here. Not like this.”

Bellatrix didn’t look away. But she lowered her wand. Barely.

Behind them, the crowd stared. Even the goblins on the Gringotts steps had paused. Mothers shielded their children. Hermione’s hand was still at her mouth.

“She’s ten,” she whispered. “She’s just a child.”

Ginny clutched her books like a shield.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered. “Bloody, bloody, hell.”

Harry was already moving—halfway between rushing in and holding back. His fists were clenched white. He had never seen anything like this.

And now, as the tension crackled around them, Druella wavered on her feet—until Narcissa caught her again and kissed her forehead, pulling her close like a mother might.

Bellatrix stepped in, arms open.

And Druella, cheeks flushed and lip bleeding, collapsed into her mother’s embrace.

“I’ve got you,” Bellatrix whispered into her hair. “You’re safe now, my little Black Blossom.”

Lucius took a step forward, still trying to save face, but Narcissa moved first. Her heels struck the cobblestones like a war drum.

“You think anyone will defend you now, my love?” she asked, her voice smooth, but shaking with fury.

“You hit her,” Narcissa said again. “In front of the Alley. After you’ve been hitting her in secret. After she never said a word.”

“You lied to me,” she breathed. “You lied to us.”

“I disciplined her—”

“You hurt her!”

Narcissa’s voice cracked like lightning over cobblestone.

Her hands were clenched—tightly enough that her knuckles blanched white, as if holding herself together through sheer force of will. Her wand wasn’t drawn, but she didn’t need it. Not when her voice alone could stop time.

Draco stood frozen.

Druella sobbed quietly into Bellatrix’s robes, curled against her mother like a shattered glass doll being slowly pieced together. Bellatrix held her with both arms, her fingers gently combing through Druella’s hair—but her eyes were on Narcissa, waiting.

Watching.

Draco’s lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. His face was pale. Ashen. A Malfoy mask was already cracking around the edges.

He looked at his cousin—his near-sister-the girl who once followed him around the manor like a duckling, and now trembled in their mother’s arms like she’d broken in half.

He’d known something was wrong for years.

He just hadn't acted.

Druella lifted her face from Bellatrix’s shoulder, eyes red, but steady. She looked at Draco. And in that moment, despite everything, she still looked at him like she wanted him to say something—anything.

And for a second, he almost did.

Until he glanced toward Lucius, whose eyes glinted like glass in the distance near Arthur, he was silent and unmoved.

Draco's jaw set. His spine straightened. The cold mask returned.

“Mummy’s girl,” he sneered.

The words left his mouth like venom.

Druella flinched.

Bellatrix stiffened—but it was Narcissa who moved.

She was on him in seconds.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

Her voice rang down the alley. Shoppers turned. Storefronts quieted. Even the crows on the rooftops seemed to pause.

Draco took a step back.

“You dare,” she hissed, advancing, “you dare speak like him after what you let happen under my roof?”

He opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“You knew, Draco! You knew!” Her voice cracked—not with weakness, but fury barely held together. “Don’t you lie to me. I saw it in your eyes, year after year. The way you looked at her. The way you looked away.”

“I—”

“You let him touch her. You let him scream at her. You let him shatter her, and you never once came to me.” Her voice lowered, dangerous. “Do you understand what that makes you? Do you?”

Draco’s mouth moved, but no sound came.

“A coward.”

He recoiled.

“You always thought strength meant silence. Obedience. Mimicking your father’s cruelty and pretending it made you powerful. But it doesn’t. It makes you his echo.” Her voice trembled. “You weren’t raised to be him. You were raised to be better.”

He looked away.

She took another step.

“When Druella needed a big brother. When she cried in front of us, she wouldn't speak. You rolled your eyes. You looked away and never told me. You want to throw words at her now? Try them again—look in her eyes and say it.”

Draco glanced toward Druella. But she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

"Say it," Narcissa ordered. 

She was back in Bellatrix’s arms, eyes closed, face hidden.

She was done listening; she only stroked Druella's hair.

"That's what I thought, young man." Narcissa sneered.

And Narcissa? Narcissa was far from finished.

"Now you listen to me, she may not have the last name Malfoy,” she said, every word sharp and trembling. “But this girl-this girl is more Malfoy than your father ever is and ever will be. She just endured. She just survived. She still breathes, and that is more strength than what you've shown this holiday. Complaining about Potter as your cousin hid in her bedroom.”

Lucius took a step forward, as if to speak—but Narcissa cut him down with a single look. “Not a word. Not a single word from you.”

Lucius froze.

Narcissa turned back to her son. Her voice dropped, cold and final.

“You don’t get to wear that name like armour if you choose to hide behind it like a coward.”

She stepped back to Bellatrix, knelt beside them, and kissed Druella’s hair with infinite care.

Bellatrix’s eyes never left Draco.

And for once, he couldn’t meet them.

Not hers. Not Druella’s.

Not even at the reflection of the window in the shop.

Because he knew—he had inherited more than Lucius’s name.

He'd inherited his silence.

And for the first time, Draco Malfoy wasn't sure who he wanted to be anymore.

Bellatrix slowly raised her head. Her eyes were no longer wild but glacial, hard as diamonds. Cold stars that promised annihilation.

“You put your hands on my baby,” she whispered.

Her voice was deathly calm.

“She is mine. And you know I don’t forgive.”

Molly Weasley sucked in a sharp breath, then hurriedly pulled Ginny behind her, shielding her daughter’s wide eyes.

“This is not how families treat children,” Molly said in a shaking whisper. “This is evil.”

Lockhart, lingering at the edge of the frozen crowd with his mouth hanging open, fumbled for his ridiculous peacock-feather quill.

“Quick—someone—someone alert the Prophet,” he mumbled.

“Shut up, Lockhart!” one of the twins snapped, face red with rage.

Meanwhile, in Bellatrix’s arms, Druella trembled but raised her head slightly, eyes wet but defiant.

Narcissa’s voice lashed across the silence, low and sharp as a whip.

“Is this what you do when we’re not around?” she demanded.

Lucius’s nostrils flared. “No,” he said coldly. “She can tell you herself.”

Bellatrix turned her head slowly, hair brushing her daughter’s cheek.

“Druella,” she said quietly, too quietly. “Tell me the truth. All of it. Did he hit you before?”

Lucius’s head snapped around.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed.

Bellatrix’s fingers tightened on Druella’s shoulders protectively.

“Answer me, baby,” she breathed, voice cracking.

Druella’s lip trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, breath hitching.

Then she nodded.

Lucius’s jaw worked. “It was only a few times,” he spat.

Druella’s eyes snapped open. Her voice was quiet. Cold.

“No, it’s not true,” she whispered.

Bellatrix’s grip on her tightened, as if afraid she might vanish.

“Tell me everything,” Bellatrix ordered, voice vibrating with fury she was barely containing.

Druella swallowed hard.

“He always hits me when you’re not home, Mother,” she said, voice breaking around the word ‘Mother’ like it hurt to say. “I-I thought it was normal. He says... he says I’m nothing and other bad names when you're not around.”

A shocked gasp rippled through the onlookers.

Lucius’s face went bone white. “She didn’t say that—”

“She said it,” Arthur Weasley snapped, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “And she meant it.”

Narcissa’s eyes were gleaming with unshed tears. But her voice was ice.

“And the stuffed animal,” Narcissa demanded, her voice shaking. “Nyssa. Did he really burn it?”

Lucius barked a harsh laugh. “It was a filthy rag—”

“Silence,” Bellatrix snarled, voice venomous. She turned back to her daughter, softening just barely. “Tell me, Druella. Did he burn Nyssa?”

Lucius’s voice went low and threatening.

“Don’t you dare answer that.”

Bellatrix’s fingers dug in so hard Druella flinched, but she didn’t let go.

“Answer me right now.”

Druella’s breath trembled. She wiped her tears with the back of her wrist.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice cracking. “He… he burned her. In front of everyone. He shoved me on a bookcase. Then he told me not to cry, then slapped me and dragged me out, and that's why my robes are ripped and my books are at the store.”

Bellatrix’s arms clamped around her daughter like iron bands.

“I’ll kill him,” she breathed, voice shaking with raw fury. “I’ll butcher him for that.”

Narcissa’s lips parted as though she might say something soothing, but the words died in her throat. Instead, she turned on Lucius, voice low and lethal.

“You laid hands on my niece. You humiliated her. You terrorised her. You burnt the one thing that comforted her at night. In front of a crowd. Do you know what that makes you?”

Lucius’s lips curled, but even he seemed to realise the room was no longer with him.

Bellatrix pressed her face to Druella’s hair, whispering fiercely.

“I’ve got you. He’ll never touch you again.”

And as Lucius looked at the two Black sisters, standing together, their eyes like twin green fires trained on him, he finally realised.

Bellatrix looked down at her daughter, then back up at Lucius, her voice low and deathly calm.

“She’s not your problem anymore, Lucius.”

“She never was,” Narcissa said.

Lucius glanced around, finally realising the crowd wasn’t on his side. Even Harvey Crispin, the same Daily Prophet photographer, had taken the first picture with his camera lowered, unsure if he was even allowed to take the picture.

Click.

He took a picture anyway.

“Let me see, Druella,” Bellatrix whispered.

A faint golden glow shimmered from the tip of Bellatrix’s wand as she murmured the healing charm, voice low and steady. The bruises on Druella’s cheek began to fade, the swelling drawing back beneath her skin. But the tension did not.

If anything, it grew heavier. Denser.

The lip remained torn. 

When the light dimmed, Bellatrix turned to Lucius, her eyes wild and storm-dark, expression unreadable. Her lips curled into something that almost looked like a smile—but it held no joy.

Only promise.

“You’ve made your choices, Lucius,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet but ice-cold. “You raised your hand to my daughter.”

She stepped forward, slow and precise, each movement more like a judgment than a threat.

“There is no forgiveness for that. None.”

Lucius opened his mouth, but no sound came. Bellatrix didn’t give him the space to speak.

“For the sake of my sister—who still bears your name—and for her son, who is innocent under your shadow, I will not destroy the Malfoy line tonight.”

Her voice was soft. Too soft.

“But don’t mistake mercy for surrender.”

She leaned in, her tone lowering until it became a blade meant only for him.

“You will bleed for what you’ve done to her. Not in flesh—not in something that heals. But in legacy. In fear. In silence.”

Lucius flinched, ever so slightly.

Bellatrix’s eyes were still wide. Still unblinking. Cold as a void older than time.

“I will be the shadow in your halls. The whisper in your dreams. The cold that turns every loyal ally into a stranger. I will end you not with a wand—but with ruin.”

She smiled, just faintly.

“And when it happens, when your wealth ruptures and your name means nothing… when your allies vanish and your power is ash… you will think of this day. This moment.”

She tilted her head with the elegance of something inhuman.

“You will remember what you did to her—and you will beg for forgiveness and for me to stop.”

Then she straightened. Drew in a breath. Her wand lowered—but her wrath did not.

“And don’t confuse what you’ve earned with what I’ll allow,” she said, glancing briefly toward Narcissa. “Cissy did not raise your hand. Nor did Draco spill my daughter’s blood. They are not you.”

Her voice cooled even more.

“But neither are they her.”

She looked down at Druella, who trembled silently in her arms, too stunned to move.

“She is mine,” Bellatrix said. “She was always mine. And I will destroy anything that touches her again.”

The crowd held its breath. Not even a whisper passed between them.

And then Narcissa stepped forward—slow, deliberate, every inch of her the true Lady Malfoy, though the title no longer suited her.

She looked at Lucius like he was nothing.

Like he was no one.

Her voice rang clear, each word as sharp as cracked glass.

“Don’t. Cross. Me.”

Gasps rippled through the alley like wind through dry leaves. People stepped back, as if the weight of those words might turn to fire.

Lucius stood alone.

Druella, in Bellatrix’s arms, turned her face into her mother’s robes and whispered something only she could hear.

And for the first time, Lucius Malfoy understood.

Even Bellatrix paused, eyes flicking to her sister, and gave the faintest nod.

Druella, still trembling with her scraped lip, stared in silent awe. She wasn’t sure what stunned her more—Bellatrix’s violent promise or Narcissa’s calm, brutal stillness. Her lip may have bled. Her voice may have faltered.

But this?

This would bleed more.

Deeper.

Longer.

Lucius had made a grave mistake.

He hadn’t just hurt a child.

He’d hurt a child with two mothers.

And though this love wasn’t warm like Lily Potter’s, it was no less powerful.

It wasn’t sacrificial.

It was vengeful.

And it would not be forgotten.

And then—

Arthur Weasley stormed through the bystanders like a knight on a mission, his face red with righteous fury.

“What kind of man are you?” he bellowed, stopping in front of Lucius. “Striking a child? Your own niece? Burning her favourite toy? Look at her lip!”

Lucius turned with a sneer, still clearly intoxicated by his own delusions. “At least I’m not fraternising with Mudbloods and Muggles,” he spat. “You lot are little better than pets.”

Arthur’s jaw twitched. “You’re a coward. A vile one.”

“I’m a Malfoy,” Lucius snapped. "I can handle my bastard niece however I want. I am done dealing with such ignorance."

“And I’m done talking,” Arthur replied—and his fist flew.

Punch.

Chapter Text

Lucius stumbled backwards into a display stand of potion vials, sending glass shattering in every direction. Someone in the crowd gasped; someone else clapped.

And then all hell broke loose.

“ARTHUR NO!” Molly shrieked, rushing to the front, her eyes bulging. “Not in front of the children!”

Ron, thrilled, cheered. “YEAH, GET HIM, DAD!”

A twin whooped in unison. “KNOCK HIM INTO NEXT WEEK!”

The red-haired boy with glasses gasped in scandal as he adjusted. “Father, this is highly improper—!”

“Arthur, no! Not in front of Ginny!” Molly wailed, flinging her arms protectively around her daughter as if shielding her from an international scandal. “And certainly not in front of Gilderoy Lockhart!”

Just then, Lockhart emerged from Flourish and Blotts with a freshly signed stack of his own books—Magical Me, Travels with Trolls, and Gadding with Ghouls glinting like polished trophies under his arm.

He blinked at the chaotic scene unfolding in the alley.

Arthur Weasley had Lucius Malfoy by the collar and was currently teaching him what happened to men who struck children in broad daylight.

“Oh my,” Lockhart said brightly, fluffing his golden curls. “I seem to have missed the beginning of the duel—who’s winning?”

Then he saw her.

Bellatrix Black.

She moved across the fringe of the crowd like a queen descending a staircase, every step deliberate. Her robes billowed behind her like a dark flame, her long black hair spilling in wild, wind-kissed waves around her shoulders.

And at her side, pressed close with both hands on the young girl's shoulders, was Druella.

Druella’s small hands clutched the front of her robes. Her lip was still faintly red with blood, but Bellatrix’s soft humming and occasional strokes through her curls kept her grounded. Her eyes were wide, caught between the chaos and the calm, looking every bit like the young witch who had just come out of their worst nightmare.

Bellatrix’s fingers moved lightly over her daughter’s hair—gentle, adoring, but possessive. Like a lioness nuzzling her cub after battle.

She smiled—wide, amused, untouchable.

Lockhart turned completely, gawking. He had absolutely forgotten about the fight.

He caught Bellatrix’s eye.

And she, catching his gaze, tilted her head slowly, a wicked little smile curving her mouth.

Lockhart blinked rapidly. “And who,” he breathed, “is that radiant creature?”

Bellatrix sauntered toward him, one hand trailing over Druella’s sleeve before settling both palms on her daughter’s shoulders. She kept the girl close—part shield, part crown.

“I’m Bellatrix,” she purred, eyes flashing like twin curses. “Black.”

Lockhart’s mouth fell open. “You’re… the Bellatrix? Matriarch of the Noble House Black?”

She smiled, indulgent. “The very one.”

And then—before anyone could move—Bellatrix leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

It was a warning.

Lockhart reeled, blinking as if Stupefied, his armful of books avalanching to the cobbles with a theatrical thud.

Druella stared up at her mother, bloody lip parted, one brow arched in mute disbelief.

Across the alley, Narcissa’s gasp cut the air. “Bella!”

“Oh, please,” Bellatrix said lightly, dabbing her mouth with a gloved knuckle. “He’ll survive.”

Lockhart, swaying, clutched at his heart. “I… I think I’m in love.”

“Of course you are,” Bellatrix murmured, smug, pulling Druella even closer. The girl shot Lockhart a flat, unimpressed look.

“All the pretty ones are.”

She tipped Lockhart a second, airy peck on the cheek. Somewhere in the crowd, a cluster of witches actually squealed.

“Ew, Mother,” Druella rasped, looking perilously close to gagging.

Molly let out a horrified yelp and clamped both hands over Ginny’s eyes. “Gilderoy! Not in front of the children!”

Bellatrix didn’t bother to glance over.

She bent and pressed a gentle kiss to Druella’s temple instead, her voice a delighted whisper. “Let them talk, darling. It only makes us more interesting.”

And Druella, wide-eyed and shaken, nestled against her mother’s side—quiet, stunned, and, for the first time in a long time… safe.

“Not in front of Ginny!” she wailed, spinning Ginny away like she’d been exposed to a Dark curse.

Fred and George both doubled over laughing. “You should’ve seen your face, Lockhart!”

Draco stared at Lockhart like he’d just witnessed someone French kiss a Bludger.

Hermione muttered, “Is she even allowed to do that?”

Ron covered his eyes. “I don’t know what just happened, and I don’t even want to know.”

Meanwhile, Bellatrix winked at her daughter, holding her still. “Lesson one, Druella: never let a fool look away twice.”

Back at the centre of the chaos, Arthur Weasley had Lucius by the collar, the front of the man’s pristine robes now wrinkled and stained with scuffed dirt. Lucius’s white-blond hair clung to his forehead with sweat, his lip already bleeding slightly from the earlier blow. They were still fighting. Arthur punched Lucius in the face. Lucius tried to strike back, but Arthur dodged him quickly. Then punched him again.

“You think you’re untouchable?” Arthur barked, his voice louder than the crowd. “You think you can hurt a child and walk away?”

Lucius, desperate, swung a fist—

—and missed completely.

Arthur’s retaliation was immediate—a solid punch to the ribs that sent Lucius staggering.

“You hit a ten-year-old!” Arthur shouted, dragging him upright again by the front of his robes. “You laid your hands on a girl! On your own niece! Now you'll see how it feels to be the one beaten!” 

“I was defending our legacy—!”

“You’re a bloody disgrace!”

At that, the Weasley kids roared in unison.

“GET HIM, DAD!” Ron yelled, practically hopping with excitement.

One of the twins whooped, voice ringing over the chaos.

“Right hook, Dad! That’s it!”

The other leaned forward eagerly.

“Yes! Get him, Dad!”

“Ten Galleons says he breaks his nose!”

Arthur Weasley, red-faced and furious, had Lucius by the collar, practically shaking him.

“You did this!” Arthur roared, gesturing furiously toward Druella without letting Lucius go. “You put your hands on her!”

Lucius twisted, spitting his words like poison.

“She did this to me! She ruined my reputation!”

Arthur barked a disbelieving laugh.

“Your reputation? You lost your reputation the second you beat your niece in public. Everyone saw it!”

“Yep—sure did,” Lucius sneered. And then he struck Arthur across the jaw, sloppy but furious.

Arthur barely blinked before returning the favour with a solid punch that sent Lucius staggering.

The twins were howling with unholy delight.

“Go on, Dad! Break his nose!”

“Right in the face—don’t hold back!”

Lucius lunged again, wild and graceless. Arthur caught him in another swing.

She lets out a wicked grin, enjoying her uncle's pain.

Bellatrix leaned lazily against a wall, arms folded, smiling like this was her idea of theatre. “Mm. Good form.”

Druella nodded at her mother.

"Yes, he clearly knows how to pummel him. I wonder what else will happen? Maybe he'll break his teeth, Mother."

"Or he'll rip his hair."

"Maybe he'll get a black eye," Druella responded to the engaging conversation between mother and daughter.

Narcissa, meanwhile, looked flabbergasted and finally stepped in.

“No, no, no—absolutely not!” she shrieked, swooping in, pushing her sister and seizing Druella by the shoulders like she was rescuing her from a collapsing building. “Nothing to see here, darling! Nothing. To. See. Here!”

With one hand, she yanked Druella to her chest. With the other, she dramatically flung her cloak like a curtain around the girl and covered her eyes with both gloved hands.

“Cissy—she’s not a baby,” Bellatrix said flatly.

“She is ten,” Narcissa snapped as if the age itself was a legal defence. “And she has delicate nerves! Look at her! She’s been through enough today!”

Druella squirmed, her voice muffled under Narcissa’s arms. “Please, Aunt Narcissa! Just a peek! I want to see Uncle get flattened! Draco gets to watch!”

Draco was too stunned to respond.

“Absolutely not!” Narcissa gasped as if Druella had asked to watch a crime. “Draco is different. But we are ladies, and we do not watch our relatives get pummeled in public—no matter how richly they deserve it!”

Meanwhile, Ginny peeked from behind Molly, eyes wide. “Give him another one, Dad!”

Molly, however, was practically combusting. She marched straight into the brawl, apron flaring like battle standards, voice shrill with maternal horror.

“ARTHUR WEASLEY!” she shrieked. “Have you gone mad?! You’re a Ministry man! What will they think?!”

Arthur didn’t even pause mid-swing.

“So is Lucius—he’s a Hogwarts Board Governor and he hit Druella!” he roared, punching Lucius in the jaw with a satisfying crack.

Lucius stumbled but spat blood and sneered, lunging back with a sloppy swing.

Arthur ducked it, voice shaking with rage.

“I hardly get paid as it is! I’m one bad mistep away from getting sacked anyway! I’ve got nothing left to lose!”

Molly let out a strangled noise, hands flapping in useless fury.

“I know!” she wailed. “But NOT in front of the children! Not in front of Ginny! Not in front of GILDEROY LOCKHART!”

Lockhart, who had been watching with rapt, dazed interest (and a smudge of Bellatrix’s lipstick still on his cheek), perked up at his name.

He gave a dainty wave.

“Don’t worry, Molly. I’m taking excellent notes.”

Molly rounded on him like a thunderstorm.

“GILDEROY, FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, STOP TAKING NOTES AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL!”

Lockhart gave an affronted click of his quill.

“Oh, but Molly—this is perfect! My next chapter: When Wands Are Not Enough: The Art of the Gentleman’s Duel.”

Bellatrix gave a delighted, mocking laugh from where she stood, one hand still resting protectively on Druella’s shoulder.

“Maybe I’ll autograph it for you,” she drawled. “Add a kiss mark for dramatic flair.”

“I swear to Salazar, Bella—” Narcissa began, pinching the bridge of her nose, but Bellatrix cut her off with a wicked smirk.

Druella peeked out from between the folds of Narcissa’s cloak, eyes wide and fascinated despite herself.

“I saw that,” Narcissa hissed, yanking her niece back and adjusting her grip like a shield.

From behind the heavy fabric, Druella’s muffled voice sounded sour.

“He deserves it, you know.”

“Yes,” Narcissa sniffed primly, “but this is not how we ladies handle it.”

Bellatrix’s grin went feral.

“Which is precisely why I am not a lady.”

And Arthur swung again.

Meanwhile, the Weasley boy with glasses had their arms folded stiffly, shaking his head, trying to sound proper, unlike his siblings. “This is highly improper, Father. Highly. Someone here should just call the authorities—”

“Shut it, Percy!” Ginny snapped. “You saw what Lucius did! The girl is a brat, but I love a good form of justice!”

Ginny still had the cauldron on her arms, the book Lucius placed with hers was still there, she, of course, was unaware.

And somewhere behind the crowd, Gilderoy Lockhart scribbled away with gleeful abandon, already titling.

At that, Ron screamed, “BREAK HIS NOSE, DAD!” Fred added, “LEFT HOOK, LEFT HOOK!”

Narcissa struggled on Druella's face, covering her eyes.

“No! This is not for you!” she hissed. “There’s nothing to see here. NOTHING. TO. SEE.”

Druella tried to wriggle out of her grasp. “But I want to see!”

“No!” Narcissa nearly shrieked. “You’re too young for public brawls and broken noses!”

“It’s funny!” Fred yelled from the crowd.

Draco finally unfroze and stumbled over to his mother. “Mother, what is happening?”

“Your father is finally being held accountable for his actions,” Narcissa muttered, dragging him to her side with one arm and holding Druella in the other. “Get over here, you are not going to be in this fight."

Bellatrix, meanwhile, leaned down and smirked at Druella. “You want to watch your uncle get flattened, don’t you, darling?”

Druella nodded eagerly. “Yes, Mother.”

“Then go ahead,” Bellatrix whispered, brushing back her daughter’s curls. “Your aunt can’t stop you forever.”

“Bella”, Narcissa snapped, scandalised, covering Druella's eyes again.

“Relax, Cissy,” Bellatrix replied with a wicked grin. “She’s seen worse in bedtime stories. She's heard my bedroom as well. With my extracurriculum, when my flings are over.”

"INAPPROPRIATE!" Narcissa screamed. "Don't talk about your love life; we're in public!"

Arthur landed another punch, knocking Lucius flat on his back.

“Arthur, STOP!” Molly bellowed. “PEOPLE ARE STILL WATCHING!”

Molly covered her face. “I swear, if this ends up in Teen Witch Weekly, I will murder every one of you.”

Lucius groaned on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, his blond hair a mess, his dignity in ruins.

Bellatrix blew a sarcastic kiss toward the shrinking figure of Lucius Malfoy.

“How’s that legacy holding up now, Lucy?” she hissed, the words dripping with venom.

Then her gaze shifted—quick, sharp—to Druella, and she got Narcissa off of her.

Her daughter stood silently, her cheek still flushed from the slap, her lip split and tinged with dried blood. Her fingers trembled around the folds of her mother’s robe.

Bellatrix’s expression softened at once.

"Let's go get you something special," she murmured, voice dropping to a velvet hush. With a tenderness she rarely showed in public, she brushed her thumb over Druella’s lip, wiping away the blood. “For my special little girl.”

Druella only nodded, leaning into her mother as Bellatrix slid an arm around her shoulders and led her away from the crowd. She walked on shaky legs, but she moved, clutching Bellatrix’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

As the murmurs of Diagon Alley faded behind them, a shadow stepped into their path—a massive figure, wild-haired and broad-shouldered.

A very tall man, who broke up the fight between Arthur and Lucius.

He took one look at Druella and stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened with unmistakable concern as they fell on her face.

He didn’t look at her like the others did. Not with fear. Not with curiosity. But with something quieter. Something warm.

Bellatrix’s head lifted like a cobra sensing a threat, but she didn’t hex him.

Instead, she simply narrowed her eyes, warning, but curious.

The giant man paused, scratching his beard awkwardly. “Er… back in a tick.”

He turned and melted into the crowd, leaving Druella blinking.

Bellatrix muttered something sharp under her breath, brushing a strand of hair from Druella’s eyes. “Let them stare. You’re stronger than they’ll ever be.”

Then man returned, his heavy steps shaking the cobblestones, and in his enormous hands was the most unexpected offering: a pastel-colored dish of ice cream. Two scoops. Vanilla. Chocolate. A little paper umbrella.

He held it out, carefully balanced like he was handling crystal.

“For yeh, miss,” he said gently, his voice a deep rumble that was somehow kind. “Didn’t seem right, what happened. This’s just a small thing, yeah? Ice cream always helps a bit.”

Druella blinked.

Her hands twitched toward it, then paused.

She looked up at her mother, seeking silent permission.

Bellatrix didn’t say a word. She only looked at Hagrid for a long moment, then gave the faintest nod.

Druella reached out, her small fingers curling around the dish. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice still thin.

The kindness pierced something. Something she hadn’t known was cracked.

"Who are you sir?" Druella asked kindly.

Hagrid smiled, the warmth of it melting through the air. “Name’s Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. You’ll be there soon, yeah? I’ll be around. Keepin’ an eye out.”

Druella hesitated. Then: “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in hours, her voice held a flicker of something else.

Hagrid gave a gentle nod and disappeared back into the crowd.

Bellatrix crouched beside Druella immediately, waving her wand, fixing the rip on her robes and fussing over her hood, tucking her cloak tight around her. Her hands were careful, reverent, as though Druella were made of glass.

“You don’t speak to anyone else today,” she whispered, brushing her hair back from her face. “Not even to thank them. They don’t get to see you like this. You will stay close to me now. No more leaving my sight right now. Or ever again in public. Only Hogwarts or your bedroom at home is allowed out of my sight now. No need to socialise with Lucius anymore.”

Druella hesitated but nodded, quietly licking the corner of the ice cream. Her lip stung, but the sweetness cut through it. The gesture meant more than the taste.

Bellatrix leaned close, her voice like silk again.

“You’re mine, you understand? You’re not his legacy or their curiosity. You’re my daughter. My revenge. My promise.”

Druella tucked herself closer into Bellatrix’s side, the cold dish nestled against her chest.

And Bellatrix, the war criminal turned mother, gently stroked her hair as they walked away—her chin lifted high, her daughter wrapped in shadows and sweetness and the warm promise of protection that only a mother like her could make.

Back in the square, the Weasleys were still buzzing with chaotic energy.

“That was brilliant!” Ron breathed, his voice filled with awe and secondhand adrenaline. “Dad really showed him!”

“Best thing I’ve seen all year,” the First twin added, grinning.

“I thought Mum was going to faint!” The other twin said, nudging Ginny.

Hermione, who had remained quiet through most of the aftermath, crossed her arms and frowned. “We still need to check on Druella. That was a public assault.”

“I dunno,” Ron muttered. “Looked like her mum had it handled…”

“She was bleeding, Ron!” Hermione snapped. “No child deserves that. I don’t care who her parents are.”

Arthur stood quietly to the side, his gaze fixed in the direction Bellatrix and Druella had gone. After a moment, he turned to his children.

“I’m going after them,” he said simply.

Ron’s face twisted in disbelief. “Dad, you told us to stay out of Knockturn Alley—!”

Arthur’s voice was calm but resolute. “You can stay here with your mother. But I’m not letting her disappear down there with blood on her face and a man like Lucius still breathing.”

The boys exchanged glances.

“Yeah, alright,” One twin muttered.

“Let’s go,” the Other one added.

Ron hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the looming sign over the crooked alleyway, but eventually nodded, and the group followed Arthur Weasley into the shadows of Knockturn Alley. The atmosphere immediately shifted—the air was cooler, heavier. Everything smelled of ash and damp parchment.

Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself, instinctively glancing back over his shoulder. “This is… a bit beyond window shopping.”

“Dad said we’d follow her to make sure she’s alright,” Ron whispered.

“I don’t think Bellatrix is the one who needs watching, Ron,” Harry muttered back, casting a glance toward the pair ahead of them.

Chapter Text

Bellatrix had one hand firmly wrapped around Druella’s, her wand hand twitching at her side like a living nerve. That grip wasn’t just protective—it was territorial. Possessive. Like Druella was a jewel she’d kill to keep polished. Her presence sliced through the cluttered street like a dagger through silk, parting the crowds of Knockturn Alley in silence. No one dared cross her path.

“Mother… Knockturn Alley?” Druella whispered, reading the rusted sign aloud.

The letters were iron-welded and slick with old residue—not rust, but something darker.

Before she could ask another question, Bellatrix swept her up without warning.

Druella hunched as Bellatrix picked her up, eyes cold but a smile on her lips. "You'll be safe now. I promise." 

In one motion, she cradled Druella into her arms, holding her like something precious and fragile. The sudden lift made the last spoonful of ice cream in Druella’s dish spill down and shatter from her hands, forgotten. Druella tried to reach for it, but Bellatrix adjusted her grip, tucking Druella’s small form to her chest—one arm curled firmly around her upper back, the other beneath her knees, anchoring her like a delicate package she refused to let slip.

Her face was cold. Brutal. That trademark expression of someone who'd killed before and would kill again. But her hands? Her hands moved in slow, rhythmic circles across Druella’s spine—quiet, soothing patterns only a mother would know.

Bellatrix said nothing, her head lowered, and her hands holding Druella's trembling form.

Lucius crouched and looked up and saw Bellatrix, whose eyes squinted with hate. Pure hate. For what he did to her child. Her baby.

Druella trembled, gripping her mother's dress, and Bellatrix's cold, brutal face was still there, ready to strike when needed.

Lucius was nervous; he thought that Arthur Weasley pounding him was bad.

Just imagine what Bellatrix was going to do to him.

He expected a blowup, more rage befitting his crime.

Instead, Bellatrix just turned, flipped her cloak, flowing behind them like smoke, and stepped into the alley’s open mouth.

Knockturn Alley didn’t simply look cursed. It breathed. The shadows were too thick, the air heavy and sticky with old, whispered spells. Gas lamps flickered with sickly green light, casting warped shadows that danced too eagerly behind people's backs.

Druella peeked up, her cheek pressed into her mother’s chest, and saw the alley through the narrow space between Bellatrix’s hair and collarbone. Her mother’s black curls draped around her like curtains, but she could just see over her shoulder, watching the world unfold behind them like some haunted painting.

To the left, a man in a patchwork robe stood barefoot on broken wands, holding a cracked mirror and cackling at his reflection.

“He knows! HE KNOWS!” he screamed, eyes wide as he locked onto Druella. “He sees you, girl! He sees you every single day! He knows! He knows!”

Bellatrix raised her wand without a word. The man collapsed mid-scream, his voice cutting off like a strangled pipe organ. He slumped in place, drooling against his mirror.

Druella flinched.

Bellatrix’s arm instantly adjusted, pressing her daughter’s face more firmly into the velvet of her robes, her thumb brushing behind Druella’s ear.

“You’re alright,” she murmured. “Keep your eyes on me.”

But Druella couldn’t help it. Her head turned slightly, peering over her mother’s shoulder again as Bellatrix carried her deeper into the alley’s heart.

A crooked vendor under a mould-riddled umbrella bared a grin of filed teeth. Shrunken heads lined his table, alongside cursed Time-Turners and a velvet box labelled Dementor Toenails – Highly Illegal.

A witch stumbled by with a stitched-up cat draped over her shoulders, muttering, “They’re under the skin! Listening! The Ministry crawled inside my ribs!”

She collapsed against the wall, cradling a book that bled.

Still, Bellatrix did not flinch. Her boots struck the stone like war drums—slow, sure, unwavering. Each footfall said one thing: Move. Or perish.

A wizard in trench coats spun in place, surrounded by floating, severed hands that clapped slowly above his head.

“Audience of one! Applaud me! Applaud!”

A hag crouched beside a barrel of rat tails, raising one to Druella like a treat.

“First taste’s free, little legacy,” she rasped, her breath like ash.

Bellatrix didn’t even speak. She gave the woman a look—just a look—and the hag vanished into mist.

Druella curled tighter into her chest. Her face was tucked beneath Bellatrix’s chin now, but her eyes stayed locked on the world passing behind her. The safety of her mother’s arms and the horror outside them blurred together until Druella didn’t know if she was dreaming or awake.

She whispered, “Why is everyone… like this?”

“They weren’t always. This used to be the pride of Pureblood families centuries ago,” Bellatrix murmured. Her voice was low, firm. “But now this place just lets the madness breathe. Ministry law isn't involved here. They couldn't care less who does what here—crime by the day. Many of us do our secret deals and business here. But you didn't hear that from me.”

Her arms never loosened.

"Don't mention that to anyone. Seriously, don't. We don't wish to earn someone's bad side here."

Not even when a hunched crone stepped into their path, reaching out with gnarled hands.

“You’ve got magic leaking from your bones, girl,” she crooned. “Let me read your toes. Let me see the rot in your marrow…”

Bellatrix didn’t blink. She shifted Druella in her arms slightly, keeping her tucked safely into the crook of her shoulder, and drew her wand.

“Back. Away.”

The crone shrank into the fog, cackling as she vanished between shutters.

A man with rotting tattoos sneered something obscene under his breath.

Bellatrix ignored him.

Her focus never wavered. Her grip on Druella never slipped.

Druella’s breath hitched. “Do people always act like that… around you?”

Bellatrix gave a soft, almost amused exhale. “Sometimes,” she answered. “But don’t be afraid, my blossom. That madness? That decay? That’s not yours to carry. It’s theirs. That’s their inheritance.”

Behind them, Arthur Weasley moved in silence, shielding Ron, his eyes sharp, hands twitching near his wand.

Ron whispered, “They’re all insane. Why would anyone come here?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He was watching Bellatrix. Watching how her body never turned, never bent, never exposed the girl in her arms, not for one second.

“She’s shielding her,” Arthur murmured. “Every step. Like she’s walking through hell itself. And holding heaven in her arms.”

And she was.

Bellatrix, cruel and terrifying to all who looked upon her, moved through Knockturn Alley like death incarnate—but her grip on Druella never faltered. The child in her arms was not a hostage. Not a weakness.

She was hers.

And not a soul dared to challenge that.

Not anymore.

Ron stared. “That’s Bellatrix Lestrange? The Bellatrix?”

“Black,” Arthur corrected under his breath. “Druella’s last name isn’t Lestrange.”

“Still… she’s actually… caring for her?”

Arthur's brow furrowed in thought. “I’ve never seen Bellatrix like this. She’s acting more like a wolf guarding her cub than an ex-Death Eater.”

Druella was in her mother's clutches as she held her mother's clothes, her mother without protest, holding tight to Bellatrix’s hand as if it were the only stable thing in a world gone crooked. Her cloak was drawn close, and she cradled Druella.

“She really doesn’t look like Malfoy, does she?” Ron muttered from behind a barrel.

“No,” Hermione whispered, peeking past him. “She looks… normal. Innocent, even.”

“She’s ten,” Harry said, his gaze steady on the girl in question. “She is innocent.”

Knockturn Alley, however, was anything but.

But someone else did look at her.

A wild-eyed witch stepped out of a recessed doorway, the sort of narrow gap that seemed to exhale rot. Her robes were streaked with something dark—ink, soot, maybe blood—and her skin was pale and thin, like stretched parchment. Her nails were too long, yellowed and curved like talons, and her hair hung in jagged, uneven clumps as if she'd chewed it off herself.

Her eyes locked onto Druella.

She smiled.

“Ohhh,” she crooned, her voice lilting like a music box winding down. “What happened to your lip, little girl?”

Druella stiffened, touching her lip, she could taste the blood.

The witch leaned in, too close, her breath sour with something coppery. “Was it the pretty blonde man? The one with the eyes? He hits girls, doesn’t he?” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “He hit me once. Long ago. Before I broke all his teacups.”

Druella blinked, too stunned to respond.

The woman’s smile widened grotesquely. “Did your mummy kiss it better? Or was it someone mean? Did he cut you to see what colour you bleed? Hmm?” Her fingers twitched at her side. “Do you want a potion, pet? Something to make the pain go away? I have bottles. All colours. One’s even fizzy.”

She reached into her cloak, fumbling blindly for something hidden—glass clinking faintly.

Druella shrank back into Bellatrix’s robes, covering her face.

Bellatrix didn’t hesitate.

Her wand was already drawn, the movement so swift it was a blur. One flick—silent and precise.

A wave of silver air slammed into the witch like a glass wall breaking.

She staggered back with a scream, coughing, mist and laughter. Her wild eyes swam, still fixated on Druella as she was flung into the shadows behind a stack of crates.

“Don’t speak to her,” Bellatrix growled, low and clear. “Never again.”

She didn’t even look at the woman.

She didn’t need to.

Druella’s grip tightened. She said nothing.

Another vendor nearby laughed with rotten teeth and a crooked smile that stretched too far across his face. “Pretty little heir. Pretty little hair. Pretty little mess,” he cackled, lifting a murky jar filled with squirming, featherless birds. “Trade you two Snidget hearts for her! Maybe three for the one born twice—once from shadow, once from blood!”

Bellatrix didn’t even glance at him. She moved like a shadow through fog—silent, sharp, and with an edge so cold the air itself seemed to flinch.

The alley narrowed again. The cobblestones gleamed wetly beneath their feet, and the buildings leaned in, whispering with broken shutters and groaning beams.

A floating chair creaked toward them, guided by no magic Druella could sense. A witch slumped in it—her skin like candle wax left too close to flame, her robes yellowed and tattered. Her eyes spun in opposite directions, slow and unblinking, like cursed marbles rattling in time with a forgotten rhyme.

Her voice came cracked and singsong, drifting down like dust:

“All the black-eyed children come at night… all the green-eyed girls have hidden truths…”

Druella faltered, her foot catching slightly on the uneven stone.

The chair drifted closer, the woman’s head tilting, mouth twitching into a broken smile.

“Green-eyed girl with a monster’s string… tucked in her bones, stitched into her name like the blood in her lip… The grave will rise by the day… by the day a grave will rise…”

Bellatrix’s arm tightened around her daughter, holding her and keeping her direction.

The woman’s smile didn’t fade. She pointed a thin, trembling finger at Druella’s chest.

“It beats in you still,” she murmured. “The thing that sleeps, the thing that dreams… it will rise when you’re ready—or when it is.”

Then the chair creaked backwards, drifting away into the shadows again, the woman humming low, wordless notes that echoed off the alley walls like a lullaby for the dead.

Druella swallowed hard but said nothing.

Bellatrix paused, just long enough to place her hand more firmly on Druella’s back. “Everything will be fine,” she whispered. But her gaze lingered on the witch a second too long.

Behind them, a voice rasped from a stoop, deep and brittle with age. A man hunched in rags and smoke-eyed ink crooned into the alley’s stillness, laughing and dancing around:

“Born to a name too old to die… Daughter of silence, heir of fire… She’ll crack the world with a whisper. She could surpass the ones before her.”

Druella’s chest tightened. She didn’t know why the words rattled in her bones like that.

Another witch leaned out of a window above them, her teeth missing and her voice sharp as glass. “Two bloodlines under the frost moon… and she walks the line between them. Forced to claim the throne, one didn't, long forgotten. Watch her, the girl with the green eyes. Watch the one who hums when the world screams.”

Bellatrix’s jaw clenched. Her grip on Druella’s shoulder became protective, warning.

“Enough,” she hissed—not at Druella, but at the alley itself. She pointed the wand at them, and they quickly cowered.

They turned the corner, leaving behind the cracked voices and cursed poetry. But the whispers followed—like cobwebs catching on the hem of a cloak.

Druella didn’t ask questions.

She just held tighter to her mother’s hand, her lip still sore, the taste of ice cream lingering on her tongue like a ghost. And beneath it all, something colder stirred in her blood—quiet, growing, coiling like smoke.

Bellatrix stepped into the narrow, crooked storefront of Borgin and Burkes, the rusted iron sign above groaning faintly in the wind. Inside, the air was thick—old magic clung to the corners like mould, and the scent of damp parchment, iron, and something rotting settled heavily over the shop.

At the sound of the door, Borgin looked up—and blanched.

“Ah—Lady Black,” he stammered, standing so fast his stool clattered behind the counter. “A pleasure, always.”

His eyes flicked nervously to the small girl in her arms.

“And… Miss Black?”

Bellatrix didn’t return the courtesy. She tilted her head, slow and silent, like a wolf considering whether to bite.

“Spare me the squealing, Borgin,” she said flatly.

She set Druella down with careful precision, brushing the girl's shoulder once with a gloved thumb. Not affection—command. Without a word, Druella wandered deeper into the shelves, her fingers ghosting just above cursed objects, her green eyes sharp and calculating.

She didn’t look afraid.

She looked like she belonged there.

Bellatrix turned her attention back to Borgin, her voice clipped. “You’ve acquired something.”

Borgin nodded rapidly. “Yes. Yes, you placed the order months ago. The illusion enhancer. It’s ready. All enchantments documented. Cleansed. I—I took every precaution. It’s safe.”

Bellatrix didn’t blink.

“Because if it isn’t,” she murmured, “you’ll be breathing through a straw for the rest of your life. Do you understand me, Borgin? I’ve hexed men for less. I am the Matriarchal Delegate of the Wizengamot. My wand doesn’t shake. And if I find even a whisper of a curse on that item—” she leaned in, voice silken and deadly, “—you will wish Lucius Malfoy had come instead.”

Borgin swallowed audibly, his collar soaked in sweat. “I—it’s clean, Lady Black. I swear it.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Speaking of Lucius,” she said with icy nonchalance, though her voice dropped like a blade, “what exactly did he sell when he came here with Draco?”

Borgin stiffened. “H-he brought in several items,” he stammered. “Old relics. Some books. Charms, a few enchanted heirlooms. Claimed it was to stay under the Ministry’s nose.”

Bellatrix’s tone darkened. “Did he bring a book? Bound in black leather?”

Borgin swallowed. “No. No, he didn’t sell any book.”

Her eyes flicked down to the ledger in front of him. “What about a dagger?”

He hesitated too long.

“Sold,” he admitted at last, voice barely audible.

“Sold?” Bellatrix barked, her voice sharp and jagged like breaking glass.

“I swear, I don’t know who bought it!” Borgin said quickly, panic seeping in. “He wore a hood, long cloak, tall, foreign accent. Bulgarian, maybe? Could’ve been French. I didn’t see his face.”

Bellatrix leaned over the counter in a single, fluid motion, her face inches from his. Her voice dropped low and cold—each syllable carved from frost.

“You’re going to dig through your ledgers. You’re going to search your shelves. You’ll rake through every speck of dust in this cursed hole if you have to—and you will tell me what he bought, when he bought it, and whether that dagger still bears a traceable enchantment.”

Her wand tapped once, lightly, against the countertop. The sound echoed like a warning.

“Because if you don’t…” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “I will tear this place apart. Brick by brick. I’ll hex the walls until they scream louder than you.”

Borgin had gone sheet white. “I-I’ll look,” he stuttered, already scrambling toward the back.

He trembled, sweat now pouring down his temple.

“Y-your daughter’s watching—”

“She’s seen worse today,” Bellatrix said without missing a beat. “Look at her lip. That was family who did this to her.”

Behind them, Druella held a beautiful, shimmering silver phial up to the light.

“Put that down,” Bellatrix snapped. “We don’t touch things with whispering shadows.”

Druella sighed, setting it back in its velvet cradle dramatically. She gave her mother a look—pure sarcasm, young and sharp.

Bellatrix arched a brow right back but didn’t comment. She withdrew a pouch of Galleons and placed it on the counter like a gauntlet.

“This will cover my order. And your silence.”

Her eyes gleamed like onyx under moonlight. “If I hear you so much as mention her name to another soul, you’ll be feeding yourself through a wand for the rest of your days.”

Borgin nodded so fast it looked like he might collapse.

From behind a row of shrunken skulls, Harry, Ron, and Hermione ducked lower.

They'd seen Lucius Malfoy be cruel. But this—

This was power.

Not bluster. Not bullying.

Pure, poisonous control.

Then—

“Mother,” Druella said calmly, “that man with the two teeth is trying to take your Galleons.”

Bellatrix whipped around, just in time to see a grubby hand retreating from her cloak.

With a hiss, she snatched the pouch back and snarled at the retreating thief, who fled into the fog like a kicked rat.

“Bye, dumb twat,” Druella called, waving delicately.

Borgin blinked at her. “How did she know?”

Bellatrix turned slightly, brows raised. She hadn’t seen it either.

Druella rolled her eyes, already returning to a case of relics. “It was obvious,” she said flatly, as though they were the children.

She turned toward them, ticking off details on her fingers with rapid precision.

“He was standing beside the Hand of Glory, but kept glancing at the Opal Necklace that no one bothered to buy. Because it’s cursed, so everyone knows not to go near it. So he wasn’t shopping. He kept watching you fumble, sir, with the pouch when you got distracted by the snake tooth ring—he waited for you to lift your sleeve. Left-handed. And he twitched every time the till made a sound. He was trying to time it with the enchantment pulse to avoid the anti-theft rune you use at night."

Borgin blinked again, slack-jawed.

Bellatrix just stared at her daughter for a beat. “And how do you know what enchantment he uses at night?”

Druella shrugged. “One of Lucius's guests talked about it when I was four. The one who wore the emerald gloves. He said nights were the easiest time to rob this place because your security is reactive, not proactive. And you lock from the outside. That means your staff expects to be broken into.”

She turned back to the artefacts, already bored.

“I remember everything,” she added.

Borgin’s mouth opened, then closed. “How does she know what half these items do?” he asked, bewildered.

Bellatrix smiled faintly.

“Unimportant,” she said coolly. Then, lowering her voice, she leaned in and kissed Druella’s temple, just above her split lip.

“Well done, Black Blossom.”

And Druella didn’t smile, didn’t blush. She just nodded once, her green eyes sharp and emotionless as a scalpel. Already, she was more than a little girl.

She was learning.

And everyone in that cursed little shop could feel it.

She was her mother’s daughter.

Chapter Text

She just held her mother’s hand tighter and walked.

“We have one more place to go,” Bellatrix said smoothly, her fingers tightening protectively around Druella’s smaller hand as she guided her down a narrower lane that smelled less like rot and more like lavender dust and old parchment.

Eventually, they reached a sign swinging gently above a clean shopfront, etched in silver script:

Goldfangs Special Familiars: Rare Creatures, Rare Bonds

From the alley’s edge, the Weasleys and Harry slowed.

Ron squinted at the sign. “Seriously? A pet shop? Here? Of all places?”

Arthur folded his arms, watching the pair disappear inside with a thoughtful frown.

“It’s not just any shop,” he said quietly. “That’s Goldfang’s. Allesen Goldfang. One of the only places in Knockturn Alley you can actually trust.”

Ron blinked at him. “In Knockturn Alley?”

Arthur nodded. “Bellatrix Black funded half of it herself a few years back. Wanted somewhere respectable here—even if it’s Knockturn. She chose Goldfang to run it.”

Ron frowned. “But who is she? Another Pureblood maniac?”

Arthur shook his head firmly. “No, not quite. Goldfang’s... well, she’s a Muggle-born. But not like you'd think. She's sharp. Smart. Looks as polished as any Ministry witch—always impeccably dressed, hair done up like she's about to sit in judgement of everyone in the Alley. She has this way of looking at you like she’s already three steps ahead.”

He jerked his chin toward the dusty glass, where Bellatrix was guiding Druella inside with one steady hand at her back.

“She bred animals for years. Gave Bellatrix that owl of hers. Bellatrix was so pleased she made sure Goldfang got properly certified—Ministry clearance, full licensing. Made sure the shop couldn't be shut down like all those dodgy stalls peddling cursed junk.”

Ron made a face. “Bellatrix helped a Muggle-born?”

Arthur sighed. “The war changed things. Bellatrix doesn’t hate Muggle-borns the way you think. She hates weakness. She saw talent in Allesen. Used it. Protected her. Because Allesen’s useful—and she knows it.”

He glanced back at the shop window, watching Bellatrix’s dark shape guiding Druella inside.

“And no one dares call her a Blood Traitor for it. Not her, not Narcissa. People are too scared. They’ve got the connections, the name, the power. Even Lucius doesn’t argue too loudly when it comes to them.”

He paused, voice dropping.

“They don’t see Muggle-borns as worthless the way some of their lot do. They see them as resources—as witches and wizards who can be shaped, controlled, put to use. Equal in magic, if not in breeding. And if you’re clever enough to play by their rules? They’ll make room for you. They’d never admit it, but... it’s how they keep power. By picking who’s worth saving.”

Arthur’s mouth twisted in something like disgust.

“Doesn’t make them kind, though. Just smart. Dangerous. And no one dares call them Blood Traitors for it. Not like they do us.”

He paused, eyes softening slightly as he watched Bellatrix usher Druella inside.

“It’s one of the only places Bellatrix polices herself. She wanted it clean. Safe. Even Lucius doesn’t interfere there. Allesen knows exactly who her patron is—and so does everyone else in Knockturn. That shop’s safe because Bellatrix Black says it is.”

George snickered, elbowing Fred. “So Bellatrix is buying her kid a magical predator?”

Arthur gave a reluctant huff of amusement. “That’s... actually rather sweet, in her own way. She did get you stuffed animal ruined. One of the only places in this part of the Alley she’d let Druella walk into. Because she knows it’s safe.”

“That’s... weirdly nice,” The first twin admitted.

“Creepy,” The other twin corrected with a grin. “But nice.”

Ron shuddered. “Unless it’s a spider,” he muttered darkly, hugging Scabbers to his chest like a stress toy.

The bell over the shop, Goldfang's Special Familiars, gave a soft chime as Bellatrix pushed open the door, ushering Druella in with one steady hand at her back. She glanced over her shoulder—not to see if they were followed, but to let the street know that anyone who interfered would regret it.

Several families were there with their children, picking up their new pets.

The air inside the shop was warm, earthy, filled with the scent of fur, herbs, and static charm. Owls turned their heads lazily, their feathers whispering. Cages shimmered faintly, pulsing with quiet enchantments. Exotic creatures blinked through the shadows, their eyes on Druella. She stepped inside and paused, her shoulders tense, fingers curled into her sleeves. Her lip was still split from an earlier encounter, but today felt different—like an opportunity loomed just beyond her anxiousness. She cast her gaze downward, shrinking a little, unsure of her place in a world that seemed grand and foreign.

"Pick one," Bellatrix urged her daughter, her tone both commanding and inviting.

"Really?" Druella exclaimed, a sense of excitement bubbling beneath her disbelief.

Bellatrix nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips, and Druella felt a spark of hope ignite within her.

Then her gaze drifted to them.

A row of kittens awaited her, their playful antics beckoning her closer. Cautiously, curiosity flickered in her green eyes as she took a tentative step forward. She glanced toward her mother, who was engrossed in petting a black owl, clearly lost in her own world.

"Pick a kitten," Bellatrix encouraged, an edge of anticipation in her voice.

"But Uncle always said no," Druella defended, the memories of restrictions fading as new possibilities blossomed.

Without taking her eyes off the owl, Bellatrix scoffed, venom lacing her dismissal. 

“Lucius is irrelevant. I brought you here for a reason; you need company for Hogwarts. He burned your stuffed animal; you can choose any companion you wish—anything except a rat or a bird."

Now, she turned her full gaze upon Druella, her expression dark with disdain—but not directed at her daughter.

“I don’t care what that man has ever said. If you want a kitten, you will have one. You don't need his permission. You need mine. And I say yes.”

Druella felt a rush of exhilaration at her mother's words, the future stretching out before her like an uncharted path filled with potential. Her voice dropped, lower, colder.

“Frankly, I hope he tries to say something. It’ll save us the trouble of wondering whether to hex his teeth out or not for destroying Nyssa.”

She smiled now, just a little, dangerous and loving all at once.

“Pick anyone you want, Ellie. Mummy will make sure it’s yours.”

And Druella, for the first time in what felt like days, allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

Outside the shop, Harry stood watching. Hidden just beyond the glass with Ron and Arthur, he saw the way Druella shrank into herself, the way she flinched when people moved too fast, the way her body tensed with the smallest sound. He knew those movements.

He lived them.

Her family looked like his—an aunt, an uncle, a cousin who thought himself better than her. But her aunt was gentle in her strange, perfect way. And her mother—mad, dangerous Bellatrix—loved her fiercely, not like a prison warden, but like a mother wolf.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Inside, Bellatrix stepped back, giving Druella space as she wandered the aisles alone. Her steps were small, hesitant. She passed sleek owls, rabbits with shimmering fur, a cage of bats that chittered with mild annoyance—but her gaze lingered only briefly.

Then she saw them—kittens.

Rows of them, some curled up, some sleeping, some pawing at the glass.

Druella tapped on the cage, and many had fled to corners. Druella frowned.

“Does no one want me?” Druella asked. But they heard it. Arthur watched the girl who had just got out of hell. Facing the new light, she doesn't quite understand.

“I wish someone would understand me,” Druella said. Harry heard her words, and he felt bad for her.

Because he did understand her.

Druella looked at the kittens in their cages. Many were asleep or scared to walk forward.

When all hope seemed lost, Druella noticed one sat alone in the far corner of its cage, one that opened its eyes.

A black kitten with strange eyes—one the colour of glacial blue, the other a brilliant golden yellow. It didn’t mewl or scratch for attention. It simply stared at Druella.

And Druella stared back.

The girl took a slow step forward. Then another. Her breath caught in her throat. She placed her hand gently against the glass, her lip trembling from the pain, not from the cut, but from the ache inside her.

The kitten stood up and padded across its enclosure, tail high, head tilted. With grace far beyond its size, it pressed one soft paw against the glass, right where Druella’s hand was.

Druella gasped.

Her other hand came up to her mouth, brushing the dried blood on her lip. The kitten mewed—just once, sweet and soft—and Druella gave a quiet, broken laugh.

Bellatrix stood behind her, arms loosely folded, her expression unreadable. “Is that the one?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more of a knowing murmur than a question.

Druella didn’t turn, only nodded, eyes wide and shimmering faintly beneath the bruising.

Outside the shop, Harry stood still. Through the fogged glass, he saw Druella—her hand mirroring the kitten’s, like she’d found something real at last. He knew that look. That quiet hunger to be seen, touched, wanted.

He remembered Hedwig. That first moment of connection, after years of being told he wasn’t allowed to want anything at all.

Now, watching Druella, he realised—it wasn’t just a kitten.

It was a tether.

Bellatrix stepped toward the counter like a shadow given form, the hem of her cloak brushing the floor with silent menace. She reached inside and drew out a heavy pouch of Galleons, the drawstring clinking with weight.

Behind the counter, Allesen Goldfang was perched like a queen in her own little kingdom: feet propped high on the scarred wood, one boot tapping lazily. She didn’t even glance up, eyes fixed on her ledger as she lazily chewed a piece of gum, quill scribbling furiously on its own in the margin.

“Whatever it is,” Goldfang drawled around the gum, voice bored, “It'll take a few days for applications to go in the pile and might take, oh, three hours. Maybe four if you want it notarised.”

Bellatrix didn’t flinch. She simply dropped the pouch onto the counter with a heavy, metallic thud that rattled the inkpots and knocked the gum clean out of Allesen’s mouth.

“Not asking,” Bellatrix said coldly. “Not today. I, the Matriarch of the Noble House of Black, Matriarchal Delegate of the Wizengamot. I have donated. I paid for half this shop, in fact. Which means my daughter gets whatever she wants. Immediately.”

The ledger snapped shut with a little puff of dust.

Goldfang’s quill tumbled from the air and clattered to the floor.

She froze, feet still propped up stupidly for a heartbeat too long before she seemed to realise. She dropped them with a loud thunk onto the ground, nearly tripping herself as she scrambled upright.

“Lady Black,” she said quickly, voice cracking for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it back down to professional calm. She coughed once, straightened her robes, and dropped into a stiff bow. “Apologies. Of course. My—ah—oversight.”

Her eyes darted to Druella, who was kneeling before the cage, oblivious to the exchange, one hand pressed against the glass where the black kitten purred louder now, paw mirroring hers in stubborn insistence.

Goldfang’s mouth worked around nothing for a second—like she missed the gum that had vanished—and she swallowed hard.

“Your daughter,” she said with careful deference, eyes on Druella now. “Whatever she wants. Absolutely. It’s... it’s hers.”

Bellatrix didn’t bother looking at her. Her attention was already on Druella.

“Good,” she said coolly, fingers drumming once on the pouch of Galleons before she let it go. “Let’s make sure she knows she gets only the best.”

Goldfang nodded stiffly, eyes darting to the heavy pouch and back. She licked her lips once, snapped her fingers, and the register behind her snapped open.

“Of course, Lady Black,” she murmured, voice perfectly even now, just a shade too smooth. “You can count on me.”

And she meant it.

Because if there was one thing Allesen Goldfang wasn’t stupid enough to forget, it was who really owned Knockturn Alley these days.

“Mother,” Druella piped up uncertainly, voice raw, lip still scabbed and swollen from Lucius’s earlier blow, “why is it every time you do something like this... someone just gives in?”

Bellatrix didn’t even glance at Allesen, only smiled that slow, cold smile that was all teeth.

“Because my dear blossom, that’s how it’s done. Best you see it for yourself so I can teach you everything I know.”

Goldfang gave a sharp, humourless click of her tongue, her gaze flicking pointedly at the kitten in the glass cage.

“Which one?” she asked, voice even but with a resigned sigh, like she was bracing herself for the answer she already knew.

Druella raised a trembling finger. “That one. The black cat.”

Goldfang squinted at Druella for a long, evaluating moment. Her eyes narrowed, studying the girl’s bruised lip, the defensive hunch of her shoulders, the tremor in her hand. She didn’t say anything—just clicked her tongue again, disappointment flickering before she smoothed it away.

She stepped forward, boots scraping on the wooden floor, and rapped the side of the cage with her knuckles.

The kitten hissed, ears flattening, tail puffing up.

Druella flinched, stumbling back a step.

Goldfang didn’t move. She just kept tapping, voice low and clinical.

“Stubborn little creature,” she muttered. “Tests everyone. Even me.”

She turned, her gaze locking onto Druella with unsettling precision. Then, without warning, she reached out and seized Druella by the upper arms.

Druella gave a sharp little cry, lip breaking open fresh at the corner, eyes watering.

“Hold still,” Goldfang said curtly, ignoring the wince. “Look at it.”

She physically steered Druella forward until she was right up against the glass, ignoring the way the girl trembled under her grip. The kitten’s hissing stopped instantly. It blinked once, twice, then began to purr, pressing its paw flat against the glass, eyes locking onto Druella’s.

Goldfang didn’t smile, but her grip eased. She let out another clicking sound with her tongue, this time softer. Almost... resigned.

“Hmmm. Seems she’s made her choice,” Goldfang murmured.

"She?" Druella asked.

"Yes," Goldfang answered. "She's a girl."

She let go of Druella’s arms, brushing her own palms against her robes as if to rid herself of stray cat hair.

She jerked her chin toward the corner, where a large grey, fluffy Kneazle lounged, watching with imperious interest.

“That’s her mother right there,” Goldfang explained in a tone like she was giving a lecture, gesturing dismissively. “My Willow. Had her since childhood. Bred her daughter myself. Experiment. She’s... unique, let’s say.”

Druella rubbed her arms, watching the kitten with wide, damp eyes.

Goldfang sighed, running a hand through her hair before slipping back into that cool, saleswoman-professional tone.

“That one’s not ordinary,” she said, her voice more composed now. “Part Kneazle. Part Caeluix. The yellow eye? Sees ill will, bad intentions. Sees who is untrustworthy. Hisses at nearly everyone. The blue eye? Soothes. It’s an emotional anchor. Very rare breed. The Caeluix lines go back centuries—France. Brocéliande Forest. Some say even the Valley of No Return, where Morgana Le Fay ruled.”

She gave Druella a sharp look, clicking her tongue yet again.

“Very popular in France, Caeluix is. They say Morgana created them. They say these black cats are born of the tears of grief, sorrow, and defiance. Newt Scamander lost one once. I found it. Bred it with my Kneazle. Ministry gave me clearance—it was experimental. She’s the only one of her kind.”

Bellatrix lifted her chin, one eyebrow arching with the faintest smirk.

“And she chose my daughter.”

Goldfang’s mouth twitched, like she was swallowing her irritation. She gave a short, stiff nod.

“She did,” she admitted, more like a confession than a compliment.

Druella finally turned to look at them, voice barely a whisper.

“She... likes me. Even though I’m... not very likeable right now.”

Bellatrix stepped forward—not graceful like Narcissa, but with that fierce, lethal purpose that made people instinctively move aside. She dropped into a crouch beside Druella, long fingers reaching out.

She tucked a strand of Druella’s tangled black hair behind her ear with surprising care. Then, with the edge of her sleeve, she wiped the blood from Druella’s split lip in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Her voice was low, almost a growl, but tender at the edges.

“You’re not here to be liked,” she murmured. “You’re here to be known. And now, you’ve been chosen.”

Inside the cage, the little kitten chirped once—a sharp, approving sound. Her paw pressed against the glass as if trying to meet Druella’s hand through the barrier.

Goldfang, behind the counter, let out a sigh so heavy it might have been the sound of surrender. She eyed the kitten like she was signing over a priceless artefact she’d never see again.

“Right, then,” she muttered, reaching under the counter for a slim, dark collar. Her eyes, despite herself, softened on the girl. “What’s her name?”

Druella didn’t answer at once. She pressed her palm harder to the glass, the kitten mirroring her with small, intent purrs.

Her voice trembled but came out clear.

“Morgana,” she whispered at last.

Bellatrix’s eyes flickered, mouth curving in a dark, knowing smile.

Goldfang cocked a brow. “Morgana? As in that Morgan?”

Druella nodded, eyes fixed on the kitten.

“After the witch who defied a kingdom, I've added an a to the end to make it sound pretty”, she said softly. “They called her evil. Maybe she was just... too powerful. Too much for them to understand. They worship Merlin, but she was his enemy. And they made sure everyone hated her for it. She was unique, and so is this cat, who has adorable yellow and blue eyes. Mismatched, uncommon, but unique.”

Her fingers traced the bars of the cage, voice lowering to something raw and personal.

“I think I understand that. Even if they call her evil.”

The kitten purred louder, tail curling like a dark ribbon, mismatched eyes shining with that uncanny cleverness.

Bellatrix watched her daughter for a long moment, then reached over and rested a hand at the back of her neck, thumb brushing gently at the base of her hair.

“Good choice,” she murmured. “It suits you both.”

Druella finally smiled—small, crooked, but real.

Outside, Harry swallowed hard, something unspoken catching in his throat.

“She doesn’t look like Malfoy,” Ron muttered beside him, watching the scene through the glass. “She’s nothing like him.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was too focused on Druella—the way she moved, quiet and careful, the way she held herself like someone used to shrinking. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for Morgana, her voice unsure but full of longing. He knew that look.

It was the same one he used to wear some nights at Privet Drive. The look he had before Hedwig. Before he had someone—something—that belonged only to him. That didn’t flinch at his presence. That stayed.

Hedwig had been his anchor. A snowy owl, regal and bright against all the darkness in his life. Silent, fierce, proud.

Morgana, by contrast, was a shadow. A black kitten with mismatched eyes—one blue like calm waters, the other yellow like firelight. Quiet where Hedwig had been sharp. Soft where Hedwig had soared. But the same in the way she stayed. The same in the way she chose.

A girl like him.

And now she had her comfort, just as he once found his.

The contrast wasn’t lost on Harry.

One white, one black.

Two creatures carried in arms that had known too much loneliness. Two children who, perhaps, wouldn’t be so alone anymore. Friends surround one, but not yet. But she will be. Even if she doesn't yet, she now has friends.

Arthur watched silently, then murmured, “She’s always supported that place—Bellatrix, I mean. Quiet donations, mostly magical creatures. Her sister’s more public about it, but Bellatrix keeps it quiet for now.”

Ron blinked. “She—she does charity?”

Arthur nodded. “Discreetly. Goldfang here wouldn’t be in business without her. She may be fierce, but even fierce witches would kill for their daughters.”

Inside, Bellatrix stood tall again, sliding gold coins across the counter. “Wrap her gently. And only the finest carrier, no expense paid, understood?”

“Of course, Lady Black,” Goldfang stammered, now wholly deferential. “Right away.”

Goldfang reached beneath the counter and retrieved a small black case lined with velvet. “For companions of distinction,” she murmured, pulling out a delicate, rune-etched collar. It shimmered faintly in the low light—silver-dipped leather, soft as silk, with a thin threading of blue and gold threaded through.

Druella blinked. “That’s... for her?”

“I make one for every bonded creature,” Allesen replied. “But this one-this one deserves something... special.”

She glanced at Bellatrix for permission.

Bellatrix gave a single nod, folding her arms again. “Do it. Engrave it properly.”

Goldfang nodded swiftly and set to work, summoning a slender engraving wand from her robes. As the tip glowed, she spoke the enchantments under her breath, the words ancient and precise.

On the front of the collar, the name MORGANA appeared in fine script, curling elegantly around a star-shaped sigil—subtly shaped like the rune for legacy.

On the inside of the collar, hidden from sight but laced with magical protection, were the initials:

D.B.B.
Druella Bellatrix Black the Second

Druella stared, lips parted slightly. “You put my initials inside?"

“It’s tradition,” she replied, her tone respectful now. “Familiars are more than pets. She’s bonded to you now, Miss Black. It’s her name on the outside—but your soul on the inside.”

Bellatrix smiled slowly. “That’s fitting.”

As Goldfang gently fitted the collar around Morgana’s neck, the kitten chirped, then settled instantly, curling in her cage like she’d worn it forever.

When the enchantment sealed with a soft glow, the kitten opened her mismatched eyes and looked straight at Druella.

“And that, my darling,” Bellatrix said with a satisfied tilt of her chin, “is how it’s done. Influence is more valuable than gold, and fear—well, fear is simply the polish on power’s shoes. People respect what they can’t touch. But they obey what they dread.”

She glanced down at Druella, one arm looped casually through her daughter’s, her voice almost indulgent. “Remember this: coin opens doors, but connections keep them open. That’s how families like ours survive. We don’t beg—we command.”

As the kitten was placed carefully into a soft-lined carrier, Druella pressed her cheek against the side, whispering something no one could hear. She was still, composed, but there was something fragile in her posture, as if she were made of fine porcelain that might crack if spoken to too loudly.

Harry watched her in silence.

He wasn’t sure why the sight made his chest ache.

When she and Bellatrix stepped outside, the bell chiming gently behind them, Morgana was curled in Druella’s arms, pressed close to her chest like a shield.

Bellatrix paused at the doorway, her sharp gaze sweeping down the alley, but she didn't see Harry and the Weasleys.

“Lucius never let you have what you wanted,” she said quietly, her voice steel wrapped in velvet. “But he doesn’t control you anymore. Mummy will take care of it. She always does. I will give you everything you want now. Whenever you want it.”

Druella hesitated and nodded slowly, not wanting to be spoiled, but her cheek resting against the top of Morgana’s crate. “I know, thank you, Mummy”, she whispered.

Harry stepped back into the crowd just as Druella’s eyes glanced across the street, just missing him.

Ron nudged his shoulder. “You alright?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I hope she’s okay.”

Arthur smiled faintly. “She will be. Her mother may be many things, but Bellatrix doesn’t let anyone harm what’s hers.”

Harry said nothing. But as he looked at the girl disappearing into the shadows of Knockturn Alley—kitten in her arms, blood wiped clean but soul still in need of healing—he felt something stir in his chest.

Recognition.

And maybe… the first whisper of something more.

Chapter Text

As they walked back from Knockturn Alley, Harry and the Weasleys lingered nearby, clearly spying as they headed back themselves. Druella turned and saw their eyes—watchful, curious, not unkind. She turned slightly and gave them a wave, her fingers curled around the handle of the crate she carried. They waved back, Harry giving a small grin, Ron nudging Harry with a whisper.

By the time she reached her family at the centre of Diagon Alley, her stride was lighter, her arms proudly cradling the crate.

Harry and Ron caught up with Hermione, Ginny and Molly Weasley.

"She's fine, her mum was just getting her a pet," Arthur explained to Molly, holding her wrists nicely, and Molly sighed in relief.

"Thank Merlin, she has a smile right now. Poor dear, look at that lip."

“Look what Mummy got me,” Druella said brightly, holding the travelling crate up so Narcissa and Draco could see the sleepy, two-mismatched-eyed kitten nestled inside. “I named her Morgana.”

Narcissa’s face softened instantly. “Wow, she’s exquisite, darling,” she said, brushing back Druella’s hair and peering into the crate. “A precious choice. Very you.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, arms crossed, a rare smirk on her lips. “She chose her, not the other way around. Clever girl. The thing tried to bite Goldfang.”

But Draco’s face darkened like a storm cloud as he heard the news; it was as though something horrible had happened.

“Why can’t I get a pet?” he snapped, eyes narrowing on the crate. “She gets one from Goldfang’s Special Familiars?! That's the exclusive shop in Knockturn Alley! You said it was too expensive when I asked!”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, calm and queenly. “Because the last pet you had—your owl—flew away the moment you forgot to feed it for two weeks."

“That wasn’t my fault!” he cried. “He hated the cage!”

Ron and Harry, still watching from the other side of the street, both snorted.

Ron elbowed Harry. “Look at him. Absolutely melting down.”

“Didn't know Malfoy could be out-bratted,” Harry whispered.

Hermione tilted her head. “It’s fascinating. She’s like the anti-Draco. She's so sweet, polite, competent…”

“She doesn’t throw tantrums in public either,” Ron added. "You saw her when Lucius struck her, if it was Malfoy? He'd throw a huge fit, and even Knockturn Alley would hear it."

Back with the family, Draco was still seething with fury. “Of all places, Aunt Bella, Goldfang’s? I never even got to look in there! Saying Knockturn Alley is too risky, Mother said so. How come she gets one from there?"

“She’s not sulking about it, for one,” Bellatrix cut in sharply, her tone full of disdain. “And she’s not stomping around like a spoiled gremlin. Maybe try that next time, darling. And I'll think about it.”

Draco looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “You always take her side.”

“Because she's my child, Dragon. She doesn’t whine every time someone else is given something nice,” Bellatrix shot back without missing a beat. “Merlin’s bones, Draco, do you hear yourself?”

Druella said nothing at first, her fingers slowly brushing along Morgana’s ears through the side of the crate. The kitten let out a soft purr, nudging against the bars insistently. With a fond little sigh, Druella opened the crate and pulled her into her arms, cradling her close.

Bellatrix crouched beside her, adjusting the fall of Druella’s sleeve, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “You’ve wanted a pet for years, darling. And you’ve more than earned it. Don’t let your cousin’s sulking ruin it.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Druella whispered, her voice shy. Her cheeks pinked, and for the first time all day, she smiled—quiet but genuine.

Narcissa, arms crossed, didn’t even glance toward Draco. “Draco, do try to be happy for your cousin for once,” she said flatly. “Or is that simply not within your range today?”

Before he could answer, Morgana’s ears twitched. Her head jerked up sharply.

She'd caught something.

And then she leapt.

The little kitten launched herself from Druella’s arms and bolted across the floor toward Ron’s open satchel, where Scabbers had poked out his twitching nose.

“Morgana—!” Druella cried, scrambling after her.

A shriek erupted as Ron flailed, trying to catch his rat before Morgana could. The kitten growled, claws swiping with shocking precision for something so small. Scabbers squealed and darted behind a bench, and Morgana pursued like a bloodhound.

Druella finally caught her by the scruff, lifting her from the chase. The kitten writhed in protest, tail flicking furiously.

She looked down at the rat’s retreating shadow, heart thudding.

“That wasn’t normal,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Something’s wrong with that rat.”

Ron scoffed, grabbing Scabbers and stuffing him back into his bag. “He’s just a rat, Druella. Your cat’s mental.”

Morgana let out a low, guttural growl from her perch in Druella’s arms, her bright eyes fixed on the bag like it still contained prey.

Druella didn’t respond. Not right away.

But her fingers tightened on Morgana just slightly. Her mind was already working.

Watching. Calculating.

She’d remember this.

Draco sulked and said nothing, crossing his arms with a huff as the Trio walked past, barely concealing their amusement.

“Must be weird,” Ron whispered to Harry, “being the cousin that doesn’t get babied. And I thought it was Malfoy.”

Harry grinned. “Bet it’s the first time in his life someone else got the last word.”

Draco folded his arms and was very annoyed "Father is going to know."

"I don't care," Bellatrix responded.

"Oh no," Harry whispered to Ron.

Lucius, standing just behind them, hadn’t spoken until now. His voice came low and bitter.

“I said no before. That little demon’s going to curse the rugs.” His tone was laced with loathing. “Another unnecessary waste. Another distraction. I won’t have that thing scratching my floors.”

He looked directly at Druella, and a scoff came out of his mouth.

But before anyone else could speak, Bellatrix stepped forward, her arm slipping around Druella’s shoulder.

“And yet,” she said smoothly, “here she is. With her kitten. My gift.”

Lucius turned toward her sharply, his eyes dark with fury. “You went behind my back.”

Bellatrix smiled, sharp as a knife. “No. I went through you. There’s a difference, brother-in-law. You are the uncle, nothing else.”

Lucius’s hands clenched. “She doesn’t need a pet. She needs—”

“I decide what my daughter needs,” Bellatrix cut in, voice quiet but deadly. “You don’t get to control her like one of your display cases. I am her mother and will spoil her as I see fit.”

Narcissa stepped forward now, placing a cool hand on Druella’s other shoulder, her gaze fixed on Lucius with that sharp, commanding stillness only she possessed.

“The kitten’s staying,” she said, her voice final. “The kitten is staying with her.”

Lucius opened his mouth—but one glance at Narcissa’s unblinking, regal expression made him shut it again with a tight, furious click.

Seething, he turned away.

"Fine." He sneered as though he didn't want to share a toy.

"But it stays in her room." Lucius spat. "That bloody brat can have that little demon cat. I don't care but it stays away from me."

Draco watched it all unfold with disbelief. He scowled—not because he hated Druella having a kitten, but because he couldn’t comprehend it.

He had always been the one who got things first. The new robes. The new brooms Lucius got for himself and the Quidditch team. The new owl.

But here was his little cousin Druella—with something soft and warm and magical—and she hadn’t even had to beg or throw a tantrum.

“Why her?” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone.

Despite the chill in the air, Druella felt warmth bloom in her chest. She looked up, smiled softly, and held Morgana closer, the kitten purring against her heartbeat. For once, she didn’t feel like an intruder. She felt… wanted. Protected. Maybe even seen.

Just then, Hermione approached with cautious steps, eyes bright with curiosity. “Druella, I’ll see you at school,” she said, her voice kind but unsure, like she wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

Druella nodded shyly, her smile small but genuine. “Yes. I’ll see you.”

Behind them, Bellatrix stood silent, watching the scene like a lioness observing the slow tension of a snare. Her arms crossed, her face unreadable—but her eyes glinted with amusement. Not at Hermione.

Narcissa’s hand lingered just a moment longer on Druella’s sleeve before, with an almost elegant pivot, she turned her gaze to Hermione.

“You were a very brave girl today,” she said with a faint, unreadable smile.

Hermione blinked, clearly unsure how to respond.

Narcissa stepped closer.

“I know you’re not used to Pureblood etiquette,” she murmured gently, brushing an imaginary bit of lint from Hermione’s collar. “That’s not your fault, of course. No one ever taught you how to move in this world. But… you have potential.”

Hermione stiffened as Narcissa’s hand brushed lightly down her arm, adjusting the fall of her sleeve as if inspecting her like a mannequin. There was no malice in the touch—but it was too familiar, too smooth, too deliberate.

Bellatrix watched from behind Druella with a glint in her eye.

She knew that behaviour.

That was the pure Malfoy claim in motion. Hermione doesn't know it, Druella doesn't either, and neither does Draco. They will one day.

“You’re clever,” Narcissa continued, her voice warm and low. “Smart girls rarely get the guidance they deserve in our world. But you… you might. Especially if you stay close to Druella. She trusts you. I trust you.”

Hermione tried to step back, but Narcissa gently placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“No need to be nervous,” she cooed. “I only want what’s best for my niece. And if you’re part of that... well.” Her eyes sparkled, something unsettling behind the affection. “Then you’ll be protected too I promise I'll protect you.”

“You're such a sweet girl,” she added, brushing back a curl of Hermione’s hair. “All you need now is someone who understands what you are.”

Bellatrix, still standing behind them, smirked—her silence loaded with a knowing amusement.

She let Narcissa play her game.

Let her wrap Hermione in silk-gloved interest, let her begin the slow draw inward.

Because for all her ice and polish, Narcissa was still reacting from guilt. From grief.

She had missed the signs Hermione hadn’t.

And that made the girl precious.

Not just to Druella.

But now… to Narcissa.

Narcissa turned slowly to Hermione, gaze soft but with that unmistakable undercurrent of calculation. She placed a hand lightly on Hermione’s shoulder. The touch lingered just a beat too long—elegant and gentle, but heavy with something unspoken.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Narcissa purred. “I can tell you’ll be... important to Druella.” She smiled, eyes glinting. “You’ve been so helpful. So sweet.”

Hermione stiffened. The words were kind. The tone was not.

Narcissa’s fingers traced lightly down Hermione’s arm—like someone inspecting a prized heirloom, not a person.

“You’re such a good girl,” she purred, her voice laced with honey but sharpened at the edges with something harder. “So clever. So curious. Helping little Druella like that—how very… noble of you.”

Hermione stiffened, trying to mask the discomfort behind a tight smile, but Narcissa wasn’t finished.

Her hand drifted upward, brushing a loose curl behind Hermione’s ear, then trailing through her hair as though grooming her. The touch was featherlight but deeply invasive—like a woman petting a cat she’d just decided she owned.

“Such potential,” Narcissa murmured, almost to herself. “It’s a shame no one’s properly refined you yet. But that’s alright. You’re still young. You can learn. With the right influence, of course.”

Hermione blinked, unsure if she was being complimented or recruited. Narcissa’s expression never wavered—soft, poised, immaculate.

“Draco never quite had the patience for guidance,” Narcissa continued, as if the conversation had become entirely about her. “But I’ve always believed in hands-on nurturing. In sculpting brilliance from chaos. You know, I helped guide Druella for years. All that energy, all that raw magic—it needed channelling.”

Her lips curved into a serene smile, and she leaned in just slightly, her tone turning conspiratorial.

“You’re bright, Hermione. You belong in a world that knows how to cultivate brightness. Not one lets it burn out trying to survive.”

Hermione stepped back half an inch, but Narcissa followed, gently smoothing Hermione’s robe as though brushing away imaginary dust. Her touch lingered a little too long.

“You’d be amazed at what a girl can become,” Narcissa continued, eyes gleaming. “With the right mentors. Not everyone gets such offers. Consider yourself lucky. Not every Muggle-Born has this opportunity. So congratulations, you just did.”

Hermione let out an excited smile.

But there was no invitation in her voice.

There was ownership.

A gentle pat on the head followed, condescending, possessive. Like marking territory.

“I’ll see you very soon,” Narcissa said sweetly to Hermione. “And I do hope you stay close to Druella. She needs good influences. And I’m sure you need... guidance.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She simply nodded—caught somewhere between awe and unease—then stepped back, clutching her bag a little tighter.

Just then, a hesitant voice cut through the quiet.

“Um… Lady Black. Madam Malfoy.”

The voice belonged to Harvey Crispin, a nervous young man in slightly wrinkled dress robes, his camera slung awkwardly over one shoulder, the strap worn thin from overuse. His badge from the Daily Prophet gleamed crookedly on his lapel: Harvey Crispin, Junior Reporter. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, with pale skin, hazel eyes, and a mop of blond hair that never quite obeyed a comb.

He didn’t look like much—someone who might be mistaken for a Ministry assistant or a wand shop clerk. But beneath his uncertain manner, something gleamed. Curiosity. Nerve. The hunger of someone who knew he was often overlooked—and quietly used that to his advantage.

“I’ve taken several… pictures of the incident earlier,” he said, voice carefully measured. “I know my status as a Muggle-born doesn’t mean much to your world. But I’d still like to confirm permission. I’m planning a piece for the Evening Edition. I think it’s going to be seen. By a lot of people.”

Druella instinctively hugged Morgana’s crate closer to her chest.

Bellatrix’s arm slid protectively around her daughter’s shoulder. The grip was firm, not aggressive, but final. She stood taller than most around her, spine straight, chin high, her dark eyes locked onto the boy in grey.

She studied him.

Not dismissing him—assessing him.

Narcissa turned too, elegant and still, her gaze sharp and clinical as she scanned the man before her.

Harvey swallowed.

“I’ve been studying Pureblood families for months. Trying to understand them,” he said. “But today—today, I saw what happens when someone crosses the wrong one. This is more than news.”

He held up one of his photos: Druella mid-stagger, lip bleeding, hand lifted. Lucius loomed behind her, eyes dead and furious.

“This is going to be a story,” he said softly. “The story. The one people remember.”

A beat of silence.

Then—unexpectedly—Bellatrix smiled.

It was not a kind smile. But it was the closest she ever came to approval.

“Do it,” she said.

The word dropped like a spell.

She reached into her sleeve and flicked a small leather pouch at him—it jingled. Harvey caught it with a surprised grunt, fumbling slightly. Gold.

“A little encouragement,” Bellatrix added coolly. “And when it runs—owl the prints. Send them directly to me.”

Harvey blinked. “You… want copies?”

Narcissa’s voice answered this time, smooth as satin. “Of course. We like to preserve moments of historical importance.”

Bellatrix’s fingers tightened slightly on Druella’s shoulder. “Make Lucius look like the coward he is. Expose him. Let people see what happens when a man overreaches his power. You’ll make a name for yourself, boy.”

She leaned in, voice low but not unkind. “And don’t think I don’t see you. Hiding in the shadows, underfed bylines and silent bylines… You want to be seen? Make this unforgettable.”

Harvey stared at them—at both of them. The infamous sisters. The queens of cold and chaos. And here they were, giving him permission. No—commission.

He straightened.

“I will,” he said with sudden confidence. “I’ll write it exactly as it happened. I’ll call it The Black Lip Incident. And I’ll make sure no one forgets.”

Narcissa’s lips curved in the faintest smile.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you’ll earn yourself an invitation to one of my galas, Mister Crispin. I do enjoy rewarding loyalty... and sharp eyes.”

Harvey gave a crooked smile, half-nervous, half-proud. “I’ll owl the photos tonight. Thank you, Lady Black. Madam Malfoy.”

And then he was gone, slipping through the crowd like smoke—quiet, overlooked again.

But not for long.

He already knew what the headline would read.

And it would run before sundown.

Bellatrix looked down at Druella, her voice suddenly gentler.

“You did well today,” she said. “You stood when others would have run. Let them talk. Let them read. You won’t be forgotten, my girl.”

Druella looked up at her mother, comforted by her voice—the sharp steel of it when it faced the world, and the warmth hidden beneath it, reserved for her alone. She felt Narcissa’s graceful hand still resting against her back, a shield made of silk and strength.

As they walked, the noise of the crowd behind them—whispers, chatter, gasps—faded into nothing. Druella felt the warmth of her mother’s hand. The solid presence of her aunt. The soft purr of Morgana.

And for the first time in hours, the panic eased.

It was fleeting, but real.

But before they returned to the manor, Bellatrix insisted Druella stop at Ollivanders.

“Go on,” Bellatrix ordered, voice low and sharp. “Alone. I’ll be watching.”

Druella shot her mother a narrow glare before pushing open the door. The bell tinkled softly, and the dusty shop fell silent.

Ollivander turned, pale eyes glinting. “Ah. Druella Black.”

Druella’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?” She wiped her split lip with the back of her sleeve.

Ollivander ignored the question. “Here for your first wand?”

She snorted. “What else would I be here for?”

He studied her carefully, unbothered. “Well. Let’s see what we have.”

He handed her a wand. She grabbed it stiffly and gave it a flick. Sparks dribbled out, fizzled, and died on the counter.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, shoving it back at him.

He gave her a second. It cracked like a dry twig in her grip, the magic sputtering. She scowled.

“Try again,” Ollivander said quietly, unfazed.

Druella did as he handed her a wand. Druella tried to use it, but it exploded a box.

"Try again?" Ollivander said quietly once again.

“I’m trying,” she snapped. “It’s your rubbish wands.”

He lifted a brow but handed over a third. She swung it halfheartedly; a swirl of blue smoke billowed before choking itself out.

Druella dropped it on the counter. “Next.”

Ollivander glanced past her toward the window, where Bellatrix’s shadow moved. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached high onto a shelf for something dustier, older, darker.

“This one,” he said, voice hushed.

Druella snatched it without ceremony. Black wood twisted and gnarled in her palm, the handle silvery-grey, cold as ice. She hesitated, squinting at the swirling runes etched into the wood.

A chill ran up her arm. She grimaced.

But then—

Magic surged to life. The wand vibrated in her grip, humming with raw power. Sparks crackled at the tip like tiny lightning bolts.

Druella’s scowl melted into something cautious, calculating. She lifted it slowly and gave it a short flick.

Despite the scraped lip, a smirk came to her lips.

A sudden gust of wind roared out, sending scrolls flying, knocking down boxes. Dust swirled like a miniature storm.

Ollivander stared, wide-eyed.

“My... word...” he whispered. “Blackthorn... with... phoenix feather. Unbalanced. Fierce. Very rare for one so young. Dangerous. But obedient... to you.”

Druella narrowed her eyes. “Dangerous?”

“Only if you are,” Ollivander said softly.

She huffed. “Fine, I'll take this one.” She lowered the wand, fingers tightening around it like it might be stolen.

“I’ll need something to defend myself anyway. Mother’s had me practising with hers for years. I know how to use a wand for years.”

Druella waved it perfectly.

“This one works better with me unbalanced, you say?”

Ollivander gave a slow, measured nod.

The door jingled. Bellatrix stepped in like she owned the place—no hesitation, no decorum.

“Well?” she asked coolly.

Druella didn’t answer. She lifted the wand again, testing the weight like it was a blade she already knew how to use.

Bellatrix’s mouth curled. “Good.” She dropped a velvet pouch onto the counter. Gold coins spilt out without a second glance.

“Anything else needed with this?” Druella asked, voice flat.

“A… polishing kit?” Ollivander offered, uncertain.

“No,” Bellatrix said sharply.

He blinked at them.

Bellatrix gave a dry, humourless chuckle. “She’ll manage. She’s having a bad day, if the lip wasn’t a clue.” She reached out and squeezed Druella’s shoulder—firm, possessive. “Come Black Blossom.”

Druella didn’t thank him. She didn’t look back.

She shoved the door open and stepped into the street, the wand clenched in her small, scarred hand like a weapon forged for her alone.

Ollivander watched them go.

He whispered into the empty shop, almost a prayer—

“Treat it well… and it may return the favour one day.”

Outside, Bellatrix’s smirk lingered. “She won’t need to treat it gently. It’s hers now. And she’s stronger than she looks.”

Druella didn’t respond.

She only lowered the wand to her side.

But she didn’t let go.

And as the door clicked shut, Ollivander stood in the lingering silence, lips parting as the truth crept in.

“…May Merlin protect her,” he murmured.

Because he wasn’t sure anyone else could.

Chapter Text

August 19th, 1992 – The Ministry Office of the Daily Prophet

The newsroom was cluttered with floating notes, ticking clocks, and the buzz of enchanted quills. But Harvey Crispin didn't wait for protocol. He burst through the editor’s door, camera still slung over his shoulder, the photos barely developed but already glowing with power.

“You have to see this,” he said breathlessly. “Lucius Malfoy. The strike. The girl, Druella Black. It’s all here.”

His editor, Barnabas Cuffe, an older wizard with ink-stained cuffs and half-moon glasses, looked up from his desk with mild annoyance—well until he saw the photo.

Then he went very still.

“Merlin’s bones…” he muttered, squinting at the image of a pale, bleeding girl standing firm beneath Lucius Malfoy’s looming figure.

Cuffe looked up at his junior.

“I never thought you had it in you to take something this detailed. Is this the hidden Druella Black II? And Lucius hitting her?”

Crispin nodded eagerly, pushing forward the written piece and the backup photos.

“Yes—and Weasley took a swing at him, too. It was chaos. But this? This will blow up for us. This could blow away the Ministry that even Amelia Bones herself will want to take action. Scared children. There is going to be a story.”

The editor’s eyebrows lifted. “And the sisters? Did they threaten to bust your kneecaps off for printing it?”

“They already gave permission,” Harvey said quickly, pride rising in his chest. “Bellatrix and Narcissa both. Bellatrix even paid me. They want it public. They want him humiliated.”

Cuffe leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Arthur Weasley is going for Lucius... that’ll play well in the family papers. You said he’s getting removed from the Board of Governors?”

Crispin nodded. “Ministry board’s meeting tomorrow. They said they can’t keep a child abuser on their roster. Narcissa might take his seat. PR damage’s too much now. People are furious.”

“And the fact that he called you a Mudblood last year in the Atrium?” Cuffe said, arching a brow.

“Oh, this is perfect revenge,” Crispin replied, barely hiding the satisfaction.

Cuffe flipped through the pages again—photos, quotes, blood, shock, power.

“This… this isn’t just a story Harvey,” he murmured. “This is what Mudbloods were never supposed to do. Expose them. Show them that their thrones are just chairs like anyone else's.”

Harvey stood straighter.

“I’ve got everything. Quotes. Witnesses. Lucius refused comment—swatted me off like I was dirt.”

His editor let out a short laugh.

“Then we make it dirt he can’t wipe off.”

He slapped the stack of parchment together.

“Get this to Layout. We’re running it front page. I want it on every evening table. Make him choke on his tea.”

Then he looked up, narrowing his eyes. “But just so we’re clear, if Bellatrix Black shows up here in the middle of the night asking for original negatives—I’m diving out that bloody window, and you’re the one explaining why we printed it.”

Crispin laughed nervously. “She seemed fine. Said it was justice.”

The editor raised his mug. “To justice, then. And to you still having knees tomorrow.”

Crispin turned, heart pounding, his fingers already twitching with the next line to write.

The Black Lip Incident wasn’t just a headline now.

It was his.

When they got into the floo, Druella waved her wand playfully and held Morgana's crate. But they had barely stepped through the fireplace at Malfoy Manor when Bellatrix turned sharply, her eyes burning as she watched Lucius retreat down the hall in silence.

If looks could kill, Lucius would’ve dropped dead before reaching the stairs.

Bellatrix’s gaze snapped back to Druella, and her lips parted in a sudden breath.

"Her lip," she said quietly.

Narcissa moved closer, her eyes narrowing with growing dread. “It might scar.”

“It’s split,” Bellatrix muttered, stepping forward, tilting Druella’s chin to see the damage. “It may stay that way. Forever.”

Druella blinked. “It’s just a cut—”

But Bellatrix’s panic was already boiling over. Without warning, she scooped Druella up into her arms.

“St. Mungo’s,” she barked, grabbing Floo Powder and throwing it into the grate.

“Wait—what?!” Druella shrieked, squirming in her grip. “Mother! I’m fine—!”

Narcissa was right behind her, face pale but determined. “Druella, we’re not risking infection. Or permanent damage.”

“I hate healers!” Druella protested, but it didn’t matter—Bellatrix had already dragged her into the emerald flames.

They arrived at the hospital in a whirl of ash and fire. Before Druella could even get a full breath, Bellatrix was storming toward the front desk, her daughter still in her arms.

“She needs a healer immediately. Now. Her lip was split open—Lucius Malfoy did it.”

The Healer blinked, caught off guard. “Er—yes, ma’am. This way, please.”

Another Healer came up. "She'll have to get a suture charm."

“No stitches,” Druella hissed, now fighting against her mother’s arms. “You are not stitching my face!”

Bellatrix clutched her tighter. “Enough. It's not up for debate, Druella. That bloody lip needs mending, and you’re going to sit still.”

“Mother, no, I don't want to see those evil dentists—!”

“It’s not a dentist—that’s a Muggle healer! Hermione’s parents are not here,” Bellatrix barked as Narcissa moved beside her, both of them trying to steady their panicking girl.

“Just calm her—” the Healer began.

Bellatrix was already uncorking a vial. “This’ll take the edge off.” She tipped a drop onto Druella’s tongue before the girl could protest, then rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Shh. Breathe, love. In and out. I’ve got you.”

Druella’s struggles eased, though she kept glaring as she was laid back on the bed.

The Healer worked quickly, conjuring a soft green glow that drew the torn flesh neatly together. Druella whimpered but didn’t pull away; she clenched her teeth, the sobs loud and ragged, while Bellatrix kept her gaze and Narcissa smoothed a hand through her hair. When the knitting finished, the Healer dabbed a cooling salve across the split for the pain.

Blood was wiped away. Magic hummed and faded.

“She was very brave,” the Healer murmured, stepping back. “No screaming—only what’s to be expected. You were right to bring her. That could have scarred for life.”

Bellatrix’s jaw tightened. “He split her lip,” she said darkly. “He spilt blood.”

She turned toward the wall, voice dropping to a curse-soft whisper. “Your time is ticking, Lucius Malfoy. You drew blood. And I will make you pay.”

The Healer gave a quiet sigh and handed Narcissa a parchment. “It’ll scab, yes. A few weeks, perhaps three weeks. No lasting damage. If you have the school matron monitor it—Madam Pomfrey—she’ll be just fine.”

“She has to go to school like this?” Narcissa snapped.

“I’m afraid so.”

Narcissa pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed her face, trying to compose herself.

Druella didn’t say anything.

She curled into her mother’s arms, tired and quiet, the sting of pain dulled by potion, but the fear and shame still fresh behind her eyes. As she cried, she hadn't left the manor, and being in the hospital scared her.

Bellatrix kissed her hair and held her close.

Bellatrix stood up, pulling a blanket over Druella, whose eyes were widened in horror.

Lip stitched.

Blood cleaned.

Druella rolled to the other side of the bed, her eyes wide as her mother and aunt spoke in hushed voices with the healer.

She heard them say Hogwarts.

The name curled in her stomach like something too large and sharp to swallow.

She knew—knew—there was absolutely no chance she’d be in Gryffindor. And honestly, she didn’t want to be.

Not just because her family were a whole legacy of Slytherins, that part was prominent. Slytherin blood practically flowed through her like a spell etched in her bones. But there were other reasons—deeper ones.

The first: she couldn’t imagine sharing a Common Room with Harry Potter and his friends—not because they were awful. No, they had been nice. Too nice. Harry had looked at her like she was just a girl, not a legacy or a liability. He gave her his hand when she needed it. Ron had made her laugh, even if he didn't mean to. Agreed with her on Lockhart's fame. And Hermione had smiled at her like she wasn’t a name in a newspaper. She told her family about the abuse. But it terrified her, of course.

The second: was Professor McGonagall, whom she knew as head of Gryffindor. Dumbledore's right-hand woman. The woman who was mean to her because of her mother. Draco had told her she had given him detention as well as the trio. He only claimed that he tried to tell her about them being out of bed and then snitched on Hagrid for harbouring a baby dragon. Druella couldn't quite understand that. Draco was just trying to help, and of course, the Gryffindor favouritism.

The third: plan and simple, it was Gryffindor house.

Druella wasn't brave. Not like them. Not like Harry, who had survived horrors she could never fathom, not like Hermione, who asked questions with fire behind her words. Not like Ron, who had looked at danger, cowered and still followed anyway.

She wasn’t any of that.

She wasn’t bold or heroic. She wasn’t even steady.

She felt small. Weak. Like Lucius had said, shy, fragile, a little creature made of delicate glass. And if she were placed in Gryffindor, what would that mean? That she was expected to rise to that?

Being placed in Gryffindor?

The idea made her chest tighten.

It would make even her mother ashamed of her. Narcissa wouldn't be there for her anymore. Lucius would beat her even worse if she were placed in Gryffindor. Oh boy she'd be sent home by her family and worse. Isolated again.

No, she would never belong there. She’d rather be in Hufflepuff—yes, Hufflepuff—the house Draco constantly shamed for their softness and weakness, that's probably best, yes, but maybe no one would expect her to be anything but quiet while Draco outshines her. Or Slytherin, at least, where her family would approve. Where being careful wasn’t cowardice, but strategy.

But Gryffindor?

That was the house for children who ran headfirst into the fire.

And all Druella could do, huddled under the St. Mungo’s blanket, was curl tighter into herself and pray she’d never be tested like that. Because if she were, she feared she'd fail.

Druella pulled out of bed, her curls on her face, as she just wanted her mother and her aunt. She'd have her coddle her; she didn't care at the moment.

She just wanted someone.

She pulled the curtain.

Then—

Her eyes went pale as she heard a shrill, venomous voice crackle through the corridor.

“What is she doing here?!”

Druella’s heart lurched. That voice. That awful voice.

“I knew it. I knew you people were sheltering her!” came the piercing screech of Augusta Longbottom. “The daughter of that woman—in this hospital?! What madness is this?! What madness?!”

“She is a patient, madam,” the Healer replied wearily. “She required treatment, like anyone else.”

“She’s a danger,” Augusta hissed. “You know what family she comes from. That child—she’ll grow up just like her mother. She’s already fooled the girl by giving her a wand, hasn’t she? It’s a disgrace! My son and daughter-in-law—do you know where she comes from?! She shouldn’t be allowed near the decent people, let alone inside St. Mungo’s!”

“I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice—”

Augusta ignored him entirely. “I demand she be removed. What if she lashes out? What if she curses someone? You think those little green eyes are innocent? You’re being deceived like the rest—”

“ENOUGH!” Narcissa’s voice rang like a spell across the corridor. She stepped into view, cold fury radiating from her frame. “Stop shouting at my niece. She’s a child. She just had her lip split open by a man you would have defended for years.”

“She shouldn’t be here!” Augusta snapped.

“And yet here you are,” Bellatrix said coolly, appearing from behind the curtain with Druella clutched to her chest. “Throwing a tantrum like a spoilt socialite who forgot she’s no longer relevant. She may be a Regent to a pathetic household, but you are no longer relevant and picking on a Black.”

Druella shivered in her mother’s arms, her wide eyes damp with tears. She hadn’t even meant to wander far. She just wanted to find her mother.

But here, once again, she was the villain.

The Healer stepped between them. “Madam Longbottom, return to your family’s room. I will not allow harassment of another patient, regardless of your personal opinions.”

Bellatrix gently carried Druella back into the hospital room, her arms wrapped protectively around her daughter. Narcissa followed close behind, her eyes flicking to Druella’s lip with quiet concern.

“You can’t go wandering like that,” Bellatrix murmured, setting Druella gently on the edge of the bed. “You scared me, darling.”

“I just... I just wanted to find you,” Druella mumbled, burying her face in her mother’s robes, her voice trembling.

“I know,” Bellatrix whispered, brushing her hair back from her face and rocking her slowly. “I know, my little snake.”

Narcissa stepped closer, placing a cool hand on Druella’s head, smoothing back her curls. “Forget that woman,” she said, voice like silk but edged with steel. “She’s haunted by ghosts—and she thinks she saw one in you.”

But Druella couldn’t forget. Augusta’s words had pierced something old inside her. Because ghosts might not be real, but people like Augusta saw her as one already—something cursed, dangerous, unfit to be around others.

Still, she said nothing. She just nodded against Bellatrix’s shoulder. Trembling as she was very scared being here, Diagon Alley was amazing. But this? This was most likely one or the scariest moments of her life. 

Now that Lucius’s abuse is out in the open, Bellatrix is furious, promising a lifetime of revenge for what he did to her child. She knew he made Druella suffer in her place.

But oh she is never going to forget this.

Now Lucius’s suffering had begun.

Later, after a long night of whispered comforts and potions, the following morning, Druella was discharged.

She expected to go home finally.

She did not expect the spree that followed.

Bellatrix and Narcissa swept her through Diagon Alley like a pair of queens dressing their heir. Every window Narcissa passed, she paused with a glint in her eye, asking, “Would you like this, darling?” before Druella could answer, she had just bought it for her.

Bellatrix, meanwhile, had Tib's arms piled items high into shopping bags with a kind of manic affection—stuffed animals, books on rare flora, enchanted quills, new boots, potions for her hair. “She needs proper paint sets,” Bellatrix declared at one point, already handing over Galleons for a deluxe magical watercolour kit. “And seed packs. She’s got a garden to rebuild after the year.”

They bought her sugar-dusted sweets and a new coat. Bellatrix even tossed in a talking stuffed Thestral—its voice oddly posh—while Narcissa added a sleek satchel lined in green silk, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered in the light.

Druella tried to keep her composure through it all. She didn’t squeal. She didn’t grab. Instead, she smiled gently with every gift, offering soft, grateful “thank yous” as her arms were slowly filled with parchment rolls, potion kits, ribbon-wrapped books, dolls, and plush creatures.

“Should we get her the new Nimbus 2001?” Bellatrix asked casually, nodding toward a display across the street where students were staring at amazed.

“No,” Druella said at once, polite but firm.

The sisters turned to her, confused.

Druella held out her Hogwarts supply list, which she had been clutching tightly like a lifeline. “First-years aren’t allowed brooms,” she reminded them softly.

Bellatrix and Narcissa exchanged a glance, half amused, half chagrined, momentarily forgetting she was still just a child starting her first year.

They didn’t push. They didn’t argue.

They just bought her a beautiful black travelling cloak instead.

Druella didn’t throw tantrums like Draco used to. She didn’t stomp her feet or demand the fanciest set of cauldrons or robes embroidered with her initials. She accepted everything they gave her gently and gracefully, trying her best to smile, even when she didn’t understand why.

Because something lingered in their eyes, especially Bellatrix’s. A darting look to Druella’s lip, now healing, but still red and tender. It hurt Bellatrix to see it, as if she couldn’t stand that it existed.

Druella held her new plush rabbit to her chest as they walked together, nestled between Bellatrix and Narcissa, their hands occasionally brushing hers.

She was being spoiled rotten.

And slowly, tentatively, she was beginning to feel just a little better.

When they stopped at Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream, Narcissa sprayed perfume on herself and wiped the table with a napkin herself before sitting Druella down, and Bellatrix ordered three flavours “just in case she changes her mind.”

Druella licked her spoon with a soft hum, swinging her feet under the bench. The breeze felt nice on her face, and the sugar was cool against her sore lip.

That’s when she spotted them—Harry, Ron, and the Weasleys across the square.

She gave a small wave.

Harry saw her first and waved back with a wide grin, followed by Ron, then Ginny, who had a half smile and the twins. She beamed a little, raising her hand again, a bit more enthusiastic now.

“I’m okay!” Druella called, pointing at her lip and then giving a thumbs up, her voice slightly shaky but hopeful.

"My lip is stitched, but I'm ok!" Druella called out, waving her hand.

They nodded in response, and Ron gave her an exaggerated salute. Harry gave her a reassuring smile.

Druella let out a soft laugh, the kind that trembles a little at the end but feels real.

As she turned back to her ice cream, Bellatrix handed her a napkin and dabbed her cheek gently. Narcissa brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

For the first time in days, Druella felt safe.

They were definitely hiding something.

But at least for now... she could breathe.

Chapter Text

Back at Malfoy Manor, the halls felt colder than usual—more out of silence than stone.

Lucius and Draco had both taken to ignoring Druella entirely. Draco passed her with petulant huffs, shooting glares at Morgana as she lounged across Druella’s lap. He offered no words—just rolled eyes and tight jaws. Morgana, of course, gave a dismissive flick of her tail every time he scowled at her. Druella could tell Morgana didn't like him for every time Draco scoffed, she gave him a dismissive flick. Not caring a word about what Draco said or would do. Morgana only purred at Druella, keeping her calm and content.

Lucius said even less and spoke no word to her. Except, of course, when Druella dared to carry Morgana out of her room.

“She’s not permitted at the dinner table,” he had snapped once, his voice sharp and disdainful as Morgana peeked from Druella’s arms.

But Narcissa had stepped between them before the argument could escalate. "Then perhaps you should find another table," she said coolly, voice like iced steel. She didn’t look at him—only at Druella, ushering her gently back upstairs. Narcissa had moved into a separate bedroom by then. The message had been loud without ever being spoken.

Druella retreated to her room, where the world made more sense. Where Morgana chased yarn and pounced on her new stuffed rat, which Bellatrix had charmingly enchanted to twitch every now and then.

She scratched Morgana’s nose and watched as the little black cat mauled the toy. “Mother hates rats too,” Druella whispered with a giggle.

By the middle of the week, Druella clung to Morgana like a shield. She had tried to carry her everywhere. Lucius, of course, lectured her, threatening to get rid of her, but Narcissa, of course, would not let that happen. Bellatrix was worse than her; she'd scream at him if he dared to yell at her. The fact that Druella got a pet and not Draco. It annoyed Draco immensely, but he no longer had the nerve to protest. He'd been silenced too many times by the women in the house.

In the quiet of one late afternoon, Druella slipped behind the elf quarters, where the shadows stretched longer and the air smelled of mint and dirt. Dobby greeted her with an awkward smile, bowing low before pattering off to his duties.

She noticed a white crow for a moment, and then it flew away quickly.

"Strange," Druella mumbled. "Rare."

Druella then turned back and picked her lilies and smiled at the sight of her garden. Druella noticed something strange, something that was in her blossoms.

Druella crouched in the grass and caught sight of a white mouse crawling along a stone. It glittered in the sunlight, like something from a fairy story. It watched her carefully as if it knew something. That it knew she needed some cheering up. Druella had some breadcrumbs and gave them to the mouse. She reached for it slowly, and it didn’t run. It crawled into her hand. She let it roam around her, and for some odd reason, Druella couldn't comprehend.

She turned it gently in her palm, watching it move, clicking its tiny pink paws. It looked like it belonged to another world.

She set it down beside her and played softly, her fingers moving through the grass as the mouse wandered near her toy rabbit. She then picked it up again and played with it like it was a flying broom.

Then—

“Druellie.”

The voice cut through the breeze like a thread snapping.

She froze.

The mouse froze.

Her hand hovered mid-motion.

Narcissa’s heels crunched softly over the garden path. “Druella, let go of that,” she said gently, but firmly, her voice drifting with a melodic warning. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

Before she could obey, the mouse jumped off, vanishing into the air with a shimmer of footsteps

Druella kept her eyes low as Narcissa approached, her skirts whispering in the grass. For a moment, Druella didn’t speak. She didn’t move. The hush in the garden made everything sharper.

Behind them, the manor loomed.

She could still feel Lucius inside it.

Narcissa’s smile was faint, polished and poised, but tired around the edges. She knelt beside Druella in the grass, smoothing out the girl’s robes with careful fingers—unhurried, meticulous.

“You know you’re not in trouble,” she murmured, brushing a leaf from Druella’s hair as if it were a thorn. “But I do wish you’d be more careful with those insects.”

Druella only nodded.

The white mouse was long gone.

But the pressure in her chest remained, curled tight like a stone beneath her ribs—because she knew now: not all monsters left bruises.

Narcissa adjusted her shoulders, then her sleeves, her hands moving with quiet precision so that Druella couldn’t quite meet her eyes. The girl sat still, feeling the tugs and straightening like a doll being readied for display.

“You really shouldn’t be playing with nasty things like that,” Narcissa scolded gently, smoothing Druella’s hair now. “Playing with bugs? It’s not proper. Not for a young lady—not for you.”

Her tone sweetened, voice dropping to a hushed lilt. “Besides... in a year or so, perhaps, there may be a change.”

Druella blinked. “What do you mean?”

“As long as you stay close,” Narcissa whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind Druella’s ear, “and follow the path we give you… everything will be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Yes, of course, Aunt Narcissa,” Druella answered, soft as ever.

“Marvellous,” Narcissa purred, like a cat satisfied by compliance. She leaned in a little, her breath brushing Druella’s cheek. “So—Potter, Weasley, and that clever little Granger girl?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Well, well,” Narcissa said, amused. “Making lovely friends already.”

“They’re not—”

“They’re just fine,” she cut in smoothly. “You mustn’t be alone. You need friends, Druella. It’s good for your nerves. And think of poor Harry Potter—abused by Muggles, all of them fools. Everyone knows now. It’s tragic.” She made a mock pout, brushing her fingers under Druella’s chin. “So sad, isn’t it?”

Druella nodded, unsure where to look.

“And Granger—” Narcissa’s voice turned lighter, cooler. “I rather like her. Bright, polite. Looks as though to trust easily poor dear. She told me and your mother about the abuse. I really took a shine to the girl.”

“But—”

“Shhh.” Narcissa’s fingers pressed gently against Druella’s lips. “You don’t follow Draco. You don't follow Lucius. You follow me. And your mother. That’s what matters.”

From the distant manor doorway, Lucius watched, seething, biting down the urge to interfere, not wanting to get on her bad side.

“You’ll befriend them, you’ll have fun, you’ll write me letters about all the little adventures at Hogwarts,” Narcissa continued, tone syrupy and calm. “And tell me every ridiculous thing that old fool Albus Dumbledore says.”

Druella gave another nod, small and automatic.

She felt both smaller and safer when her aunt hovered over her like this—wrapped in lace and warning.

Narcissa sat back into a chair she'd summoned, watching her niece carefully. “Sometimes I think,” she mused, voice light, “there’s more in that sweet little head of yours than you let on.”

Druella kept her gaze low.

“You know there’s no one in this world who truly loves you like we do, don’t you?” Narcissa’s voice turned soft again, coaxing. “You trust me. And your mother. Always.”

Druella gulped and nodded.

Narcissa smiled, radiant and slow. She cupped Druella’s cheek, then eased her forward into an embrace as Druella forced a smile.

“There’s my little girl,” she whispered, humming as her arms wrapped tightly around her, possessive, tender, suffocating. “You’ll be all right, my precious one.”

From over Druella’s shoulder, Narcissa met Lucius’s eyes across the garden path—her gaze venomous and victorious. He sneered, turned, and stormed off without a word.

"Smart move." Narcissa lipped as she focused her attention on her niece.

Narcissa’s voice dropped to a whisper again, her breath warm against Druella’s ear.

“Be careful of the men you trust, sweetling. Even the ones who wear fine robes and call themselves family.”

She stroked her back gently, like calming a frightened animal.

“You never know,” she whispered, “what kind of monster hides inside something as harmless as a little beetle.”

And Druella—still and quiet—leaned into the warmth, the pressure, the shelter of her aunt’s arms, even as something in her quietly curled inward.

Because she didn’t want to think about beetles anymore.

Or monsters.

Druella could hear Narcissa screaming at Lucius over her again, surrounded by her favourite things—books, trinkets, and the plush rug that covered the floor—she found peace. Her newly adopted kittens' soft purring created a soothing backdrop as Druella delved into the intricate theories of her Transfiguration book, which McGonagall had given her.

Morgana had become a constant presence in Druella's life, a source of comfort in the chaos of the Malfoy household. However, Morgana remained confined to Druella's bedroom, a decision made by Lucius.

From that moment on, Morgana's place in the household was secure. Despite Lucius's disdain, the kitten thrived under the care of Druella and her fiercely protective mother and aunt. To Druella, Morgana was more than a pet—she was a symbol of the love and protection, the new comfort and the good part of the day. The one that Bellatrix and Narcissa fought to give her, even in the midst of the storm. Despite the day being one when truths were exposed, Morgana was a good thing. Along with the ice cream, Hagrid, the nice Half-Giant, gave her.

Druella smiled to herself, losing track of time while engrossed in the book McGonagall had given her. The charms and intricacies of Transfiguration fascinated her, offering one of the few distractions from the chaos of her family's emotions, which often threatened to overwhelm her.

A knock on the door broke her concentration. She opened it to find Dobby standing there, his sad eyes as usual. She gave him a small nod, silently inviting him in. The house-elf quietly entered, sitting down on a small rug she had placed in the corner for him, his large ears drooping in the same sorrowful manner as always. He didn't speak at first, simply watching her read."Did it work?" Druella asked after a while, glancing up from her book.

Dobby shook his head, his gaze heavy with sadness. Druella frowned, but kept her voice steady as she spoke. "Dobby, don't tell anyone about my involvement, okay?" The elf nodded in agreement, his expression one of understanding and sympathy.

"I wish I could give you clothes, but I can't," Druella continued, a bitter note in her voice. "Uncle has to be the one to." Dobby's eyes narrowed with empathy, but he didn't say anything, simply nodding in acknowledgement.

Druella sighed and muttered to herself, more to the silence than to him, "I suppose we're both abused by him in different ways."

Dobby's ears twitched, but he said nothing. His presence, though quiet, was a comforting reminder that Druella was not completely alone in her suffering. As she glanced out the door, she saw Narcissa walking past, her face set with anger as she headed down the hall. It was clear that the argument with Lucius was far from over.

"I don't want to make Aunt Narcissa or Mother mad either," Druella said softly to Dobby, turning back to him. "So for now, you're safe with me."

A few hours later, Druella was lying on her bed, the soft weight of Morgana curled up on her stomach. She absently stroked the kitten's fur, lost in thought. Morgana's fluffy coat and mismatched eyes—one blue, one yellow—were the perfect distraction.

Just as Druella relaxed into the quiet of her room, Narcissa entered. Her voice, when it came, was cheerful and light, a stark contrast to the tension that still hung thick in the house. "Oh, Ellie," she sang playfully, her tone teasing.

Druella sighed and rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her exhaustion. "I'm eleven, Aunt Narcissa. Not five," she reminded her, though there was no real heat in her words.

Narcissa's smile faltered for a brief moment, but she quickly recovered, laughing as she threw herself down beside Druella on the bed, pulling her into a tight hug. "Oh, Ellie," she cooed, her tone affectionate. "Always so independent. Lucius gives you those bad thoughts, doesn't he?" 

Druella groaned, squirming to push her aunt away, but Narcissa simply held her tighter, pressing her into her chest. Druella tried to push her off again, but it was no use. Narcissa had a strength in her that Druella could never match.

"Aunt Narcissa, get off me," Druella mumbled, though there was no real force behind the words. Instead of letting go, Narcissa only laughed, her fingers running playfully through Druella's hair in a soothing motion.

"You've got to stop acting like you can take care of yourself, sweetie," Narcissa murmured, her voice soft yet firm. "You're not ready to be independent-not—not until I say you are."

Druella folded her arms, trying to push away again. "Stop," she whispered, but Narcissa's hold didn't falter. She was firm, unyielding, even as she continued brushing Druella's hair.

"But you're so adorable," Narcissa continued, her voice tender and protective. "You still need me to protect you more than ever, sweetie."

Suddenly, the door to the room burst open. Lucius stood there, his expression twisted into one of cold fury. Druella's eyes widened as Narcissa looked at him dead in the eye. His dangerous voice sliced through the air. "Still coddling her, I see?"

Narcissa didn't flinch, her gaze locking with his, her own anger rising. She sat up straighter, her stance growing more commanding. "Get out of my sight before I beat you!" she hissed, her voice sharp with fury.

Lucius recoiled, his eyes wide with shock. He hesitated for a moment, but his pride seemed to win out as he muttered something under his breath before storming out of the room. Despite his anger, it was clear that, at this moment, Narcissa held more power over him than he cared to admit.

The air in the room still felt heavy from the confrontation, but Lucius was gone now, his harsh words lingering in the silence. Narcissa stood tall, her icy fury fading as quickly as it had appeared. Her anger melted into something much more familiar—possessive, nurturing, suffocating.

She didn't hesitate. As soon as Lucius left, her cold demeanour shifted, and she was back to her usual self. Narcissa's hands were immediately on Druella, pulling her close with a tenderness that felt almost too much, too overwhelming. She ran her fingers through Druella's hair in that soothing way, the motion both a comfort and a control. There was something possessive in the way she held her niece as if Druella could slip away if Narcissa loosened her grip for even a moment.

"You don't have to worry about him," Narcissa whispered, her voice almost too sweet, too soft. "I've taken care of it. No one will harm you, Druella, not while I'm around." Her words were a lullaby, but there was no warmth in them—only the weight of protection, the promise of control.

Druella felt a shiver run through her, part of her unsettled by how easily Narcissa's mood had shifted. One moment, she was standing firm and furious, threatening Lucius with violence, and the next, she was cradling Druella like a small child, her anger entirely forgotten. It was a routine she had come to know all too well. Narcissa's love, like everything else in their home, was conditional—an armour to shield Druella from the chaos, but also a cage that kept her in place. But with her and Draco, Narcissa will do anything to keep them safe.

Druella didn't resist. The strangling sense of being trapped in Narcissa's arms offered comfort in the constant attention, in the feeling of being the centre of someone's universe, even if that universe was constructed of control and care in equal measure.

She nodded numbly, her thoughts drifting. Her body stiffened as Narcissa's embrace tightened around her, but she didn't pull away. She had learned not to. The tightness in Narcissa's grip was always there—there was no space to breathe, but it also offered the illusion of safety.

For now, there was nothing else to do but endure the overbearing care, to let herself be held tightly, just as she had been for so many years. She has protested many times but Narcissa never listens and only continues to do so. Well, unless Bellatrix is home to keep the balance, but when she's not home, Narcissa is free to fuss over Druella.

As Narcissa continued to fuss over her, smoothing her hair, adjusting her clothes, and muttering soft reassurances, Druella's mind wandered. She thought of the next day and Hogwarts. A new beginning, a place where she could escape, where maybe, she could find a way to be more than just a doll in her aunt's hands.

August 31st 1993 - The Burrow

The Burrow was quiet after supper, the clink of dishes and faint chatter having faded into the cosy hum of crickets beyond the kitchen window. Harry and Ron sat at the table, plates pushed aside, both lost in thought. The fire crackled gently behind them, casting flickers of gold across their tired faces.

Ron finally broke the silence, stabbing his fork into a leftover roast potato. “I heard her aunt and mum are still absolutely fuming. Like—red-faced, throw-things-at-the-wall fuming.”

Harry looked over, eyebrows raised. “Can’t blame them. He slapped her. In front of everyone. Did you see that lip? How it bled and she barely flinched?”

Ron nodded grimly. “Yeah. And that wasn’t the first time, either. That’s the part that really got Dad. For the last few weeks, he's been keeping tabs on her ever since. It might be the day before Hogwarts, but he’s still worried. Quietly checking in with Narcissa.”

Harry blinked. “Your dad and Narcissa Malfoy? Talking?”

Ron winced. “Yeah, I know. Sounds mad. They hate each other. Always have. But this isn’t about the usual Malfoy-Weasley rivalry anymore. Not for them.”

He shoved a bit of potato around on his plate, brows furrowed.

Harry leaned back. “Still can’t believe it. Druella Malfoy—”

Ron cut in, not unkindly. “It’s not Malfoy. Her last name’s Black.”

"Lestrange?" Harry asked.

"No." Ron answered him.

Harry paused. “Oh. I thought—”

“Yeah, everyone did till recently. But she’s Bellatrix’s kid, not Narcissa’s. Bellatrix Black. Narcissa's maiden name was Black before he married Malfoy. Her father's surname may be Lestrange, but Bellatrix changed her surname back to Black."

"So what about her dad?" Harry asked.

"Azkaban." Ron answered bluntly, eating a biscuit, "Rodulpus Lestrange."

"Lestrange?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Lestrange, her father's surname, he's in Azkaban, served You-Know-Who like her mother did. They both were captured and sent to Azkaban, but Bellatrix got out thanks to her sister's concern with the baby."

"She was pregnant with her?" Harry asked.

"Yes." Ron answered, "But got out due to the 'circumstance' she got out, and some say she was never the same since Druella was born. So she sought to protect her. She privately divorced Rodolphus, left him to rot, claimed the surname Black, and became Matriarch, I think, when I was... five."

"But why doesn't she have her father's surname?" Harry asked.

"Because Bellatrix didn't want to marry Lestrange. It is said that there is a curse associated with the surname. But her parents insisted on it. So when she had the chance, she left him."

Harry gave a small nod, the correction settling something in him. “Right. That makes sense.”

Ron looked at him directly, the flicker of the fire catching the seriousness in his eyes. “She’s not like the rest of them. Not like Draco. Not really.” He dropped his voice. “She’s been through hell, Harry.”

And Harry—sitting in the warm, safe glow of the Burrow—didn’t have to ask how Ron knew. He just nodded, quietly.

“My dad said, pureblood nonsense aside, she’s a kid. A quiet one. Been through too much already. And what Lucius did—what everyone saw—kind of forced both sides to act like actual adults for once. So yeah, Dad’s still got every reason to hate Malfoy’s guts. But he and Narcissa are… tolerating each other. For Druella.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He glanced into his goblet, swirling the last of the pumpkin juice.

“She’s different from Malfoy,” he said finally. “He never shut up. She barely says anything.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Looks like she’s always waiting for something to go wrong. Dad said she barely talks unless Bellatrix or Narcissa are with her. She just kind of… shrinks into corners.”

“Malfoy always acted like he was untouchable,” Harry muttered. “She acts like she’s trying not to be seen.”

“Exactly,” Ron said. “And now Narcissa’s pulling every string she can to keep her protected. Told the school board she’s ‘monitoring her niece’s wellbeing.’ Translation: she’s basically living at Hogwarts this year. My dad said she’s already rearranged half the staff protocols. Madam Pomfrey’s on alert.”

Harry blinked. “Can she even do that?”

Ron muttered, “She can now. You should see the Prophet by Crispin. He was that odd Muggle-born in his late teens who works at the Ministry—kept to himself. No one ever noticed him at Hogwarts. Placed in Hufflepuff, I know that. And he barely got noticed then, and even at work.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

“They notice him now,” Ron said, pulling a folded paper from his bag and sliding it across the table. “They published this tonight. It’s already being called a historic front page.”

The headline was massive. Ink still smelled fresh.

THE STRIKE SEEN ROUND DIAGON ALLEY

THE BLACK LIP INCIDENT: LUCIUS MALFOY EXPOSED
By Harvey Crispin, Daily Prophet Evening Edition – August 21st, 1992

On August 19th 1992 it all began as a routine book signing at Flourish & Blotts featuring bestselling author Gilderoy Lockhart quickly descended into scandal as Lucius Malfoy—patriarch of the ancient House of Malfoy—was seen striking his ten-year-old niece, Druella Bellatrix Black II, in full view of customers, children, and Ministry officials.

A bystander’s photograph captured the moment of impact: Druella's lip visibly bleeding, her hand to her mouth, her green eyes hollow with shock as Malfoy towered over her with his infamous serpent-headed cane.

Eyewitnesses claim the girl had done nothing more than speak, and was met with physical punishment from the man once trusted as a member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors.

Lucius Malfoy made no comment when questioned by the Prophet.

According to several sources, Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born student and friend of Harry Potter, immediately notified Malfoy's wife, Narcissa Violet Malfoy (née Black), who arrived on scene with the girl's mother—none other than Bellatrix Black.

Accounts diverge on what happened next, but most agree:
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, punched Lucius Malfoy during the confrontation. Gilderoy Lockhart, ever the showman, allegedly confessed to having “fallen in love at first sight” with Bellatrix during the chaos and was seen catching a kiss from her as the fight escalated.

Narcissa Malfoy was seen covering her niece's eyes before leading her away. The child is expected to board the Hogwarts Express as planned.

The incident—now being referred to publicly as “The Black Lip”—has already resulted in Lucius Malfoy being suspended from the Hogwarts Board of Governors, with a formal vote to remove him entirely expected later this week. Sources inside the Ministry confirm that child protection laws are being reviewed, with Amelia Bones personally reading the report.

When asked for comment, Bones simply said:

“It’s a private matter. For now.”

Chapter Text

Ron tapped the paper. “Crispin’s not holding back. He named names. Used full titles. Even put the thing in capital letters like it’s folklore already.”

Harry whistled under his breath.

“Lucius lost his seat?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron confirmed. “Apparently, slapping a kid—your own niece—in front of thirty people, including Lockhart, Ministry officials, the Head of the Department of Magical Laws niece, and a bunch of witch mums with kids? Not exactly subtle. Makes the entire Board look bad.”

“So… Narcissa took it?”

Ron nodded, half laughing. “She swept in like a queen with receipts. Cited some ancient marriage clauses. Said it was her ‘duty to maintain integrity on the board while her husband is under formal review.’” He mimed air quotes. “Didn’t even flinch when they approved it. Just gave this nod like finally.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Wait, there’s a clause for that?”

“Oh yeah. Pureblood marriages are all tangled in contracts. Think like prenups, as Muggles say. Magical contracts. Vows that bind you to rules and roles. If you violate one—especially anything involving heirs or children—it can strip your rights. Titles. Vault access. Even wand privileges in extreme cases.”

“And Lucius?”

“Broke one. The first strike was physical harm to a child under his roof. That’s all Narcissa needed to assume control of the children. She now has full access to decide Draco and Druella's well-being. Now, Druella is her sole ward and not Lucius. And if he messes up again…”

Harry nodded. “She’ll end it.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Yeah. Like I said… for Black.”

He paused, then added more quietly, “For Druella. Let's call her Ella.”

He glanced at Harry again, a little sheepish. “You know, for all the noise Parkinson made last term about being top of the food chain… when it comes down to it, she’s not even in the same world as Druella.”

Harry raised a brow. “Why?”

Ron shrugged. “Because Parkinson’s a wannabe. Druella’s a Black. Real power. Real blood. But she never acts like she’s above anyone. She just... wants to be left alone.”

He shook his head. “Funny how the quiet ones always end up at the centre of everything.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Harry said, then added with a smirk, “And what’s with her aunt's face? Is there something in her nose? She always looks like there’s dung under her nose.”

Ron burst out laughing. “Right?! Like she’s constantly smelling something foul and can’t figure out if it’s the person next to her or her own shoes.”

Harry chuckled. “She looks like someone who has expensive wine. My aunt keeps one on the shelf to make it look like they’re classy, but it’s just there to impress the neighbours.”

Ron snorted.

Harry wasn’t done. “They pop it open on weird occasions, too. Like when Vernon gets a new drill at work or when Dudley breathes without wheezing. Meanwhile, I’m locked upstairs pretending I don’t exist.”

Ron wheezed. “Merlin. Sounds like your aunt and Narcissa would get along.”

Harry smirked. “Only if Narcissa could survive a dinner where everything tastes like disappointment and boiled ham. Besides, it wouldn't lock me and Druella in a bedroom.”

Harry shook his head. “But jeez, she’s taking it hard. I mean, it’s really gonna cause something, isn’t it?”

“It already is—for everyone else,” Ron replied, still grinning. “She’s been storming through the Ministry like a blonde hurricane since that Diagon Alley mess, threatening to hex anyone who so much as whispers the words ‘Druella’ and ‘lip’ in the same sentence. Oh, but it's on the prophet like it or not.”

He leaned in slightly. “And she’s got Bellatrix backing her, which is saying something. The Black Sisters—they’re calling them that now like some terrifying pureblood power duo. Narcissa’s the elegant one with all the strings; Bellatrix is the one who makes everyone too scared to breathe wrong. They’re not just ‘concerned guardians,’ Harry—they’re mobilised. Bellatrix is already calling in favours. Narcissa’s got half the Ministry eating out of her hand. People are either scared stiff or desperate to get invited to whatever cursed gala she’s planning next.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “So people are actually talking about it?”

“Oh, they’re more than talking,” Ron said, eyes wide. “You don’t split a kid’s lip open in front of a crowd, burn her favourite toy, and expect it to vanish. This wasn’t some behind-closed-doors thing—this happened in the middle of Diagon Alley, in Flourish and Blotts, where half the wizarding world was shopping for books.”

He sat up a little, animated now.

“There were kids there, Harry. First-years. Muggle-borns. Families picking out their first wands and cauldrons—and they watched a grown wizard strike an eleven-year-old girl in public. Some parents covered their kids’ eyes because of the blood that came out of her lip; others just froze at the sight.”

Ron shook his head, furious. “We all saw it happen. Right there. But Lucius barely blinked, like she was something he could smack into obedience.”

Ron snorted. “Dad decked him. Right there outside of the shop. Hit him so hard, Lucius had a bloody nose, almost broke some bones even.”

Harry blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Ron said. “And you wouldn’t believe how many people clapped. I heard some kid—probably ten years old—thanked my dad. Said it was the best part of their day. Another Muggle-born girl told Madam Malkin’s clerk she was ‘glad someone finally hit the evil one.’”

He shook his head again, laughing without humour. “The Prophet didn’t print the photo, but it’s everywhere. They’re calling it the Black Lip Incident. Sounds like a cursed lipstick ad in Witch Weekly, but… yeah. It’s a curse, alright.”

Harry let out a low whistle. “Catchy.”

“Awful,” Ron said flatly. “But true. And now with Narcissa turning Hogwarts into her private castle and Bellatrix ready to burn the world if someone so much as breathes near Druella the wrong way, everyone’s watching. Everyone’s whispering.”

Harry looked toward the window, his voice softer. “She’s eleven. She shouldn’t have to deal with all this.”

Ron nodded, the grin gone. “No kid should.”

Harry thought for a moment, brow furrowed. “She’s never even been around other kids, has she?”

“Barely,” Ron said. “Dad thinks she probably doesn’t even know how to have a normal conversation. Bellatrix homeschooled her—scary, right? And Narcissa… well, Narcissa micromanaged everything. She’s been living in a velvet cage her whole life. Told when to speak, when to walk, what to wear, and who to trust. I mean, having money would be great, but at least I have a mind of my own.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “Now, tomorrow, she's going to be walking into a castle full of kids with big mouths and bigger opinions. Hope Hogwarts is ready.”

“Wait till she meets Snape,” Harry chuckled. “He’ll have a field day. Imagine it—he’ll probably treat her poorly, wouldn't surprise me. He always hated the weak ones. Calling Neville idiot boy.”

Ron smirked. “‘Miss Black, ten points from Gryffindor for breathing too loudly.’” He deepened his voice with a dramatic flair. “‘And wipe that look of independent thought off your face.’”

Harry laughed, but his gaze flickered toward the window, thoughtful again.

“Still… I don’t think she’s anything like him.”

They both burst into laughter, but Harry’s smile faded slightly as he added, “Still… I hope he doesn’t go too hard on her.”

Ron shrugged. “Who knows? Snape’s weird with some kids. Remember how he was with me and Neville? Compared to how he was with Malfoy?”

Harry nodded. “He could surprise us. Maybe he’ll… I dunno. See something in her.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, grabbing another biscuit. “Like a reminder of how much he hates you.”

Harry gave him a look.

“Okay, okay!” Ron laughed. “But hey—if she had been in our year, we probably would've helped her deal with Snape. Doesn't mean we can’t now.”

Harry grinned. “Nope. Doesn’t mean that at all.”

They clinked their goblets together in a mock toast.

“To make friends with Malfoy’s cousin.”

“And surviving it,” Ron added with a smirk.

Ginny, passing by in her pyjamas, paused at the doorway. She glanced at them, her expression unreadable, then padded off to her room without a word.

Harry watched her go, then looked back at Ron. “You think she likes her?”

Ron shrugged. “She will. Eventually. Hard not to like someone when you know what they’ve been through.”

Ginny sat cross-legged on her bed, the early moonlight spilling across the faded pink coverlet of her childhood quilt. Her school supplies were scattered around her—freshly packed robes, her worn copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, that Lucius had degraded and the cauldron her mum had scraped together enough to buy. Everything smelled like ink and parchment and home.

And yet, she didn’t feel ready.

Not for school.

Not for… her.

Druella Black.

Ginny didn’t even know why it bothered her so much. Maybe it was the way Harry looked at her after Diagon Alley. Perhaps it was how everyone had rushed to protect Druella like she was some fragile flower, and Ginny had stood there, unnoticed, just another Weasley in the crowd.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything—despite being pale and quiet and bruised—Druella still managed to feel… important.

Special.

Loved.

Ginny’s fingers fumbled with her wand case as the ugly thought dug deeper. Even Bellatrix, a woman Ginny had been raised to fear, had held her daughter like she was the centre of the universe. And Narcissa Malfoy, with her perfect hair and perfect voice, had treated Hermione like a precious pet just for helping Druella one time.

No one had ever cooed over Ginny like that.

She grabbed a quill too roughly, the nib snapping in her grip. With a huff, she shoved it aside and reached for her bag to repack everything, when her fingers brushed something cold.

And unfamiliar.

She blinked and pulled it out slowly. It was a leather-bound diary, old but intact, tucked at the bottom of her second-hand bag. She didn’t remember packing it. Her brows furrowed.

There was no title on the cover. No name.

Just the strange, almost alive texture of the leather against the fingers.

Ginny glanced around the room, heart suddenly racing.

“Probably something Mum picked from Charlie's hand-me-downs,” she murmured to herself, trying to shrug it off. But her hands felt cold, even with the summer air wafting in through the window.

She opened it slowly.

Blank pages.

She frowned. Just a journal. But why did it feel… strange?

She set it down beside her on the bed and hugged her knees. Her eyes flicked to the small mirror on her vanity—she could just see her reflection in the corner.

She didn’t look like Druella.

And maybe that’s what made her angry.

Even when Druella had nothing, no friends, no freedom, and not even her own voice in front of Lucius, people saw her.

They just rushed to her.

And Ginny? Ginny was always the tagalong. The last one. The youngest. The girl with too many brothers and not enough space. Ginny placed the diary in her bag and then she looked at the mirror again.

Which made her lower her head in sadness.

August 31st 1992 - Evening at Malfoy Manor

That night, the manor trembled with unrest.

Druella layed on her bed, covered in her blanket, holding onto a doll while Morgana mewled and walked to her back to comfort her.

She hummed a lullaby under her breath—a haunting tune she could only remember from a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. Her voice was soft and eerie, like wind through broken glass.

Down the corridor, the walls shook with fury.

"YOU ABUSED HER FOR TEN YEARS!" Bellatrix’s scream tore through the silence.

Druella flinched. Her fingers gripped the doll tightly.

“For eleven years!” Narcissa’s voice pierced through the floorboards—sharper than glass, shriller than a curse.

Then a crash. Shattering. The sound of glass—or perhaps a vase—slamming into the wall, followed by something heavier.

The bang made Druella shrink, curling into herself tighter inside the linen closet. She covered her head with her arms, instinctive and childlike, trembling in the dark. As if she were still that little girl hiding under a bed while footsteps boomed across the marble.

“You vile man!” Narcissa screamed again. Another crash.

Druella hummed. Soft and broken. Her lips trembled with each note. She couldn’t stop.

Morgana licked her hand gently. The kitten’s tiny tongue against her bruised wrist made her flinch, but she didn’t pull away.

Then Bellatrix—her voice an explosion.

“Do you have any idea what the media is asking?! You’ve lost her, Lucius! You don’t have a say! Cissy and I—we do now!”

“I DO!” Bellatrix shrieked, her voice tearing through the air like claws.

The manor pulsed with rage. Druella hummed louder, rocking slightly. Too old to be doing this. Too young to survive it without holding something.

She clutched her doll tighter to her chest with one hand, Morgana with the other. The bruises on her wrists still throbbed from where Lucius had gripped her too tightly, despite being a few weeks old; they still hurt. Lucius dragged her through Diagon Alley by the arms and robes like a possession, until the end of his staff cracked across her mouth when she dared speak out. Hermione informed her family.

Now her lip was split, dark and swollen. Despite being stitched back together, the skin around her wrists was turning deep purple. She wore her nightgown still—crumpled from sleep and hiding. She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t spoken. Not since yesterday.

A creak.

The door to her room opened slowly.

Druella’s breath caught. “Oh no,” she whispered, and stumbled from her bed, running for the closet before she could think. Her feet padded silently over the floor. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her, hands covering her mouth.

"What if it's him?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears soaked into her palms.

But the telltale sound of heels—precise, clicking softly against marble—betrayed the truth.

Click. Click. Click.

Narcissa.

Her hair was loose, strands of gold and black cascading like silk. Her robes were wrinkled from the fight—creased where she’d lashed out—but still she looked flawless, untouched by the storm she’d just torn through. Immaculate, divine. A goddess after a major battle.

She said nothing. Not at first.

She stepped toward the bed.

“Druella, dear.” Her voice was soft now, coaxing. She tugged back the blanket, revealing the decoy pillow beneath. Of course. “I know you're here,” she said gently, almost amused. “You don't have to hide from me.”

A crash echoed from downstairs. Another yell from Bellatrix—something wet and heavy hitting the wall.

Druella didn’t answer. She curled tighter, fingers gripping her doll so hard the stitching strained. Morgana meowed softly beside her.

Narcissa turned to the sound. The closet.

The tiny scrape of kitten claws against wood.

“Morgana,” she said knowingly. "No..."

Another click of her heels. Nearer.

Druella’s eyes widened. She backed up against the back wall of the closet, trembling.

The door creaked open.

“There you are,” Narcissa whispered. “I was worried you were out of your room.”

She looked down at the child before her, small, silent, shoulders shaking. Druella’s red-rimmed green eyes stared out from behind the tangled curtain of her hair. Her lip was swollen and dark with dried blood. Her wrists were mottled with deep bruises, ugly and raw where Lucius had left his grip.

Her doll was pressed to her chest, and Morgana curled beside her protectively.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Narcissa murmured.

She crouched slowly, her robes folding around her as she reached Druella’s level. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t scold. Her hands, still gloved, reached out gently and cupped Druella’s cheeks. Her touch was cool, measured, maternal.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she whispered. “Auntie’s here now. And we have the plan in place, right?”

Druella’s eyes flicked toward her. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. There was no choice. She trusted Narcissa more than anyone—except maybe her mother. And her mother was too busy tearing Lucius to shreds to come down right now.

“Let’s take care of that lip, darling,” Narcissa said soothingly. “We’ll get you cleaned up before tomorrow. Your first day is tomorrow. Hogwarts is waiting. You'll be away from the manor for the first time. Like you've wanted since you were little. This isn't going to change you're going and it'll be a new adventure.”

Narcissa gave her a smile. "How does that sound?"

Druella didn’t answer. She looked down at Morgana. The kitten tilted her head and gave a soft meow of encouragement.

Druella turned back and gave the faintest nod.

“That’s my girl.” Narcissa smiled, then leaned in.

She slipped her arms under Druella’s legs and back, and with a single, practised motion, scooped her up. Druella gave a soft whimper, clutching her doll tighter, but she didn’t protest.

It didn’t matter. Narcissa would’ve carried her anyway.

Out of the closet, down the corridor, through the halls of shattered porcelain and splintered frames—away from the warzone of glass and fury. Into silence.

She carried her niece into the velvet hush of the sitting room, where only candlelight flickered.

Narcissa laid her down carefully on the chaise. She crouched beside her, smoothing Druella’s hair from her face, brushing the mess of curls back behind her ears.

“You don’t have to pretend here,” she said softly. “Not with me.”

Her voice trembled only once, barely enough to notice. But she was watching. And her eyes—blue as winter—lingered on the bruises.

“You didn’t know,” Narcissa whispered, almost to herself. “You didn’t know it wasn't normal.”

Druella blinked at her. Her swollen lip quivered, but she said nothing.

“And now you do.”

Downstairs, another crash echoed. Bellatrix still hadn’t stopped.

But here, in the candlelight, Narcissa cupped her niece’s bruised face and said, “He’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”

And for the first time that day, Druella believed her.

“Tibs! Dobby! Hubble!” she snapped without turning her head. “Fetch the potion kit. Now!”

They scrambled in from the side room, their ears flat with fear, and vanished again with a loud pop.

Downstairs, the house was a war zone.

The thunder of shattering glass rang like gunfire. Screams—Bellatrix’s, mostly—shook the foundation. Then Narcissa’s voice joined, colder, sharper, and just as furious. They were taking turns. Bellatrix roared like a storm. Narcissa carved like ice. And somewhere in between, Lucius begged.

None of it reached the sitting room.

Not really.

Because here, there was only velvet and candlelight.

Narcissa reached for a monogrammed handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped Druella’s cheek. Then another tear. Then the blood at the corner of her lip that hadn’t quite healed.

“There are secrets in you,” she whispered, her gloved fingers ghosting over Druella’s temple. “Powerful ones. Buried so deep I sometimes wonder if even you know them.”

Druella didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like a doll’s. She simply nodded, slow and automatic.

"You poor thing,” Narcissa murmured. “So many hidden things you keep in that fragile little head of yours.”

She stroked Druella’s forehead with gloved hands, again and again, smoothing back the strands of hair clinging to her face. Each stroke was tender, mechanical—reassurance dressed in aristocratic grace.

Another crash echoed down the hall.

“Your mother will be here soon,” Narcissa said softly. “When I’m finished tending to you, she’ll come. I'm not leaving you alone. Not until you’re well.”

Druella blinked, silent, but another nod followed.

Narcissa sat across from her, her posture flawless, though her breath still rose and fell unevenly from the battle that had only paused long enough to check on Druella.

She spoke like reciting a bedtime tale. “You remember the plan, don’t you?”

Druella gave the smallest of nods.

“Dumbledore steps down. Someone replaces him.”

Another quiet nod.

Narcissa smiled faintly and chuckled—not with joy, but with the eerie calm of a woman who had just made up her mind to burn something to the ground.

She leaned forward again, her knuckles brushing Druella’s cheek. “Let me be clear.”

Druella looked at her, dazed and waiting.

“Lucius will not be Headmaster,” Narcissa said softly. “I will.”

She stood.

Druella tilted her head, eyes still unfocused. The words didn’t fully land, but she absorbed them all the same.

“He lost the right the moment he laid a hand on you. And I don’t forgive.”

Another crash below—closer this time.

Narcissa barely reacted. She simply smoothed her robes. “We’ll show them all, Druella. Your mother and I—we’ll fix everything.”

Another soft pop—Dobby returned with the tray.

Narcissa took it without looking, her hands steady as always. She uncorked a small vial, held it to Druella’s lips. “Open.”

Druella obeyed.

The calming draught touched her tongue like frost. Bitter. Gentle. Inevitable. Her limbs sank into the velvet cushions. Narcissa dabbed a silvery salve onto the yellowing bruise on her wrist, movements clean and precise. A quiet ritual of care.

Light touches for deep wounds.

“She’ll be here soon,” Narcissa whispered and slid onto the chaise beside her. She pulled Druella into an embrace, settling the girl’s head on her shoulder. Her gloved hand moved rhythmically up and down her back—slow, steady, silencing the world.

Druella didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Her tears soaked into Narcissa’s robes in trembling silence. Not because she was weak, but because today had been too much. Because today had been the worst day of her life… and somehow, the best. She had met new friends. She had discovered new fears. And now she was crumbling under the weight of it all.

“There now,” Narcissa murmured, brushing Druella’s hair back from her clammy face. “Good girl. You’re fine now. I’ve got you.”

And she did.

She held her niece as the house trembled with fury. As the glass shattered and the portraits shrieked down the hall. As the screaming grew worse and worse.

The study doors were a battlefield.

Bellatrix had already taken her turn.

Narcissa had returned to tend to Druella, to compose herself—but now she was rearmed.

The sitting room door opened.

Bellatrix stood there in the glow of the candlelight, her chest rising and falling like a storm held barely in check. Her hair was wild, falling from its pins. A long scratch curved down her jaw. There was blood on her sleeve—but it wasn’t hers.

She stepped in slowly.

Her gaze fell on Druella, curled against Narcissa, lips still cut, the kitten purring faintly against her ribs.

And in Bellatrix’s eyes, something ancient flared to life.

Without a word, Narcissa handed her over.

Druella didn’t resist. She melted into her mother’s arms, letting Bellatrix hold her like she had when she was younger, when nightmares were only imaginary and not named Lucius Malfoy.

Bellatrix kissed her temple.

“Shhh… you’re alright now,” she breathed. “Mummy’s here.”

Then she handed the girl gently back to the chaise, draping a blanket over her shoulders.

“I’ll be back,” Bellatrix promised, standing tall.

And Narcissa?

She stormed out of the room like a blade unsheathed.

The heels of her boots struck the marble—sharp, slicing.

She reached the study.

Crash.

The door slammed open so hard the hinges whined.

“DON’T YOU DARE LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, LUCIUS!” Narcissa’s voice roared down the hall. “You’re nothing but a coward! You don’t even deserve to speak her name!”

Lucius sputtered something in return—inaudible, defensive.

He didn’t finish.

A slap rang out—then another. Louder. Bone-deep.

“YOU LOST HER!” Narcissa screamed. “YOU LOST THE RIGHT TO STAND IN THE SAME ROOM AS HER!”

Another smash. A bottle. A shelf. Something wood.

Bellatrix joined the fray with a snarl that echoed through the entire manor. “I told you once,” she snarled, “if you ever laid a finger on her again, I’d rip them off one by one—”

CRACK.

“You bloody manchild!” Narcissa’s voice cracked with rage. “She flinched, Lucius. You made her flinch at the sound of her own name!”

And from her place on the chaise, still trembling, Druella closed her eyes.

She didn’t flinch.

Not this time.

Because now the screaming meant something else.

It meant he was losing.

And she was being defended.

At last.

When the shouting faded and the manor settled into its bruised silence, Bellatrix turned from the wreckage and remembered what mattered most.

Her vengeance had been loud.

But her love—her real work—was quiet.

She found Druella still curled on the chaise where Narcissa had left her, small and blank-eyed, her lip no longer bleeding but still cracked at the edge. Morgana purred softly in her lap, a thread of comfort in a world too sharp.

Without a word, Bellatrix knelt beside them.

She gently stroked Druella’s cheek, her voice low, barely audible. “Come, darling. Time to sleep.”

Druella nodded faintly, allowing herself to be led. She clutched Morgana close as Bellatrix guided her silently through the quiet corridors of the manor, one hand steady on her shoulder. Her steps were slow, almost drifting. She moved like a shadow, one that had been bruised and patched up and told to rest.

When they reached her room, Bellatrix didn’t rush.

She helped Druella out of her dress with the same care she’d use handling a cursed relic. She pulled a nightgown over her daughter’s head, her touch feather-light. Then, without comment, she set Morgana gently on the pillow, stroking behind the kitten’s ears until the little creature curled up, blinking drowsily.

Bellatrix pulled back the heavy velvet covers.

Druella climbed in wordlessly.

Then Bellatrix joined her.

She slipped beneath the blankets and wrapped herself around her daughter like armour—quiet, fierce, immovable. Her arms curved protectively around Druella’s small form. One hand found her hair and smoothed it back from her forehead, then began to rub there gently, rhythmically… just like she had when Druella was a baby. Just like she always had.

There were no grand speeches. No promises of blood or fire.

Only breathe.

Only warmth.

Only the silent vow of a mother who had burned the world that day—and would do it again, without hesitation, for the girl curled in her arms.

The room was dark, but warm.

Safe.

And for the first time in days, Druella let herself close her eyes… and sleep.

Bellatrix began to hum—low and haunting, a different lullaby than what Druella had hummed earlier, but stronger now, fuller. It echoed with something old. Something ancient. A promise woven through magic and blood.

She pulled the blanket tighter around Druella’s shoulders.

“Sleep now. You’re safe. And when you wake… everything will begin to change.”

Chapter Text

The morning came quietly.

Sunlight filtered through the long velvet curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room’s dark wood and old lace. Druella stirred beneath the covers, the scent of old roses and potion steam still clinging to the air. She blinked slowly, half-expecting to hear the echo of last night’s shouting.

But the manor was quiet now.

Then came the familiar sound: boots on polished stone. Measured, purposeful. Bellatrix entered the room like a shadow cutting through morning fog, her wand holstered but her posture still coiled with fire.

She walked over to the bed and sat gently on the edge. “Druella. Wake up, darling.”

Druella stirred again, her eyes fluttering open. Her lip no longer hurt—Bellatrix had healed it completely the night before—but a phantom ache still lived in her memory.

“What time is it?” she asked groggily.

Bellatrix smiled faintly and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Time for you to go to Hogwarts.”

Druella blinked. Then sat upright.

She’d forgotten.

The day she would start her life outside.

It was today.

The room suddenly felt colder.

As Druella moved to sit up fully, Morgana stirred beside her, letting out a soft, questioning mewl. Druella’s hand instinctively reached for her fur, grounding herself.

Bellatrix, already rising, crossed the room and began organising Druella’s trunk. Her motions were precise. Controlled. She laid out folded school robes, perfectly ironed; a few tailored dresses; potion supplies and quills; her books stacked with spines aligned just so.

"I know you're nervous, darling," she said softly, adjusting one of the robes. “But you must remain composed. We can’t afford to draw the wrong kind of attention—not yet.”

Druella nodded slowly, watching her mother. The air felt thick with more than dust and incense—it was charged. Plans unspoken, expectations that pressed down on her like winter fog.

Bellatrix’s voice grew gentler. “You’ll be magnificent. Just remember what we talked about. And keep your eyes open.”

Druella turned her face toward the mirror on the far wall. Her reflection looked tired. Pale. She didn’t feel ready. But ready didn’t matter anymore.

She was going.

She had to.

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered, though even she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

Bellatrix stepped forward, scooped up Hazel—the little doll Druella sometimes still kept hidden—and tucked it quietly into the folds of the trunk. She said nothing about it, only glanced at her daughter briefly with something unreadable in her eyes.

“I packed Morgana’s things as well,” Bellatrix murmured. “The shop included a calming charm for her crate. She’ll settle quickly.”

From the doorway, Narcissa appeared, arms crossed, her robes flawless as ever. She stood still for a beat, watching the scene with sharp eyes softened only slightly by something warmer—perhaps pride. Or worry. Maybe both.

"Mother, can you help me?" Draco asked across the hall.

“I’ll be right there, Draco,” Narcissa called, her tone clipped but even. Then, with a nod to Bellatrix and a lingering glance at Druella, she disappeared again into the hall, her footsteps fading into the polished quiet of the manor.

Silence returned.

Druella moved to the vanity, her feet slow and uncertain. Bellatrix followed, her presence steady, looming like a shadow that was never far.

Without a word, Bellatrix took up the silver comb and began drawing it slowly through Druella’s long curls. The bristles caught occasionally on a tangle, but Bellatrix only worked it loose with her fingers, patient, deliberate, refusing to use magic for something so personal.

“There we are,” she murmured. “No ribbons today. Let them see you as you are—untamed.”

Druella sat obediently on the stool before her, hands folded in her lap, saying nothing.

Bellatrix twisted the hair into a high bun, slightly off-kilter, deliberately imperfect. A few dark strands fell free against Druella’s face. Bellatrix smiled faintly at her reflection.

“Better,” she said. “Not a doll. Not a prize to sit on a shelf. A girl who looks like she’d hex the first fool who crosses her.”

The corner of Druella’s mouth twitched despite herself.

Bellatrix’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “You look like me. But sharper. Stronger. You’ll show them that.”

Her hands settled on Druella’s thin shoulders, firm and protective. “You’re a Black. Walk into that castle as if the stones were carved for you. Because in truth—they were.”

Druella’s throat tightened. She lowered her gaze, but nodded.

Bellatrix smirked, tapping her daughter’s nose. “Now. No sulking. You’ll make friends worth having. Enemies worth defeating. But remember who you are.”

Druella swallowed hard. She was leaving. And everything would be different.

“Alright,” Bellatrix said briskly, clapping her hands once. “Time for a picture.”

Druella flushed, brushing at the scab still healing on her lip.

“It’ll be fine,” Bellatrix promised. She lifted the camera, her voice softening just for a moment. “Smile for me, my little star.”

The flash lit the room, freezing her image in time.

Bellatrix lowered the camera, already fussing. “Now don’t forget Morgana. She may be small, but she’ll bite a boy’s hand off if he dares to grab at you. Take your allowance for the trolley—don’t waste it all on Bertie Bott’s, buy something you actually like. And your wand polish is in the trunk—don’t you dare neglect it.”

“Yes, Mother,” Druella whispered, clutching Morgana’s small crate closer.

Bellatrix smirked, satisfied. “Good girl. Now go make Hogwarts remember the name Black.”

Later, as they made their way to the train station, the atmosphere was taut with unspoken tension. Druella had woken, unsure if the night before had been real. Her lip no longer hurt—Bellatrix had healed it perfectly—but the weight in her chest hadn’t left. She looked fine now. Polished. Beautiful, even. But fragile, like a doll too carefully handled.

At Platform 9¾, the bustling crowd only deepened her unease. Children rushed to the scarlet train, laughing and chattering as if their lives were perfectly whole. Druella lingered, her green eyes scanning unfamiliar faces, the swirl of colours, sounds, and excitement hitting her like cold water. For someone who had spent most of her life locked in the shadow of velvet-curtained windows and manor walls, this was cultural shock in full force.

Bellatrix hovered, obsessively adjusting Druella’s dress, cloak, and necklace. Druella tried to take off her cloak, but Bellatrix put it back on.

"Don't take it off yourself again," Bellatrix warned firmly.

"Yes, Mother," Druella responded. Bellatrix continued. "Come here, give Mummy a hug."

Bellatrix pulled her daughter in a loving embrace, rubbing her back, scratching it. Bellatrix squeezed her clingy, and Druella could smell her mother's perfume of roses. When Bellatrix let go, she cupped Druella's cheeks, letting out a smile for her daughter.

Bellatrix continued, her hands moved quickly but lovingly, her attention total. Bellatrix was smoothing the hem of her black gown. It was trimmed in green-silver embroidery, the house colours Bellatrix had insisted on—even though they wouldn’t know her House until sorting. The velvet pooled just slightly at her boots, the long sleeves making her look more like a doll than a girl. The necklace Bellatrix had given her on her birthday rested against her collarbone.

She looked like royalty. But her pale hands trembled around Morgana’s carrier.

"I'll be back, don't move," Bellatrix told her, instructing Druella to stay there before leaving.

Druella waited and barely noticed Ginny Weasley until the girl passed by with her mother. Druella gave the tiniest polite nod, uncertain if it was returned. Her world was a storm of new rules she hadn’t been taught.

Druella, ten years old and headed for her first Hogwarts train ride, was half-distracted by everything around her and half-scared out of her wits. She kept tripping over her own feet, breath puffing visibly in the cold mist of the station.

Her lip was scabbed from the infamous “Black Lip” Incident. She kept pressing it with one trembling finger, as if to test that it really had healed.

She clung to Morgana’s crate like it was a lifeline. The tiny black kitten inside was her only real friend in the world, and she whispered nonsense to her constantly, anything to drown out the noise in her head.

Where are they? She wondered, eyes scanning for Harry’s messy hair and Ron’s unmistakable red mane.

She strained on tiptoe, heart racing, breath catching like a trapped bird.

Someone’s watching me.

Druella’s green eyes flicked upward, scanning the vaulted rafters of the platform. Her grip tightened around Morgana’s crate, knuckles turning bone white.

There—near the edge of the shadows, between rising steam and the looming stone pillars—stood a woman cloaked in deep blue. Her hood was drawn low, casting most of her face in shadow. Only her eyes—icy blue and piercing—shone from beneath the fold. Her lips, pale pink, remained still. No smile. No sneer.

She didn’t blink.

She simply watched.

Druella stepped forward, cautious. “What is wrong with you?”

Only the hiss of train steam answered her, curling around them like fog.

She frowned. “I said—what is wrong with you?”

The woman tilted her head slightly. When she spoke, her voice was soft, smooth, and unshakably calm—like a truth spoken before it was ever questioned.

“Come closer.”

Druella flinched. “No. I—I can’t speak to you. Are you mad? Who are you? What do you want?”

But the woman stepped forward instead, quiet as snowfall, deliberate as a clock’s tick. Her hand rose from beneath her cloak, pale and still, and gently took hold of Druella’s chin, tilting it upward with eerie calm.

Druella grabbed the woman’s wrist with one hand, her other clutching her wand.

But she didn’t attack.

Their eyes locked.

“I see a speck inside you, little one,” the woman said, her voice as steady as wind before a storm. Her fingers held Druella’s chin—not tight, but firm, like the pause before fate strikes.

“Something is beginning,” she whispered. “Ten years… protected and broken. Behind stone walls, your magic has slumbered. But not for much longer.”

Druella’s breath caught.

“Blood will spill. A mistake shall be made. In the years to come, you will be unveiled. You will fall. You will shatter. But you will rise again. You will prove innocence. You will name corruption. And both darkness and light shall reach for you…”

She paused.

“…and both shall betray you.”

Her hand slid lower, fingertips resting lightly against Druella’s throat, moving a finger up and down from her throat. Her touch held no warmth. No malice.

Only certainty.

“The serpent’s tongue sleeps for now. But he does not. Even in isolation—far away—he watches. He shall protect you. His eyes will guide you. And you won’t question it. And when your world begins to crack... it will awaken.”

And then, she let go.

Druella stumbled back, clutching Morgana’s crate to her chest. Her skin prickled. Her limbs trembled. She couldn’t breathe.

She opened her mouth to ask, to scream, to demand answers—

But the spell of the moment shattered.

“There you are, you little shit.”

Lucius Malfoy stormed through the crowd, his cloak snapping like a gavel behind him. His pale face twisted into scorn. His eyes were sharp. Cold. Familiar.

Druella didn’t look back.

Because the woman in the shadows—whatever she was—was already gone.

As if she'd never been there at all.

“Blood traitor,” he hissed, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

Druella’s heart stuttered. No, no—where’s Mother? Where’s Aunt Cissy? She wouldn’t let him—

But Lucius was already closing the space between them in quick, angry strides.

“Ignore them,” he sneered, seizing her wrist in his gloved hand. His grip was iron. “You live in a different world than them. The one your mother is dragging you into.”

“Let me go—” Druella’s voice cracked. She tried to tug free, eyes wide and glassy with fear.

He jerked her forward so hard she nearly dropped Morgana’s crate.

Druella froze, trembling, tears stinging her eyes.

Morgana let out a frightened yowl.

And then—

Instinct took over.

She yanked her wand from her sleeve, voice shaking but firm:

“Projecto!”

A shimmering blue shield exploded into life with a crack, shoving Lucius back a step. The magic made the air hum and crackle, sending stray sparks onto the station floor.

Lucius’s eyes widened, briefly startled.

Druella shoved the crate door open and snatched Morgana out, clutching her like a doll.

“There, there, Morgi. You’re a good girl, Morgi,” she whispered, voice wavering. “Nothing will harm you. I promise.”

Lucius recovered, rolling his eyes in disgust. “Yes, yes, ‘Morgi, Morgi. Morgi’ All you talk about at home is that demon cat. Keep it up, and I will feed her to my hounds.”

Druella’s face twisted. Her lip trembled, but she glared up at him.

“N-no you won’t,” she said fiercely, stomping her foot. “Mother would be furious. And I know you're scared of her like I am with you.”

Lucius’s sneer faltered.

And that was when the voice cut in.

“Lucius.”

He went rigid.

Bellatrix strolled out of the steam like a monster from a bedtime story, her black cloak billowing around her like wings.

Her eyes glittered with savage delight.

Lucius turned pale.

Bellatrix smiled. Smiled.

“I thought I told you,” she drawled, voice all sugar and razors, “you don’t lay a hand on my daughter again.”

Lucius tried to speak, but she closed the space between them, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Let's go have a little chat, shall we?” she purred, with that same nightmare sweetness. Then, flicking her eyes to Druella, she added more softly:

“Ellie, darling, come watch if you want. Come and learn from the best teacher you'll ever know.”

Druella didn’t dare answer. She followed anyway, arms around Morgana like a shield.

Bellatrix grabbed Lucius by his lapels and shook him so hard his hair flew.

“You absolute, unrepentant slug,” she hissed. “What did I say last time? Hm? Never. Touch. Her.”

Bellatrix grabbed Lucius by the front of his robes and shook him like a rag doll.

“You’re going to stay away from her,” she hissed in his face. “Or so help me, I’ll make you beg for Azkaban.”

Lucius tried to twist away, but she yanked him back, making him stagger.

“Don’t run,” she sing-songed sweetly. “It’ll make me chase you. You don’t want me to get exercise.”

Lucius squeaked.

Druella couldn’t help it—her mouth fell open.

Bellatrix turned her head and smiled. “Oh, look at her brother-in-law. She’s learning. This is family bonding.”

Druella watched wide-eyed, Morgana’s purring turning into worried squeaks.

Lucius finally tripped over his own silk robes.

Bellatrix pounced. She gripped his shirt and leaned in so close he whimpered.

“We’re about to send my Black Blossom to school, Lucius. And you want her to go even more bruised?!”

Lucius tried to laugh. “It’s not that serious—the lip got… stitched back—”

Lucius made one last pathetic attempt to retreat.

"Really?" Bellatrix asked with malice.

Bellatrix caught him again and slapped the Daily Prophet into his chest.

“It's not that serious?" Bellatrix asked mockingly, making ping-pong sounds.

"It's not serious. You think the world sees your views. No, I don't think so."

"Let's look at this, shall we?” she snarled, pointing at the article about Druella’s split lip.

Druella’s hand flew to her mouth instinctively.

Bellatrix’s finger wagged in Lucius’s face like he was five.

Bellatrix’s voice dropped to a menacing purr. “I told you I’d get my revenge. I will warn you now. Every night. I’ll be at the manor.”

She leaned in closer, voice chilling.

“Every birthday party, Lucius. Every Christmas. Three hundred sixty-five days a bloody year, I’ll be there. I’ll haunt your dreams like a Dementor in black fabulous silk.”

Lucius’s face turned green.

Bellatrix cackled suddenly. “I mean, honestly, you already flinch when you see me. So let’s make it official, shall we? I’ll be your absolute worst nightmare with a subscription plan every month.”

She let go, but not before slapping his face lightly.

"Mess with my baby and I'll make your life even more hell?"

Bellatrix grabbed his shirt. "Got it?"

Lucius nodded pathetically.

"Lovely," Bellatrix smirked, letting him go.

Lucius winced, eyes watering.

“Now wipe yourself up,” she ordered, slipping fingerless gloves on. “There are children here, and we don't want the wrong idea.”

Lucius nodded weakly, smoothing his hair and trying to recover some dignity.

Bellatrix turned on her heel, flicking her cloak like a satisfied cat. She reached out one hand to Druella.

“Come, Black Blossom. Let’s find my baby sister before she lectures the entire station about rules and etiquette. And don’t forget your kitten.”

Druella didn’t say anything. She just clutched Morgana tighter, glancing once back over her shoulder.

"Put her in her crate," Bellatrix ordered firmly.

Druella nodded and placed Morgana back in her crate.

But the dark corridor was empty now, but she could have sworn she saw the woman in a swirl of black cloak. Pale blue eyes. Watching.

Druella shivered, but Bellatrix guided her away, her hands on Druella's shoulders.

“You must look presentable, darling. First impressions matter at Hogwarts. And don’t forget—” her voice dropped low, serious, “stay alert.”

“I can handle it, Mother,” Druella muttered, too tired to protest the fussing. Her tone was clipped, but there was no heat in it.

Narcissa stepped in next, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder, tilting Druella’s chin with two fingers. “Smile,” she whispered. “You must look presentable.”

Druella forced a smile. A small one. She didn’t have to say anything—she’d learned by now that they rarely wanted honesty. Just performance.

As they approached the train, Neville gave her a small wave. She returned it with a subtle nod, grateful for the softness in his eyes.

Bellatrix smacked Druella's hand, not roughly.

"Don't talk to him, our families are rivals. The feud continues."

"Yes, Mother," Druella responded.

As they headed to the train, Druella looked forward to leaving.

Lucius had to ruin it.
He stepped forward, voice like cold steel. “Druella,” he said flatly, not even bothering with a farewell. “You do understand you’ll never match your cousin. You weren’t raised like him. You’re already damaged. You’re nothing.”

“Lucius—” Narcissa snapped, spinning on him, eyes like daggers.

Bellatrix didn’t speak. She just glared, her expression promising violence.

Lucius sneered and spat at Druella’s feet. Then he moved past them, ignoring the fury boiling from both sisters.

But the moment his gaze brushed Bellatrix’s, something faltered. He flinched. And, for once, he backed away.

Bellatrix bent low, brushing Druella’s hair gently from her face, her voice velvet laced with iron. “Don’t listen to him. You are not damaged. You are mine. And you are dangerous, darling, whether they see it yet or not.”

Druella nodded faintly, blinking too quickly.

Narcissa, on the other hand, was a mess. She kissed Druella’s cheeks in quick succession, fussing with her sleeves, smoothing her collar, tugging at her robes until they were perfect. “My Druellie,” she whispered, tears slipping despite her composure. “Outside the manor for the first time…”

“Cissy,” Bellatrix muttered, rolling her eyes. “Stop crying. You’ll drown the child before she even gets on the train.”

But Narcissa didn’t stop. She cupped Druella’s chin, making her look up. Her voice shook, but her words were sharp. “I know you’re not ready. But you’re going anyway. Because we do not wait for the world to be kind. We walk into it dressed for war—and make them love us or fear us.”

Her gloved thumb tucked Druella’s hair behind her ear. “And if that fails… well. That’s what your mother and I are for.”

Druella blinked up at her, that numb glaze cracking just slightly.

And when Narcissa, through her tears, added, “Though if Morgana happens to take a bite out of that Weasley rat, I won’t be cross with her,” Druella let out the tiniest, real smile.

“There she is,” Narcissa whispered, kissing her forehead. “There’s my girl.”

Bellatrix returned from speaking with the conductor, her boots quiet on the platform. She caught that smile instantly and crouched to Druella’s height, eyes fierce but warm.

“My Black Blossom,” she murmured. Her thumb brushed under Druella’s chin. “Remember who you are. No matter what lies they tell. You’re strong. You’ll shine. And they’ll regret ever doubting you.”

She leaned in, her voice a private whisper. “And if they sneer at me, call me monster, or traitor—you don’t listen. None of it’s true. You know me. You know me. They never did.”

“I won’t listen to them, Mother,” Druella whispered back, clinging to her sleeve. “I promise.”

Bellatrix smiled. “Good girl. And if they ever say Death Eaters were monsters… just remember—sometimes, the only ones brave enough to fight are the ones the world is too afraid to understand.”

Chapter Text

Druella didn’t understand. Not fully. But she nodded.

And then—too soon—she was stepping onto the train.

The chattering voices, the laughter, the jumble of sweets and trunks—it felt foreign. Alien. Too loud. They didn’t wear gowns. They didn’t look like her.

Druella clutched Morgana’s crate tighter and glanced back through the glass.

On the platform, Bellatrix stood like iron, Narcissa still weeping at her side. Neither waved.

But they watched her like hawks. Like queens.

Like mothers who had handed the world a sword disguised as a girl.

And Druella walked deeper into the unknown.

Draco was ahead of her, already sliding into a compartment with Crabbe and Gregory (She uses Goyle's first name), calling him Greg for short.

Maybe she could sit with him. Just this once.

She stepped into the doorway. “Can I sit with you?” she asked softly, the tiniest sliver of hope in her voice.

Draco barely glanced at her. “No.”

“What?” she asked, blinking. "Why?"

“You should… find your own friends,” he said, voice flat. “We don’t need Father yelling again. Just go, Ellie.”

Her fingers twitched at her side.

Goyle chuckled under his breath. “Hey, that's your cousin.”

“Well, she looks like she’d cry if someone touched her wand,” Crabbe muttered.

Druella blinked at Draco. He didn’t defend her.

He didn’t even meet her eyes.

She stood there a moment longer—silent, calculating—and then quietly pulled her wand from her cloak.

Druella waved her wand, tripping Draco, and Morgana hissed at him.

Crabbe jumped back with startled shouts.

Druella stepped over her cousin’s rigid body with cool precision and looked down at him.

“I know how to use a wand,” she said, voice low and even. “I don’t need you to show me around. I don’t need any of you.”

"Sorry," Goyle said to Druella.

"You're fine," Druella mumbled.

Then she turned, cloak swishing as she walked off down the corridor.

Druella stood rooted to the platform for a moment, the sound of Draco’s voice still ringing in her ears. He hadn’t even looked at her when he dismissed her—just a shrug, just words that cut sharper than Lucius’s cane ever had.

Her chest tightened. She had thought she was prepared for it, thought she knew Draco well enough to expect the worst. But hearing it out loud, spoken so flatly, so carelessly—it still felt like betrayal.

She swallowed hard and turned away before he could see her eyes shining. The chatter of students swirled around her, laughter, footsteps, trunks rolling—but it all blurred into a dull roar. All she could feel was the weight of his indifference, pressing down like she was invisible.

She needed space.

She pushed past the clusters of students in the corridor until she reached the very end of the train. The last compartment was empty. Without hesitation, she slipped inside and shut the door with a soft click.

For a long moment, Druella didn’t sit. She just stood there, staring at the seat across from her as though it might judge her, too. The silence was suffocating and soothing all at once. Finally, she sank into the corner, clutching Morgana’s crate against her knees like a shield.

On the other side of the door, voices drifted faintly down the corridor.

“Your cousin is odd,” Crabbe muttered, his tone bored but cruel. “She’s always been odd. Even when we were kids, she was just a charity case, my mother said so.”

Druella’s hands curled tighter on the crate.

“Yeah,” Draco muttered back. “Mother said I have to be nice to her because of what happened with Father. She’s acting like a freak about it. I got yelled at for not telling her.”

There was a low grunt of agreement.

“Mother said to keep her close until she quiets down. Whatever that means.”

The words sliced deep, sharper than Crabbe’s careless insult. A charity case. That was all she was to him. A burden dragged along under the Arcanum Clause. Her being passed yet she still feels like she didn't deserve it.

For a moment, the sting of rejection burned so brightly she could hardly breathe.

Then, unexpectedly, Goyle’s voice rumbled low. “That’s… not very nice.”

The corridor fell quiet for a beat. Druella’s breath hitched. She pressed her forehead against Morgana’s crate, listening hard, heart pounding.

“Whatever,” Draco muttered again, brushing it off. "She's irritating anyway."

Druella stayed where she was, silent and unseen. The words lingered, heavy, bruising.

But she refused to let them define her.

I’ll show them, she thought fiercely, her green eyes glinting in the dim compartment light. I don’t need Draco—or anyone—to prove my worth. I’ll find my own way. My own people. People who won’t turn away when I need them most.

Morgana pressed her cold little nose against Druella’s hand, as if in agreement.

Druella stroked the cat’s fur, her jaw set. She didn’t know how yet, but one day, they’d see her for what she truly was.

With that thought, the anger in her chest began to subside, replaced by a quiet determination.

She wiped away a stray tear, shaking her head to push away the feelings. It's better this way. I don't need anyone to hold my hand through this journey.

"Druella."

She jumped, not realising someone was there. Quickly, she wiped away the few tears she hadn't noticed were falling. When she turned, she saw Hermione standing by the door, looking concerned.

"It's okay," Hermione said softly. "I just thought you were lonely. I couldn't find Harry or Ron. Can I sit here?"

Druella nodded quickly, trying to compose herself, and Hermione sat down next to her.

"Sure," Druella replied, leaning back in her seat. "Draco doesn't want me to sit with him." She didn't hide the disappointment in her voice as she said it, but she didn't expect Hermione to fully understand why. "So I came here for some space."

Druella leaned down slightly, her voice quieter now. "Not that it really matters. Uncle always seems to have his influence, for some reason."

Hermione looked out the window, the faint reflection of the passing scenery catching her eye. She seemed hesitant, as if unsure what to say next, before asking, "Are you okay? Was your family there when you left?"

I nodded, though the weight of the question lingered. "Yes, my family was there. Mostly my mother and Aunt Narcissa."

Hermione gave a gentle smile, sensing I wasn't fully open yet, but it was the kind of smile that said she understood the need for time.

She then asked, "How are they to you?"

Druella sighed, staring out the window as memories swirled in her mind. "Uncle is normally distant with me anyway," she began, her voice low. "So Mother and Aunt Narcissa raised me. My aunt spent more time with me when my mother had to go away for work. I suppose you could say they both raised me, but Uncle... he's just a distant figure." She didn't look at Hermione as she spoke, afraid her emotions would slip through, but she could tell Hermione was listening intently.

"When I broke my leg last year, Aunt Narcissa was the one who helped me through it," Druella added quietly. She could still recall the soft sound of her aunt's voice, her insistence that Druella rest, the gentle way she'd taken care of her during that time.

"Do you love your mother?" Hermione asked, her tone careful, as though she knew it might be a difficult question.

"I do," Druella finally replied, her voice softer than she intended. "I love her. She adores me. She gives me space, unlike my aunt." She looked at Hermione now and smiled faintly, feeling more at ease.

Hermione's expression softened, as though she understood the complexities of family Druella was trying to explain.

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione asked, "Surprised your aunt wants us to be friends?"

Druella smiled faintly, recalling the oddity of Narcissa's interest in Hermione. "Yes, but she can be unpredictable," she replied softly, still uncertain about her aunt's reasons.

Hermione's curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by unpredictable?"

Druella chuckled lightly, though it was a mixture of amusement and something else. "Oh, you have no idea. She always treats me like I'm some fragile piece of glass."

Hermione laughed softly. "Yes, she does seem nice, though."

He hesitated. “I hope you get Gryffindor. That way we could—hang out, maybe.”

There was a pause.

Druella didn’t laugh. She didn’t mock him. She just looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “I’m not sure I will. Or that I want to.”

Neville tilted his head. “Why not?”

She gave a small shrug. “It would make things... complicated. My family—” She trailed off, pressing her lips together around the scab.

Neville nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was silence for a moment. Neither of them moved.

Then Neville tried to keep the mood light. “What would your mother say if you were sorted into Gryffindor?”

Druella managed a dry smile. “Probably redesign the Common Room until it looked like the Slytherin dungeon.”

Neville snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Then the door rattled open again. An owl flew in—almost aggressively—and dropped a letter onto Neville’s lap. He startled, caught the edge, and stared down at it.

Hermione leaned in from the corridor behind him, curious. “What’s that?”

Neville stared at the letter, his face pale. "Stay away from that monster's daughter." He looked up at them, his expression a mix of confusion and unease.

Druella swallowed hard, the weight of his grandmother's message settling over her. She turned to Neville, trying to offer some comfort.

"She'll come through eventually," Neville said, though his optimism seemed shaken.

Druella looked at him with concern. "I knew your grandmother would be against you being my friend. She screamed at me when I was in the hospital. Let's keep our distance," she murmured, not wanting to make things worse.

Moments later, an owl arrived for Druella, carrying a small package. She smiled, recognising the handwriting on the attached note. "It's one of Aunt Narcissa's sweets," she explained to Hermione, who looked at her with curiosity.

Hermione smiled, intrigued. "What's in it?"

Druella opened the package and split it between herself, Hermione, and Neville. "You have to try them. Aunt Narcissa makes the best treats," she said, breaking off a piece and offering it to them.

After a quick taste, Hermione's face lit up. "Wow, this is very good," she said, clearly impressed.

Druella smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her at Hermione's enjoyment. For a moment, everything felt a little less complicated.

The train continued on, and Druella found herself relaxing in their company. But as they all sat together, the next part of the journey had only just begun.

Druella sat there, her eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window, but her thoughts were far away. The clatter of the train wheels was comforting, but her mind kept drifting back to her family. She couldn't help it. She already missed them, even though she hadn't expected to feel this way. She missed her mother the most—her presence, the way she always knew what to say, what to do. She was Druella's rock. Narcissa, too, was always there to make sure she was alright, to spoil her with affection and attention. Even Draco's indifference didn't stop Druella from thinking about them.

Suddenly, Hermione's voice, soft but steady, broke through Druella's thoughts. "Druella, you've been so quiet. Is everything okay?"

Druella blinked, startled, and quickly wiped at her eyes, not realising she'd been thinking so hard that she almost forgot about the company around her. "Oh, yeah," she mumbled, forcing a small smile. "I'm just... thinking about my mother."

Hermione looked at her with concern; her brows furrowed slightly. "Is something wrong?"

Druella shook her head quickly, though a small sigh escaped her lips. "No, it's just... sometimes I forget how much she means to me. I mean, I know it, but I don't always say it out loud. She's always been there for me, even when things were hard."

Hermione tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as if she understood. "What do you mean?" she asked gently.

Druella let out a breath, glancing away for a moment before continuing. "She's always been there. Whenever I'm upset or when I don't know what to do, she's the one who holds me and helps me figure things out. I can't imagine anyone else being like that. Even when I mess up, she's there to help me get back on track." She paused, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "I just don't say it enough. I love her, Hermione. She's always been everything to me."

For a moment, there was silence, and Druella feared she'd said too much. But then Hermione smiled softly. "You're lucky, Druella," she said, her voice quiet but filled with understanding. "Not everyone has someone who loves them like that."

Druella swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She knew Hermione was right. She was lucky. She had her mother and her aunt, both showering her with love in their own unique ways. It was something she sometimes took for granted, but in that moment, she realised just how much it meant to her.

"I know," Druella whispered, looking out the window again. "I know I'm lucky. I try not to take it for granted. It's just hard sometimes, you know? Being away from them, especially now."

Hermione nodded, her eyes soft as she looked at Druella. She wasn't sure if Hermione fully understood what she was feeling, but there was something comforting about the way Hermione didn't press her for more. Instead, she simply sat quietly, allowing Druella to speak when she needed to.

"I don't always show it, but my mother... she's everything. Even when Uncle is distant, and I don't really understand why he acts the way he does, my mother is the one who's always there. I can't imagine anyone else being like that. I guess sometimes I just forget to say it."

Hermione smiled again, this time with a quiet, knowing expression. "It's okay to admit it, you know," she said softly. "It's okay to need them. It's okay to miss them."

Druella nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. "Yeah," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I miss her. I love her. I love them both."

It felt good to say it aloud. Druella didn't do it often, but in that moment, it felt right. Hermione didn't press for more but was there, listening—something Druella wasn't used to but deeply appreciated.

The train rumbled along, cutting through the countryside as the golden afternoon light poured through the windows. Druella sat in the compartment across from Hermione and Neville, Morgana curled up beside her like a shadowy scarf. She had her chin resting in one hand, eyes trained on the fields outside—the blur of trees and fences flashing past. Her thoughts drifted back to the station, to her mother’s voice, her aunt’s constant fussing, the feel of Bellatrix’s gloved hand brushing her cheek.

She was lucky. No matter what else came, no matter what people whispered, her mother had always made sure she felt loved.

Druella didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Hermione had understood. Druella could feel it in the way the older girl had simply let her sit there, quietly, without prying or pressing.

The trolley rolled to a stop just outside their door, the witch calling cheerily, “Anything from the trolley, dears?”

Druella blinked. “Trolley?”

Hermione stood, ready to show her, but Druella was already up, rummaging through one of her small satchels. Coins jingled as she pulled out a heavy pouch of Galleons—clearly not Muggle-friendly currency.

The trolley witch’s eyes widened. “Er—dear, we use sickles and knuts here…”

Druella handed over the entire pouch without question. “Just… take what’s needed,” she said, unsure but eager. “I’ll take the lot.”

Minutes later, she returned to the compartment with her arms overflowing—Pumpkin Pasties, Chocolate Frogs, Cauldron Cakes, Liquorice Wands, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, and more. She dropped them in a cascade across the seat.

Neville’s eyes lit up. “Bloody hell, you're rich.”

"Yeah guess being a Black has perks," Druella explained.

“Mother gave me Galleons. Aunt Narcissa ain't here to stop me. Take what you want,” Druella said, chewing the edge of a Cauldron Cake with a smile. “I don’t know what half of these are anyway.”

Hermione hesitated but gave in to a smile, picking up a Chocolate Frog. “That was kind of you.”

Druella grinned faintly, unwrapping a sugar quill eating them. “First train ride. First trolley. First…” Her words slowed as her face paled.

“Oh,” she mumbled suddenly, eyes widening. She clutched her stomach, her other hand fumbling for the small paper bag Hermione had left beside her.

Moments later, the sound of retching filled the compartment.

“That’s what happens when you eat too many sweets in one go,” Hermione said gently, rubbing her back. “And when you’ve never been on a moving train before.”

“I’m not complaining,” Neville added around a mouthful of treacle tart. “I got a pile of candy out of it.”

Druella wiped her mouth, slumping back in her seat with a groan. “Totally worth it.”

Morgana, ever regal, hopped into her lap and curled up again, blinking lazily as if unimpressed by her witch’s dramatic stomach noises and pale complexion.

Without warning, Druella leaned forward and threw up again into the paper bag with a miserable noise.

Neville instinctively shifted further away, clutching his pile of Cauldron Cakes. Hermione passed another napkin without comment, her expression a mix of concern and resigned amusement.

The compartment door slid open, and a girl with long, messy blonde hair peeked inside. Her silvery eyes were dreamy, but observant. She looked around the room, then blinked at the sight of Druella with the bag pressed to her face.

“Hello,” she said softly. “Do you mind if I sit here? No one else wants to.”

Hermione gave a polite nod. “Of course.”

“You're welcome to anything,” Druella added weakly, gesturing vaguely to the remaining mountain of sweets, her voice muffled behind the paper bag. “Please. Eat. Save me from myself.”

The girl’s lips curled into a curious, delighted smile. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

She sat down primly, picking up a Liquorice Wand with a hum.

“I’m Luna Lovegood,” she said serenely. “You look like a Wibbering Gaspnut has cursed you.”

Hermione blinked. “A what?”

“She means motion sickness,” Druella mumbled, flopping dramatically onto Hermione’s shoulder. “And sugar poisoning. Possibly regret.”

“You’re not cursed,” Luna assured her sweetly. “Just vibrating on the wrong frequency.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Druella groaned, eyes half-lidded.

“It means you shouldn’t have eaten three Cauldron Cakes, six Chocolate Frogs, and half a box of Every Flavour Beans in one go,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes.

Luna beamed and offered a Pumpkin Pasty to Morgana, who sniffed it, then turned away with judgmental disdain.

“I like your cat,” Luna said, unconcerned. “She looks like she knows secrets.”

“She probably does,” Druella sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she knocked Drake off balance. I wasn’t looking earlier. I heard him shriek at the sight of her.”

Neville grinned. “Well, this year just got a lot more interesting.”

Luna delicately nibbled on a Pumpkin Pasty, her pale eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if something invisible were hovering there.

“You might want to ward your luggage,” she said offhandedly. “Dad told me there are Nargles on the train this time of year. They like to hide in the overhead racks.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Nargles?”

Neville leaned in, whispering, “Is that… a spell or something?”

Luna shook her head calmly. “Oh no. They’re mischievous creatures. Invisible, of course. They steal things when you’re not looking—especially socks, quills, sometimes your thoughts.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s not—there’s no such—”

Druella sat up straighter, still looking half-dead but suddenly more alert. “Wait. They steal thoughts?”

Luna nodded, licking sugar off her fingers. “Sometimes. Only if your head’s noisy.”

Druella stared at her, intrigued. “How do you know it’s them?”

“They always leave behind a faint humming. Sometimes, they leave a cold feeling on your left shoulder,” Luna replied serenely. “It's how you know you burrowed in.”

Hermione exchanged a look with Neville, clearly trying to decide whether Luna was joking or just deeply odd.

Druella, on the other hand, leaned forward like she was hearing the most fascinating bit of dark lore. “Can you trap them?”

Luna nodded. “Yes. Mistletoe wards help. Or you can wear butterbeer corks in your hair. They dislike whimsy.”

Hermione gave an incredulous laugh. “Right. Whimsy.”

Neville whispered, “Are we sure she’s not cursed?”

But Druella was already pulling out a quill and parchment from her satchel.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.

“Taking notes,” Druella muttered. “This might explain a lot about Hogwarts. Tell me more, Luna.”

Morgana yawned, tail flicking as if dismissing the whole conversation.

Luna smiled gently at Druella. “You’re very open-minded. Most people just stare.”

Druella returned the smile, faint but genuine. “Most people bore me.”

Hermione muttered to Neville under her breath, “Great. Now there are two of them.”

Neville chuckled.

They spoke about them, and then came the sound of gasps echoing down the corridor outside.

Neville, who had been quietly trying to keep his plant from wilting, looked up. “What’s going on?”

Hermione stood and peered out the window. Her eyes widened. “Oh no no… no, that can’t be—”

Druella frowned and leaned over beside her. "What's the matter, you look like you just saw a troll."

Druella looked out the window and realised.

Something was in the sky.

Flying.

A car.

It soared just above the treetops, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air, its bright blue body gleaming against the sun. Inside, barely visible through the windshield, were two figures—one of them with unmistakable glasses and messy dark hair, gripping the steering wheel like his life depended on it.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “IS THAT HARRY AND RON?!”

Druella stared, blinking in disbelief. “Wait… they’re… in that?”

“Yes!” Hermione cried. “That’s them! Oh my Lord, they’re in a car!”

Neville leaned forward and nearly squashed his plant in the process. “They’re flying a car?! That’s… illegal, right?! Very, very illegal?!”

Druella stared harder at the object in the sky, baffled. “I-I don’t even know what that is. Is that some kind of Muggle broom?”

Hermione turned, gaping. “It’s a car.”

Druella blinked. “You mean like the thing in those moving picture shows? You wouldn't know what those are. But I thought those things stayed on the ground!”

“They’re supposed to!” Hermione said, clearly panicked. “Cars do not fly!”

Neville was practically hyperventilating. “Are they going to crash into the train?!”

Druella narrowed her eyes. “Well, I see one with red hair, the other has messy hair and glasses. Yep, it's them alright.”

Hermione pressed a hand to her forehead. “They’re going to get expelled. First day back and they’re literally sky-chasing the train in a flying Muggle car.”

“They’re going to die,” Neville muttered.

Druella tilted her head slightly. “Honestly, they look like they’re having fun. Or a heart attack. Hard to tell from here.”

Hermione groaned. “This is so like them. I told Ron not to leave things to the last minute—this is what happens when you ignore plans!”

“Plans like not launching into the sky in a flying car?” Druella asked, brow raised.

“I swear,” Hermione huffed, “if they crash into the lake, I am not pulling them out.”

Neville kept staring at the car with something like awe. “Wow. I mean… wow. My gran would faint if she saw that.”

Druella watched a moment longer, squinting at the spectacle above the trees. The car dipped a little too low, and for a second it looked like it might clip the train.

“Oh no doubt,” Druella muttered, a little breathless. “They’re going to die gloriously if they make it out alive.”

Hermione turned to her. “How do you sound so calm right now?”

Druella shrugged, leaning her head back against the seat. “It’s been a weird and really bad few days,” she said flatly. “I just found out what abuse is, so honestly, this? The flying car? Not even top five on my problems back then. I have school to worry about and some more things I cannot say right now.”

Hermione blinked at her.

Neville’s eyes went wide.

Druella didn’t flinch. She kept her gaze trained out the window, expression cool and unbothered.

“I heard someone called my whole Diagon Alley thing The Black Lip Incident,” she added, tone dry. “Like it’s some scandal in a Muggle fashion magazine, I heard of. But my aunt and my mother don’t let people bring it up. They say it’s handled. That usually means someone got hexed. Like my uncle did last night, my aunt and mother were taking turns.”

Hermione gave a quiet, uncertain laugh. “You’re very… honest.”

“I’m antisocial,” Druella replied matter-of-factly. “Not honest. I just don’t care enough to lie for now. I have more matters to deal with.”

And with that, the flying car soared upward again, weaving dangerously through the clouds, Harry’s panicked face just barely visible through the windshield before the vehicle vanished over the hill.

Druella blinked once. “So… Hogwarts is always like this?”

Druella scratched behind Morgana’s ears and sighed. “I swear, this place better have tea and ice cream.”

She glanced back out the window as the car vanished in the clouds, still not entirely sure what Hogwarts would be like. She had no idea what was coming, and part of her didn’t want to.

Without thinking, she reached down and picked up the stuffed animal Bellatrix had tucked into her trunk that morning. A soft, well-worn black cat plush with crooked stitching and a velvet bow. Druella held it to her chest without shame, her fingers curling around its small paws like it might anchor her to something solid.

Neville squinted. “You still have stuffed animals?”

Druella nodded. “Yeah. I was kinda… forced to bring it. Something for comfort. Things were loud the last few days. My aunt and mother were furious. Taking turns yelling, breaking things. I just… needed something soft.”

Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, but there was a hollow distance in it that made Hermione’s chest tighten.

Then, the door to their compartment slid open. A boy in second-year robes stood there, looking smug—until his gaze landed on Druella.

His eyes darted from the stuffed animal cradled in her arms to her face, settling on the faint scab along her lower lip. It had been healed, but the mark lingered—pink, fragile, and impossible to ignore.

“What happened to you?” he asked, almost casually. “Did you trip or something? You look like someone hit you.”

Hermione stood up so fast that the seat creaked beneath her.

“She didn’t ask you,” she snapped, her voice sharper than they'd ever heard it. A line of steel ran under every word.

The boy blinked, caught off guard by the sudden backlash.

“Shemus,” Hermione said again, louder, firmer. “Leave. Now.”

He hesitated, glancing at Druella—at how she clutched the stuffed cat a little tighter, her eyes wide, silent, unreadable.

“…Sorry,” he muttered at last, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean—”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. He backed out of the compartment, the door sliding shut behind him.

Hermione sat back down, her fists still clenched for a moment before she let them relax.

Druella didn’t say anything. She just kept holding the plush cat close, her lip trembling ever so slightly—not from pain, but from the echo of the question.

Hermione glanced sideways. “You okay?”

Druella gave the smallest nod. “It's ok, I’m used to it.”

Neville looked away, suddenly fascinated by the window.

But Hermione stayed beside her, voice softer now, holding Druella's hand. “You don’t have to be. I'll make sure you won't be.”

Druella didn’t reply. But she didn’t let go of the cat either.

And for the first time in a long time… someone had stood up before she had to.

Chapter Text

Druella stepped off the train and into the cool, misty air of the platform. The noise around her was overwhelming—chatter, laughter, the creak of trunks being hauled down, and the shrill whistles of prefects directing first-years. Her fingers curled tighter around Morgana’s carrier, and she lowered her head slightly, letting her hair fall forward like a veil.

“First years this way!” came the booming voice she recognised immediately.

Her heart lifted.

She looked up—just enough to see him.

Hagrid stood at the edge of the platform, towering and familiar, the same gentle look in his eyes as when he handed her that ice cream days ago. He met her gaze, just briefly, and gave her a big wave.

Druella hesitated—then lifted her hand and gave the smallest wave back, her lips twitching into a faint smile. It didn’t last long, but it was real.

“See you inside,” Hermione whispered beside her, giving her a reassuring nudge.

“You’re not coming?” Druella asked, voice soft and a little uncertain. She hadn’t realised Hermione wouldn’t be with her during the Sorting.

Hermione gave her an apologetic smile. “Second-years go in through the front. But don’t worry—we’ll catch up after. I’ll save you a spot at dinner, alright?”

Druella nodded. Quiet. Nervous. She looked at the carriages, and nothing was leading them.

Hermione gave her arm a squeeze before stepping away into the older students’ line, and Druella followed the others toward the boats. She sat with Luna and smiled at her.

"You must tell me more about those small things. I could draw them," Druella said softly, still pale from motion sickness but clearly enchanted by Luna’s oddities.

Luna beamed at her. “I’d like that.”

The boats cut across the black lake, water smooth as glass beneath the lantern light. As they floated toward the towering silhouette of Hogwarts, Druella’s breath caught. It looked like something pulled straight from a fairytale—massive, ancient, and filled with windows flickering like a thousand tiny stars. She clutched Morgana slightly closer, heart racing.

For a moment, the silence in her life was replaced by awe.

Inside, damp stone gave way to marble staircases and a crowd of first-years whispering nervously. Their footsteps echoed as they gathered in the entry hall.

"Oh no—not more stairs,” a boy moaned dramatically from the back. “My legs are going to fall off. Why so many stairs?!”

Another grumbled, “I’m starving. And someone bought everything on the trolley—like literally everything. Another year of someone buying the trolley.”

Ginny Weasley shot him a look. “Maybe if you got there first instead of playing Exploding Snap in your compartment, you'd get a Chocolate Frog too.”

“I’m just saying, the greed-the injustice-of one student buying it all—”

"Wouldn't be the first time," Ginny said. "Harry Potter did the same."

“Wait,” Luna suddenly said, gazing up at the ceiling as if she’d seen something invisible drifting down.

“Shh,” Druella whispered, nudging her gently. “An adult is approaching, and I've met her and I think she eats loud children for breakfast.”

Professor McGonagall appeared, standing tall with a clipboard in hand, robes billowing as if the wind had a personal agreement with her. Her gaze swept over the group, silencing them instantly.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said crisply, her voice sharp and clear like the chime of a bell.

Before she could continue, the same student raised a hand weakly. “Sorry, to interupt… quick question. Is there food? Like… soon? Because I’m seeing spots and I don’t think they're magical.”

McGonagall stared at him for a beat, her expression unreadable. “Yes,” she said finally. “There is food. You will survive. Hopefully.”

Ginny muttered under her breath, “Barely.”

McGonagall continued as if nothing had happened. “In a few moments, you will be sorted into your houses. Your house will be like your family while you are here…”

Druella tilted her head slightly toward Luna and whispered, “I hope the house he gets placed in has stairs. That way he’ll suffer.”

Luna giggled dreamily. “I hear Ravenclaw has a spiral tower.”

“Perfect,” Druella said, already smiling.

"Enough chatter," McGonagall said. "Like I said, your house will be like your family."

Druella stiffened at the word family. Her heart gave a dull thud. That word meant something very different to her. Family was a cage—sometimes velvet-lined, sometimes barbed. It meant duty, secrets, and survival. Nothing warm, not really.

But here?

What did it mean here?

She barely heard the rest of Professor McGonagall’s speech. Her mind had wandered.

Her eyes drifted sideways, landing on a girl about her age. Small and fiery, with her arms crossed and her chin tilted just slightly. Ginny Weasley. Druella recognised her from Diagon Alley—a flash of red hair and sharp retorts, moving with the kind of certainty Druella didn’t possess. She seemed… confident. Sure of herself.

Loud, Druella thought, not unkindly—just observantly. “I wonder what that’s like? Confident and headstrong?”

Without warning, Druella turned slightly and chirped, “Hi, Ginny!”

Ginny jumped, eyes widening as if she hadn’t noticed her standing there. She blinked, startled, then quickly masked it with a small frown. Her eyes flicked over Druella’s dark green robes, her pale face, and the large scab on her lower lip—a wound that hadn’t quite healed from a strike she didn’t talk about. Something in Ginny’s posture shifted—stiffening—but Druella didn’t seem to notice.

She was still smiling, all soft eagerness and awkward charm, showing a crooked row of mixed adult and baby teeth that made her look younger than she was.

“Hi Ginny!” Druella said brightly, as if they were already old friends.

Ginny stared, blinking slowly like she was trying to place her. “Er… hello.”

“How’ve you been?” Druella asked, beaming.

“Um… good,” Ginny said quickly, her voice tight. Her eyes darted toward the front of the crowd, like she might slip away any second.

“You looking forward to the ceremony? I am,” Druella continued, undeterred. “I hope the Sorting Hat’s not dusty. It always looked dusty in the books.”

Ginny gave a quick nod, not quite smiling. “Sure.”

There was an awkward beat of silence.

Then Ginny, maybe out of politeness—or maybe curiosity—asked, “So… what do you think of Harry?”

Druella looked up at once, her voice calm and warm. “He was kind to me.”

Ginny blinked, clearly expecting a different answer. “He’s… a good person,” she said cautiously. “Hope you realise that.”

“I do,” Druella said without hesitation. “He’s not like the others.”

That answer made Ginny glance sideways, uncertain now. She didn’t respond right away.

Around them, first-years were shifting and fidgeting nervously. The buzz of whispered conversation filled the corridor.

Ginny leaned in slightly. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“No,” Druella replied honestly. “Not unless I mean it.”

Ginny looked at her for a moment longer, brows drawing faintly together. She didn’t say anything cruel, but she didn’t say anything kind either. Just offered a slight shrug and turned her eyes back to the crowd.

Still, Druella’s smile didn’t falter.

She took a step closer and added gently, “I hope we can be friends, even if we’re in different houses. I haven't been socialised before. But your brother Ronald was nice to me. I think that means you probably are too.”

Ginny didn’t reply. Her face gave nothing away.

Druella extended her hand—small, open, hopeful. “If you give me a chance, I think you’d like me.”

Ginny looked at the hand but didn’t take it. “I’ll… think about it.”

That was enough for Druella. “Okay,” she said with a little smile, not offended. “See you at the ceremony, then.”

She turned back toward the front, shoulders relaxed. Ginny exhaled slowly behind her, lips pressed together, unsure what to make of the strange girl who had just appeared like a shadow—and smiled like a friend.

Druella stood there a moment longer, uncertain but still hopeful, her hand lowering slowly to her side. Before her thoughts could twist too far, Professor McGonagall approached. Her sharp eyes swept across the group, lingering briefly on Druella.

“We’re ready for you now,” she said, with a subtle glint in her eye, and gestured for the students to follow her into the Great Hall.

Druella stepped forward, heart fluttering, but chin held high.

Chapter Text

As they walked through the corridor toward the hall, McGonagall paused, giving Druella a brief, almost sympathetic glance. "You'll find," she said in a voice low but unwavering, "that some students will be sceptical of you. You're new here, so know that judgments will come, no matter what you do. But your character and actions will reflect more than your last name. Remember this, Miss Black."

Druella nodded, taking the words to heart as she followed McGonagall into the Great Hall. The room was buzzing with chatter, a mix of excitement and nervous energy as students were sorted. The cheers and whispers echoed around her as each student walked up to be sorted, and Druella caught sight of Draco clapping proudly at the table, flashing her a quick grin. She gave him a small, reassuring nod before her gaze drifted upward to the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the night sky—star-filled and vast.

The atmosphere was alive with anticipation, but Druella's thoughts remained firmly focused on the Sorting Hat. She had no idea what was going to happen next, but she could feel the weight of the moment bearing down on her. Just get this over with, she thought, her voice barely a whisper. Please, not Gryffindor. Anything but Gryffindor. She couldn't fathom what her family would think if she were sorted into that house—her mother especially.

As Druella stood there, the room seemed to fall silent. Whispers swirled around her, and she could feel the curious eyes of her fellow students on her. "Who is that?" one student asked, their voice full of curiosity.

"That's Druella Black," came another voice, tinged with a mixture of awe and scepticism.

"Yes, I heard all about her," another chimed in. "Her mother, Bellatrix. They say she's living with the Malfoys, Draco Malfoy's cousin."

"I'm surprised they let her in here," came one. "Should've waited, but nope, they chose to let her here early."

The murmurs continued as Druella steadied herself, walking forward with her head held high, despite the weight of the whispers. She could feel her pulse quicken as she approached the stool where the Sorting Hat awaited, but she forced herself to remain composed. The Hat sat on the stool, waiting patiently as if it already knew what it needed to do.

Druella took her seat, and the Sorting Hat slipped over her head, instantly enveloping her in its darkness. The ancient mind of the Hat probed through her thoughts, its voice a whisper in her ear.

"Hmm, fascinating," it murmured, the tone thoughtful. "You carry the weight of your name, but I can sense much more than that. Ambitious, resourceful, with a sharp mind and a fierce loyalty to those you care for. Slytherin would be a natural fit, but... there's something about you, something more that might thrive elsewhere."

Druella held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Please, not Gryffindor. Please," she thought desperately, her hands clenched under the table, eyes darting toward the staff table. "Please."

"Not Gryffindor?!" the Hat bellowed aloud, half-laughing.

Across the hall, Professor McGonagall’s expression tightened. She shot Druella a pointed, almost offended look.

But her thoughts were far more complicated than her face let on. She had long been wary of Druella—not just because of the name Black, but because of the shadows that clung to it. Not just the politics, but the pattern. The bloodline. The Lestranges.

McGonagall remembered Bellatrix well. Too well. She had taught her. She had seen what Bellatrix became.

And now her daughter sits beneath the Sorting Hat.

She didn't want her in Gryffindor. Not out of cruelty—but fear. Even she felt a flicker of relief as the Hat hesitated.

The Sorting Hat’s voice curled through Druella’s thoughts, ancient and knowing.

"Ah, I see… I see. Gryffindor would challenge you—but you do face challenges head-on. Still… you wish to prove something. Something more than legacy. More than blood."

Druella’s stomach twisted as the Sorting Hat was lowered over her head. It felt heavier than she expected—too heavy for something that claimed to know so much.

She said nothing aloud. But her thoughts bled through, raw and sharp.

I want to prove I’m more than the legacy. I don’t want to be feared just because I’m a Black. I want to be my own kind of powerful. Not like them.

"Ah… ambition doesn’t mean cruelty," the Hat mused. "And you are ambitious. Clever, curious… loyal too, in your way. Loyal to your mother. And perhaps others, if they earn it."

Her breath caught. Her fingers curled tighter in her lap.

"So much pain in your past… and yet, such potential. You are not like the others. No… not at all."

The room had gone silent. Whispers flitted through the crowd. At the staff table, eyes narrowed and leaned forward. Druella Black. Bellatrix’s daughter. The girl with the healing scar on her lip. The one who wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Professor Flitwick glanced at McGonagall. “Minerva?”

“She’s Bellatrix’s child,” McGonagall muttered. “I remember her mother. Clever. Controlled. Too quiet. It’s never the loud ones you worry about.”

“She’s a child.”

“So was Bellatrix,” McGonagall said tightly.

Further down, Snape said nothing. His expression unreadable—but his eyes held a flicker of understanding. He had seen it already. The mask. The silence. The defiance buried in stillness.

The lip incident.

He understood.

The Hat shifted slightly on her head. “You want more than what you were given. A bright mind. A broken beginning.”

Her heart thudded in her chest.

That’s too much, she thought, panic clawing at her ribs. Stop looking at me. Please stop.

I don’t want this kind of attention.

"But you do," the Hat whispered gently. "You do. You just won’t admit it. You want to be seen. Heard. Not as the girl with bruises and guarded green eyes. You want to rise. And rise, you will. You’ll see who you are… soon enough."

I’m nothing, Druella thought stubbornly. Not some hero like Harry Potter. Not anyone great. Just… me.

Even my mother and aunt—they believe too much. It’s too much. I’m not brave. I’m scared of everything. I want justice. I want to rise above the Lestrange name. But I don’t know how.

I just want to learn.

Then suddenly—
A spark.

The Sorting Hat responded not with words, but action. Magic surged in its brim, unseen by most, but felt—intensely—by Druella. Her breath caught as her mind was pulled open, not violently, but with purpose. The Hat was scanning her—not just her traits, not just her spirit—
Her memories.

The flood came.

Lucius.
The cold grip.
The bruises.
His voice, a sharp whisper like ice:

"You’re nothing."
"You’ll never amount to anything."
"You’re worthless."

Draco’s smirk. His safety. His smugness. The father figure he had.

She had none.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut it out.

“Please stop,” she begged the Hat, tears pressing behind her eyes.

“I must know,” the Hat answered solemnly. “To see who you truly are.”

And then—a glow.

A faint, silvery-blue shimmer pulsed from the Hat’s brim—visible just for a second. Gasps whispered across the Great Hall. A few students leaned forward.

At the staff table, Madam Pomfrey sat up straighter, her brow furrowed with concern.

Snape’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

McGonagall blinked.

Something was happening.

“You’re nothing!” Lucius’s voice screeched again in her head.

I’m not brave, Druella whispered to herself, breath trembling.

A tear slipped hot and fast down her cheek.

And then—
Silence.

The Hat, ancient and heavy with time, spoke in a voice no longer amused or teasing.

“You are not nothing,” it said, low and resonant. “You are more than you know. A mind like yours—brilliant, precise, always observing. Sharp even as a child. You will shape something vast. Dark and light together. A daughter of silence… and fire.”

“You do not belong to the Lestrange name. You will not belong to anyone, Druella Black. You will belong to yourself.”

Her breath hitched.

You’re right, she thought faintly. I want to be in Slytherin. I want to be seen. I want to succeed. I just… don’t know if I can.

But the Hat wasn’t done.

It wasn’t just Sorting.

It was studying.

It was scanning.

Measuring something deeper.

Smarts. Strategy. Thought.

It had combed through her thoughts like pages in a book—quick flashes of calculated spellwork, overheard theory from her cousin, quiet time spent deciphering her mother’s notes, books hidden under pillows at night, formulas memorised faster than she’d admit aloud.

She was very smart.

And the Hat knew.

A pause—long and drawn. Then:

“Well then,” the Hat murmured, voice curling like smoke, “a title waits on your horizon.”

And though no student could hear, the Hat whispered to her:

They will call you the Slytherin Prodigy.

At the staff table, Dumbledore’s brow arched slightly.

McGonagall turned pale.

Snape’s dark eyes never left her.

Druella’s breath caught. What do you mean? she asked, mind trembling. Prodigy?

“You’ll see,” the Hat murmured. “You were born in shadow. But even you will learn the worth of sunlight.”

And at that moment, across the Great Hall, Snape’s eyes locked with hers.

Legilimency flickered—just a breath of it.

He saw—

The bruises.
The cold rooms.
The screaming.
The fear.
The fury.
The steel.

And deeper still—
The mind.
The girl who studied everything, even when no one thought she was watching.

He blinked.

Then looked away.

And the Sorting Hat, loud and final, declared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

Chapter Text

The word boomed across the Hall like a verdict, bouncing off ancient stones, settling on her shoulders like a mantle.

And the Hall erupted in applause, green and silver banners flaring overhead, even as Druella sat there for just a moment longer—heart pounding, chest tight, eyes wet—realising that for the first time in her life, she had chosen something.

Some Slytherins clapped, others clapped at her, many were shocked, and Pomfrey watched the girl frozen and scared.

It felt as though the room was turning; she was a Slytherin.

But more than that?

Hermione smiled faintly, unsurprised. She’d predicted it. “Of course,” she murmured, watching Druella walk. “I hope she’s okay.”

Neville, next to her, sighed. “I thought she might’ve ended up with us.”

“Me too,” Hermione said softly. "But I'm keeping an eye on her."

As Druella made her way to the Slytherin table, she turned to Neville, seeing him sad, but she walked away, and she felt every stare.

Draco glanced at her with a half-smirk. “Thank goodness you're here with us! You belong here, Ellie—not with the Gryffindors.” He said it like a compliment, but it stung somehow.

Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he gestured down the table. “Though… maybe sit over there.”

Druella blinked. “What?”

“I’m with Crabbe and Goyle,” Draco said flatly. “You get it. It’s just easier.”

“Sorry, Ellie,” Goyle mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

Druella didn’t argue. She didn’t frown or fight it. She just turned away silently and moved down the table, head lowered. Her movements were quiet, deliberate—like someone who’d long since learned how to disappear in plain sight.

She slipped into an open seat near the end of the Slytherin table, alone.

After a beat, two boys slid into the seats beside her.

“Don’t let him bother you,” one said easily. “He likes being the centre of everything.”

Druella glanced up, startled but silent.

“I’m Theodore,” the first added with a small, courteous nod. “Theodore Nott—Junior, if you must—but Theo is fine.”

“Theo,” Druella echoed, barely above a whisper. He just nodded.

She wet her lips. “D–Druella. Druella Black.”

“The name suits,” Theo said, head tipped—there was the faintest Irish lilt on the vowels, there and gone.

The boy next to him leaned forward, studying her with a flicker of recognition. “Hi, Druella. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

She blinked, the old memory sliding into place: a summer garden, a marble terrace, a boy with careful manners who’d let her win at snapdragons. “Blaise?”

“Zabini,” he confirmed, mouth quirking. “You remember.”

“You two know each other?” Theo asked.

“Childhood,” Blaise said simply. “Before… everything.” His gaze flicked, brief as a sparrow—toward her mouth. “Are you alright?” He touched his own lip, meaning hers.

Druella nodded once, unsure what to do with her hands, with her voice, with the way words crowded and then refused to come. Social conversation had never been a subject she’d revised for.

But they didn’t press. Theo only angled his plate to make space. Blaise slid the water closer without comment. They ate, let silence have a chair, and spoke in small, ordinary pieces until breathing was easier. For once, that was enough.

They sat with her instead—eating, trading low comments now and then, leaving a neat pocket of quiet where she could breathe. When she had a word, they let it land. When she didn’t, they didn’t demand one.

For once, that was enough.

The Sorting continued.

Druella sat quietly at the Slytherin table, the clapping for her still echoing faintly in her ears. She watched Luna Lovegood.

“Lovegood, Luna.”

The Hat barely touched her head. “Ravenclaw!” it declared.

"Yeah, go Luna!" Druella screamed. McGonagall looked at her, annoyed.

Druella tilted her head slightly. That hair... it could rival Lucius’s for drama, but somehow Luna wore it like she didn’t care what it looked like at all. That alone made her fascinating.

Then came a round-faced boy who bounced excitedly as he nearly tripped over the stool.

“Creevey, Colin.”

The Hat hesitated for a beat longer than necessary.

“Gryffindor!”

Druella blinked as he skipped to the Gryffindor table, still clutching that ridiculous camera to his chest like it was a magical relic.

And then—

“Weasley, Ginerva.”

There was no pause this time.

“Gryffindor!”

No surprise there. Druella glanced across the hall to see Ginny slide confidently into her seat between some third-years, already acting like she owned the table. Druella’s gaze lingered for only a moment before flicking back to the Sorting Hat, her thoughts unreadable.

Everything was falling into place—expected places. Loud ones in Gryffindor. Dreamy ones in Ravenclaw. Bright ones… maybe somewhere in between.

And here she sat. Slytherin. Quiet. Observing. Just where they all expected her to be.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap and waited for the rest of the ceremony to end, the weight of her mother’s words still resting gently behind her ear:

"You’ll prove them wrong, Black Blossom. One day."

The feast began, and the hall erupted in laughter and chatter. But Druella’s corner of the table remained quiet.

Until she heard it.

“She’s a Black,” someone whispered behind her. “But not like the others. Too young to be here. Too quiet.”

“I heard she was locked up for years,” another girl sneered. “Probably doesn’t know how to talk. Or hold a wand.”

“They say her mother’s insane,” a third added. “And her father—was it Azkaban?"

Druella said nothing. Her fork rested untouched beside her plate.

But she would remember their names.

She always did.

And across the table, Draco laughed at something Crabbe said.

Another girl chimed in, her voice dripping with disdain, "You can tell she's completely out of touch. She's going to have a hard time fitting in. Wonder how she'll survive here, if she doesn't even know how to act around people. She's probably mad."

Druella’s heart sank at the sneering whispers from the other end of the table, but she said nothing. The judgment stung—of course it did—but she'd already decided long ago she wouldn’t let shallow minds define her. Let them talk. Let them guess. They didn’t know her.

She turned to Theodore. "Who’s that?" Druella asked, her eyes drifting toward the dark figure seated at the staff table, posture rigid, expression perpetually annoyed.

Theodore followed her gaze. “That’s Professor Snape,” she said in a low voice. “Head of Slytherin. He teaches Potions. People say he’s been trying to get the Defence Against the Dark Arts job for years, but they gave it to Lockhart instead.”

Druella raised an eyebrow. “Figures,” she muttered, just as she turned her head to glance out one of the high windows that looked out onto the grounds.

And then she froze.

Her voice rang out, loud and unfiltered:

“OH—Merlin’s trousers—I think they just crashed into that tree!”

A ripple of confusion passed through the Great Hall. Heads turned. A few gasps broke out.

“I’m serious!” Druella exclaimed, still standing halfway up in her seat, pointing out the high window with a kind of stunned urgency. “Look over there. A car. A flying car—it just slammed into that massive tree! The tree’s fighting back! Look!”

She never raised her voice like that. She wasn’t the type. Normally, Druella was quiet—painfully so. Watchful. Reserved. A child carved from poise and pressure. But now? Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape, one hand pointing toward the window like she was reporting a murder in progress.

It was the most human thing she’d done all day.

At the staff table, Snape’s eyes shot toward her, not the window at first, but her. That girl. The quiet one. His newest Slytherin. The one with the shattered lip and the ghostly green eyes and her haunting stillness, he had glimpsed inside. Fragile, yes. But laced with something deeper. The kind of fragility that could turn into something vicious if cracked the wrong way.

Then he followed her gaze.

A flying car. A very familiar flying car. That was slammed directly into the Whomping Willow.

His entire body tensed. The Daily Prophet he had been gripping tore slightly under his fingers, the crease splitting right across the front-page headline. He stood up so quickly the bench scraped behind him, his robes slicing the air like a blade.

The caretaker Argus Filch perked up from his shadowy corner, gleeful. “Oho! Someone’s going to be hanging by their toenails for this!”

Snape didn’t reply. Didn’t even flinch. His eyes were narrowed, jaw clenched, the Prophet still clutched in his hand like a loaded wand.

And then he was gone, storming from the Great Hall, the echo of his boots a dark metronome against the stone floor.

Druella slowly sank back down in her seat, blinking hard. “I... I don’t think that was normal.”

The girl beside her—Daphne Greengrass, though Druella hadn’t learned her name yet—shrugged like this was Tuesday. “Sort of is. Welcome to Hogwarts.”

Hermione, several tables away, had spun around in her seat. She caught Druella’s eye and mouthed: "Yes, that was Harry and Ron."

Druella blinked back, stunned.

She looked at the window again and whispered under her breath, “They’re insane. Absolutely insane.” Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she added with a kind of reluctant admiration, “They might be two of the coolest boys I've ever seen.”

Across the staff table, Dumbledore’s serene expression faltered. He turned his head slightly toward McGonagall, eyes crinkled at the corners with concern.

“Did that girl just say... a flying car?” he asked calmly, though his voice now carried an unmistakable edge.

“She did, Albus,” McGonagall said sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And I think we both know exactly which two boys were in it.”

Dumbledore sighed, long and tired. “Of course we do.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Severus will have them expelled.”

Dumbledore rose quietly, smoothing the front of his robes. “Then we best intercept him, Minerva.”

She was already standing. “He’s probably halfway across the grounds by now.”

“No doubt,” Dumbledore muttered. “Come along, Minerva.”

The two of them turned, robes trailing behind them like twin storm fronts as they exited the Hall side by side—one stern, one sighing, both on high alert.

Back at the Slytherin table, Druella leaned her chin into her hand and muttered with deadpan composure, “Mother’s going to love this.”

Blaise, who was beside his, turned slightly, confused. “She will?"

“Oh yes,” Druella murmured with a dry, hollow laugh. “First night at Hogwarts, and there’s a flying car duel with a tree. Bellatrix Black is going to think this school is completely mad.” She paused, then added almost proudly, “And she’s going to laugh.”

Hermione, from the Gryffindor table, groaned softly and buried her face in her hands, clearly debating whether to report Ron immediately or pretend she didn’t know him for the next six years.

Druella leaned to Blaise and Theo.

Her cheeks flushed faintly. “Sorry, I don’t normally do that. I’m usually... quiet.”

“Good,” Blaise said, grinning as he raised his goblet. “Quiet gets boring. You’re already more interesting than half the table.”

Druella gave a small, sheepish smile.

Just then, another boy slid into the seat beside her, with dark hair falling slightly over his eyes and a book tucked under his arm.

He sat down beside her without fuss, opening his book but not yet reading. There was something quiet and steady about him that Druella found oddly comforting.

A third boy leaned in from further down the bench—taller, a little more serious. “Millicent told us you were Bellatrix’s—”

“The pudding looks good,” Theodore cut in smoothly, eyes still on his page.

The other boy huffed and turned back to his plate. Druella glanced at Theo with surprise, then offered a grateful look.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “People talk too much.”

Blaise raised his goblet again, eyes twinkling. “Well, Black, welcome to Slytherin. I think you’ll fit in just fine.”

For the first time that night, Druella felt something close to comfort. Not belonging—not yet—but the quiet possibility of it.

She looked between them and smiled softly. “Thanks. I hope so.”

She spoke with the boys for a little bit.

And for the first time that evening, Druella actually laughed—small, tired, but real.

Maybe this school really was insane.

But maybe... that wasn’t all bad.

She noticed McGongall and Dumbledore leave and Druella looked amazed by this whole thing.

"And I thought Malfoy Manor was nuts." Druella said to Blaise.

Potions Classroom.

The air crackled with tension as Severus Snape stormed through the dungeon, waving a crumpled Daily Prophet in one hand like a weapon.

“You were seen by no less than seven Muggles!” he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He slammed the paper onto the table with a dramatic snap, the headline “Flying Car Spotted Over London” glaring up in bold.

Harry and Ron flinched.

Snape’s black eyes gleamed with fury. He looked as if he were moments away from hexing them both into puddles.

“Do you have any idea how serious this is?!” he seethed. “You have risked exposure of our world, violated the International Statute of Secrecy, and endangered the lives of every student at this school!”

He paused—letting that sink in—then delivered the next line like a curse.

“Not to mention the Whomping Willow, a tree that’s stood on these grounds longer than either of you have been alive!”

Ron opened his mouth—perhaps to argue, perhaps to blame the car—but Snape cut in, voice icy.

“And if it weren’t for that poor girl with the split lip, who—out of blind excitement—shouted about the crash across the Great Hall…” He sneered. “You might’ve actually gotten away with it.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—Ella? Is Ella okay?”

“Silence!” Snape snapped, though there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something unreadable in his eyes.

“She is fine,” he said sharply, folding his arms. “Though her lip had barely healed, at the sorting for everyone to see, and she still managed to yell, "I think they just crashed into that tree!" Across the hall like a child watching a fireworks show for the very first time.”

Ron squinted. “That… doesn’t sound like her.”

Snape’s expression twitched. “No. It doesn’t. She was typically far quieter and withdrawn. But she was excited.” He drew in a breath. “And… understandably so. She has a fascination with magical mechanics, as it turns out. Your idiotic stunt… impressed her.”

There was a long pause. It almost sounded like a compliment.

Snape’s lip curled. “Not that this excuses either of you.”

He leaned in close, voice low and venomous. “Were you in Slytherin—and your fate left to me, you would be on the train home tonight. As it is—”

“They will not.”

The interruption sliced through the dungeon like a clean spell.

Dumbledore.

He stepped forward from the shadows, blue robes trailing behind him, eyes sharp behind his half-moon spectacles.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry muttered.

“Professor McGonagall,” Ron added, noticing the stern-faced Deputy Headmistress beside him.

“Headmaster,” Snape started, tone clipped. “These boys have floated the degree of restricted underage wizardry, endangering—”

“I’m well aware of the bylaws, Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly, stepping beside him. “I wrote quite a few of them, if you recall.”

He turned to McGonagall. “However, as Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, I believe the decision on punishment lies with you.”

Ron sighed. “We’ll go and get our things, then.”

McGonagall blinked. “What are you talking about, Mr. Weasley?”

“You’re going to expel us, aren’t you?”

“Not today,” she said crisply, “but you will serve detention, and letters will be sent to your families. You must both understand the gravity of what you’ve done.”

“Good thing my aunt and uncle don’t care,” Harry muttered under his breath.

McGonagall, let that slide.

Then Harry added, more genuinely, “Wait—Ella—Druella. What house was she placed in? Is she alright?”

Snape turned on his heel.

“Slytherin,” he said, his voice clipped. “Right where she belongs.”

He swept toward his office, black robes billowing behind him. But just before he disappeared, he paused at the doorway, glancing back.

“…And for the record,” he said, tone quieter but still firm, “Miss Black has more discipline in her smallest finger than the two of you combined. And she wasn’t even trying to break rules tonight.”

The door shut with a resounding snap.

Harry and Ron stood there, blinking.

“Did he just… defend her?” Ron asked.

“I think that was his version of affection,” Harry muttered.

“Blimey, something's up.”

Chapter Text

After the feast, a Slytherin Prefect gathered the first-years, leading them through the torch-lit, winding corridors of Hogwarts. The deeper they went, the more ancient the stone felt beneath their shoes. Druella walked in silence, and she heard Snape introduce himself as a force to welcome them. But for some odd reason, he wasn't there even after Harry and Ron didn't get expelled.

Druella didn't hear much of what happened to Harry and Ron, only that they got detention.

Peeves buzzed by overhead, singing off-key and tossing invisible ink. Most of the other students flinched or ducked, but Druella only stared, a quiet grin pulling at her lips. The castle was alive. Every inch of it whispered with magic.

They stopped before a wall that melted open when the Prefect said, “Pureblood.” The passage revealed a low, arched entrance leading into the Slytherin common room—dark, elegant, and glowing green with the eerie light of the lake pressing against the high windows. Shadows played across leather couches and silver lanterns, the room hushed and still.

“Girls’ dorms to the left, boys to the right,” the Prefect announced. “Settle in. Don’t cause trouble.”

As the others dispersed, Druella lowered herself onto one of the couches, spine straight, face unreadable. She opened a book—one Bellatrix had chosen for her—and began reading quietly beneath the shimmer of glassy green light.

It didn’t take long for trouble to find her.

“Dracula Black!” came a sing-song voice with a sharp edge.

Druella’s fingers tensed on the page. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Pansy Parkinson—her long brown hair immaculate, her smile sharp as broken porcelain—slid onto the couch beside her like she was settling in for a show. Her voice dripped sugar. “Oh, it’s you. I’d know that broody little face anywhere.”

Druella gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m reading.”

“Oh, come on,” Pansy said, leaning in like they were old friends. “You don’t remember me? All the fun we used to have when my family visited the manor? All those little games?”

Druella closed the book, fingers still holding her place. Her tone was flat. “You locked me in a cupboard more than once—‘pretend Azkaban,’ you called it. You broke my favourite doll. Aunt Narcissa made you apologise because you cried when she raised her voice.”

Pansy laughed like it was a charming story. “We were children.”

“I was eight,” Druella said flatly. “You were nine. Old enough to know it wasn’t a game.”

There was no warmth in her voice. No trace of forgiveness. But Pansy didn’t retreat—yet.

“Oh, but we’re family,” Pansy replied, feigning innocence. “Black cousins. Practically royalty in this house. I mean, your mum’s Bellatrix Lestrange. Doesn’t get more iconic than that.”

Druella’s jaw locked. “Her name is Black,” she said sharply. “She divorced him. People need to stop using that name—it doesn’t belong to her. Or me.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly as she looked Pansy over.

“And you want to talk about blood? You’re not a Black. Not even remotely. Your father’s a Parkinson's. Your mother’s a Rosier. But not from the English line. Your family crawled out of the rubble after the Global Wizarding War—French Rosiers. Grindelwald’s side. Coming to Britain with as much gold and heirlooms as they could take from their vaults.”

Pansy froze.

Druella’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was steady. Cold. Like reading facts off a plaque in a crumbling mausoleum.

“Your mother—Amaryllis—was raised by my family, yes. But don’t pretend that makes you one of us. My grandmother, Druella Black, took her in out of pity when your side of the Rosiers arrived with nothing but smuggled heirlooms and a begging letter. Half their line arrested, the rest scattered like rats, and Amaryllis was polished up just enough to be married off into the Parkinsons one day.”

Pansy’s smile had vanished completely now.

“And let’s not pretend she was treated like a daughter,” Druella went on, voice calm and cutting. “She was the cousin no one mentioned. The one my Mother always beat in duels. The one my aunt played with as a child was sent away whenever guests came over. My mother used to tell me stories about how Amaryllis would cry at night when she wasn’t allowed to eat with the rest of the family.”

Pansy flinched.

“But your mummy held onto her pride, didn’t she? Married rich. Played the perfect wife. Tried to act like a Black. And when my grandmother died, she made sure Amaryllis got something. Out of obligation. Not love.”

Druella’s eyes were bright now, but not warm.

“And that, Pansy, is the only reason you’re standing here in tailored robes and not scrubbing cauldrons for a living. Because of a favour my family never owed her.”

Pansy opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Druella shrugged, her voice turning quiet again. “So yes. We’re ‘family.’ But don’t ever mistake where the line is drawn. You come from borrowed blood. I am from the very line of the family tree.”

Pansy’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She waved a hand dismissively, like brushing away dust. “Still. With your pedigree, I expected more… I don’t know. Presence. Power. You’re sitting here like a ghost. You’re Pureblood. Rich. But you read like a Hufflepuff. Honestly, you're just a spare in the Malfoys. Narcissa and Lucius took you in out of obligation. Your mum might love you, but I know your kind. Lucius treats you like a backup. You’re not the heir. Just a shadow.”

Druella didn’t even blink.

“We’re both spares, Parkinson,” she said, voice low and even. “The difference is, I was born into the Black name. I’m a spare in the Malfoy line, sure—but not in my mother’s. In the House of Black, I am the first daughter of its Matriarch. And Bellatrix answers to no one. Not even Narcissa.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“And technically?” Druella said, turning the page of her book, “I’m the heiress. They just haven’t said it aloud yet. But the vaults? The family ring? The ancestral magic? It all flows through me.”

Pansy stiffened, her smugness faltering.

“You, on the other hand,” Druella went on, tone almost academic, “are second-born. Your brother—Patriack—is the heir. Always has been. Always will be. And he’s a Ravenclaw, isn’t he? Not exactly a bloodline that screams loyalty to you. Get used to living in his shadow.”

Pansy’s smile twisted, brittle. “What’s with the whole shy, broken-doll routine, then?” she snapped. “You act like a kicked Kneazle half the time.”

Druella finally looked up.

“I’m tired,” she said simply. “And reading is more interesting than listening to someone fight ghosts they’ll never live up to.”

She returned to her page, calm as falling snow. Then, as if it were an afterthought, “Besides, I don’t plan to live off my mother’s handbag. Unlike your mother, with my dear old granny.”

Pansy flinched.

She flopped onto the couch with exaggerated indifference. “Merlin, you’re so dull. Just like when we were kids. Always clutching some book like it was going to save you. Do you even know how to be social?”

“I don’t waste my time,” Druella murmured, eyes still on the page, “on people who think cruelty makes them interesting.”

There was a pause. Then a quiet snort from across the room.

Theo muttered, “Ouch.”

Pansy’s eye twitched, but Druella didn’t glance up again.

Across her lap, Morgana stretched and blinked slowly, her two-toned eyes landing on Pansy with lazy disdain, as if echoing her witch’s silent verdict.

Pansy’s smile faltered for half a second, a flicker of something real flashing behind her eyes—but it vanished just as quickly. She leaned back, folding her arms, scanning Druella with practised disdain.

Her gaze dropped to the kitten curled beside Druella’s hip.

“Is that your little friend?” she asked, tilting her head. Her tone turned syrupy and cruel. “Creepy eyes. Like something out of a Death Eater’s dream journal. Is it cursed? Or did your mum drag it out of a crypt with the rest of her heirlooms?”

Druella stared back, trying to keep her face still. Her fingers twitched against the spine of her book.

“Her name is Morgana,” she said tightly. “And she’s mine. I got her at Goldfangs too—same place your owl came from, actually. When the man your mother is friends with split my lip with his staff. And I know people are chatting about it. At least my mother cared about me enough to buy me an animal for comfort, rather than putting her foot down on Lucius. But don't worry, I won't be crying to my mother every time I have so much as a papercut.”

Pansy blinked, slightly thrown. 

"Really?" She asked as she folded her arms.

“She’s a mixed breed,” Druella added, voice soft but clipped. “Half Kneazle. Half Caeluix. The Caeluix come from France. Rare. Magical. Very loyal.” She glanced down and gave the kitten a small, guarded stroke. “At least my mother managed to get me her. She's actually a comfort animal. So… I suppose that makes her mine. Doesn’t it?”

The air cooled, the green glow of the lake pressing tighter against the glass. A few students nearby had gone quiet again—not siding with Druella, but watching.

Pansy let out a sharp little laugh. “Well, aren’t you full of interesting facts?” she drawled, lifting her chin. “Let me know when one of them makes you worth listening to. Not just one on some Half Breed as your own friend.”

Druella didn’t answer. Not out of defeat, but because anything she said now would be for Pansy’s entertainment. And she wasn’t about to play into that.

Still, her jaw clenched.

She hated the way Pansy could twist every word like a knife. Hated how easily she turned the common room into a stage. And most of all, she hated how familiar it felt—like being eight years old again, trapped in a cupboard while she pretended it was just a game.

But this time, she wasn’t going to cry.

This time, if she did she had Morgana. And she had herself.

Even if that felt like all she had.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “My mum says Lucius Malfoy had taste. That Bellatrix dumped her creepy doll-daughter into Hogwarts like it was a charity case. Honestly? You belong in a broom closet.”

Still, Druella didn’t flinch. Her grip on the book tightened, but she didn’t give her the satisfaction of emotion.

That’s when Blaise Zabini, lounging nearby with the detached poise of someone bored by everyone, finally spoke up. “Pansy,” he said lazily, “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Pansy turned, blinking. “I’m just being welcoming to the new—”

“No,” Blaise said, voice suddenly cold. “You’re trying too hard. And no one’s impressed.”

There was a pause. The kind that made silence loud.

Pansy looked around, waiting for someone to back her up. No one did.

She stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off her robes. “Whatever. I was only trying to be nice.”

She stalked off with a flick of her hair, heading toward the girls gathered by the dorm entrance.

Druella exhaled through her nose and slowly reopened her book.

Theo Nott passed by on his way to the fireplace and murmured just loud enough to be heard, “Well handled.”

Druella didn’t reply. But Morgana pressed against her leg, and for the first time that evening, she felt something close to steady.

Druella didn’t lift her head. She kept her eyes on the page, pretending she hadn’t heard a word. Pretending she wasn’t used to it. Pretending her silence wasn’t her armour.

But inside, she was already building the list.

Pansy Parkinson.

Later that evening, when the noise had faded and the fireplace cast long shadows over the common room, Druella sat quietly, curled up on the far end of the couch, her book open on her knees, Morgana snoozing beside her.

That’s when a tall, older girl with ink-dark eyes and sleek brown hair approached.

“Hi,” she said evenly. “I’m Esme Hallowthorn. Fifth-year. Prefect.”

Druella looked up at her, slightly surprised, and nodded in return.

Esme quirked an eyebrow, intrigued by Druella's intense focus on her books. "I've heard plenty about you and your reputation. Why do you linger here alone in the commons? Wouldn't you prefer to engage with others?" she inquired, her tone inquisitive yet warm. "I can introduce you to some interesting people I know."

Druella hesitated before answering. "No thank you I want to study for my classes for my first week."

Esme studied her for a moment, her expression softening slightly. "You should probably get some sleep. Rest is important for your head as much as studying. You don't want to be tired on your first day." she said with a more maternal tone than Druella had expected.

Druella, unsure but sensing Esme's sincerity, nodded quietly. Before she could turn away, Esme gave her a knowing look. "I heard from Draco that your aunt coddles you," Esme said, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "I know they will be visiting. They asked me to keep an eye on you. My parents know your family well. My father, Jasper, died during the war. He was a Death Eater like your mother."

Druella then spoke up, her voice hesitant but steady. "I know how that feels... My father, Rodolphus, is in Azkaban. I never had a father figure growing up," she said softly. There was a brief pause before she added, "I do wish I had a father figure sometimes seeing others with a father make me envious of them."

Esme raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she asked, intrigued.

Druella glanced away, her mind drifting back to the memories of her mother's words. "Mother... she told me that Rodolphus was never worthy of being a father to me. She was the only one who stood by me. She and my aunt was always there, making sure I knew my worth—even when everyone else wanted to tear me down."

Her thoughts swirled as she remembered Bellatrix's harsh words from her childhood, when Druella had asked about her father. The memory of Bellatrix's fury, tearing the drawing of her imagined father to pieces, was still vivid in her mind. She could still feel the sting of Bellatrix's dismissal of Rodolphus, her unshakable belief that he was weak and unworthy. Bellatrix had ensured that Druella would never need to look to Rodolphus for support.

Bellatrix had always said, "You are not his. You are mine, Druellie. Mine and mine alone." Druella could still hear the cold finality in her mother's voice as she had ground the ashes of her father's imagined presence into the floor.

It was a sharp contrast to the nurturing, protective force of Bellatrix in Druella's life. Bellatrix had filled the void left by Rodolphus's absence, becoming both her mother and her father. There had been no room for weakness and harm's way, Druella being a huge part in Bellatrix's world—she had made sure Druella knew that.

Esme's curiosity shifted to something more understanding. "It's tough, isn't it? Not having a father. But I'm sure your mother and aunt are good enough for you."

Druella hesitated for a moment before replying. "Bellatrix, my mother, is..." She trailed off, unsure how to describe her complicated feelings. "She's been everything, really. She doesn't let me forget who I am. Even when Uncle and Draco belittle me... I know Mother sees the potential in me. She tells me that I'm capable of greatness. I... I don't think I could've had a better mother than her, even if she's not exactly like the ones in those fairytale books."

She paused, her voice growing a bit more thoughtful as she gathered her words. "You see, Mother always taught me that witches and wizards are superior to Muggles. Their magic, their strength—it's just in our blood. But by our magical abilities blessed by the magi,c even Muggle-borns are blessed. By being able to perform magic despite who they were born into. It's a privilege we have because of our lineage, and Muggles can never match that. She's made sure I never forget that, and I never will. But she also has some... exceptions."

Esme, a fellow Pureblood like Druella, nodded thoughtfully, her expression a blend of curiosity and apprehension. Both had been raised in environments steeped in the ideals of blood purity, but Esme's upbringing was marked was very strict on Pureblood values. But in contrast, Druella's family was flexible had instilled in her a rigid belief in Magical Superiority, an unwavering focus on maintaining their bloodline's prestige. Her mother and aunt emphasised the importance of distancing oneself from Muggles, and Muggle Borns who disagreed with them, but making only rare exceptions for those despite their opposite views. They accepted those who had proven their worth, like Hermione Granger.

Interestingly, Narcissa and Bellatrix had a peculiar admiration for Hermione after a particular incident in Diagon Alley where she revealed Lucius's true colors to them. Narcissa who encouraged the friendship when they first met. Right before she told them the truth, and let them be friends. This moment seemed to forge an unexpected bond between Hermione and Druella's family.

In their eyes, Hermione was not just a Muggle-born; she was a courageous figure who had stood up for Druella, earning the praise and, surprisingly, encouragement of Druella's mother and aunt. They seemed delighted by her growing friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, seeing it as a way to navigate the complexities of their own values while still being part of a changing magical landscape.

Ron's father, Arthur Weasley, had confronted Lucius in response to the altercation in Diagon Alley, a confrontation that had clearly irked Lucius—his disdain for the Weasley family was notorious, and this situation had only deepened the rift. Arthur who had stuck up for Druella by that fight Arthur and Lucius had. Defending Druella leaving Bellatrix amazed and finding it hilarious. Adding to Druella's confusion was the extent of her own family's expectations; they had hoped for Draco to befriend Harry, but that vision had been compromised.

Druella recalled the frustrating incident during Draco's trip to Diagon Alley when he, unaware that he was speaking to The Boy Who Lived, made a snooty comment about how Muggle-borns shouldn't be allowed to attend Hogwarts for their own safety. She also remembered Hagrid, when Hagrid was kind enough to buy Harry ice cream and give him his own owl, she heard her name is Hedwig, he showed Harry the kindness he had never received from his Muggle family. Druella had thought well of him ever since.

Draco, however, clearly underestimates the half-giant's importance in the magical community. It had set a poor tone in Harry's eyes before they even reached school. On the train, Draco had followed up with another misstep by ridiculing Ron for his red hair and wearing a hand-me-down robe, making comment on him being a Weasley. Narcissa and Bellatrix had expressed their satisfaction that Druella managed to befriend someone like Harry despite the Slytherin legacy that sought to keep her apart from Gryffindors.

Now, Druella found herself carving out her own friendships, navigating the murky waters of her identity as a Slytherin. Despite the protests from Draco and Lucius, who were steadfast in their beliefs about blood purity and social standing, Druella was increasingly drawn to her new friends. She was beginning to realise how true friendship might just lie beyond the constructs of their family's expectations, sure, she had chaos in her life. But by having those friends, maybe it won't be so bad anymore.

Druella continued, her tone a little more deliberate now. "Mother allowed Muggle books and music in the house, but only because she believes that the material is exceptional, the origin doesn't matter as much. It's about the craft, the quality—who it's from makes up for their filthy Muggle heritage. It's an exception she made, you know? And it's only for things that align with our standards. She says that even the Muggle world can create something worthy of a witch or wizard's attention, but only if it's extraordinary."

She hesitated again, looking at Esme. "She may be a Dark Witch, but she loves me. She's done so much for me, and I think that's why I've never felt like I needed to change my views. She raised me to see Muggles for what they are, but also taught me that some of their works, when they come from a worthy source, can still be allowed within the walls of Malfoy Manor."

Esme smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "I understand. It's the same for me. Pureblood values above all else, but I've always believed the craft is what matters. The rest? It's just filler."

Druella nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Mother taught me that magic is the true power, and that's something we should never forget. No matter what. Even though she has some exceptions, she always reminds me that we are different from them—we're better."

As Druella spoke, there was a conviction in her voice. She had learned to live by these principles, not just out of duty, but because they were the foundation of who she was. And as she looked at Esme, she felt a quiet sense of solidarity with the girl who shared her views, despite their differences in family history.

Esme looked at Druella with a soft gaze, as though processing the depth of her words. "You know, you should get some rest," Esme said, her voice taking on a more caring tone. "Your aunt will flip if you don't sleep, and your mother..." She hesitated, glancing around, before adding, "You know how she is."

Druella nodded, her mind still swirling with the complexities of her family. She'd never known a typical father. Instead, Bellatrix had shaped her, protecting her fiercely and raising her with a combination of love and harshness. And while Druella might have longed for the gentle embrace of a father figure, Bellatrix had filled that space. She didn't need Rodolphus—he had been nothing more than a disappointment to her. Druella was learning to live with the idea that she was enough, just as she was, with the support of those who truly cared for her.

"Good girl," Esme said with a smile, seeing Druella's quiet resolve. "Now get some sleep. You'll need your strength."

As Druella approached the dormitory, she felt a growing sense of belonging amidst the Slytherin walls, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And in the back of her mind, she thought of Bellatrix—her true parental figure—who had shaped her into the person she was today.

Druella felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of her overprotective family, but smiled weakly in response. "I'll sleep soon," she muttered. "I want to look out the window first."

Esme smiled, her expression surprisingly warm. "Good girl. Now get some rest."

Druella stood, gathering her books, but before she could leave, her curiosity got the better of her. "What do you think of Dumbledore?" she asked, her voice soft.

Esme's eyes narrowed slightly at the question. "Dumbledore? Don't get me started," she scoffed. "I think he's far too interested in favouring Harry Potter. I've heard whispers of his so-called 'special treatment'—always giving Harry the benefit of the doubt, even when he messes up. It's ridiculous."

Druella, though she was friends with Harry, couldn't help but feel a slight defence rising in her chest. "I think Dumbledore's just trying to guide Harry. He's been through a lot."

Esme gave Druella an appraising look before nodding slowly. "Perhaps," she said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "I suppose if you're friends with him, you'd see things differently."

Druella smiled faintly, sensing Esme's scepticism but appreciating her honesty. With a small nod, she made her way toward the dormitory, a quiet sense of belonging settling in her as she passed through the Slytherin halls. She wasn't sure what the future would bring, but for the first time since arriving, she felt a bit more ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

She gazed out of the window, mesmerised by the underwater view of the Black Lake. The sight was stunning; vibrant fish darted between the kelp, Grindylows swam in the shadows, Selkies glided gracefully through the water, and a giant squid floated in the depths. Druella marvelled at the magical creatures below, feeling a sense of wonder at the life that thrived beneath the waves. The beauty of the scene seemed almost enchanting, a stark contrast to the grim history that lingered in the stone walls of the dormitory.

As her gaze lingered on the shimmering surface of the water, remembering one of the books she read, a chilling thought struck her. "This dorm used to be a dungeon for prisoners. Dumbledore does hate Slytherins." She felt a shiver run down her spine at the realisation. Narcissa had always warned her about the manipulations of the Headmaster, and it seemed more noticeable now than ever.

Her mother and aunt's words echoed in her mind: "Dumbledore tolerates us, but he's never truly trusted us. He'd rather keep us in the shadows, always reminding us of our place." Druella clenched her fists slightly, bitterness creeping in at the thought of Dumbledore's subtle disdain. "Aunt Narcissa was right. He's never been on our side."

The beauty of the Black Lake was still captivating, but now it was tinged with the feeling of being trapped. Despite the tranquil scene before her, the weight of the past and the present was heavy on her heart.

Druella wrapped her arms around her stuffed cat as the other girls chatted animatedly around her. A wave of homesickness washed over her, a feeling she hadn't anticipated. She missed home more than she realised.

Just then, Morgana leapt onto her lap, nuzzling against her. Druella held her close, and the soft purring calmed her racing heart. The warmth of her presence made everything seem a little brighter.

"I wonder where potion classes are," one of the girls remarked, glancing around the common room with curiosity.

Druella absentmindedly stroked Morgana's fur while answering. "After leaving the common room, there's a sign. Turn right, go up the stairs to your left, then turn right at the top of the stairs; the potions corridors are there."

The girls all turned to her, eyes wide with surprise. "You never even looked at your map," one girl said, incredulous.

Unfazed, Druella continued to watch the aquatic life outside. Another girl asked, "How do you even know that?"

Druella turned to them, a hint of pride in her voice. "I read a book about Hogwarts for years. I know all the directions."

One girl, who had been quietly observing, chimed in with a nod of approval. "That's impressive. You've done your homework."

Druella moved to her bed, lying back and staring at the ceiling, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.

A girl approached her, curiosity evident in her eyes. "How do you fly a broom, then?"

"Easy," Druella said, still looking up. "You have to position yourself on the left side of the broom. Then you reach out with your hand and say, 'Up!' with feeling, and the broom will hover to your arm."

Her eyes widened with surprise. "Wow, you really know your stuff!"

Druella could feel their gazes on her, and she sat up again as another girl spoke up. "Show us how to levitate objects!"

They seemed eager to test her. She sighed, realising they had likely not paid attention in their previous classes.

Druella hopped off her bed and placed Morgana on the table. Grabbing her wand, she pointed it at her plush bunny. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

To their astonishment, the bunny floated gracefully in the air, hovering perfectly before Druella let it drop back to the floor.

The girls were speechless, their eyes wide with disbelief. "You already know how to do that spell?" one girl asked, voice tinged with awe.

"Yes, but we didn't even start class yet," another said, sounding incredulous.

Druella shrugged. "I guess I know more than you think."

While they chattered amongst themselves, Druella resumed petting Morgana, glancing out the window. A girl looked at her as if she were a puzzle. "Wait a minute..."

Ignoring her, Druella continued her quiet contemplation.

"You're Druella Black!" one of the girls exclaimed suddenly. "Draco Malfoy's cousin!"

Druella remained focused on Morgana, brushing her fingers through her soft fur.

"Bellatrix Black's the Dark Witch's daughter," another added, her tone filled with a mix of reverence and caution.

Druella rolled her eyes, bracing herself for yet another reminder of her mother's past. "Yes, Bellatrix changed the rules so that girls can lead the Noble House of Black. She is an idol to my family."

The girls exchanged stunned glances. "Yes! She took over as head after she got released from Azkaban. Since then, she's donated to the Ministry and charities to make up for what she's done."

Druella was surprised and a bit pleased to hear this. "Really? Mother is trying to make amends for her actions?"

"Absolutely!" a girl chimed in. "And her sister, Narcissa Malfoy, works with her on charity benefits. They're very popular despite their backgrounds. Many people adore them! Narcissa is an inspiration. Other students fear the Malfoys, but they are foolish."

Druella felt a mix of pride and disbelief. "Despite being Dark Witches, they grew significantly."

She turned to them, her curiosity piqued. "Define Dark Witches?"

A student looked taken aback. "A Dark Witch or Wizard is either a former Death Eater or studies dark magic."

Druella listened intently as they explained. "Light Witches and Wizards either fought against them during the war or are Aurors, curse-breakers, or former Order of the Phoenix members."

Druella chimed in, her voice steady. "The distinction between Dark and Light is arbitrary, a mere social construct. True power comes from one's passions."

The girls listened, surprised at her conviction. Druella touched the glass, watching the squids swim gracefully. "The line between salvation and damnation can be thin. Yet hate is what breeds in one's heart. Learning of dark and light is necessary."

She gazed at a particularly striking squid, its tentacles undulating in the water. "Knowledge is power, and I intend to use it."

The girls resumed their chatter, seemingly oblivious to her thoughts, until they finally drifted off to sleep. Druella remained at the window, lost in the depths below, before eventually falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Druella walked into the Great Hall, the warm clatter of forks on plates and the hum of conversation echoing off the enchanted ceiling above. She is still adjusting to the strange rhythms of Hogwarts life. Her eyes flicked around the room, half-dazed from sleep and half-lost in thought.

Dumbledore was already seated at the head table, sipping tea with a far-off glimmer in his eyes. But when Druella entered, his gaze shifted directly to her. His expression was unreadable—curious, perhaps, or cautious. Whatever it was, she noticed it. And ignored it.

Then she saw Harry and Ron looking her way. Hermione gave her a small wave from across the Gryffindor table. Druella waved back shyly, her fingers barely lifting off the edge of her sleeve.

To her surprise, Draco—already seated with Crabbe and Goyle—gestured her over.

She blinked.

He nodded again, a little impatient this time. "Come on then, Ellie."

Still wary from their last interaction on the train, Druella hesitated—but curiosity won out. She slid into the seat beside him, placing Morgana’s carrier on the bench.

"Why’re you being nice today?" she asked bluntly, her tone flat but not rude.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Father said not to make a scene anymore. Said you’re delicate, and it's bad views if I’m seen ignoring you. Besides…” He leaned in with a smirk. “If you hexed me once, I don’t want to find out what else you can do.”

Druella gave the smallest of grins, trying not to show how relieved she was that he wasn’t brushing her off again. 

Druella didn’t look up. She pulled a thick textbook from her satchel and opened it to the third chapter without a word.

Draco frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Studying,” she said flatly, her tone neutral—more like a statement of fact than an answer.

“Classes haven’t even started yet,” he scoffed, as if the very idea offended him.

“I heard Potions is difficult,” she murmured, still not meeting his eyes. “I’d rather be prepared.”

Draco stared at her. “Merlin, you’re such a drag.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. She just turned the page.

“You don’t even talk to anyone,” Draco muttered. “You act like you’re better than us.”

“I don’t,” Druella said softly. “I just don’t like noise.”

Crabbe and Goyle had wandered off to argue about pumpkin pastries. Draco remained, now more annoyed than before.

“You’re so strange,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “No wonder people think you’re cold.”

Druella’s quill scratched against parchment. Her posture remained stiff, closed off. She didn’t even glance at him.

Then, a loud crash echoed across the Great Hall. Every head turned.

Draco leaned forward, eager for drama. Druella didn’t even look up.

She was already on the next page.

Just then, a loud crash echoed across the hall. Every head turned.

An owl collided spectacularly with a jug of pumpkin juice at the Gryffindor table, wings flapping wildly as it dropped a red envelope directly in front of Ron Weasley, spraying juice everywhere.

Ron paled. “Oh no.”

Druella blinked, looking up from her porridge. “What’s that?”

Draco grinned, practically glowing with anticipation. “That, my dear cousin, is a Howler.”

Seamus Finnigan leaned over with glee. “Look, everyone! Weasley’s got himself a Howler!”

Ron made the mistake of hesitating.

“Open it,” Harry hissed.

“You have to open it,” Neville said grimly. “If you don’t, it’ll scream anyway—only louder.”

Ron tore it open like someone ripping off a bandage.

The moment it split, the entire hall fell silent.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice exploded from the letter like a detonation spell, rattling the windows and sending owls fleeing in terror from the rafters.

“HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR! YOU AND HARRY COULD HAVE DIED! AND ARTHUR—! HE’S BEEN SUSPENDED WITHOUT PAY—FIRED! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO THIS FAMILY?!”

Draco nearly choked on his toast. Crabbe and Goyle were howling, slapping the table with glee.

Druella burst into a fit of giggles behind her hand, shoulders shaking as she watched Ron’s ears turn a mortified scarlet.

“HE’S WORKED AT THE MINISTRY FOR YEARS! AND NOW HE’S THE LAUGHINGSTOCK—BECAUSE OF YOU! IF YOU PUT ONE TOE OUT OF LINE AGAIN, SO HELP ME—WE’LL DRAG YOU HOME AND STRIP THE SKIN OFF YOUR BACKSIDE!”

Druella leaned toward Draco and whispered, “This might be the most fun I’ve had at breakfast in days.”

Draco nodded, eyes gleaming. “She’s got lungs.”

The Howler wasn’t done screaming at someone who wasn't even there.

“AND ARTHUR—YOU THINK I’M DONE WITH YOU?! YOU ENCOURAGED THOSE MUGGLE OBSESSIONS—AND NOW LOOK! THE WHOLE MINISTRY IS LAUGHING! IF WE END UP STARVING THIS WINTER, IT’LL BE YOUR FAULT!”

Ron had his head down, face buried in his arms.

Finally, Mrs. Weasley's voice softened to a confusingly cheerful tone.

“Oh, and Ginny, dear—congratulations on being sorted into Gryffindor. Your father and I are so proud.”

The Howler crumbled into ash, floating like snow into Ron’s half-eaten breakfast.

Silence.

Then—

“Well,” Druella said, daintily lifting a spoonful of porridge. “That was very educational.”

Ron groaned into his arms. “Please just kill me now.”

Harry looked stunned. Hermione looked smug. “Told you it wasn’t a bright idea to take the car.”

Across from them, Ginny blushed and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear. “She could’ve led with the congratulations,” she muttered.

Druella smirked, already jotting something in her notebook.

"What is she doing?" Crabbe asked.

“Probably taking notes again,” Draco muttered. “Merlin, help the rest of us if she ever learns that spell.”

As the noise began to return to the hall, a soft thump landed in Druella’s lap. She looked down. A neatly wrapped care package sat there, tied with silver-and-green ribbon.

“What’s this?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Draco smirked. “Mother sends me care packages. Looks like you’re getting the same treatment.”

Druella untied the ribbon and lifted the lid of the box. Inside were several hand-wrapped sweets, a stitched doll in black lace—her favorite—and a tiny vial of potion with a soft shimmer. Tucked beside it was a folded note, the parchment cream-colored and edged with elegant green ink. Bellatrix’s angular script read:

For your lip, Black Blossom. And a reminder that you are mine.

Druella blinked once, then smiled faintly and closed the box.

Over her shoulder, Draco leaned in with a smug expression. “Still being spoiled, I see. What’s next? Matching thrones?”

Draco scoffed, sneering as he leaned over. “Please. At least I don’t get tucked in like a porcelain doll. And what’s with your hair? Looks like it could house a nest of doxy eggs.”

Druella didn’t even flinch. “Better than using half the manor’s potion stock to lacquer your head into a turtle shell.”

“Mummy’s girl.”

“Daddy’s boy.”

“Lestrange drama.”

“Malfoy meltdown.”

“Oh, that’s rich—”

“You’re a walking OWL stress dream, Draco.”

“And you’re a walking cautionary tale.”

Druella raised an eyebrow, voice cool. “Of what? Actual intelligence?”

Draco’s smirk faltered.

He jabbed back, desperate. “You know what—your lip isn’t the only thing that needs healing.”

“At least I don’t run to crying to your mummy when Mother comes, so you'd stop chasing me like Uncle Lucius's dogs.”

“I do not cry!”

“Right,” she said flatly, “just… aggressive eye moisture.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t even have Morgana, your precious cat, if it weren’t for that stupid accident.”

“Oh, really? Yes, I love having my lip torn open by your father in the middle of Diagon Alley,” she snapped, her tone sharpening. “Loved the Healers stitching it up while I was still awake. Loved Madam Longbottom shouting at me with that stuffed vulture on her head. Honestly, did she hex that thing herself?”

A few students nearby tried (and failed) to stifle laughter.

“And let’s not pretend, Draco,” she added icily, “you hate that I’m friends with Harry Potter, and a Weasley who, by the way, has more personality in one freckle than you do in your entire bloodline.”

Harry blinked—then let out a short, surprised laugh.

Draco’s jaw tightened, but for once, he had nothing to say.

“Children, children, children,” came a dry, bemused voice behind them.

Dumbledore had descended from the staff table, adjusting his spectacles with one hand, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Another morning, another sibling spat. I've seen plenty of these over the years, ah yes plenty of those.”

“We’re not siblings,” Druella and Draco muttered in perfect unison.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

"We're cousins." They muttered in perfect unison again.

The Great Hall quieted slightly as Dumbledore approached their table, robes trailing behind him like mist.

“Miss Lestrange,” he said gently, folding his hands in front of him, “your mother and aunt have asked that you report to Madam Pomfrey’s office after breakfast. She would like to examine the injury, just to be certain it has healed properly.”

Druella sat up straighter, her expression unreadable. “Yes, Headmaster and my surname is Black.”

Beside her, Draco let out a theatrical sigh. “She gets sweets and special treatment. I get study charts and reminders to sit up straight.”

Dumbledore didn’t even look at him. “You get what you need, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco looked vaguely wounded by that.

Dumbledore’s tone shifted subtly—firmer, quieter, undeniable.

“I expect you to go now,” he said, eyes gently fixed on Druella. “Pomfrey is waiting. She insisted.”

Druella blinked. “But… I’ve barely started breakfast, and I have class after—”

“She wants to see you right away,” Dumbledore repeated, calm but immovable. “She’s expecting you in the Hospital Wing.”

Druella exhaled slowly, the faintest scowl touching her features before vanishing. “Yes, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore gave her a long, searching look. Not unkind. Not judgmental. Just… watchful. As though seeing more than he said.

And then, wordlessly, he turned and walked away.

Druella sighed and stood, gathering her books with quiet precision. She threw one last look at Draco.

“I hate hospitals,” she muttered under her breath.

Then, snagging a piece of toast off her plate with mild irritation, she added more to herself than anyone else, “This wasn’t exactly my idea of a first morning.”

She turned and left the Great Hall, toast in hand, black robes swishing behind her like a quiet shadow.

Ministry of Magic — Wizengamot Chamber

The violet-robed members of the Wizengamot turned their heads as Lady Bellatrix Black, Matriarch of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, took her gilded seat near the centre of the chamber, directly beneath the charmed sigil of the Wizengamot crest. Her presence silenced murmurs like a charm. She didn’t just belong here—she ruled here.

The trial continued, voices echoing through the marble halls, but Bellatrix’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Her dark eyes glittered with calculation as she studied Alissa Avery—Widow of the Noble House of Avery, dressed in dignified black robes, who stood to speak.

“I propose,” Alissa declared, her voice composed, “that the Avery Line Office be granted special leniencies under Clause 13, due to my late husband’s financial contributions to the Ministry’s infrastructure and youth initiatives before his recent passing, now leaving me as Regent. I wish to ensure my children's future is secured before my son, who is currently seven years old, reaches the age of seventeen, when he can claim to be Patriarch.”

Bellatrix’s lips curled into a smile. Elegant. Timely. Exactly as planned.

Then she rose. “I seconded the motion.” As many rose, in approval after Bellatrix's voice rose, she sat with a grin on her face.

“Motion accepted. Let it be done.” One man declared.

The seal was cast.

The chamber erupted in nods and murmurs of agreement. Several Pureblood members exchanged impressed glances, and others whispered praise. “Lady Black moves like a queen,” one murmured. “So beautiful, so poised,” another said. “Ruthless brilliance,” yet another whispered, just loud enough for Bellatrix to hear.

She smiled and chuckled with pride graciously. Let them whisper. She preferred it that way.

The man who watched the trial, Pius Thicknesse, a Ministry official, watched and approved of the request.

As the gavel rang to close the session, Alissa Avery caught up with her in the corridor.

“Thank you, Lady Black,” Alissa said, lowering her voice respectfully. “My House is honoured by you once again. My husband would be… grateful.”

“I’m delighted,” Bellatrix replied, smoothing the dark green velvet of her dress. It shimmered faintly in the candlelight as she turned. “Come, my friend. I have news.”

They walked side by side down the pristine hallway, Alissa trailing just behind, the obedient rhythm of a follower accustomed to power.

“As we know of my family situation, the scandal that's all over the Daily Prophet, I’ve decided to relocate my daughter,” Bellatrix said, voice low and precise. “The Black family’s old manor in the Gloucestershire area was warded to keep the Muggles away, of course—our old estate—must be renovated into a permanent residence.”

Alissa blinked. “You no longer wish to reside at Malfoy Manor?”

“I will not have my child breathing the same air as my brother-in-law anymore,” Bellatrix said coldly. Then the same Ministry Official, Pius Thicknesse, walked up to Bellatrix.

"So, Lady Black, I've come to ask, the Black Lip Incident, is it true?"

Bellatrix nodded her head and lifted it in pride as she spoke to him, looking sombre at the question.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is, thanks to Lucius Malfoy, my poor daughter had to get her lip stitched up. But I got her a kitten at Goldfang's Special Pets. Renowned Muggle-born breeder, really, I got my beautiful owl from her. Nyx is my owl, and I send her regularly. But regarding the Lucius Malfoy situation, I decided to shield my precious daughter from the sin of men's hearts, and I shall relocate my daughter. Though I imagine it'll be lonely for her when we do, as it will for now be only me and her. But rest assured, she will still go to Hogwarts, of course; I won't deny her that. But I must protect my Black Blossom no matter the cost."

Pius Thicknesse nodded at her. "Yes, yes, of course, very wise of you, Lady Black."

"Why, thank you," Bellatrix told Pius, putting her right arm beside her handbag.

"Yes, yes, absolutely, remarkable, you are so radiant, you always make the intelligent choices for your family." Pius praised bowing in respect.

“Lucius is a poison I must prevent from spreading. And Cissy may pretend to sleep in another room, but I see the wear behind her poor eyes. She wants to be Headmistress at Hogwarts to distract herself; she completed her qualifications when she was younger. But she is naive to see the evil in men. But I know my brother-in-law, and I never trusted him. Something is wrong. I feel it. And I shall protect my sister and nephew if I must. I suspect something, and I shall not leave my sister and nephew under the house of that man. Let Cissy be distracted in her ambition, I shall handle the investigation into what I suspect about her husband.”

“You suspect…?” Alissa began.

Bellatrix didn’t answer immediately. She ran her hand down the carved bannister, eyes fixed ahead.

“I don’t act without assurance,” she said. “But I intend to have it discovered soon.”

Behind them, two other Pureblood ladies—the twins of House Mulciber—glided forward and curtsied slightly.

“You’re brilliant, Lady Black,” one said.

“So clever for you to decide to remove your daughter from that nest of rot,” the other added. “Shall we send our House Seers? Quiet ones, of course. Discreet.”

Bellatrix smiled without warmth. "Do. But I have one in mind, but the more the merrier."

Alissa hesitated. “Perhaps the goblins at Gringotts could uncover something. If there’s… misappropriated gold—”

Bellatrix turned slightly, her grin sharp and pleased. “What an idea, my dear friend.”

And just like that, the path was set. The house would be rebuilt. The child would be safe. And Lucius Malfoy… would be exposed.

Bellatrix would make sure of that.

Hogwarts Hospital Wing

Druella walked toward the Hospital Wing with quiet, reluctant steps, her fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of her robe. She hated hospitals. The sterile air. The too-bright lights. The dreadful, unnatural quiet—as if something awful had just happened, or was about to. It made her skin crawl.

Still, she kept walking.

At the end of the corridor, the wide doors to the Hospital Wing stood open. Inside, Madam Pomfrey was adjusting bed linens with brisk precision.

The matron looked up the moment she sensed movement, immediately recognising the dark-haired girl from the sorting ceremony, whom she paid close attention to. The girl was waiting at the threshold.

“Ah, Druella Black,” she said, standing straighter, her tone kind but clipped. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Before Druella could respond, Pomfrey strode over and ushered her inside with unexpected urgency. “You gave me such a fright not being here sooner!”

“I was at breakfast,” Druella muttered, caught off guard.

“Sit,” Pomfrey said firmly, guiding her toward the bed and gently—yet insistently—pushing her onto the mattress before she had time to protest. “You were supposed to come before breakfast. Oh, that Dumbledore…”

She tutted to herself and began inspecting Druella’s face, tilting her head left, then right.

“Not telling students about scheduled medical exams, really—honestly.”

“I was eating,” Druella mumbled again, slightly defensive.

“Well, then eat what I provided you.” Pomfrey gestured toward a covered tray. “There’s food right there—tea, jam, toast, and even something chocolate.”

Druella turned toward it, hesitating.

“Stay there,” Pomfrey ordered, as she turned toward her office.

The moment she vanished behind the door, Druella stood up quietly, gaze flicking toward the corridor. Her steps were nearly silent as she edged toward the exit.

She was almost to the door when—

“No, you don’t,” Pomfrey called, reemerging with a tray of vials and bandages. Her tone wasn’t angry, just firm.

Caught, Druella slowly returned to the bed and sat back down, her posture tight and rigid. “Can this be quick?” she asked, voice soft. “It’s the first day, and I don’t want to be late.”

Pomfrey gave her a patient smile. “Yes, it’ll be quick. But your aunt and mother were very clear. I gave them my word I’d check your lip personally. And you know how… persuasive they can be.”

Druella winced faintly. Yes. She knew.

Of course, they’d arranged this. Of course, they’d made it into a thing. She said nothing, just climbed fully onto the bed and sat with her legs dangling, shoulders tense, her eyes fixed on a distant corner of the room.

“You don’t like hospitals, do you?” Pomfrey asked softly as she approached again, tone gentle and without judgment.

Druella shook her head, barely.

“No. Not really.”

Pomfrey softened. “That’s alright. You’re not the only one.”

She knelt a little to meet Druella’s eyes and gently brushed her hair back from her face to get a better look at the fading injury.

“You did well healing up, but there’s still some residual inflammation,” she murmured. “I’ll give you a salve—Bellatrix and Narcissa requested a specific blend.”

Pomfrey nodded knowingly. “Most children don’t like hospitals. Especially the ones who’ve had a reason not to.”

She approached slowly, crouching so they were eye to eye. In her hand was a soft, fresh cloth. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to poke and prod. I’m only here to help you.”

Druella blinked, a little startled by the softness in Pomfrey’s voice.

“May I?” the matron asked, gentle but respectful.

That hesitation—that asking—made Druella sure of her. Most adults didn’t ask.

Druella looked down, her fingers curling tighter around the edge of her robes. Then, finally, she gave a faint nod.

Pomfrey smiled and dabbed at her lip with slow, practised care—the same careful precision Narcissa always used. Firm, but motherly. A touch that said: I see you. I’m here.

Druella tensed slightly, blinking away for a moment, caught in the echo of the motion. It was familiar. Too familiar. Safe and scary all at once.

Pomfrey’s eyes lingered on her—not coldly, not clinically with a quiet recognition. Like she saw someone else behind the silence. Someone she used to know. Someone hurt.

Druella flinched when the cloth brushed a tender spot. Without missing a beat, Pomfrey rubbed her shoulder in gentle comfort.

“It’s alright, dear,” she said softly. “You can say if it hurts.”

Druella didn’t respond. She didn’t cry, not really. But a single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Pomfrey caught it without comment, dabbing it away like it was nothing unusual.

“You look like someone who’s been starving herself, neglecting yourself, I believe,” she said quietly. “And I know your family feeds you. So I'm guessing you were in your bedroom instead of eating with the family. Did he scare you?”

Druella stayed quiet. Her hands were folded in her lap, gripping the edge of her robe tightly.

“Did you sleep okay?” Pomfrey asked, tone still warm and measured.

Druella nodded once. It was automatic.

“The stuffed animal used to help, I imagine.”

Druella looked up sharply. “How do you know that?”

“People talk,” Pomfrey said gently. “There was a photo in the Daily Prophet. And… I listen.”

That made Druella lower her gaze again. She felt herself slipping—numb, floating, trying to shut the world out like she always did when things pressed too close.

She didn’t like this feeling. She didn’t want to need this woman’s kindness.

But Pomfrey just continued her work quietly, dabbing her lip again, then wiping the salve away.

“Poor dear,” she murmured, half to herself.

She crouched a little to Druella’s level, and Druella instinctively began to stand, pulling back.

“No, sit back down,” Pomfrey said—not harshly, but firmly.

Druella paused. Then obeyed.

Pomfrey’s calm, steady voice reeled her back in. “I promised your family I’d look after you while you’re here.”

She gently brushed her thumb beneath Druella’s chin to tilt her head.

“Your aunt was… very clear. Your mother, even more so. I haven’t seen anyone list out instructions like that since the war. You’re lucky, you know. You’ve got two of the fiercest women in the wizarding world watching your back.”

Druella nodded numbly, her throat tight.

What could she say? Yes, my mother is a Dark Witch. Yes, people think she’s a monster. And I’m her daughter. Aren’t I supposed to be feared? Not pitied?

Was this real? Was this some mask?

Because Pomfrey didn’t look at her like she was cursed.

She looked at her like she was hurt.

Like a child with invisible bruises.

A child Pomfrey recognised all too well.

The matron reached for a small silver tonic and unstoppered it with a soft pop.

“This will stop the bruising from returning. It may sting for a moment, then it’ll go numb.”

Druella took the vial and drank without complaint.

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. “You’re very brave, you know.”

Druella looked at her, startled. “I’m not,” she muttered. “I’m just… trying not to make things worse.”

But Pomfrey shook her head.

“Oh no, dear,” she said, smoothing Druella’s collar with gentle fingers. “Bravery isn’t always loud. It isn’t just hexes or headlines. Sometimes it’s sitting still when you want to run. Sometimes it’s showing up even when you’re scared. Sometimes…”

She paused, brushing Druella’s hair from her face.

“Sometimes, it’s saying nothing at all when everything inside you is screaming. But you’re still here.”

Druella didn’t respond, but something in her expression softened. She didn’t move away.

“This isn’t just about your aunt and mother,” Pomfrey added quietly. “I saw you at the Sorting Ceremony. You looked like you were in shock.”

Druella looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Pomfrey whispered. “You’ll be alright, love. It’s going to take time, but you will be.”

The words didn’t come out of obligation. Not out of duty. They came out of someone who meant them.

And for once, Druella didn’t try to escape.

She just sat there, a sad, too-quiet eleven-year-old, letting someone fuss over her—not because she asked for it.

But because someone cared.

“I know this all feels very strange,” Pomfrey continued, lowering her voice. “Being watched. Being protected like this. But it’s not a burden. It’s what you deserve. You’re not alone here. And…”

She paused, looking Druella gently in the eyes.

“…it’s not your fault.”

Druella blinked, startled again. “Huh?”

Pomfrey gave a warm, reassuring smile. “Whatever happened. Whatever made him so furious? It isn’t your fault. And no one here will treat you like it is. Not on my watch.”

Druella sat still for a long moment.

“…It’s a scandal, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

Pomfrey’s smile didn’t waver. “The world can call it what it likes. But I call it a new beginning. You’re safe now. Lucius Malfoy won’t hurt you again. Your family’s made that very clear. And so will I.”

Druella looked down at her hands, then up again—just briefly—and gave a small nod.

Pomfrey stood and brushed her hands off on her apron. “You’re one of the ones I’ll be keeping an eye on,” she said with a little wink. “Not because you’re in trouble. But because you remind me of someone else who grew into something wonderful. Someone who grew strong. One who was strong despite the scars of the past. Strong girls often start like you.”

Druella nodded again, eyes wide. And as she slipped off the bed and quietly thanked her, there was a small, fragile smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll see you next time,” Pomfrey said gently as Druella turned to leave. “And I do hope you're welcomed at Hogwarts, truly.”

Druella paused, nodded, and gave a faint, grateful smile before stepping out through the hospital wing doors.

Pomfrey watched her go—small, proud, and far too quiet for a child her age.

Once the doors had shut and Druella was out of earshot, Pomfrey murmured to the empty room, voice low and sure:

“I’ve got my eye on you, little one.”

Then she turned back to her potions tray, as if nothing had been said at all.

Later that day, Druella wandered the castle with wide, shining eyes. Her footsteps were soft, almost reverent, as she moved down the stone corridor. Then—

She saw them.

Ghosts.

Floating, shimmering, gliding right through the walls as though they belonged to the air itself.

Her mouth dropped open.

“Brilliant,” she breathed, not realising she’d said it out loud.

One of the ghosts floated by—Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, Nearly Headless Nick. He dipped into a cheerful bow as he passed.

“Good morning,” he said kindly.

Druella stood completely still, like she’d been caught in a spell. “You’re real,” she whispered. “You’re really real.”

He chuckled gently, tipping his ghostly hat. “I suppose I am.”

Druella smiled so wide her cheeks ached. “This is… this is so brilliant. A ghost, the ones I read all about. The pages I read are now right in front of me.”

She reached up instinctively, like she might touch the hem of his ghostly robes, but her fingers passed through nothing but air. Nick just smiled.

Then she was off again, running.

Her shoes tapped against the stone as she turned corner after corner, cape flaring out behind her like a shadow trying to keep up. At last, she burst through a set of double doors into a long, arched corridor—and stopped.

The view of the courtyard opened up beyond the arched windows. Ivy-covered towers. Floating lanterns. Enchanted staircases in motion in the distance.

“Whoa…”

She stepped closer to the window, rising on the tips of her toes to see everything. Her hands pressed to the cool glass.

“Wow,” she whispered.

She stood there for a long time, not moving. Just staring. Taking it all in like she was afraid it might disappear if she blinked too long.

Across the courtyard, Hermione walked with a friend, laughing about something, until she spotted her.

Druella—alone, silhouetted in the light, mouth slightly open, eyes glowing.

Hermione hesitated, watching her. She’d never seen Druella smile like that before.

But as soon as Druella noticed someone watching, her face dropped. Her shoulders tensed. She looked down sharply, then bolted, turning on her heel and disappearing back into the castle.

By the time she reached the dungeon corridor, Druella had forced her face into something more neutral. Not amazed. Not thrilled. Just… prepared.

She followed the directions she’d memorised the night before, adjusting the strap on her satchel as she made her way toward Potions.

A cat passed her in the hall, winding along the stones, but she barely glanced at it.

She stepped into the classroom quietly and made straight for a table at the far end. She slid onto the bench, set her bag down carefully, and pulled out her cauldron. Her quills, parchment, and ink were placed neatly beside her. She smoothed out the parchment with a flat palm, like she was grounding herself.

The rest of the class buzzed around her—chatter, laughter, books dropping, chairs scraping—but Druella barely heard it.

She just sat there, heart pounding softly, eyes drifting to the shelves of ingredients, to the chalkboard, to the flickering candlelight reflected on the polished vials.

It was all so real.

She loves potions. 

And she was ready to learn it all.

Chapter Text

The door slammed open, and everyone fell silent as Professor Snape strode into the room.

"There will be no foolish wand waving or silly incantations in this class," he intoned, his presence immediately commanding attention. Druella focused intently on his words.

"I don't expect many of you to appreciate the exact art of potion-making," Snape continued, his eyes scanning the class. "However, those select few who possess the predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper to death."

Druella listened intently, her green eyes fixed on Professor Snape as he moved like a shadow at the front of the room. She could already feel it—the warm pull of excitement in her chest. This was the part of Hogwarts she’d been waiting for. The artistry of potion-making. The quiet power of it. The controlled magic in a cauldron’s simmer. And Snape, cold and precise, was the master of it all.

The air was heavy with the scent of mugwort and smoke. Snape’s robes billowed as he paced. His gaze swept the classroom like a hawk eyeing weak prey.

His voice was like a blade.

"Weasley. What would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Ginny blinked, fidgeting in her seat. “Er…”

Before she could stammer a guess, Druella’s hand was already raised high and unwavering.

And then, without waiting, she spoke. “It produces a powerful sleeping potion, sir. The Draught of Living Death.”

The class went quiet. Several heads turned.

Snape’s eyes snapped to her. He noticed the faint scab along her lower lip, still healing. And then he looked at her again—really looked.

“Correct,” he said curtly. “Five points from Gryffindor for Miss Weasley’s inability to recall basic ingredient combinations.”

Ginny flushed crimson.

Snape continued, eyes still on Druella. “And Miss Black… while I would encourage decorum, your interruption was—tolerable. It appears you’ve inherited more than just a name.”

Druella sat straighter, the corners of her mouth twitching in a small, knowing smile. “My mother and aunt taught me about that potion when I was six, sir.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at that. “Did they now? How fortunate. Perhaps you can tell the class the difference between Wolfsbane Potion and Polyjuice Potion.”

Druella answered without missing a beat. “Wolfsbane Potion allows a werewolf to retain their human consciousness during a full moon. Polyjuice is a transformation potion—it requires a sample of the person’s DNA to replicate their appearance. Typically hair, sir.”

Snape gave her a long, calculating look. “Accurate. And delivered with clarity.”

Ginny glared at her, arms crossed, clearly fuming.

Snape ignored the rest of the class. “Miss Black, do you find this syllabus... beneath you?”

Druella met his eyes, her voice level. “Not at all, Professor. I respect the craft too much to ever consider myself above learning. I was always told knowledge is power.”

That earned the faintest flicker of something rare on Snape’s face.

Was it approval?

“Hmm.” He turned back to the board with a swirl of his robes. “At least one of you has the discipline to approach this class seriously. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

As he resumed the lecture, murmurs floated around the room. A few students exchanged glances; others cast envious looks at Druella. She, however, remained unfazed, already back to copying notes in elegant script. The tip of her quill glided smoothly across the parchment. There was something oddly soothing about it—the symmetry of the letters, the logic of the process. Potions wasn’t just schoolwork to her. It was art. Discipline. Power disguised as focus.

Snape stopped pacing. His robes stilled.

And then—

His voice, low and precise, cut through the room like a blade.

“Some of you may believe this castle is a dream,” he said coldly, “a haven of safety and opportunity. A place where you can wave your wands and change your lives with effort alone.”

He looked around the classroom slowly, his expression unreadable.

“But you all are mistaken.”

The silence was immediate.

Snape’s gaze was a shadow. “This is not a fairy tale. And magic is no dream come true. It is power—unforgiving, exacting, and brutally indifferent to your upbringing or expectations.”

Druella sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on him, her quill frozen above the parchment. She was quiet, eerily quiet. Her bottom lip, still healing from the split Lucius had left her with, the tiny scab that gave her a ghostly kind of appearance, like someone half-formed, not quite here, but very much watching.

Snape’s eyes swept across the room. Then paused. Just briefly.

On her.

“Many of you come from protected backgrounds,” he said. “Cushioned. Sheltered. Walls built around you to keep out the dark. But the dark always finds its way in. Magic, for all it's beauty, is a thing of rules. Break them, and it will break you.”

Druella didn’t move. The room felt colder. Her green eyes didn’t blink.

Snape's tone darkened. “Some of you—” he didn’t say her name, but the pause was deliberate “—have been raised to believe you are safe. That your name, your lineage, or your walls will protect you.”

Druella’s chest tightened.

“But let me make one thing clear: nothing will protect you if you are ignorant.”

His voice dropped to a low, almost reverent tone. “The world beyond these walls is not kind. It does not care that you are young. Or brilliant. Or scared. It only cares if you’re prepared. Prepared to face the incoming dangers. And most of you…” his lips curled faintly, “…are not.”

The silence was thick. Unmovable.

Druella's fingers resumed tapping gently against the rim of her cauldron, as though trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine. She glanced down at her parchment, but her thoughts were no longer on ink or instructions.

“He’s right.”

All her life, she'd been protected. Watched. Carried like porcelain by her mother and aunt. Every step was shadowed. Every word measured. Bellatrix's voice was always in her head, sharp and soft. Her arms were always waiting. Always watching over her.

Druella wasn’t like the other students. Not quite. She had seen dark things. She had seen monsters. But they had been inside her home. Behind closed doors. Not the kind of dark Snape was speaking of. Not the world’s dark. Not the magic that could steal your mind, your soul, your face.

“This is bigger than me,” she thought, her stomach twisting.

And yet—

Something stirred in her chest. A pulse of curiosity. Of awe. Of something ancient.

The world beyond the manor, beyond Hogwarts’ stone halls, felt larger than life.

Unforgiving. Vast. And watching.

She didn’t return Ginny Weasley’s glare. She barely registered the rustle of students shifting in their seats or the whisper of parchment. Her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere between the potion fumes and the cold stone floor beneath her shoes. Somewhere far beyond.

Snape’s voice cut through the fog. Sharp. Precise. Measured like the edges of a scalpel.

But his eyes—those black, unreadable eyes—landed on her.

He studied her for a long moment. Too long.

Druella kept her chin down. Let them think it was defiance.

It wasn’t.

It was survival.

Then, without a word, he crossed the space between them. She tensed instinctively as he approached. Her pulse stuttered.

When he stopped in front of her, he didn’t speak. He didn’t scold.

Instead, he reached out.

Fingers calloused and cold brushed lightly beneath her chin, lifting it just enough to see her properly. Druella flinched—small, barely noticeable, but there.

He didn’t press.

He just looked at the healing cut. The ragged mark still scabbed over on her lower lip.

With the lightest touch, he smoothed a thumb just beneath it, never grazing the wound itself. Not intrusive. Not gentle either. Just... deliberate.

A recognition.

The touch of someone who had seen too many children try to pretend they weren’t broken.

Druella didn’t pull away. Not this time.

Then, just as quickly, he withdrew.

Snape said nothing. He simply turned and swept back to his desk, his robes billowing in his wake, as though the gesture hadn’t happened at all.

But Druella felt it long after he walked away.

The pain didn’t leave her.
But for the first time… she realised someone had seen it.

Not judged.
Not pitied.
Just seen.

Severus Snape—sharp-tongued, cold-eyed, always prepared with something caustic to say—had said nothing about this girl.

Nothing at all.

He wasn’t sure what it was that kept his attention on Druella Black.

Perhaps it was the absurdity of it—ten years old and already sitting in a Hogwarts classroom. Or maybe it was the way she answered his questions, calm and unflinching, her tone void of arrogance. Just precision. Quiet certainty.

He couldn’t place it. Not yet.

And he didn’t like questions without answers.

He watched her sometimes, when she wasn’t looking—watched the way her shoulders curled inward like armour. The way she touched her bottom lip when it stung. The way she seemed to know who was watching and who wasn’t.

She caught him once. Just once.
A glance mid-lecture, her gaze sharp, unbothered.
It was brief. But it was enough.

She saw him.

And he saw… something.

Not brilliance, though she had that. Not a promise, though it lingered around her like smoke. It was something else. Something older than her years. Something that shouldn’t have been there in a child.

And that moment—that class—changed everything.

He didn’t speak of it.

But he remembered it.

Because in that silence, something shifted. Not in her.
In him.

After Potions class ended, Druella made her way down the corridor, her mind still spinning with the rhythm of Snape’s voice. His words haunted her in the best way—intense, controlled, powerful. Like he wasn’t just teaching a class, but handing out secrets to those who could understand them.

As she walked, the other students’ whispers followed her like fog. She caught bits of it—“Did you see how fast she answered?” and “She’s weird but… smart”—but kept her chin lifted and ignored them.

She passed a tabby cat perched like a statue atop a stone bannister. Its green eyes blinked slowly at her.

Druella paused.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," she said calmly.

The cat narrowed its eyes—and with a flash of transformation, Professor McGonagall stood in its place. Her lips thinned as she eyed Druella with a mixture of suspicion and faint surprise.

"And how, Miss Lestrange," she asked coolly, "did you recognise me so quickly, when you've yet to attend a single Transfiguration lesson?"

A few students slowed nearby, hanging back to watch. Druella smiled politely, unbothered.

"First, my surname is Black. Second, I’ve read about registered Animagi, Professor," she replied. "Your transformation has been documented. The tartan markings on your fur are mentioned in The Practical Guide to Transfiguration—sixth edition."

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened. “And I suppose you’ve memorised the Animagus registry, too?”

“Of course, I thought it was useful to know who might be listening,” Druella said without missing a beat.

That gave McGonagall the smallest pause.

“Hmph. Come along, Miss Lestrange,” she said crisply, ignoring her student's correction. “Since you’re so eager to learn.”

They reached the classroom. McGonagall gestured stiffly toward a front-row seat. "Sit there." Druella did so with perfect posture and poise.

The moment class began, McGonagall launched into a rapid-fire lecture on introductory Transfiguration theory, but her eyes kept flicking back to Druella, as if daring her to slip up. Halfway through explaining the transformation laws, she suddenly turned from the board.

“Miss Black,” she said sharply, “what are the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?”

The class turned. Ginny Weasley smirked behind her textbook.

Druella sat straight, meeting McGonagall’s gaze.

“Food, love, life, knowledge, and magical talent,” she answered smoothly. “They cannot be created from nothing—only modified or moved.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop.

“And the Wandless Catalyst Effect?”

“It occurs when ambient magical energy triggers transfiguration without a wand in possession,” Druella answered again, unfazed. “Usually only seen in accidental magic—though it's recorded in controlled ritual use.”

“And what is the incantation for converting an animal to a water goblet?” McGonagall asked dryly, crossing her arms.

Druella didn’t even blink; she tilted her head. “Vera Verto.”

A few students muttered. Someone gasped.

Ginny leaned toward a friend and whispered something that earned a laugh, but Druella didn’t even flinch. She caught Ginny’s smirk and returned it with an unreadable, almost amused glance. As if to say, Try harder, you foolish girl.

McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a fine line. Her tone was brisk, but the sharp edge never left. “You have a habit of answering too quickly, Miss Lestrange. Confidence and arrogance are not the same.”

“Yes, Professor,” Druella said, not defensively, but with quiet assurance.

When class ended, McGonagall stopped Druella as the other students gathered their things. She stood tall in front of her desk, looking down at the girl who had dared to match her tone for tone.

“Miss Lestrange,” she said, her voice still clipped but slightly less icy, “you will stay after your last class. I’d like to speak with you further.”

Druella nodded. “Of course, Professor, my surname is Black to remind you.”

The rest of the students filed out, whispering about the exchange.

“She grilled her like she was on trial…”

“And she still answered everything…”

Druella didn’t care.

She was used to being watched.

She’d grown up around walls.

But now?

She was done being protected.

Now, she was proving something.

To them.

To herself.

To those who tried to bring her down.

To everyone who ever said she wouldn’t belong.

Later, during Defence Against the Dark Arts, Lockhart swept into the classroom with a dramatic flourish of his cloak and a radiant grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A large framed portrait of himself was levitating behind him, following dutifully like a pet.

“Welcome, welcome!” he beamed. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League—and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, thank you very much.”

He winked at the class. Colin applauded awkwardly. 

Lockhart gestured grandly to the stack of books beside him—Magical Me, Wandering with Werewolves, Holidays with Hags, and the rest of his self-written literary empire. “Today, we’ll be starting with a simple little quiz. Nothing to worry about. Just to see how well you’ve all read... me!”

Groans echoed across the room.

Druella simply stared, unimpressed. She had finished every assigned chapter the day she bought the books—not because she cared, but because Narcissa had insisted she be “prepared.” Now she greatly regretted it.

As the quiz was passed around, Lockhart suddenly beamed and turned to face her.

“Ah! And here we have Miss Druella Black.” He clasped his hands together. “I must say, your mother made quite the impression at Flourish and Blotts. Positively radiant. Intimidating in all the best ways. I dare say she’s the only woman in Britain who could make me consider... Ah, well, anyway.”

He gave a forced, sheepish laugh. “I don’t suppose you’d pose for a photo after class, would you? Just a quick one for my fan club newsletter—a Lockhart & Black special edition? I can see the headline now: Legacy Meets Legend!”

Druella blinked slowly at him. “No.”

Lockhart’s smile faltered slightly. “No?”

“No,” she repeated flatly, turning her attention to the quiz paper and scribbling her name across the top.

There was a beat of awkward silence before Lockhart chuckled weakly. “Quite the strong will. Just like her mother.”

He moved on, clearly rattled. “Yes, well! Let’s see who’s been reading properly.”

Druella completed the test with quick, surgical precision and stood before most had answered the first question. She walked to Lockhart’s desk, dropped her parchment in front of him, and said, “Done.”

He looked up, bemused. “In five minutes?”

“I know all about you. Your books were very helpful. For sleeping,” she added.

Lockhart blinked. “Ah—well. Very good, Miss Black. Very… efficient. Well done.”

He skimmed through her answers, his brow twitching as he saw they were all correct. His forced smile returned as he handed it back with a perfect score. “Excellent work.”

Druella offered a sharp, knowing smile in full pride before returning to her seat.

The smile remains on her face.

Ginny, nearby, muttered under her breath. “Show-off.”

Druella didn’t look at her. “Jealous, Weasley?”

Ginny scoffed and turned away. “Hardly. Some of us don’t need to be born with a title to be worth something.”

Before Druella could respond, Lockhart clapped his hands dramatically.

“And now, for a bit of fun!” he said brightly. “Practical defence—Cornish Pixies!”

He flung open a cage, releasing a swarm of blue, shrieking creatures. Chaos erupted instantly. One pixie yanked Collin's quill and shoved it in his ear. Another overturned Luna's quill. A third grabbed Lockhart’s wand and flung it out the window.

Lockhart yelped. “Ah—yes! Classic pixie behaviour! Now, let’s see how you handle yourselves!”

And with that, he ducked behind his desk.

Druella blinked. “Nice one, Professor,” she said dryly, dodging a pixie that went for her hair.

Ginny snarled, wand out. “Immobulus!” A pixie froze in mid-air.

“Hey, Black! How about instead of laughing, maybe help?” she barked at Druella.

Druella rolled her eyes. “Oh, but I thought Gryffindors loved a challenge?”

But she stood and began casting calmly, her spells precise and controlled. She conjured a soft net of glowing green light that swept three pixies into the cage at once. “Containment. Easy.”

With most of the pixies secured—thanks largely to Hermione, Ginny, and Druella—Lockhart popped back up.

“Well done, class! Er… yes. Five points to Gryffindor for Miss Weasley’s quick thinking—and five to Slytherin for Miss Black’s… elegance under pressure.”

Druella smirked, brushing her robes off. She turned to Ginny. “Maybe we’re not such a bad team.”

Ginny gave her a sideways look. “Don’t get used to it, Black.”

As they exited the classroom, Druella’s thoughts buzzed with irritation. Lockhart was a buffoon—more preening peacock than professor. She'd read his books, had even annotated a few out of academic obligation, but the man in person was worse than she'd imagined. 

She hated being seen that way. Narcissa already doted on her like a porcelain doll, and Bellatrix, for all her love, still had a tendency to call her “little thing.” But this? This was different. Lockhart didn’t love her. He didn’t even see her. To him, she was a photo opportunity. A prop. A Black to flaunt around.

Behind her, he tried again as the students filed out, his voice overly bright.

“Miss Black! Perhaps a few words for the Prophet next time I’m interviewed? I’d love to get your thoughts on what it’s like being so well-connected.”

She didn’t even look back; she couldn't do so.

Lockhart’s smile faltered as she swept past him, black robes trailing, head held high.

Ginny fell into step beside her, shaking her head. “He’s worse than I thought. He actually winked at me when I hexed a pixie.”

Druella scoffed. “I think he’s convinced we’re all here to admire him.”

Ginny gave her a side glance. “You know… for a Slytherin, you’re not entirely hopeless.”

Druella raised an eyebrow. “Coming from a Weasley, I’ll accept that as... restrained praise.”

Ginny smirked. “Just don’t let it go to your head, Black.”

They walked in silence for a moment. The hallway was dim, torches flickering as students murmured about pixies, the Howler, and everything else the day had thrown at them. Behind it all, Druella’s mind still lingered on the word Lockhart had used—charity. That’s what he saw when he looked at her. Not talent. Not potential. But only as a rescued girl with a tragic family and an interesting name.

Flying class had always been a thrill for Druella. She’d been practising on brooms since she was five, darting between garden hedges and spiralling over the wards of the Malfoy estate while Narcissa shouted encouragement from below. So when Madam Hooch ordered the students to mount their brooms, Druella obeyed with quiet confidence.

"On my whistle!" Madam Hooch barked.

The whistle blew—and Druella soared.

She lifted smoothly, her posture impeccable, her control effortless. As the other students fumbled with balance or shot off at uneven angles, Druella glided through the air with the ease of someone born to the sky. She didn’t wobble, didn’t oversteer—just rose, levelled out, hovered with quiet control, and descended in one clean, feather-light landing.

There was a pause.

Then Madam Hooch gave a sharp whistle—not out of warning, but clear approval. “Excellent control, Miss Black,” she said, stepping closer. “Absolutely textbook. I’ve taught hundreds of students to fly, and I can always tell when someone’s had proper instruction.”

She gave a smirk.

“I remember having to pry your cousin off the broom his first week here. Malfoy leaned too far forward, flew crooked for a month. Got better, however.”

Druella blinked, caught off guard. The praise didn’t feel like it was meant for her. She didn’t know what to do with it—nod? Smile? Run?

Run, maybe. Just in case there was a cane involved. Or a staff? A wand? Dogs that were waiting to attack her on command by any minute?

"I um I really don't think it was that impressive—" she muttered, almost defensively.

Madam Hooch patted her firmly on the shoulder, grinning. “Natural flier, aren’t you? You should try out for Quidditch next year.”

Druella hesitated, brushing a black curl from her face, her fingers suddenly uncertain. “Thanks, but... no.”

Hooch raised an eyebrow. “That’s a shame you got that touch. And the form to play.”

“My aunt taught me,” Druella added quickly, needing the credit to go anywhere but toward her surname. “She was a Chaser when she was here.”

“Clearly,” Hooch said, eyeing her with a knowing look. “Well, if you change your mind, my offer stands.”

Druella gave a polite nod, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes wide when the professor didn't notice Druella's eyes wide in shyness before walking off to return her broom. Her footsteps were steady, but her chest felt tight with something more complicated.

She wanted to join. She’d always loved flying. But not like this. Not while Draco Malfoy as a cousin.

But praise like this? That was still foreign. It felt weird like poison disguised as a sweet.

Nearby, Ginny Weasley narrowed her eyes, arms crossed as she leaned slightly against her broom.

Druella noticed.

She hesitated, then took a few careful steps toward her. Her tone was light, almost hopeful. “You flew well, Weasley. I really liked your flying.”

Ginny raised a brow, smirking. “Didn’t realise I needed your approval.”

Druella blinked, thrown off. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “I just thought—well, you looked confident. Strong. That's all.”

Ginny tilted her head, her tone clipped. “Right. Because a compliment from a Malfoy-adjacent Slytherin means so much.”

Druella winced. “I’m not trying to be a snob. I just thought… maybe we could fly together sometime during class?”

Ginny scoffed. “Hard pass.”

The words landed like a slap. Druella’s mouth opened slightly, then shut again. She gave a stiff, polite nod, her smile fading.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Maybe another time.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Ginny said, walking past her.

Druella stood in place for a moment, watching her go. Her shoulders rose just slightly, then fell again. Her face returned to its usual calm, but the air around her felt heavier.

It wasn’t the rejection that stung the most.

It was the realisation that maybe kindness wasn’t always enough.

Madam Hooch continued class, giving instructions and pairing students off, but Druella didn’t say much after that. She simply followed the drills, performing with calm precision, her eyes focused forward. She flew well—brilliantly, even—but inside, she felt a flicker of something brittle.

She didn’t understand what she’d done wrong.

But she knew one thing: trying to befriend Ginny Weasley had failed. Badly.

She wouldn’t let him—or anyone else—turn her into some kind of project.

When Druella arrived at Professor McGonagall’s office, the air was cold with authority. The towering shelves and tightly organised parchment stacks did nothing to soften the tension in the room. McGonagall stood behind her desk, arms folded.

“Sit,” she said simply. Not unkind, but not warm either.

Druella obeyed, sitting upright with practised poise. Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor.

The professor didn’t speak at first. She studied Druella with the kind of look one might give a puzzle with missing pieces—or a lit wand left in a dangerous place.

“Miss Lestrange,” McGonagall began, voice clipped, “you are remarkably advanced in Transfiguration. That much is obvious.”

Druella remained silent, waiting for the rest. She was used to evaluations that felt more like interrogations.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “And that alone would be impressive, if it weren’t also… concerning.”

Druella blinked. “Concerning?”

“You’re ten years old,” McGonagall said coolly. “You shouldn’t even be here yet. We don’t make a habit of allowing students early entrance. And yet here you are. Gifted. Powerful. Controlled. And dangerous.”

Druella’s hands curled into her robes. “I didn’t ask to come early.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “No. But others asked for you, didn’t they?”

There was no question who she meant.

“I didn’t ask to be special,” Druella said quietly. “I just want to learn.”

McGonagall’s expression didn’t soften. “You are not just a student, Miss Lestrange. You’re a symbol—whether you like it or not. The daughter of Bellatrix. Raised in the shadow of Malfoy power. A child brought to Hogwarts early by ‘request.’ You may think you're just a girl with a wand. But every eye in this castle is watching.”

Druella lifted her chin. “I’m not a Lestrange. My father’s in Azkaban. My surname is Black.”

McGonagall didn’t acknowledge the correction. Her face remained unreadable. “Names carry weight. And that one carries more than most.”

The deliberate use of ‘Lestrange’ made Druella’s throat tighten, but she didn’t let it show.

“I don’t trust easily,” McGonagall continued, voice like frost. “And I don’t make exceptions. You are here because of special circumstances, but that does not mean you will be treated gently. You are powerful—but power without humility is dangerous. You will earn your place here. Not through family, not through talent. Through discipline.”

Druella swallowed, blinking hard. “I understand.”

“I hope you do.” McGonagall leaned forward, her gaze sharp as a wand’s tip. “Because fair or not, every mistake you make will be watched more closely than any other child in your year. That’s the price of your name. Of your early arrival. And of who raised you.”

Silence fell again.

Then, more calmly, she asked, “What inspired your interest in Transfiguration?”

Druella hesitated. “My mother taught me. She… she made it elegant. Precise. And my Aunt Narcissa taught me discipline.”

At that, McGonagall’s mouth twitched downward. “Yes. Narcissa Malfoy. I’ve read the file.”

Druella stared at the floor, the edges of her vision blurring slightly.

McGonagall rose. “Your answers in class were correct. But smug. I don’t care how clever you think you are—you do not speak over your peers. You do not parade your knowledge to belittle others. That path is one I’ve seen before. And it never ends well.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” McGonagall said sharply, “but you did. And others saw it.”

Druella’s fingers dug into her sleeves.

“You are dismissed.”

Druella stood, hands trembling slightly. But as she reached the door, McGonagall’s voice stopped her cold.

“I’ll be watching you, Lestrange. Closely.”

Druella paused, her spine stiffening.

She didn’t turn around.

She stepped into the corridor, and the door shut behind her with a final, echoing click.

She stood in silence.

The applause from class. Snape’s rare praise. All of it felt far away now. Small. Meaningless.

She hadn’t been praised.

She had been warned.

And she realised then—this castle wasn’t just going to test her.

It was waiting for her to fail.

That night in the Slytherin girls' dormitory was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of the lake water outside and the whispering giggles from Pansy Parkinson and her usual group of second-year shadows. Druella sat quietly on the edge of her bed, her sketchbook open across her knees. She moved her quill slowly across the parchment, drawing vague shapes—mostly soft outlines of Morgana’s curled tail, or the faint memory of Bellatrix’s curls she could never get right.

She didn’t speak. She never did.

Pansy, sprawled across her bed like she owned the room, flicked her hair and smirked in Druella’s direction. “Do you miss your mummy, Black?” she asked in a mock-sweet voice, dragging out the words like honey turning sour. “Poor little freak.”

Druella said nothing. She didn’t even flinch.

That made it worse.

“I mean, I love my mother, but not in that way,” Pansy sneered, snatching the letter Druella had tucked beside her sketchbook. “Writing to her again? What do you even say? Dear Mummy, Hogwarts is scary and mean. Please come rock me to sleep like you used to?”

Her friends giggled behind cupped hands.

Without a word, Druella got up and took the crumpled letter back. She didn’t snatch it. Just quietly, deliberately, retrieved it from Pansy’s hand and turned away. She walked to her bed, climbed under the covers and curled up with Morgana, nestled close.

She placed the letter gently beneath her pillow and set her sketchbook aside.

And then, slowly, as the dorm went dim and the girls below whispered themselves to sleep, Druella wept.

She buried her face in Morgana’s fur, letting the soft purring fill the silence. She cried quietly, shallow, stifled sobs that shook her shoulders but made no sound. Her hands clutched the edge of her pillow like an anchor, her drawing ink still faintly staining her fingers.

She didn’t want to wake anyone.

Not even the ones who made her feel this way.

Not even the ones who would laugh if they saw.

Because even in a castle filled with magic, surrounded by people, Druella Black had never felt more alone.

Later that week in Gryffindor Tower, Ron and Harry were lounging on the common room sofa, laughing about the idea of sneaking out to Hagrid’s again that weekend.

But their conversation was cut short when Ginny stormed over, a folded parchment in her hand and a scowl etched on her face. She thrust it at Ron. “Ronald. We need to talk.”

Ron blinked and unfolded the paper. His eyes widened. “Blimey! Did you get better at drawing or something? This is great! You're flying over a rainbow with sparkles and—what’s that, a kneazle?”

Ginny snatched it back. “I didn’t draw it. Black did.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Ella?”

“Yes, Druella Black.” Ginny’s voice was sharp, her freckled cheeks red with annoyance. “We’re in the same classes now, and she’s driving me mad. She thinks we’re friends because you’re my brother.”

Harry looked up from his book, curious. “She gave that to you?”

Ginny huffed. “She gave me sweets at breakfast. Complimented my flying. Said my hair looked ‘sun-cast.’ And now this.” She crumpled the drawing and tossed it onto the table like it offended her.

Ron grabbed it before it hit the floor. “Oi! That’s actually really good.” He turned it, admiring the neat colouring, the tiny colourful stars, and the way Ginny was smiling in the picture. “Looks like it took her ages.”

“I don’t care!” Ginny snapped. “She’s trying too hard. She walks on eggshells and keeps offering me these weird little… acts of kindness like she’s desperate. I don’t want her drawings or her compliments. I want her to leave me alone.”

Harry frowned, watching her with quiet disapproval. “She’s just being nice, Ginny.”

Ginny crossed her arms, her face stormy. “Well, I don’t need nice. I need honesty. And honestly, she’s annoying.”

“She’s trying,” Ron said, his voice more serious now. “That’s more than I can say for most of the kids from her house. You know she’s never had real friends, right?”

“That's not my problem,” Ginny muttered, turning on her heel. “I’ll make it clear next time. Brutally.”

Ron exchanged a look with Harry. “She’s in one of her moods again.”

Harry gave a soft sigh. “I think Druella just wanted someone to sit with. That’s all.”

Ron looked down at the drawing again, smoothing it out. “Still say it’s pretty good. Might keep it.”

“Better than your handwriting,” Harry muttered with a smile.

Ron shoved him, and the two laughed, but neither missed the quiet discomfort that hung in the air after Ginny stormed out. It wasn’t just house rivalry. There was something else in Ginny’s tone—it was envy.

And Druella, for all her awkward smiles and quiet attempts, probably didn’t deserve that.

In Transfiguration, Druella kept her eyes low, and she used her quill quickly. Every line was crisp. Perfect. Her desk was the neatest in the room, her notes were even colour-coded. She didn’t speak unless spoken to. She didn’t fidget. She didn't daydream. Despite wanting to.

And still, McGonagall’s voice snapped through the quiet like a whip.

“Miss Lestrange.”

Druella’s fingers froze. Her head lifted, slowly.

“You’ve been answering quite a bit today,” McGonagall said, arms folded tight. “A little too eagerly, I’d say. You always feel you should be... noticed, don’t you?”

There was a slight hush in the room.

“I’m just answering the questions you asked me that question so many times, Professor,” Druella replied in a blunt and dry tone.

“You’re a cause,” McGonagall said flatly, drawing down the chalk, making a squeaky noise on the board. “Just like your mother. Your whole family name. They were always the cause of something bad. Trouble, mostly.”

The words rang louder than they should have. Cold. Measured. But meant to cut.

Druella’s breath caught.

She hadn’t even realised she’d gone stiff until her hands started to tremble under the desk. Her back straightened instinctively—ready to brace. Her left hand twitched to cover her stomach. She didn’t even know why.

She was expecting the cane. Or someone’s voice saying, That’s enough of your lip, girl.

But none of that came.

Just McGonagall, watching her with that strict, timeless stare like she was a mistake already made. A label passed down.

Druella blinked rapidly, her lip pressing tight.

“But I am not a cause,” she said, voice low. Uncertain.

“Oh no?” McGonagall lifted an eyebrow, not cruel, just resolute. “It always starts the same way. A Lestrange comes through this school, clever and sharp and oh-so-eager to prove themself. And it ends with detentions, bad choices, and then someone sobbing in a corridor.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Druella said, louder now, her voice cracking against the silence.

"You've done nothing yet,” McGonagall replied. “And I am already watching. I will be watching you, Black. And I will keep my eye on you.”

That was when it happened.

Druella flinched—visibly. Her hand gripped her parchment so tightly that the edges crumpled. Her chair squeaked as she shifted, just a little, like she was trying to make herself less noticeable.

McGonagall blinked once at the reaction. But she didn't say anything else.

Druella’s voice came back quietly. Shaky. “Don’t talk about my mother.”

McGonagall said nothing more. She only returned to the board and lifted her wand to resume the lesson.

But Druella didn’t hear the words. Not anymore.

"You’re a cause."

That was the line that stuck in her chest, pressing down like a stone under her ribs. The class continued, but Druella was no longer a part of it.

She wasn’t learning spells.

She has to remember not to slip on thin ice. McGonagall was placed around her, ready for it to melt to drown her in the icy water.

Preferably never to return.

After class, Druella followed Ginny up the main staircase, books clutched to her chest.

She muttered under her breath, almost too soft to hear, “But I’m not a cause…”

Ginny, already a step or two ahead, glanced back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Druella said quickly, trying to sound composed. “Just something I overheard.”

Ginny stopped, turning around to face her. “Right. Well, if you think whispering to yourself is going to win anyone over, good luck.”

Druella blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t—”

Ginny folded her arms. “Look, I don’t know what you're trying to do. Be friends because you sit near me? Because Ron doesn’t hate you?”

“I just… thought it would be nice,” Druella replied, awkwardly. “I mean, we’re in the same year. And I gave you that drawing—”

“That drawing?” Ginny scoffed. “It looked like a toddler's idea of a friendship charm. Rainbows. You flying. What was I meant to do, pin it to my wall and cry happy tears?”

Druella flushed. “I was only trying to be kind.”

Ginny took a step up, looking down at her now, figuratively and literally. “You think kindness is enough to change what people see when they hear Black? You act like handing out sweets and compliments makes up for the fact that you walk around like you’re waiting to be adored.”

Druella opened her mouth, but Ginny pressed on, her tone cutting, voice lowered.

“You’re not special, Druella. You’re just another girl trying to prove something. A girl with a sad little cat and a split lip, you won’t stop touching like it’s some tragic badge of honour.”

Druella stiffened.

Ginny stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Everyone sees through it, you know. That polished little ‘I’m fine’ act. Happy and bubbly? But you’re not. You’ve got cracks showing, and the harder you smile, the more obvious they get.”

That’s when it happened.

Druella’s foot caught on the edge of the step behind her. Her balance slipped. In a heartbeat, she stumbled backwards—her books flying—before tumbling down three stone steps.

She hit the floor with a sharp thud, robes twisted, Morgana’s ribbon fluttering from her sleeve.

Above her, Ginny froze, eyes wide—not in regret, but in brief surprise.

Druella sat up slowly, dazed, trying to gather her books with shaky fingers. Her hands trembled as she fixed her collar. She didn’t look up.

Ginny only smiled and flicked her fingers in a mock farewell. “Watch your step, Black,” she said lightly, before walking off, her ponytail swinging with every stride.

Druella remained where she was for a moment, still on the cold stone floor. The stairwell was quiet now, the air settling after Ginny’s retreating footsteps. Her palms stung from the fall, her robe was bunched, and her braid had slipped loose over her shoulder.

She slowly, quietly, got to her feet.

She didn’t know what had just happened between them, not entirely. But she knew one thing:

Whatever Ginny Weasley saw in her… it wasn’t kindness that had been rejected. It was something deeper. Something that had struck her, she didn't fully understand.

She didn’t even have time to fully gather herself before she was shoved from behind.

Druella stumbled forward with a startled gasp as her books went flying again, parchment scattering like leaves across the stone floor.

“Oops,” came the mocking voice of Pansy Parkinson. “Didn’t see you there, Black.”

Laughter bubbled behind her. Millicent Bulstrode. Tracey Davis. All of them were smirking. All of them were watching her kneel on the floor like it was a show put on just for them.

“You’re supposed to be a Black, aren’t you?” Pansy scoffed, flipping her hair. “Your mummy didn’t teach you how to walk straight?"

Druella didn’t answer. She pressed her lips together, gathering all her scattered things as quickly and quietly as she could. Her fingers trembled. One of her inkwells had cracked. She didn't have the heart to check if the bottle of sweet colourful ink from Bellatrix had survived.

Another voice chimed in. “Be careful, Parkinson. You might hurt her feelings.” More laughter. Druella kept her eyes on the ground, her face flushing as she pressed her sketchbook against her chest protectively.

Her bottom lip ached again. Or maybe that was her heart.

She rose slowly, books hugged close to her chest, and stepped past them without a word.

Behind her, Pansy smirked. “See? She doesn’t even fight back. Figures that she wouldn't. Knowing her family history probably a wise choice.”

That night, Druella sat in bed with the curtains drawn around her bed, sketching quietly by the wandlight. Morgana curled up against her hip, purring gently. But even the sound couldn’t drown out the thoughts.

Snape had been right.

This wasn’t a fairytale or a happily ever after.

She had walked into Hogwarts with that wonder in her eyes, a split lip for everyone to see, and a head full of the stories she read. She’d thought magic meant warmth, learning, beauty, and maybe even friends.

But instead—

One Gryffindor hated her for trying too hard.

One professor seemed determined to remind her whose blood ran through her veins.

And her own house… they’d already decided she didn't belong for barely any reason.

Druella looked at the sketch she’d been drawing absently earlier—her and Morgana, her eyes looking in happiness, flying over the towers at Hogwarts, the wind through her hair, the sky a peaceful blue.

She stared at it for a long moment, then carefully folded the paper and tucked it away.

For the first week of Hogwarts, it hadn’t been easy.

She had been shown the outside world—and yes, it was grand. Yes, it was beautiful. The magic of the world is beautiful.

But it was also sharp. It was cruel and unforgiving. The reminder that she has to be careful about whom she trusts.

She was beginning to understand that.

Still…

At least she’d proven she wasn’t just some quiet girl waiting to be pushed down at any minute.

Not to Lockhart.

Not to Snape.

Not to Dumbledore, who barely speaks to her.

Not to anyone.

It was going to be a long seven years.

And she had no choice but to survive them.

One page. One book. One class. And one bruise at a time.

As the days passed, Druella answered every question in class with precision. Her knowledge, combined with the quiet resilience she carried, quickly earned her the sympathy of nearly every member of the Hogwarts staff. She was a gifted child—brilliant and bruised, with that fading scar on her lip a haunting reminder of the uncle who had harmed her. With that mark and her solemn composure, who could blame them for caring?

Druella rarely spent time with most of the Slytherin students. She kept her distance. But not from all of them. She tolerated Blaise Zabini, was quietly fond of Theodore Nott Jr., and found an unlikely comfort in Gregory Goyle, who, unlike Crabbe, didn’t try too hard to impress others or mock her behind her back. Greg, at least, was real. Quiet, and often slow to speak, but real.

Despite it all, she continued to win over the staff with her quiet brilliance. The praise she received wasn’t loud or showy—it was respectful, admiring. She spent her days buried in the books she’d carefully chosen at Flourish and Blotts, losing herself in ancient spells, magical theory, and forbidden duelling tactics she probably shouldn’t have had access to.

Only one professor remained unmoved: McGonagall.

After those sharp, dismissive remarks she’d made during Druella’s first week, there was a subtle tension between them. The transfiguration professor didn’t openly scorn her, but her disapproval simmered just beneath the surface, and Druella felt it every time McGonagall’s gaze lingered too long or passed over her too quickly.

Sitting in the courtyard beneath a tree, Druella flipped a page in her book, her wand balanced neatly in her lap. She practised quietly, murmuring the incantation under her breath.

“Protego.”

A shimmering shield bloomed into view—flawless in shape and clarity. She dropped it just as quickly and adjusted her grip on the wand.

From the shadows, Snape watched her. He said nothing, made no move, but his dark eyes followed her movements with careful precision. Like a silent guardian, unseen and unthanked.

Druella didn’t know he was there.

She closed the book softly and stared ahead, her mind drifting.

"They think I’m fragile," she thought, "but I’m not. I’m not just the girl with the scarred lip and quiet voice. I’m more than what he did to me."

She picked up her wand again, fingers tightening.

"I’ll show them."

Thursday, the corridors were quieter now, with students filtering and walking around. Druella spotted Neville gathering his books from the floor, his face flushed. Crabbe, stood over him, sneering. Druella ducked behind a pillar, watching despite her mother's warnings. Despite the Black and Longbottom family feud.

Crabbe bent down as if to help, only to knock Neville's things aside again. "Your presence here is a joke, Longbottom," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

"I was just heading to the library," Neville muttered, trying to slip past. But Blaise blocked his path, shoving him roughly against the wall. "Your family's nothing but blood traitors. It's pathetic."

Before Druella could stop herself, without thinking, she stepped forward. "Hey!" she shouted, shoving Crabbe's hand off Neville. "How old are you, five?" She crossed her arms, a mocking smile on her face. "Hi, I'm Druella, Draco's good-for-nothing little cousin. We met before, my fellow Slytherin, childhood has been messy, but it's been fun this year. I guess I'll be the defender of blood traitors."

Crabbe narrowed his eyes. "Druella, mind your own business."

"Oh, I would love to," Druella replied smoothly. "But you're blocking the corridor. When someone's making a fool of himself in public, it's hard not to notice."

He sneered, his voice dropping. "Does your mother know you're defending one relative from your family feud? Hypocrite."

Druella's gaze sharpened. "Keep talking, Crabbe—I'm taking notes on how not to be a Slytherin," she said, "This will be good notes to prove to everyone." She then chuckled, her voice low and calm. "And by the way, family name isn't everything."

Crabbe's face reddened, his jaw tightening. "Hypocrite, coming from one of the richest families in the British Wizarding World. You're not one to talk; your mother's choices will haunt you forever."

Druella turned as if to walk away. "I'm impressed you even managed to string that many words together," she called over her shoulder.

His face contorted in anger, and he raised his wand. Druella deflected his spell, sending a hex back that tripped him up. As he scrambled to his feet, she levelled her wand at him. "You're lucky I'm being nice about this, so I am going to be at this school for what feels like the rest of my life" she said quietly. "So here's a great deal: stay away from me and him, and we'll get along fine." She tossed his wand near him, and he grabbed it, scowling, before slinking off down the corridor.

Turning back, Druella crouched down to help Neville gather his scattered books, her movements deliberate and calm. Neville fumbled with his words, his face reddening as he blurted out, "Th-thanks, Druella. That was... really brilliant!"

She shrugged, stacking a few books and shoving them gently into his arms. "Don't mention it. Next time, learn to stand up for yourself."

Neville clutched his books tightly, nodding quickly. "I-I will. Really, I will!" he stammered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Druella smirked, finding his earnestness endearing in a bumbling sort of way. As she turned to leave, Neville called out, his voice unsteady. "Druella, wait!" She stopped, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow as he caught up to her.

"Why did you save me?" he asked, his curiosity overtaking his nerves.

Druella hesitated, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve to avoid his gaze. "Honestly, Nev? He just needed someone to knock him down a peg. It wasn't really about you."

Neville tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "But... we're kind of the same, aren't we? Always being underestimated and criticised. I see how they speak to you at the table. I see how Ginny spoke to you. We're the same."

Druella sighed, looking away. "Maybe. But let's not pretend that changes anything, Neville Longbottom, Heir of the House of Longbottom. For people like us, staying distant is probably safer."

To her surprise, he stepped closer, his courage catching her off guard. "What if I don't care about 'safe'?" he asked earnestly, his cheeks still flushed but his voice steady.

Druella blinked, her confident facade faltering for a moment. "You should," she said softly. "Our families... the rivals my mother and your parents... It's complicated."

Neville squared his shoulders, his sudden determination almost making her laugh. "I know. But I promise I will never hold your mother's actions against you. I promise, Druella. You're not her."

Druella chuckled, the sound light and genuine. "You're funny, Neville," she said, shaking her head in amusement.

Neville, emboldened by her reaction, placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "I'll explain to Gran. She'll understand—I swear!"

Druella raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin. "You're really something, Longbottom. She'll scream when I'm so much as near her."

He grinned, his nervous energy giving way to a warm confidence. "Maybe we could come up with code names, you know? To keep things... discreet."

"Code names?" Druella repeated, tilting her head as if considering the absurdity.

"Yeah!" Neville said, his enthusiasm contagious. "You could be 'Blackbird.' It suits you."

She laughed, a genuine, soft sound that made him grin even wider. "Fine. But if I'm Blackbird, then you're Braveheart. That brave Scottish knight I read about during the wars."

His cheeks reddened, but he laughed along with her. For a brief moment, the weight of their families and the world they lived in melted away, leaving only the shared connection between two unlikely friends.

Chapter Text

That Saturday morning, Druella slumped tiredly into her seat at the Slytherin table, resting her chin in one hand as her other idly stirred her porridge. Her first week at Hogwarts had left her more worn out than she'd ever admit—between Snape’s looming presence, McGonagall’s constant scrutiny, and Ginny’s brutal dismissal, she was beginning to feel like she had wandered into a world that was quietly pushing her down.

And then—

Thud!

An owl—not particularly graceful—swooped into the Great Hall and skidded across the table, knocking over a few spoons and crashing into Druella’s cup.

Students laughed, and Druella blinked at the mess, but her eyes fell on the parcel now lying in front of her. Wrapped neatly in brown paper and yarn, a small note was tied to the top.

She frowned and opened it.

To her surprise, inside was a soft, hand-knitted jumper. Emerald green with silver threading along the sleeves and her initial—D—stitched right into the front. Not like the kind she’d seen Ron wear before. This one was apparently made just for her. New. Clean. Thoughtful.

She unfolded the note next, her eyes scanning the slightly rushed but unmistakably warm handwriting.

Dear Druella,

Arthur and I thought you could use something to keep you warm for your first week. We hope you’re settling in all right. We heard from Ron how brave you were. How you've been great in your classes. If you ever need a friend, you’re always welcome at the Burrow.

P.S. There are some toffees and peppermint frogs tucked in the pocket. Don’t tell Ron or he’ll want some.

Warmest wishes,
Molly (and Arthur) Weasley

Druella sat very still for a moment, her eyes wide.

She dug gently into the pocket—and sure enough, nestled inside were two wrapped toffies, a little pepperment frog in gold foil, and a small pocket watch charm with a spinning hand that ticked against its base like a heartbeat.

A gift.

She smiled—small and real—for the first time that morning. Carefully, she pulled the jumper over her head and tucked the sweets into her robe.

Across the hall, Ron glanced her way. When their eyes met, he gave a subtle nod and looked back to his toast. Druella didn’t wave.

But she kept the smile.

For once, something had gone right.

Just a little thing.

But little things… they mattered.

Druella made her way down to the Quidditch pitch. She changed to her school uniform, snug hair in a messy bun down and her skirt crisp—the very picture of a proper Pureblood, even if she felt anything but composed. The air was filled with the whoosh of brooms slicing through the sky and the faint shouts of Gryffindor’s team in full training mode.

She had come out of curiosity, wanting to see what the fuss was about, but her attention was quickly pulled in another direction.

A tall Hufflepuff student soared smoothly through the air, his dark hair tousled by the wind, grey eyes focused and confident. He looked like someone straight out of a storybook. Druella blinked, watching him land with practised ease.

“Great job, Cedric!” a group of Hufflepuffs called, beaming. “That was amazing!”

He laughed sheepishly, accepting their praise with effortless charm.

Druella, distracted, didn’t realise how close she’d gotten to the edge until she bumped right into him.

“Oh—sorry about that,” Cedric said, catching her arm gently before she could stumble.

She froze. Her mouth opened, and for a brief, unfiltered second, her brain offered the worst possible response.

“Will you marry me?” she blurted.

There was a beat of silence.

Cedric blinked, then laughed with his friends. “Sorry—a bit too young for that.”

Druella’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t mean—! I mean I did, but—not like that! I—I was joking. Obviously. Ha. Joking!”

Cedric grinned, clearly amused. “It’s okay. You’d be surprised how often I get proposals after a good dive.”

“Never stopped a few of my family members,” Druella mumbled under her breath, cheeks burning.

“Sounds like a wild bunch,” Cedric replied, chuckling as he reached into his robe pocket. He pulled out a small folded piece of parchment and pressed it into her hand.

“Hope you have a good day,” he said, flashing her a friendly smile before walking off.

Still pink in the face, Druella slowly opened the note.

“Hey, I know it’s tough being new at Hogwarts and away from home. But don’t worry—you’ll make friends, you’ll feel better. You got this!”

She stared at the message for a long time, then glanced back at him across the pitch. He was already mounting his broom again.

Her heart was still pounding—but this time, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something else. Something warm.

She folded the note and tucked it carefully into her jumper pocket, whispering, “I’m not marrying him. Obviously, that would be… ridiculous. No...”

Just as she reached the edge of the stands, Professor McGonagall appeared, her robes billowing as she strode towards her with a discerning look. Druella jumped at the sight of her, the weight of that sharp, calculating gaze settling on her.

"Miss Lestrange," McGonagall greeted her in her usual, no-nonsense tone, casting a glance over at the Slytherin players mid-flight.

"Professor?" Druella replied, caught off guard by the sudden appearance.

Druella stood at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, her eyes following Harry as he executed a series of sharp turns and dives under Oliver Wood's watchful eye. Her lips parted in awe as Harry caught the Quaffle mid-air, his movements seamless and precise.

"Brilliant," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"Off to watch the Quidditch practice, I presume?" came the crisp, unmistakable voice of Professor McGonagall, slicing through Druella’s thoughts like a cold wind.

Druella turned quickly, caught off-guard. She straightened her posture, trying to look composed. "Yes, Professor. My cousin Drake is making me go, and watch him and I thought I’d see what all the excitement is about. Maybe go back to reading if I get bored." She gestured toward the sky, where Harry was darting through the air, chased by a rogue Bludger. 

"Brilliant!" Druella gleamed with pride.

McGonagall’s eyes followed the Gryffindor Seeker with unmistakable fondness. “Yes… Potter, of course, has a natural gift. Just like his father, James Potter. Fast, daring, determined. You can’t teach that kind of talent.”

Druella nodded politely, keeping her expression neutral.

McGonagall’s gaze flicked back to her, narrowing slightly. “And I assume this is purely observation, Miss Lestrange?”

“Yes, of course, Professor,” Druella said quickly. “Madam Hooch asked if I wanted to try out during class, but I declined. Guess she loves my flying, I'm only a first year—I just wanted to watch.”

A faint hum of approval escaped McGonagall’s throat, but there was something else in her look. A flicker of amusement. Or perhaps something colder.

“Well, that’s rather sensible. Don't take this the wrong way, but you’re certainly not built for Quidditch.” Her eyes swept over Druella’s small frame with barely concealed judgment. “You’re thin as a reed and far too delicate-looking. Mrs. Malfoy was right to have the professors keep an eye on you. And your hair? You know it's dangling from that loose bun—how on earth do you expect to see where you’re flying with it in your eyes like that?”

Druella blushed, instinctively brushing her messy black hair from her face, adjusting the bun poorly.

McGonagall went on, tone clipped and cool. “The library might suit you better. Books don’t require balance or reflexes. And with your stature, a strong wind could knock you off a broom.”

Druella lowered her gaze, her cheeks hot. She mumbled something that might have been agreement, though the lump in her throat made it hard to speak.

“Perhaps if you’re still interested by your sixth year, and if you’ve… filled out by then,” McGonagall added, eyeing her arms with a slight frown. “Until then, best to leave flying to those who won't get snapped in half by a Bludger.”

Druella nodded silently, willing herself not to show the sting behind her eyes, and she lowered her head looking at her boots.

“Don’t look so crestfallen, Miss Lestrange,” McGonagall said, adjusting her spectacles. “Not everyone can be Harry Potter after all.”

Druella bit her lip, trying to mask her discomfort. Professor McGonagall had always been a formidable force, but there was something in the way she spoke—both as a professor and as someone with experience on the Quidditch field—that made Druella realise just how much more there was to the sport than met the eye.

McGonagall added with a half-smile, her tone light but laced with a hint of rivalry, "I'd rather not see a Slytherin as capable as you joining the field against us. It might make things... complicated."

Druella smiled back, catching the meaning behind her words. "Don't worry, Professor. I'm much happier on the ground than in the air." She lied, of course. "One day, I'll love to fly," she thought, "but not now. Not while I'm still trying to find my footing at Hogwarts."

McGonagall seemed satisfied with Druella's response, her gaze softening, but Druella couldn't shake the feeling that her comment had been more of a test—one that she had passed, for now.

"Good. I'm glad you understand. Hogwarts can wait for your Quidditch debut," McGonagall said with a small nod before turning her attention back to the game. Her thoughts seemed to shift back to the match, and Druella could have sworn she caught a faint smile-the closest thing to an affectionate look she had ever seen from the professor. "Enjoy the practice."

As McGonagall walked away, Druella looked down at her body and blushed in embarrassment. The rumours were true. McGonagall, sure is competitive to the end, she thought, wasn't about to let a Slytherin like Druella bring her skills to the Quidditch pitch. Druella found a spot in the stands, content to watch the game from afar, without the added pressure of being a player, at least, for now.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team was soaring through the air when Druella spotted the Slytherin team strutting onto the pitch, Draco wearing his usual smug look. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she made her way over. "Oh, more drama. This I have to see," she muttered, noticing Hermione and Ron heading in the same direction.

The tension was palpable as the Slytherin team, holding gleaming black Nimbus 2001s, which were clearly being shown off to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Marcus Flint the Slytherin captain handed Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, a note who read the note in his hands aloud, confusion etched on his face. "So, you've got a new Seeker? Who?"

The Slytherin team parted, and Draco stepped forward with a dramatic flourish.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, his tone incredulous.

"That's right," Draco said with a wide grin, moving his broom to the other side. He was clearly revelling in the moment. "And that's not all that's new this year."

Ron's frown deepened as he eyed the shiny new brooms in shock. "Those are Nimbus 2001s. How did you get those?"

Marcus Flint smirked, his voice dripping with condescension. "A gift from Malfoy's father."

Draco turned to Ron, his grin smug. “You see, Weasley? Unlike some people, my father can afford the best. A whole set of Nimbus 2001s. Top of the line. Nothing but the finest for the Slytherin team.”

Ron looked furious, his fists clenched.

Druella, standing beside Draco, frowned slightly. “Draco, his father just got fired. Maybe don’t gloat like a prat for once.”

Draco scoffed. “Well, it’s not my fault his family can’t afford decent brooms.”

“At least his dad didn’t get thrown out of the Ministry with screaming and hexes,” Druella muttered, arms crossed. “Honestly, Mr. Weasley’s exit was downright graceful, defending a child from an abuser. And unlike Uncle, when he attacked me in front of half of Diagon Alley. He lost his board governor seat, and that was the only punishment. He pretty much saved my life, and Mr Weasley gets punished.”

Ron blinked, unsure if he was supposed to respond.

“Well, Weasley,” Draco said, recovering his sneer, “as you can see, some families still have taste. Mine. And Ellie's.”

Druella rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ronald Weasley, drink it in—the walking monument to ego that is Draco Malfoy. Proof that loud voices and gold can get you anything.”

Draco turned on her. “You’re just jealous you’re not on the team.”

“Please,” Druella said, brushing him off. “If I wanted to be on the team, I'd work for it. I may be rich, but I’d not buy my way into a team. I wish to work for my place and do my homework, something you should try for once.”

“Jealous little spare,” Draco muttered.

“You're delusional, cousin,” Druella shot back.

He raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Well, maybe you should use my methods. Aunt Bella could put in a good word for you. I'm sure Flint would be thrilled to have her storm the pitch in her finest cloak and handbag. Handing him a good Quidditch Gear that he'll have to let you into the team. Perhaps a Keeper, simple, all you'd have to do is stay and not get hit by the Bludgers on the stomach.”

Flint snorted, giving Druella a once-over. “Seriously, Malfoy? She looks like she’d snap in half if a Bludger flew anywhere near her. I heard McGonagall made some… interesting remarks about her build.”

Draco laughed awkwardly but stepped in with mock defence. “She’s flown before Flint. At home. Under supervision. Heard she excelled in her flying lessons. Very impressive, obviously not on my level, but not completely hopeless.”

Druella’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you so much for speaking on my behalf, Drake. But I’m well capable of my own narrative.”

Draco waved her off. “Sure, sure. All I’m saying is you could be on the team—if you wanted to try. But you don’t. You’d rather bury your nose in books and pretend you’re above Quidditch.”

She tilted her head. “Or maybe I just don’t care about playing dress-up with a broom to impress an audience. When I am a first-year student. I'm not Harry Potter.”

Draco scoffed, not missing a beat. “Figures with you. No ambition. Other than books and magic. That’s why you’re not exactly popular, you know. You keep dodging the spotlight. People notice. Meanwhile, I have fans in every corridor I walk by.”

Druella smirked, unfazed. “Yes, fans. And I’m sure they’re all there for your sparkling personality and not the money.”

Draco scoffed, tone dripping with disdain. "Well, it's no wonder you're not popular like I am. I, however, will be a perfect Seeker. And I fully intend to beat Potter and the Weasleys—though honestly, it won't take much with those ancient Cleansweep Fives the Weasleys ride. Pale comparisons to these beauties," he said, patting his broom.

Ron muttered something under his breath, and Flint looked vaguely annoyed, but Druella just stared at Draco like he was an overgrown peacock—loud, shiny, and absolutely convinced the world revolved around him.

Druella rolled her eyes again. "Yes, I'm sure their nice family took some time to buy those for their kids. Whose father, by the way, was the first male figure to ever actually stick up for me. Imagine that." Her voice turned cutting. "At least they made sure to provide for their children. Meanwhile, the closest thing I had to a father figure never even got me a gift in my life. Not even a bloody scarf."

Draco scoffed. "You’re just being dramatic again. Honestly, you’re like a twig with a wand. It’s no wonder—"

Her eyes narrowed like sharpened glass. "I'm a twig?" she repeated, voice soft and mocking. "Right, and you look like a smug prince stuffed in too-tight robes."

Draco flushed.

"And for the record," she went on coolly, "I don’t care if their brooms are Cleansweeps or flying kettles. Ron and two of his three brothers at their family still got more spine than half the boys in Slytherin—yourself included—and I’ve seen enough to know the twins—but they could probably charm circles around you without even lifting a wand."

"You don’t even know them," Draco sneered.

"Perhaps," Druella replied sweetly, "but I know potential when I see it. And at least they’re interesting, which is more than I can say for you lately. You're starting to sound like Lucius but with hair gel."

Flint, who had been silently watching, let out a low laugh through his nose, his eyes flicking between the two. He glanced at Druella again—this time not as a joke, but like he was considering her for something important. She caught the look and gave him the kind of slow, disinterested blink only a Pureblood girl raised by Bellatrix Black could deliver.

"Go ahead and chase popularity, Drake," she added. "I'll stick with dignity and not use Mother's handbag to save the day."

Draco scoffed, "Well, I had the nerve and got on the team, so no one can say anything else. You just rather stay hidden to draw, read those books."

Hermione, who usually ignored Draco’s antics, couldn’t hold back this time. “At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They earned our spots through actual talent.”

Druella glanced at Hermione, a flicker of approval crossing her pale face. At least someone had the nerve to speak up.

Draco’s smugness faltered for a split second, then twisted into something meaner. “No one asked for your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he snapped, his voice loud and sharp.

The words dropped like poison. Even the wind seemed to hush.

Druella’s eyes narrowed. “Honestly, Drake, must you always be so insufferably provoking? Can we not go one day without you irritating everyone in sight?!”

Draco sneered at her. “And why are you defending her? She’s trash, just like her Muggle parents.” He scoffed, then leaned in slightly with a venomous smirk. “Or is this part of Mother’s influence? Trying to polish up a Mudblood? Tell me, Granger? Is she taking in stray dogs now, too? Or just you? You filthy little Mudblood.”

Hermione stiffened, her jaw clenched.

Druella’s face went cold.

Even for Draco, that crossed a line.

Before anyone could react, Druella's hand flew out, and she punched him across the face. The sound echoed across the pitch, freezing everyone in place. Draco staggered back, his expression one of complete shock, his hand flying to his reddened cheek.

The Gryffindor Trio stared, wide-eyed and speechless. Even Flint blinked, his usual sneer replaced with stunned silence.

Druella's voice was low and calm, but the anger simmered beneath the surface. "Say what you like about me, Drake, but don't you dare insult people who've done nothing to you. You're an embarrassment to yourself and this house."

Draco stood there, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Ellie, what's wrong with you? Don't defend this Mudblood. Wait till Father hears about this."

The Slytherins, hovering nearby, froze in stunned silence when Druella's punch landed across Draco's face. Before anyone could react further, a girl's shrill voice cut through the air, and in a flash, two tall boys-the twin Weasleys—launched themselves at Draco, tackling him to the ground. They pinned him, despite his furious sputtering.

Ron, face as red as his hair, bellowed, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy! Eat slugs!" He raised his wand, but his curse backfired spectacularly.

Everyone watched, half in horror, half in amusement, as Ron stumbled backwards, clutching his stomach and retching violently. The first slug shot out of his mouth with an audible squelch, quickly followed by another.

The Slytherins roared with laughter. Colin Creevey, who had materialised out of nowhere, eagerly snapped photos. "This is brilliant!" he exclaimed, his camera flashing.

Druella, standing tall amid the chaos, folded her arms and let out a quiet sigh. She turned to Draco, who was still glaring daggers at her from the ground. "You really do bring this on yourself, Drake. You're too predictable, cousin."

Draco, still red-faced and too stunned to respond, opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Even the twins, who were holding him down, exchanged baffled glances.

"That was... unexpected," One twin muttered under his breath, giving Druella a once-over as if seeing her for the first time.

The other twin nodded. "Didn't think anyone would actually slap him. Guess we owe you one, Black."

Druella walked up to Draco.

"Thanks for making me come to this drama show." Druella leaned on them.

"Jeez." A Slytherin muttered.

Ignoring them, Druella turned her attention to Harry and Hermione. "Come on, let's help Ron before he starts a slug farm in his stomach."

The trio hesitated, staring at her as though she'd grown a second head.

"I can't believe you slapped him," Harry finally said, his voice filled with disbelief.

Druella raised an unimpressed brow. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you weren't tempted. At least I did what you all only dream about."

Hermione blinked, still trying to process the scene. "But he's your cousin."

Druella rolled her eyes. "And? Just because we share some blood doesn't mean I have to be like him. Unlike Drake, I'm not a snooty brat who thinks money solves everything. My mother taught me better than that."

The trio exchanged wide-eyed looks as if they'd just discovered an entirely new side of Druella.

Harry and Hermione exchanged looks, still surprised by this unexpected glimpse into Druella's life.

"You're full of surprises," Harry admitted, his tone lighter than before.

Druella tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. "Stick around, Harry. You might learn more about me."

When they finally reached Hagrid's hut, the door swung open to reveal none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, his signature toothy grin plastered across his face. "Ah, Harry! Wonderful to see you!" he boomed, striking a dramatic pose. "Don't worry, I'll personally see to it that your friend gets one of my books—signed, of course."

Hagrid stood behind him, looking thoroughly exasperated. "Outta the way, Lockhart. Yer blockin' the door."

Harry exchanged a glance with Druella, who rolled her eyes at Lockhart's antics before muttering, "He's worse than my cousin. At least Draco doesn't sparkle. Or ask me to be in a photo shop with him."

Hermione, however, looked positively starstruck. "He's so... accomplished."

"More like full of himself," Druella quipped under her breath, earning a smothered laugh from Harry.

Chapter Text

Inside, Hagrid greeted them warmly. "What's goin' on, then?"

"Ron's puking slugs," Hermione explained as Ron gagged and retched another slimy slug onto the ground.

Hagrid's eyebrows shot up. "Ah, nasty business, that. Get 'im inside."

As they shuffled into the hut, Hermione glanced at Druella, still clearly surprised. "I never thought you'd come along to help Ron."

Druella shrugged. "Why not? It's not like I'm my cousin. I'm not about to stand around laughing at someone's misery. Besides," she added with a smirk, "he's got enough problems without me adding to them."

Harry looked at her, his disbelief giving way to a small, approving grin. "Guess you're full of surprises, Druella."

"Stick around, Harry Potter. You might learn a thing or two," she shot back, though there was a glimmer of humour in her eyes.

Ron groaned from his seat while Hagrid handed him a bucket to puke in, still looking pale from the slug-vomiting curse. “She slapped Draco,” Ron managed to say before gagging again.

Harry blinked in confusion, turning to Hagrid. “What happened there, Hagrid?”

Hagrid let out a deep sigh. “I was tryin’ to get kelpies outta the well—nasty things, kelpies—when Lockhart just swoops in, waggin’ his wand like he’s Merlin himself, tellin’ me how to do it. I know perfectly well how to handle kelpies.”

Druella rolled her eyes, mirroring Harry’s exasperated expression. “What a showoff,” she muttered, arms folded across her chest. “I mean, he’s so dumb. Prancing around like he knows everything. Why would Dumbledore let someone like that teach?”

Harry frowned, defending him almost on reflex. “Hey—don’t talk about Professor Dumbledore like that.”

“I think you're all being unfair,” Hermione said gently, trying to mediate. “Professor Dumbledore probably thought Lockhart was the best man for the job.”

“He’s the only one for the job, Hermione,” Hagrid grumbled, offering them a tin of fudge. “An’ I mean the only one. Gets real difficult finding anyone to take it on—people think the post’s jinxed.”

Druella tilted her head. “Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, still chewing. "Our last professor was only in that position for a year. With what happened last year, they had to hire a new one for sure."

She blinked. “Oh dear, what happened to the last professor? Did he get sick or something?”

The house went still.

Hermione glanced at Ron. Ron glanced at Hagrid. Harry’s eyes widened slightly.

“…Malfoy never told you?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Druella shrugged, giving him a pointed look. “To be fair, he never told you all about me.”

There was a pause. Then Harry quietly said, “Um… he’s dead.”

Druella’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Oh… dear. Was he terribly sick?”

There was a pause. Hermione blinked. Ron looked at Harry.

Harry cleared his throat and spoke carefully, like he was choosing each word with tweezers. “No. He… Voldemort was living on the back of his head.”

Druella blinked. “I’m sorry—he was what?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, half-grinning as he wiped slug residue from his chin. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was literally under the turban. Like a… creepy face-parasite or something. Harry pressed his hands to his face and fried him like an egg.”

Druella stared. “You killed a professor?”

“I mean… technically?” Harry offered weakly, glancing at Hermione for support.

“Wait, but—how did he survive with a face on the back of his head? Did he eat backwards or something? I need to know!”

Ron snorted into the bucket.

Druella pressed on, genuinely puzzled. “Did he wear special hats? How did no one notice? Did it talk? What did it sound like? You saw the Dark Lord?”

Harry blinked, overwhelmed. “Er—it didn’t talk. Not really. More like… whispering. Gave Hagrid a dragon egg. Killed a few unicorns in the Forbidden Forest for it's blood.”

“Wow,” Druella murmured, leaning forward, utterly intrigued. “So you really touched him, and it… burned him? That’s amazing. You saw the Dark Lord? Mother told me about him. Wait—did he scream? I must know. Did the Dark Lord scream?”

“Druella,” Hermione said, gently.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry. It’s just… Mother still calls him the Dark Lord, and no one really talks to me about the war. So you-you, The Boy Who Lived, defeated him? Just… like that?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Kind of. It was more luck than anything.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “And no one gave you an Order of Merlin for that? You're family never gave you anything? Praise? A trophy?”

“They gave me a cupboard,” Harry muttered.

Druella’s eyes widened in horror. “You lived in a cupboard? But you killed a man with your bare hands!”

Ron let out a wheezing laugh. “Bloody hell, we really do have to catch you up.”

"Sure." Druella said, "Probably would be more interesting than Lockhart's dull lessons."

“Lockhart’s nothin’ compared to that,” Hagrid added with a grumble.

Still looking puzzled, Druella shrugged, brushing off the shock like she was filing it away for later. “Still doesn’t explain why he gets to boss you around. You know what you’re doing, Hagrid.”

Hagrid gave a slight, grateful nod. “Aye. That I do.”

But Harry was still looking at Druella—really looking at her. For all her sharp tongue and quick wit, there was something about the way she’d asked it. The way she’d believed Quirrell might have just been sick. Like she hadn’t even considered the darker possibility of his fate.

And for the first time, Harry wondered, "How much of the real world has she ever seen?"

But Ron quickly changed the subject.

"He's a joke," Ron said.

"True," Druella said.

Druella nodded, her expression one of disdain. Hermione, however, suddenly interjected, her eyes wide with a mix of concern and irritation. "No, don't you three talk about our professor like that!"

Druella rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "I'm sure he's a fraud, Hermione. Most men like that have all smiles and hidden secrets behind curtains."

Hermione, not one to back down, launched into a lecture, her voice firm. "You shouldn't talk about people like that! Especially someone who's trying to help!"

Druella's face went pale, her breath catching in her throat as she realised the full weight of Hermione's reprimand. She'd just come face to face with Hermione's temper, especially when she got on one of her moral high horses. The last thing Druella wanted was to anger her further, so she stood there, frozen, her usual sharp retort caught in her throat.

Ron, noticing Druella's reaction, couldn't help but snicker. "Oh look, now she's getting the lecture of her life. Welcome to our world," he joked, a mischievous grin on his face.

Druella's face remained pale as she fought the urge to snap back. The moment was uncomfortable, but she didn't dare challenge Hermione when she was in this mood.

Hagrid, sensing the tension, turned to Druella with a raised eyebrow. "What's Dru-Dru doing here with you lot?" he asked, his voice curious.

Harry turned to Hagrid with a grin. "She punched that loser Malfoy. He was so shocked, his own cousin punched him."

Druella smirked at the memory, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Harry then turned to her, giving her a friendly pat on the back. "You know what, Druella? You're a good friend."

Druella blushed slightly, the compliment catching her off guard. Before she could respond, Hagrid looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Why'd you punch him like that, Dru-Dru?"

Druella's smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of hesitation. "Because he deserved it," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, not elaborating further.

Ron quickly answered, his voice thick with disdain, "Because he called Hermione a Mudblood." He spat the words out before vomiting again, his face contorting in disgust.

Hagrid looked stunned, his eyes widening. "No way he did."

Everyone nodded solemnly, and Druella, unable to look anyone in the eye, started rummaging around Hagrid's house, her curiosity taking over to mask her discomfort.

Hermione, still looking confused and clearly naïve about the term, asked innocently, "What's a Mudblood?"

Ron sighed, his voice heavy with frustration. "A Mudblood is a derogatory term for Muggle-borns. It means dirty blood. It's what many Purebloods call people like Hermione—Muggle-borns who face that kind of prejudice because of their blood. Some wizard families, like the Malfoys and the Blacks, believe they're better than everyone else because of their pureblood status."

Hermione's face scrunched up in disbelief, clearly struggling to understand why such a term even existed. "But... that's horrible," she muttered, her tone filled with a mix of confusion and hurt, as though the concept was something she couldn't even fathom.

Druella, standing silently with her back turned, felt a pang of guilt shoot through her chest. It was hard for her to hear Hermione speak with such innocence, but there was a quiet sadness within her as she recognised the weight of Hermione's lack of knowledge—perhaps, it made her feel pity for the Gryffindor. She remained silent, looking around.

"If it weren't for wizards mating with Muggles, our kind would be extinct," Ron muttered bitterly, turning his face away as the nausea from the previous curse still lingered. "The Malfoys always were so immature, you know? I mean, look at them. They act all high and mighty one moment, then scramble like rats when their precious family name is at risk. No wonder Dad hates Lucius."

He shook his head, eyes narrowing. "He hates him even more now that the man's abuse is out in the open, and yet he still acts like nothing happened, like his name still means something. It's pathetic. No wonder Draco's such a... well, we all know what he acts." He grimaced as the aftereffects of his earlier spell continued to plague him, but his words didn't lose their edge.

"Then there's Narcissa, acting like some saint with her fake charity work," Ron scoffed, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. "She likes to go around bragging about her 'efforts' to everyone who will listen, her fancy galas? All her noble work, but it's all for show. I know that. She's just like Lucius, only pretending to care about the world outside her bubble of wealth. If anyone needs saving, it's the rest of us from their constant self-promotion."

Ron paused for a moment, his eyes flicking over to Druella. His expression softened slightly, realising that some of what he was saying might hit closer to home than he intended. But his frustration with the Malfoys was clear, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

"You'd think with all that money, they could at least try to be decent people," he muttered, his voice bitter. "But instead, they're just... arrogant, entitled, and have the audacity to look down on everyone else."

Druella shook her head. "Trash talk my uncle all you want," she said quietly, her voice almost colder than before. "But when it comes to my mother and aunt, don't expect me to respond. My aunt is a good person. I even met Hermione, and she accepted her."

Ron raised an eyebrow, glancing between her and Hermione in disbelief. "That's weird for her to befriend Hermione," he asked with a hint of sarcasm, but his tone had softened slightly.

Druella didn't reply, her gaze narrowing as she looked away. She was tired of defending her family, especially now, in front of everyone.

Then, Ron leaned back, the corners of his mouth curling in a mocking grin. "Honestly," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I've heard stories about how Narcissa Malfoy carries on. She's always going on about her 'baby boy,' Draco, like he's the centre of her universe. I bet every morning, she gives him a big, over-the-top hug, kisses, and probably calls him her 'precious little angel.' And don't get me started on her care packages. She sends him extravagant things every breakfast just to make sure everyone knows how 'important' he is."

Ron's voice shifted to a higher pitch as he imitated Narcissa, sounding snobbish. "'Draco, darling, are you getting everything you need? Do you have your favourite breakfast, my sweet boy? Oh, how I adore you.'" He dropped his voice back down to a mocking tone.

Druella's face tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. She couldn't hold her silence any longer. "It's true, Ronald, she truly loves and is obsessed with Draco," she said, her tone surprisingly bitter. "But what you don't get, Ron, is that it's not about appearances for her. She genuinely believes that Draco is capable of handling things on his own, like he's some big 'independent' person. But me? I'm treated like fragile glass, like I'm incapable of doing anything without someone hovering over me." Her voice was quieter now, edged with frustration. "I'm not even allowed to join the Duelling Club because she says it's 'too dangerous' for me. She doesn't trust me to take care of myself, without her constant hovering, but lets Draco do whatever he wants."

Druella crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a frown forming as she glared at the ground. "But when Draco asked to join, she was all over it—' Oh, my darling boy, of course you can join! You'll make us so proud!'" She exhaled sharply, her voice tinged with resentment. "But I'm of course not allowed to do anything. She coddles me as if I got a slight scratch on me."

Hermione's expression softened, sensing Druella's frustration, but Ron was still processing the contrast between what Druella had just said and his perception of the Malfoys.

"Sounds rough," Ron muttered, his voice suddenly quieter. He hadn't realised how much tension there was between Druella and her aunt, and he didn't know what to say to make it better.

Druella shrugged, a touch of defiance creeping into her posture. "I grew up with her, Ron, it's just how it is," she said, her tone sharper now. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Ron shrugged, his grin fading a little. "I'm just saying," he muttered, feeling the lingering nausea in his stomach.

Ron paused, having to puke again, yet sensed the shift in Druella's demeanour, and his curiosity got the better of him. "You know, guys," he began, his tone softening slightly, "her family—the ancient Noble House of Black—has quite a storied history with blood purity and all that. But what's really strange is that, unlike Draco, Druella's family is a mystery to everyone. Bellatrix Black, her mother—no one really knows much about her. People just think of her as this... notorious figure, you know? She did things in the war, terrible things, but after everything that happened, she left Druella's father, leaving him to rot in Azkaban, then taking her maiden name to Black. So she took over the Black Matriarch. You'd expect her to be just like everyone else from the old families, but Druella's situation is different."

He leaned back slightly, after puking another slug, his face pale, words growing more thoughtful. "You see, Druella and her mum are the only ones left with the Black name who aren't either dead or cast out. Though everyone knows Bellatrix is wealthy. Just like the Malfoy family, her mum is rich beyond belief. They've kept themselves out of the spotlight for years. Her sister Narcissa, well, she's married to Lucius Malfoy, and I don't think she knows why anyone doesn't mistake him for being a particularly decent bloke. But Bellatrix, she's different. I've heard from Dad that Bellatrix wanted Druella to have a proper life, one where she could be safe, away from all the mess her family's past carries. It's surprising, really, considering who Bellatrix is. No one knew how protective she could be, how much she cared."

Ron's voice lowered as he considered the situation, his gaze flicking toward Druella, who was leaning against the wall with her arms folded. He took a deep breath, puking another slug before continuing, his tone almost reverential, as if the gravity of his words had just struck him.

"Everyone knows Bellatrix as this fierce, dangerous witch—a true force of nature and a murderer of many. Back then, Bellatrix Lestrange, as she was known after her marriage, and during the war, I heard, didn't marry out of love but out of necessity. She became pregnant with Druella everything changed for her. Despite that, she remained a Death Eater; some say she went mad just to protect her unborn child. Others say differently. She was sentenced to life in Azkaban, with Barty Crouch reportedly telling her that the baby could rot and die."

Harry looked horrified. "Wow, that's terrible," he said.

Druella just listened, having heard part of the story before. Ron continued, "But she was released from Azkaban after only one month. It's crazy, really; the Ministry let her go after Narcissa pleaded her case, speaking to everyone, and the public showed sympathy toward her."

However, it's strange to think that, despite everything she's done, Bellatrix always has a soft spot for her daughter. She made sure Druella was kept sheltered and hidden away from the rest of the wizarding world. Nobody really knows Druella—she's always been a mystery, a shadow. She grew up in complete isolation, with no one knowing her true self, away from all the prying eyes. Her entire life has been planned and carefully kept under wraps; it's as if she's lived in the shadows her whole life."

Druella's emerald-green eyes shifted toward Ron, her expression unreadable. She leaned against the wall, her arms tightening slightly around herself. Ron, oblivious to the tension he was creating, clutched his bucket for dear life, but his voice carried on.

"But all the while, Bellatrix, as fierce and feared as she was, was just trying to protect her. It's a strange thing, isn't it? How the most dangerous witches can sometimes be the ones who care the most. But now... now people know about Lucius's abuse..."

The room fell silent. Hagrid, standing near the fireplace, watched Druella with a sombre expression. His dark eyes took in her pale face, the slight trembling in her posture, and the rigid way she held herself as if trying to stop herself from unravelling. Her green eyes shimmered, almost brimming with unshed tears.

And then it happened—a single tear slipped free, tracing a delicate line down her cheek. It was the only betrayal of the storm within her, and even that she quickly caught with a sharp motion of her hand, as though to erase any evidence of her vulnerability. Her face remained stoic, her pale complexion a stark contrast to the slight redness beginning to form at the edges of her eyes.

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, his massive hands fumbling with the brim of his hat. "Yeh've been through a lot, lass," he said gently, his deep voice filled with of sympathy.

Ron, as if suddenly aware of the weight of his words, turned his attention back to his bucket and promptly threw up again. Hermione, startled by the sudden tension, started toward Druella, but the girl caught herself, straightening her posture and lifting her chin ever so slightly.

"I'm fine," Druella said quietly, her voice steady despite the tear that had betrayed her a moment before. Her hands trembled briefly before she folded them tightly in front of her, as if to ground herself.

Hagrid gave her a long, searching look, then nodded solemnly, his face lined with unspoken understanding.

Harry hesitated, then asked, "Your mother and aunt—do they... do they hurt you? I mean, I saw what Lucius did, the way he hit you. It was awful, worse than what my uncle ever did to me. Are they the same way? Does your whole family—" He paused, struggling to find the words, "—abuse you?"

Ron, looking queasy, chimed in. "Yeah, they even put bars on Harry's window once! How in Merlin's beard CPS never went after the Dursleys, I'll never know."

Harry shook his head but pressed on. "But your mother—does she hurt you? I've heard some rumours, but nothing really clear."

Druella shook her head firmly, crossing her legs to emphasise her point. "I can assure you, my aunt and mother never abused me," she said calmly. "In fact, Mother got me a kitten at Knockturn Alley." A small smile tugged at her lips as she added, "I named her Morgana after one of my favourite witches."

Ron and Hermione exchanged confused looks, but Druella continued, her tone softening. "I've always loved stories about witches and wizards proving themselves—so many wonderful tales, even Muggle ones."

Hermione leaned forward. "Muggle ones?" she asked, intrigued.

“Well,” Druella began, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, “my family doesn’t allow much ‘Muggle-ish’ influence in the manor. No showers—only baths. No gadgets, no printed shirts or hoodies, unless they’ve been approved. Even my books are mostly wizarding stories. But…” her expression softened, brightened, “I have a few smuggled treasures. Muggle books. Piano sheets from a composer named Stokowski. Mother thought it was acceptable—balance for their Muggle heritage, she called it. Music, books… and Morgana. They’re my little escapes.”

Ron piped up without thinking. “Oh yeah, we saw you going into the pet shop that day. You looked… really happy.”

Druella’s head snapped around. “Wait—you spied on me?” Her brow arched, sharp. But after a beat, her voice lowered again, almost tired. “Well. I appreciate the concern. Just know this—whatever Lucius says, my mother never hurt me. She yells, yes. But she’s protective. Fiercely. Maybe too much. She’s never struck me. Not once.”

Hermione’s voice cracked out, sharp with memory. “But—why did he call me a Mudblood? Why do they all—why this hate?”

Druella drew in a slow breath, then folded her arms, her voice cooling into something sharp and steady. “Some of it comes from history. The witch trials. Fear. Distrust. But Lucius taught Draco and me a darker version. There’s a superstition that Muggle-borns stole magic from Pureblood children—that you’re parasites, draining what should have been ours. The Parkinsons, the Notts, the Crabbes… they all cling to it.”

“That’s absurd,” Hermione spat.

“I know.” Druella’s tone didn’t rise, but her eyes were steady. “Of course I know. Magic chooses. How could an infant steal something so elementary? Muggles can’t even touch it. But superstition is useful if you want power and the excuse to be better then everyone else. And so they cling to it. Even though it’s wrong.”

She shifted slightly, her arms folding tighter. “I agree with many Pureblood traditions—old ways, culture, family. But I also believe in acceptance. That’s what my mother taught me. My aunt too, though she’s quieter about it. For that, Lucius once called me a ‘Blood Traitor.’”

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked.

“It’s their word for Purebloods who side with Muggle-borns or Muggles. The Weasleys are called it constantly. He split my lip—because he was furious that I was with you and his rivals. With ‘blood traitors.’ With a so-called ‘Mudblood.’”

Hermione flinched at the word, but Druella’s voice didn’t waver.

“And yes, before you say anything, my aunt wanted me to be friends with you. She shares my mother's beliefs, but she’s quieter about them with her husband. That's why Lucius hates my mother living there. But my aunt insisted on it for some odd reason no one tells me about. So he can't kick his sister in law out whom he hates with a passion. But Lucius is terrified of my mother and of my aunt when she’s angry; they do fight—constantly—because of their views. But I hear she's pretty angry about the lip.” Her lip curled faintly. “He says my mother ‘tainted’ her.”

Her eyes swept across the hut, weighing every pair that dared to meet them.

“For anyone wondering why I punched Draco… or why I seem different now…”

She crossed her arms tighter, like armour. Her voice lowered, edged with venom.

“He never spoke of me because I wasn’t the golden child. Not even the spare. We never looked at each other like siblings. We looked at each other like enemies on opposite sides of a war we never asked for. Lucius taught us about blood purity. But my mother and my aunt—” she paused, her voice turning almost dark with pride, “—they taught me how to survive it.”

The room was silent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

“But let me tell you something.” Druella’s gaze fixed on the trio, then Hagrid. “The House of Black… noble and ancient, yes. Toujours Pur—‘Always Pure.’ Most think it means bloodlines.”

She took a step forward, her presence tightening like a drawn bowstring.

“But my mother—Bellatrix Black, Matriarch of the House of Black—and my aunt Narcissa taught me a deeper truth. A different kind of purity.”

Her voice dropped, lethal and measured.

“Purity of power. Of heart. Of loyalty. Of cunning. Of ambition. Of will. ‘Always Pure’ doesn’t mean Pureblood anymore—not when Bellatrix Black rewrote the meaning in fire. No one dares call her a Blood Traitor. Not when the name Black is spoken like a prayer… or a warning.”

She lifted her chin.

“I carry that name. I carry them. And as I’m expected to carry the bloodline, I will redefine what purity means. Until the old ways die beneath our legacy.”

“Wow,” Ron muttered, still wide-eyed as Druella finished speaking.

“I never thought I’d hear a Malfoy say all that,” he added, stunned.

“She’s a Black, remember?” Hermione cut in, her voice quiet but pointed. She wasn’t sure what to make of Narcissa anymore—especially not after seeing the way Draco turned out.

Druella glanced away, jaw tight.

“You might be different,” Hermione admitted slowly, “but misjudging a rich Pureblood never helped me. Especially one related to him.”

“Or his cousin,” Harry added carefully, nodding toward the Slytherin table where Draco sat, oblivious.

Ron shifted, uneasy.

“Honestly… no one even knew you existed until you showed up at Hogwarts this year. Malfoy never once mentioned a cousin.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “And people are whispering, Druella. Even the ones who smile to your face.”

Harry nodded. “We heard it yesterday—Penelope Clearwater, Percy’s friend? Said you were putting on an act. That you were probably worse than Draco, just smarter about it. Hiding your true intents.”

“She called you dangerous,” Ron added. “Said she didn’t trust your ‘Venom green eyes or those little smiles.’ Like you’re planning something.”

Hermione looked between them, guilt flashing across her features.

“But… you’ve been nothing but kind to us,” Harry said.

Ron sighed. “People don’t know what to do with someone like you, I guess. You’ve got her name… but different eyes as though a different viewpoint.”

As he spoke, Druella's heart twisted, hiding it, and she wandered around Hagrid's hut, her fingers lightly brushing the surfaces of his furniture. But her gaze froze when she saw Fang, Hagrid's enormous boarhound, lumbering toward her. Her face paled, and she let out a startled shriek, instinctively backing away.

Hagrid chuckled, raising a calming hand. "Oh, don't yeh worry, miss. Fang's a big softie. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Why don't yeh give him a pet?"

But Druella shook her head, retreating further. "No, thank you," she said quickly, her voice trembling. Her green eyes were wide, fixed on the massive dog as if he were some kind of wild beast.

Hagrid's smile softened. "He's a gentle boy, really. But I understand—dogs aren't for everyone."

Druella's breathing steadied, though her body remained tense. "I've... been around dogs much, they weren't good," she admitted, still keeping her distance. "I prefer cats—they're quieter, more composed."

Hermione gave her a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Druella. You don't have to pet him."

Druella nodded, still wary but visibly calming down as Fang flopped onto the floor, his large, droopy eyes looking more lazy than threatening. She glanced at Hermione gratefully, then resumed her quiet pacing around the hut, steering clear of the dog's vicinity.

The moment passed quickly, and Druella's expression softened again, though the brief glimpse of something darker had not gone unnoticed.

Ron, brow furrowed in deep thought, couldn't quite shake off the implications of her words. "But why would you choose to help us?" he ventured, confusion threading through his voice. "After all, he's your cousin." The air thickened with the weight of loyalty and family ties, and Ron found himself grappling with the complexity of her allegiance. How could she navigate the duality of her bloodline and the choices that lay before her?

Druella, rummaging through Hagrid's belongings with casual ease, paused for a moment to meet Ron's gaze. "Why would I help you? Because I'm not a heartless, spoiled princess," she replied, her tone dismissive yet revealing. Her bluntness caught everyone off guard, their expressions shifting to one of surprise. She continued, determination lacing her words. "People think all rich Purebloods are judgmental, but we're not all the same. Ron, you know that, don't you?"

At the mention of his name, Ron felt a surge of indignation and, with a quick nod, swallowed hard. Hagrid scratched the back of his head, trying to process her mindset. "So you're different, then?" he asked, his thick eyebrows raised.

Druella paused, contemplation flickering across her face. "Maybe so," she replied, her voice softer now, hinting at vulnerability beneath her tough exterior.

Hermione, arms crossed and brow furrowed with concern, took a step closer. "Druella, stay out of Hagrid's things," she admonished gently. "You wouldn't want someone else to do the same."

Druella let out a melodramatic sigh, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Okay," she retorted playfully, a teasing glint in her eyes.

Hermione smiled faintly, appreciating the gesture. "Thank you."

"Hey, Ron, do you think your dad will be okay? He did get fired after all."

"He'll be fine, I think he hated not getting paid much, he was interested in Muggles, but he felt he didn't get paid much. he explained the family's situation, and he got blown off. I think he'll be fine, but we'll be struggling even more now."

Druella looked at Ron. She had never known financial struggles; she lived in a huge manor, and she didn't know how to respond.

"I'm sorry," Druella said quietly, the only thing she could say to it.

After speaking with Hagrid, the four left his house, and Druella turned around, gazing at the dark expanse of the Forbidden Forest. "One night, I'm going to explore there," she thought to herself as she turned and walked back toward the castle, feeling a little stronger. As she made her way, she spotted Dumbledore waiting by the entrance. He regarded her with that calm, piercing gaze, making her feel oddly exposed.

Druella looked at him, her expression guarded.

"How do you do, Druella?"

She forced herself to look down at the floor. "Good."

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his eyes searching. "I heard from Professor Snape that you excelled in his class."

She continued to avoid his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Yes."

Dumbledore's voice was steady and calm. "You are an exceptional witch. Very bright mind. How did you learn so much?"

Druella didn't want to talk about it, so she kept her answer brief. "My...mother."

Dumbledore paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Druella looked at him, hoping he wouldn't say anything else. Luckily, he didn't. She was tired of dealing with people criticising her family for using the wrong surname. She had seen enough of that today.

"Come with me to my office."

Druella nodded he motioned for her to sit down with him in his office. Druella looked around, guarded; she didn't trust him. Not one bit. Her eyes squinted at the office, and the scab on her lip slowly faded.

Druella then crossed her arms and stared at him, her mind already retreating into her Occlumency shields, a skill her mother and aunt had drilled into her. The plan had to remain hidden from him.

"I heard about your encounter with Mr. Crabbe and that you punched Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, his voice even and calm as he studied her.

Druella looked at him, her gaze sharp. "He was hurting a student. Draco, my cousin, was rude to Hermione. Called her a Mudblood. We're related, we should handle each other how we please. They needed to learn not to hurt others."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly. "You know Hogwarts doesn't tolerate violence."

Druella kept her arms folded, refusing to back down. "Those who can't protect themselves need our help."

He tilted his head, searching her gaze. "I suppose that's true. But violence is not the answer."

Druella remained silent, her expression still closed off. "Sometimes, those who can't protect themselves have no choice but to fight."

Dumbledore took a slow step toward her. "You know I am aware of your mother's opinion on Muggles. She has publicly stated that they are inferior."

Druella's voice was low and deliberate. "Inferior... yes, I agree with her. Muggles are like small children, unaware of the true power that blends with them. Like fools."

"Fools indeed, but others who think they can do whatever they want. Whenever they want, like mere fools who don't know the consequences."

Dumbledore moved forward deliberately, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. His gaze was fixed on Druella, imbued with both concern and wisdom. "What about violence? Should those who grapple with their desires seize upon them through acts of aggression?"

Druella stood her ground, her posture unwavering as she met his penetrating stare. Her voice emerged crisp and unwavering, a calculated dagger slicing through the tension. "I would concede that there are always more constructive avenues to explore. Discovering one's inner strengths is paramount, rather than allowing the darkness of hate to dictate their decisions. Yet, Headmaster, a troubling question lingers in my mind: what if violence is the only recourse left? Might hate not serve as a potent weapon for those who have suffered? Couldn't you do the same one day?"

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with a mixture of compassion and resolve as he took another measured step toward her, the warmth of his presence almost palpable. "Harnessing hate as a weapon is a perilous path, Druella. It leads only to self-destruction, poisoning your very essence and clouding judgment."

With a resolute tilt of her chin, Druella held her ground, defiance radiating from her. "But what of those who lack the means to protect themselves? In a world where vulnerability often invites cruelty, isn't it imperative for those who possess the strength to confront their oppressors? Sometimes, the ones who must take charge are precisely those who are silenced by their misfortune and rejection."

Dumbledore's countenance softened, but he shook his head gently, his voice imbued with unwavering conviction. "Remember, choosing a path tainted by hate only perpetuates the cycle of suffering."

A chill settled in Druella's voice, laced with frustration and insistence. “Sir… what are we meant to do when reporting does nothing? When justice turns its face away? Failing to collect the debts of those who wronged us? In those moments, it’s always the weak who are told to stay quiet. To be patient. But if no one listens, shouldn’t someone act? Shouldn’t someone protect those who can’t defend themselves? I don’t think it’s wrong to want to stop the ones who hurt us-who hurt others—just because we were born to the wrong family, or the "wrong" blood. Why should anyone be made to feel less than human just because of their name? Their past? Their scars?

"Professor Dumbledore… if the system is broken, aren’t we meant to rise and correct it? Even if we must do so ourselves?”

Dumbledore regarded her for a long moment, clearly taken aback by her determination. "The consequences could be dire, dear. It wouldn't be worth it."

She fixed her gaze on him, the intensity of her stare causing her eyes to narrow slightly. "Sometimes," she declared resolutely, "things can be accomplished without resorting to violence?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face as he lowered his voice to a mere whisper. "Yes, but you must understand the consequences of our actions could be dire, Druella."

Meeting his gaze with unwavering conviction, her expression softened for an instant before she masked it, her tone now firm. "The end does justifies the means, professor," she stated, her conviction clear.

Dumbledore hesitated, contemplating her words. His face remained inscrutable as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid that's not true, Druella. There are always ramifications to consider."

Druella locked her eyes onto his, her gaze steady but softer than usual. Her voice dropped to a quiet murmur as she carefully uttered, "Legilimens."

The connection was subtle, her mind brushing lightly against his, reading through the surface of his thoughts and emotions without prying too deeply. When she spoke, her tone was gentle, concerned. "You seem... afraid," she said softly, her words steady but not accusatory.

Dumbledore paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting to one of quiet curiosity. "Afraid? That is a rather unusual observation. What makes you say that?"

Druella hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I felt it," she admitted. "Behind your calm, something is lingering. A tension... maybe even fear. Is everything alright, sir?"

For a brief moment, Dumbledore's expression faltered. His eyes, usually so serene and knowing, seemed to cloud over as if shielding something he did not wish to share. He leaned forward slightly, the weight of her observation settling over him. "You are perceptive, Druella. Too perceptive for your own good, perhaps," he said, his voice gentle but guarded.

"Sir," Druella continued, her voice still quiet but firm, "if there's something wrong, something dangerous, I want to help. I can sense it—a shadow of something... dark. It's unsettling. Is there something we should be preparing for?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was a profound sadness in them. Then, just as quickly, his demeanour shifted, his calm mask slipping back into place. He straightened and addressed her in a tone that left little room for argument. "You are a remarkable young witch, Druella, and your abilities are truly extraordinary. However, sometimes what we perceive as danger is merely the product of our own uncertainties."

His dismissal was clear, but she didn't miss the subtle tremor in his voice or the way he avoided her gaze.

"Sir, I only—"

"You will be serving detention for using Legilimency without permission," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone firm but still calm. "And I will be writing to your family about this matter."

Druella's heart sank. She bit back her frustration, knowing that her mother's fury would be inevitable. With a small nod, she turned on her heel and left the office, her thoughts churning.

As she walked down the corridor, her expression remained impassive, but her mind was racing. Something wasn't right—she had felt it, and Dumbledore's reaction only confirmed her suspicions. Whatever he was concealing, it wasn't trivial. There was a threat, and the headmaster, for all his wisdom, seemed determined to keep it hidden.

Druella clenched her fists, steeling herself against the frustration bubbling within her. If Dumbledore wouldn't face the truth, she would have to uncover it herself.

Walking down the corridor, Druella passed by the trophy cases. Her gaze lingered on a name Tom Marvolo Riddle? "A special award to the school—strange?" she mused silently. But before she could dwell on it further, a voice interrupted her. She turned to find a woman smiling at her, though Druella was mindful to be cautious.

"Hi, I'm Professor Burbage. What are you up to?" the woman asked, her curious eyes fixed on Druella.

Druella looked at the professor, her mind still occupied with the sense of danger hanging over the school. "Nothing. It doesn't concern you," she muttered, walking away without another word.

The rest of her evening was spent in the Great Hall, where Draco sat watching her in silence. He seemed annoyed, but Druella couldn't bring herself to care. He deserved it. She continued eating her supper, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.

After a long silence, Draco finally spoke up. "So we're not going to talk about you punching me in the face?"

Druella didn’t respond immediately, simply continuing to eat with a spoon in her mouth. She could feel Draco’s irritation building, but refused to meet his energy. Instead, she chewed slowly and calmly.

“Drake, I know you’re fine,” she said at last, glancing up at him without emotion. “I went to check on you. Madam Pomfrey kicked you out the moment she healed you. You’re just holding that ice pack for drama. I’ve known you my whole life.”

Before Draco could fire back, an owl swooped dramatically down into the Great Hall and dropped a red envelope into Druella’s lap.

Someone shouted, “Black’s got a howler!”

The room erupted in laughter and curious glances.

Druella exhaled, barely reacting. “I’m not opening it,” she muttered to Draco, deadpan.

But another owl suddenly landed next to him and dropped a cream-colored letter into Draco’s hands. He opened it immediately, scanned it, and grinned.

“Aunt Bella just sent me this,” he said smugly. “She says—‘Draco, you better tell Druella to open the howler. I know she’s not going to. She knows I visit you both. Tell her if she doesn’t open it, when I get there, I will have Cissy coddle her worse than she does at home.’”

Druella groaned, her face already heating.

“Fine,” she snapped, ripping the seal off the envelope.

The howler burst open with a blast loud enough to shake the windows.

“DRUELLA BELLATRIX BLACK—IS YOUR LIP HEALED? DID ANYONE SAY ANYTHING RUDE TO YOU? TELL ME WHO. I'LL BE THERE. DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH NIGHTGOWNS? ARE YOU SLEEPING ENOUGH?”

Laughter bubbled around the room, but Bellatrix’s voice was relentless, louder and more motherly by the second.

“YOU BETTER NOT HAVE BOUGHT THAT MUCH CANDY AGAIN—YOU KNOW HOW DELICATE YOUR STOMACH IS! HONESTLY, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? THROWING UP ON THE TRAIN, AGAIN?! I TOLD CISSY THAT WOULD HAPPEN!”

Druella froze, eyes wide, holding the screaming envelope at arm’s length like it might explode.

“YOU BETTER BE EATING PROPER FOOD—NOT JUST TREACLE TART. IF YOU’RE NOT TAKING YOUR VITAMINS, I WILL KNOW! AND FOR MERLIN’S SAKE, KEEP YOUR HAIR BRUSHED—YOU KNOW HOW EASILY IT TANGLES!”

The laughter grew louder as Druella’s face turned crimson. Someone at the Ravenclaw table fell out of their chair.

Bellatrix’s voice softened near the end, but that didn’t help.

“Oh—and congratulations on Slytherin, darling. I’m so proud of you. Auntie Cissy misses you terribly and says not to forget to brush your teeth properly—top row and bottom. Don’t make me come up there and check.”

With a final fluttering shriek, the howler shredded itself into confetti and drifted down over her plate like a mocking snowfall.