Chapter Text
13. Masks, Monsters, and Murmurs
Behind every composed smile lies a blade sharpened in silence.
From the moment Harry Potter stepped foot into his life, Evander Black’s world had derailed with the quiet devastation of a hurricane cloaked in silk.
Evander had always been a creature of precision—sharp suits, sharper plans, and a soul honed like the blade of an heir. He cared not for distractions, certainly not for aesthetics or frivolities like beauty or charm. But Harry... Harry was not beauty. He was bewitchment, distilled into skin and soul.
There was something otherworldly about him, something maddening. Those moss-green eyes, wide and curious, carried a storm no seer could predict. His voice, light and soft with hesitant questions, wrapped itself around Evander’s mind like a whisper he couldn’t ignore. And his smile—rare and unguarded—was dangerous. It carved itself into the quiet corners of Evander’s mind, uninvited and unrelenting.
He’d combed through the Potter lineage obsessively, looking—hoping—for something to blame. A trace of Veela blood? Siren heritage? Fae blessing? Anything that might explain why he couldn’t look at the boy without his thoughts turning darker, stranger. But the answer, infuriatingly, was always the same: the Potters were as human as humans came. No creature blood. No magical seduction.
And still, Evander burned.
He remembered the first time Harry entered the drawing room after his bath—a transformation wrought by House Elves and ancient magic. His skin glowed like porcelain kissed by moonlight, hair curling behind his ears in elegant disarray, golden-rimmed glasses framing a face too delicate for his age, and a softness to him that felt far too dangerous to touch.
Evander had frozen mid-sentence, something primal clawing beneath his ribcage. That boy—that boy—should not have had such power over him. It was infuriating. It was unbearable. And it was unstoppable.
He had tried—Merlin, he had tried—to remain distant. Cold. Professional. He had built walls, miles high and carved from stone. But Harry had come in, messy and curious and utterly unaware of the chaos he trailed in his wake, and shattered them all with a glance and a question like, “Why do you always look like you want to scold the air, Evander?”
Evander, who once stood unshaken in front of Ministers and mercenaries, had no answer. And perhaps that was the beginning of the end.
The Ministry Summer Gala was more than just a gathering; it was the social battlefield of the season. An annual spectacle that brought together the elite of the wizarding world—Ministry dignitaries, international delegates, ancient Houses, and ruthless power players cloaked in brocade and politics. It was a place where fortunes were flaunted, alliances were brokered with champagne smiles, and reputations rose or fell based on a single glance too long—or a bow too shallow.
Evander Black had attended the gala every year since he was five, his tiny hand once clutched in the firm grip of Arcturus Black, his grandfather and mentor. But this year, he stood alone—no, not alone. This year, he would be accompanied by his intended. His consort. Harry Potter.
He was already dressed, standing still as a statue in the marbled vestibule of Black Manor. His robes were tailored perfection—midnight blue, simple yet impossibly elegant, made of the finest silk that shimmered like starlight with every movement. Crisp white gloves covered his hands, while his boots, made of polished Norwegian Ridgeback hide, gleamed beneath the hem of his robe. On his right hand sat the Black signet ring, a symbol of legacy and power. But on his left, above it, was the engagement ring—a refined band engraved with the Potter family crest, newly merged with the Black’s own.
Around his neck hung a phoenix pendant—minimalist, golden, beautiful. A gift from Harry, selected just last week while the boy debated between a dozen options and had finally slipped it into Evander’s hand with an uncertain, “I think this suits you.”
It did.
Evander adjusted the pendant absentmindedly as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall. Then he saw them.
Cassiopeia Black emerged first in a deep plum robe threaded with silver constellations, her white hair twisted into a regal updo, a look of composed indifference draped around her like a second cloak. Her presence alone could still a room.
Behind her came Rex, Mippy, and Tubby, nearly vibrating with pride, fussing over the last invisible details of the boy walking in the center of their chaos like a comet crossing the sky.
And Harry—
Evander felt the breath catch in his throat for half a second too long.
Harry Potter was ethereal.
He wore layered silk robes in shimmering silver and soft jade green, the fabric charmed to subtly shift hue under different light—like dewdrops catching dawn. His raven hair had been styled into soft, neat curls that framed his delicate features and curled slightly behind his ears. His glasses—now gold-rimmed and charmed not to slip—sat elegantly on the bridge of his nose, framing eyes that glowed like wildfire behind sea glass.
His skin looked nearly luminous, thanks to a careful magical polish and potion bath, and a barely-there scent of some rare flower trailed behind him. The engagement ring on his hand gleamed under the chandelier's light. He looked... untouched by the world. Untouchable. Timeless.
Evander's jaw tensed once before he quickly composed himself, letting years of aristocratic training mask the heat curling in his chest.
“You’re late,” he said flatly, though his voice betrayed nothing. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long on the boy’s form, and he quickly looked away.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Blame the three elves and one pureblood witch trying to braid my soul.”
Cassiopeia gave an elegant hum. “Perfection takes time, my dear.”
She looked every inch the war-born matriarch—ageless and formidable—and she took her place at Evander’s left without another word.
Evander extended his hand toward Harry. "Shall we?"
Harry slipped his fingers into his with surprising ease. “Let’s go survive this weird aristocrat ritual.”
And just like that, the heir to the House of Black and the world’s most unpredictable boy stepped into the night, toward the heart of wizarding power and scrutiny—and perhaps toward something neither of them truly understood yet.
The golden-plated carriage waiting outside Black Manor gleamed under the twilight like a fallen star. It was majestic—gilded, rune-etched wheels, floating effortlessly through the air, pulled by two towering Thestrals with shadow-slick wings and luminous eyes. Evander and Cassiopeia could see the creatures clearly, their skeletal forms regal and still. To Harry, however, the carriage simply appeared to fly with no visible aid—another quirk of a world that refused to stop astonishing him.
Inside, the interior was lined with rich velvet and floating lanterns that adjusted their glow with each bump, the warmth of polished walnut panels giving the illusion of a moving drawing room. Evander sat across from Harry, his posture immaculate, his presence silently commanding. Cassiopeia rested beside her great-nephew, adorned in a gown of black and burnished silver, her wand tucked into a holster carved with the Black family crest.
They arrived precisely at eight.
The Ministry Atrium—repurposed tonight for the Summer Gala—was unrecognizable.
Transfigured for the evening, the cavernous marble hall had been expanded with spatial magic, opening into a sprawling ballroom filled with golden chandeliers suspended mid-air, floating glass fountains pouring glittering light into enchanted pools, and tapestries of every major magical house glimmering along the walls, charmed to move with slow grace.
Witches and wizards of the highest echelons glided across the floor in glittering silks and charmed jewels. The night pulsed with soft music—harps and violins echoing off the enchanted glass ceiling that now showed a star-strewn night sky in motion, as if the entire universe danced above them.
The moment the Black carriage touched down on the entry landing, a hush swept the crowd like a ripple in still water.
Evander Black, in his midnight robes and heirloom signet, stepped out first—stoic, regal, and unapproachable. On his arm was Harry Potter, glowing in silver-green silk, wide-eyed but composed. Behind them glided Cassiopeia Black, her chin lifted high, eyes like polished steel.
The moment their feet touched the ballroom floor, every head turned.
Whispers bloomed like wildfire.
“That’s Harry Potter—”
“He looks like a veela.”
“Is that the Black heir with him?”
“They’re engaged, haven’t you heard?”
“He’s more beautiful than I imagined.”
A beat passed—then the music resumed, though the undercurrent of stares did not wane.
Harry's hand trembled where it curled around Evander’s arm. He looked utterly out of place, as though he had stumbled into someone else's dream. Evander felt the hitch in his breath and, with quiet precision, patted the back of his hand. No one noticed—but Harry did.
The small comfort steadied him. Just barely.
The first to approach—like a beetle sensing opportunity—was, of course, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge.
His emerald green robes were more flamboyant than fashionable, his ridiculous bowler hat perched at an odd angle. His eyes gleamed—not with warmth, but calculation—as he zeroed in on Evander and, more importantly, Harry.
“Lord Black!” he exclaimed with forced joviality, bowing just enough to be respectful without appearing subordinate. “And dear Mr. Potter! What an honor—what an honor to have you both here. The Gala feels far grander with your presence!”
He reached out to shake hands but paused awkwardly when neither Evander nor Harry extended theirs immediately.
Behind Fudge stood his wife—elegant and cold, her tight smile barely concealing disdain—and next to her, the toad-faced Dolores Umbridge, unclaimed mistress and Ministry parasite, adorned in sickly pink lace. She curtsied with exaggerated sweetness, her eyes calculating every detail of Harry's face like he was a ministry asset rather than a boy.
“Such a delight to see you again, Mr. Potter,” she said in a syrupy tone, “You look… almost unreal tonight.”
Harry blinked, trying not to recoil. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Cassiopeia’s eyes sharpened like daggers behind them. She didn’t speak—but she didn’t need to. Her presence alone froze the air.
Evander’s voice cut in, as polished and cold as diamond, “Minister. I trust the seating arrangements for tonight are as previously agreed?”
“Ah! Yes, yes—of course,” Fudge stammered, bowing again. “Right at the Minister’s table, naturally. For the Black heir and his... betrothed. Everyone is quite eager to meet young Mr. Potter.” His smile twitched with something darker. “So many expect great things.”
Harry didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on Evander’s arm and allowed himself to be led further into the lion’s den of political sharks and smiling serpents.
In the heart of the golden ballroom, beneath floating constellations and music dipped in enchantments, one pair stood out like a matched constellation—Evander Black, polished to regal perfection in midnight silk, and at his side, Harry Potter, ethereal in silver and green. The crowd parted around them, conversations bending, eyes tethered to their presence like moths to flame.
But not all gazes were admiring.
Near the obsidian-columned west wall, a group of Slytherin elites stood cloaked in shadows, drinks in hand, watching in taut silence. And at the center of that group, as pale as the moonlight and ten times more wounded, stood Draco Malfoy.
His silver eyes—usually sharp with disdain or amusement—were now wide, glassy, and completely betrayed. His jaw was tight, knuckles white on his champagne flute. A thousand rehearsed scenarios had never prepared him for this one: watching his cousin—Evander bloody Black—escorting the boy he’d dreamed of, openly, proudly, and with a claim sealed in politics and magic.
“Merlin,” whispered Pansy Parkinson, practically draped across Draco like a concerned duchess. “If anyone in this room looks like an angel among greedy buzzards, it’s Potter. Honestly, it should be illegal to look that delicate and still breathe.”
“Is he part-Veela?” asked Blaise Zabini, brow arched, his voice dry as ever. He was playing distracted host to Susan Bones, who had been openly gaping at Harry for the past ten minutes. “There’s something unnatural about that glow. Even the chandelier dimmed when he walked in.”
“No,” said Theodore Nott, tone clipped and slightly defensive, as if correcting a classroom essay. “Potters are notoriously... boring. Never interbred with creatures, not even a stray selkie. Their bloodline’s as human as it gets. Even when they dipped into Muggleborns, it was always for love, not… allure.”
Across the room, Harry sat poised beside Evander, hands resting carefully in his lap, back straight thanks to days of Cassiopeia’s merciless tutoring. He laughed—lightly, just once—and the sound turned every nearby head. The silver threading in his robes caught the chandeliers above and made him shimmer like moonlit water.
“I think I just saw Malfoy die inside,” said Marcus Flint, cradling his goblet like a prophecy orb. “Poor sod. Evander must’ve made the proposal while Draco was still planning his hair flip.”
“Not even his best smirk could’ve helped,” said Blaise with a lazy grin. “Evander Black is a chessmaster, not some Hogsmeade daydream. He saw what Potter could be before any of us did.”
Draco flinched at that, barely audible to himself.
He had told Evander.
He had actually confessed—last winter, in the quiet of Black Manor’s east wing—that he had plans for Harry Potter. Plans to charm, to court, to claim. Evander had nodded, said nothing, and three months later had returned with Potter on his arm and a contract signed in ancient ink.
Now here he stood—Draco Malfoy, heir of a crumbling name—watching the world fall in love with a boy he couldn’t even speak to anymore.
“Draco, darling,” cooed Pansy, petting his shoulder like a stray cat. “You look like someone’s cursed your mirror.”
He didn’t answer.
He was still watching Evander, who leaned down to whisper something into Harry’s ear, and Harry, who flushed pink and gave a bashful, enchanting smile.
Around them, the powerful gathered. Lords of old bloodlines. Ambassadors of foreign wizarding courts. The very pillars of magical society. And they were all gravitating to that single table, not because of the Blacks—but because of Harry Potter.
And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt replaceable. And that was pleasant feeling.
While the heartbreak opera of Draco Malfoy played out quietly in the far-left corner of the ballroom—complete with flaring nostrils, crushed dreams, and an audience of half-sympathetic Slytherins—another, far more complex drama was beginning to unfold near the high dais.
The opening waltz had just concluded. Harry, cheeks still faintly pink from the dance, was seated beside Cassiopeia Black at a table draped in Black family colors. She was engrossed in a hushed, pointed conversation with a regal, silver-haired witch from the Rosier family. Evander, meanwhile, had been cornered in the center of the room by an ambitious Lord from the Avery line, discussing trade routes and foreign magical embargos.
That was when arrived. Albus Dumbledore. Clad in theatrical purple robes embroidered with floating, glittering golden Snitches, he glided across the floor with an air of timeless serenity—and the faintest hint of theatrical entrance, as though the music itself made way for his presence. His beard, tucked neatly into a silver clasp, shimmered faintly in the candlelight. His blue eyes, always twinkling, were fixed squarely on Harry.
Harry looked up, a flicker of warmth blooming in his chest—old, familiar, and tainted by confusion. He still respected the headmaster, still remembered him offering lemon drops and quiet wisdom. But after last year—after what had nearly happened, after Cassiopeia had shown him the hidden strings Dumbledore had been pulling—trust had become a fragile, fading thing.
Still, politeness won over. He gave a small smile. “Hello, Professor Dumbledore.”
Dumbledore’s entire face lit up with grandfatherly warmth. “Harry, my boy!” he said, his voice the perfect blend of affectionate and dramatic. “It is wonderful—truly wonderful—to see you here, flourishing as you are. You look… quite radiant this evening.”
Before Harry could reply, another voice, smooth and cold as enchanted steel, cut across the moment.
“Good evening to you as well, Albus,” said Cassiopeia Black.
She didn’t rise. She didn’t smile. She merely turned her head and regarded the headmaster with the thin-lipped expression of someone spotting a particularly annoying boggart in an otherwise pristine drawing room.
Dumbledore’s smile wavered, only briefly, before he turned to her and bowed slightly. “Ah, Lady Cassiopeia. It has been far too long. You are as formidable as ever, I see.”
He reached for her gloved hand, intending to offer a chivalrous air-kiss. Cassiopeia allowed it—barely—but her spine straightened like a drawn wand. Her eyes never left his face.
“I would say it is always a pleasure, but I’ve found myself unwilling to lie in public these days,” she replied, voice cutting like a finely sharpened blade. “Especially in the presence of impressionable young minds.”
Harry blinked.
Dumbledore chuckled softly, the sound almost airy. “Ah, ever the keeper of traditions. I was simply greeting young Mr. Potter.”
“You were addressing Consort-Designate Black,” Cassiopeia corrected, arching an elegant brow. “Who, as you’re surely aware, is currently under bond and chaperonage. In proper circles, a man—even one as… seasoned as yourself—approaching an engaged youth without either his partner or his appointed guardian present is considered something of a social slight.”
The surrounding air turned cold. A few heads had turned. The Rosier witch leaned back ever so slightly, eyes glittering with interest.
Harry’s face was now burning, and he opened his mouth to defuse the situation, but Cassiopeia’s hand rested lightly over his, a subtle press of reassurance.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, but there was a sudden tightness around them. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “I did not mean to offend. I merely wished to see how Harry was adjusting. After all, the changes in his life have been… quite monumental.”
“As monumental as the changes you once orchestrated behind his back?” Cassiopeia murmured with a brittle smile. “Ah, forgive me. That was uncharitable. I forget how… delicate such conversations are in public.”
“I assure you,” Dumbledore replied, “my intentions for Harry have always been out of love and protection.”
“A convenient motto,” she said, sipping her wine. “So often used to justify war, manipulation, and child endangerment.”
Harry felt like he was stuck between two very powerful magical forces, neither of whom he wanted to provoke. He cast a nervous glance toward the center of the room, where Evander had just broken away from his conversation and was now striding toward them with the deadly precision of a trained predator sensing discomfort.
“Professor Dumbledore.” Evander’s voice was calm, measured—but something about the way he said it made even Dumbledore still. “Is there a matter requiring attention?”
“None at all, Lord Black,” Dumbledore said, ever cordial. “I was simply extending my regards to your intended. But I fear I may have interrupted. My apologies.”
“You did,” Evander said, with a polite nod that somehow carried the weight of an expulsion order.
Dumbledore bowed, gave Harry one final look—soft, meaningful, and perhaps a touch too lingering—then turned and melted back into the crowd.
When he was gone, Harry let out a long, shaky breath. Cassiopeia took another sip of her wine, the picture of perfect triumph.
“You handled that well,” Evander murmured, taking the seat beside him again. “But next time, if he tries that again, feel free to scream.”
Harry looked between them, bewildered. “What just happened?”
Cassiopeia smiled thinly. “Nothing, darling. Just an old man learning that even legends must knock before entering Black territory.”
The rest of the gala evening passed with deceptive smoothness.
Evander remained firmly at Harry’s side, never once straying too far—his presence was a quiet barrier against the probing gazes of Ministry officials and socialites alike. Cassiopeia, regal as ever, stayed close as well, wielding her fan like a dagger in political conversations. It was a protective triangle—Black shields raised high around a boy who had no idea how many wanted to wound him.
But the calm ended the moment they returned to Black Manor.
By dawn, the avalanche had begun.
Letters poured in like a tidal wave—notes of congratulations, curt demands for clarification, political inquiries, veiled threats, open outrage. The floo network buzzed with rumors, and every owl that screeched through the warded windows carried more fire than parchment.
And at the heart of the storm, glistening with poison, was Rita Skeeter’s latest Scalaclus headline:
“Boy Who Lived or Boy Who Surrendered? The Curious Rise of Consort Potter and the Shadow Games of House Black.”
The article dripped venom. It painted Harry as a political pawn, a naïve flower plucked too early by a power-hungry heir to a dark legacy. It speculated obscenely on their betrothal contract, quoted unnamed sources about Harry’s time in Australia, and even went as far as to call the engagement “the Ministry’s greatest scandal since the fall of Voldemort.”
Worse, it had a picture—one from the gala, of Harry in his sapphire robes, smiling, oblivious. The caption read: “A Lamb Among Wolves?”
Evander read the article once. Then burned it. The manor’s mail wards, set up overnight by Cassiopeia herself, were the only reason Harry remained untouched by the incoming hate.
In the stillness of an overcast afternoon, a letter arrived, bearing the immaculate seal of House Avery. It was from Octavin, Evander's oldest friend—sharp-tongued, calculating, and never one to veil his thoughts behind courtesy. Evander read the letter twice and still found his pulse ringing in his ears. He had no defense. No clever retort. Because somewhere between the elegant chaos of green eyes and the way Harry bit his lip when focusing too hard on table etiquette—something inside him had shifted.
He, who once viewed vulnerability as a liability, now found himself leaning into it, quietly undoing the very walls he had built. He’d instructed the house-elves to stock treacle tarts. after noticing Harry’s fondness for them. He had switched the house crest on Harry’s room from Black to a hand-drawn blend of Potter and Black, claiming it was for “symbolic balance.” He had turned away three international delegations just to sit quietly by Harry’s side during a late-night tea lesson.
Every smile Harry gave him was a victory. Every accidental touch, every moment the boy leaned unconsciously into his side during readings or stargazing walks, felt like a thread stitching Evander together in places he never knew were torn. He knew the danger. Obsession was not love. It was not protection. And yet, Harry was becoming the only light that did not hurt his eyes in this dark and rotting world.