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Chapter Text

Coming of Age in the House of Black is a story of turning points in the lives of the last generation of Blacks: Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa, Sirius, and Regulus. It takes place over the course of Bellatrix's life, prior to the events of canon, and focuses on the five cousins, but is told from multiple perspectives, including Cygnus and Druella, Arcturus, Walburga, and all five of the main characters.

Mary Potter AU magic and history applies; the Black Family tree as outlined by JKR outside of the books, and any birth-dates she has given for any of the characters do not.

Not even sure whether I should have to say this, but I squicked myself out writing certain chapters, so for the record, I don’t condone child abuse of any sort; Cygnus is the worst character I’ve ever written, and his justification and rationalizations for his actions are no excuse whatsoever.

Druella, Arcturus, Walburga, Orion, Bella, Narcissa, and Young!Sirius, are pretty awful, too.

And Lily.

And even Young!Andromeda is a piece of work.

Tom/Voldemort and Dumbledore also have crowning moments of dick-headedness.

I was going to say Regulus doesn’t do anything that horrible, but even he kills someone. He feels bad about it, though.

Basically, this is a story of a dysfunctional family full of dysfunctional people hurting each other both intentionally and unintentionally. Um… it ends in tragedy, because it’s canon-compliant to the same degree as the other Mary Potter stories, and the journey isn’t any less awful for the most part than the destination.

And no, I haven’t finished Mary Potter Book 3, yet.

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See Below for Chapter List with Trigger Warnings!

1. A New Generation (Jan. 1950) Cygnus; Druella
2. The Second Child (summer 1952) Cygnus
   [tw: corporal punishment]
3. Sororitas (summer 1953) Bellatrix
   [tw: parental neglect]
4. A Dubious Promotion in Status (spring 1954) Bellatrix
   [tw: physical abuse; verbal abuse]
5. Mr. Tom (Jan. 1955) Cygnus
   [tw: non-con/rape, incest, pedophilia, child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor (moderately explicit, POV perpetrator)]
6. What Doesn't Kill You (Jan. 1957) Bellatrix
   [tw: blood, self-harm, mentions of ongoing physical and sexual abuse]
7. A Proper Lady Black (Mar. 1957) Arcturus
8. By Magic, By Blood, By Fire (Sep. 1958) Bellatrix
9. Apprentice (Dec. 1958) Andromeda
10. Handmaiden of the Unwilling Bride (Sep. 1959) Bellatrix
    *Corresponds to An Intermediate Beginning*
    [tw: non-con/rape, torture, attempted murder (POV accomplice to perpetrator)]
11. The Accident and the Heir (Nov. 1959) Druella
12. Hogwarts (Sep. 1961) Bellatrix
13. Lessons (Nov. 1961) Andromeda; Walburga
14. Escalation (Jul. 1962) Bellatrix 
    [tw: non-con/rape, incest, pedophilia, child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor]
15. Unwanted (Sep. 1964) Narcissa; Sirius
    [tw: bullying]
16. A Simple Question (Sep. 1964) Andromeda
17. Lady Knight (May 1965) Bellatrix
    [tw: murder (POV perpetrator); moderately explicit]
18. In the Depths of Darkness (Dec. 1966) Sirius
    [tw: recounting of murder, child abuse]
19. Happy Birthday, Bella Black (Jan. 1967) Bellatrix
    [tw: unhealthy D/s dynamics, rated 'R' for sexual content]
20. Forbidden Fruit (Oct. 1968) Andromeda
21. Witness (Dec. 1968) Regulus
    [tw: murder]
22. Crossing the Line (Jan. 1969) Narcissa
    [tw: non-con/rape, incest; murder]
23. Breakdown and Recovery (Apr. 1969) Andromeda
    [tw: non-con/rape, incest, self-hatred, depression]
24. The Most Difficult Lesson (Jan. 1971) Narcissa
25. The Great Escape (Jun. 1971) Andromeda
26. The Sorting Upset (Sep. 1971) Sirius
27. Truly to be a Slytherin (Jan. 1972) Narcissa
28. Leaving the Nest (Sep. 1972) Regulus
29. The Lost Metamorph (May 1973) Andromeda
30. It's Not a Rabbit (Oct. 1973) Sirius
31. Envy, Pride, and Wrath (Mar. 1974) Narcissa
32. Heroes by the Light of Day (Dec. 1974) Sirius
    [tw: torture]
33. A Taste of War (Apr. 1975) Bellatrix
34. Requited, but Impossible (Jul. 1976) Regulus; Narcissa
    [tw: incest (unconsummated)]
35. Breaking the Covenant (Aug. 1976) Walburga; Bellatrix
    [tw: torture]
36. Falling (Sep. – Oct. 1976) Sirius
    [tw: depression, self-hatred, anorexia, dangerously obsessive unrequited teenage love, (accidental) attempted murder; Rated ‘R’ for teen drug/alcohol use; sexual content]
37. The Duty of a Bride (Jul. 1977) Narcissa
38. Born to Serve (Dec. 1978) Regulus
39. Courage (or Madness) (Dec. 1978; Feb.; Apr. 1979) Regulus
    [tw: murder, blood; torture (observed); suicide; canon character death]
40. Clarity (Apr. 1979) Bellatrix
    [tw: murder, blood]
41. Innocent (Sep. 1979) Narcissa
42. They Called It Madness (Love) (Nov. 1981) Sirius; Bellatrix
    [tw: canon character death mentioned; depression; torture (mentioned)]
43. Epilogue: To Return, but Not in Triumph (May 1982) Nymphadora

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I have not and do not intend to make any money from this story. If you recognize something from canon, you doubtless know to whom it belongs.

Chapter Text

(1950, January)

Cygnus

Contrary to popular belief, the fact that Bellatrix Black was born a girl actually mattered relatively little to her father.

Much as he would have preferred a son, the Blacks had, historically, been far too pragmatic to deny female heads of their House, especially when they were the most appropriate Blacks for the job. (Most appropriate, of course, meaning strongest, most ruthless, and best-able to survive.) In any case, there was no indication that Arcturus was going to die any time soon – he was a canny old bastard, and Cygnus highly doubted that any of the family could get the drop on him, even if they wanted to, which they (generally) didn’t. He had been leading the family successfully for decades, and for all Alphard and Cygnus cared, he could continue to do so. (Orion might, actually, have tried to kill him once or twice, but never with any skill, as evidenced by his lack of success. Obviously.)

Besides, even considering the facts (that Alphard had decided not to remarry after his wife and son died in childbed and that Orion’s Narcissa had yet to bear him a child), he and Druella were both young, still. They had conceived their first child only a few months after they began seriously pursuing the matter, which suggested that they should have no trouble trying again. Plus, daughters made for useful alliance-building tokens. Look at Uncle Castor, practically cackling over the connections he had made with Opie and Andry.

So while a boy might have been preferable, and Cygnus had gone so far as to choose a name for his first son as well as his first daughter, disdaining the recent vogue for scrying the infant’s sex in the womb, it did not particularly upset him that she was, in fact, a ‘she.’ In any case, the raising of children, girls or not, was hardly the business of the father, especially for the first few years, so he hardly saw why it should matter to him. So long as she was trained to be properly obedient to him, he couldn’t care less how or what his lady wife did with the girl.

Druella

The fact that Bellatrix Black had to be borne at all was a constant matter of irritation to her mother.

Druella Diane Black, née Rosier, did not care for children.

That might have been an understatement.

The Rosiers had always been unusually prolific for a Dark family, so she had grown up surrounded by a crowd of her siblings and cousins, press-ganged into childminding before she learned her first spell. She was intimately familiar with the cacophony and mess of small children and large families, and she most decidedly did not intend to endure such a thing as the lady of her own house. She had had it written into her marriage contract that she would have five years to enjoy the freedom of life as a married witch before she was required even to try for a child, and that there would be no more than three of the bloody things.

Even more than children, she had discovered as she grew ever-thicker around the waist, Druella hated being pregnant. At least once the child was delivered, it could be foisted off on the elves, and then perhaps a governess or tutor until it was old enough to carry on an intelligent conversation or could be sent off to Hogwarts – whichever happened first. She, meanwhile, had every intention of returning to her very rewarding pastimes of socializing with her peers, advising on various Boards and Committees, and subtly manipulating the Right People to assist her husband and his uncles in their never-ending quest for greater political power. Pregnancy as a process was utterly miserable, however, and that wasn’t even considering the act of childbirth proper.

One might expect that after millennia of such torture, witches would have invented some way of dealing with the horror that was giving birth, but as the Midwife-Healer explained at length, any external magic cast on the mother or the child during the terrifying event could have an adverse effect on the infant’s future magical development.

By the third hour of labor, Druella thought she might be willing to risk it.

Ten hours after that, she allowed the child to suckle until it fell asleep, then handed it off to the newly-designated Nursery Elf. She felt no affection for the squalling, sub-human thing – only relief that the worst was over, at least with this one.

Chapter Text

[tw: corporal punishment]

(1952, summer)

Cygnus

In the summer of 1952, Cygnus proposed that it was time to consider a second child. Druella was rather put out with the idea, but when he made the argument that they had agreed to try for at least two, and that it would be best if they were relatively near each other in age, so as to minimize the years during which the children would be underfoot, she gracefully acquiesced.

After all, every year she put it off was another year of having at least one pre-Hogwarts child in the house.

Cygnus’ reasons for the proposal were a bit more complex. Arcturus had never re-married after the loss of his first wife and their two children in an attack by the so-called Lord Saladin while the family was on holiday in 1925. Saladin had been destroyed three years later, not least because of Arcturus’ efforts, but that would hardly bring back his beloved family. It probably, Cygnus thought, had not seemed necessary to betray Aunt Melania’s memory by taking a new wife, with two cousins adopted as brothers and three nephews. But all of Uncle Castor’s children were girls, and two of the three were already married out of the family. After nearly ten years of trying, it was becoming more and more likely that either his twin brother or his sister-in-law was infertile, and Alphard, his (homosexual) elder brother, had voluntarily removed himself from the line of succession rather than marry another witch, after his first wife died in childbirth. All of which meant that there was a very real chance the fate of the next generation of Blacks (at least for their line of the family) might be entirely in Cygnus’ hands. One child simply was not enough.

Secondly, while it was all very well and good to claim a daughter as every bit as useful as a son, the Black Name must be maintained, and it was unfortunately true that it was far more difficult to find good matches with wizards who were willing to give up their names and their families, even for such a title as Lord Black, than it was to find a suitable witch. It was very risky to allow a female heir to take a different name, even with the codicil in her marriage contract that her second child would take her maiden name and inheritance. After all, there might not be a second child (or, Powers forbid, children at all). Bearing bastards was more acceptable in the eyes of the Blacks (though such children were often scorned by the poncy, strictly-patrilineal elitists throughout society at large). All in all, it would be best to try again, and this time, to hope for a boy.

The (unspoken) third reason was that Cygnus was beginning to feel his first child left something rather to be desired.

Bellatrix was a precocious infant. She was speaking in full, if limited, sentences by one year (in English and Elvish), and could toddle out of the Nursery two months after her first birthday. She had her first bout of accidental magic at seven months, and more importantly, the often-delayed second bout of accidental magic less than a year later. At eighteen months, she was irrepressible and unruly, exploring her world with an enthusiasm which would not be curbed. Perhaps six months after that, near her second birthday, Cygnus finally noticed what Druella had been deliberately ignoring: their child was growing into a little hellion.

This would not have been, had he considered it before, entirely unexpected.

Blacks had a reputation for being impossible to handle. Mad. Histrionic. Compulsive risk-takers. They (secretly) took pride in the thought that they were nothing like the new-money, un-blooded, weak-willed aristos who had taken over society in the past few centuries, no matter how much they might adhere to the new customs in public. They could, if properly motivated, excel at telling their snobbish peers exactly what they wanted to hear – that they were still politically as well as magically powerful was proof enough of that. But it was true that there was something in the Black blood, or perhaps their family magic, that inclined them far more to the old mold of the warlord-prince than that of the polite and simpering ballroom gossip.

A certain degree of wild rebelliousness was permissible in boys, and even encouraged in heirs, but regardless of inclination, Noble witches in modern Magical Britain were expected to at least act demure and refined. Unfortunately for Bellatrix, there was only one tried and true method for teaching young Blacks to conform to their parents’ (and society’s) expectations: immediate, severe, physical consequences for the slightest of transgressions. As Cygnus cuffed the girl’s ear and sent her falling to the floor, he assured himself that this was the right thing to do. He was not an especially kind man, but it did go against the grain to smack about a child no larger than an elf. Still, this was the way he and his brothers had been raised, and his father and uncles before him. She, like they, he thought resolutely, would have to learn what was permissible or face the consequences.

In the six months since he first attempted to correct his daughter’s ill behavior, however, Cygnus had only grown more frustrated with the girl. She not even begun to take his lessons to heart. (How difficult was it, anyway, for an ostensibly intelligent human child to connect pain with her actions and avoid both in the future? Dogs learned more quickly!) The only things Bellatrix seemed to have learned were to avoid him when at all possible, and that crying only made things worse. And on top of that, the child seemed to be going out of her way to infuriate her mother, escaping the nursery to follow her around, chattering and making messes. (Druella was still hoping that if she ignored the brat long enough, she would go away.)

Uncle Castor had got lucky, so far as Cygnus was concerned: all of his cousins had been perfectly biddable and, if not little ladies by the age of two, at least easily trained to be neither seen nor heard.

He could only hope that their second attempt might go better than the first.

Chapter Text

[tw: parental neglect]

(1953, summer)

Bellatrix

Bella Black had no experience of other humans until she began to explore outside the nursery and met Druella. She had been (briefly) exposed to all of her extended family shortly after her birth, but she could not remember that, and on the (extremely) rare occasions that one of her parents or her Head of House deigned to look in on her, they purposefully did so when she was asleep, and thus neither fussy nor messy. But so far as the one-and-a-half-year-old Bella knew, she had never even met another human at all.

The only intelligent beings she knew were elves: Zinnie the Nursery Elf, Zinnie’s mother Lil, and Kali, who delivered their meals from the kitchen and cleaned the nursery apartment. The encounter with Druella led Zinnie to kindly explain (in small words) the existence of humans, the role of parents, and the fact that Bella was, in fact, not an elf, nor the only human in the world.

This was, perhaps, not the best strategy for dealing with the inquisitive, rambunctious, 20-month-old witch-child, as it resulted in an immediate fascination with the adult members of the household and ever-more-inventive attempts to escape and find them, but Zinnie had no experience with children or even elflings. She had been chosen as the Nursery Elf based on her command of proper Wizards’ English, and was more or less making this childrearing thing up as she went along, with extensive advice from her own mother and her mother’s friend, the kitchen elf Kali, who had two young elflings of her own.

When Bellatrix understood that she was going to have a new baby brother or sister, a small human like herself, she was utterly torn, as only a three-year-old can be. On the one hand, the very existence of other humans was still fascinating. She had learned, much to her displeasure, that her father was very mean, and not safe to approach, but her mother was pretty and fun to watch, and if she made the right kind of noises and messes, the woman sometimes looked right at her and addressed her directly (even if it was in an angry voice). With a little brother or sister like her, and maybe like the distant ‘cousins’ she had met at the holiday gathering after her third birthday, she would have someone to play with all the time, and perhaps talk to when Zinnie was tired. On the other, she would have to share her mother’s already-meagre attentions with another child – a newer, and perhaps more-interesting child.

She had still not decided if the new baby was a good thing by the time it arrived, but when it did, she immediately decided that she would be the best big sister ever. The baby, which Zinnie said was called Andromeda Tatiana by Bella’s parents, was tiny and helpless. It would be, Zinnie warned, all too easy to break her, so Bella could look all she liked, but she was not to try touching the baby. Such was her enchantment with the strange new creature which had been brought into her life that Bella actually listened to the elf. She watched and learned. The baby, her name quickly shortened to Meda by Bella and the elves, could not run or play or even sit up, but she looked at Bella with big brown eyes and smiled when Bella smiled and cooed and tried to pull her hair. Bella chattered at Meda in Human and Elvish, and though she quickly discovered that babies could not talk back, she found that they had different cries that meant hunger or discomfort or that they just wanted attention. The last was always soothed when Bella disobeyed Zinnie and petted Meda’s hands like Lil had petted hers when she was little.

The nursery, Bella found, had suddenly become far more interesting than the world outside of it, because it contained the only other human in the entire world who actually wanted to interact with her.

Chapter Text

[tw: physical abuse; verbal abuse]

(1954, spring)

Bellatrix

A little while after Meda began to make babbling sounds in response to Bella’s conversational efforts and Bella’s fourth birthday, her life took a turn for the worse. These changes could be traced back to the day Bella was dressed in heavy, white-worked grey robes with a white veil pinned to her curls and told that her Aunt Narcissa had died.

More than two years after her discovery of other humans, Bella considered herself an expert on the few she knew of. She was certain she had never met Aunt Narcissa. Zinnie said she belonged to Bella’s father’s birth-mate (son jumeau, Bella reminded herself, his twin) like mother belonged to father. She also wasn’t sure that she understood what dying meant. Zinnie said it was like going away and not being able to come back, but only sort of, because the body didn’t leave, but the person and the magic did. At that point, the elf gave up on explaining mortality to the four-year-old, because for the first time Bella could ever remember, her mother appeared at the doorway of the nursery to collect her (and Meda, who was little more than a grey-wrapped bundle wearing a handkerchief over her face).

They took the floo to a house called Black’s Moorlands, where Bella recognized some of the people who attended their family’s Yule celebration at Blackforest Keep – Pater Arcturus and Uncles Alphard, Orion and Castor – all wearing grey with white veils and embroidery, and lots of others she had never seen wearing grey and black instead. They all looked very sad. Father joined the grey-and-white wizards and mother went to talk to some of the grey-and-black witches and wizards, leaving Bella to her own devices.

It wasn’t long until one of the younger grey-and-black witches found the small child wandering alone and cheerfully introducing herself to the unfamiliar mourners. The witch – Miss Carmine Yaxley – brought Bella to sit beside her and her brother, Onyx, on a sofa in what might have been a ballroom, if it hadn’t been full of couches surrounding a table with a pale, still lady lying upon it.

“Is that Aunt Narcissa?” Bella asked brightly, squirming off the couch to get a better look. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”

Miss Carmine shushed her. “She’s – you can’t just say things like that, Bella!” she sniffled.

“Why not?”

The witch’s shoulders were shaking now. Bella couldn’t be sure behind her veil, but she thought Miss Carmine might be crying.

“It’s rude,” the wizard answered, putting an arm around his sister. “She was our Auntie, too, even though since she married your uncle, we didn’t see her much. We miss her.”

“Oh.” Bella thought about this for a moment. She still didn’t get it. Perhaps it would make sense when she was older. That’s what Zinnie liked to tell her when she didn’t understand things like death and where babies came from. Missing Aunt Narcissa was probably like that. Miss Carmine was, she decided, definitely crying, so Bella decided to change the subject. “Don’t cry, Miss Carmine,” she said, giving the older witch a firm hug around the middle.

Miss Carmine didn’t stop crying, but she didn’t push Bella away, either, like mother always did. Instead she hugged back, pulling Bella back onto the couch and into her lap. Even despite the crying, it was nice. Like getting a hug from a giant Lil, all warm and safe.

She was still sitting on Miss Carmine’s lap, telling the two Yaxleys all about her life at Ancient House and her new baby sister when her father found her. He spoke to her companions politely, but she could tell by his eyes that he was angry. He was, in her experience, almost always angry. She followed him away when he said to come, waving a sad farewell at Miss Carmine and Mr. Onyx, because her only hope to please him and escape a thrashing was to do as he said.

He pulled her roughly into a small parlor, hissing through his teeth: “No child of mine will go around so casually disrespecting propriety in such a vulgar manner! How dare you intrude upon the Remembrance with your chatter?” and then there was a bright, orange light, and a pain like a hundred sharp little pinches, all over her body, a different, and, to her mind, far worse pain than whipping or caning. At least the usual violence her father visited upon her was restricted to a single part. This was everywhere.

She fought back tears, knowing that such a show of weakness would only earn her a cuff on the ear, like begging for mercy would earn her a harsh thwacking with a conjured shoe. Either reaction was considered an effort to escape her just punishment, which was unacceptable.

“Get up, you pathetic bint. Straighten your robes. And hair. Dark Powers! What are you, an idiot? Come with me, and keep your thrice-cursed mouth shut!”

Bella did as she was told, stumbling slightly. There were no marks on her skin from the magic he had used, but the pain lingered, making her clumsy.

She received a smacked cheek for her efforts. “What do you say?”

“Yes, father,” she grumbled, glaring venomously at him. Hadn’t he said to keep her mouth shut?

Apparently agreeing with him was acceptable, though, because he did not hex her or hit her again. He simply grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the room, across the hall, where Arcturus, the Head of House Black, was waiting.

Bella sat silently where she was placed, on an overly-stuffed armchair by a fire, and listened as her Great-Uncle explained that he was uncomfortable with the state of the family succession. With Uncle Alphard having removed himself from the line of inheritance; Uncle Orion “unsuitable,” childless and now unwed; and Uncle Castor nearly as old as Arcturus, with only one unwed daughter (who was too old now to begin training as an heir) Bella’s father was the only reasonable alternative to designate as his successor (unless he turned to the several-generations-removed cadet branches, which he was loathe to do).

None of this made very much sense to the four-year-old. The only thing which seemed important to her was the part where Pater Arcturus ordered her father to train Bella herself as a proper heiress-in-waiting to the house of Black.

She could not help but think that the smile the Paterfamilias gave her as he made this declaration was a bit frightening, but her father seemed pleased.

At least until the old man added, as they left the room, “Best get started at once. You’re already a year behind, you know.”

Chapter Text

[tw: non-con/rape, incest, pedophilia, child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor (moderately explicit, POV perpetrator)]

(1955, January)

Cygnus

If anyone had asked – not that anyone would, as his wife truly couldn’t care any less, his uncle wasn’t there to see, and it was hardly anyone else’s business – Cygnus would not have been able to say when his efforts to educate his eldest daughter by the most expedient means possible fell to the wayside, in favor of taking all his daily frustrations out on the maddening little doxy.

What he would have said, again, if asked, was that in following his uncle’s orders to train her as a proper Heir of the House – teaching her the languages and skills, history and customs, that were so important for the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House to know – he had become convinced that the child was intentionally disobeying him, and needed to be punished accordingly. He could not have identified the exact point in time where beatings or cursing became a daily practice, nor when his response to any irritation became, by default, to blame the girl.

In the deepest corners of his mind, he might have thought there was something wrong with her – one of the ‘quirks’ of the Black heritage that were in no way, let us be perfectly clear, anything akin to flaws... at least when they applied to anyone other than his eldest daughter.

He most definitely never would have considered that there was something wrong with him.

You see, he would have said, shaking his head in irritation, she is perfectly intelligent (even he would admit that much). I have no complaints about her knowledge of history or family tradition or Welsh or Gobbledygook, or the rate at which she assimilates new knowledge. I will even own that she comes by her temper naturally – Powers know, we Blacks are not known for our level-headedness. It is her personality which cannot be borne!

For the young Bella Black did have personality, and it was irrepressible. She was outgoing. She was friendly. She was eager and wild, and her father’s attempts to rein in her uncouth, unbecoming behavior only spurred her to greater mayhem. No application of pain-giving spells, nor even those that wounded corrected her for long. Before the welts from one punishment had healed, she would already be running, shrieking, through the house, or greeting his business guests over-familiarly, or speaking to the Elves in their native tongue, practically begging for the next.

She was infuriating – it was only right that he responded with fury.

But all that had gone before paled in comparison to the day of her fifth birthday party. That was the day that Abraxas Malfoy brought by a new ally ‘recently arrived from France,’ one M. Thom de Mort, to discuss Cygnus’ business interests.

The children of Black, Rosier, and several of the other, more closely related or Allied Dark Houses were happily occupied in one of the larger informal parlors, playing party games and eating cake and whatever else children did at parties, under the supervision of the elves. Druella, faced with so much over-excited immaturity, had fled to her favorite spa, informing him that she would not return ‘until the infestation has resolved itself.’

Cygnus was trying to ignore the racket that echoed faintly throughout the manor and working on revising Arcturus’ latest legislative proposal when an elf announced his old schoolmate’s arrival. His guest was somewhat younger than both Cygnus and himself, vampirically pale (though the Head of House Malfoy would never be so familiar with a vampire), with dark hair, light eyes, and aristocratic features. He was charming, with his slightly-too-direct gaze and just a trace of an accent, and Cygnus could not help but feel himself drawn to the man. The fact that his political views seemed to be perfectly aligned with those of the House of Black did not hurt in the slightest.

The next few hours were filled with a very stimulating discussion regarding the latest vote on the restriction of so-called ‘dark’ texts (none of the three wizards considered weather-working to be particularly dark – they shared the opinion that this was just more of Albus Dumbledore’s crusade to eliminate ritual magic and restrict the average wizard to nothing more powerful than school-charms and transfiguration – a proposal which was not to be borne). Cygnus, by the end of it, was more than convinced to advise his uncle to vote in favor of the inheritance clause Abraxas had introduced to the bill, which would, effectively, neuter it with regard to the Old Families. In truth, it hadn’t taken much convincing, but all three of them had been enjoying the conversation. Cygnus could easily see allying with the witty young Frenchman, should they find their values continued to align.

It was, in fact, a very good afternoon, until he was escorting his guests to the Apparition Room to depart, and they were waylaid by the birthday girl.

She pelted out of nowhere, flinging her arms around first Abraxas (who had met her before, and was already aware of, if amused by, the trials she presented to his friend) and then de Mort, whose face locked into a rictus of appalled astonishment.

Bella, oblivious, beamed at the guests and began to prattle: “Hello, Mr. Abraxas – who’s your friend? Thank you for the book! There’s still cake! Do you want some? I can fetch it! Do you want some, too? Are you here for the party? It’s my birthday!”

Abraxas, damn him, just laughed. “Bella Black, meet Mr. Thom. Thom, this wild little heathen is Cygnus’ eldest daughter, Bellatrix. And no, Bella, we are not here for your party. We were, in fact, just leaving.”

Cygnus glared daggers at his so-called friend for introducing his daughter as a wild heathen… not that he could really dispute the assessment. The girl pouted briefly before resuming her ridiculous babble.

“Hello, Mr. Tom! It’s very nice to meet you! You can call me Bella, everybody does. I’m five! Did you bring me a present? …It’s my birthday, you see – I’m having a party.” De Mort was staring at the child as though he had never seen such a thing before, and was not terribly impressed by it. He held her gaze and raised an eyebrow at her until her confidence faltered, and she tacked on a very belated curtsy and, “Erm… well met, sir. Please be welcome in our house.”

Cygnus was too astonished by the child’s sudden reversion to politeness to react as his guest addressed his daughter very seriously and pulled a blood quill from his inside pocket. “I did not know that it was your birthday, but it would be remiss of me not to offer a gift.” He winked at Cygnus with a hint of amusement as he handed the child the sharp, black quill.

The girl stared at it, wide-eyed. She could obviously sense the enchantment upon it, because she immediately asked, “What does it do?”

“Write something and find out,” de Mort suggested teasingly. “Now, I’m afraid Lord Malfoy and I really must be off.” He turned back to Cygnus and bowed very correctly, a glint in his eye and a hint of a smirk inviting the older man to share in his amusement at the spectacle that was his daughter. “Black.”

“De Mort,” Cygnus bowed to the two men collectively. “Abraxas.”

Abraxas simply nodded, an indication of their familiarity. “I’ll stop by again Monday next, regarding the language in the proposal.”

“Indeed.”

And then, wonder of wonders, the infuriating child, who had been shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as the adults said their farewells, curtsied politely to both de Mort and Abraxas before asking Cygnus if she could be excused. De Mort caught her eye and gave her the tiniest of nods, and she beamed at him, obviously pleased to have pleased him.

Receiving confirmation that the child did, in fact, know how to behave, and was capable of doing so if she so desired; that she would do so for the French stranger, yet consistently refused to do so for him, her own lord Father, drove his rage reached a white-hot peak, directed both toward the girl and de Mort. He tramped it down, violently. He could do nothing, here, in front of Abraxas, and no matter how offended he was at the younger man’s audacity in daring to reward his daughter for her newfound politeness, it would not do to demand satisfaction over such a minor offence. He contained himself, with an effort. He wasn’t Orion, after all.

He did not excuse the girl, instead keeping her by his side until his guests had gone, before dragging her by the hair to one of the unused rooms and unleashing his rage. He cast the Imperius, throwing behind it all his need for his daughter to obey him, rather than her own will or that of stupid, charming, flirty Frenchmen, and felt a smile bloom as her eyes glazed over. Pleased to please strangers and foreigners, was she? Well, now she was going to please him.

He opened his robes and took a seat in an armchair, making his will clear through the bond of the Unforgivable curse. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Small hands touched him gently before an unpracticed tongue joined them, teasing him to completion. He gasped, shuddering, and caught his breath before he opened his eyes. There was something incredibly satisfying, he decided, about the sight of the infernal child, kneeling before him, covered in the evidence of his pleasure. He smiled, releasing the spell before cleaning his seed off the shocked, terrified girl.

She scrambled back from him, confused and more honestly terrified, he was certain, than she had ever been following more straightforward corporal punishments. Could it be that he had finally found the lever by which to control the intractable child?

“You will tell no one,” he ordered her, and she nodded frantically, waiting for his wave of dismissal before she fled back to her party.

His smile grew slightly demented. Good.

For the first time since Cygnus had deigned to take notice of his eldest child, she was not a disappointment to him.

Chapter Text

[tw: blood, self-harm, mentions of ongoing physical and sexual abuse]

(1957, January)

Bellatrix

The two years that followed her fifth birthday were the worst yet in Bellatrix’s short life. She lived in mortal fear that her father would, yet again, decide to simply make her do what he wanted. She put on her very best behavior and leapt to placate him whenever he was angry, submitting herself willingly to his blows and curses, and even offering to do the thing with her hands and her mouth that he had made her do the first time – no amount of pain or even the look of superiority and disgust that he threw at her after she finished touching him could possibly be as bad as having him make her want to do whatever he said. As long as it was her choice, she could do anything, even if she didn’t want to. She just couldn’t stand the thought being put under that curse again.

It didn’t matter. No matter what she did or didn’t do, there always came a point where he got so angry with her, or so frustrated, that he used it again. The golden, floating sensation overwhelmed her, and she wanted what he wanted, and the sound of his voice was like sweetest music whispered straight into the back of her mind, as he told her to curtsey or pour tea or kiss him under his robes. She couldn’t predict when or why he would decide that her usual attentiveness and good behavior wasn’t good enough, but she could be sure that if she slacked off even the slightest, it would happen more often. So she did her best to be perfect, and hated him a little more every time he decided she needed to be ‘reminded of her place.’

There was only one worse thing that she could think of than being under that curse, and that was if he started forcing Meda to do things, or hurting her. Her baby sister was old enough to talk now, and have play tea parties, and listen properly when Bella told her all the good bits of history. She was also old enough to escape from the Nursery and run through the halls to Bella’s room, giggling at her own naughtiness. Every time she did, Bella was terrified that their mother, or worse, their father, would catch her, and treat her the way they treated Bella. Meda was a good girl – she never meant any harm, and she certainly didn’t deserve to be treated like Bella (who hated her parents and willfully disobeyed them, and so actually did deserve it).

She did her best to teach her sister how to avoid the dangers lurking in the House of Black, or make them happy, when she couldn’t avoid them. She took the blame when Meda made trouble, and distracted her father from the little girl as best she could, but sometimes she failed. Watching her father kick Meda into a wall for the first time, getting there too late and seeing the tears welling in the three-year-old’s big, brown eyes, was quite possibly the worst moment of Bella’s entire life. She hated him, with every fiber of her being. She hadn’t thought, before then, that it was possible for her to hate him any more than she already did, but clearly it was.

Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Uncle Orion, who had moved in with them after Aunt Narcissa died, taught her the basics of purposeful magic, and told her stories about the Old Blacks, calling on the Dark for vengeance, but she didn’t know how to call on the Dark for vengeance, and none of the spells he taught her could help her escape that curse.

The only bright light in those years (aside from Meda, who was both a delight and a worry), was the occasional reappearance of Mr. Tom. She couldn’t say exactly what it was that distinguished his presence from that of Mr. Abraxas or Mr. Zevi or Mr. Ignotius or any of her father’s other associates – perhaps the fact that he was a little younger, or the way he made her feel like he wasn’t just humoring his ally’s daughter when he spoke to her like an adult – but she found herself hanging on his every word, longing to impress him.

Then, finally, two years to the day after the first time she experienced that curse, something happened that changed everything: her family re-introduced her to magic.

It was a re-introduction because she, like every other magical child, was introduced on her third birthday (though she didn’t really remember that), and like every other Black (or at least so Uncle Orion said) had been born to magic, and so had already been known to it even then.

On her seventh birthday, wild magic flowed through her, whispering like that curse in the back of her mind, not compelling her to act, but offering freedom and power – all she had to do was ask. Before she could figure out how, the ritual was over, but it left a brilliant, shining hope behind: a chance to fight back against her father – a chance to earn her freedom… and all she had to do was ask.

That night, she pulled together all she knew of ritual magic (which wasn’t much, since she hadn’t yet participated in a holiday ritual). She knew, as though the magic in her very bones had told her, that there should be blood and pain and sacrifice, to spark the attention of the Powers, and all the old stories said that magic had a price. She didn’t know what she had to offer, but whatever they asked, she would pay it – there was no price too great for the power to stand against her father and protect her sister and herself. She stole a sharp knife and a bowl from the kitchens, and lit a single candle at midnight with a spark from the wand she used for lessons.

Then she sat, cross-legged on her bedroom floor before it, eyes closed tightly as she thought about what she wanted. Uncle Orion always said that intention was the most important thing in magic. When she was sure she knew, she dragged the point of the knife down the soft side of her other arm, to spill the blood she thought was needed to gain the favor of the Powers.

It hurt, and hardly left a scratch. A little red did well up, but not enough for even a single drop to fall into the bowl.

That wouldn’t do at all. She frowned, biting her lip hard, and trying not to think about the pain that was sure to follow as she placed the cold edge of the blade against her skin again, and then pushed it forward and pulled it back and down, hard, like the elves did when they cut meat in the kitchens. This time skin and even muscle parted easily, and blood fell like rain as a pain different than all the others she had been subjected to over the years radiated from the wound. She dropped the knife and clapped her hand over it intuitively, wondering if this hadn’t perhaps, been a mistake.

No. It couldn’t be. She had done it on purpose. She had to speak with the magic – the Powers.

“Please,” she whispered aloud. “Please, magic, Dark Powers, hear me. Help me. Give me the strength I need – save me from my father, and help me save my sister. I need this. I’ll do anything. Please.”

The candle went out, the only light now the glow of the moon through the half-open curtain, and a voice like the rumble of thunder and the cracking of ice made itself heard within her mind.

“Little warrior princess of the darkest House,” it recognized her. She gasped aloud. “Would you swear your soul, your magic, and your life in service to a single power?”

Yes. Anything. She whispered it aloud, just in case. “Yes.” The presence of the Voice grew heavier, somehow, weighing on her mind, or perhaps her magic. She fought to keep her head upright.

“Would you sacrifice your humanity for the honor of our presence and the gift of power?”

“Yes,” she insisted. A shadow stepped forth from nowhere, into the scant light of the window. It moved to sit across from her, and she suddenly knew that this was the one that spoke.

“In whose name would you serve?”

Bella hesitated. Her own name? Didn’t they know it?

She caught an impression of amusement from the voice. “What aspect of the Dark would you serve, child? What Power? What goddess? To whom would you dedicate yourself in return for the power that you seek?”

“I get to choose?” she asked without thinking. She hadn’t realized – she didn’t know. In fact, she had no idea what she was doing, aside from asking for help.

There was a wave of something like… not sympathy. Understanding, maybe, from the shadow before her. It roiled for a moment before condensing itself into the form of a strange young lady, with dancing, color-changing eyes and short, spiky blue hair. There were little bits of metal piercing her eyebrow and lip, as well as her ears, and khol around her eyes. She wore strange, tight clothing and too much jewelry to be fashionable.

“It has been a long time,” she said quietly, carefully, in a voice full of smoke and mischief, “since a child of the House of Black has made the Choice to declare herself a Black Mage… and longer still since anyone has managed to come so close without knowing. You are an oddity, my little bellatrice… brilliant and strong and full of potential, but so very ignorant… in some ways very much a child, and innocent to the ways of the world, but in others… not. Your soul is called to Chaos, and your heart is full of trouble and spite. You would serve me well, I think, if you are as willing as you seem.”

Bellatrix swallowed hard. Yes. She had said she would do anything. She would even serve the strange, shifting goddess before her, if it meant being able to fight back. She nodded deeply, bowing over her wounded arm and the bowl between them. “Might I know my Lady’s name?”

“They call me Eris, little priestess,” the goddess smirked, and leaned forward to lay a kiss on the top of the girl’s head. Then a single long, cold finger lifted her chin, and Bella looked up, to find eyes like her own staring deep into her soul. “I offer myself to the Chaotic Power, in the Aspect of Eris. Twice and thrice sworn, before the Powers of Darkness and the spirits of my Ancestors, I dedicate myself. So mote it be,” the goddess said with a grin.

The First Daughter of the House of Black took a deep breath, steeling herself, then repeated the ritual phrase.

“Good girl,” Eris said warmly, and then: “Brace yourself.”

The world fell apart as pain and darkness ripped through her, burning her and breaking her in ways she had not even known she could be hurt. She did her best to embrace it, to give up whatever it was that the power flowing through her sought, desperate to hold up her end of the bargain. I need this, she told herself, over and over. Eventually, it ended, and she came back to herself, face wet with tears, cradled in the arms of her new patron goddess.

“Well done, child,” the goddess whispered, lifting her easily and laying her in bed. “Now sleep, and awaken, reborn to the Dark. Be not afraid, for I take care of what is mine.”

Bellatrix was not certain, afterward, whether she liked the changes the Darkness had wrought in her mind, or soul, or whatever it was they had affected. She wasn’t sure she had the capacity to truly like them or not. She was still fond (and possessive) of Andromeda – her baby sister was hers , after all – and still felt the urge to please Mr. Tom. No one else seemed to mean much of anything at all to her anymore. She still felt amusement, and anger, sometimes, but there was a new, sharp sort of joy that had replaced fear, and more than ever she found herself tempted to scorn Cygnus.

For the first time in two years, she talked back to him, and when he placed her under that curse, the goddess’ smoke and mischief whisper cut through it like a knife, saying, ‘no, you don’t truly want this,’ and breaking it into a thousand glittering pieces. She laughed at the astonished expression on Cygnus’ face, and couldn’t stop, even when he resorted to old-fashioned, physical punishment. The lashes he laid across her back felt like triumph in the wake of her refusal. The pain of her body meant nothing when weighed against the freedom of her mind.

Chapter Text

(1957, March)

Arcturus

“What do you mean, you think Bella has made the Choice?” Arcturus glared down his nose at the cousin who was, generally speaking, the least terrible of the three wizards he called ‘nephew.’ At least he had managed to sire children, even if they were both girls. But statements like that were the sort of thing that made him seriously consider abdicating the position of Paterfamilias to Uncle Phineas, and moving to Germany. Especially on days like today. Surely his mother’s family would not deny him a place at their table? “She’s seven years old, Cygnus! Morgen and Mordred! Is that even possible?”

The younger wizard shuddered. “It’s the only thing that fits, Uncle. She ripped through my Imperius as though it was nothing, and –”

“And what were you doing, using the Imperius on your own child?!” Arcturus took a deep breath through his nose refraining from shouting more. There was truly no excuse for such a thing.

“Nothing else seems to get through to her,” Cygnus shrugged. Arcturus truly could not tell if he felt as victimized by the whole situation as he acted. If Pollux wasn’t already dead, he thought, not for the first time since taking over as the Head of House Black, I’d kill him myself for the poor excuses for sons he raised. “Corporal punishment has never encouraged her to modify her behavior – and now it doesn’t even cow her. I cast a Lashing Hex on her, and she just laughed like a tiny little madwoman. And her magic, Uncle – it’s gone… cold. Like touching the Dark Itself!”

The patriarch snorted. It was much more likely, he thought, that his nephew had managed to simply drive the girl insane. Cygnus was no legilimens – it wasn’t as though he would know. Arcturus would have to look into it himself, and see whether anything could be salvaged. He knew he shouldn’t have let the temperamental boy have free reign over his children. Powers take the lot of them! Aloud, he said, “I did not invite you here today to discuss Bellatrix, in any case, Cygnus.”

“No, of course not, Uncle,” the younger man bowed slightly, clearly embarrassed for having spilled his concerns without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Castor has finally succumbed to the spattergroit. He passed beyond the Veil last night. The funeral will be held at the new moon. But in the meanwhile, I must determine what is to be done with his youngest daughter, Walburga.” Cygnus nodded, showing no sign of comprehension. “The girl is only fifteen. She will be sitting her OWLs in June. As you ought to know, Castor and Lenora decided after Lyra’s untimely death to keep their daughters close to home. She has indicated that she would prefer to finish her studies independently, rather than transfer to Hogwarts for her NEWTs, so it occurs to me that your daughters might benefit from a more… active female presence in their lives – all the moreso, since it now appears your eldest has acquired the means to resist your own… ‘teaching,’” he sneered.

Cygnus considered for mere seconds before nodding eagerly. He knew as well as Arcturus did that Cassiopeia and Andromeda were bound to have trained Walburga properly in the feminine arts, and it would doubtless be a great relief to have a proper lady in the household who could pass those traits on to his own girls. For Arcturus as well; had this opportunity not presented itself, he would doubtless have been recommending tutors in a few short years, as Druella was a shambles when it came to taking care of her own children. “Of course, Uncle – my home is always open to a cousin in need.”

“Excellent. You may expect her to arrive in three days’ time.”

“Of course, Uncle. And… Bellatrix?”

Arcturus sighed. If it wasn’t so pathetic, and also such ridiculously poor timing, the sight of his thirty-seven year old nephew spooked by his seven-year-old daughter would be terribly amusing. “Send her over for tea this Saturday, and I’ll talk to her.”

Chapter Text

(1958, September)

Bellatrix

Bellatrix Black, eight years old, watched the guests at her uncle’s wedding curiously, keeping track of which ones looked upon the union with scorn, and which seemed interested in partners not their own, and which had children more or less her own age, with whom she would be expected to associate at the feast that followed.

The crowd was enormous – more people than she had ever seen in one place before. Every Black was present, and all of their allies. The Sacred 28 and all of the Noble Houses had been invited to send a representative to witness (though several had declined). There were musicians and ministry officials and even a small press section toward the back. She had seen Mr. Tom, briefly, but he hadn’t seen her – too occupied with flirting and charming his way through the hoard. Pity, that. He seemed to find her more interesting since she made the Choice, often taking the time to teach her a spell or two when he visited Ancient House.

Eris was keeping a running commentary in the back of Bella’s mind. She didn’t always, but it was Mabon, and the goddess claimed she had decided to spend the holiday with her youngest priestess, just because she could. She was actually the reason Bella was aware of all the people whose eyes were straying that day, including her own mother, who couldn’t seem to look away from a tall, thin, blond man who was playing the violin in the orchestra. According to Eris, there was something special about weddings that encouraged marital strife.

Lord Parkinson, she thought, noting the look of distaste on his jowly face, and adding him to the list of people who deserved a bit of chaos in their lives.

Eris laughed. As though Chaos can be directed, ducky. Ooh, look, Lovegood’s giving Dru eyes, now, too! Want a new little sib? I’m sure Arcturus would never trace a bastard Black back to today… or at least not to us.

Sure, Bella thought idly, wandering toward the canapes. She didn’t care what Eris did to her parents or their marriage. She would have left long ago if she had anywhere to go, and could take Meda with her. But just a couple of months after her Declaration, when she finally started feeling… settled, again, after the transformation the Darkness had effected, Walburga had come to live with them, and life had suddenly gotten much better.

Walburga, only nine years her senior, was much more interested in the raising of Bella and Meda than Druella ever had been, and a much nicer teacher than Cygnus. She had taken over Bella’s lessons almost completely, so that she only had to see Cygnus once a week or so, for lessons specifically on things that the Heir was supposed to know. Exactly how much of that was to do with the fact that Walburga’s father had just died and she genuinely liked children, and how much was to do with the fact that Bella’s Declaration and subsequent invulnerability to that curse had disturbed Cygnus so deeply that he had tattled on her to Arcturus, Bella wasn’t really sure.

She was sure that he wasn’t looking forward to resuming her lessons, when Orion and Walburga moved to Grimmauld Place. Bella wasn’t, either. Perhaps, if she was lucky, he would hire her a tutor. Perhaps, if she was really lucky, he would ask Mr. Tom to be her tutor.

Would you like that? Eris asked.

Like what? Bella thought, more focused on acquiring a shrimp puff than on her random train of thought.

Mr. Tom, the goddess clarified. There was a certain hint of amusement around the man’s name.

Bella flushed slightly. I think he’d be a good tutor, don’t you?

Don’t lie to me, little bellatrice. You like him.

Eris was definitely amused. So what if I do?

So, I’d be interested in seeing that particular set of eventualities play out. I’ll see what I can do.

Really?! If Bella could have hugged the voice inside her head, she might have done. Wait – what happens?

Ooh, great and terrible things, darling. War and horror and madness. Pain and pleasure and secrets and lies. It’ll be fun.

Bella hid a grin behind her fan, delighted by her patron’s delight. The fact that she would likely soon have the object of her long-time fascination as her personal tutor didn’t hurt, either.

I love having Dedicates, the goddess said, creating a mental image of an eight-year-old version of her blue-haired avatar jumping up and down with Bella. But you’d better get to your place, she reminded the Dedicate in question. They’re about to start, and I doubt Arcturus would appreciate your delaying the ceremony for another shrimp puff.

Bella’s Head of House and her patron goddess had, after a short discussion (awkwardly relayed by Bella), reached an accord of sorts.

When he figured out what Bella had done, Arcturus’ first instinct was to disown her – apparently it was ill-luck to welcome a Child of Discord into one’s House. But Bella hadn’t wanted to leave without Meda. Part of the reason she had made her Choice in the first place was to protect her sister, and she couldn’t do that if she was no longer a Black.

Eris had offered a compromise: in exchange for Arcturus not disowning Bella, she would avoid casting strife within the House of Black. She would thereby have greater access to the heart of Magical British society, in order to cause discord on a broader scale as Bella aged; Bella would be able to stay with Meda; and Arcturus and his house would not be targets for the goddess’ wrath, as they most certainly would be if he cast her little priestess out. After all, it could hardly be considered good luck to piss off the goddess of Discord, any more than it was to welcome her into their lives with open arms.

Arcturus had, reluctantly, acquiesced, resulting in a rather strange sort of truce, in which Bella agreed to be on her best behavior and submit to Arcturus’ authority; Arcturus left Bella and Cygnus to thrash out their own differences, rather than weigh in on her father’s side, as he properly ought to do; and everyone avoided talking about the fact that the House of Black had produced its first Black Mage in over two-hundred years.

Eris, for her part, kept any mischief around the House of Black to a level that could not be traced back to Bella, as they were uncertain precisely where Arcturus would draw the line and decide that Bella was more trouble than she was worth. Wherever it was, embarrassing the House of Black before everybody who was anybody in Magical Britain (and most of their foreign allies as well) was likely far on the other side of it.

She slipped into place between Walburga and her cousin Maggie Burke (Walburga’s sister’s daughter) as unobtrusively as possible. Maggie gave her a look, which Bella returned with interest. She wasn’t late, and even if she was, Maggie was six. It was none of her business, the stuck-up little wench.

Bet you a favor she grows up to be a real cow, Eris offered.

No bet. Shhhh… It’s starting!

It was. The Ministry witness had taken her place at the far edge of the front row, and Arcturus, as the Head of the Family, had just strode up onto the dais where Walburga, Orion, and their entourage awaited.

So far as weddings went, Bella thought, this one was a bit strange, because it was the first time in fifty years that two members of the House of Black married each other. It wasn’t uncommon for them to marry their first or second cousins on their mothers’ sides, but normally they had different surnames, and there was a much larger strengthening-bonds-between-Houses aspect to the ceremony. Since both the bride and groom were already Blacks – and not even distantly related Blacks, like one of the Black-Regoris or Black-Nashi marrying back into the core of the family, but first cousins of the Black-Alphardi line – that entire section of the ritual had become confusing and redundant. Arcturus had eventually decided to remove it entirely.

That meant that the wedding basically became just the individual bonding ceremony, where the couple became one in the eyes of magic, and the Blessing of the Union, which was to encourage a fruitful marriage.

Arcturus started with a speech about love and family and the importance of Tradition and Continuity, which were two of his favorite subjects, before he led the couple through their vows: By the magic in our bones, let us be of one body; by the blood in our veins, let us be of one heart; by the fire in our souls, let us be of one mind; sworn and bound, twice and thrice over: one before magic, one before family, one before all; for myself, for the future, by my love, I am yours.

Bella thought it was very romantic that they had both chosen to use love in the last line. Most often Blacks married by arrangement, and replaced love with duty or House, or sometimes will, if it was the Head of the House getting married. Her own parents had married by duty. She herself had resolved never to marry unless it was by her own will. (She wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of love, anymore. That realization would have bothered her, once.)

The magic in the air, already high from the holiday ritual at noon, circled around them lazily, anticipating the final step of the binding ritual. Meda, the youngest of the Bride’s Attendants, stepped forward and offered up the White Athame, its ivory blade slightly iridescent in the light of the setting sun. Walburga took it without hesitation, tracing a short red line onto Orion’s right wrist, before allowing him to do the same to her left. He passed the Athame to Marlin Burke, the youngest of his Attendants, and they pressed their wrists together, symbolically mingling their blood. Maggie and Cadmus Nott, the Middle Attendants, stepped forward to perform the Handfasting, wrapping the lovers’ wrists with an intricate pattern of matching black ribbons, symbolizing their magic bound together, and then it was her turn. Antioch Nott slipped the bracelet Orion had enchanted for the occasion onto Walburga’s right wrist, just as Bella settled a ring Walburga had enchanted into place on Orion’s left hand. In addition to whatever other spells they had worked into them for protection or good fortune, neither would be able to remove their respective jewelry without the other’s permission, as a visible symbol of their commitment.

When all of the Attendants were back in their places, Arcturus spoke again: “If you, Orion, son of Pollux, and you, Walburga, daughter of Castor, would seal your bond before magic and family, then do so with my blessing, as your Head of House.”

Walburga beamed and tilted her head back for the kiss that would conclude the ritual. Orion, looking happier than Bella could ever recall, leaned in. They timed it perfectly, their lips meeting as the sun slipped below the horizon, and the torches studded throughout the seating area and the candles flanking the group on the dais burst into flame. The magic that had been circling wrapped itself tightly around them, whirling around in a visible flurry of black and silver before sinking into the ribbons that tied them together and the bracelet and the ring, glittering sparks settling on their hair and clothing.

Bella was not the only one who grinned delightedly, both at the magic and the silliness as the adults of the entourage set about the part of the wedding dedicated to the fertility of the bride and groom. This involved building up a pair of bonfires in front of the dais and throwing different herbs into them before parading the happy couple through the smoke, and offering wine and chocolate and strawberries and pomegranates and all sorts of other little trifles, tucking rose quartz in their pockets, and crowning the pair with moonstone circlets. Then any adult guests who wanted to offer their blessings formed a circle around the lovers as they had sex for the first time (or at least the first time as a married couple), singing and chanting their good wishes all the while.

Bella could feel the magic the circle called (wild like Beltane, but more neutral than dark), and hear their riotous laughter from all the way on the other side of the field. Children weren’t allowed to watch, for luck, so she had been herded away with all the other kids (and the adult guests who thought public, outdoor sex rituals were vulgar) to get the feast and after-party under way. She sent her best wishes, anyway, from a distance: Walburga had gone back and forth on whether she wanted to do that part of the ritual at least six times over the course of the planning the event, but had eventually decided it was worth any embarrassment she might feel about being seen naked by her peers. She really wanted children, and Orion hadn’t had any in his first marriage.

The orchestra struck up a gavotte, and Bella helped herself and Meda to a bit of everything as they watched Mr. Abraxas lead his wife Melete in the first dance of the evening. Later, after everyone had eaten, Orion and Walburga led a second wave of dancers in a waltz. The party finally ended sometime around three, with a violin solo that trailed off into the night, though Bella had long since fallen asleep in a pile of leaves and cousins and forgotten, cast-off cloaks.

Chapter Text

(1958, December)

Andromeda

For as long as she could remember, Andromeda’s big sister had been her protector. One of her very first memories was of Bellatrix shoving her into a closet and shushing her, before distracting their father from the younger girl, and getting hit with some kind of curse that made her cry out in pain for her troubles.

When she was three, and Bella was seven, Bella stopped crying. She said it was because she made a new friend, who was going to help her stand between Cygnus – she stopped calling him ‘father’ – and Meda. The elves said she had caught the tweelks, or else had been pushed over the cliff of madness by too much punishment. Meda had watched from a corner as her sister and their caretakers had yelled at each other, in Elvish too fast-paced for the younger girl to understand. The argument had ended with Bella declaring, “Well, then, Lil, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not an elf!” and storming back to her own apartment. After that, the elves started treating her like they treated Uncle Orion, instead of like their friend, and Meda had to visit Bella, because Bella never came back to the Nursery.

There were other changes, too. Bella had suddenly become much less fun to play with. She didn’t think anything was funny anymore unless someone was hurt or upset. She never hurt Meda, but she caught her sister laughing when Uncle Orion tripped and tumbled down the main stair, and watching, fascinated, as the elves punished themselves at the end of the day, and she acted like just spending time together with Meda was boring, when they used to play and tell each other stories for hours on end.

Meda was very happy when Cousin Walburga came to stay with them. She was always happy to play tea party, and taught the younger girls how to curtsey and how to act like a lady, which Bella thought was dumb, but Meda thought was fun. She also taught them how to lie, flatter, and scheme, all of which she said were important life skills for a lady of the House of Black (even if it wasn’t very ladylike to get caught doing them). They watched attentively as Walburga teased and flirted and charmed Uncle Orion out of his usual sad ways and right into her wedding. Meda thought their love story was better than any of her books – she even got to be a part of the bonding ceremony, which was the best fifth-birthday present she could think of.

But after that, things changed again. Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion moved to their own house, and now Bella – her Bella – was abandoning her to go be apprenticed to Mr. Tom three days a week.

“Do you have to?” she whined, watching the older girl dress for her first official meeting with her new Master.

“Yes, I have to, and I want to,” Bella snapped, flicking through her wardrobe. “Where is my blue robe? I ordered Tansy to lay it out for me! It was here last night!”

It was there ten minutes ago, too. Meda had snatched it from the clotheshorse and shoved it under the blankets on the bed while Bella was in the bathroom, and was currently sitting on the whole pile. “But I don’t want you to go!”

The older girl turned to her with an exasperated sigh, but her eyes narrowed as she spotted a trailing blue sleeve. Oops. “Move, Meda,” she ordered.

“Move where?”

“Off my robes.”

“What robes?”

“The ones you’re sitting on!”

“I’m sitting on a blanket.”

“I can see the sleeve!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meda denied unconvincingly.

“Move before I count to three or I’m going to jinx you,” Bella glared, grabbing her wand from the bedside table. “One…” Meda shook her head. “Two…”

“Nuh-uh. You can’t go. I won’t let you.”

“Three. Are you going to move?”

“NO!” she shouted defiantly. “No, no, n-OW!”

She rolled off the robes, scrabbling at her shirt. There was a little red welt where the jinx had hit her. It stung, a lot. She could feel tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t believe Bella had actually done that.

Meanwhile, her older sister had re-claimed her robes, and was casting a glowing, white, anti-wrinkle charm at them. She wasn’t even looking at Meda.

“I-I you h-hurt me,” she sniffled.

Bella snorted. “Barely.”

“H-h-how could you?”

“Oh, stop being such a cry-baby. It was just a little, underpowered stinging jinx. And I did warn you. How do I look?” She spun in front of the mirror, ignoring Meda’s distress – distress which, for the first time ever, she had caused.

“You look like a big meanie! I hate you! You’re just like Father!” she shouted, and ran out of the room before Bella could say anything back, or even jinx her again.

She holed up in her own room – not the Nursery, the new room she had moved into when she turned five – glaring at the door and half-hoping that Bella would come find her before she left, even if it was just to yell at her. She didn’t. After a while, when she heard the hall clock chiming nine, and knew that Bella must have left, she started to feel bad about what she had said. She knew it wasn’t true – Bella was nothing like Father, really, but she had been very angry. Bella had never hurt her before, and she wanted to hurt her back.

This was all Mr. Tom’s fault. He was taking her sister away from her. She didn’t hate Bella, but she did hate him, with all the passion her five-year-old soul could muster. She decided then and there that she would never forgive him for making Bella care more about him than she cared about her. Never.

Chapter Text

[tw: non-con/rape, torture, attempted murder (POV accomplice to perpetrator)]

 (1959, September)

Bellatrix

Bella was absentmindedly alternating between sending Piercing Hexes into the plaster of her Master’s library wall, and erasing them by triggering his Damage Reversal Enchantment when he swept in and dropped a notebook on her head. She scrambled to pick it up and right herself in the chair she had been (most improperly) using as a very short chaise lounge.

“What’s this?”

He smirked. “Read it and find out.” Then he noticed the wall. “Bella! What the hell?”

“I was bored.”

“I was gone for less than an hour! You were supposed to be practicing vocabulary, not putting holes in my walls!”

“I can do both!” she let out a strangled hiss of Parseltongue: “Ss’h~’ssH!” The holes disappeared. “See?” Changing all of his enchantment trigger words to the snake language had really only encouraged her to mimic him until she could reproduce the unnatural sounds passably well. It wasn’t much harder than most of the greater continental House Elf dialect, and that was her first language, even if she would never admit it.

“Hieratic vocabulary, not Parsel, insolent child. That’s it – I’m not leaving you here unattended anymore.”

Bella beamed, flipping through the ritual he had book-marked. “Fine with me.” She would be more than happy to follow him around all day – she was sure his business meetings were more interesting than her father’s, and it was her right as an Apprentice to accompany her Master to such things.

Mr. Tom just rolled his eyes and opened a copy of the day’s Prophet. Since she had been spending more time with him, it had become clear to Bella that although he was a very good teacher, he didn’t really have much experience with children or with the Master/Apprentice system. That was okay, though: he knew what he was doing when it came to dark magic, and she was learning all sorts of things no one else would ever have thought to teach her. It was brilliant, and the fact that it was less formal than she would have expected was just a bonus.

“I don’t understand. If Apollo is the Youthful Power, why does the invocation call for Destruction instead of Deceit?”

“Invoking the opposing power is too direct,” the wizard answered without looking up. “The Youthful Power’s main force and strongest defense is directed against Experience. Using a corruption ritual will allow us to be more… circumspect. More effective.”

Bella hummed her comprehension before her Master’s words sank in. “Wait – us?”

“Indeed. You will have your part to play. Think of it as your due as my Apprentice. The prescription is to begin at Sunset on Mabon, though we will have to… acquire some of the materials earlier that day…” he trailed off with a smirk as she leapt out of her chair, squealing and bouncing with excitement. The holiday was still a week away, but she couldn’t wait! This would be the first major project she was allowed to help with!

The days until Mabon crawled , and the morning of the holiday was the longest of all. Pater Arcturus had put his foot down, informing her that she could go join her Master for whatever ‘obscene ritual’ (she wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘obscene’ – she thought it sounded like an interesting and useful ritual) he had in mind after the family ritual ended, and not a moment before. Meda was jealous because she was still too young to participate. She was pouting in the Nursery with three-month-old baby Narcissa. Orion and the very pregnant Walburga had been horribly lovey-dovey all morning because it was their first anniversary, and Druella had gotten in a fight with Cygnus before flooing from the Keep to the Rosier family ritual. Bella had heard her saying something snippy about never being a real Black, no matter how long she was married to one, and Cygnus shouting at the empty fire about how none of ‘this’ (whatever ‘this’ was) was his fault. And to top it all off, Eris had been silently present in the back of her mind since she woke up – Bella could feel her anticipation as a sort of heady buzz of excitement, which didn’t help time go faster at all . And all the goddess would say on the subject was that something important was going to happen ‘soon.’

Finally it was time. The entire family, including the most distant cousins, and even some of the ones who had married out, assembled around the Altar at Blackforest Keep – a massive slab of black stone that had seen so many sacrifices over the years that it radiated power. Great Uncle Phineas, who was the oldest living Black (he had been about a hundred years old when Bella was born), led the ritual, since Mabon was the holiday of the Aged Power, sacrificing a white swan as a symbol of Innocence foregone as a tribute to Wisdom and Experience, and called magic to bless the young with the wisdom of their elders in the coming year. Bella wasn’t sure exactly what that part of the ritual was supposed to accomplish: she enjoyed the feeling of the family’s combined magic set free all at once, but Eris was a jealous Patron, and did not allow the Wise Power a foothold in her mind, so she had never experienced it properly.

It was half past two by the time she was finally allowed to floo to Mr. Tom’s townhouse. He was meeting with Mr. Ignotius and Mr. Abraxas. Apparently, she thought, the Nott and Malfoy family rituals were much shorter than the Black family ritual. Or maybe it was easier for grown-ups to escape family functions. In any case, it was clear they were not starting yet, so she wandered into the Library to go over her part of the plan again. The ritual was all in Greek, even though it wasn’t particularly ancient. Its name translated as something like ‘the Corruption of Apollo.’

Apollo was, at the heart of things, an aspect of the Youthful Power, which was why an appropriation of his attributes could only be attempted at Mabon, when that Power reached its weakest point (even though the ritual didn’t specifically call on the Deceitful Power instead). Mr. Tom would take the part of Apollo in the ritual, acting the part of the Unwanted Lover to draw parallel between himself and the god in legend, attracting his powers of healing and youth as well. It would be Bella’s job to act as Handmaiden to the witch who would serve as his Unwilling Bride. She would trap and prepare the witch for the ritual, to be possessed by the Destructive Power. The Destructive Power would ‘avenge’ the witch by ruining Mr. Tom’s potential to have children, but would stay its hand from inflicting upon him the ravages of time, fended off by ‘Apollo’s’ youthful nature.

When Bella had asked why they had to go through all that, rather than just invoking the Destructive Power and offering a trade of baby potential for healing ability, her Master had been rather offended. Exactly what would be traded and rewarded was all arranged ahead of time, in a way, he admitted, but the ritual, he said, was symbolic, like a play. They had to go through the motions, referencing the stories and the gods and making all the right actions, to avoid offence… even if everyone – Powers and actors alike – already knew how the ending was meant to play out, and their parts were only roles, not real. For example, Bella was really playing her part for Mr. Tom, not on behalf of the Bride, even though she was ‘betraying Apollo’ by giving the Bride a means to ‘resist’ him, and the Destructive Power was really going to hurt the Bride far more that it hurt Mr. Tom, since it was only doing what he wanted and expected.

Eris said Mr. Tom was a drama queen, but very entertaining.

Mr. Tom’s meeting ended just in time for him to take Bella to tea in Diagon Alley to hunt down a witch to play the Bride. She had to be ‘an innocent, untouched by man or wizard,’ so Mr. Tom had enchanted a pearl ring to help her test the virginity of potential targets. It would glow white when someone who met their requirements touched it. She had had to test it on Meda (who had then wanted to keep it because it was pretty) because it didn’t work for her or Mr. Tom.

After tea, Bella went out on the hunt, smiling innocently as she touched the pearl to the arm of witch after witch. Most of them, all the ones who were at least Walburga’s age, seemed to be unacceptable. Her Master had said the ritual would be stronger with an adult, though, so she tried them all anyway. She was just past the Leaky Cauldron when she brushed the ring against the unsuspecting hand of a witch in Auror-red. It glowed. Bella did a double-take. The woman had to be as old as her mother! But she was sure the ring wouldn’t lie. And it would be easy enough to lure an Auror witch away into the shadows – that was her job, after all, wasn’t it?

She felt a frission of excitement, and quickly schooled her grin into a look of panic before grabbing the Bride’s hand. “Please! Please, Miss! Auror! You have to help me! You have to come see!” she said urgently, before running off toward Knockturn.

“Miss? Girl! What’s wrong?” the Auror called, following.

Bella didn’t answer, looking back only long enough to say, “Come on, please, hurry!” She ducked around the space between two shops, and drew her wand before pretending to collapse in tears. The Auror had her wand out, too, but Bella was willing to bet she was more worried about hags jumping her or something than she was about the little crying girl. That was her mistake.

She reached out, saying, “Hey, what’s wrong? What do you need? Come back –”

Bella’s body bind hit her point-blank in the face before she even realized what was happening. Mr. Tom came around the corner half a second later and stunned her for good measure, throwing Bella a wicked grin. Then he apparated all three of them to the house he had procured for the night’s event.

Once they were there, Mr. Tom woke the witch up long enough to verify that she was, in fact, a virgin, using Legilimency to pull the answer from her mind. Afterward, he laughed out loud and proclaimed her ‘perfect’ for the task at hand. Bella even got a fond “Well done, child.” She beamed, and finished lashing their still-petrified victim to a bed. No magic could be used to restrain her during the next part: carving the runes and speaking the enchantments for the Bride to become a vessel for the Destructive Power.

She had a knife she had chosen specifically for the job, one that was cursed so that wounds it made would never fully heal. It should ensure that all the early runes would still be fresh when she finished the last – and there were a lot of them. She had practiced on herself, testing to see how deeply she should cut, but it was much harder on the Bride, who kept trying to squirm away. Mr. Tom knocked on the door when he had finished with his own preparations, and she was still only halfway done. She finally resorted to stabbing the witch in an arm or leg whenever she moved. After a few good jabs, she managed to restrict her movements to mere trembling, allowing Bella to complete the rune-scheme and anoint her with the required perfumed oils without a struggle.

When the last rune was complete and the sun had set, she cut the bindings tying the woman to the bed, allowing her to run for her life – or at least her virtue. She only got as far as the living room before Mr. Tom, as Apollo, intercepted her and threw her to the ground, physically overpowering her. She heard a bone break as she took up a position in the corner to wait – her part now was simply to observe.

The witch was crying and cradling her left arm, but she still tried to push Mr. Tom away as he knelt beside her, so he broke one of her legs, too. She tried to speak, to bargain, maybe, but he shushed her gently, his eyes flashing red and his face paler than usual in the candle-light. He licked the blood from one of the stop-moving-or-else wounds and smiled. She screamed and tried to scuttle away, with one leg and one arm. Mr. Tom watched her dispassionately for a moment before laying a hand gently on her intact ankle. There was another snap of bone breaking, and she collapsed, panting and shivering, the pain apparently finally too much to continue trying to escape.

Bella felt a surge of excitement which would have, before her Declaration, been fear. She grinned.

“Broken already, beautiful?” Mr. Tom asked quietly, tracing patterns on her skin, his fingers leaving trails of fresh blood in their wake. She made a pitiable attempt to claw his eyes out with her remaining limb, before he pinned it to the ground, whispering the ritual phrases and driving himself into her.

Bella could see the exact moment her own enchantments took over. The witch whimpered, apparently defeated, then stiffened and spoke in a harsh, guttural voice. Mr. Tom responded, and continued to fuck her body. There were three more exchanges before her Master’s back arched and blackness raced over him, piercing him from a hundred directions with blades of nothingness. Three seconds later, they vanished, and he collapsed. It was left to Bella to thank the Power for its ‘defense’ and dismiss it. When it left, the witch fell unconscious.

The wounds inflicted on Mr. Tom healed before her eyes, his body returned to its usual, pristine condition. Minutes after that, his eyes, still red, flickered open, and he sat up with a groan.

“Are you well, Master?” she asked, tossing him his pants.

He tested his arms and legs for a moment before allowing his magic to form a visible corona around himself. “Quite,” he groaned again, climbing awkwardly to his feet. “Though a bit sore.” He put on his pants and summoned his robes from a nearby chair. “Come on, time to clean up.”

They set fires in each of the rooms on the first floor, working their way back to the room with the woman, who was now conscious, though terrified out of her mind. She was screaming again.

“Ever killed anyone?” Mr. Tom asked, sounding bored.

Bella hesitated. She had seen muggles killed at Yule, but she hadn’t actually done it herself. “No.”

“Want to?”

She shrugged, and made her way over to the still-naked, bloody woman, kneeling on her shoulders.

Just as she raised her wand to send a Piercing Hex through the witch’s eye, Eris whispered in the back of her mind: Don’t. It’s more interesting if we let her have a chance. Just knock her out and leave her for dead.

She froze, and returned to Mr. Tom to speak quietly. “Master? My Lady says it would be more interesting not to kill her.”

Mr. Tom raised an eyebrow at her. “No excuses, Bella. I don’t do loose ends. Kill her and have done with it.”

She nodded without thinking. Of course she would do as her Master said.

You are sworn to me, Bellatrix Druella Black, Eris reminded her sharply. Your soul is mine.

Conflicting orders warred within her mind, for a moment, but then she leaned forward and whispered in the witch’s ear, “My Lady says we must give you a chance.” She cast an underpowered Bludgeoning Hex point-blank at her victim’s head. Her body relaxed instantly as she fell unconscious.

Bella could feel Eris radiating satisfaction in the back of her mind. Delicious.

“Come, Bella,” Tom ordered, holding out a hand. He apparated them back to his place to clean up, though once they arrived, Bella was more interested in asking a few questions than cleaning the blood from beneath her nails.

“Are you a vampire, Mr. Tom?”

“What?” he asked tiredly. “No, I’m not a vampire!”

“Are you sure? Because your eyes are red, and I saw you taste her blood.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He closed his eyes for a second, then looked at her. “Better?” They were back to normal.

She shrugged, not entirely convinced. “I liked the red. It’s very dramatic.” He chuckled. “How old were you the first time you killed someone?”

“Sixteen.”

“Who was it?”

“A girl at school.”

“Why?”

“An experiment.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Someday,” he yawned. “Go clean up. We have to get you home, and somehow I doubt your parents want you returned covered in blood.”

“I could just stay here forever,” she suggested.

“Bella…” he said warningly.

“Fine,” she sulked, dragging her feet to the guest bathroom. Sometimes she did really wish that she didn’t have to go home.

Chapter Text

(1959, November)

Druella

Druella was not pleased when she realized that her protective charm had failed in the aftermath of the fertility magic at Orion and Walburga’s wedding. To be six years older than the previous time she had fallen pregnant did not improve the experience in the slightest. And this meant that she would now have to deal with another eleven years of children in the house, when she had been only six years away from that happy day.

Well, two, really. Even she would admit that Andromeda was a good child – far superior to Bellatrix at the art of keeping out of the way. She had never begged for attention or purposefully caused trouble like the elder sister. She definitely hadn’t undergone any suspicious, made-up rituals and declared herself a Black Mage (and how Bellatrix had managed that, Druella still had no idea: every time she asked, Cygnus and Arcturus would give her a patronizing, exasperated look and say that it was a Black Family Secret), or negotiated with their Paterfamilias to subvert the natural order of authority within their House. Druella could easily see the younger child voluntarily secluding herself in her own wing once the elder had gone.

Cygnus, if possible, was even less pleased. Not that he didn’t want more children – in his opinion, the more children they could give the House of Black the better – never mind that he wasn’t the one who had to go through nine months of hell bearing them. No, he seemed to be under the impression that even though he hadn’t touched her in over three bloody years, she ought to feel compelled to remain faithful to him. Or at least not allow her indiscretions to become evident.

He was insulted. (To be fair, she couldn’t really blame him – she was a bit embarrassed herself: the man had been a fiddler, for Circe’s sake… but the things he could do with those fingers…)

In any case, however, her husband was not so insulted that he supported her initial reaction, which was to just abort the damn thing. Apparently he was unwilling to take the risk that the process would prevent his own third attempt at a proper (male) heir. So far as Druella was concerned, if she happened to be one of the fifty percent of those who were rendered sterile by a potions-aided miscarriage, that would be an unexpected perk. And this was also the first she had heard any such nonsense about his trying to sire another little monster on her. (Another like Andromeda, she supposed, would not be entirely horrible, but another like Bellatrix hardly bore thinking about – she had thought they were in accordance there!)

The first half of the latest pregnancy was therefore spent doubly miserable, not only growing fat and hormonal, but at odds with the husband she had happily treated as nothing more than a business partner for ages. Eventually he had decided that he would recognize the child as a Black, but he would not forgive her – their rows subsided into a chilly discontent that permeated the household, to the point that Druella seriously considered removing herself to one of their other properties.

To make matters worse, Walburga and Orion had moved out immediately after the wedding (before Druella had even realized she was –ugh– “expecting”), which meant she lost her primary confidant within the house. The younger witch really had been an exemplary companion, when she hadn’t been catering to the whims and so-called needs of the children. Floo travel became dangerous after the first trimester, and apparition while pregnant had always made Druella fantastically ill, so she soon found herself confined to Ancient House, positively dying for decent company. For a while, Walburga visited her, instead, but she fell pregnant herself around Imbolc, and afterward became insufferable, capable of talking about nothing other than their future children.

The only good thing about 1959, so far as Druella was concerned, was that Cygnus had finally pulled his head out of his arse with respect to Bellatrix, and allowed her to be apprenticed to the very charming M. de Mort. (This had, in fact, happened before Yule, but the effects weren’t noticeable until after the holiday.) Why the hell de Mort would want to apprentice that freak of a child, and exactly what he was teaching her, Druella had no idea, but she found she didn’t really care. It meant that the girl was out of the house more days than not, busy being somebody else’s problem, which was really all that mattered.

The third child, Narcissa Zaniah, as Cygnus decided to call her (denying her the honor of a ‘proper Black name,’ the petty bastard – as though the circumstances of her birth were her fault), was born early in summer, shortly after the Solstice. Walburga was delivered of a son – Sirius Orion – four months later.

The latter birth was cause for celebration, dismay, and political reorganization for various parties within the family, for it was blatantly preferred for the Heir-in-Waiting to be male. Cygus would, Arcturus declared, remain the Heir Apparent, but Sirius would replace Bellatrix as second-in-line for the position of Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Exactly how the girl had taken the news, Druella had no idea – Arcturus had told her alone, in private, behind secrecy wards, as though she was already a recognized adult. Afterward, she had spoken of it only briefly, with her usual dead-eyed calm, to the effect that she didn’t particularly care one way or the other.

Cygnus, Druella thought, was relieved. For the first time since his daughter (there was no Rosier in her at all, so far as Druella could see) had made her Declaration, he seemed to face her with a sense of resolve, uncowed by the darkness behind her eyes. Druella wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though the loss of her position as Heir-in-Waiting changed the fact that she was still unnerving and apparently immune to every form of punishment he brought to bear on her.

Meanwhile, Walburga had effectively secured her place in the family and Society. Everyone who was anyone made a point of calling on her at Grimmauld Place to offer their congratulations and sneak a peek at the new First Son of the House of Black. Apparently they had all forgotten the ill-concealed scorn they had held at her wedding in their rush to curry favor. For the first time, Druella found herself envying another woman her child – why could she not have been the one to bear a boy?

Her only consolation was that she was already back in peak condition by the time Sirius was born, while Walburga’s arse and sagging tits seemed unlikely to recover from the experience.

Chapter Text

(1961, September)

Bellatrix

Nineteen sixty-one was a big year for Bellatrix. It was the year she first killed someone (some pathetic worm of a wizard who attempted to use that curse on her down Knockturn Alley, while she was on an errand for her Master). It was the year she learned her first Unforgivable Curse (the Cruciatus, practiced on the Auror Bride, whom Eris said had fulfilled her purpose – thankfully Mr. Tom didn’t seem to recognize her). But most importantly, it was the year she left for Hogwarts.

The summer of 1961 was a very tense time in the House of Black, not only because she was preparing to leave her sisters in the dubious ‘care’ of their parents, but also because that was the summer that Regulus was born. Bella wasn’t really sure why it should matter, seeing as Sirius was already next in line for the position of Paterfamilias after Cygnus (a decision she had not contested, on the grounds that she would rather be her Master’s Apprentice than Heir in Waiting to Pater Arcturus). But somehow the existence of Regulus had set Cygnus and Druella at each other’s throats, even worse than they had been before Narcissa was born.

Bella wouldn’t normally have minded this, but her parents tended to lash out more when they were already angry with each other, and while she was more or less immune to Druella’s cutting comments and Cygnus’ curses and fists, Meda had never experienced their unadulterated wrath, and Narcissa was just starting to walk and talk and be exactly the sort of bother that was most likely to set them off.

July and August passed quickly, as Master Tom prepared Bella for Hogwarts, and Bella prepared Andromeda to take over her role as the designated protector of their youngest sister. She shopped for textbooks and school robes, for two-way mirrors and linked diaries – the former to keep in contact with her sisters, and the latter to continue her lessons, without the inconvenience of awaiting a post-owl. She learned the limits of what one was expected to know before Hogwarts (almost nothing) and memorized which of the spells she had learned over the past three years were illegal, and which she therefore could not admit to knowing at school (almost all of them). She ordered the elves to watch over her sisters, and come fetch her from school if Cygnus ever tried to use that curse on either of them. A week before the end of August, she was ready to go mad: everything was as prepared as she could manage, and there was nothing else to do but wait.

The train ride itself seemed to take forever. Cygnus and Druella made a big production of being seen seeing her off, and she claimed a compartment for herself, where she was quickly joined by a few of her closer cousins, as well as an Italian Bella (Zabini) with a sharp sense of humor and a sly, predatory grin. By the time they reached the Castle, Bella Black had made her first real friend.

Excitement built as the first-years followed the groundskeeper from the train to a fleet of small boats, and floated slowly to the Castle. They were met at the doors by a middle-aged Druid – the Deputy Headmaster, Ash-Crow. The Hogwarts Ghosts floated through the antechamber where the students were left to await their sorting, and then finally, finally, it was time. Bella had never been happier that Black was so near the front of the alphabet. It took real effort for her not to run to the Sorting Hat when her name was called, so excited was she to join the illustrious house of Slytherin.

The old cloth and leather fell down over her eyes, and she heard a voice whispering inside her mind: “What’s this? A Black Mage? Can’t say we’ve had one of those come through lately. Why it must be four-hundred years since we’ve had a child already Declared before Sorting!”

“I’ll thank you not to make a fuss over my Dedicate, Hat,” Eris snarked, her presence stirring almost sleepily at the back of Bella’s mind.

“Well, I’ll need to access her memories at the very least, Lady Chaos,” the Hat scoffed. “Can’t very well do my job if I can’t see what there is to see, can I?”

Just put me in Slytherin, Bella thought at it.

“That’s not how it works, little Magelet. I look at your memories and who you are, and then I tell you where you belong, not the other way around,” it chortled.

There was a sensation of something shifting inside her head before Eris said, “Fine, but hurry up about it.” She sounded rather huffy.

There were several minutes, then, of hemming and hmm-ing, and not a few tisks and even one ‘well, I never!’

“Well, well, well…” the Hat said finally. “You have passion, little one. Enough passion that even she hasn’t managed to crush it all out of you.”

“Oi!” Eris objected. The Hat ignored her.

“And declaring as a Black Mage without even knowing what it entailed – that is impulsive if ever I’ve seen it. You’d make a fine Gryffindor, for your personality. You’re clearly intelligent. I dare say there are seventh-years here who haven’t half the repertoire of curses that your Master has taught you already. But you don’t seek knowledge for its own sake. Similarly with Hufflepuff, you show an admirable degree of loyalty, but in a rather… limited capacity.

“Slytherin… you could do well in Slytherin, I suppose. You are, at your heart, a survivor. But aside from that, your personality is not truly suited for cunning. You are far too straightforward, my dear. Brilliant, yes. Cunning, no. And few ambitions of your own. But neither are you idealistic. Bother. A most unusual mixture of Slytherin and Gryffindor.”

I want to go to Slytherin, she insisted.

“Oh, well, fine, I suppose. SLYTHERIN it is,” the Hat finally conceded, the name of the House echoing around the hall. The house of the Snake clapped politely as she made her way to join them, wearing what would come to be known as the trademark Black smirk, already drafting a letter to her Master in her head. He would be pleased to know that she was, indeed, in his old House.

Chapter Text

(1961, November)

Andromeda

Eight-year-old Andromeda was, she knew, smarter than her older sister. Not that Bella was dumb, exactly. Mr. Tom wouldn’t teach her if she was dumb. She was way better than Meda at languages and magic, and Meda was pretty sure that wasn’t just because Bella was older. That didn’t change that Meda was just smarter. She watched and learned and asked herself questions and figured out reasons why things happened one way and not another, and no one ever had to tell her anything. Especially with people. Specifically, getting people to do what she wanted them to do. She just watched them and figured out what they wanted, and then did it, and they gave her what she wanted in return.

It was easy.

The lessons that Cousin Walburga had started teaching a much younger Meda about lying and flattering and scheming had been like reminding her of things she already knew, or putting instinct into words. And she had not forgotten since.

So when Bella was running around getting ready to go to Hogwarts and fretting about leaving Meda in charge of Cissy and worrying that she wouldn’t be able to handle their father’s violence or their mother’s disdain, Meda wasn’t. Worrying. Because she saw what Bella never did: Father didn’t hate (or sometimes even fear) Meda like he did Bella. He was still mean, but mostly he hurt her because he knew it hurt Bella to see her in pain. Mother didn’t see her as a problem-child. She expected Meda to act like Cousin Walburga – like a grown-up – and when she did, Mother was nice enough. As long as Meda said things and did things in the right way, and kept Cissy in the nursery, she knew she wouldn’t have a problem managing them.

Like Cousin Walburga liked to say, there was a right way to manage everything and everyone.

For example, just a couple of months after Bella left for school, Meda decided that she was bored, sitting around day after day, with only little Cissy and the elves for company. She was thinking of Cousin Walburga, and how, even after she became Aunt Walburga and moved to Grimmauld Place, Meda had still been allowed to floo over for lessons on history and writing and maths, as well as wand movements, potions and poisons, and dancing and fighting and all manner of things that a Lady of the House of Black should know. That had stopped when Walburga got too big with little Reggie, and had to stay in bed all day, but now that he was born, and Walburga was well enough to come over for tea with Mother, maybe Meda could have lessons again.

She waited until Walburga went home. She wasn’t stupid: Mother was always in a better mood after time spent talking to other adults, and interrupting was a sure way to make her angry. She waited until the elves cleared away the dishes, and refreshed the flowers in the centerpiece, and Mother was settled at her desk, but not yet doing anything in particular. And then she waited to be acknowledged, hands folded, feet still, eyes down, not in the center of the doorway, but unobtrusively to one side, ready to move out of the way if anyone wanted to get through – not demanding attention, but asking for it, quietly, and in the acceptable way.

Mother ignored her for a long while, writing a passage in her diary. Meda was nearly positive that this was a test. She was determined not to fail. Finally, after half an age, Mother looked up and drawled, “What is it, Andromeda?”

She curtsied as she knew she was supposed to, before she finally looked up, meeting her mother’s eyes with confidence. Confidence, Walburga had always said, was the key to gaining what one was rightfully owed. “If it is not too much trouble, Mother, I would like to resume my lessons with Auntie Walburga,” she said, keeping her voice bland and even.

Mother heaved a great, put-upon sigh, her eyes travelling over Meda’s robes, shoes, hair and pose, looking for any detail out of place. There were none – she had been very careful. “Very well,” she said at long last. “I shall enquire. Be gone with you.” She shooed Meda away.

The girl curtsied again and said, “Thank you, Mother,” before vanishing as silently as a ghost.

Walburga

The chime for the floo rang not three hours after Walburga returned home from her aunt’s house, in the midst of feeding her younger son. She instructed Kreacher to see who it was. She was uninterested in chat, but if it was someone she could not turn away, she would, of course, suffer through.

“Is being Mrs. Druella, mistress,” the elf squeaked.

Walburga groaned. “Again?” She knew her aunt was bored, having little to do most days aside from mind the house and children (which she refused to do), now that she and Uncle Cygnus were on the outs again, as her influence had long since been fading in Society. But she, Walburga, was not bored, and quite frankly had better things to do than pander to a has-been socialite.

Unfortunately, she was family.

Even more unfortunately, Uncle Cygnus was Arcturus’ designated heir, and her own husband wasn’t even in the running, which meant that until one of her sons took over the family in another twenty years or so, she was obliged to keep the harpy happy.

But twice in one day? Ugh.

“Auntie Dru,” she said pleasantly, handing the baby to the elf, and moving to sit before the floo. “What a surprise.”

“Walburga, darling! Tell me, now that you’ve been delivered of your most recent… child, how do you feel about resuming your teaching of my Andromeda? Bellatrix, of course, is off to Hogwarts, and Narcissa is much too young, but Andromeda was in my rooms pestering me today after you’d left about when she would see you again.”

Pestering, ha! If Little Andromeda had been any sort of pest, Walburga would eat her favorite hat. Of a certainty, had she been a true bother, Druella would never have floo’d to ask a favor on her behalf. She smiled. She liked Meda – really, she did. The girl was quick, and had a way with people that she only hoped her own children would inherit. Bella had been a trial at the age of seven, when Walburga had moved in with them: more mistress of Ancient House than her mother, and disinclined at first to relinquish her authority to her new ‘older sister.’ Meda, in contrast, had been a perfect angel from day one, eager to learn anything and everything Walburga could teach her. Their lessons had continued long after Bella began her tutoring with de Mort, the enigmatic young political radical and Theory Master. (If that was all he was a master of, Walburga would eat her second-favorite hat, too, but that was beside the point.)

The point was, Walburga wouldn’t mind teaching Meda again at all, but she was already quite busy with her own children. She was determined to be involved in their lives. Her own mother had died young, but her sisters and father had always been there for her, and she wanted to be as good a parent to her own children as they had been. It wouldn’t be fair to Meda or to the boys to try splitting her attention between teaching the elder child, and raising the little ones. Besides, Meda was eight, now, and every bit as mature a child as Druella could possibly have hoped for. It was about time she started taking responsibility for her own child.

“I wish I could, Aunt Dru, but I’m just too busy, now, with the boys,” she said firmly.

“Why you prefer to spend all your time with them, I shall never understand,” Druella sniffed.

No, you’d prefer to spend your time perfecting your appearance and wasting away before a mirror, she thought nastily. “Auntie, Little Meda is eight now – that’s old enough to learn proper adult’s etiquette. I’m sure you’re entirely capable of teaching her yourself. Or perhaps one of your Rosier cousins might be willing?”

“It doesn’t mean I want to, though,” the older witch grumbled petulantly. Walburga marveled, and not for the first time, over the fact that Druella was supposedly nearly fifteen years her senior. She certainly had never acted like it. “And could you see Cygnus allowing a Rosier to teach one of his precious Black girls anything?” she added with a snort. The Family was a touchy subject with Druella, since she had had her little… indiscretion. Cygnus allowed Narcissa to carry the Black name, and would certainly use her when it came time to marry her off, but it was obvious just looking at her that any Black blood in her was from further back than her father.

“Andromeda is your daughter as well, Auntie,” Walburga pointed out patiently. “We all know that Bellatrix is a trial to you, but Meda is a good girl, and will be a credit to your teaching.”

“Fine, fine,” Druella muttered. “I’ll do it myself. But you owe me!”

How does she figure that one? Walburga wondered. But she said, smoothly: “We’re family, Aunt Dru. Favors mean nothing against the ties of blood and marriage.”

The obnoxious bint disappeared from the flames with a final harrumph. The young mother remained, blinking at her rudeness, for a long moment past the point when the flames reverted to their natural colors. “Well, good day to you too, Lady Hag!” she muttered snippily before calling for her child again.

She hoped, belatedly, that she was not dooming young Andromeda too harshly by insisting that her mother get off her potion-maintained arse and do something about the raising of her own children, but in any case, it was too late now.

Chapter Text

[tw:   non-con/rape, incest, pedophilia, child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor]

(1962, July)

Bellatrix

Bella’s first year at Hogwarts moved at once much more quickly and much more slowly than she preferred. The magic they learned was terribly dull, in comparison to the things that her Master had taught her, but for the first time, she was surrounded by other children her own age – a novelty indeed. She occasionally found them tedious, but between her own penchant for enacting painful mischief on any who displeased her, and Isabella Zabini’s charm, the two girls had held their year easily in sway, even, on occasion, attracting the attention of their older Housemates. She had gone home at Yule, too, and having been assured, both by Meda’s frequent mirror-calls and seeing her sisters in person, that they were well enough in her absence, she returned to Hogwarts content to revel in the relative freedom that the absence of Cygnus’ rage and Druella’s constant insistence on ladylike perfection demanded within the walls of Ancient House.

It was too good to last.

She returned home for the summer holiday in high spirits, thrilled to be at the top of her class, with correspondents eager to write over the coming months, and a wealth of new experiences under her hat, if not exactly a wealth of new knowledge. Her father took exception almost at once.

He had clearly decided, she thought miserably, that twelve was old enough to be put in her place (beneath him) more directly than he ever had done in the past.

After everyone had gone to bed, he came to her room, casting a simple, stupid Body Binding Jinx on her before she could so much as reach for her wand – making her helpless in the face of his wrath.

She should have known, she realized belatedly, that when he had not tried to do anything painful or humiliating to her over the Yule Holiday, that he was planning something even worse – but she had been too wrapped up in her excitement about Hogwarts, and her new friends, and her relief that Meda was well, despite having undertaken the monumentally stupid experiment of lessons with Druella.

Eris’ hold over her soul gave and place in her mind helped her to resist that curse – let her ignore the taunts and the physical pain as though it meant nothing – but it, she, could do nothing to prevent the most juvenile of dueling spells from taking effect. Bella could not refuse to hear his hot breath whispering in her ear about how he would not have her returning to his house, forgetting her place, thinking herself superior. “Where is your goddess now?” he asked, ripping her apart.

Not there, that was for sure.

She and Bella Z had talked about sex, holed up in one of the little nooks of the commons. The elves had told her about the mechanics of it. Eris had told her how it changed relationships between people, and Walburga about the verbal dance of innuendo surrounding the subject. Zee had told her more – knowledge gleaned from spying on her parents and older relatives. They had even snuck out together to watch the Walpurgis ritual, months before.

Bella knew, now, that the things Cygnus forced her to do were supposed to be fun and wild and given freely – not taken or forced. (That was, she had understood, belatedly, part of the sacrifice for the Corruption of Apollo, so long ago.) She had always known it was wrong, because she was not to speak of it, but it had not fully set in, before, that the true horror of the ultimate punishment was not meant to be that curse, but the forced touching itself – and now it was an expression of his power and his ability to still take from her all its own, even if the curse no longer worked.

She thought the knowledge made it worse.

He forced his way inside her, not by magic – simply and brutally crushing and tearing at her body with his, his power overcoming any efforts her own might have made to protect her. It was a pain unlike anything she had known before – deeper, physically, and she found herself unable to push it from her mind, now that she knew, knew what he meant by it.

You are nothing.

You can’t stop me.

There is nothing you can do.

I still have the power.

I own you.

She was every bit as helpless as before Eris broke the hold of his imperio, and she couldn’t un-know it.

When he finished, he vanished the evidence, healing her visibly wounded flesh, but leaving the internal pain and ache of it as a reminder. He left her, half-disrobed and helpless, still frozen in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her wand, useless, on the desk, until the spell wore off.

Time to think.

Time to be miserable and helpless.

Time for it all to sink in – for her to be revolted – horrified. Afraid.

She wasn’t.

She was furious.

She wanted to kill him.

She would do it. She would! A piercing hex, slit his throat… It would be so easy.

She could crucio him first. She hated him enough to make it really hurt, she knew.

She didn’t care if she had to run away after. She would renounce her name and go live with Master Tom in the summers.

The door hushed over the carpet, and a shadow moved on the ceiling as someone tiptoed around the room. Andromeda’s face came into her field of vision, suddenly. She had Bella’s wand, and was whispering the Finishing Charm. It took her a few tries to get it right, but she did, eventually, and helped Bella cover herself before curling up beside her.

“I heard Father leaving,” was the only explanation she offered.

Bella wanted to kill the bastard so badly, but then… what would happen to Meda and Cissy?

Arcturus was hardly better in her mind than Cygnus: he had done nothing at all to stop her father’s ‘punishments’ over the years. Would he hurt her sisters if she dared to break their fragile truce, if she were to just do it – just end Cygnus once and for all?

Would she be driven out and kept from them, unable to protect them?

Could she risk it?

No. She didn’t think she could.

Love is a weakness, her Master’s voice whispered at the back of her mind.

They’re mine, she argued to herself. I won’t leave them.

Even her master, for all he claimed to be cold and unfeeling, and care only for power, understood that one did not give up what was one’s own.

“If he…” she whispered, looking down at Meda’s curls, neatly braided for sleep. “If Cygnus ever, ever touches you… if he forces you to do anything for him, or uses imperio on you, Meda, or on Cissy, tell me.”

“Why? What’s it do?” the younger girl asked, her voice soft with sleep.

“It makes you want whatever he tells you to want,” she answered, pinching her sister slightly. “This is important, pay attention.”

“’m up!” Meda snapped, squirming away.

“Good. You have to tell me if he ever lays a hand on you, if he ever touches you, or makes you touch him, understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Promise me you will!” she demanded.

“I promise, but why?”

“Because if that rotten bastard ever does to you what he just did to me, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him without even hesitating, because nobody does that to my baby sisters. Okay?”

Meda hugged her tightly around the middle before she whispered. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The little girl snuggled close again, and quickly fell asleep. Bella didn’t know when she finally drifted off, but when she woke up, her wand was still clutched tightly in her hand.

Chapter Text

[tw: bullying]

(1964, September)

Narcissa

Narcissa Zaniah Black learned that she was unwanted when she was five years old. That was the year that her big sister, Meda, joined their even older sister, Bella, at Hogwarts, and their mother decided that she didn’t want Narcissa around, either.

Narcissa had two first-cousins: Sirius and Regulus, who lived with Auntie Walburga and Uncle Orion at Grimmauld Place, in London. She had met them, at family gatherings, which she had become accustomed to over the two years since she had been introduced to Magic. Sirius was her age – a few months younger, actually – and, though she wasn’t supposed to say it, a stuck-up prat. Reggie was a baby, nearly two whole years younger. She had just met him for the first time at Midsummer. Uncle Orion was always around the background and she didn’t know him very well, but she liked Auntie Walburga. The older witch was much nicer than Mother, and had Meda around for lessons every second day. She had promised Narcissa that when the youngest Black witch turned five, she could start attending lessons, too, but then decided to wait until Sirius turned five, as well, and teach them together.

Before that happened, though, Bella came home for the summer and had a talk with their mother and Auntie Walburga behind the warded door of Mother’s solar. After that, Mother and Father had had a fantastic series of rows, over, it seemed, everything and nothing, and then, only two days before Meda and Bella were to go to Hogwarts, Narcissa was packed off to live with Auntie Walburga, and Sirius and Reggie.

She cried, the first night, not quite managing to hide her tears when Andromeda called her on the mirror she had inherited from Bella: now that both of her older sisters would be at Hogwarts, Narcissa got one for herself, and they would have to share.

Meda had whispered to her for hours, telling her that she and Bella still loved her, and that Bella had made Aunt Walburga promise to take care of her because they didn’t want to leave her alone with their parents, who were, as even Narcissa knew, horrible people. (Bella peered over her shoulder only for a moment, looking rather bedraggled after her latest fight with their father, with a sort of dangerous, feral protectiveness lingering in her eyes, to say ‘be good,’ and that she would see Narcissa over the holidays.) Besides, Meda said bracingly, this way Cissy could get to know Sirius and little Reggie – it would be nice, she insisted, spending more time with kids her own age.

But Narcissa knew it wouldn’t be nice. At home, she was the baby of the family, and Meda always took care of her. Now her sisters were gone, and she was stuck with Sirius, who said mean things when Auntie Walburga wasn’t there, and Reggie, who was just too little. She didn’t want to stay at Grimmauld Place!

Sirius teased her because she didn’t look anything like the rest of the family, telling her that her parents didn’t want her. That she was a bastard. A mistake.

The dark, draughty townhouse was nothing like the warm, safe nursery she had lived in all her life, and Auntie Walburga’s cold and upright propriety (while nothing compared to Mother’s meanness) was no substitute for Meda’s steady presence. The girl on the other end of the mirror couldn’t brush her hair or have tea with her, and as the weeks went on, she had less and less time even to talk to the little sister she had left behind.

Narcissa learned to hide the pain she felt at her cousin’s jibes and her aunt’s rebukes behind a frigid mask of her own, but she still woke up, months later, with tears on her face.

She wished she could just go home – that everything could go back to the way it used to be.

But she couldn’t, and it wouldn’t. Even Meda and Bella had said that this was what she had to do, and if they weren’t willing to go against the adults – if it was, indeed, Bella’s idea in the first place (the traitor) – there was certainly nothing Narcissa could say or do to change their minds.

But they couldn’t make her like it, and she was fully capable of making sure everyone knew it.

Sirius

Cousin Narcissa, Sirius thought, was a brat. Every time he saw her, she acted like a stuck-up little princess. Like she was trying to pretend to be his mother, or something. She was always looking down her nose at him, like he was such a baby, even though she was only four months older. That was hardly any time at all. And besides, he was the Heir. Well, the Heir in Waiting – but still. She was just a girl. She was going to be married off someday, and then she wouldn’t even be a Black anymore.

But in the meanwhile, everyone always tried to make them play together while the adults did their rituals, just because they were the same age, and no one seemed to realize or care that they didn’t like each other.

When Sirius found out that Narcissa was going to be living with them for the foreseeable future, he was angry. He didn’t want her hanging around all the time. If she was, he’d have to share lessons with her, and see her at meals, and he’d never get to do anything fun.

He listened closely from the top of the stairs as Mother slowly convinced Father that she would be staying anyway, no matter what he or Sirius wanted. Once Mother decided something, it happened. She, apparently, had always wanted a daughter, and was convinced that having Narcissa move in with them would be just like when Cousin Meda was little. Even Father’s argument that “Cygnus doesn’t want the bastard in his house – I don’t see why we should have to take her on,” made no difference. Mother gave him a tongue lashing that ended with, “She is family, bastard or not! And I will not have you making her unwelcome here! Powers know she has to get enough of that from her parents!”

Sirius had almost fallen down the stairs when he heard that. He knew the word bastard. Liam Rosier had gotten in loads of trouble for calling Ian Mulciber one just a few weeks before, when they had all been at the Averys’ waiting for their fathers to be done with some meeting or other. Father had said that it meant your father wasn’t really your father, and your mother had broken her marriage vows. He had also said that calling someone a bastard when you knew it wasn’t true was almost as bad as calling them a mudblood or a squib when you knew it wasn’t true.

Sirius could hardly believe it – Auntie Dru was a scary-proper old lady, and he couldn’t imagine her breaking any vow – but Mother hadn’t denied it, and it was true that Narcissa with her light hair and blue eyes looked nothing like a real Black. They didn’t say who her father was, if it wasn’t Uncle Cygnus, but that didn’t really matter: It might have been the funniest thing he had ever heard, that Perfect Princess Narcissa wasn’t even really a Black.

She cried, and he laughed, the first time he told her she was a mistake. After that she tried to pretend she didn’t care, hiding all her feelings behind a spoilt brat mask, but he knew she still did. He didn’t know how long it would take for her to crack, and break down again, but he was determined to find out.

This game, he decided, was much more fun than Chess or Snap.

Chapter Text

(1964, September)

Andromeda

Lots of people in Andromeda’s year would say that being Sorted was a defining moment in their lives. Slytherin or Ravenclaw? Gryffindor or Hufflepuff? Your life could be awfully different if you were in a different house. Not for her, though. There had never been any chance that she wouldn’t go to Slytherin (“Deceptive and cunning, eh, with ambitions of power and control? I know just the house for you, little krait…”). When she looked back on her first year at school, it wasn’t those first few hours or even days that stood out as a point when her life changed. It was one afternoon, in the library, about a week before Samhain. One conversation, with one person, that lasted less than five minutes. Maybe less than three.

She had gone to check out a book for her Astronomy assignment, due that evening, with every intention of finishing it before dinner. She had checked the Catalogue, and was closing in on its place in the stacks, when a boy in her year with a Hufflepuff badge swooped in out of nowhere and snagged it off the shelf.

He turned and saw her glaring at him, and gave her a half-shrug and an insincere, “Sorry.”

“I need that book!” she had demanded. “I have to finish my essay!”

“So do I,” he had pointed out.

“I was on my way to get it specially.”

“So was I. Obviously. And I got here first.”

“I have plans after dinner. I need it now.”

“Did you want to share?” The Hufflepuff’s eyes were dancing. She nearly stomped a foot in frustration. He knew she didn’t. And she didn’t have time for this.

“Do you know who I am?” she snapped. Even people who didn’t know her knew Bella, now a fourth-year, and everyone was well aware that the Blacks were not to be crossed.

“Andi something, right?”

“Andromeda Tatiana of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

His mouth quirked slightly to the side. He was laughing. At her. “Never heard of them,” he drawled. “Edward James Tonks. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out a hand, which she sneered at.

A mudblood. A mudblood was laughing at her. Of all people. “I don’t know how your people do it,” she said, in her most cutting imitation of her mother, “but wizards recognize when they are in the presence of their betters, and accede to their requests without debate.”

The infuriating mudblood snorted. Snorted. And then he said, “What, exactly, makes you better than me? I got here first, so you can just bug off until I’m done, Andi.”

And then he turned on his heel and marched back to his table and his Hufflepuff cronies, passing over the book to one of them, without another word or the slightest deference, or even a farewell. The nerve of him!

When she told Bella about it later, her sister taught her a nasty little curse to use on him, to teach him his place, but she didn’t see him for another three days after that, and by the time she did, she couldn’t get his parting question out of her head.

What did make her better than him?

She was a Black, and that entitled to whatever she wanted (obviously), just because… but she knew as well as anyone that because alone wasn’t a real answer.

The line of thought his words raised made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and she never did get around to using that curse on him.

Chapter Text

[tw: murder (POV perpetrator); moderately explicit]

(1965, May)

Bellatrix

Nineteen sixty-five was, if possible, a bigger year for Bellatrix than 1961 had been. She had bested her father in a duel for the first time (and the thrill of danger that had always accompanied visits home and the stinging bite of humiliation when she lost was nothing compared to the rush of power seeing him helpless before her for once). She had finally reached the age of consent (and so was now considered an adult by everyone who mattered, though not quite by the government). She was pleased with Andromeda's seamless integration into life at Hogwarts and her own success in lodging little Narcissa with Aunt Walburga, safely out of their parents' hands. And of course, she and Zee were well-positioned to become the undisputed co-queens of Slytherin when they returned for their fifth year, with the teachers eating out of the palms of their hands and even the older students too intimidated to even dream of opposing their influence.

But perhaps most importantly, after almost seven years, her Master had declared her apprentice training in the Dark Arts to be satisfactorily complete. He had invited her to join the ranks of his Knights – the only girl, and his youngest-ever recruit. He had offered her a mastery challenge – to prove herself against those older men, who thought themselves more powerful, and earn her place at his right hand. He had promised her the world at her feet – all she had to do was take it.

She wanted to. She wanted it more than she could remember ever having wanted anything in her life. Over the ten years since she first met him, she had grown from an impulsive child to a powerful witch – a credit to his teaching. She was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was proud of her and her accomplishments. All she wanted was to stand at his side, in service to him: a perfect weapon, forged and sharpened by his hand; a lieutenant trusted above all others, her will and her hand an extension of his own.

Eris’ presence always shifted in the back of her mind at thoughts like that, though whether with interest or irritation was difficult to say. Her goddess didn’t entirely approve of her Master, though she would never say why. Their connection had become almost dormant over the years, fading from the vivid visions and clear whispers of her childhood to the vaguest of impressions, which made communication (even now, on the day Eris was strongest) difficult in any case, but Bella suspected it was because he was such a precise, self-controlled person – anathema to Chaos, despite creating an increasingly clear thread of discord in society at large.

She was well aware of what the Knights of Walpurgis (called by some the Death Eaters, which they didn’t seem to mind) were doing. She had never been allowed to join them on their raids, but she was raised to politics – she would have had to be very stupid indeed not to realize what Mr. Tom and his “associates” were up to when she had helped incapacitate an auror for investigating them years ago, and he teasingly revealed new torture techniques on her all-too-rare visits to his home. (Boarding school really was terribly inconvenient, even if she had already mastered Shadow Walking, and it wasn’t all that difficult to sneak out.) In brief: they practiced Dark Arts on muggles, spreading fear and consternation among the Aurors and the Light.

She thought they could do better.

Her Master wanted power, and he would have it. She would give it to him, in repayment for his years of teaching.

Once she had established herself within the ranks of his Knights, she would lead them into glorious revolution in his name, spreading the ideals of the Dark to all corners of their society. She felt her Lady’s approval and support sweep through her at the thought of the war that was to come and the unfettered freedom that was sure to follow.

Secure in the knowledge that her plans would please both her goddess and her Master, she faded into her own shadow and vanished, making her way through scraps of darkness toward her official declaration of allegiance.

Shadow Walking was a vampire trick. It was rare for living witches and wizards to have a strong enough affinity with elemental darkness to manage it without substantial practice (she had started trying when she was nine, and hadn’t managed it until midway through her third year). There was a steep learning curve, and it was inherently dangerous: all the books warned against accidentally vanishing oneself and getting lost in the Shadows. But once one mastered the knack for slipping through one’s own shadow, it was kind of fun (and very useful, as it was so difficult to ward against). She aligned herself with the feeling of her Master and the expectation of her bonding ceremony, and “pulled” herself through the place where all shadows were one, sliding back into Reality a bare quarter-hour after she left it. Not a bad time, for traversing half the Island.

“Impeccable timing, ssh’ih,” her Master drawled as she stepped out of a shadow in his office. She beamed at the praise and the pet name. He only called her his viper when he was especially pleased with her, or else in an especially bad mood with someone else. It was easy to see that it was the former tonight. He was lounging at his desk, not bothering to maintain the illusion that disguised his inhumanly pale skin, sharp, reptilian features, and red eyes under a more human version of the same. She was glad. She didn’t mind the illusion of his original face – young and handsome – but the intermediate form (which he inexplicably preferred) looked like an emaciated, strung-out corruption of the perfection that was his true form.

“Master,” she greeted him with a bow, before coming around to peek at the book he was reading over his shoulder, but he pushed it aside and turned to take her in, instead.

She smirked, and twirled, the full, heavy skirts of her black dress (the outer robe neglected this evening) flaring to reveal cleverly-concealed, blood-red panels. The corseted bodice was enchanted to be both flexible and spell-resistant, and set off her pale breasts to what Zee assured her was excellent effect. She’d ordered it specifically with the idea in mind that it would be gorgeous to fight in, even if it was ever-so-slightly less practical than dueling trousers.

“Do you approve?” she asked lightly, seeing his eyes grow dark with what she strongly suspected was lust.

He sniffed, pretending indifference. “That Zabini girl is turning you into an incorrigible flirt.”

She had introduced him to Zee at the Festa Morgana over Yule, despite the fact that neither of the fourteen-year-olds was, technically, supposed to have been there. Her best friend, who prided herself on being able to charm anyone, had been most put out to fail at putting Bella’s Master in thrall. Her smirk grew even wider. “The number of young wizards who appreciate my talents is sadly lacking. Zee claims I shall catch more flies with honey.”

“Oh, does she?”

“Indeed. I, however, rather suspect that I shall catch the one I desire with blood.” She allowed a bit of feral viciousness to enter her smirk, and was pleased to see that he mirrored it precisely.

“Well, then, ssh’ih, we shall have to give you every opportunity to do so.” She bowed in acknowledgement, fighting a mad giggle. “Come,” he continued. “I have made preparations.”

He stood, offering his arm, and then, with a crack, they appeared on a mountain in a darkened grove, the only light pin-prick stars high above. There was a muggle girl, there, lying on the ground, bound hand and foot. She had tears in her eyes, panicked even before she was startled by their sudden appearance. A closer look as her eyes adjusted suggested that her Master had gone out of his way to find one that bore more than a passing resemblance to her, with long, curly, dark hair, and matching dark eyes. Her face was slightly more rounded, and her body less fit, but they looked at least as alike as she and Andromeda.

She raised an eyebrow at him, questioningly.

“A sacrifice,” he explained.

She hadn’t realized that taking the Dark Mark was a ritual. All she had been told was that she ought to be prepared to swear the Three Oaths in the medieval form, and that she would be marked, at the end, as all of his followers were. “For what Power?”

“For us.”

Ooh, she thought. That kind of ritual. Well, that was fine with her. The rush of killing could be its own reward, as she well knew. She nodded.

“Kneel,” he ordered, and she did so, gracefully, feeling last year’s sharp, dead grass and the moist ground beneath her knees as her skirts – charmed to avoid hindering her movement – pooled around her.

“Your wand.” She offered it up, freely, laid across her open palms, and he twirled it in his long fingers before vanishing it into a pocket and folding her hands between his.

“Would you, Bellatrix Druella of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, swear homage, finding common cause in fellowship with Lord Voldemort and the Knights of Walpurgis?”

“I would, Master.”

“Would you swear loyalty, bound by our common cause and in common interests, to Lord Voldemort and the Knights of Walpurgis?”

“I would, Master,” she repeated.

“Would you swear fealty, following faithfully the direction of Lord Voldemort, to fight behind his banner in acknowledgement of his Lordship?”

“I would, Master.”

“Then do so.”

She took a deep breath before reciting the vow she had prepared. She was certain of the first part, for that was formulaic – but they had not discussed the terms of their agreement explicitly. She hoped she did not overstep in defining them. There was only one way to find out if she had.

“I, Bellatrix of the House of Black, swear before magic, before my Patron and my Master, to be true and faithful to Lord Voldemort; to love all that he loves and shun all that he shuns, and never, by word nor deed, do aught which is harmful or unpleasing to him. I swear unto him my loyalty, my wand and my blade, my honor and trust, to follow him until death and beyond, should he ask it of me. I swear these things that I might be held my liege’s most trusted companion; that he might have no secrets from me, and neither betray me nor our common cause, by word nor deed; that he might accept my service and in return mark me as his own.”

He nodded slightly, and she let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“I, Lord Voldemort, swear before magic, before my student and the stars, to hold to Bellatrix of the House of Black, accepting her honor and her trust, her wand and her blade, and above all her loyalty. I swear unto her that she shall be my most trusted vassal; that from her I shall hide nothing and no part of myself, nor betray her nor our common cause, by word or deed. I swear that I shall mark her as my own, a warrior of the Knights of Walpurgis, that she might fight on behalf of our cause and be known to all who would see as one of mine. As it is agreed, let it be so sworn.”

Pure euphoria rose within her as she completed the Oath: “As my Lord does fulfil our agreement, I am submitted to him, and so choose his will in all things. Twice and thrice-bound, this I swear, before magic, my Patron and my Master.”

She felt her magic reaching out toward his, binding them both to the terms of the oath, through their still-clasped hands. His own answered, sharp and cold as a winter wind, but he held back. “So mote it be. Rise, my vassal, and prove your worth before receiving my Mark.”

He guided her to her feet and nodded slightly toward the hysterical muggle. She raised an eyebrow at him. Did he mean for her to kill the girl without a weapon?

It seemed he did, for he smiled slowly. Challengingly.

She refrained from rolling her eyes. It wasn’t like she couldn’t do it, but killing the girl with her bare hands would just be… gauche. A knife would be far more elegant, and she knew some really impressive curses. Nevertheless, as her Master commanded, she would do.

She turned to the muggle and kicked her onto her back, straddling her and placing her hands loosely around her neck. She tightened them slowly, the tear-stained face growing livid as its pulse pounded ever-more-frantically against Bella’s fingers. The body bucked wildly beneath her, wrenching bound limbs, trying to escape, but Bella rode it out, and at last it stilled. The pulse ceased; bowels loosened (always the most unpleasant part); and its heat began to disperse into the night air. Bella herself was breathing hard, flushed with exertion and feeling as powerful and elated as the first time she picked up her wand. Okay, maybe there is something to be said for the… hands-on approach.

She giggled at her mental pun, and her Master helped her to her feet.

“I present unto my Lord this sacrifice, as proof of the virtue of my service,” she announced, only slightly less solemn than was probably proper.

“I accept the proof of your resolve,” he smirked. “Kneel to receive my Mark.”

Receiving the Mark was… thrilling. She supposed most would have called it agonizing, but she pushed away the negative associations with little effort: she had chosen this, wanted it, and was receiving it from her Lord and Master, the wizard she trusted above all others. She accepted it, and forced herself to experience it simply as a sensation, not a thing to be stopped or avoided, but reveled in. The process of inking the snake and skull tattoo into her flesh was nothing in comparison to the feeling of its magic, his magic, sinking its hooks deep into her own, altering her identity on a fundamental level so that she was no longer simply Bellatrix, First Daughter of the House of Black, but also just the tiniest bit him. She felt it bind her to the terms they had agreed upon, and him as well, the visible proof of their vows, tying them together as surely as if they were wed. She knew, in an instant, that if she ever needed him, he would come to her, and if he called her, she would know where he was. She could feel the magic settle in her bones, indelible. Even if she cut off her arm, she would always, always carry it with her. There was no difference between pain and ecstasy as the force of the connection overwhelmed her.

She came back to herself slowly, still kneeling, but swaying and moved nearly to tears, to see red eyes staring, fascinated, into her own.

“Thank you – thank you, Master,” she gasped. “Thank you, my Lord,” she corrected herself, trying the new title on for size.

His smile sent shivers down her spine. Bold on the high of magic and murder, and perhaps a bit of Chaos stirring in her blood, she rose to her tiptoes to seal the Oath of Homage with a kiss far more forward than the vow required. His lips curved again against hers as he set her back gently and presented her with her wand.

“Receive this weapon from my hand,” he murmured, “and wield it in my service.”

“My hands and my magic are yours, my Lord.” She recited formally, and bowed, slipping the wand into its holster.

“Welcome to the Knights of Walpurgis,” he smirked, offering his arm again and whisking them away to the evening’s revel.

When they arrived, before he could be monopolized by the men, he whispered in her ear, “Prove yourself and earn your place among them, ssh’ih, and then we’ll talk.”

She dove into the celebration with abandon, surrendering to her patron Power as fully as to her Master.

Chapter Text

[tw: recounting of murder, child abuse]

(1966, December)

Sirius

Sirius turned seven in November of 1966, just in time to participate in Yule as his first Family Ritual. It was a closely kept secret, exactly what the holiday celebration entailed. No matter how much he begged, his parents wouldn’t tell him. Even setting Reggie and Cissy on them didn’t work. Cousin Meda had looked a little uncomfortable when he asked her over the summer, and Cousin Bella, for all she was the awesomest cousin, and taught them all kinds of curses when she visited, had only given him what he and Regulus called the scary smile and told him he’d like it.

She was right.

His magic was positively fizzing in his veins after the ceremony – which he couldn’t stop himself from telling his baby brother all about, after dinner, when most of the extended family had finally gone home. Reg was going to be so jealous: he had to wait two whole years before he could join in himself.

“What happened after that?” the little boy asked, leaning forward on the edge of his chair.

“After that, Bella took a bone knife, and she drove it into the muggle’s throat – blood went everywhere, Reg, like che, che,” he mimed it spurting from his neck with his hands. “And then he finally stopped moving, and it was just a trickle, and Pater Arcturus finished the chant, and all the power of his life’s blood was sucked right out of it like schluup and into the Circle! And then –”

“Sirius Orion Black!” His father thundered from the doorway. “What, by the Dark Powers, do you think you’re doing?!”

Sirius cowered. Father did not get angry very often (only twice that Sirius remembered), but when he did, he exploded. “Nothing, sir,” he said as quickly as he could.

“Don’t you DARE lie to me, boy!” A curse struck, tearing through his robes in a flurry of tiny cuts across his chest and arms. They were so thin they didn’t even hurt at first, but by the time Father started yelling again, they were bleeding, and then they hurt. He collapsed to the floor, trying to give no sign that he saw Reggie creeping out the door. Get help, Reg, he begged silently. “You know the rules! Regulus is not old enough! Defying one of the most sacred traditions of the House!” Another curse, this one hitting like a giant fist. He thought he felt one of his ribs crack. After that, the pain was too much for him to pay attention to the words. There was a curse that made it feel like he was burning alive, and then one that felt like drowning, and then, miracle of miracles, Bellatrix was in the doorway, a panting Regulus half-hidden behind her.

“I knew you were no better than Cygnus, Orion,” she drawled, striding over and peering down at him. “Are you truly going to kill one son for daring to tell the other one tiny family secret a bare two years early?”

His father screamed, so angry there were no words. Sirius wished he could talk well enough to tell her to stop – that her interfering would only make him madder – but he had bitten through his tongue, and his words were too thick to understand. Bella wasn’t even seventeen. No matter how many curses she knew, Father, at three times her age, would surely crush her in a duel.

The boy could hardly believe it as she deflected the first two spells he sent at her (at him, really), and batted the third straight back toward Father. She followed it up with a whole volley of her own, one spell moving into the next like a dance, keeping him on the defense and his attention fully, blessedly, on her.

Father ducked and dodged and shielded himself, finally managing to get in a hit – a cutting curse that sliced deeply into Bella’s wand-arm shoulder. She laughed.

“Is that the best you’ve got, old man? I’ve had better duels with Thanatos Nott!”

Father shrieked, throwing curse after curse. Bella spun and dodged, chaining her own spells together with startling speed and accuracy, despite her wound, some of them throwing conjured knives or spears of ice at him, as well as the usual streaks and balls of light.

Sirius didn’t notice the arrival of the rest of the family until Pater Arcturus shouted, loud enough to shake the walls, “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Bella paused in her attack, instead working several shield charms around herself and bowing to their great-uncle. “A minor disagreement over Orion’s parenting strategies, sir,” she said, ignoring the sticky redness dripping from her hand. “You may want to see to Sirius,” she added coldly, nodding toward him, as another curse was absorbed by one of her shields.

“ORION. RIGEL. BLACK. What the FUCK have you done to my Heir in Waiting?!” Pater Arcturus bellowed, noticing the state of the child on the floor. “Hand over your wand!” he ordered, drawing his own.

Father must have sensed his imminent defeat, because he whirled on Sirius, casting a final spell before the Patriarch could disarm him or Bella could drop her shields to curse him first. His wand was flying into his uncle’s hands a moment later, but by then it was too late. Sirius could already feel his broken body shutting down, as though his soul and magic were pulling away from it.

He heard the adults shouting, and shriller than the rest of them, Bella, shrieking “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

And then there was a pain in his wrists (hardly distinguishable from all the other pains, anymore, and strong fingers wrapped around his arms. He couldn’t open his eyes, but somehow she forced her way into his mind, anyway. He recoiled, instinctively. He hated legilimency.

Hold still, she whispered inside his mind, I’m trying to save your soul.

WHAT?!

Her knowledge of the curse he had been hit with, and the damaged it caused, flitted across his mind – illustrations in a book of a man writhing in pain until he finally stopped moving and it re-set itself, as a vaguely amused voice explained, ‘It causes the connection between the soul and the body to rot, like a very slow, very painful Avada – very elegant, too, because it uses the target’s own magic as fuel.’ Bella in the memory giggled maniacally, before asking, ‘Can it be stopped?’ The same voice answered, with a smirk behind it, ‘You’d have to burn it out.’

Do it, he thought at her, as fiercely as he could manage. Whatever you have to. Don’t let him kill me. Don’t let him win.

Never, ever, let them break you, Sirius, she whispered, and with a feeling that wasn’t quite joy, she reached somehow back and down and through them both, calling on the Dark Powers in their purest form, welcoming the power into them without words. There was a thrill of excitement, and then everything that made Sirius himself – magic, soul, whatever he was – dissolved into fire and pain.

When he came back to consciousness, only his cousin and their Head of House were left in the room. He was lying on a sofa, his injuries tended to, though he still hurt, both his body and his… (his soul?) his everything else, in ways he didn’t even know he could hurt.

Bella was telling off Pater Arcturus, who actually, for some unknown reason, was allowing it to happen. “No, you listen! I just had to perform the Arzătoare și Întuneric on a seven-year-old. If you don’t take care of him, I will. And he will be lucky if I just kill him!”

“I will place a geas on him through the Family Magics to keep him in check,” the Patriarch offered, after a long, considering silence. “Acceptable?”

“He is not to raise a hand to his children or Narcissa, let alone a wand, or I will put him down like a mad dog.” There was uncompromising ice in his cousin’s tone. For him, he understood suddenly. She would kill Orion for what he had done to Sirius. To protect him and Reggie and Cissy.

He didn’t think he had ever felt such love and gratitude toward any member of his family before.

Arcturus nodded. “It will be done,” he said, and they bowed to each other like equals before the old man turned on his heel and stalked out. Sirius’ eyes widened. What had she done, for a girl still nearly a month shy of her majority to be treated by their Head of House as his equal? For her to dictate terms, and him to listen?

Bella tossed her hair and glared imperiously after him. “Worthless excuse for a patriarch,” she muttered under her breath.

Sirius couldn’t quite suppress his snort of laughter.

She smirked. “Better then?”

“Been worse,” he said, struggling to sit up, and she laughed aloud at his poor attempt at bravado. “Hey, Bella? Thanks.”

She ruffled his hair and let him sleep on her lap until the sun rose, and Mother came to fetch him home.

Chapter Text

[tw: unhealthy D/s dynamics, rated 'R' for sexual content]

(1967, January)

Bellatrix

Bella let herself into her Master’s study at Malfoy Manor. He had his own headquarters, of course, but Abraxas had volunteered the house and grounds for use as a training ground over summer and Yule holidays. It would be, he had suggested, far easier to convince the parents of her schoolmates to allow them to visit the main Malfoy property than an undisclosed location owned by a man with no political standing in Magical Britain, and her Master had agreed as though he was doing Abraxas a favor, and not the other way around.

“My Lord,” she greeted him, bowing in accordance with her current (dueling) attire.

“Bellatrix.” He didn’t look up from whatever he was writing, but she took his acknowledgement as permission to flop into a nearby armchair and continue her report.

“Nott is still a pansy, couldn’t even beat McCulloch, and McCulloch’s only fifteen. Parkinson’s doing alright, though, and it’s clear Yaxley’s brothers have given him a good foundation in the basics over the years. I’d put him on par with the latest group of initiates.”

“I’ll vet Yaxley before the end of the holiday, then. Keep an eye on the rest over the summer, and let me know if any of the others look like likely candidates for next Yule. What else?”

“Prince and Avery are considering asking your thoughts on a union between Zorian and Crystal.”

He just shook his head, still distracted by whatever he was working on. “You can tell those indecisive bastards that I’ve no thoughts whatsoever regarding the union of their spawn. Wait – Zorian’s the one who still can’t do a proper cutting curse, isn’t he?”

“No, that’s Dorian, the Masters kid. But he’s a pretty good cursebreaker, so I recommended him to Pulaski to train as a healer. He’ll just be in the way in the field anyway.”

“Okay, then, yeah, I don’t care. What else?”

“I’ve been looking over Von Helmsthal’s notes on the Sandstone Project. Any reason it was abandoned?”

“The substance didn’t do what he wanted it to do, and I’ve no particular interest in Alchemy. Why?”

“Mind if I use it for my Arithmancy NEWT project? The preliminary cross-planar implications of some of the effects he describes look like they could be interesting.”

“If it gets too interesting, you won’t be able to turn it in,” he frowned, striking something out.

“Unless I recruit Professor Hardy.”

“That old bastard is so deep in Dumbledore’s pocket you’d have a better chance of killing him and getting a spy in as the replacement.”

Bella sighed. “Fine, I’ll find something else. Maybe adapt a suite of charms into High Elvish. Truly useless ones, like butterfly illusions.”

That finally made him look up. “Why?”

“Because it’s obnoxiously difficult and completely pointless and would make it more than obvious to everyone who’s paying attention that NEWTs are just one last stupid hoop for me to jump through before I come join you and do what I do best,” she smirked, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

He gave her a charming grin, wearing his original, handsome face today. “The irony will doubtless be lost on your peers. What else?”

She hesitated only the briefest moment before she said, “It’s my seventeenth birthday this Saturday.”

He raised an eyebrow at her questioningly. “And I suppose you’ve decided what you want from your old Master on this very special occasion?”

“Sex,” she said baldly. She had been meaning to bring this up for weeks, and hadn’t found a good time to bring it up more subtly. At least the straightforward approach managed to startle him into going completely blank-faced, which was highly amusing. “With you,” she specified, in case that was unclear.

“I did understand that, thank you,” he snarked. “Why? And why now?”

Of all the answers she might have expected, that certainly wasn’t one of them. He was not unobservant – he had to be aware that she had been lusting after him for ages. She’d thought she’d caught him eyeing her similarly on more than one occasion as well. Quite simply, she was tired of waiting and flirting and teasing and never getting anywhere. “Um… have you met yourself?” He didn’t react at all, so she sighed and elaborated. “You know that I find you absurdly attractive. And you said we could talk about it after I’d earned a bit of respect for myself.”

“Hmm… and how is that mastery project going, by the way?”

“I’m working on it!” she protested. “It’s hard to arrange that many accidents without someone getting suspicious, especially when I have to keep showing up for classes. Besides, all the men have to know by now that I’ve more than earned my place.”

“Your place in the ranks of the foot-soldiers, yes. After you bested Malfoy and Nott two-on-one, I doubt they had any concerns about that. But they won’t accept a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl as any sort of leader. You must know that there is no way I could publically acknowledge any relationship between us at least until you’re out of school. Probably not until you’ve led a few raids and I can set you to training a round of initiates full-time, actually.”

“Who says we have to tell them?” she asked, crossing her arms stubbornly. “I’m not asking you to marry me, just to fuck me!”

He looked faintly amused. She couldn’t tell if that was an improvement over blank-faced shock or not. “Well, that’s good, because I’m certainly not going to marry you. But what makes you think I’d want to fuck you, either? You’re not exactly my… type.”

Now it was Bella’s turn to stare in astonishment. “I’ve spent twelve years becoming exactly the person you wanted me to be! How am I not your type?”

“I prefer to hurt my partners, Bella,” he elaborated, tone carefully neutral. “And you, my vicious viper, are not a victim.”

She considered this for a long moment. It was true. She could put on fear, reluctance, and helplessness. It wouldn’t even be that difficult. She wasn’t a victim any more, but she had been less than two years before, and she had enough memories of that time in her life to easily build a victim persona. She was fairly certain that she was good enough at Occlumency that he could legilimize her mid-orgasm and not break her out of a false persona unless he was actively trying to do so. Maybe not even if he was trying. But they would both know it was only an act: she could not fear her Lord and Master; had been practically begging for him for years; and any scene where she did not fight would be so blatantly out of character that it couldn’t be anything but. If that was truly what he wanted, then no, it would never work.

On the other hand… “Wanting to hurt me and wanting me to be a victim are different things,” she pointed out defiantly.

“Are they?”

She looked down, disappointed, unable to face his piercing blue stare, and spoke to her knees. “I can play at being a victim. It wouldn’t be real, because I trust you and I’m yours, and I want to be what you want me to be. You can’t take anything from me though, truly, because I would willingly give you everything. I would submit to you in every way, be helpless and scared at your feet if that’s what you want. I would accept whatever torture you chose unmoving if that’s how you wanted me, or fight until you overwhelm my defenses and subdue me with curses and fists. I’ll forego twisting the pain to pleasure if you want to watch me suffer... I want you in every way – in any way – you would have me: my body is yours as much as my wand or my blade. I… I just want to be everything you want me to be. I just… I need you to tell me what that is.” She ended with an inarticulate noise of frustration.

At some point during her impromptu speech, he had stood and walked around his desk. She could feel him looming over her chair, but she refused to look up until he reached out a hand and tipped back her chin for himself.

He had dropped the glamours. His expression of alien fascination looked more at home on reptilian features, and somehow it was easier for her to meet red eyes than blue. His fingers brushed lightly along the line of her jaw before falling to her bare shoulder and making their way down to her Mark, strikingly dark against her pale skin. She watched raptly as he examined it.

“You are not like other people. You know that, don’t you?” She nodded hesitantly. The… peculiarities that accompanied her Declaration to Eris were a topic they had never fully discussed, but they would both have to be complete idiots not to realize that. “Sometimes I forget…” He trailed off for a moment. “You didn’t scream when I gave you this. Didn’t fall to the ground in tears, begging for the pain to end. It was… different.”

“Is that a good thing?” Hope, the greatest of evils, rekindled itself in her breast.

“An interesting thing, certainly,” he answered idly, feeding power into the Mark without purpose, letting it build, burning cold, the edges of the skull and snake growing raw and red. Her breath hitched, as she pulled the magic, the pain, deeper into herself, accepting it as a gift from her Lord, in the same way she had welcomed the Dark into her soul barely two weeks before. It radiated through her body, searing her blood and leaving a dull, frozen ache in her bones. She felt herself grow wet, and squirmed in her seat.

His gaze grew heavy as it shifted back to her face. She knew her own pupils must be blown with arousal, even if her shallow, desperate breaths weren’t advertising her state.

“Please, my Lord.” She gasped as the power he was still feeding into the Mark flared. “Please, tell me what you want – anything – I’m yours.”

“What if I wanted to see you lying in my bed wearing nothing but your own blood, writhing beneath the Cruciatus, panting for release?” he asked, as coolly as if they were discussing the weather.

The image brought to mind was almost as exciting as his magic racing through her veins, pulsing in time to her heartbeat. “Gods and Powers, yes, anything!”

“What if I wanted to watch you struggle for breath at my hands, fuck you with a dull knife, burn your pretty eyes out of your face, ruin your perfect skin with scars that would never fade?”

She hesitated there, but only slightly – she was not so vain that she would place her own beauty above his pleasure, and even eyes could be regrown. She did not, however, leap at the prospect of a long and tedious recovery, no matter how intense any such experience was sure to be, and it showed in her tone as she offered a much more reserved: “My body is yours to do with what you will, my Lord.”

He made a tut-tut sound, and there was cruel laughter in his voice when he asked, “Where is your enthusiasm, Bella?” It was gone in an instant as he bent to whisper, “What if I wanted to torture you until your mind locked itself away? Squeeze the air from your lungs and watch your body cool before me? I did so enjoy watching you strangle that girl on the night I gave you your Mark.”

She shivered. She had known that the muggle had been chosen to look like her – it was obvious, as soon as she’d seen her. She hadn’t realized that he’d gotten off on it, though. “Until death and beyond,” she said solemnly, equally quietly. “I swore it.”

He froze, for half a second, and his tone changed. She had a suspicion she had just passed some sort of test. “What if I wanted to humiliate you? Forced you to service me before the Assembled Knights, or if I preferred to see you fuck one of them?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She did not want to touch anyone but him, but she would if he demanded it. “I am at my Lord’s command… but somehow I rather doubt you like to share.”

He chuckled slightly. “What if I wanted you to hurt me?”

He would let her…? Her own sadistic tendencies were no secret, but she had never considered hurting him. She was certain her shock showed on her face, because he chuckled again. She just nodded, sure her desperation would show in her voice if she spoke aloud.

“What if I said I preferred only to hurt you, and never touched you in any other way?”

“Whatever my Lord prefers,” she answered shakily as another pulse of magic emanated from the Mark, throbbing through her. She looked down, briefly, noting the state of his trousers, beneath his open robes, and added, as drily as she could, “though I suspect that you shall not say so, my Lord.”

“Cheeky wench,” he smirked, then bent close again, to whisper in her ear: “Why wait until Saturday?” He stepped away and had his wand raised before his suggestion fully registered, and before she could speak, he added, “Defend yourself,” and started throwing curses.

She deflected and dodged, tumbling out of the chair and rolling to her feet, returning the odd spell when she could, but he was still by far the better duelist: he won two out of their every three matches, even when they started on even footing and she didn’t truly want to lose, just to see what happened next.

He disarmed her in short order, with a jinx that wrenched her shoulder from its socket along with her wand from her hand. She snarled and threw herself on him, knife barred, before he could bind her and have his way with her, slamming her injured joint into his gut in an attempt to pop it back (which failed, excruciatingly), wrestling him for his own wand.

He tossed it away, useless at close quarters, and needing both hands to counter the jabs and slices of her blade. He pummeled her with feet and fists, his longer reach and years of experience to his advantage, eventually gaining control of the weapon and slicing her clothing to ribbons, carving red-hot lines into the flesh beneath. His own robes and trousers vanished wandlessly, with a hiss of Parsel, as he pinned her to the ground.

He caught her gaze and thrust himself into her mind and body simultaneously. She still struggled, fruitlessly, against his longer, heavier limbs, but she let him into her mind willingly. She never used Occlumency against him – she had no secrets from her Master.

She let him run through her memories, drawing forth the ones closest to the surface: fighting and fucking with a crowd of faceless witches and wizards at Walpurgis; the feeling as her Master’s magic seared through her a bare hour before; cursing one of her Rosier cousins until he came, shuddering before her, to her immense surprise, then wondering if she would do the same, under the right wand; her Marking – white-out pain/pleasure, deeper than the Cruciatus; Zee showing her for the first time that sex could feel good, that it wasn’t always about pain and power and taking; the moment she first realized she wanted that with him, not painless, perhaps, because that would be boring, but sex freely given and shared; giggling with her Italian friend in the Commons about honey and blood and catching the eyes they desired; spinning before her Master in her Marking dress, looking to him for approval in training, half a dozen fights won and lost between them, surrendering to him; never surrendering to Cygnus, no matter how badly she was beaten, or how viciously he took her; the feeling of ecstasy the first time she broke free of his Imperius, when she had him lying at her feet, when she told him she would kill him; her first kill; the girl at her Marking; not thinking, just feeling, aware of nothing but the rush of power, when they lay dead before her and she was so very, very alive.

He dwelt on that memory, that feeling, pounding into her as she rose to meet him, forgetting that she was meant to be resisting him, twining her limbs around his own, scoring lines into his back with her nails as they lost the rhythm, as the pressure building at her core overflowed and he stiffened in her arms. She dug the fingers of her good hand into the taut muscles his arse as both of them shuddered and convulsed with aftershocks, then let it fall to the floor, exhausted, but sated.

He rolled free of her unceremoniously, leaning on one elbow and looking around at the mess they had made of his study. Parchment littered the floor; the walls and desk were scorched and blasted. An ink bottle had smashed, and there were boot-prints tracked over the rugs. One of the armchairs had completely exploded, sending stuffing and bits of wood and fabric everywhere. She was suddenly very aware that she was lying on at least two of these splinters, digging into her left hip and shoulder – the same shoulder that was still dislocated. She sat up and wrenched it back into place with a grimace.

He smirked at her, then deadpanned: “I suspect that this meeting has been counterproductive for my plans this afternoon.”

She sniggered slightly, wondering what Abraxas would make of the mess. “Chaos, disorder… my work here is done.”

“Happy birthday, minx. Now what happened to my wand? I would literally kill for the illusion of a cigarette right now…”

Chapter Text

(1968, October)

Andromeda

Three years after Andromeda met an infuriating Hufflepuff in the library; one year after she admitted to her friends that yes, that Tonks bloke really was quite cute, for an impertinent mudblood; and six months after she finally admitted to herself that she didn’t understand why Blood Purity really mattered, Bellatrix graduated.

Just after exams, while the seventh-years were off celebrating the end of their Hogwarts days, and the fifth-years were passed out after their OWLs, and everyone else was packing and lazing and enjoying their last few days with their friends, Edward James “call me Ted” Tonks had tracked down Andromeda Tatiana “my name is not ANDI” Black and asked her if she’d like to meet up over the summer.

Her eyes had grown wide and she looked around in a panic – if Bella found out about this, she would be dead. Tonks would probably be literally dead. And his entire family. (Meda had no illusions about what the Death Eaters did, nor that her sister was one of them, nor that said sister would go to extreme lengths to put any potential suitors firmly in their place: Jasper McCulloch still wouldn’t speak to her after Bella spoke to him after he asked her to the first Hogsmeade weekend.)

Thankfully, no one had been near. She had glared at Tonks, and dragged him by his collar into an empty classroom, sending privacy spells at the door. “Are you completely mad?” she had hissed. “No, I can’t meet up with you over the summer! If my sister finds out you even talked to me –”

“What’s she going to do? Kill me?” he had laughed.

“YES!”

He had rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Andi.”

“Don’t call me ANDI, Tonks! It’s not my name, and we’re not friends!” They weren’t. Just because he was cute and she had realized that blood was blood and magic was magic and life was life no matter what, and wouldn’t curse him in the halls like some of her classmates, didn’t mean she liked him.

“Sure we are. And it’s Ted.”

She had made a strangled little noise of frustration. Conversations like this were the point where her argument that muggleborns weren’t really all that different fell apart. “I cannot associate with you! CAN. NOT. Bella would kill you. Father would have me betrothed to one of his friends by the end of the summer!”

“We can go to Muggle London. No one needs to know.”

“How in Circe’s name would I get to Muggle London? And you’re still assuming I’d want to go out with you, which I don’t,” she had added after a second’s pause. “I don’t even like you!”

He had just smiled, that so-charming, disingenuous smile. “Sure you do.” (“No, I don’t,” she had interjected.) “But I get it – crazy sister, overprotective parents – it’s fine.” She almost laughed at the thought of her parents described as overprotective. “I get it. I’ll see you next year,” he said confidently, heading for the door, then turned back and winked. “Andi.”

She had just grumbled under her breath and let him go without correcting him, because really, he was right: she did like him. He was straightforward and kind and stubborn and had never once bowed and scraped before the Black Family Name and Bella’s determination to prove that the family reputation for insanity was well-deserved. (After three whole years of Slytherin and Ravenclaw boys doing exactly that, she could see the value in one who didn’t act like she was a possibly-unstable princess to be cautiously fawned over).

But he was a muggleborn and a Hufflepuff, and so, so ignorant about the way the world worked, and who she was and who he was. The only reason he didn’t act like the other boys did around her was because he was too stupid to recognize the danger her family represented. He thought she was just a pretty, stuck-up rich girl who liked him because she didn’t tell him to bugger off.

She couldn’t go out with him, and that was that.

And now she had a problem, because it was the day before the first Hogsmeade weekend of her fourth year, and she had turned away everyone who had asked her, for various reasons that all really came down to their not being the one she really wanted. So she didn’t have a date already, and the one she did want (but shouldn’t have) was standing in front of her saying, “How about it, Andi? Go with me?” and “Come on, your crazy sister isn’t here anymore, you can do whatever you want,” and “It’ll be fun. I’ll buy you lunch at that new tea shop…”

“Nothing’s changed since last year,” she pointed out, as coldly as she could. “If I’m seen with you, ever, Father will find out, and he will sell me off to the highest bidder before I even graduate. And let me tell you, after ‘sullying yourself with a mudblood’ the highest bidder is a lot less attractive than the one you would’ve gotten before.”

Tonks just sighed. “So that’s a ‘no,’ then?”

“Yes, it’s a no, you moron!”

“You do like me, though,” he pressed, sounding a little uncertain, for the first time she had ever heard.

“Yes,” she said in a tone of pure exasperation. He perked up at once. “I mean – I don’t dislike you.” Gods and Powers, that slow smile was going to be the death of her. She wanted to kiss it off his stupid face. “I don’t hate you on principle…”

“Just go with your girlfriends, then,” he suggested, almost slyly (for a Hufflepuff). “And meet me here, on Sunday, at noon. I’ll get us lunch from the elves and no one will have to know.”

“Here?” she raised an eyebrow at their surroundings.

He nodded earnestly.

“In an abandoned classroom?”

More nodding.

She couldn’t help but smile, just a little, at his hopeful expression. “Merlin, you really know how to treat a girl,” she quipped.

“So you’ll come?”

She waited a long moment, keeping him in suspense, but then sighed. “If anyone asks, you’re tutoring me in… Runes. I was too embarrassed to admit it to anyone who matters, which is why I asked you, and not a Slytherin or Ravenclaw.”

“Yes!” Tonks hissed, beaming, pumping his arm in celebration of his success. Meda rolled her eyes at the mugglishness of the gesture, but didn’t say anything. “Brilliant! This is so great! I’ll see you Sunday! And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.” He tried to keep a straight face, but was quickly grinning again, clearly unable to hide his excitement.

She scowled. “It’s your neck on the line if you do,” she pointed out drily, but he just laughed and waved and practically skipped out the door. She sighed. He wouldn’t even have to tell anyone. They’d know just by looking at him. She’d have to be extra careful to act normally, so they wouldn’t figure out that it was her he was seeing in secret.

She did like him, after all.

At least enough that she didn’t want to see him dead over her.

Chapter Text

[tw: murder]

(1968, December)

Regulus

Regulus Arcturus, baby of the Black family (or at least the Blacks who mattered), was thrilled to finally be included in the Yule Ritual. He was. Really. But for a seven-year-old, knowing for two years that you were going to have to watch someone die – even if they were just a muggle – was a long time to sit in suspense.

No one was paying any attention to him, at all, as he lurked in a corner of the Receiving Hall.

Sirius was throwing a strop because after Bella did whatever she did to save his life two years before, dark magic hurt him. He was still brilliant at it, but he wanted nothing at all to do with it. The healers went on about over-sensitization and over-exposure, but what it came down to was that Sirius was no longer the perfect (if slightly rebellious) Heir in Waiting. The more their parents forced him to practice Dark Arts and every time they dragged him, kicking and screaming, to the Family Holidays, the more he refused to be anything like them. He had even tried running away into the muggle world a few weeks before, only to be dragged back by their irate mother.

Mother was angry with Sirius for refusing to act properly – pain or no pain, you are a Black, and you will act like it! Father, under Family Magic not to hurt him or Sirius or Narcissa, who had moved back in with her own parents and Bella over the summer, was drunk. Because, he said, there was no way he could put up with Sirius’ behavior sober and keep his temper. This only made Mother angrier, because the whole family was there, even the most distant cousins, and you are embarrassing us in front of the rest of the house, Orion!

He normally sat and chatted with Meda and Cissy, who were by far the nicest of his cousins, while he was waiting for family functions (mostly funerals for distant cousins, lately) to start, but this was Meda’s year to debut at the Festa Morgana later in the evening, so the girls (including the ones he hardly knew: Meissa, Delphinia, Electra and Gemma) were talking about clothes and shoes and hair and generally being boring. The other boys, Draco and Serpens, Nash, Polaris and Eridanus, were all older than him, and had made it clear that they didn’t want him hanging around. It could be worse, though. At least he wasn’t trapped with all the really little ones in the nursery, like he had been last year.

There was a crack and a moment later, Bella appeared, floating a body-bound (or maybe petrified) man in from the Apparition room – the night’s sacrifice. She was wearing her dueling clothes: a reminder, he thought, of the events of two years ago for Pater Arcturus and his father… but it could just be that she found them more comfortable than formal robes. Bella was weird like that. It was hard to tell if or how she was playing the game, a lot of the time. She had moved home (to Ancient House, not Grimmauld) after Hogwarts, half a year ago, now, and he still hadn’t figured out how to read her, even though he saw her at least twice a week for magic lessons (because Siri didn’t complain half as much when it was Cousin Bella demanding he learn the Dark Arts). She didn’t care about the same things most people did, and that made it almost impossible figure out what she was thinking. For example, she was almost nineteen, which was practically ancient for an unmarried witch in their family (Sirius was born when their mother was eighteen), and Bella wasn’t even talking about finding a wizard yet.

She set the muggle – he had to be a muggle, with clothes like that – against one of the walls while she greeted Pater Arcturus and Mother (it wasn’t polite to do so with her wand drawn) and some of the more distant cousins, laughing about something or other that Mother had said.

The muggle’s eyes, rolling in fear, found Regulus’, and locked with them, practically begging him to help, to set the man free. It was… disturbing, that look.

Maybe the girls’ talk wasn’t so boring after all.

Pater Arcturus led the ritual, all in Latin, and too fast for Regulus to translate.

Bellatrix assisted, as Sirius had said she would. Why her and not Uncle Cygnus, who was the Heir, or any of the older ladies, neither of them knew. But she was the one who anointed the sacrifice with oils and drew runes with black paint on his now-bare chest. She was the one who sketched the power diagram on the altar, and brought him to it. And she was the one who cut his throat with, as Sirius had said, a bone-bladed knife, gleaming in the torchlight filtering into the circle. It was Black Arts, calling on the Solitary Power to take the life and magic of the man and add it to that of the Black family – or at least all the ones in the circle. He shivered again as the man stopped moving, and the blood stopped spurting. His eyes glazed, staring right at Regulus, as Pater Arcturus finished the chant, sealing the ritual.

Regulus felt a bit ill as he noticed the power the death raised, rushing through him, making him and his own magic stronger. He felt the connection to his family, and their separate-ness from the rest of the world. The ritual, among other things, was clearly one of the many ‘little differences’ between Blacks and Everyone Else that made them special.

But no amount of specialness made him feel less sick at the thought that he had just watched a man, a person, a human being (even if he was a muggle), die, right in front of him. That the man had stared at him as he died. He, Regulus Black, in his black ceremonial robes, all cleaned up for the holiday, was the last thing that man would ever see. When it was finally over, the body lay steaming slightly in the cold night air. Bella waited until almost everyone had gone inside before she burned it to ash, and headed back in herself.

Regulus watched the wind scatter the ashes for a long, long time, until Narcissa came to find him. He didn’t realize how cold he had grown until she knelt beside him at the edge of the altar-stone, and wrapped her arms around him.

“You missed supper. The grown-ups have gone to the Ball,” she explained, without preamble. “Auntie Walburga said that since we couldn’t find you, you would just have to floo home by yourself.”

“They just left me?”

“Siri was being a brat.”

“Siri’s always a brat.”

Cissy laughed. “Come inside, you’re going to freeze to death out here.”

Regulus shivered at the thought of death, and then, as though his body had finally gotten the message about the temperature, found he couldn’t stop. His hands especially didn’t want to stop shaking, even after going inside and begging hot chocolate from the elves in the kitchen, and then retreating to one of the sitting rooms.

“Are you all right, Regulus?”

“I’m…” he started to lie, but stopped at his cousin’s pre-emptive I know you’re lying look. “No. I – I’d just never seen anyone die.” He hung his head, ashamed at his reaction to the ritual. “I knew it was coming and…”

“It was a shock for me, too,” the girl admitted, letting him scoot closer to her in the window-seat. “The first time, you know.”

“I don’t know why it bothers me so much!” he said shakily. “Sirius thought it was awesome! And it was just a muggle, I shouldn’t care so much.”

“Meda says that it’s because muggles are human, even if they’re not magic. She says it’s different watching a person die, even a muggle, because they’re not just animals, no matter what Bella and your mother say. She says that the magic, the life, wouldn’t be nearly as powerful of a sacrifice if they were.”

“Do you believe that?”

Cissy shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Bella says they’re higher in the Hierarchy of Sapience than most animals, but still animals. She said I was just unnerved by seeing Death up close for the first time, and I’d get used to it.”

“Did you?”

“Kind of. It’s less of a shock, anyway, when you know exactly what’s coming. And you have to admit, the power rush is really good.”

“Yes, but… He was looking at me, when he died, the muggle. And his eyes, they went all glassy…” He shivered again. “I don’t think I like dead people very much.”

Narcissa giggled. “Does anyone really like dead people? They’re all icky and, well… dead.”

“Icky?”

“Icky,” she said firmly. “Still icky, even after the third one,” she added, “but you do get used to it. A little. I don’t know if I could do what Bella does, and I don’t like it, but it’s part of the ritual. Someone has to.”

Regulus nodded. That he understood. “Icky,” he confirmed. He liked that. He could deal with icky things, if he had to. Like flobberworms, or shrimp salads.

Narcissa gave him another hug. “Are you going to go home, or stay here and wait to see how Meda’s coming-out goes?”

He rolled his eyes as expressively as he could. The girls’ conversation before had been awful: he could only imagine what they would be like when they returned. “I’ll go. I’d better make sure Sirius and Kreacher haven’t killed each other, anyway.”

His cousin giggled. “I can’t believe he’s having a fight with a house elf.”

“You’re not the only one with a crazy sibling. I think he just likes picking on someone who can’t fight back.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Don’t say that – they’re family, and family’s important, you know that. Bella’s a little… off. But she takes care of me and Meda.”

“Do you like living with her? More than living with me?”

She ruffled his hair. “Well, it was nice not being the littlest… Truly, though, it’s nice to be back. I can fly whenever I want. And I still see you all the time anyway, so it’s not that different.”

“Well, I miss you. Sirius is rubbish company,” he pouted.

“Don’t whine, Regulus,” she ordered. “Lessons will start again soon, anyway. Come on, if you’re going home, I’ll see you off, and then I’m for bed.”

“What about Meda?”

“She’ll wake me up when she comes back,” Cissy yawned.

Regulus followed her obediently to the floo, and stepped into the spinning flames, wishing he could have just switched Cissy and Siri at birth. He would much rather have the cousin who noticed he was missing and always made him feel better as his sister than the prat who was currently dumping oil all over the stairs and ordering Regulus’ favorite elf to clean it up the muggle way for a brother.

Chapter Text

[tw:   non-con/rape, incest; murder]

(1969, January)

Narcissa

Sometimes, Narcissa thought, it felt like she was the only person in the entire family trying to actually take care of them all. This had to be the worst Yule in the history of Yules. First she had had to comfort Regulus, who had just seen Death for the first time, and now, not two weeks later, she was trying desperately to clean up Meda after nearly walking in on their father doing… unspeakable things to her.

Fortunately she had had the presence of mind to stop as soon as she heard the strange grunting, struggling noises, and only peek around the door, or she would probably be in just as bad of shape as her sister. He had roughed her up like a muggle before using the Imperius to force her to… Narcissa didn’t even want to think about it. She’d hid in the hall until he was done, and then gone at once to try to help.

“Get Bella,” her sister mumbled, her eyes uneven from where he had smashed her head against the wall.

“Bella’s not here,” Narcissa muttered, understanding for the first time why her sisters had never allowed her to live with her parents after they were both out of the house. They must have thought it was safe to move back after Bella graduated, but she wasn’t at home tonight. It was her nineteenth birthday, and Isabella Zabini had ‘kidnapped’ her to ‘paint the town red.’ She wouldn’t be back for hours.

Cissy helped the fifteen-year-old to her feet, and into her own bedroom, from the parlor where she’d been left, like a pile of rubbish. She started to call an elf – she had no idea what to do – but Meda, more quickly than Narcissa had thought she was able, at the moment, clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t. He’ll… find out… you know,” Meda croaked. “My wand…” she muttered. “I can… I can fix this.”

“Are you sure you should?” Cissy asked. She knew better than to do magic when you couldn’t concentrate. Bella always said that that was what got you killed in a fight.

“Narcissa.”

“Okay, I’ll get it, just hang on. Don’t fall asleep,” she added, afraid that she would come back and not be able to wake her. Meda nodded, slightly, eyes closed. “Meda, I mean it! Don’t fall asleep!”

She ran, but her sister’s wand wasn’t in her room, or in the parlor. Had Father taken it? There had to be potions to use when you hit your head, but Narcissa didn’t know what they were. She sprinted back to her room, instead.

“Here, use mine,” she panted, pulling the wand she used for lessons from the drawer of her desk.

Meda grimaced, but cast several spells weakly at her throat and head. The bruise-marks from his hands faded, and her voice was clearer when she said, “Where’s mine?”

“I couldn’t find it. I think Father took it.”

“Don’t,” she coughed. “Don’t… call him father.”

“But…”

“Cygnus. Like Bella.”

Narcissa nodded, then said softly, “Okay.”

“Go to another room and… call an elf to go… fetch Bella,” Meda instructed her. She immediately felt like an idiot for not thinking to do that herself.

“Yes. Yes. I can do that.”

Meda mustered a weak smile, and said, “Good girl.”

Narcissa ran down the hallway and called for Bixie. The elf returned with a rather drunk Bella within minutes, before sleepily returning to his quarters.

“Cissy? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Meda, you have to come...”

Her sister’s inebriation seemed to vanish in an instant. “Where is she?”

“My room.”

Black ladies did not betray their emotions by running, but they did on occasion stride very quickly, and Bella’s legs were far longer than Narcissa’s. She put propriety aside for once, and hurried to keep up.

The eldest sister cast a quick series of diagnostic charms, before sending Narcissa off to find a pair of potions – one for concussions – light purple, opaque, and smelling of chamomile – and one for pain, which she was already familiar with: she used it every time she tried something too adventurous and crashed her broom.

By the time she returned, Meda was mostly healed, and trying to explain what had happened.

Narcissa listened miserably. It had started at dinner, when Fa – Cygnus had announced that he had received several letters expressing interest in Meda immediately following her debut, and suggested that they should arrange Meda’s marriage as soon as possible, to occur the summer after she graduated from Hogwarts, lest Bella’s unladylike reputation begin to wear off on her.

Cissy had been shocked, but that was nothing to Meda’s reaction: She had obviously responded without thinking, nearly shouting no. She had quickly covered by saying that it seemed so rushed, and that she truly wanted some time to herself before she was married off, obviously hoping to get Mother on her side, but Cygnus had been adamant. It was clear that the more she fought him on this, the worse a match she would be saddled with.

After a very few minutes, Meda had bowed her head in acceptance, but there had already been a light of fury in Cygnus’ eyes. She explained that he had found her after dinner and… assaulted her in the parlor, hitting and shoving and shouting at her before using the Imperius curse to force her to – she looked at Narcissa before she admitted it, but Bella ordered her to say it – before forcing her to take him in her mouth.

Bella was furious. Cissy didn’t think she had ever seen her eldest sister angrier. She threatened at once to kill the rapist bastard, as she had apparently once promised Meda she would. Meda nodded grimly, but Narcissa hesitated. It was a horrible thing to have done, but she could hardly contemplate cursing their father in cold blood. Ritual sacrifices were one thing, but this was… murder.

Bella fixed her with a cold stare, and Meda whispered, very, very quietly, that this was not a one-time offence: Cygnus had done the same thing to Bella all the time, from when she was younger than Cissy to the day she managed to fight him off. The only reason she hadn’t killed him years ago was that she feared for Meda and Cissy, left with only their mother and Pater Arcturus to look after them.

“Is – is that true?” Narcissa asked, hesitantly.

Bella nodded. “Longer than I can remember, until the winter I was fifteen,” she fumed. “I promised Meda when she was your age that if he ever touched her, or you, I’d kill him. And now I’m out of school, so I can take care of you – there’s no reason not to do it, and he crossed the line, touching Meda.”

Cissy took a deep breath to steel herself, then said, “I’ll help.”

Her oldest sister smiled cruelly. “You can watch,” she corrected. “But I won’t need help.”

“Poison,” Meda said, suddenly. Bella raised an eyebrow at her. “I want you to poison him. As painfully as you can. Like he poisoned this family.”

“Done. I need to talk to someone,” the birthday witch said. “Stay here. Ward yourselves in. I’ll be back before morning.”

Bella returned perhaps an hour later, grinning, with a vial of clear liquid and a needle attached to a glass tube.

“What is it?” Meda asked.

“Basilisk’s venom.”

Meda and Narcissa shared a look of disbelief. Basilisks were very rare and very dangerous. Their venom was one of the most poisonous substances known to wizard-kind, and very, very painful, according to the books in the library. “I think that should do,” Meda said approvingly.

“Shall we, then?” Bella asked, as though she was simply stepping out to the shops.

“Wait – what happens after?”

“I figured I’d take him out to the Altar at the Keep and use fiendfire to destroy the body.”

“What about the aurors? Pater Arcturus? They’ll notice that he’s disappeared.”

“I already told Arcturus that if Cygnus or Orion laid a hand on any of you kids again, I would be dealing with it. And as for aurors, that’s what Occlumency is for, dear.”

Meda froze, clearly considering something, for several long seconds. “Cissy can’t be there.”

“But Meda…”

“It’ll be fine, Andromeda. What’s the worst that could happen? We get caught, and I go to Azkaban?”

“Yes.”

Bella waved the concern away. “My Lord would have me out in a matter of days, and besides, she deserves to see it. You both do.”

“And what happens if they use Veritaserum and ask if she’s ever seen anyone die? She’d have to tell them about Yule, and then the whole family would be in danger.”

“Obliviate me,” Narcissa interrupted. They both looked at her. “Or use the pensieve.”

Bella tapped her wand against her lips for a moment. “Pensieve. The missing spots are less obvious that way. In fact, we should do it for both of you. Good thinking, Cissy. Now, if that’s all, I propose we capture the objective and head to the back garden. Dying tends to be a bit messy. And smelly.”

Meda still looked a bit uncertain, but she nodded, and Bella stalked out, looking for all the world like some sort of dangerous dark creature, despite still wearing the silver and crimson robes she had intended for her party. Meda and Cissy followed, hanging back slightly.

The eldest sister stunned their father in his bed, and levitated him out of the house. The middle sister snatched her wand back possessively from his bedside table before she followed. The youngest lingered by the door, keeping watch on their mother’s, down the hall.

Meda, in a surprising display of viciousness, cast a sound ward around the patio, explaining in response to Narcissa’s questioning look: “I want to hear him scream.”

Bellatrix gave her a feral grin, which bore only the faintest resemblance to an actual smile, then woke the man with a vicious lightning hex, rather than the reviving charm.

“Good morning, Father,” she drawled. “Surprised to see me?”

He looked around, confused and angry, before reaching for his absent wand.

“Make a note, Cissy,” Meda said. “We need to destroy his wand, too.”

All three of them ignored the shouting that ensued at that comment, knocking him to the ground with schoolyard jinxes every time he moved in their direction.

“Oh, I don’t know, Meda. I told him that if he ever touched one of you, he would disappear. I think it would be appropriate for his wand to remain behind.”

“I want to break it,” the younger girl insisted.

“If you must,” Bella shrugged, before turning to the wizard and silencing him. “You are a sick bastard, you know that? And this is coming from me. I mean, what kind of revolting piece of scum takes a liking to raping his own daughters? I thought it was just me, you know – that there was something about me that really pissed you off – but then, I thought we had an understanding, too. What happened to you doing whatever you could get away with to me, but leaving them alone? Or did that offer expire when I finally had you at my feet, instead of the other way around? Answer, you fucker!”

He stuttered out something that might have been a denial, before he was silenced again.

“Lies. Lies, lies, lies – and not even convincing lies! You should be ashamed, Cygnus. Lying is an important life skill. Meda, Cissy, do you have anything to add?”

Narcissa shook her head, but Meda stepped forward, glaring at the man on the ground. “Everything in the world is about sex except sex,” she quipped. “Sex is about power.” And then, for the first time, at least that Narcissa knew of, kind, soft-hearted Meda used the Cruciatus Curse.

Cygnus writhed before them, twitching and straining as his body tried to tear itself apart. After a few seconds, Bella dropped her silencing spell, and let his screams echo around the patio. Meda watched, almost fascinated, her face a mask of rage and pain and hate. Bella bounced on her toes, laughing. Her little sister dropped her spell after a minute, panting slightly. “That was for Bella, you bloodless worm,” she said, and spat on him.

“Aww, Meda, I love you, too.” Bella kissed her on the temple before turning to Cygnus, her tone sweetly mocking. “Any last words?”

“F-F-Fuck-k y-you,” he stuttered out, glaring up at the daughter he had been at odds with ever since Narcissa could remember. He didn’t even spare a glance for his two younger children.

“Been there, done that,” she cackled wildly. “If you’ll recall, that’s rather the problem. Do try to keep up, Cygnus… for a few more minutes, at least.” She silenced his attempt at a response. “Uh-uh-uh, you already got your last words. Now, Meda, do you have a preference for restraint spells?”

Andromeda, who seemed to be a little lost after her first successful Unforgivable, shook her head.

“Hmm, well, in that case, daddy dearest, I’m sure you remember this little number: Petrificus totalus.” His body snapped into rigidity, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “Our dear father used this spell on me the first time he went so far as to actually fuck me,” she said as an aside to her sisters, though without actually looking at them.

Narcissa felt slightly light-headed. Her fingers crawled into Meda’s hand, seemingly of their own accord.

“This isn’t about me, of course, but it seems like a bit of poetic justice nonetheless,” Bella grinned, and un-capped her vial of basilisk venom, siphoning it into the needle-tube.

“Normally I’d take a bit more time with this, you know,” she said lightly. “But I think it’s best if you’re gone before the elves realize it, and the girls deserve to see you go, so alas, it will have to be relatively quick… but it can still be painful.”

She rolled him over, tearing his robes open with a wave of her wand, exposing his spine, and slipped the needle methodically between his vertebrae, twice, then a third time, before rolling him back and dispelling the Body Bind. He shrieked and flailed, crying for the pain to end. It could not be worse than the Cruciatus, but perhaps in being less overwhelming, it seemed so. His legs stopped working first. He tried to pull himself away from his daughters’ unforgiving stares with only his arms, but they gave out as well within seconds. Finally his mouth began working soundlessly, as his lungs ceased to function. His eyes glazed slowly as he suffocated.

Narcissa thought his last sight might have been Bella cackling madly, Andromeda vomiting on her own shoes, and Cissy herself staring, frozen, at the tableau, horrified. She was with Andromeda: killing someone was one thing, but this… this torture was nauseating.

If anyone deserved it, of course, it was a man who raped his own children, but she didn’t have the stomach for it.

She and Andromeda slipped off to Meda’s bed, leaving Bella to clean up while they held each other close. Neither one slept.

Chapter Text

[tw: non-con/rape, incest, self-hatred, depression]

(1969, April)

Andromeda

Ted Tonks was not a stupid boy.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that there was more to Andromeda’s sudden withdrawnness after their return from the holidays than the sudden disappearance of her father, and the more-blatant-than-usual neglect of her mother (who had abruptly returned to the Rosiers, leaving Ancient House in Bella’s hands).

Her sister had done a good job, disposing of the body, coming up with excuses, clearing their wands, hiding Meda and Cissy’s memories, and lying to the aurors, her own Occlumency unnaturally perfect. The efficiency with which she had done so spoke of experience Meda didn’t really want to know about. The investigation was still open, but the Aurors had no leads. Bella had returned their father’s wand to Meda along with her memory of that night (and every suspicious family activity she had ever participated in), and Meda had taken great satisfaction in cracking it over her knee, wrenching the dragon heartstring from the acacia wood, and vanishing the pieces.

The memories, however, were less satisfying.

Along with the knowledge that she had tortured another human being (the Cruciatus just made her feel dirty, even when used on a man as despicable as Cygnus) and witnessed his torture and killing (at Bella’s hands, but in her name), but she had also had to re-assimilate the motive for his murder, which meant, to her disgust, re-living the rape: the golden feeling of Imperius euphoria and the sensation of her hands and mouth working his revolting member at his discretion, her will entirely subsumed within his own; the harsh words he had spoken, as he struck at her with fists and feet, ramming her head into the wall and accusing her of following in Bella’s rebellious footsteps; the anger in his eyes, driving him to overpower her in every way, and her own helplessness before him.

Every time she thought of it, it made her sick, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The worst part though, she thought, might have been the fact that Bella put up with all that for years, just so she and Cissy would be safe.

She tried talking to her sisters about it, but Narcissa was too young, and too innocent, she thought, to understand. Her childhood had been difficult, certainly, but… normal enough, for one of their set. Andromeda had sheltered her from the worst of it until she went to school, and then Bella had convinced Walburga to foster her. Their Aunt was strict and unforgiving compared to many of her peers’ parents, but nowhere near the same league as Cygnus and Druella as far as systematic cruelty went.

Bellatrix, in contrast, was apparently more broken than Meda had ever realized. She insisted that it didn’t bother her. She’d seemed genuinely confused as to why Meda thought it would – the last time was nearly four years prior, and she claimed that had he not crossed the line she had drawn between himself and her sisters, she would never have done aught to Cygnus in retaliation. “It’s not like I had anything to prove for myself,” she said with a shrug. “I beat him, years ago. I won. That was the worst thing I could possibly have done to him. I killed him, yes, because he became more of a danger to you than an asset. Because he hurt you, and would have done again. Not because of what he did to me.”

It was frustrating – incredibly so. Not that she didn’t want her sister to have come to terms with the abuse she had suffered throughout their childhood, but in her secret heart of hearts, she wanted some sort of acknowledgement – confirmation that she had been right to react the way she had – the way she still was. Bella had suffered so much more throughout their childhood, and apparently cared so little that it made Meda feel weak, feeling sorry for herself over one time. Gods and Powers – she had gotten her own revenge that very same night! She should be able to put it behind her!

But she couldn’t.

She was losing sleep, waking up remembering the hate she had felt, powering the Unforgivable curse, or worse, with lingering traces of Imperius whispering, insidiously, that she had wanted it – that she must have, at least a little.

If it – he – had really been so horrifying, so repulsive to her, she should have been able to throw the curse off – throw him off. He was just a man, a mortal wizard, so weak and pathetic that he had felt the need to dominate his own children through sex. What must Bella think? She had managed to end her suffering when she was Meda’s age – had managed to fight him off, physically and magically, and force him into submission. She, Meda, was not weak, so she must have wanted it, on some level, to not fight hard enough to save herself.

Ted Tonks was not stupid.

He was sweet and kind, and even worried (nothing like her family or her housemates or anyone else she knew), but not stupid.

He noticed the way she grew to be tired all the time, the way she picked listlessly at her food, and stumbled through their shared classes in a daze, the way she avoided being alone with any of the male teachers, anymore, and how brittle the mask she kept up between herself and her housemates had become. He asked her over and over what was wrong, and how he could help, every time they met up in an abandoned classroom or “in passing” in the depths of the library.

She told him it was nothing.

She told him it was about her parents’ respective disappearances.

She told him it was the upcoming OWL exams.

She told him it was the rash of deaths and funerals she had been forced to attend for more distant cousins, over the past several years (though they had started to taper off lately), and that it was the threat of an impending marriage contract – the idea taken up by Arcturus after Cygnus “vanished.”

But Ted knew her – better than anyone else, probably – even her sisters. He knew there was more she wasn’t telling him, and he could see, even if no one else could (or perhaps they all knew, and simply wouldn’t say – sometimes it felt like that, like everyone was watching and it was branded across her chest, opposite her prefect’s badge, perhaps: “victim”), that it was eating her up inside.

Four months after they returned from the holidays, she caved (weak again, the insidious voice whispered in the back of her mind). She broke down on him, crying, in their favorite empty classroom, and told him everything, from her instinctive reaction to the suggestion that she should marry as soon as she graduated, to watching him die, screaming, and, in the moment, enjoying that feeling of hatred and vindictive righteousness (though she was immediately sickened by her own reaction). He froze at first, shocked, but then, after a few seconds, gathered her into his arms, and just held her, rocking slightly, but offering no advice or empty words of condolence or pity. He let her talk for what seemed like hours, baring all her fears and the anxious, awful thoughts that plagued her about how everyone must know – how she must look in some way as soiled and damaged as she felt; the nightmares where she wanted it; and how she felt so horribly, horribly weak and repulsive and shameful and wrong, and yet couldn’t stop obsessively comparing herself to Bella and finding herself wanting.

“Andi, Andi,” he had whispered, rocking her on the floor of their classroom, picnic lunch long forgotten. “You’re the strongest person I think I’ve ever met. You hear me? I love you, Andromeda Black, and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that. Understand? Nothing.”

“I love you too, Ted,” she had mumbled into his tear-soaked shoulder.

A distant corner of her mind thought, sardonically, that this was, perhaps, the least romantic moment he could possibly have chosen to say those words for the first time, but that she was still glad he did. It was, though she hadn’t realized until he said it, exactly what she had needed to hear: unconditional acceptance. If Ted Tonks, chronically good person, honestly believed that she was worthy of his affection (and he was utterly incapable of lying convincingly), after having seen her break down completely, and heard everything she had done and failed to do, then maybe she could believe it as well.

“I love you, too,” she whispered again.

Chapter Text

(1971, January)

Narcissa

Narcissa Black arrived at Hogwarts in the autumn of 1970, after two years living with her increasingly obviously unstable eldest sister; four years with her strict but relatively reasonable and kindly aunt (and bullying prat of a cousin, though he had become less of a trial after the first couple of years); and five years before that in a home she barely remembered, with an angry, violent father, a cold, distant mother, and the desperate attempts of her elder sisters to protect her from their most painful excesses.

She knew everything there was to know about how she ought to act and what she ought to believe as a Daughter of the House of Black. Meda had taught her how to survive, avoiding notice in the long-gone times when they were alone at Ancient House. Walburga had taught her how to use people; about the hand she had been dealt as a Daughter of Black, and the best way to use her advantages to get what she wanted; about History and Politics and Rhetoric. Bella had taught her about Darkness and Magic, passing on the words of her own Master about what the world owed her, as a witch and a pureblood, and how it was her right – their right – to take whatever she could hold, and bring back the influence they had held in times long past. The Dark Powers had raised the Blacks, long ago to be like Princes among Wizards, but they had, somehow, forgotten that along the way. Bella was minded to lead the Dark Lord’s forces in revolution, to remind the magical world who rightfully ought to rule them.

Hogwarts was uncomfortable – it was far less formal than even life with Bella, where she was often expected to simply look after herself between lessons, while her sister went out with her friends, or taught the new Death Eaters how to fight. Rules that had been drummed into her since before she could remember no longer applied, and she was forced to mix not only with poor purebloods, who hadn’t the background to appreciate the proprieties, and progressives, whose views were so stupid and backward that she found their name highly ironic, but half-bloods and even mudbloods, whom she was expected to treat like real witches and wizards. She was sorted into Slytherin house, where at least there was little talk of such nonsense, but even there, she quickly found, the etiquette and codes of behavior she had been taught (and her strict adherence to them) marked her out as stuck-up and affected from the very first day. It was not entirely unlike living with Cousin Sirius again, though at least here they showed some respect for the Black name, which Siri never had done.

Still, if she had felt that she started out on the wrong foot on her first day, it was nothing to how she felt just after Yule, on the day she walked in on Andromeda (now a seventh-year, who insisted that her baby sister needed to find her feet for herself within the house, lest she never truly earn their respect) snogging a mudblood Hufflepuff in the classroom where she had planned to practice her charms.

At first she didn’t recognize what she was seeing – just some dark-haired witch sitting on the lap of a blond boy, their robes long-since abandoned, and his hand up the back of her shirtwaist. Hers were tangled in his too-long hair, holding him close. She tried to slip back out of the room unobtrusively, but she must have made some noise, because the witch looked up, an unfamiliar expression of surprise painted across the too-familiar face.

“Narcissa?!”

“Andromeda?!”

“What are you doing?” both witches shouted at once.

The wizard chuckled. “No question you two are sisters, I guess. Ted Tonks. Pleased to meet you, Narcissa.” He waved slightly as Andromeda hurriedly clambered off of him, straightening her skirts and shirt, flushed with embarrassment.

Narcissa ignored the greeting, except insofar as it registered as being unforgivably muggle. “A mudblood, Meda? Truly? Just think what Auntie Walburga would say, or Pater Arcturus! Think of what Bella would say!”

The older witch blanched. “If ever you have loved me as your sister, you will not say a word, Narcissa Zaniah!”

“Why shouldn’t I? Do you even see what you’re doing? Cavorting with – with this… he’s not one of us, Meda! You can’t marry him. You’re ruining your reputation! I have to tell someone.” She felt tears pricking at her eyes. She couldn’t believe that Meda of all people would do… this.

Andromeda, suddenly, was kneeling before her, holding her in place by the shoulders. “Cissy, if you tell them – any of them – they’ll kill him. Arcturus will pull me out of school and force me to marry Parkinson, and Bella will murder Ted’s entire family.”

“It would serve him right for daring to lay a hand on a Daughter of Black!” she snapped, furious.

Meda slapped her. Kind, soft-hearted Meda, who hated using force, and had only ever cast a single Unforgivable in her life, slapped her. Her! The little sister Meda had protected and watched over since they were both in the nursery! Over – over a mudblood! Narcissa was so shocked that she missed the beginning of the next thing her sister said, mouth hanging open.

“… like hearing Walburga’s voice coming out of your mouth! Are you listening to me, Narcissa?!” She nodded dumbly. “Well hear this: You’re out in the real world now, and this is the most important lesson, and probably the hardest thing you’ll ever have to learn. Bella can’t teach it to you. Walburga can’t teach it to you. They never learned it themselves. Are you listening?” Narcissa nodded again. “You need to learn how to make your own choices – you have to think for yourself.”

“I do think for myself!” she spat, deeply offended.

Meda scoffed. “Everything you say is parroted from those zealots, with no thought for why they think the way they do, or if what they’re saying makes any sense at all! It’s pure rhetoric, playing on your pride and entitlement! You wouldn’t know an original thought if it whacked you over the head with a broomstick!”

“It is not! And I would so,” she retorted.

“Well, then, weigh this: Some delusional, antiquated notion of propriety and exclusivity that means nothing in the world outside the narrow confines of Society, against Ted’s life and my happiness!”

Narcissa wrenched herself out of her sister’s grasp without responding, but the seed of doubt had already been planted.

Were the principles she had been groomed to hold sacred really nothing more than rhetoric and zealotry? Antiquated notions that held no place in modern Magical Britain at large? That sounded like exactly the sort of propaganda Bella had warned her against believing! But it was Meda. She was the smart one, and they all knew it! Surely she wouldn’t have been taken in by false promises and Light lies! Was it possible that everything she knew, everything she had ever been told, was wrong? And worst of all, either way, she was bound to lose one of her sisters: either Meda had been corrupted, or Bella was delusional.

She cried herself to sleep that night, scared and confused, wishing as hard as she could that she had never learned Andromeda’s secret.

Chapter Text

(1971, June)

Andromeda

“Are you sure the first part is really necessary?” Ted asked, for probably, Andromeda thought, the twentieth time. It was their last day at Hogwarts. NEWTs were done, and the train would carry the seventh-years back to London tomorrow, along with all the other students, marking the end of their childhood and the beginning of their adult lives. Meda and Ted had holed up in what they both thought of by now as their classroom (after warding the door closed properly), filling the space with illusions of trees and grass, babbling brooks and blue skies. It wouldn’t last, but for an afternoon, it was paradise.

“Yes,” she sighed, digging the copied ritual from the depths of her bag.

“And you really want to do it?”

“Yes,” she said more insistently. “Unless you’d rather I go off and get myself married and bound to Menelaus Parkinson, until death does us part.”

Arcturus had gone ahead with the arrangements for her wedding, planning it to occur at Lammas, a bare month away. She had played along, doing what was expected at every turn. And she didn’t hate Parkinson. He had been a pleasant enough conversationalist, on the few occasions she had met him. A bit straight-laced and overly-proper, but then, who among that set wasn’t? If she hadn’t been in love with Ted, and had resigned herself to an arranged marriage, she could do much worse. Plus Lord Parkinson wanted his younger son married off into the wealthy Black family, and Pater Arcturus wanted a husband for her who would take the Black name. But she knew as well as anyone that he preferred Hawthorne Brown, and Meda had made it clear to him that she had a preferred beau as well. He would not suffer, if their contract were to fall through, even at the last minute.

As long as she was a Black, she had a duty to follow through on the contract Arcturus had arranged for her. She had a duty to follow his commands as her Head of House, and a duty to continue the family line, preferably with a wealthy, powerful, pureblood wizard, whose lineage was proven to produce only wizards of a certain caliber: no squibs, no weak hearts, no proven imbeciles or madmen (Gods and Powers knew they already had quite enough of those in the family). Her children, if she was a Black, must be guaranteed (if such a thing could be guaranteed) to be strong wizards who could carry on the family name, and maintain or increase its power in their tiny, exclusive society.

If she wasn’t a Black, though… Well, then that oh-so-perfect match and its accompanying contract would be in shambles, because Andromeda Black would no longer exist. She would be Andromeda Apsida: cut off from her family forever, but free to wed as she chose, and, more importantly, free of any obligations to follow the path the Blacks chose to pursue in the coming war.

“I just hate to see you giving up your family, just for me. I mean, didn’t you tell me that purebloods often marry for convenience and then work something out with the people they really love on the side?”

Meda laughed at that, and kissed him sweetly. “Not with a muggleborn, love. And it’s not just for you, anyway. It’s because… because the world they’re fighting to save never really existed.”

“I still think they could come ‘round,” he insisted. “Narcissa has, hasn’t she?”

His innocence was adorable, and it was sweet of him to hold on to that hope, but he was delusional if he thought that was true. “Narcissa is eleven, Ted. She’s scared and confused because the carpet has just taken off and upset the ideals she’s been taught to value since she was old enough to talk. She hasn’t turned us in, but she hasn’t come ‘round. There’s a world of difference between pretending she never saw us together and actually supporting our being together,” she explained sadly.

Narcissa was going to be absolutely crushed, when she realized what Meda had done – what she was doing right now. She didn’t even want to think about Bella’s reaction. If they were very, very lucky, the influential Death Eater still felt enough affection for her little sister that she would not track them down and kill them, despite the betrayal which Meda’s leaving the family without a word of warning most certainly was.

She had plans, already under way, to move them all (including Ted’s parents and younger siblings) to the Americas for at least a few years, just in case. Ted could complete his Healer’s training there, and Andromeda begin her studies of the History of Magical Governance and Law; the elder Tonkses were shopkeepers, and had been reluctant to leave, but once they had finally accepted that Meda’s age did not affect her analysis of the political situation in the slightest, they agreed that it was better to be well out of the brewing war. Johnny and Margaret – the former a squib, but the latter a promising witch who would otherwise enter Hogwarts at the end of the summer, thought Canada sounded like a grand adventure.

It wasn’t an easy choice, deciding to leave Britain, but Ted’s family supported their relationship, and there was no way, in any of the nine hells, that her family ever would. She had kept up the façade of the perfect daughter long enough. Every year it grew harder to tell them all what they wanted to hear, rather than what she really thought. It was time to live her own life, now.

And in any case, it was too late to turn back: the Tonkses had already emigrated.

Ted was going to be a great healer, some day. He had good instincts for developing a comforting bedside manner, always knowing exactly what to say, and, more importantly, when not to say anything at all. He wrapped a strong, supporting arm around her shoulders with a sigh. “I trust you, Andi. If you say this is what we need to do, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“It is. I wish it wasn’t, really I do, but… well, you’ve seen the arithmancy.” The trouble brewing with the Death Eaters and Bella’s Dark Lord was bound to get worse before it got better. She couldn’t sit by and condone their actions by her silence, and she couldn’t bring herself to fight against her own sister. If she was lucky, the war would be over before Narcissa graduated and was forced to make the choice she was currently on the verge of.

“And… we don’t need like, a minister, or witnesses, or… something?”

“We’ll need to register with the Canadian ministry, with witnesses, but the binding magic – that’s the important part, and we don’t need witnesses for that.”

Ted nodded determinedly. “Well then, Andromeda Tatiana Black, let’s do this whole elopement thing.”

She smiled. “That’s the plan, love. Sit here,” she patted the false grass in front of her.

They sat, cross-legged, knee to knee, fingers laced, and Andromeda called on magic to witness her renunciation of the Black Family, and her union with Ted Tonks. It came, as surely as it had done when she was introduced to it by her parents and cousins, as surely as it attended every wedding and funeral and holiday ritual she had ever seen. They exchanged blood and rings – cheap and un-enchanted, which Meda had sworn to replace as soon as possible – and sealed it with a kiss.

It was nothing like as dramatic or well-attended as her Aunt Walburga’s ceremony, or any of the others she had attended since, but it was simple and pure, and the magic of the ritual bound them together just as strongly, by her will and his, in love, before all.

Sundering herself from the Blacks hurt, tearing at the connection between her own magic and that of the family, which had surrounded and supported her since birth, even if her parents hadn’t. She threw those ragged edges into the new bond, soothing the pain of separation with the solace of a new connection, a new family, of which she and her husband would be the founders.

Andromeda foresaw a future where her children grew up knowing her former family’s history, but not being bound by its outdated traditions and notions of pureblood superiority; where they grew up knowing that their muggle grandparents were better people by far than their magical grandparents, and that maintaining the power and influence of the family name was not the only thing that ought to matter in life. The Black Family was barreling toward destruction, but the Tonks family would avoid that fate, forging a new way forward. Hopefully, when the dust settled, that path would lead them back to Britain.

But for now, they had an Intercontinental Port-Key to catch, before Arcturus realized what she must have done, when he felt her connection to the family magic break.

Ted kissed her again, and she gave him a mischievous smile. “Ready to run, Mr. Tonks?”

“With you? Anywhere, Mrs. Tonks.”

And they giggled like the schoolchildren they no longer were, running through the halls, down the stairs, past the astonished Headmaster and their Heads of Houses and peers, out onto the lawns and down the long, sweeping drive, shrunken trunks bouncing in their pockets, hands clasped tightly together. They disapparated when they reached the main gates and the edge of the wards, headed for freedom, and the promise of a new life.

Chapter Text

(1971, September)

Sirius

“Black, Sirius!” the Deputy Headmaster called, and Sirius reluctantly stepped toward the Hat.

He approached the stool, as every Black had since time immemorial, but he was willing to wager he was different from them, because he was thinking as loudly as he could, NOT SLYTHERIN, even before he sat down. It wouldn’t do at all to be sorted before he even had a chance to make his arguments, like the Ainsley girl – it hadn’t even touched her head before she became a Hufflepuff.

Musty old fabric came down over his eyes, and the world disappeared.

“Not Slytherin, eh?” the Hat asked, a chuckle in its tone. “You know, most of your family have come before me begging to join that House.”

I won’t, Sirius thought ferociously. I’m not like them!

“Oh, I think you are,” the Hat said insidiously. “More than you know. But let us see where you belong, truly.”

Sirius already knew enough Occlumency to organize his own thoughts, at least a bit. He shoved the complicated tangle of inter-connected memories and emotions that underlay his determination to be a Gryffindor at the Hat, and thought I want to be a Gryffindor! Just for good measure.

He knew it wasn’t true that he wasn’t anything like most of his family. But he hated most of them, first for not doing anything to his father for cursing him, almost four years ago, now, and then for forcing him to do dark magic after, even though it truly hurt him, every time he used it. He had spent the better part of four years resenting his mother and pushing her away, and Narcissa and Regulus had made sure he knew that an Heir who couldn’t use dark magic was a disappointment to Pater Arcturus.

Bellatrix had never apologized for essentially crippling him in the process of saving his life, and he knew she never would. She had, however, demanded protection for him, and taught him spells that were Dark Arts – offensive and destructive – but not inherently dark magic, like so many of the family spells his mother insisted he learn. That alone would have made her seven-year-old cousin love her, letting him feel just a little bit like he wasn’t completely worthless as an Heir (though Regulus had quickly become their mother’s favorite, anyway).

She scared him, too, though, because even Cissy admitted that she wasn’t all there, and he was seriously worried (no pun intended, for once) that he might be the same. He knew there was darkness in him – the worst part about not being able to use dark magic was that he was that, before that night, he had been a natural – there was little guilt attached to the memories of how he had treated Narcissa and Regulus growing up, especially after the Incident, when Narcissa realized that he now had a weakness that she could exploit. He got a thrill out of being mean for its own sake, and he knew there was part of himself, not so very deep down, that thought it was funny when other people got hurt, just like Bella. She liked to hurt people – he could see it when she punished them for bolloxing up their lessons, and in the joy she wore when she killed the Yule sacrifices.

He didn’t want to be crazy, so he tried to push that part of himself away, bury it, once he had realized the similarity. It was hard, though, because part of him did want to be like Bella. Not in the way that she was insane, but in the way she defied her parents (if she didn’t have something to do with Uncle Cygnus going ‘missing,’ he’d eat his new uniform hat) and forced their Paterfamilias to recognize her as an equal. She was the one who told him, in that moment that they were all but one person, that he should never, ever let the Family break him, but thanks to Orion (he could call him that in his head, even if he would have been lashed for being so disrespectful aloud), he couldn’t do what she did, just being so bloody awesome at the dark stuff that they couldn’t help but consider him a force to be reckoned with.

The only option he had in his rebellion was to refuse the Family and everything they stood for – starting today, by getting sorted into Gryffindor, instead of Slytherin. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything, to make his own way to power, without the darkness and the madness that he so feared in himself. He wanted to earn their respect. He knew he would have to fight for it at every step along the way, but that’s what Blacks did: they demanded and took what they knew was rightfully theirs. They didn’t do what Andromeda did, hiding and saying all the right things until the very last second, and then running away. (Mother said she ran off with a mudblood when she blasted her off the Tapestry, and Arcturus had declared her a Blood Traitor. Bella wouldn’t speak of her, and Narcissa had cried for days, without even trying to hide it.)

The plan, at first, had been any House but Slytherin. Sirius didn’t think he could stand being under Narcissa’s superior, four-month-older eyes for six years (it wasn’t fair, that she had gotten to go to school a whole year before him, and she had rubbed it in all year in her letters, only stopping when they found out about Meda). He would be pressed there to meet the expectations of everyone who knew her (or had known Bella – probably most of the upperclassmen), now alert for any sign that he might be more like Meda, and he would fail, because he refused to embrace his own darkness, and hated dark magic and most of his family.

And then, on the train, Jamie Potter had tracked him down, and introduced himself, cool as you please, without a thought for the formalities: “Sirius Black? Potter, James Potter. My mum, Dorea, said we’re cousins. Come sit with me!”

Sirius knew of Charlus and Dorea Potter. He was pretty sure Dorea, a fifth cousin descended from two of the cadet branches of the family, was named his godmother, before Black and Potter had had a falling out over some political thing. He had gone out of curiosity, and James had spent the ride being silly and funny and basically acting in a way Sirius’ parents would have killed him for behaving in public. Somewhere over the course of the journey, a deep-rooted envy had taken hold: he wanted to be the sort of carefree wizard Jamie Potter seemed to be – bold and daring and brave enough to act however he pleased. Like a Gryffindor, he had realized, and for the first time, that thought had held not his Slytherin cousins’ disdain, but curiosity and hope.

The Hat hmm’d in speculation as it looked through his memories, and everything that made him who he was. “Seeking power for yourself, on your own terms, is a very Slytherin goal, my lad,” it pointed out after what seemed like a very long time. “Very ambitious, desiring not only your family’s approval, but their respect. And the Blacks are nothing if not survivors – you are not unlike them in that way, either.”

I don’t want to go to Slytherin! Sirius insisted. If he couldn’t have Gryffindor, fine, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t – face living with a whole house of peers who shared his family’s expectations.

“We haven’t ruled out Gryffindor, just yet. I see in you a longing to belong, that would see you well in Hufflepuff, in time, and you do have a good mind, though your thought processes tend more toward cunning than brilliance.”

NOT Slytherin. Not Hufflepuff, either – he couldn’t imagine being Sorted for such a lame reason as wanting to belong somewhere. It was positively sentimental.

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. You lack the idealism for Gryffindor, but you certainly have their stubbornness, and I suppose it is rather brave to so openly defy your family as you intend to do.”

Is it? He hadn’t been thinking of it like that, but he supposed it was.

The hat chuckled, not unkindly. “It is, and so, if you truly want it, I suppose you’d do quite well in GRYFFINDOR!”

His hands shook slightly, as he took off the hat, seeking out Narcissa’s face at the Slytherin table. She looked livid. He winced. His getting sorted to Gryffindor wouldn’t make her year any easier, and it was already bound to be awful, given Meda’s scandalous elopement. Still, Cissy was a Slytherin. She should understand that he had to do what was best for him, and that was going anywhere but into her House.

He walked to the table of red and gold amid somewhat confused applause, and didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

(1972, January)

Narcissa

The first time the little red-headed, too-bold Gryffindor girl found her in the most secluded part of the library (Advanced Magical Theory), whether by accident or design, Narcissa dismissed her with a sharp and disparaging word, before stalking off to find somewhere else to brood over Meda (who wasn’t family anymore, even if Narcissa still felt like her sister) abandoning her; Sirius (who was family, even if he was an utter prat most of the time) deliberately getting himself Sorted away from her; and all her so-called friends in Slytherin making snide remarks about how far the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had clearly fallen in recent years.

Sometime after that, perhaps in October, she realized that the little red-headed Gryffindor, Evans (a mudblood, like that Hufflepuff Tonks, who had stolen her sister away), was friends with a weird, unsociable half-blood in her own house: Severus Snape. Mostly she noticed this because they tended to hide themselves away in the library, too, avoiding their housemates in favor of each other’s company. She honestly couldn’t care less about the pair.

In November, Lily Evans tracked her down again, definitely deliberately, with a determined-Gryffindor look plastered across her face, and a desperate request on her lips: “Teach me how to fit in, here, in the magical world,” she had said, without preamble, parking herself across the table from Narcissa. The demand was so abrupt, so impolite, and simply wrong on so many levels that the Slytherin was torn between correcting her (extensively) purely to address the comprehensive offensiveness of her, and refusing to do so out of hand for her cheek.

Rejection won out by a narrow margin. She had marked her place carefully and closed her book with a snap, before giving the girl her most condescending look. “Why would I want to do something like that, mudblood? You don’t belong here.”

The child glared furiously and folded her arms stubbornly, but managed to answer relatively calmly. “Because I do belong here, and I’m not leaving. I want to be accepted here, and Sev and I figure you’re the best one to teach me.”

“I’m still not hearing any reason that you should be my problem,” Narcissa drawled, genuinely bored with the interaction.

“I’ll pay you.” The second-year simply raised an eyebrow with a significant look at the Gryffindor’s robes – not as poor of quality as the Snape boy’s, but nowhere near as fine as her own. The girl flushed. “Or trade, or something. Whatever you want.”

“Just give up and go home, you stupid little girl. You have nothing I want,” she sneered.

“We’ll just see about that!” Green eyes flashed as the kitten stood, tossing her hair over her shoulder and turning on her heel, as though she was the one dismissing Cissy. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so irritating.

After that, she began to pay a bit more attention to Severus Snape and his little friend. For the most part they were ignored by her housemates, or disparaged. It was a well-known fact that Snape’s father was a muggle. One of his year-mates had caught him inscribing ‘the Half-Blood Prince’ in his textbooks, and after that, it hadn’t been hard to figure out that his mother must have been the disgraced Eileen Prince, who had been the Andromeda Black of the 1950s. The boy seemed determined to overcome the limitations of his own heritage, lurking around the edges of her Rosier cousins’ clique of future Death Eaters, but he had no close friends other than the Evans girl, and that friendship would only hold him back in life, especially if he wanted to get in with that crowd.

She could tell little about the girl from the occasional observation in the Great Hall or the Library. It was clear that she didn’t get on with Sirius or that James Potter (a bad influence if she had ever seen one), though she was obviously more popular than Snape among her year-mates. Narcissa had to wonder whether Gryffindors found her rudeness charming, or if there was more to the girl than she had yet to see. Perhaps she was considering following Snape’s path of all but renouncing her family, and attempting to integrate fully into Magical Britain. That had been less common for mudbloods to attempt since the Light came to power and began encouraging proper wizards to change to suit the interlopers, rather than the other way around, but it would explain why she had come looking for lessons on how to fit in.

It wasn’t entirely a surprise when the girl found her again after the Yule holiday, in the library, as usual. Narcissa was not in the mood to deal with the muggle menace. The holiday, normally one of the highlights of the year, had been miserable.

Everyone avoided mentioning Meda, including Bella, who wouldn’t even say her name anymore. The Dark Lord had come over for Yule supper, after the ritual, along with the werewolf Greyback and half a dozen of the “Inner Circle” Death Eaters. She, Sirius, and Regulus, definitely there to be seen and not heard, had been forced to attend, along with Orion and Walburga. Arcturus left early, claiming illness, and Mother hadn’t deigned to attend a Black Family Function in nearly three years (since they had done away with Cygnus, the girls had only seen her in the summers, at Rosier-hosted gatherings).

The worst part, though, was the three weeks that followed, where she had had to pretend that it didn’t bother her, rattling around Ancient House, where she felt Meda’s absence most keenly. She was alone most days, or with Reggie, as Sirius snuck out into Muggle London from Grimmauld or holed himself up in his room. But even that was, though she hated to admit it, better than being trapped in the drawing room, listening to Bella rant about mudbloods with even more ferocity than she previously had (all the while still vehemently denying that Meda ever existed, and hexing Cissy when she mentioned her).

She had realized, on returning to school, that something even worse than she had imagined, when she walked in on Andromeda what felt like forever ago, had come to pass: not only had she lost one sister to her selfish desires, but now the other was pulling away from her, too. The old Bella would never have hexed her in anger, like she had done when Narcissa stupidly said something about their former sister. She had done it before as a correction, for failing in a lesson, yes. But then it had always been to teach, never out of temper or frustration.

“Are you all right?” the infuriating twit asked, with what sounded like genuine concern.

Cissy sniffed haughtily. “Of course I am. What do you want?”

The Gryffindor sat, uninvited, again. “Lessons. Pointers. On how to fit in here.”

“Why are you bothering me about this?” she nearly moaned. There were plenty of other purebloods in this school, many of whom didn’t have murderous older sisters obsessed with blood purity. Even if she herself wanted to associate with this mudblood – which she didn’t – it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Most of the purebloods who’d be willing to teach me are from families that don’t care that I’m muggleborn, which means they don’t know the things I want to know. Judging by Sirius, your family are all traditional toffs, even the ones that don’t want to be, so you do know, and Sev says even the other Slytherins think you’re stuck up. I figure you’re probably too proper for their tastes, which is exactly the kind of person I want to teach me the rules,” the chit answered, to Narcissa’s (rather offended) surprise.

She sniffed. “I shouldn’t properly deign to give a mudblooded Gryffindor guttersnipe like you the time of day.”

“Blood, House, money – why should any of that matter?” the first-year asked impertinently, her tone one of purest frustration. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. I didn’t think Slytherins were supposed to let principles get in the way of that kind of thing!”

That was, strictly speaking, true, to a certain extent. It rather depended on how good the offered trade was, though, and she still maintained that the mudblood couldn’t have anything she wanted. Best to just reject her quickly so she would go away. (She would leave herself – stuck-up toff indeed! – but she would be damned if she was to let a Gryffindor firstie oust her from her preferred sulking-corner.)

“It sounds like you think you’ve found something worth trading,” she sneered.

The girl hesitated, but then nodded. “Sirius told me about your sister.” Narcissa stiffened. Was he spreading tales all around Gryffindor? “He said the only thing you wanted was to have her back, but you can’t even write to her, or anything.” That was… surprisingly astute for Sirius. But it didn’t make up for talking about it to anyone in the first place, let alone this mudblood girl. “And I thought, well… your housemates would notice, if you were getting letters directly, but if you give the letters to me, I can send them on for you, and pass you the responses when we meet for lessons, and you could hide them or burn them before you went back to Slytherin.”

Narcissa’s first thought was that it was a trick. The second was that it was a trap. It was a very good offer. She could hardly get any of her friends or more trustworthy acquaintances to do something similar, seeing as they were the exact people she wanted to avoid alerting to the fact that she still cared enough about her disgraceful, Blood Traitor sister to write to her. “You would do that? Why?”

The girl hesitated again, picking at her cuticles. “I… I have a sister, too. Petunia. She’s almost sixteen, now. And she hates me, for being a witch. But I don’t hate her. If she ran off with some beau, I’d want to talk to her.”

“You wouldn’t read them?” She could hardly believe that she was actually considering this.

“God, no! I swear on my magic, I wouldn’t!”

Narcissa shook her head slightly. “You don’t swear on your magic for something like this. It’s important, but not worth becoming a squib over. You swear on your wand, maybe, or your honor. And we say Powers, or Merlin, not God.”

“I swear on my honor, then,” the redhead smiled. “Wait – does this mean you’ll do it?!”

“I’ll send word through your little friend, Snape, when I’ve the first letter ready. Lessons will start if and when you manage to get a response back from Andromeda.” There was, after all, the chance that Meda wouldn’t write back, or that she would be too well-hidden for fear of Bella and her friends to get the letter in the first place. They weren’t looking for her, Bella having viciously declared that she never existed, but if Cissy was running away, she would have been wary of Death Eater retaliation.

Somewhat to her surprise, the triumphant Gryffindor handed her an un-opened letter with a familiar ‘Narcissa Black’ scribed across the envelope less than three weeks from the day she handed over the initial note requesting correspondence. It was signed ‘All my love, Meda,’ and Narcissa couldn’t bring herself to burn it before she returned to her room.

Chapter Text

(1972, September)

Regulus

Regulus had been looking forward to going to Hogwarts as long as he could remember – and even more since Sirius had left at the end of the previous summer. He was more than prepared, and spending day after day writing essays for his mother or learning magic from Bellatrix, or hanging around the Rosier estate with his cousin Evan was just killing time until his letter arrived.

Yule had been wretched, with Meda gone, and Narcissa hardly talking, even when it was just the two of them at Ancient House. Summer might have been worse, with Sirius alternating between rubbing in his whole year’s seniority and sneaking out to explore Muggle London, and Mother alternating between tirades about what bad influences his Gryffindor friends had been on him, and how poor of an Heir he was for their Noble and Ancient House. Sirius was, of course, furious with Narcissa for ‘selling him out’ even though Regulus knew that most of Walburga’s information actually came from Aunt Druella, who got it from Evan’s older brothers, and immediately owled Walburga about how her son was on his way to becoming just as big a disgrace as Meda (and how he, as the Heir, was an altogether more important failure than one of three daughters). Narcissa had sniped about Sirius talking about family business to outsiders, without explaining exactly what she meant, and then declared that she would be spending the summer at Ancient House, unless Mother wanted her present for lessons, because even Bella’s friends were better company than some cousins she could name.

Regulus had fled to join her soon after, leaving his stubborn prat of a brother to fend for himself, and they spent most of their days flying, dancing, or dueling, three activities in which, Narcissa claimed, Hogwarts’ curriculum was sadly lacking. Bellatrix was busier, now, one of the main leaders of the Knights of Walpurgis. They had been more and more active as long as Regulus could remember, but there had been a distinct escalation the previous spring, just before Meda ran off: the Ministry attacked the Bacchanalia at Walpurgis, and the Dark houses had been absolutely enraged. Still, she occasionally found time to teach him and Cissy new curses or tactics for their duels, or let them practice alongside her new recruits, and he was sure he was getting better.

All in all, the days passed quickly, but unfortunately, Regulus was still expected to show up to dinner at Grimmauld. The meal was always horribly awkward, either because Sirius had skipped out on it, hiding in Muggle London, or because he appeared, and was being harangued by Mother for the last event or meal he managed to escape, while their father observed and directed his punishment with drunken, hate-filled glares. He never raised his wand against them, not since that Yule when he almost killed Sirius, but Mother was more than willing to follow through on the curses he couldn’t cast.

Right up until the letters arrived and his trunk was packed, and he was being dropped off at the Platform, just like Sirius and Cissy, Regulus was excited to go. He knew he was ready – it seemed like he had been for ages, really – and Hogwarts couldn’t be worse than sitting around, helpless, as his family tore itself apart around him. Boarding the train, though, it suddenly hit him: he was going – leaving home, for the first time in his life, for months. There would be no more lessons from Mother, no Bella telling him about current events, no Mabon or Samhain celebrations. He would go to Slytherin, of course – he much preferred to live up to his family’s expectations than let them all down and make them hate him like Sirius, and Narcissa was better company, anyway, but it wouldn’t be the same. He would have to make friends with the other boys in his year (not just Evan, though he was sure that his Rosier cousin would be in Slytherin, too). What if they didn’t like him? What if their expectations were different from the ones he had grown up with? What was he supposed to do if he didn’t know the right answers?

But he really had no choice: he had to get on the train. He knew that was what he was supposed to do, so he did it, finding the compartment where Evan was already sitting, and letting it carry him away to Hogwarts.

He rode across the lake in a little wooden boat, ruthlessly stomping on his awe at his first sight of the school, and followed the giant gamekeeper up the endless stair to the castle, smirking at all the people who shouted when the ghosts came floating into their waiting room. He had a brief moment of panic when the Hat tried to put him in Hufflepuff – Hufflepuff! Imagine the shame! – but managed to convince it that he was, in fact, every bit as worthy of Slytherin as the rest of his family (barring Sirius, who was obviously a fluke). He introduced himself coolly to the other first-years, trying to strike a balance between Narcissa’s standoffishness and Sirius’ open gregariousness that he thought he could maintain all year, if he had to, and they followed a prefect into the dungeons, to listen sleepily to their Head of House (a ridiculously obese man in striped robes that made him look like a walking sofa) give them a quick welcome speech.

The next morning, he reported to the Great Hall for breakfast (with Narcissa’s help, because the castle was huge, and confusing), and was given his time-table, then left to make his way to class. He set off with a few of his year-mates to find the first, affecting unaffectedness, while hoping desperately behind his mask that transfiguration would go well. Eventually, he made it through the week unscathed, and then the month, and before he knew it, he moved with confidence through secret passages and hidden doors, and had made a reputation for himself as being quiet but unflappable, and a bit of a swot, quite unlike his older brother, thanks-very-much.

It was, he decided, a good start, even if all he had done was exactly what he was expected to do. Everyone seemed pleased enough, so he decided that he had done well.

Chapter Text

(1973, May)

Andromeda

Dear Cissy,

The baby was born today: two minutes past midnight on the second of May, 1973. Eight pounds six, and twenty-three inches, a healthy little girl. One eye is green, like Grandmother Irma’s were, and the other just your shade of blue. She was born with soft brown curls, the shade between mine and yours, but in the six hours between then and now, it has shifted to a blonde peach-fuzz to match her father. That’s right: a Metamorph – the first since Cassiopeia in ’25, I believe. We had planned to call her Theodora Grace, but in light of this, Nymphadora, I think, will better suit. I haven’t told Ted, yet. He’s still asleep.

I do wonder, how Bella would respond if you were to tell her – not only a Walpurgis Child, but fae-touched as well. The absurd fear that Walburga has forced upon you of magic lost to a mudblood marriage must seem silly, mustn’t it, when the babe shows magic in her first day. I would have loved her just as well, of course, had she been a squib, but I can’t help but feel vindicated, seeing a long-lost gift of the Blacks come to life again in my half-blood baby.

And in any case, I must take what pride in her I may, for she will be my only legacy. The pregnancy was hard, and I have been warned that to carry another child would be to risk my health irreparably, and perhaps my life.

I have never been so scared, Cissy, as I am today. I am afraid that Bella will find out and be enraged by my daring to reproduce with a muggleborn, and even further that my little Nymph has been blessed by the Powers with the changeling gift, and that we will be attacked by the Death Eaters some night, when we think ourselves safe. I am afraid that the Unrest truly will become a war, and that Bella’s Dark Lord will win, and Ted and I will languish in our exile forever, our daughter never knowing her proper homeland. And I am afraid, more than anything, that I will not be a good mother. I love her already, Cissy, and the thought of failing her is more horrible than I can express.

Motherhood is terrifying.

I thought I knew what love was: I love my husband, and I do not say that lightly. I gave up everything I knew to be with him, and I trust him to support me even in these times of uncertainty – even with my former family leading those who would call for his blood.

But the love I hold for Ted is nothing to knowing that I would kill or die for the child in my arms. I cannot even contemplate the idea of bringing her to harm. She has suddenly and irrevocably become the light of my life. I understand, now, what writers mean when they say that a child is one’s pride and joy. Trite though it may be, I feel as though my heart has swollen to bursting with those emotions – pure happiness, and fulfillment. There is nothing so right in all the world as the scent of your freshly-bathed and swaddled babe and her weight in your arms and the feeling when that little mouth latches onto your full-to-aching breast.

How Druella was so easily able to forsake the children of her body, I shall never know.

I am terrified that I will not be able to keep my baby safe – or worse, that I shall, somehow, succumb to the madness of the example of our childhood: I do not know if you have realized it yet, or if you are still too close to see it, but what we were born and raised to believe is normal is not in the least. Druella’s neglect, Walburga’s need for control, Bella’s unstable zealotry, Orion’s drunkenness, and Arcturus’ indifference; Stinging Hexes and Lashing Curses when a question is answered incorrectly, and Dolorimus Maximus when one disobeys; adult responsibilities and behavioral expectations pressed on children of eight (or younger) – none of these are normal. Outside of the strangely warped perspective of Society, they look upon childhoods like ours with pity, even without mentioning Cygnus’ abuse.

I wish only to raise a daughter whose childhood is happier and healthier than ours, without spoiling her entirely, and I am terrified because while I now recognize what is not normal, and I have ample examples of how not to parent, I have no good examples in my life of what I ought to do.

What if I mess it up, Cissy?

“Hey, Dromeda,” Ted murmured sleepily, finally woken by the scratching of her quill. “What’cha writing?”

Andi smiled sadly and closed her journal. “Another letter I’ll never send.”

She had decided reluctantly, when they announced the pregnancy to the Tonkses, that she dared not mention it to her (former) little sister. It seemed so far that they were not targets for the Death Eaters, and she hoped that Narcissa would warn her if she ever got word that they had become such, but she could not guarantee the younger witch’s loyalty or silence, and she considered it lucky that Bella had made no move to retaliate against her rejection of the Family. Bragging of her pregnancy and her half-blood Metamorph babe would be akin to tickling the sleeping dragon.

In any case, it hardly mattered. Narcissa’s letters had ranged in tone from distraught to livid to coldly formal, but they showed no sign of forgiveness, and had trailed off relatively quickly. Andromeda refused to tell Narcissa most of the details of her new life, just in case, and it was clear that they were, at least ideologically, on opposite sides of the conflict that was shaping up in Britain. The girl had claimed nearly six months prior that she had nothing more to say to someone who so little resembled the sister she thought she had known, and had not answered Andi’s response. Andi, with so very much she wished that she could tell the sister she used to have, had continued to write, reluctantly transitioning from unsent, un-send-able letters to a proper, bound journal.

“Did you sleep at all?”

She shook her head. “I just… I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Hon, you look exhausted.”

“Ted… Love, what if we mess this up? What if I mess up her life?” she admitted her fear, letting vulnerability slip into her usually-confident tone.

Her perfect husband, the one who always knew what to say, kissed the side of her head, before brushing a reverent finger over the sleeping child’s now-blonde hair. “We won’t. We couldn’t. We may screw up a couple things here and there, but not everything. I love her, and I love you, and I have faith in us. We’ll be a good family,” he grinned his goofy, overly-sentimental grin. After half a second’s pause, he added smartly, “And besides, you’re mad if you think my mum would let us bugger it up too badly.”

She snorted slightly, failing to suppress a laugh at the thought of Ted’s aging, muggle mother taking them to task like naughty schoolchildren for not spoiling her grandbaby well enough. She was still laughing when Ted spoke up again: “Um, Dromeda… I thought our Theodora had brown hair?”

When she finally regained control of herself, she kissed him sweetly, and said, with tears of mirth in her eyes, “There’s something I need to tell you – have you ever heard of Metamorphmagi?”

Chapter Text

(1973, October)

Sirius

“Family Meeting!” Sirius Black declared excitedly, barging into the third-year Gryffindor boys’ room on an otherwise dull Friday afternoon, midway through October. “Look alive, Jamie!” he shouted, wrenching the curtains back on his best friend’s four-poster. Peter trailed him only vaguely enthusiastically, which was somewhat irritating, but he didn’t know yet, so he couldn’t be properly enthusiastic, and he was Pete, anyway, so he probably wouldn’t be even when he did know, because Pete was almost as bad as Remy about sucking the fun out of things. If he was right about Remy, then maybe he had an excuse, but Pete definitely didn’t.

James blinked at him, then looked at Peter, then back to Sirius. “Where’s Remy?”

Instead of answering his question, Sirius gave the tousle-haired boy his trademark smirk and clambered onto the bed, quickly followed by Pete. He began flinging silencing charms at the fabric of the curtains to muffle their conversation from anyone else who had chosen to spend the afternoon lounging in their bunks, and after a few seconds, James shrugged and joined in.

“That’s what this is about, apparently,” Pete answered while they worked, watching Sirius closely, as though he could divine the secret from his face.

“What? Silencio!”

“Silencio! Where Remus is,” Sirius clarified, shifting slightly nervously and casting a few more charms. Now that he was at the point of telling the others what he suspected, he hesitated. They were from Light families. They might not understand. But Remus was their friend. They deserved to know. And besides, he didn’t think he could stand keeping the fact that he knew from all of them. It was just too good.

“Well, where is he?”

“Yeah, come off it, we’re both here now,” Pete pointed out, then added as an aside to Jamie, “The prat wouldn’t tell me – said it’d be better to tell everyone at once.”

“Tell everyone what? And this isn’t everyone.”

“Remus already knows,” Peter said.

“Yeah, obviously.”

James attempted to shove Siri off the bed for his sarcasm. Pete broke up their awkward, seated grappling and shoving with his most irritated glare and a sharp (and faintly accented), “Sirius, tell me what’s going on!”

“Good question, MacPieter!” his cousin declared in an outrageous brogue. “And hurry up, I have things to do today!”

Sirius turned to Jamie in surprise. “Like what? You were lying in bed being boring when we came in.”

“I was not.”

“Were so.”

“Not.”

“So.”

“Oh. My. God. Just tell us, Siri, before I die of suspense!” Peter looked slightly murderous.

Sirius waited another second for the sake of drama (and to gather his nerve) before he announced: “I think Remus is a werewolf!”

“WHAT?” the others rounded on him as one.

“Are – are you sure?” Peter asked, just as James said, “How do you know?”

“I – yeah. Pretty sure. It’s just…” he tugged at his hair nervously. “I was looking for him to work on Minnie’s essay – you know, the one on Animagi that I forgot to turn in last week? –  and I realized that he’s out again, and how normal it is that he just up and vanishes a few nights a month, right? He doesn’t even bother giving an excuse anymore half the time. But thinking back on it, it’s not just any few nights, and it’s always exactly a month apart. On and after the full moon.”

James snorted. “Dumbledore wouldn’t let a werewolf go to school with us.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sirius gave his best friend his best disbelieving look.

“What’ve you got against Dumbledore?” James asked defensively.

Sirius remembered belatedly that the Potters were allied with the Headmaster. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “He’s just, well, a bit mad, isn’t he?”

“Guys,” Pete whined.

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” James said, dropping the subject of Dumbledore, to Sirius’ relief. “But are you sure it’s not – oh, what’s the one, with the soul-mate thing? That’s lunar, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure Remy’s not a Selkie, Jamie,” Sirius smirked. “He hates swimming, remember?”

“I think he hates swimming because he doesn’t want us to see his scars,” Pete said. They both looked at him, stunned.

“Scars?” Sirius knew something about scars. He had more than a few, himself, from un-tended lashing curses and the occasional caloris traced over his back in punishment, not to mention a fair few dueling scars from cutting curses that he had been too proud to admit he didn’t know how to heal for himself. (Narcissa was a vicious little bitch, and she spent her summers learning dirty tricks from the Death Eaters in training.) He never bothered to hide them, but it was a well-known fact that Remus always changed in the loo. He had attributed this mostly to Remy being a prude as well as a fun-sucker, but now that Pete pointed it out, he realized he had never seen the sandy-haired boy shirtless, or even in short sleeves. “Like mine?”

Pete shook his head. “No, they’re more… slashy? Is that a word?” (“Sure,” James declared, repeating ‘slashy’ in his terrible, over-done Scottish accent. Both Peter and Sirius ignored him.) “And more on his arms and legs… What?”

“Why didn’t you tell us, you great git?” Sirius yanked James’ pillow from behind him and threw it at the brown-haired boy, prompting an angry, “Hey, MacPieter, gimme that back!” from its owner.

Peter did, before shrugging. “I, uh… accidentally walked in on him a couple months ago. He was really embarrassed about it. And it didn’t seem important.”

“It didn’t – Pettigrew! Of course it’s important! A werewolf locked up during the full moon will bite and scratch at himself, and those scars never heal right. This proves it!”

“B-but aren’t werewolves dangerous?” Pete stuttered. “There’s that one – Greyback. I heard he kidnaps kids to change, even when it’s not full moon!”

Sirius shivered. He had met Greyback, more than once. Last time, he had made a comment to the effect that he’d be happy to take the Blacks’ troublesome heir off the family’s hands, and Bella had crucio’d him for overstepping his place. “Remus is nothing like Greyback.”

“But he’s still a werewolf!”

“No,” James said sharply. “He’s still Remus.”

Sirius let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and nodded approvingly.

“But they’re – he’s – still dangerous!”

“Only um, one to three nights a month,” Sirius pointed out, trying to recall the exact wording of the speech Bella had given him, Reggie, and Narcissa ages ago about why the Light was wrong about werewolves (and Dark Creatures in general) being a Problem and needing to be Regulated. (Even though they actually were quite dangerous, or else why would she bother recruiting them for her Dark Lord?)

For some reason, his stupid brain could only think of the jokes he and Reggie had made to cheer themselves up after that last time they’d seen the werewolves, about Bella keeping Greyback’s pack as her pet dogs, whipping them with crucio when they got out of line. Somehow he didn’t think that would go over well: he didn’t want the others thinking about evil werewolves like Greyback, and besides, it had only taken one story involving casual Unforgivable curses (the one about Bella’s trainees practicing the Imperius on the elves at Ancient House, which was almost too easy, until you told them to insult their masters or something, at which point it got really, really hard, apparently – he hadn’t even been thinking of the Imperius, he had just been trying to make a point about House Elves being super loyal to Remus, who had never seen one before Hogwarts) to realize that his friends were far too easily scandalized by the sort of madness that was absolutely endemic in his House. He had made a note then and there never to invite them over of a holiday. Not that they’d be welcome, anyway, but still…

Bugger and blast. He knew he should have prepared for this a bit more. But there had been Quidditch practice, and one of the prettier girls from Narcissa’s year, a Hufflepuff called… Mandy? Maisie? Something like that… had dragged him into a broom-cupboard for a bit of a snog, and then he’d decided to just do it before the snogging high wore off completely and he lost his nerve.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to (and neither of the others noticed his stupid grin on remembering… Mellie! That was her name! Amelia… something with an ‘H’ (not important: FOCUS, Sirius!)), because James was saying, “Sirius is right! It’s only one night a month, and it’s got to be way worse for him than for anyone else. Can you even imagine trying to hide something like that from everyone, all the time?” He looked from Peter to Sirius and back again. “Remy’s our friend, first, and a werewolf second, alright?”

They nodded, Sirius eagerly, laughing, and Peter after what looked like a brief but difficult internal struggle.

“Alright,” Jamie declared, in the well-schooled tone of decisiveness that belonged to Lord Potter, which Sirius liked to tease him about. “So what can we do to help him?”

And for once, Sirius kept his mouth shut about The Voice of Command, because he was completely overwhelmed with a rush of hope and gratitude. After all, if Jamie could accept Remus randomly being a werewolf, with a smile and an instant resolution to help him, then surely he would not turn away from Sirius, no matter how mad his family acted – and the older he got, the more mad they all seemed (he wasn’t sure if this was because they were all getting worse, or if he was just seeing it more, now that he was older and knew how, well… normal people lived. Even Remus was more normal, and he was a bloody werewolf). For the first time, Sirius actually believed that James meant it when he said Sirius’ family and their utter insanity didn’t matter to him.

And then Peter said, “Werewolves only hunt people right? It’s too bad we can’t become animagi like McG and keep him company. Bet he’d like that,” and the moment was gone.

There was a beat of silence, and then Jamie said, “Why couldn’t we?” just as Sirius bounced to his knees and nearly shouted, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! That! We’re doing it!”

Peter just looked at them like they’d gone mad. “Erm… any idea how?”

Sirius shrugged. “Doesn’t matter! We’re still doing it! So can we tell him we know, now?”

Chapter Text

(1974, March)

Narcissa

Narcissa was furious. She didn’t think she’d ever been angrier at Sirius in her life. It wasn’t bad enough that he and his little posse of friends had been trailing her all year, bothering her and interrupting every time they caught her talking to a boy, under the guise of familial concern for her virtue. It wasn’t enough that when she had finally, finally caught the eye of Gio Zabini, a very fit sixth-year Ravenclaw from a suitable family, Sirius and that Potter boy had appeared out of bloody nowhere in the library to disrupt his attempt to ask her to Hogsmeade. And it wasn’t enough that they had mortified her by following her around town all day chanting rhymes about her and Zabini when she ended up going with Lucius Malfoy instead, because Zabini got snapped up by a fifth-year from his own house before she had a chance to find him and apologize for their antics.

Oh, no.

No, her stupid cousin had to take it even further than that, taking it upon himself to seduce the boy she was interested in! He had even brought him to the classroom where he knew she practiced her spellwork in the evenings to do it, so she would be sure to interrupt them!

The bleeding, thrice-cursed jackass!

She didn’t blame Zabini – Sirius looked older than his fourteen years, and had the Black family charisma in spades. Gio was the shy younger brother of Bella’s very improper, very forward friend Zee – the one who had told Narcissa that the best way to a man’s bank-vault was through his dick when she was seven. Despite the fact that he was a sixth-year, and Siri was only in third, and it was Siri kneeling between Gio’s knees, she knew exactly which of them was the one being taken advantage of there, and it wasn’t her cousin!

That fucking smirk only confirmed it.

She threw half a dozen of the darkest hexes she knew at the asshole before storming from the room, still seeing red. It wasn’t as bad as finding Meda snogging the mudblood (probably) because it didn’t necessarily signal the end of life as she knew it in the House of Black, and she had gotten to see Gio’s cock (while he had scrambled to cover himself, cursing about how he could have sworn he set a colloportus on the door).

It just wasn’t fair! She was expected to act like a lady at all times, while he could drag whomever he liked into an empty broom-cupboard, and all he got out of it was a boost to his bad-boy reputation. Everyone treated her like she was made of glass, or spun sugar or something, too delicate and refined to even consider a quick snog with no strings attached. It was infuriating.

And with Gio! He couldn’t have gone any further out of his way to make her jealous – he had to know it! She knew he was a slag, but this was a new low, specifically snagging one particular wizard, just so she couldn’t!

On second thought, yes, she did blame Gio, too. It was a blow to her pride that he would choose Siri over her; that he would just give up on asking her out once the younger boys showed up, and hadn’t tried again after. She had waited, delaying her own response to Malfoy’s invitation almost to the point of rudeness in the hopes that he would find her in the halls or send her a note or something – and then Siri just waltzed up and dragged him to her classroom?!

Maybe it was only Siri’s reputation for being easy – but she was just as willing to suck a nice-looking cock, even if she didn’t advertise it! She shouldn’t have to! She was smart and pretty and rich and had bounced back from Meda’s social disgrace pretty damn well, if she did say so herself. There shouldn’t be a single boy in the school who wasn’t lining up to try to get a date with her!

And yet somehow, the one she wanted wasn’t interested.

Oh, no.

He wanted the rebellious, disgraced scion of Black, not the good girl from a good family.

Well, fine! It was his loss. She certainly wasn’t going to waste any more time pining over him. But she also most definitely was not going to let Sirius have free reign to interfere in her life in the future. If he wanted to be a slag, then he was welcome to it, but he was going to have to deal with the consequences of meddling in her affairs!

She didn’t think anyone could really blame her for what she did next.

My dearest Sister,

I sincerely regret the necessity of this letter, but I fear something must be done: Our Cousin, Sirius, is developing a most distressing reputation as the latest Hogwarts Slut. I have heard rumors this past term of his being found in various states of undress all over the Castle with half-bloods and Progressives – even the occasional mudblood, both witches and wizards. I dismissed the rumors at first as only that, but just tonight, I caught him myself, with Giovanni Zabini, servicing the older boy in an abandoned classroom like a Knockturn Alley trollop.

Something must be done, post-haste. Given his apparent lack of discrimination, and his propensity to wander unsupervised into Muggle London of a summer afternoon, I fear that unless we take action, there will be half-blooded, bastard Blacks appearing at Hogwarts in twelve years’ time! I beg you write to him, at least. You are his favorite – he may listen to you, if you point out the consequences which may result from his actions, both for his own reputation and that of the Family as a whole.

In other news, exams are fast approaching, but I daresay I am in good standing, both in class, and within Slytherin. I expect that the allocation of the Prefecture will be between myself and Bridget Kelvin. Truth be told, I would be perfectly satisfied if Miss Kelvin were to take the badge, for I believe it more work than the honor is worth, to be given the additional responsibility, especially with OWLs approaching…

Chapter Text

[tw: torture]

(1974, December)

Sirius

It was probably, he thought afterward, back in his bedroom, shaking and twitching and licking his wounds (figuratively – with any luck, he would master the full transformation soon, but until then, figurative licking for… wounds that probably couldn’t be licked away anyway), some strange quirk of the inbred Black blood that the only time everything was absolutely clear inside his head, with no random detours like thinking of animagi and werewolves and all the fun he and his friends would have when they finally mastered the transformation, and no confusion and no fucking emotions just getting in the way of fucking everything… was when he was in excruciating, impossible pain.

Before, he would have said when he was fighting or fucking, but sex and practice duels were nothing compared to the focus he felt when every nerve was singing with tension – nothing compared to the white-out blankness that followed, and the high of not being in pain and being alive and holy fucking shit after that.

If it hadn’t hurt worse than… anything he had ever felt, with one very notable exception nearly exactly eight years before – if it hadn’t hurt so much, he’d have wanted to do it again.

As it was, he was more furious than he thought he had ever been in his life, and he had no intention of ever being in the same room with Bellatrix again, let alone provoking her.

Up until the curse fell, there was a part of him that didn’t believe she’d really do it.

Even seeing the red light appear, he’d not believed that she could mean it enough to really hurt him.

They were family, and moreover, they actually liked each other. Or he had thought they did. They hadn’t been getting on so well since Narcissa had ratted him out about his fooling around, and Bella had insisted that he needed to be more discrete, and choose his partners with more ‘discretion’ “or else.” He had chosen the ‘or else’ option, and she had put some sort of curse on him so that she wouldn’t have to worry about him knocking up a muggleborn (the horror!), because she couldn’t keep an eye on him at school, and had hardly spoken to him since. As far as he was concerned, that spell was doing him a favor – he didn’t want kids any time soon! But honestly, it wasn’t even any of her gods-cursed business! And he couldn’t even get back at Narcissa for ratting him out, because she’d made prefect (trust Slughorn to pick the richest and bitchiest of all the rich bitches, rather than someone who actually deserved it – though he supposed the pickings were slim in that regard in Slytherin), and could put him in detention if he even looked at her funny.

Still! He had defended Bella to his friends for years, kept his mouth shut about all the things he knew about the Death Eaters and their movements and plans. He didn’t agree with her politics, especially after three and a half years of Gryffindor and meeting actual muggleborns, and going out into London to meet muggles. But he had put up with all of her insane ranting about mudbloods and blood traitors and what was owed to the House of Black for years, and never said a word about her being a fucking fruitcake in public, because they were family.

Much as he hated most of them, he had always abided by the cardinal rule of the House of Black: For the Good of the Family. Their history, of course, was filled with Blacks whose opinions on what should be considered ‘the Good’ of the Family… differed – the number one cause of death in the House before the 1800s was, he was fairly certain, murder. (Everyone knew Cygnus had been killed by his own daughters, but nobody cared – or could prove it, the mark of a good murder – because if half the stories Orion told in his cups were true, he had more than deserved it. Sirius personally hoped that Bella had made it painful.) But even if they did occasionally kill each other, they were still family, and family loyalty was more important than anything. Duty to the family came before one’s own desires, or even oaths of fealty or citizenship. If you could not live with the duty the family demanded, you gained enough power that you could dictate your own orders, or you cut yourself off, like Andromeda. He used to look down on Meda for running away, but now he was starting to think that she’d had the right idea, because family didn’t torture family in front of the entire house just for insulting a non-family alliance, and family definitely didn’t just sit there and pretend not to see it, like they fucking agreed he deserved it!

“Say it again,” Bella had said, her voice low and dangerous, cutting across the babble of post-ritual talk that filled the supper table, everyone high on the magic of murder, except Sirius, who hated feeling the presence of the Dark Powers, Black magic cutting him up from the inside. He had thought that, since he was fifteen now, he would be able to refuse to participate, but somehow (on pain of complete disownment) he had ended up in the Circle anyway , and it was worse because he had been so looking forward to getting out of it.

In that moment, with dark eyes flashing in a way they never had at him, everything was crystal fucking clear, frozen in time, like the moment before a fight, and his brain shut off.

His mouth didn’t, though, working purely on instinct.

He stood, glaring back, and escalated, from telling Reggie that he should re-think if he really wanted to follow Bella into the Dark Lord’s service, because the wizard was obviously crazy, provoking the new head of the DMLE like they had been all year to: “Voldemort is a fucking lunatic, and you are too if –”

She cut him off with a screech, and the world started moving again. “You will not insult my Lord, and you will NOT use that name!”

Sirius had snorted and stepped away from the table in retreat. Her hand was on her wand, and he would be fucking dead if he started an actual duel over Yule Supper. But he wasn’t quite able to stop himself making one last smart-arse quip, as he half-turned to walk away, pausing to look back and sneer at her in front of the entire family. “Oh, was the Kensington raid your idea, then, cousin? Because if it was, you deserve to burn in muggle hell for what they did to those kids! Swearing yourself to Voldemort is the worst choice you ever made!”

He wasn’t really thinking of the immediate consequences, but if he had, he would have said he was still supremely confident that she wouldn’t truly hurt him. Mother would give him the lashing of his life for disrupting the meal and leaving early, but Bella wouldn’t –

“Crucio.” She said it scathingly, with every bit as much scorn as he had used in insulting her dedication to the Dark Lord and the Cause. His eyes widened in surprise as the light streaked toward him, not even moving to dodge.

It took him by surprise, the pain – almost as much as the fact that she cast it in the first place. You had to mean your Unforgivables. Could she really hate him so much as that?

That was his last coherent thought before the pain made it impossible to think at all.

When it ended, he lay on the carpet, tasting blood, every nerve on fire, for he didn’t know how long before hauling himself to his feet, slowly, every muscle trembling. He spat blood on the floor as everyone at the table watched him, or their own plates, and said nothing. Not a single, gods-cursed one of them had the nerve to say anything to her for using an Unforgivable curse on him for a goddamn insult.

Bellatrix, who had saved his life, who protected him and Reggie and Cissy, who told him not to let the family break him – the only person in his family whom he had ever looked up to as an example of the sort of wizard he wanted to be when he grew up (strong and ruthless and powerful), had used the Cruciatus. On him. And it hurt. She had meant it.

And not one of them cared. Mother, Cissy, even Reggie looked away when Sirius caught his eye, looked down at his hands, fingers laced loosely in his lap, tension visible only faintly, around the corners of his mouth.

That hurt, almost as much as the curse, in a completely different way. They had never really got on well, but they were brothers, and he was choosing this… this cowardly silence, choosing to side with the rest of them against him, choosing to support Bella and her fucking madman bastard Master, over Sirius, his own brother.

In that moment, it was painfully, painfully clear that they didn’t think of him as one of them.

Well, that was fine. He hated them all, anyway. Bellatrix had been one of the few who had any redeeming qualities whatsoever. He knew the sort of things she did with the Death Eaters, but she had never hurt him. And now even she had proven that she was not only mad, but just as… as unforgivably awful as the rest of them.

“F-fuck y-you,” he managed to say, shakily, his mouth not quite working like he wanted it to. “A-allll o-of yo-y-ou.”

Bella glared at him, still looking every bit as angry as she had before she cursed him. “Get. Out.”

He went. He actually attempted to turn dramatically on his heel, but fell to his knees as something in his left leg twitched painfully, and had to drag himself back to his feet, before staggering through the floo and up the stairs to his bed. He didn’t even have the strength to ward the door.

His last thought before he passed out completely was that he would leave in the morning. James’ parents had invited him for Christmas, anyway – Dorea wouldn’t turn him away if he showed up a few days early.

Chapter Text

(1975, April)

Bellatrix

“Thee and thine art prepared? All is held in readiness?” Bellatrix asked, sneering down her nose at the leader of what was soon to be the Seventeenth Magical British Goblin Rebellion. Gobbledygook had never been her favorite language, even discounting that it was a creature language. It was full of harsh and guttural consonants, over a dozen different click-sounds (three of which the human palate could not replicate, and which therefore had to be replaced by hand-signals), erratic glottal stops, and a grammatical structure with more exceptions than English. After fifteen months of negotiations and parleys, its syllables fell from her tongue nearly as easily as Elvish, but she was more than ready not to have to speak it again for at least a few months.

The goblin – Cavernflame of Clan Quicksilver, though his name could also be translated as Caveblossom, which Bella thought was far more amusing – barred his teeth in return. “It is nothing that concerns you, human.”

Bella bit her tongue on a reprimand for the goblin’s insubordination for the sake of the insurrection they were about to begin, half-wondering if the little beast wanted to go forward at all. Insulting one’s main allies and “equals” (a polite fiction within the negotiations) with ‘you’ – used only to address inferiors – and barred teeth on the eve of their first strike was a good way to ensure that cooperation did not happen, after all. “My liege requires of me that I confirm the readiness of our allies,” she lied smoothly.

She was checking in of her own initiative, but it was often more effective to blame someone else for her presence when a quick answer was required. It irritated Caveblossom, Commander of the Quicksilver Legion that he had to deal with the Death Eaters’ second-in-command, rather than their actual leader. Reminding him of the “disparity” in their relative status (though she would argue that he was second-in-command to his own Matriarch) was a surefire way to make him want to get rid of her.

The goblin dropped his upper lip, though he still used the inferior conjugation when he responded, after a blatantly-rude delay. “You may tell your lord that we are ready. We shall strike at dawn, as agreed.”

Bella nodded sharply and turned on her heel, making her understanding of the insults offered clear for the first time in their months-long association by refusing to offer him a proper farewell. It was all the warning he was going to get: she had long-since decided that Caveblossom would be killed by ‘friendly’ fire once the battle had commenced. They would no longer need him, and she had endured his rudeness long enough. She was uncertain whether he thought her too ignorant of his language or culture to catch his insults, or whether he simply thought himself so far above his place that he would not deign to bother with the proprieties for a human, but unfortunately for him, there was a reason she was the designated negotiator within the Inner Circle: she was far more knowledgeable about the lesser species than any of the others, and knew precisely how to convince them to dance to her tune.

She also knew exactly how she had been insulted at every turn for months, and she didn’t like it, even when it was more subtle.

For example, she was well aware of the difference between lord and liege. Lord in Gobbledygook was synonymous with master, and referred exclusively to the owner of a war-thrall. She had very carefully referred to her Master only as her liege or her commander throughout their talks, even in English, because goblins did not have an Apprenticeship system: to them, master implied only weakness and a lack of status. Among the goblins, where the males fought and the females worked magic, any female captured in war was considered incompetent and powerless, and was often reduced to a bed-warmer by her master. It was not untrue, of course, that Bella did, quite frequently, share her Master’s bed, but she was by no means incompetent or powerless. Her place in the Dark Lord’s ranks was fairly earned, and she had proven her worth in battle and behind the scenes hundreds of times over.

She had spent nearly five years proving her loyalty to the Cause – pruning back the cadet lines of her family tree, as evidence for her fellow members of the Inner Circle that she valued her place among them above anything else – before openly taking her place as her Master’s consort. The men had quickly learned to hold their tongues regarding any implications about their relationship and her rank. Quite simply, if they didn’t, she would hold their tongues for them. It had only taken two examples before they caught on that she meant that literally.

She took a deep breath and shoved her irritation from her mind entirely. There were more preparations to make: after more than a year of planning, Bartemius Fucking Crouch was going to seriously regret deciding to attack the Festa Morgana two Yules prior. They would have a more personal revenge as well, of course. Lucius had been cultivating Crouch’s son for years, and he would be joining the ranks in another year or so. But in the meanwhile, an economic crisis seemed like a good way of demonstrating their displeasure and Crouch’s incompetence to the Ministry, and increasing the tension in the population at large. Not to mention, if the rebellion succeeded (against all probability), it would leave her Master’s allies firmly in control of the banking system, with complete access to the assets of their enemies.

The Matriarch of Clan Gringott, which had ruled the goblins of southern Britain since the Statute was instituted, valued their impartiality above all. They would never ally with humans and involve themselves in a human war, but Clan Quicksilver and their allies from the west and the midlands had agreed (finally) to terms which would be favorable to both parties if they succeeded. The Death Eaters would create diversions at several points around the country, drawing the Aurors from London, while the goblins made a subterranean assault on Gringott’s Stronghold, then delay the inevitable storming of the Bank by reinforcements for as long as possible.

It was the first campaign Bella had planned and executed by herself (after ten years of training troops, leading raids, and negotiating on her Lord’s behalf). According to her arithmancy, it would likely go well, provided that she refrained from killing certain obnoxious, insulting little grub-eaters until after the battle began. Any attack was bound to endanger the most recent treaty between Gringott’s Matriarch and Magical Britain, and then Ministry incompetence would take care of the rest, inciting wide-spread public unrest and dissatisfaction.

She grinned, apparating directly into the Dark Lord’s private chambers, where he was fiddling with a mirror array.

<My viper,> he hissed, as she bowed deeply, <All proceeds according to your plan?>

<As the sun sets and the moon rises,> she answered, her inability to replicate certain sounds and the truly irritating scent-based ‘letters’ precluding a simple “of course.” Someday she would convince the Parselmouth to sit down and work out a set of hand-signals for her to use, as with Gobbledygook, but learning Parsel was a hobby at best – it wasn’t as though it was a terribly useful language, aside from amusing her Master.

<Very good.> He selected silver knife with a tiny blade from his enchanting toolkit and nodded toward the bed. <Stretch out here.>

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied, removing her clothing with an impish smile and a thrill of excitement that she didn’t bother to hide. She always enjoyed feeling his magic carved into her skin, and she had never been disappointed with the effects of his pre-battle enchantments, either. She couldn’t wait to see what he had in mind: it was a special occasion, after all.

Chapter Text

[tw: incest (unconsummated)]

(1976, July)

Regulus

He watched her spin and laugh, blonde hair flying loose, the picture of innocent delight, as she only ever was when they were alone together. Her movements were perfectly coordinated with his own, always, it seemed, whether they were dancing or dueling. Sometime over the past year, while he was busy becoming all uncoordinated, gangly limbs, she had turned into a lady, all gentle curves and sharp, knowing looks, quick and graceful from years of dancing and fighting, her lithe form deceptively strong from long summer days when she hardly touched the ground.

He dreamed of her, more than he was really comfortable admitting, and as his Paterfamilias started pushing him to keep an eye out for prospective matches, found himself comparing all the other girls to her. He wasn’t really sure when he fell in love with her, but he was pretty sure he had.

If this wasn’t love, and there was a stronger version out there, he certainly didn’t want to experience it. She already filled his thoughts at every possible moment. His eyes were drawn to her whenever they were together, involuntarily, regardless of who was watching. He was so attuned to her presence that he knew as soon as she entered a room, whether by some subtle shift in the scent of the air or the feel of her magic resonating in space he didn’t know.

He wrote bad poetry for her, then burned it all, lest he be too tempted and, in a fit of madness, actually give it to her.

That would be a disaster – not only because she would doubtless think him an idiot for failing at sonnets, but also because she was his cousin. His first cousin. And seeing as his own parents were also first cousins, there was no chance in the nine hells of Pater Arcturus sanctioning their relationship. For all the half-bloods liked to make snide jokes about inbreeding in the Old Houses, they actually were fairly well aware of the potential dangers of too many overly-close matches, and two within two generations would never be allowed.

The worst part was, it wasn’t fair, because it was kind of an open secret within the House that Narcissa wasn’t really a Black by blood – Regulus had known it as long as he could remember, probably thanks to Sirius. But that didn’t matter. They still belonged to the same House. They had the same name. She was on the family Tapestry. So they wouldn’t be allowed to marry for the sake of appearances. It would not be borne by any of their parents, or their paterfamilias.

Besides, she was already betrothed to someone else: Lucius Malfoy had had his eye on her for years, and there was no way Regulus could compete with the influential young Lord. He had graduated the year before, and immediately approached Arcturus with an offer. Bella didn’t like Malfoy – she thought her baby sister could do better than ‘that untalented thug of a Death Eater,’ but that was just because she didn’t think anyone was good enough for Narcissa. (Regulus rather agreed.) But Druella thought he was charming, and Walburga was fully in favor of marrying Narcissa to a Death Eater to erase some part of the still-lingering shame over the defection of She-Whom-We-Shall-Not-Discuss with That Mudblood. Arcturus was very, very obviously delighted that Malfoy had not questioned Narcissa’s pedigree (Why would he, given that she was fully accepted as a Daughter of Black?), and was disinclined to turn away a match with the sitting lord of a wealthy and influential House, especially one which had recently returned from France, and therefore was relatively distantly related (Malfoy had a single Black grandmother, who was something like Regulus’ fifth-cousin thrice removed).

Regulus was, he was sure, just her favorite little cousin, the one she spent her summers with for lack of more appealing alternatives. There was absolutely no hope whatsoever, so he would just have to be an adult, and set his feelings for her aside.

It was just hard, when every time he closed his eyes, she was waiting for him.

Narcissa

Narcissa was not unaware of Regulus’ crush. It had been somewhat amusing and adorable, at first, the little thirteen-year-old not even recognizing his own feelings for her. She knew exactly when he realized that he thought himself in love, because he suddenly became about six times more awkward around her than anyone else. She ignored it until he started to relax around her again.

Honestly, the age difference had bothered her more than the fact that they were related. Sirius had made them both aware very early on that they weren’t actually cousins (or at least not first cousins) long before Hogwarts, and they had only spent a few years actually growing up in the same house. Plus there was hardly anyone in the Old Families that the Blacks and Rosiers weren’t related to, if they were counting connections on both sides. Most of them had to figure kin strictly patrilineally if they wanted to find anyone who wasn’t a third-cousin or closer. But that didn’t really matter, anyway, because he was in third year, and she was in fifth, and he was just a little kid with a crush. She was sure he would get over it.

Over a year later, she realized that he wasn’t a little kid anymore, and the crush was still there. He was only fourteen, but Quidditch had helped him build muscle, and he had shot up seemingly overnight. One day she was talking to him on the stairs leading out of the dungeons, and she realized that she had to stand one step up to meet his eyes. He had always had marvelous Black cheekbones, but his jaw was starting to fill out as well, and the looks he sent at her when he thought she wasn’t looking were full of longing and desire and the tragic knowledge that nothing would or even could ever come of it. She kicked herself when she realized that her own gaze had been straying to his face more and more often of late.

Why did she always have to fall in love with the wrong people?

She had been appalled when she realized that Marcus Rosier, her first crush, with the easygoing attitude and open affection that had ensnared her early on at family gatherings, got caught wanking over her older sisters and cousins getting ready for some dance or other when she was ten. Lily Evans’ green eyes, sparkling with mischief, had haunted her dreams when she was thirteen. (She was almost glad that Andromeda had changed so much that she couldn’t stand writing to her anymore, because it gave her an excuse to cut off all contact with the casually-flirtatious, too-cunning second-year Gryffindor as well.) And then the year after there had been Gio Zabini, who turned out to be a wizard’s wizard. A slew of boys and girls had caught her eye since, each of them eventually reminding her of someone even more inappropriate than the last (Bellatrix, a male version of herself, Uncle Orion, Andromeda). She had even, very, very briefly, appreciated the way James Fucking Potter’s hair always had that windswept look (she had a weakness for boys who could out-fly her, even the ones who were a horrible, horrible influence on Sirius and were probably going to lead him to ruin his life completely).

Why couldn’t she just develop a fondness for Lucius Malfoy and have done with it? He was objectively good-looking, well-bred and well-mannered! They were betrothed!

But he was just… boring, more concerned with his business interests and balancing the political duties of Lord Malfoy with his Death Eater exploits than anything fun, like flying or dancing or malicious gossip (which was practically a spectator sport in Slytherin). She could talk about politics, but she found his views in particular to be short-sighted and ill-considered. For all she still hated Andromeda for abandoning her, she had never forgotten her former sister’s demand that she learn to think for herself, and had done so with ruthless efficiency.

After five years’ practice, she was now prepared to always say the ‘right’ thing to whomever was asking, but felt secure in her belief that regardless of whether there was or was not any real difference between herself and Lily Evans, she preferred to remain wealthy and influential. It might be selfish of her, but then, she had never claimed to be otherwise.

She would support the Dark and the Dark Lord over the Ministry or the Light because she would rather not destroy her own superior standing within society to favor greater governmental regulation, a more representative government, and the betterment of the lives of muggleborns and half-bloods at the expense of the Old Families’ privileges. This view was subtly different from Lucius’, because he had allowed himself to be convinced by Bella and the Dark Lord that they had lost something since the advent of the Statute, when the actual history suggested that the aristocracy of Wizengamot Lords was just as powerful as it ever was, if not more-so.

But she couldn’t actually say any of that, because with Lucius, the right thing to do and say was always to act the lady he meant to marry. It was unladylike to viciously tear apart the logic behind one’s betrothed’s legislative proposals, just like it was unladylike to beat him in a duel with wands or knives (Bella was also a bad influence), or snog him in a broom cupboard with lots of hair pulling and maybe a bit of biting. Pater Arcturus would eviscerate her if she ruined this match, so a lady she would be, at least until after the wedding.

Afterward, however, if she understood her parents’ relationship correctly, she could do whatever she damn-well pleased. Like take over the political presence of House Malfoy before Lucius backed both of them into an inescapable corner of anti-muggle hostility, a position quickly being worn away by reactionary neutrals flocking to the Light in response to the unrest the Death Eaters had been stirring up. If the Dark Lord didn’t outright take over the country soon (or if Bella didn’t grow tired of waiting and do it for him), and Lucius didn’t change his political course soon, he was going to end up losing a lot of influence, probably within the next five years. (She didn’t really like counting on Bella to do anything, seeing as her older sister was a bit… erratic, and the Dark Lord himself seemed disinclined to actually govern, so she felt this was a legitimate concern.)

The point was, it was also incredibly unladylike to go about falling for one’s cousins when one was betrothed to someone else (even if he wasn’t even in school anymore, so she only saw him on Hogsmeade weekends). She couldn’t endanger her entire future over a gods-cursed crush. But she couldn’t stop her eyes from straying toward Regulus, either.

So she invited him over to duel and dance, spending long summer afternoons laughing and lazing about, and pretended that nothing between them had changed, that she didn’t want him every bit as much as he clearly wanted her. Her heart lurched painfully every time she caught his longing gaze, but she thought it would hurt more not to see him at all. As long as he was willing to maintain the fiction that their feelings were mutually unreciprocated, she wanted him at her side.

After all, she was selfish, and he was her favorite.

Chapter Text

[tw: torture]

(1976, August)

Walburga

Walburga was ensconced in her favorite parlor, mulling over the problem of her elder son and his refusal to participate in the previous night’s Lammas-eve renewal ritual. He was sixteen, now, of course, nearly seventeen, and she could no more force him to give himself freely to the dark than she could force him to take the Dark Mark, though the Powers knew, she had tried.

He threw her every argument back in her face; shrugged off her threats of pain and disownment as though they meant nothing to him. But then, two years ago at Yule he had told Bella that she was going to some muggle Hell for serving her master, and refused to take it back, even when subjected to her cruciatus. Perhaps he thought nothing she could do (or could bring herself to do) to him would compare.

He had refused the last three holidays he had been home – Lammas, Yule, and now Lammas again, and Narcissa had told her ages ago that he only showed up to Samhain and Walpurgis at school, and then sporadically. She was beginning to despair for his ever coming around.

Why, she wondered, for the thousandth time, why did her stubborn, Gryffindor-bold son have to choose to follow the example of Cygnus’ thankless whelp who would not be named? Why could he not be more like Regulus, or even Bellatrix? Her oldest niece (more like younger sister, truth be told) had been a trial at times, to be sure, but Sirius was in a category all his own: Bella’s stubborn, willful unruliness with the Blood Traitor’s sensibilities. It was a nightmare in the making, and she was powerless to stop it.

She felt a distinct sense of foreboding, even before the currents of power which always ran through the house began to shift, moving more quickly, and angrily, drawn to one of the upstairs bedrooms. She ran to investigate, blasting open the door.

Sirius was lying in the middle of his hideously decorated room, apparently unconscious, shivering and sweating, his magic uncontrolled and roiling about him, giving off an unnatural heat. It kept the darker, place-bound magics that suffused the building at bay, the wards tied to Black blood and their individual magic, recognizing each person as part of the household. They circled around him, an invisible cyclone forming between the two powers, discharging crackles of lightning where they lashed out at each other.

She screamed, pushed back by the magic of the house and the family.

No one came running. Orion and Regulus were off at some Wizengamot function or other, and she had not actually called for an elf.

Morgen, Circe, and Lilith – this was bad. What had he done?

A hint of sage permeated the air, not yet obscured by the ozone of lightning strikes. No… he wouldn’t have… not even Sirius would dare…

But there, she saw it – a crystal glass, filled with some golden liquid – honey and sweet water – and a sliver potions-knife – not even a proper athame – dropped, and kicked half-way under the bed. He had. He had corrupted the Renewal ritual – turned it to the light…

She watched, torn and horrified, unable to approach through the storm of magic, as the Powers battled over the soul of her son until, at last, he wrenched himself free of the Dark, shattering its bond between the family and itself. She knew, because she felt something within her own magic – her own soul, perhaps – shatter as well.

She screamed again – this time not in fear, but in pain, before she collapsed in a dead faint.

When she came to, Orion and Regulus were at her side. Sirius was lying on the sofa opposite her, just struggling to open his eyes himself.

“Mother?” Regulus asked anxiously. “Mother, are you alright?”

She shook her head slowly, and pushed herself to her feet. The first words out of her mouth were directed at Sirius: “You are no son of mine!”

“Walburga?” Even Orion, it seemed, was taken aback by her declaration.

“Do you even know, Orion, what he has done? Didn’t you feel it? Don’t you understand?”

“Perhaps you should sit, my dear. You still look rather faint.”

“He has declared himself for the light!” she accused, swaying on her feet.

“Walburga, calm yourself,” her husband said soothingly. “I am sure no son of ours would –”

“He is no son of ours!” she shrieked. “No child of Black!”

“Regulus, call to St. Mungo’s,” Orion ordered. The younger boy nodded once before disappearing toward the floo. “Walburga, please, you must be mistaken.”

“No,” came a rough, muzzy voice from behind him. “No, it’s true,” Sirius repeated himself, a bit stronger.

“Son?”

“No!”

“I – I’ll be disowned, if… if that’s what it takes. But it’ll be worth it! You – you’re horrible people! And you don’t even see it! You can’t make me follow your precious Dark Lord now! Never!”

“Orion! Orion! I told you! I warned you – those light-hearted, Gryffindor brats! This is all their fault! They’ve ruined our son – our family!”

Sirius snorted with all the strength he could muster. “Some family. And I make my own choices, mum. That was one of the best things Andromeda Black, who is still my cousin, even if she isn’t your niece, EVER TAUGHT ME – HOW TO THINK FOR MYSELF!” He was yelling by the end of it – loudly enough to be heard over Walburga’s own tirade about the downfall of the House of Black.

They both stopped to take a breath at once, and Walburga hit the boy with a silencing charm. He pulled his own wand, mortally offended by the tactic, but could not reverse it silently, given his recent trial. Were he still her son, she would be proud of his strength in managing to stand so soon after the incident, but as it was…

“Orion,” she hissed in the prolonged silence, “this… this boy has broken the Covenant.”

Orion blanched, the full import of his former son’s actions settling upon him, wiping away his confusion. “Then it is as you say, wife – he must be no son of ours.”

There was a strange look of fear and triumph on Sirius’ silenced face as his father turned angrily to him. Orion managed half a step toward the boy, fist raised, before the binding their Head of House had laid upon him struck, freezing him in place. After the near-disaster that was Yule 1966, he was not permitted any degree of violence against his children. Though perhaps, in hindsight, it would have been better had he killed the boy then.

“You must speak to Arcturus at once!” Walburga ordered. “He must be declared Blood Traitor – he must be cast out!”

Orion ignored her, hissing his impotent ire instead. “Get out. Your welfare is no longer our concern. You are no longer welcome in our house. By the will of I who sired you and that of she who bore you, you are no longer our son, and you may rest assured that we will do everything within our power to ensure that you will be stripped of your claim as First Son and Heir of the House of Black.”

The boy – the infuriating, insufferable child, bowed, mockingly correctly to his sire, as he had refused to do for so many years in lessons. It made Walburga wonder if he did, truly, understand the full impact of his actions. He should. She had taught him herself. But she had assumed he did not – could not – want to ruin his family.

The darkness in his smirk, despite having chased the darkness from his magic, suggested, though, that his hatred for them went far deeper than she had ever suspected. That he could be so malicious, so spiteful…

“Crucio!” a voice shrieked. She watched him writhe on the ground for several long seconds before she realized it was her own.

She dropped the spell, horrified at her own lapse in control.

The boy pulled himself back to his feet slowly, no longer silenced, his face contorted now in open rage. “I-I-I’llll g-get my my my t-trunk aa-nd g-go.”

He turned on his heel, and brushed roughly past his former brother and the summoned Healer, just arriving at the door. Walburga collapsed back to her couch, the Unforgivable a strain on her own magical strength in the wake of the shock of the Covenant breaking, quite aside from being overcome with emotion at the necessity of truly disowning the… the… traitor truly was the only word – it was a spiteful betrayal of the first order.

Her husband and son sat beside her, supporting her in her tears. (The Healer hovered, torn between the Lady of the house and the obviously unwell boy.) They heard the front door – never used – open and slam. A distinctive cannon-blast signaled the arrival of the Knight Bus in the street outside, and another its departure.

That was it.

He was gone.

Walburga pulled herself back together.

She had to: it was time to see what could be salvaged.

Bellatrix

“I have disinherited him, but I will not disown the boy,” Arcturus announced, two weeks after the catastrophe. The entire family had assembled to hear the verdict.

“But, Pater! The Covenant!” Walburga objected. She was clearly both furious and terrified, so much so that she had not been able to hide it since the morning of Sirius’ betrayal, striking at the very foundations of their House.

Bella, on the other hand, was vaguely irritated and slightly disappointed, but unsurprised by Sirius’ defection. It was almost a relief in a way: he had been pulling away from the family for years, and she could now lay to rest any slim chance that he might come around to a proper way of thinking. In any case, it wouldn’t be her problem much longer. The others, of course, had a bit more to worry about. She reflected on the full import of her cousin’s decision for the House as a whole as she tuned out her aunt’s arguments and waited for the family meeting to end.

The Covenant was (had been) the foremost cause of the notable differences between the House of Black and every other Noble family over the past three and a half centuries. They lived fast, died young, worshipped the darkest, most destructive aspects of Magic, and indulged in insane risks with no fear that their line would meet its end through their folly, because once upon a time (in 1625), a deal had been struck between the House and the Powers: “So long as the House of Black serves the Dark, the House shall never die, and its scions shall always have magic.”

Orion had told her that, a lifetime ago. It was his incomplete retelling of the tale, just before her seventh birthday, that had inspired her to call upon the Powers, begging for vengeance and the strength to resist her father.

“In the year 1624, the Black Family came the closest it ever has to dying out. Nigel, Lord Black, the last of his name, and his wife, Catarina, had only two children, twins, Onyx and Mela. They, the parents, were assassinated in a blood feud, on Midwinter’s Eve when the twins were fourteen. The children ran, and escaped through their parents’ sacrifice. They stayed in hiding for a year and a day, and when they emerged, it was with a dark and terrible vengeance, wearing the power of the Dark like cloak and crown. They wiped their enemies from the face of the Earth before marrying like the Pharaohs of old, brother to sister, and taking their rightful place at the forefront of Society…”

There had been a ritual, dedicating the family, for eternity, to the Dark Powers. It was never recorded, perhaps because it could only be used once, or because they guarded the secret too jealously from other Houses to risk committing it to writing. In truth, Bella rather suspected that there was nothing to record – that it was not, in fact, a formal ritual at all, but more like her own dedication: a desperate plea in the dark, to the Dark, intent and will and an offer of anything.

Regardless of how it had been done, every child born to the House of Black, bearing the name and claimed by the family magic, was – had been, for centuries – born dedicated to the Dark, with their magic already attuned to the dark end of the spectrum of magic.

“In exchange for the sacrifice of their children’s children’s choices to serve or not to serve, the Dark Powers allowed Onyx and Mela each to make a single wish. Mela, who loved her house and its history, asked that the dark powers ensure the continuation of their line. Onyx, who loved magic and its power, asked the dark to gift his family with magic to raise them above all others, to be like princes among wizards, and thus the Covenant was forged.”

Orion had conveniently left out the conditions under which these wishes were granted. Bella hadn’t learned them until Cygnus had informed Arcturus that she had made her Choice. It was decreed that Onyx and Mela would have children to carry on their line, but only together, and if any child of Black should wish to reach that same level of power to which Onyx and Mela were raised, they would need to make their own sacrifice. When Onyx impudently asked what that sacrifice would be, the Dark decreed that the Blacks would have power at the price of their humanity: the origins of the Choice.

For a time after Mela and Onyx, the Family teetered on the edge of greatness and complete self-destruction, making their Choices and dedicating themselves to Death and Destruction and Chaos, losing all restraint. They burnt hot and bright, annihilating themselves and everyone around them in their pursuit of power: gifts of the Dark are almost always a double-edged blade. After a century or so (seven very short and wild generations), the Black blood was finally diluted enough that the family began to mellow and reign themselves in: the last Black who had made the Choice was born the 1740s.

Every Black still re-dedicated themselves to the Dark every Lammastide, but they set aside Onyx’s gift, holding Mela’s paramount – until now.

It was highly ironic, Bella decided, that in the same generation wherein a Black once again made the Choice, taking fullest advantage of the Covenant, it had finally be broken. It did not affect, so far as she could tell, the magic of any Blacks already born, nor her dedication to Eris as a Black Mage. She hadn’t even felt it end, as her own connection with the Dark superseded that of the family magic. And she found that she didn’t very much care whether the family’s continuation was ensured by the Powers or not. She had killed more than her fair share of them as she established her loyalty to her Lord’s Death Eaters, hardly sparing a thought for the Covenant, outside of restricting her ‘pruning’ to the cadet branches of the tree, lest the Powers strike her down for coming to near to ending the House herself. Besides, intra-familial power struggles ending in death were practically a family tradition.

She cared quite a lot more that Sirius had so drastically attempted to force them the House to disown him. It wasn’t as though his leaving was even slightly unanticipated – he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Black family for years, but the finality of his last act, turning away from the Dark irrevocably, was… damning.

It said that there was no hope for reconciliation between them – either Sirius and the Blacks, or the two of them personally.

It was truly disappointing, the way he had turned out, because out of the three remaining Blacks she was actually inclined to claim as family (Cissy, Siri, and Reggie), Sirius was the one who reminded her most of herself. They were very much alike in personality, before Gryffindor had ruined him. When he was a child, she often thought that he would be the redemption of the House of Black: strong enough and bold enough to put the decades of Arcturus’ neglect to rights.

Now, she supposed, the only way he would come into the position of Paterfamilias would be if every other Black died, including Regulus and Orion. Even then, there was a very good chance that the family magic would not fully recognize him.

Reggie, who now bore the responsibilities of the Heir, was the least suited to ruling the family out of the three: he was, in a word, soft. He had Orion’s normally easygoing temperament, but he never lost it like his father was wont to do. He was a follower by nature, not a leader. A courtier, not a commander or a king. There was, of course, a place for such wizards, and she would welcome him into the Death Eaters’ ranks with open arms, but under his guidance, the House of Black would, she was certain, lose its primacy among the Noble Houses, becoming weak and easily swayed.

If she were in Arcturus’ position, she would dissolve Narcissa’s marriage contract and force Cissy and Reggie to wed. Narcissa might be every inch as much a proper Lady as Regulus was a courtier, but she had the ruthlessness and political ambition he lacked, while he held the bloodline. The two of them together might, might, be able to revive the House again, their children inheriting unopposed by the multitudes who could make a claim on maternal relationships.

It was hardly any of her concern, however: she had only just agreed to wed Rodolphus Lestrange, in order to take control of the Lestrange finances – a task impossible if she refused to give up the Black name, at least legally. In a few short months, the problem would be out of her hands entirely, and Arcturus had never listened to her advice, anyway. The best she could do for her two remaining family-members was to ensure that Regulus would be taken care of within her Master’s ranks, and Cissy as Lucius’ Lady. (She supposed that, if Narcissa had to marry outside of the family, it was best she marry a Death Eater, over whom Bella could keep a close eye.)

“Silence!” Arcturus bellowed, drawing her attention back to the farce playing out before her. “What’s done is done – the Covenant cannot be repaired. And if I disowned every one of you who has committed crimes against this family, I would be left with no family at all! Two blood traitors, the First Daughter swearing her loyalty to other parties and the Heir looking to follow her. Three parents who drove them to it, and a fourth murdered by his own daughters – yes, I know about that Narcissa! – one nephew who has refused to do his duty for his family, and the Black Curse has taken all the rest!”

‘Black Curse’ – ha! The Black Curse – the reason the average life expectancy in the family was only about age 70, as far back as the 1600s – had only ever been other Blacks. It had taken twenty-one deaths, over the course of five years, but she had managed to pare down the cadet branches of the family such that they were essentially gone – all those who remained were married out or had been old enough that they had died of their own accord in the six years since she declared her Mastery project complete. Accidents, suicides, a few ‘natural’ deaths… she would be lying if she said she wasn’t a bit impressed with herself for managing to pull it off without raising more suspicions.

“This family hardly needed the boy’s transgression to destroy itself! And he is not the only one to blame! Should I disown Orion for casting a Soul Eater on his own son? Bellatrix for saving him, and biasing him against the dark all at once? Walburga, for failing to instill in her pupil the true importance of the Covenant? Our family no longer holds the favor of the Dark, and as such I cannot take the risk of disowning one of the two unwed males who might yet pass on the name!”

Bella sniggered to herself. Sirius, pass on the Black name? It was more likely that Alphard would suddenly agree to leave his partner and remarry. The sterility curse she had placed upon the former Heir could be reversed, but only by its caster, and she wasn’t about to do him the favor of tracking him down to remove it. He had been opposing herself and her master increasingly publically over the past two years, and she was certain her initial reason for placing it still applied.

“Please, Bella, enlighten us as to which part of this you find amusing!”

“You wouldn’t understand, Pater,” Bella drawled insolently. Narcissa and Regulus’ eyes widened in identical expressions of awe. She should spend more time with them, she noted. Not that she didn’t approve of their esteem for herself, but they still held far too much for their Head of House, if speaking her mind to him was enough to inspire such a reaction. Especially if Regulus was now meant to be the Heir.

“Stay behind after the meeting, Bellatrix,” Arcturus ordered her, eyes narrowed. “We have much to discuss, not least of which is your engagement to that buffoon Lestrange.” She nodded impassively. It was only expected – she knew her Master had sent word to her Head of House informing the latter of their recent decision. She had every intention of following through with the wedding, regardless of Arcturus’ thoughts on the matter, though whether she would allow Lestrange to consummate the marriage, she rather doubted. One had to have some standards, after all. “The rest of you, get out of my sight. I will inform you all as needed when I have decided the course of action we must take in light of this development. Do nothing to endanger our family or our name in the meanwhile.” The House of Black stood as one, bowing to its paterfamilias. He sneered at them, and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Do try not to embarrass me any further, while you’re at it.”

Chapter Text

[tw: depression, self-hatred, anorexia, dangerously obsessive unrequited teenage love, (accidental) attempted murder; Rated ‘R’ for teen drug/alcohol use; sexual content]

(1976, September – October)

Sirius

The Gryffindor House Back-to-School Party was an event not to be missed.

For most, it was a celebration, meeting up with friends again after long months apart, with stories to tell and gifts from vacations, and reunions with boyfriends and girlfriends of whom one’s parents did not approve. It was a last hurrah before classes began, and the dry spell that would last for the next two months, until Quidditch started up again and they celebrated or mourned the outcome of the first match of the season. As soon as Minnie said her piece and the new firsties were safely tucked away in their dorms, firewhisky flowed freely, courtesy of Wormtail’s Hogsmeade smuggling operation; Sirius and James sweet-talked the kitchen elves into sending up all the leftovers from dessert; and Remus pulled the new prefects aside to discuss the advantages of turning a blind eye, just for one night. Couples who hadn’t seen each other for weeks pulled each other into corners and armchairs before the fire, making up for lost time, and someone started passing around cannabis and dragonsbreath and a damn good quality bottle of Wyrm and an envelope of muggle acid – that shit that made you hear colors (never again) – along with the usual cigarettes, and some new “happy pills” to get you high.

For Sirius, it was like coming home. He had spent the last month of the holiday with the Potters, and had no intention of returning to Grimmauld Place, ever. His former parents and Arcturus seemed to be completely on-board with that plan of action. Charlus and Dorea had received a very formal letter from Arcturus, informing them that he would not contest their custody of Dorea’s godson; that Regulus was the new Heir of Black; and that Sirius personally was disinherited and disowned by his parents, though not the Black family. If he wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of his Paterfamilias, all he had to do was marry a pureblood witch and have a nice little pureblood baby to carry on the name – his children could claim his cadet allowance when they came of age.

He had burned the letter after a single read-through. Declaring for the Light and breaking the Family Covenant with the Dark had been intended to burn his bridges with them entirely. His first act as a free man (once he got over the combined effects of the ritual and Walburga’s Cruciatus – which hurt, but nothing like as bad as Bella’s) was to send letters to his Uncle Alphard (who was similarly disinherited) and Andromeda, wherever she might be, to inform them that he had joined them in exile. Alphard had been fairly reserved in his response, obviously torn between congratulating Sirius for taking a stand against his parents’ demands, and reprimanding him for breaking the Covenant (though not too harshly, because everyone could see that the House of Black had been run into the ground by Arcturus and Cygnus and Orion, and even Alphard himself, through his negligence, long before Sirius had done anything). He hadn’t heard back from Meda, yet, but she was officially his favorite cousin now, anyway.

Dorea had sent a scathing response back to Arcturus, informing him that if he had contested her custody of Sirius, she was fully prepared to have argued his incompetence as a guardian and as a Head of House before the entire Wizengamot, and that if Regulus ever wanted to abandon the sinking ship that was the House of Black, she would gladly do the same for him. Charlus had added that they would be asking their allies to dissolve all business arrangements with the House of Black, because they could not be associated with any family that condoned the use of Unforgivable curses on its own children.

Sirius had never felt so loved in his life.

The last month of the summer was the best he’d ever had. Remus and Peter came to join them at the Potter estate, and they spent two weeks exploring fields and forests and nearby muggle towns, flirting with muggle girls and acquiring Sirius’ new favorite thing: a motorbike. He had big plans for that bike. His NE Runes project was going to be enchanting it to fly. He’d never been happier. Quite frankly, he wished he had run away years ago.

And now he was back at Hogwarts, where he belonged, with all his friends – only sixth-years, but they were already kings of the castle – and there was a party, and he was so high (for future reference, Wyrm or happy pills, not both), and a bit drunk, and Marley McKinnon was shirtless and giggling on his lap and – was that Evans dancing on a coffee table with Ellie Adams and Cat Zuthe?

Holy shit! It was! They were doing some sort of sexy strip-tease thing, with the light of the fire behind them and – where was James? He was missing it!

Sirius looked around, but he was distracted as Marley snogged him forcefully, before she was dragged away by her room-mate, Mary, and then Evans was in front of him, straddling him, sitting on his knees in her short, short muggle skirt, bare tits in his face, smelling like strawberries and sweat and three kinds of smoke and grinning like the two of them were in on some great cosmic joke that the rest of the world wasn’t allowed to know about.

It was hard to remember why he didn’t like her when she let her hair down and removed the stick from her arse and acted like that instead of her usual sly, stuck-up, prissy prefect self.

She leaned in close and whispered, “Do you want me, Sirius?” Her lips were so close that he could feel them against his ear, and then she started nibbling at his neck, and Ellie and Cat were still on the table, soft limbs wrapped around each other, Cat’s dark hands in Ellie’s blonde hair, and Evans was rocking her hips against his saying, “I think you do,” with a smile like a siren song – fuck me, fuck the world, fuck it all and let it burn.

“Where’s James?” he asked, the words only a little slurred.

She kissed him, and he tasted whisky before she pulled away with an innocent shrug, so at odds with that kiss and those eyes and the mischief in her tone. “Not here.”

Almost everyone was asleep or passed out, or else completely occupied by their own trips or each other. James’ distinctive, messy hair was nowhere to be seen, nor Remus’ disapproving glare. He thought that might have been Pete, passed out by the fire with Mary and Marley, but it was hard to tell from this angle, and he really didn’t care.

“I can’t – you – Jamie…”

She ignored his weak protests, wrapping strong fingers in his hair and twisting just enough to make his cock twitch, forcing her tongue into his mouth, and biting his lower lip hard enough that he tasted blood. “Fuck James Potter!” she said, coming up for air. Fuck me, fuck the world. “I’m not his fucking property, you know,” she whispered in one ear. She kissed him again, more gently, moving to the other, and added, “And neither are you.” Another kiss, a brush of teeth against his already swollen lip, and her hips were moving again, and he’d probably regret it in the morning, but when she asked again, “Do you want me, Sirius?” grinning like nothing matters, fuck it all, he flipped them so that he was on top and snogged her back, like setting his life on fire and dancing in the flames as the whole world burned to ashes all around him.

He didn’t know how his trousers and her knickers made it to the floor, didn’t know how long they moved together, couldn’t remember if they used a contraceptive charm, and couldn’t care less if they’d put on a show for the entire common room. The world faded out in a haze of sex and drugs, as the sky outside started to grow light and some Irish muggle album on the turntable played: guess who just got back today, them wild-eyed boys that'd been away…

He woke up gasping and confused, with someone pinching his nose, after what had to have been only a couple of hours. Remus was looking down at him like he had done something irreparably fucked up.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he whisper-yelled.

“Uhh…”

“Lily Evans, Sirius! You couldn’t’ve hooked up with any other girl?!”

That was the point when Sirius looked down and realized that he had, in fact, done something irreparably fucked up. He scrambled free of her arms and the couch, yanking his trousers back on as quickly as he could.

Evans groaned as she was forced to roll over, winced at the light and the sight of her fellow prefect’s judging eyes, and grumbled something about Molly and bad life choices. “Are there any more hangover potions in the stash?” she asked Remus, trying to brush her hair out of her face and cover her tits.

There were fingerprint bruises on her arms and hips, and love-bites on her breasts and neck. Oops. He assumed he looked just as bad, or Remus would have been telling him off about being too rough or offering her sympathy or something. Instead he was answering her question coldly: “Most people aren’t up yet.”

“Ugh, take a chill pill, Remus!” she complained, fetching her blouse from a lamp by the fire.

“I will not take a chill pill! Thanks to you I had to take a fucking Sober-up to deal with fucking James Potter drunk off his arse and moaning about how you and Sirius betrayed him for the last three hours!”

Sirius’ blood ran cold. “James? Is he okay?”

“We came back from a resupply run and found you two curled up here on the couch. What do you think? He spelled himself into the bathroom with a half-fifth of whisky, and I haven’t had time to break down his wards, what with being a little busy being the only semi-responsible person in the tower, apparently,” he added, the last comment clearly directed toward Evans.

“Oh, no – don’t you dare blame this on me, Remus Lupin! I get one night a year off from babysitting all your drunk arses. You and Paul and Felicia agreed to take care of shit last night if I took the lead on the end of year party! It was your fucking idea, in case you forgot!”

“I didn’t think you were going to get high and bang Sirius!”

“What, you think I planned that?! You’re as paranoid as he is!”

“I’m not paranoid!” Sirius snapped, trying to decide if it would do more damage to go break down Jamie’s wards on the bathroom and apologize, or if he would be even angrier to see Sirius so soon. “Seriously, though, Remy, I wouldn’t put it past her…”

“Oh, shut up,” Evans sneered, an expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on her greasy-haired, Death Eater ex. “Remus, I’m going to get a potion and a shower, and if you’ve pulled your head out of your arse by the time I get back, I might help clean up.” She stalked off before either of the boys could respond.

The werewolf’s furious glare turned to him, instead.

“Remus, she came on to me – you have to believe me, mate!”

The taller boy growled under his breath. “Sirius, I don’t give a fuck which one of you started it! The only reason I care is that I don’t want to get caught in the middle of you and James having a fucking row over a girl who doesn’t even like either of you.”

“I don’t like her either! Fuck! What the fuck do I say to James?”

“Do I look like I know? You’d better think of something, though, and go break into the bathroom so I can get Pete into the showers. I think Mary threw up on him, and I do not have the focus right now to vanish that shit.”

Sirius groaned, but started trudging toward the stairs. At least that settled the question of whether he should wait, or try to apologize immediately.

Two weeks later, after Sirius skipped three days of classes in a row, lying in bed with the curtains sealed because he couldn’t stand seeing James anymore and how he had fucked up fucking everything , Peter decided he had had enough. After everyone else left for class, he ripped Sirius’ curtains completely down , stripped the blankets off the bed and levitated Sirius into the shower by his ankle. He sputtered under the cold spray as Peter shouted at him.

“You haven’t been to a meal in a week, Siri! Did you even get out of bed yesterday? We’re worried about you! You missed Runes twice! I told everyone you had some intestinal shit and couldn’t leave the loo, but if you’re not back in class by Monday, Pomfrey is going to come track you down!”

“Go away, Pete,” he moaned. “Let me down and go away.”

Pete dropped him on his head, still under the cold water, still shouting. “I will not go away! Remus keeps saying to give you your space, but it’s obvious you’re getting worse, not better, so obviously that’s not working.”

“You don’t understand!” he moaned, righting himself clumsily.

“What I understand is that you fucked Evans, had a row with Jamie, and fucking dived head first off the deep end! Not eating! Skipping classes! Skipping Quidditch trials?! When was the last time you bathed? You smell like a fucking dog! You need to get your shit together!”

“I fucked up everything, Pete,” he mumbled. “Fucking everything.” Fuck, he was crying. Sitting in a cold shower crying while Peter Pettigrew told him to get his shit together. Like it was that fucking easy.

“What the bloody fuck are you on about, you mad cunt? You are, currently, at this very moment fucking up everything! Three days of classes, Sirius! It’s only a matter of time until someone tells McG and they drag you off to St Mungo’s! Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you thinking? Are you thinking?” He chucked a potions vial at Sirius. “Drink that and wash your goddamn hair – you look like fucking Snivelly!”

He sniffed at the vial, heedless of the fact that he was letting water drip into it, then capped it and set it aside. “I don’t need it,” he said petulantly. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

Pete snorted. “Yeah, totally fine. When was the last time you ate? I bet you don’t even remember. Drink the goddamn nutrient potion or I’ll knock you out and dump it down your unconscious throat you stubborn son of a bitch!”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, trying to stand and brush past his smaller friend, but he got dizzy and slumped back under the water.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the Hospital wing.

“Doesn’t look like he’s been keeping much down, the poor dear,” Pomfrey was saying to a concerned-looking Pete. “Low blood sugar, you know. You were right to bring him in. This is why I’m always wary of those ‘intestinal bugs’ – it was an emetic curse, and a right strong one, too, if it’s lasted this long. Well, we’ll have him right as rain in a jif now we’ve got to the core of the problem. Just a mo’…”

She bustled off down the ward as a girl came in covered in some kind of green slime.

“What the hell, Pete?” he hissed.

“You did this to yourself, Siri! I’m done covering for you! I have to get to class. I’ll come back after dinner.”

Peter did come back after dinner, and brought Remus, too, but that left plenty of time for Sirius to think and pick despondently at the plates Pomfrey kept setting in front of him and ignore her fussing over possible lingering traces of the emetic curse Pete had used to cover up the fact that he hadn’t been ill. There weren’t any, he just wasn’t hungry. Watching the events of the first week of school play over and over behind his eyes, seeing everything going wrong, again and again, made him so miserable he didn’t want to eat.

It had been bad.

James was still drunk when Sirius broke into the bathroom on Sunday morning. Sirius had tried to apologize – said he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t want her, blamed it on the drugs and the alcohol, told James that Evans had come on to him – but James had repeated over and over that Sirius was the worst fucking excuse for a friend, and it had to’ve been Sirius’ fault, because Lily hated him just as much as James, and Sirius had to’ve been planning this all along, gotten her drunk and suggestible and waited until he and Remus were gone. Sirius stood there and took it, until James slurred something about this being the thanks he got for inviting Sirius into his home and he should just get the fuck out.

That one hurt, probably more than all the rest of it combined. He knew James was drunk and angry, but, well… drunk words are sober thoughts, and James never had been very good at sharing. It didn’t really surprise him that his best friend secretly resented his coming to crash with the Potters permanently. It did surprise him that he would throw five years of friendship out the window over one, stupid, drunken mistake. To be honest, he thought that after James had time to cool down and Sirius apologized again, it would all blow over.

It didn’t. The first week back had been all ‘get lost, Sirius,’ and ‘you should have known better, Sirius,’ and ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Sirius.’ By the following weekend, when James told him not to bother showing up on Wednesday for their monthly rendezvous at the Shack, it started to sink in that this, like everything involving Lily Fucking Evans, was something that James was not capable of being reasonable about.

In one fell swoop, the red-headed bitch had managed not only to drive a wedge between himself and his best friend, but his brother in all but name and, yes, he was about 90% certain, now – the man he loved.

He hadn’t been back to the Great Hall since he realized it, because going back to that place reminded him of that moment, and made him feel outright sick.

It wasn’t that they were both guys (he’d had plenty of wizards – not a problem in the least), or that they were like brothers. Gods and Powers! It would have been less awkward to fall in love with his actual brother! At least he didn’t have to see Reggie every day, didn’t have to try to sleep lying three feet away from him and knowing that he hated him. Fuck! He hardly knew Reggie anymore – hadn’t spoken to him, really, in years. He would be a much more appropriate crush than his best friend!

No, the problem was that James wouldn’t even look at him!

And the worst part was, he didn’t even fucking realize that he wanted him until he went off on Evans in the Great Hall on Sunday, and she slapped him and hissed, “This is for the lakeside,” and stalked off and James went to her – to her – and was all, ‘are you okay?’ and ‘ignore Sirius, he’s a dick.’ She smirked at him like, yes, I knew exactly what I was doing and walked away with Jamie trailing after her and he just felt so overwhelmingly jealous that James was with her and not with him – and that was when he realized: it wasn’t just that she was a stuck-up, manipulative slut who inexplicably reminded him of Narcissa and somehow managed to have the entire fucking school wrapped around her little finger. He hated her because he wanted James to himself.

He was jealous of Lily Fucking Evans, because she had James Potter’s eye – because she could afford to spurn him at every turn, and he would still go chasing after her, when he wouldn’t even acknowledge Sirius’ existence in class!

And Sirius actually cared.

He had never felt this way about anyone.

It was a revelation.

If he had had it at any other time, he would have been thrilled.

Well, maybe not thrilled. He might have felt like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner. He might have felt awkward, falling in love with his best friend, who was head over heels for a bitch who wouldn’t even give him the time of day. He might have been a nervous wreck because James had never showed any sign that he was even open to the idea of other guys. But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been fucking miserable, because he had fucked it all up before he even knew there was anything to fuck up. Because he definitely had – Jamie apparently hated him, now. He kept giving Sirius the sort of looks that he used to give Snivellus, like he was some sort of fucking competition for Evans’ affections.

Not that she, in fact, had affections, seeing as she was clearly some sort of selfish demonic entity incapable of human emotion outside of manipulating everyone and everything around her. Remus had said it was no wonder she slapped him after saying that to her face, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. That was probably the thing about her that reminded him of Narcissa – except he grew up with Narcissa and knew her weaknesses, while Evans didn’t really appear to have any.

Well, except Snivellus.

For the lakeside. Ha! He would have been willing to bet anything that she knew about the shit he was pulling on them all year – that Polyjuice stunt, for one! He was sure it wasn’t a coincidence that six of the eight times, she was the one who caught them hexing the fake firstie. She had to be in on it! Snivels had deserved every second of humiliation they had doled out!

And he was almost positive that they were still friends – just pretending they weren’t. He had followed her while everyone else was at dinner on Monday, wanting to have it out with her, but she locked herself in a room on the seventh floor, behind some kind of anti-eavesdropping charm, and he had been curious enough to stick around to see who she was meeting up with after she left. None other than the greasy dungeon bat himself! And they still sat together in Slughorn’s class. Yes, there was a seating chart, but the fat old git liked both of them well enough that if they had asked to be separated, he would’ve done it.

James wouldn’t listen when he tried to tell them later that she was sneaking around. He just kept right on talking to Remus about their plans for the night of the full moon, like Sirius wasn’t even there. He had decided that it wasn’t worth it to get out of bed on Tuesday – he had already been told he wasn’t wanted on their monthly Marauder romp, and now it was like James was determined to pretend he didn’t even exist. He stayed there on Wednesday, too, telling Peter to cover for him, because he wasn’t feeling up to class. On Thursday, he told Remus to ask James why he hadn’t come out with the others the night before, and sealed the curtains to make it easier to ignore the prefect’s whining.

He’d heard Pete being concerned about him Thursday night, and Remus saying that he’d get up and come downstairs when he was hungry, and Pete pointing out that he hadn’t been to the Great Hall since Sunday. James had said shirtily that he’d probably been having an elf bring him meals, or going straight to the kitchens, and that he, Sirius, was just trying to manipulate them for attention, before he stormed out. Davey Gudgeon said something about telling Minnie, and Remus said to just leave him alone.

Apparently, though, Pete didn’t agree with that particular tactic.

So now, here he was, in the Hospital Wing, with Madam Pomfrey breathing down his neck about fucking food, and dehydration, and whether he had any idea who might have done this to him, in only the second week of term, and of course he told her he suspected Snivelly, pro forma, but Pete’s words kept echoing around his head: “You did this to yourself, Siri!”

Because he hadn’t done this to himself. Lily Fucking Evans had done this to him. Perfect Prefect Evans, golden girl muggleborn extraordinaire, had completely fucking outmaneuvered him, and he hadn’t even seen it coming.

And then it came to him: the way to get back in James’ good graces and make Evans suffer all at once.

It was so simple – he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.

All he had to do was find some way to get rid of Snape!

It was perfect!

He would be able to show James that he – Sirius – was still on James’ side – that he was helping with the wooing of the Evans bitch, getting rid of James’ actual rival once and for all! It wasn’t like she was actually going to go for James, anyway. He’d figure that out eventually. If he didn’t, well… one thing at a time. Once James was speaking to Sirius again, he was sure he could convince him of it.

And as for Evans, well – she had taken his best friend from him, so he would take hers from her. Tit for fucking tat, right?

Perfect!

Now all he had to do was work out the details.

Two weeks later, he was ready. James was still pretending that he didn’t exist, but having a goal, a plan to win him back, at least as a friend, had given him the confidence to shrug off the pain of being fucking ignored with something close to his old devil-may-care attitude.

“Are you sure about this?” Pete asked, threading his way through the stacks.

“Yes! He’ll look like he was trying to break into the Shack, he’ll get expelled for sure! Where is he?”

Peter consulted the half-completed map in his hand. It showed all the locations of the people in the castle, thanks to Remy tricking Evans into helping him tap into the school wards, and the library and the Great Hall, their dorm, the Gryffindor commons and most of the broom cupboards, thanks to Peter’s brilliant idea to get around un-plottability by layering a tracking spell into a shield spell, and turning the whole thing into a runic enchantment that could be cast to create a detectable shell inside the un-plottable wards. Mr. Wormtail couldn’t cast for shit, but he was a hell of a theorist. Now all they had to do was find a way to deal with the moving staircases and passages. If they made the “map-mark” self-replicating or integrated it into the wards of the castle, it could even spread through the parts of the Castle they couldn’t get into, like the Slytherin dorms, but both of those options were easier said than done.

In the meanwhile, though, the Map did show that ‘Severus Snape’ was located, unmoving, about ten meters north-northwest from their current position. Pete pointed.

“You remember the plan?”

The plan was fairly simple, for all it had taken ages to figure out exactly the right details. Snivellus would need a reason to try to get through the wards on the Shack. Those wards were meant to keep humans out (except Remus, who was specifically keyed in), and Dark Creatures in. Madam Pomfrey or Minnie added a palling every night of the moon so that Remus couldn’t leave once they escorted him in but before the moon rose, and then they left. The palling expired at moonset or sunrise, whichever happened first, and Remus made his way back through the tunnel, unless he was too injured to do so, which hadn’t happened since they had started keeping him company a couple months before their OWLs. They could slip right in in their animal forms, but there was no way Snivels would be able to do so.

He would give up after a while, but the stubborn git would definitely keep after it long enough for Sirius to tip off Minnie that he had seen the Slytherin lurking around the Whomping Willow: ‘I heard he’s been asking questions about it, claiming he saw Remus and Madam Pomfrey head out there, too – absurd, of course, isn’t it? I mean, why would Remus and Madam Pomfrey be out by the Whomping Willow? But, well… Anyway, Professor, I think Snape must’ve done something to the tree – it didn’t seem to be moving, and then he just disappeared…’

Snivellus would be caught well out of bounds, trying to break into an obviously secured area…

They just needed the right lure to get him there. He knew that the Slytherin knew that they had a supplier for alcohol and assorted other useful things from Hogsmeade. He knew that Snivels had more or less deduced that Peter was in charge of it. Thinking that he was going to get Sirius in trouble for being behind it all would probably be too good for him to resist. Being a Slytherin, Sirius figured the dungeon bat was much more likely to go poking around himself in the hopes of getting something blackmail-worthy on Sirius than to just tell a professor. If he took a few of his closest Death Eater friends along with him, so much the better. Even if he did tell a professor, he’d look like an idiot when it became clear there was no smuggling ring operating out of the Shrieking Shack (That business went down exclusively in Honeydukes’ basement.), and Sirius could work on finding some other way to get him chucked out.

“Yes, Siri! I remember the goddamn plan!”

“All right, then let’s go.”

They drifted closer to Snivellus’ corner, striking up a whispered conversation when Sirius judged that they were in range.

“Please, Sirius – you have to go! I’m going to fail the transfiguration exam if I don’t study, and someone has to meet him! I’ve already placed the order! If we don’t show up with the money, fat chance we’ll ever get another delivery!”

“Why can’t James do it, or Remus?”

“Keep your voice down, damn it! James already agreed to help me study, and you know how Remus feels about being a prefect – he needs his plausible deniability about where that sort of stuff comes from.” Pete sounded genuinely irritated.

Sirius groaned. “I had plans, Pete!”

“Reschedule! Unless you want to completely screw us over for the First Match party. It’s next week or never.”

“Fine. Fine. Ryan’s a bitch anyway. What do I need to do?”

“We’re supposed to meet at the Shrieking Shack at seven-thirty on Friday the eighth. If you leave right after dinner, you should get there in plenty of time.”

“Why the fuck would you choose to meet at the Shrieking Shack, of all places?”

“No! That’s the clever part, see? There’s this tunnel that goes straight there. He told me about it. You just have to poke that big knot on the Whomping Willow with a stick or something, and it opens up a passage between the roots. The limbs freeze and you just walk straight in – no worries about getting caught halfway back, no one keeping watch for contraband coming in, it’s perfect.”

Sirius sighed. “Fine. Seven-thirty?”

“It takes like fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe, to walk there. Just go right after dinner. I’ll cover for you.”

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, mate.”

They made their unhurried way back toward the main study area, doing their best to look legitimately inconspicuous. Snivellus oozed out of the library a few minutes later, and they shared a high-five under the table.

Sirius left dinner early on the night of the full moon. He needed to stake out the Willow to make sure the Slytherin actually went into the tunnel before running to tip off Minnie. Pete found him just after seven, sprouting up from his Animagus form and instantly complaining that he hadn’t been able to find James anywhere, so they’d just have to intercept him here. The plan would hardly work if James alerted the target before he could be intercepted.

They were doing impressions of Snape trying to poke the knot without getting whomped when Prongs pranced out of the trees.

“Pete? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. And what is he doing here?”

“Well I’ve been waiting for you – we have to wait,” Peter explained. “Siri sent Snivels down to get caught trying to break in – we’re going to tip of McGonagall and finally get him expelled!”

James’ eyes grew wide. “You did what?!” he addressed Sirius directly for the first time in weeks.

“I’m on your side, Jamie! I don’t know how else to prove it to you!”

“Remus and I finished putting in that Ward Gate last night so that I don’t have to transform in the fucking tunnel!”

It was always a chore for Prongs to get through the door at the other end of the tunnel, what with the enormous antlers and deer not being made for crouching at all. He had been talking about punching an undetectable hole in the anti-human ward since the very first time they sneaked in, but he definitely hadn’t mentioned that they’d actually done it. Well, he hadn’t mentioned anything to Sirius all month, but apparently he hadn’t told Pete either, because he echoed, “You did what?!”

Sirius couldn’t help but snigger. “So Snivels is just going to walk straight into the Shack with a transformed werewolf? Brill. Well done, James. I had just meant to get him expelled, but dead works, too.”

“No, it doesn’t! They’ll find the Ward Gate –” Pete started, but James cut him off: “And Remus! With a dead body! Remus would be a murderer! Are you fucking insane?!”

“I –”

“No! Don’t answer that! I’m going to stop him; Pete, go get McG now!”

Pete turned and ran back toward the school, as James banished a rock into the knot and skidded into the tunnel. Sirius stood, frozen, staring after James for a long moment before turning to follow Peter up to the castle at a much less hurried pace. If Jamie wanted to save his rival’s life, well, then, he was on his own. Sirius had gone to a serious amount of effort to take care of the git for him, and this was the thanks he got? Talk about ungrateful, running in and ruining the Plan.

Well, Sirius wouldn’t stop him, but he certainly wasn’t going to try to help.

It wasn’t like James would be in any danger from Remus, and honestly, he didn’t see what was so wrong with letting Snape walk in and get himself killed, anyway. Remus was right where he was supposed to be – it wasn’t like he would have done anything worth being punished for, even if he did maul the dungeon bat. And they could pin the Ward Gate on Snape – ‘Oh, he must have been working on getting in there for ages… Must’ve really thought there was something worth finding on the other side… Can’t imagine what he thought it was.’ It’d be his word and Jamie’s and Pete’s against a dead, greasy Slytherin weirdo – even the other Snakes didn’t like him, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time until he fell in with the Death Eaters. A little lying, a tragic accident, and the Snape Problem would be solved, no one’s fault but his own. Easy as pie.

Oh! Unless he lived… Maybe he ought to go back, after all and finish him off, just in case. Padfoot’s jaws were about the same size as Moony’s. If he ripped out Snape’s throat and threw an Eternal Wound Curse over the marks, they’d read as werewolf bites, and that was if anyone even looked into it – after all, werewolf plus dead, mangled body is pretty easy arithmancy. The idea of having any part of Snape in his mouth, even as Padfoot, was disgusting, and it would hurt to cast the curse, because it was dark as fuck, but he would do it if he had to.

But no, Jamie had already run off to play hero, so that wasn’t even an option anymore, and he was almost back up to the school, anyway.

Pete had run the whole way, and though he was far less fit than any of the other Marauders, he was fast when he wanted to be. He and Minnie were making their way onto the grounds just as he arrived at the nearest door.

Minnie was talking very quickly, though she froze for a half-second when she saw him, her face turning murderous. “Mr. Black! You will report directly to the Headmaster’s office at once. Mr. Pettigrew, accompany him! You are not to make any detours – and don’t you even think about trying to do otherwise – the portraits will be keeping an eye on you!”

“Jeez, yeah, fine, Minnie – Dumbles’ office. Password still Chocolate Frog?”

“Ooh, you have a lot of nerve, me laddie! Get going!” She transformed into her animagus form and sprinted away across the lawns toward the Willow.

“What the hell is her problem?”

Pete just shook his head, looking at Sirius like he was a stranger or something. “Come on,” he said, leading the way back up into the school.

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk when they stepped through the door at the top of his staircase, as he always had been, every time Sirius had gotten caught doing something spectacular enough that Minnie decided it warranted the Headmaster’s intervention.

“Ah,” he said, in that grandfatherly way that Sirius had come to appreciate over the years, though he didn’t quite trust it. “Sirius, Peter, what brings you to my humble office this evening, my boys?”

He just shrugged, while Pete said, “Professor McGonagall sent us up, sir.”

“I see…” his eyes twinkled, and there was a brush of legilimency against Sirius’ mind – the reason he didn’t entirely trust the grandfatherly façade. He batted it away, raising an eyebrow at the Headmaster. He really shouldn’t do that to anyone, especially anyone raised by the Old Families. Peter stiffened beside him as he repelled his own probe. Sirius was impressed, not for the first time, at how well he had taken to Occlumency, considering he had only started learning about three years before, and they mostly had to practice with boggarts, since the only legilimensers they knew were Snape and Dumbledore. Sirius and James had been taught when they were very young, and Remus, too, to control his emotions around the full moon, but Peter hadn’t heard of it until they began the animagus project. Being able to hide their pranking exploits more effectively was really just a bonus.

“Well, we’ll just wait and see when she gets here, I suppose,” Dumbledore continued, as though he hadn’t just tried to legilimize them. “Dew drop?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sirius said cheerfully, helping himself to a hard candy, alongside Pete. They had a bit of Lemon Soother aftertaste, but it wasn’t like they were harmful, and he had a suspicion that he’d need the calming potion to deal with Jamie when Minnie finally dragged him in as well, the prat.

Dumbledore returned to whatever he was writing. Sirius kicked his heels against the legs of his chair. Pete must have been nervous, because he was mainlining the fucking candies. He was on his fifth when Minnie showed up, with both Jamie and a sadly un-harmed Snivellus. Looked like he was back to the drawing board on that one.

Dumbledore greeted them and conjured more chairs, offering dew drops to all before he settled back in his chair. “So, Minerva, what seems to be the problem?”

“These… students know about Mr. Lupin’s… condition.”

“I would be surprised if they did not,” the Headmaster said tranquilly. “They are his friends, after all.”

“I’m no friend of theirs,” Snivels inserted.

Dumbledore nodded at him. “With the notable exception of Mr. Snape.”

“They tried to kill me,” ‘Mr. Snape’ spat.

“Oh, come off it, Snivellus! It was just a bit of a prank!”

“I suppose you thought it was funny, telling him to prod that knot and see if he’d walk straight into a werewolf’s safehouse?!” Minnie nearly shouted.

Well, kind of, especially since he’d thought there would be wards in place to keep him out, but he knew that tone – it would be best not to try to defend himself at the moment. “Erm… no?”

“’No,’ he says – ‘no,’ it’s not funny to try to kill your fellow students? I’m so glad we’ve got that cleared up – after you got caught! Tell me, were you planning to let Mr. Lupin take the blame for the murder?!”

“What? I only meant for him to have a bit of a scare, maybe get expelled for being out of bounds!”

“That’s not what Mr. Pettigrew told me earlier,” she fixed Peter with a gimlet stare.

“That’s not what happened! He was in on it!”

With both Sirius and Minnie glaring at him, Peter cracked. “You said dead was just as good as expelled, Siri!”

“I can’t believe you sold me out!”

“You need help, Sirius!”

Snivellus snorted.

“You shut up, you greasy git! No one asked you!”

“Seeing as I was very nearly lured to my death earlier this evening, I think I shall feel free to volunteer my opinions tonight… Black.”

“Pete’s right, Sirius – it’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” James butted in.

“I – you – I did this for you!” Sirius raged. “He’s still seeing Evans! You should’ve just let him die! He’d’ve been out of the way and then you could go back to trying to win her over, and everything would be like it used to be!”

“Sounds like a confession to me,” the Slytherin git glared.

“Oh, please! If I wanted you dead, you’d’ve been dead years ago!”

“Mr. Black!” Minnie interrupted, “You will hold your tongue!”

“He’s a fucking Death Eater!” Sirius ignored her.

The Slytherin scum slid his left sleeve up and flashed his sallow forearm at the Headmaster before giving Sirius a two-fingered salute. “I’m not the one whose favorite cousin is shacking up with the Dark Lord!”

Sirius ignored him as well. “AND he was only down there in the first place because he was trying to get us in trouble!”

“I rather doubt you are so concerned about Mr. Lupin’s safety and wellbeing, seeing as you nearly made him a murderer this evening, Mr. Black!”

“We all know there were wards! He shouldn’t have been able to get in!”

“And that explains why your former best mate thought it necessary to chase me down, body bind me, and drag me away from a fully-transformed werewolf? Pull the other one, Black!”

“Mr. Snape!” Minnie began, but the git cut her off.

“He’s already admitted he would have seen me dead, professor! He intended to have me die in a tragic ‘accident’ – If Lupin hadn’t killed me, would you’ve gone back and finished me off yourself?” He must have looked briefly guilty, because the Slytherin sneered. “That’s what I thought – admit it! You’re just like the rest of your family, Black!”

“I am not! I’m nothing like them! I didn’t – I did it for you, James! Peter – tell them!”

Peter shrank into his chair as James denounced him. “I never asked you to – why? Why would you possibly think I wanted…? Sirius, Pete’s right, you need help – you haven’t been right since we came back to school – maybe before. Maybe we should’ve listened to mum when she said we ought to take you to a mind-healer after you escaped. There could be complusions or, or –”

“I don’t need a bloody mind-healer! I’m not mad!”

“So sayeth the would-be murderer!”

“Shut up, Snivels! This isn’t about you!”

“My murder isn’t about me?! You –”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and cast some sort of silent silencing charm on all of them. It was much harder to break than the simple tacitus Bella used in lessons. Sirius struggled fruitlessly against it as the old man said, “Peter, would you be so kind as to repeat for me exactly what you told Professor McGonagall?”

All eyes turned to Peter, Sirius’ glaring impotently.

Peter looked around the circle of chairs nervously before he admitted, “Sirius and I said, where we knew Snape would overhear, that if he went down the passage under the Willow, he’d find his way out to the Shack, and how to get in. We made it sound like one of us would be there doing something illegal, so he would think he could get us in trouble, but really we were waiting for him to go out of bounds so we could get him in trouble. But then James showed up and said it was dangerous, and we shouldn’t go through with it, and Sirius said that his being dead was as good as being expelled – same difference, like. And then James said he was going to stop him, Snape, that is, and told me to go get Professor McGonagall, and I did.”

That was… technically true. Still a sell-out, but not as bad as he had thought at first. Sirius shifted his glare from Peter to Snape.

“And James, my boy, did you believe, when you rushed in to save Mr. Snape, that he was truly in danger?”

“Erm… yes? I mean, it is full moon, and Remus is a werewolf, and we didn’t know that there were wards in place – I mean, erm… it sounds like Sirius assumed there were, but he didn’t check ahead of time to make sure.”

Sirius switched from glaring impotently at Snape to glaring impotently at James. How dare he make it sound like this was all Sirius’ fault? He wasn’t the one who had altered the wards for the sake of his own fucking convenience. If James would’ve just fucking talked to him, instead of pretending he didn’t exist, like a fucking child, none of this would’ve ever happened. And implying that he needed a mind-healer? Bastard! I’m not mad, you git, he thought as loudly and clearly as he could, in James’ direction.

The Slytherin smirked at him, obviously having ‘overheard’ it, but it was Sirius who would’ve had the last word, assuming he could currently speak: Dumbledore said, “Ah, a true Gryffindor. I am certain you shall make a noble successor to your father’s legacy someday.” He sighed, and James preened slightly. “I think we have the full picture, now, don’t you Minerva?”

“If by that you mean Black sending Snape into a situation which he did not know was not unsafe, Potter barreling in to rescue him with no thought for his own safety, and Snape only being there in the first place due to some absurd desire to further his feud with these boys, then yes, I think we are on the same page, Headmaster.”

The smirk dripped right off the oily git’s face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Mr. Snape,” Dumbledore said, in his Disappointed Grandfather tone. “I am afraid we shall require you to swear secrecy before we may allow you to leave tonight.”

Minerva was nodding, and James looked relieved. Snivels looked furious.

“We cannot allow you to reveal poor Mr. Lupin’s status to the castle at large – just think the damage it would do to the boy’s future.”

At that, it seemed Snape was finally allowed to speak, or else his rage finally overwhelmed the silencing spell.

“He. Almost. Killed. Me!”

“In fact, he did not, though you and Mr. Potter both most certainly believed he did, and as such, I suspect you may owe Mr. Potter a life-debt. However, Mr. Lupin is every bit as much a victim as yourself.”

“He’s a bloody werewolf!”

“Through no fault of his own. Humor an old man for a moment, Mr. Snape… Just imagine what your own life would be like, if you were… unable, for some reason, to complete your NEWTs – if you were unable to find legitimate employment due to the wrong word dropped in precisely the wrong ear...” There was a heavy beat of silence, wherein Sirius had to resist the urge to applaud the Headmaster’s subtlety. “That is the position in which your revelation of Mr. Lupin’s condition to any other person might very well place him. I’m afraid that I cannot take that chance, given that he is not at all at fault, either for this night’s events or for his unfortunate condition.”

Snape had frozen, perfectly still and unreadable, as soon as he registered the implied threat to his own education and employment prospects. Sirius didn’t really see how it mattered, seeing as the Slytherin git was obviously destined to be one of Bella’s little Death Eaters, but apparently he thought it did, because he drew his wand and bit out an oath, as though every syllable hurt. “I, Severus Snape, vow upon my honor not to disclose my knowledge of Remus Lupin’s status as a werewolf to anyone who does not already know.” A spark appeared at the end of his wand and drifted up to the crown of his head as it became binding.

James snorted, doubtless at the idea that Snivels had any honor to swear upon, but Dumbledore cocked his head to the side and nodded.

“May I leave, then, Headmaster?”

“Not quite yet, Mr. Snape. There remains the issue of your punishment for being out of bounds, after all.”

“Sir?” Sirius didn’t think he had ever heard such disbelief and disdain condensed into a single syllable.

“I believe the precedent for being caught out of bounds before curfew is a week’s detention.”

“Detention. You’re giving me detention. Because Black tricked me into nearly getting eaten by a werewolf?!”

“Of course not, my dear boy! No, no, no – your detention is for leaving the school grounds without permission. I’m afraid that continuing your little feud with your classmates is no excuse for such truancy. I shall inform Mr. Filch that you are to serve your detentions after dinner, every night beginning tomorrow.”

Snape seemed to struggle for a moment before he said, “May I go now, sir? I find myself a bit… shaken, and would like to stop by the Hospital Wing before bed.” The Slytherin’s hands were, indeed, shaking, but Sirius would have bet anything that it was from rage, not fear. Detention was like… adding insult to injury. It was pretty funny, actually. It was probably a good thing that he was still unable to make a sound, because he suspected laughing wouldn’t go over too well at the moment.

“Very well, my boy. Just remember your vow, won’t you? That’s a good lad.”

Snape looked from one face to the next with hate in his eyes, before sweeping from the room without another word.

“Mr. Pettigrew, you may take your leave as well,” Dumbledore added as the door slammed closed. “Minerva, would you mind summoning the Potters for me? I believe they are acting as Mr. Black’s guardians at the moment?”

Sirius nodded, and Minnie said, “Of course, Headmaster,” moving to the floo. Peter gave a pathetic little wave as he slipped out of the door, and then Charlus and Dorea arrived, and Sirius was finally un-silenced, and did his best to explain everything without actually admitting his feelings for Jamie. After that, the evening turned into a blur of hugs (Charlus), well-meaning but condescending advice that might have been helpful three weeks prior (Dorea), apologies (Jamie), more hugs (also Jamie), a small amount of crying (Sirius), and arranging for Sirius to visit a mind-healer for the next few months (everyone but Sirius, whose protests that he was fine were overwhelmed by Dorea’s insistence that every single scion of the thrice-cursed House of Black needed to see a mind-healer, and there was no shame in it).

At the end of the night, everyone seemed pleased, or at least hopeful. Sirius smiled hopefully along with them, but felt absolutely wretched, because a) Jamie kept looking at him with this hideous look of pity whenever he thought Sirius wasn’t paying attention to him, b) he fucking hated legilimency, and people fucking around with his mind, which was, to the best of his understanding, pretty much exactly what mind-healing entailed, and c) he wasn’t supposed to put on a fucking show and live up to expectations for the Potters, and now here he was, doing the same thing he always did – with a different mask and a different family, for completely different reasons, but it felt exactly the same – like a lie that he didn’t quite want to get away with.

Dorea dragged him through the floo, positively chattering about getting him an appointment with her friend John in the morning, and Charlus promised that they would return him in time for classes on Monday, and Jamie just watched them all go, looking every bit as helpless and overwhelmed as Sirius felt.

Chapter Text

(1977, July)

Narcissa

Narcissa sighed, or as close as she could come in full wedding regalia. The corset was very tight. This was the antepenultimate fitting, and Madame Rousseau was determined that she would be perfection incarnate come Lammastide. The entire wedding, it felt, had been planned by others on her behalf. Lucius’ mother and Aunt Alethea had done the bulk of the work, but Druella had decided, for the first time Narcissa could remember, to involve herself in her daughter’s life, and apparently had Opinions on everything from the colors to the robes to the ritual vows.

Madam Malfoy and Aunt Alethea were difficult enough to deal with – they got along tolerably well, and similar tastes, but she was still wary of them as in-laws, and they were tentatively negotiating the beginning of that new relationship between them. Druella’s presence made everything exponentially harder. She never agreed with either of them on anything, and worse, she expected Narcissa to side with her, simply because she was her daughter (never mind that this might be the first time in her life Druella had ever acted like a mother), and got stroppy when Narcissa pointed out that her suggestions were horrid or impractical. She strongly suspected that Melete Malfoy would judge her very harshly if she were to be so rude as to refuse to consider any of her mother’s contributions, but she wasn’t winning any points by not supporting her mother-in-law, either. Aunt Alethea apparently felt the whole situation was hilarious, and delighted in tossing little barbed comments into the fray on both sides.

Narcissa had spent every day since she returned home from Hogwarts feeling as though she was sailing between Scylla and Charybdis, and it was only a matter of time until she fell to one or the other. Even Lucius had wedding demands, though his were generally easier to accommodate, along the lines of including his favorite canapes at the buffet afterward and which musicians they ought to retain for the evening, or else had been long since agreed-upon, such as the date and holding the ceremony at Malfoy Manor, rather than one of the Black estates or in France.

Mostly, she decided, it was just irritating that it all had to be such a big production. Or maybe that it was supposed to be a production for her, but no one truly wanted her input on anything. Or maybe that even that, though no one actually cared what she thought or wanted, she still had to be involved with every decision.

It was incredibly frustrating.

Especially since Bella had gotten married at Yule, and she distinctly did not recall her older sister having to have nine robe-fittings over the course of eighteen months or arguing with Druella or Madam Lestrange over the flowers for her bouquet. She had also never mentioned having to sit with the goblins and Robert Lestrange and Pater Arcturus for days on end hammering out the final details of her marriage contract. That didn’t mean it didn’t happen, but if it had, she was willing to bet it had been less tedious than Narcissa’s negotiations.

She didn’t often regret having missed out on the Black Family Madness, but she suspected it might be very nice to have everyone jump to your every order, regardless of whether it was only out of fear that you might start deciding to practice curses on them or send Death Eaters to burn down their house.

Being the Dark Lord’s favored former Apprentice might’ve helped, too.

She sighed again as Madame Rousseau carefully unwrapped her, layer by layer, returning her wedding robes to their stand. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t make Lucius come to one of these things, so he knew how to get it off of her when the time came.

Which led her thoughts back to another issue which had begun to preoccupy her more and more as the big day quickly approached: despite being as horny and interested as any other Hogwarts student, Narcissa had not actually had sex yet. She had snogged a fair few boys (and a couple of girls as well), but they had all been wary of drawing down the wrath of her family if they went too far. With Bella outside of school, and Reggie in Slytherin, they had, in fact, had plenty to worry about. Even Sirius had done his part to interfere in her love life (or rather, lack thereof) until he really started to draw away from the Family. Most of the time the relationship itself hadn’t gone far enough to get to that point, though, anyway, because she had a habit of only wanting the worst possible people. She hadn’t wanted to be the kind of girl who was too easy, but it had, on occasion, been very tempting, if only to get a bit of experience. But everyone had known that she and Lucius were going to get married as far back as fifth year, so it was hardly surprising that they all shied away and acted like they would be cuckolding him if they actually did it.

It was going to be her wedding night in less than a month, and she found that she was suddenly reluctant. Slightly terrified, even.

It wasn’t that Lucius wasn’t handsome or a perfect gentleman. He was, on every occasion.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of sex.

She just… hadn’t ever done it, before. Not with someone else. Not even at Walpurgis. And she couldn’t, for some reason, imagine doing it with Lucius. Reggie, yes. Gio Zabini, yes. She had even on occasion thought about Barty Crouch and Frank Longbottom as she explored herself. But for some reason, Lucius, her actual fiancé, who was about to become her actual husband, just… wasn’t attractive.

Not like that.

Her theory was that he was too refined.

Too perfect.

She couldn’t imagine him actually giving in to the wildness of sex and actually enjoying it.

The fact that Malfoys ‘didn’t do’ the whole public sex-ritual thing might have had something to do with that impression.

So she was fairly certain that she wouldn’t just be able to let herself get caught up in the moment and let things happen naturally.

It would be a duty, not a pleasure.

She was, of course, willing to fulfill that duty – she wanted to be a good Lady of the House and have children someday – but she didn’t know what was going to happen and how it was all going to work, and there was not a single person she could think to ask. Druella, Melete, and Alethea were all right out, because, well, Druella was Druella, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask her future in-laws. Same for anyone male, and anyone over thirty was bound to treat her like a child, anyway, which she didn’t think she could stand. She didn’t have any female friends, really, and definitely none who were already married and whom she would trust with a potentially embarrassing, personal question like this. She wasn’t even particularly close to any of her older female cousins – not enough that she would feel comfortable asking them about their married lives.

For the first time in years, Narcissa wished she hadn’t stopped writing to Andromeda. She would have been a perfect confidant – she had presumably been married to That Mudblood for years, and it wasn’t as though she could tell anyone who mattered about anything Narcissa told her. But it had been nearly five years since she’d stopped, and there really was no question of looking up her blood traitor ex-sister just for advice on how to handle her wedding night.

That just left… Bellatrix?

This was going to be, as a certain estranged cousin might put it – a shit show.

But she had to ask someone.

“Hello, Bella,” she called, tapping on the door to her sister’s study. “Can I talk to you?”

“What? Narcissa? Why?” Bella tossed her quill in an inkpot and looked up, her mind obviously a million miles away.

That, the younger witch decided, was probably enough acknowledgement to sit. “What are you working on?” she enquired politely.

Bella grinned. “Time travel. What did you want to talk about?”

“Time travel? But that’s not possible!” Time travel – real time travel, on purpose – was a thing of story books and fae tales, not the sort of thing one’s sister worked on in her spare time.

“Sure it is – watch.” She checked the time as a small contraption made of glass and gold and filled with sand appeared, along with a copy of an arithmancy book which appeared to be the same as the one sitting off to Bella’s left side. The older witch slid both of them toward her, and set the contraption where the book had been. “It’s the same book,” she smirked.

Narcissa looked at her in disbelief, then cast a few diagnostic charms at the objects. They certainly seemed to be real, not an illusion or conjured or duplicated. After about five minutes, Bella took one of them from her, pulled another contraption (the same as the first) from one of her desk drawers, checked the time again, and tapped it with her wand. Both object and book vanished. The first contraption went back into the desk drawer. “What…?”

Bella’s smirk only widened. “It’s been a pet project for years, but thanks to Cousin Liam’s work on Fundamental Identity, we’re actually making some progress now. Very exciting, don’t you think?”

Narcissa nodded absently, her mind whirling with the possibilities of reliable, intentional time travel. “Yes, exciting.”

“Well, I know I haven’t told you about it before, and we’re not ready for human trials yet, so you can’t have actually appeared wanting to talk about time travel. What is it?”

“Wait – what?”

“It’s not funny if I have to explain the joke. Keep up, Cissy. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, well… it seems a bit silly in comparison…”

“What’s silly is you wasting my time and yours by not asking,” Bella pointed out in her familiar teacher’s tone.

Narcissa steeled herself and managed to blurt out, “What was your wedding night like?”

Bella actually laughed. “Nothing like yours will be, I’m sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I assume you do plan on consummating your marriage?”

“You didn’t?”

“Rodolphus is a weak, obnoxious slob who has been obsessed with me since we were children. His only redeeming qualities are his fortune and his willingness to obey my every whim. I informed him that if he ever attempted to touch me, I would remove his disgusting testicles with whatever sharp object happened to be closest.”

Narcissa knew she shouldn’t laugh, but the image of Bella threatening her great buffoon of a husband with a fork or a fireplace poker was quite amusing. “So why did you marry him in the first place?”

Bella shrugged. “My Lord asked me to gain control of the Lestrange fortune.”

“Oh. And here I thought that was Bella Zabini’s game,” Narcissa teased gently.

Bella sniggered. “I’m not planning on killing Rodolphus off – he is of some use in the field, after all – just investing in certain people and businesses that Robert has been reluctant to fund after he tragically passes on.”

“I… see.”

“Mmm,” Bella hummed. “So! Wedding night! Have you talked about it with dear Lucy?”

“Well, no – it would just be… awkward. If you haven’t done it with Rodolphus, then… what was your first time with the Dark Lord like?” she asked tentatively, then added at the look Bella gave her: “Oh, come off it. Everybody knows.”

Bella rolled her eyes. “I know. But what makes you think being with Malfoy would be anything like being with my Lord?”

“Sex is sex, isn’t it?”

The older witch laughed. “Cissy, it was at Malfoy Manor and it started out awkwardly. Aside from that, I guarantee it was nothing like your first time will be.”

“Tell me anyway,” Narcissa begged.

The Death Eater gave her a long, evaluating look. Probably, Narcissa thought, deciding whether Narcissa could be trusted not to tell anyone. She could, of course. She was just curious what it was like – she wasn’t sure she could believe the sort of things her year-mates had told her over the years, and reading about it, sensationalized in novels or in clinical medical texts, wasn’t the same as someone actually telling about their own experience.

“It was violent,” she eventually admitted. “Passionate, you might say,” she continued, in an ironically dispassionate tone, which made Cissy smile. “I told him I wanted sex as my seventeenth birthday gift. He threatened to do all manner of terrible things to me, and we fought… he dislocated my wand arm and I tackled him to the ground. He cut my clothes off of me. I resisted him, mostly, but we both knew I wanted to lose. I’d been flirting after him for years, you see. And then after we finished, he made some joke about how I’d ruined his productivity for the day and we raided Abraxas’ cigar stash looking for proper fags,” she smirked.

“That sounds…” Narcissa was at a loss. Horrible. It sounded horrible. And it told her almost nothing about the act of sex itself. “He dislocated your arm?”

Bella shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

“Didn’t it hurt?”

Her sister grinned. “I didn’t mind. Like I said, though, it’d be different with Lucy. He’s not a sadist, nor a masochist, and if he tries to force you to be submissive, you have my permission to twist his balls and tell him that’s what muggle whores are for.”

“What?! Bella!”

“What?”

“I don’t want my husband looking at other witches, let alone muggle whores!”

Bella rolled her eyes. “That’s not the point, Cissy – just make it clear to him that you’re still a Black and he can’t just order you about because you’re taking his name and joining his House.”

“Is he, erm… likely to?”

The older witch shrugged. “Just don’t let him get in the habit of demanding whatever he likes from you. If he’s anything like his father was, or his uncle Scorpius, it would be very easy for him to fall into the habit of thinking he’s entitled to anything he likes.”

“But isn’t it good, I mean… if he knows what he wants?”

“Marriage is one of those things that it’s really best to start off the way you intend to go forward. Don’t let him set any bad precedents, you know?” Bella’s matter-of-fact tone was terribly frustrating.

“But what if… What if I don’t know what I want?” Narcissa nearly wailed.

“Wait – what do you mean? Like for the marriage?”

“No, for sex!”

Bella started sniggering uncontrolledly. “Are you actually a virgin, Narcissa?”

“Yes! Somebody in this family has to act like a lady,” she groused, as though her lack of experience was solely her choice. Bella did not seem any less amused by the jab at her own behavior. “Why do you think I’m so concerned about this?!”

“Oh, um… because it’s Lucius, and he’s a bit of a tool? Sorry, Cissy, you know what I think of him. Oh, wait, that’s an idea… hang on a second.” She moved to the fire, and called an address Narcissa didn’t recognize. A dark face with startlingly orange eyes appeared in the green flames of the floo.

“Who the hell are you?” Bella asked, obviously startled.

The man did not look terribly offended. “Dominic Prieto.”

“I’m looking for Isabella, Zabini or Charleston or Despereaux, whichever she’s going by now.”

As soon as Narcissa realized whom her sister had called, she felt her face flush to the roots of her hair. It was bad enough trying to talk to Bella about this, but Zee? She followed the older witch over to the floo, wondering if she should interrupt – just call the whole thing off. “Bella!” she hissed, but she was ignored.

“It’s Zabini again. Whom may I say is calling?” the man asked.

“Bella Black. Tell her I’m calling in that favor she owes me.”

“One moment.”

His face disappeared. “Bella, no – you don’t have to –” Narcissa began, but the appearance of her sister’s oldest (only?) friend in the fire cut her off.

“Bella, darling! It’s been ages! And is that little Cissy, too? Buongiorno, principessa!”

“Hello, Zee,” Narcissa said dutifully, fighting her blush.

The Italian switched back to English and Bella after giving her an infectious grin. “Nicky says you’re calling in a favor, Bee – What’s up?”

“First off, why do you have a Lilin answering your floo?”

“He’s only half-Lilin, and he’s my sex slave. I captured him in Madrid while I was recuperating from Daniel’s most untimely death,” the seductress said, as though there was nothing unusual about this statement. Narcissa couldn’t decide whether she was more appalled or impressed that Zee had managed to make the conversation so inappropriate in so many ways in less than thirty seconds. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Bella waved away her thanks. “Somehow I suspect there’s more to that story.”

Zee grinned. “Not really. He tried to take advantage of a distraught, helpless widow, so I invited him back to my place and caught him with one of the old bindings. Now he has to serve me until I get bored of him, or he manages to knock me up. He’s having fun trying for the latter,” she winked.

Bella laughed. “Well, you’ll have to put off his next attempt for a few hours. I need you to come over and talk to Cissy for me.”

“About what?”

“She’s a virgin, and she’s getting married in three weeks. You know better than I do how the whole normal, married-people sex thing works.”

“Bella!” Narcissa buried her face in her hands, retreating to the sofa.

Zee was laughing hysterically. “Bee, are you seriously calling in a murder-favor over a sex talk?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Guess you’d better make it a hell of a good sex talk.”

“We’ll be over in five minutes – I need to find clothes.” She disappeared, still laughing.

“Ta, Zee.” Bella called, and closed the connection. She moved to a chair, looking very pleased with herself, and called an elf, demanding tea for four.

After several quiet minutes, during which time Bella acted as though asking her old school friend to educate her sister about married life and Narcissa resisted the impulse to object, the younger sister lost the battle: “Bella, why would you do this to me?!” she moaned.

“What?”

“Tell Zee, of all people, that I need advice on sex!”

“What’s wrong with Zee?”

What wasn’t wrong with Zee? “She’s a nymphomaniac who kills off her husbands and is apparently shacking up with an incubus, and you want her to tell me how to be a good wife?!”

“Ah… no – I thought this was just about sex. Though I’m sure if you want, she’ll tell you about being a good wife, too. Both of her husbands were perfectly satisfied with her before she killed them, you know – and she still does an excellent job of managing their lands and estates.”

Narcissa took one look at her sister’s entirely earnest expression and muttered under her breath, “I am surrounded by crazy people.”

Apparently she wasn’t quite quiet enough, because Bella smirked. “Hazard of being a Black, I’m afraid.”

Bella Zabini and her demon lover stepped out of the fire before Narcissa could think of a response, giggling and flirting with each other and her sister (who held up her end surprisingly well – a side of her Cissy had never seen before). And then they swept down on her, greeting her with kisses to both cheeks and calling her passerotta and muñeca, and complimenting her on her hair and her eyes and how well she had grown up since the last time Zee had seen her (at the funeral of her first husband, almost four years prior). They congratulated her on her impending marriage, and gave her knowing looks that made heat pool between her legs, and then smirked at each other as though they knew exactly what they were doing, which made it worse.

Faced with the mortifying prospect of getting this particular talk from these particular people, Narcissa wondered whether it was possible to actually die of embarrassment. She should have stuck to books.

Chapter Text

(1978, December)

Regulus

A nervous-looking young man wearing patched and faded wizard’s robes followed his much-more-confident and better-dressed friend into very exclusive London club. The former was a bit pudgy, with too-long, flyaway brown hair, a pointed, rat-like nose, and otherwise nondescript features. Except for his attire, there was nothing about him that would attract attention at any pub in Britain. The latter was much more the young aristocrat, fine-boned and striking, with dark hair and unnerving silver eyes, but a quick and charming smile. He projected confidence as a matter of habit and position, though he preferred the sidelines to the action. His companion, in contrast, longed for a limelight that would never be kind to him.

The two men – neither more than eighteen years old – proceeded into one of the many ‘reading rooms’ of the club – far more often used for drinking, discussing, and plotting the course of their little society’s development than for anything so innocent as examining the Prophet. The Parliament’s Reading Rooms boasted the best privacy charms in Magical Britain outside of Gringott’s Execution Chambers. The members paid good money to ensure that their secrets remained just that, as well as for unlimited access to the club’s extraordinarily well-trained elf-run kitchens and a concierge service that might or might not have been run by djinn.

The club was initially an ex-Ravenclaw enclave, but as it gained a reputation for exclusivity and excellence, it was slowly overrun by Slytherin alumni, eager to demonstrate their own superiority by gaining access. The Membership Rolls were protected nearly as fiercely as the members’ secrets, but it was rather open knowledge that Abraxas Malfoy had sponsored only one new Raven aside from his own younger brother – a vampirically pale young man who wore dark magic like a cloak and was referred to, at least within The Parliament, as M. de Mort. It was likewise open knowledge that this was every bit as much a pseudonym as his claim to Lordship, but neither the club nor his cult-like band of followers seemed to care very much.

Over the past two decades (since the occasion of M. de Mort’s introduction to the club in 1956) the membership of the club had grown to include nearly all of the Dark Lord’s Noble sympathizers and his Knights of Walpurgis. It had become, though this was a fact strictly unacknowledged by the owners and staff of the Parliament, nothing more or less than the public headquarters of the Dark Revolution.

It was not M. de Mort that the two young men were there to see. Even the young aristocrat was too junior within the organization to be welcomed directly to the heart of it. He was, in fact, only an initiate himself. If all went well, he would be taking the Dark Mark at a Revel the following evening. Instead they met with a well-tailored blond man a few years older than themselves, who wore his arrogance as the Dark Lord did his magic.

“Regulus! Cousin! Welcome back!” The arrogant blond projected an aura of bonhomie that set his cousin’s teeth visibly on edge. It was all an act, from the careful disregard for the proprieties to the grin plastered across the elder wizard’s face. Not that they didn’t get along, or even like each other, but they would never show it so blatantly, in other circumstances.

“Lucius, so good of you to join us on such short notice. Well met,” the darker young wizard replied, an emotion indistinguishable from genuine affection in his smile. “May I enquire after your lady wife?”

Lucius laughed, and Regulus had to stop himself grinding his teeth. He had never said anything about his fondness for his cousin, but he suspected that Lucius suspected it, and that he was only too pleased to have won the fair Narcissa while the Blacks considered yet another alliance with the Rosiers for their favored son. “Of course. She’s quite well. Excited for our trip to the theater tonight. And your family?”

Regulus rolled his eyes before giving an acceptable response. “I look forward to seeing them in person as soon as our business is concluded.”

The older wizard smirked. The younger would have laid even odds that he knew exactly how much Regulus was looking forward to returning to his mother’s overly-attentive supervision. Over the past two years, with Sirius gone, her personality had become even more stifling, and her company positively unbearable. “I’ll not keep you then. This must be the Mr. Pettigrew you’ve been telling me so much about.”

“Indeed. Peter of House Pettigrew, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my friend and cousin, Lucius, Lord of the Ancient House of Malfoy. Lucius, please meet my friend Peter. You may recall he was a Gryffindor at Hogwarts, the year ahead of me. He is… most interested in our shared political goals. As a sitting member of the Wizengamot, I thought you might be the best choice to explain our current projects and how he might… contribute. In exchange for a favor or two, of course.”

Peter, clearly intimidated by the introduction, failed to initiate the next step of the greeting. Regulus glared at him in so obvious a fashion that it would be clear to Lucius that he meant to amuse. This impression was only further enhanced when he did his best impression of a first-year’s pout and kicked Pettigrew in the shin.

“Ouch! Um… sorry, m’Lord.” The nondescript man bowed jerkily. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Mr. Pettigrew,” Lucius said gravely, his own bow utterly correct. “The pleasure is mine. Please, take a seat.” He gave the pathetic excuse for a wizard his least-threatening smile and waved him toward a chair. “Will you be joining us, Regulus?”

He wouldn’t. The two Dark supporters had coordinated their efforts already, to form what could be best described as an extended Light Auror/Dark Auror play. Regulus had had the unenviable task of suborning the weak-willed Gryffindor’s loyalty while they were both still at Hogwarts, and slowly undermining his faith in the Light, even as the ‘Marauder’ and his friends prepared to join Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix (which they had indeed done on graduating, six months before). All this was done in the name of concern for their welfare and brotherly affection, of course (though in truth there was little love lost between Regulus and Sirius Black), and with a certain degree of flirting and ‘interest’ in ‘helping’ his new, Gryffindor ‘friend’.

It hadn’t taken him long at all to identify the Gryffindor’s weak point: his mother was ill – a progressive condition. She was losing control of her magic. Eventually her disease and the bouts of accidental magic which accompanied it would kill her, or she would squib out. The only real treatment option was to permanently (and very illegally) bind her powers, rendering her immediately a squib, but at least no longer a danger to herself or others. St. Mungo’s wouldn’t do it. No respectable Healer would. The necessary ritual was considered too dangerous to use, even for completely legitimate Healing purposes. It was meant to have been completely suppressed by the Ministry, in fact, because it would be all too easy to abuse, but ‘fortunately’ for Pettigrew, Regulus knew people who knew other… less than reputable people with the requisite knowledge and skills, if not necessarily with a Healer’s credentials, if Peter knew what he meant.

Forbidden knowledge had a way of escaping confinement and making its way into the Dark Lord’s Court.

They had remained in contact after Pettigrew graduated, and the older wizard had finally cracked, accepting Regulus’ offer (obviously made in good faith, and only because he knew that Peter and his mum were suffering terribly under the burden of the disease) of seeing if he could possibly arrange a meeting with someone who could make the ritual happen, with the right motivation.

Now it was Lucius’ job to seal the deal, cajoling and flattering the mousy man into agreeing to support a few of the Dark Lord’s more moderate political aims and perhaps owing a few little favors – the sort of thing that would be nearly harmless for Pettigrew to perform, but oh-so-very-helpful for Lucius and his friends in exchange for the anonymous contact information of the person who would perform the ritual: Old Tiberius Nott, who would do it because a fellow Inner Circle member was asking, though Pettigrew would think that Lucius was paying him or something in exchange for those favors, to muddy any potential trail between them. Of course, the Dark Lord would never be explicitly mentioned, and the favors Pettigrew agreed to would hardly matter: the point was to elicit blackmail material – evidence that Pettigrew had contracted the Death Eaters to perform a ritual that was several orders of magnitude more dangerous and illegal than Regulus’ plant at the hospital had suggested to the desperate Gryffindor, without implicating Nott, Lucius, or Regulus himself. Or at least something that Pettigrew would believe could sink him.

Once the evidence was in hand and the ritual complete, Lucius would reveal precisely the sort of trouble Pettigrew could get in over this, after which convincing him that it was in everyone’s best interests for him to report whatever useful tid-bits of information he might have on Dumbledore’s little vigilante army should be a fairly simple prospect. He would send him away having done nothing outright threatening, but with the younger man – still no more than a boy, truly – quaking in his boots. Once Pettigrew realized that was in too deep to turn back, Regulus would be called upon again to build him up as the ‘Light’ (or at least slightly-less-Dark) Auror, dropping hints that it would benefit the Order should Pettigrew be in a position to gather information for them, speaking of essential roles, even in the shadows, and how Pettigrew might still go about obtaining safety for himself and his friends, solidifying their position and convincing the pathetic little wizard not to simply turn himself over to the Light. He was confident in his ability to do so – the poor Gryffindor was already more than half in love with him.

The Plan was admittedly a bit complex, but Lucius and Bella both agreed that it was solid, and it covered all of their arses.

The youngest of the trio gave the others a long-suffering look. “Best not. Mother will worry if I’m not back to the Townhouse in time to catch her up on my exploits this term before supper. I’ll see you tomorrow, though, Lucius, at Yule, and Peter, do send me an owl so we can work out when I’m to come visit you. I’m looking forward to meeting your mum.”

Pettigrew blushed, and Lucius smirked at him, but Regulus honestly had no illusions about the Dark Lord’s service. He had grown up around the Death Eaters every bit as much as the older wizard, and knew that flirting with such a worthless bit of trash was not the worst thing he could be asked to do for the Dark Lord. He would much rather work as a recruiter or an intelligence handler than an assassin or enforcer. Everyone was expected to fight, if need be, of course, like in the battle at Moel Tŷ Uchaf a few months prior, and he had been trained extensively by Bella, so he had no doubt he could hold his own, but his interests were mostly political, and he hoped to be placed in the Ministry, rather than in the field most of the time.

Lucius nodded, as Regulus bowed to them collectively. “Please extend my regards to your parents,” he smirked.

Pettigrew, moving past his embarrassment, simply looked a bit lost, being left in an exclusive club in the middle of London with a Wizengamot Lord he knew only as the Slytherin Prefect who had taken more points from him than any other. “Um… bye?”

Regulus gave him his most charming chuckle, and pointed at his chest. “Owl me, or I’ll be sending Thoth after you!”

“Erm, yeah, right! See you, um, later, then, eh, Reg?”

“Definitely!” He winked, flirtatiously. He hated nicknames, but it was worth it if it sealed the deal.

“Indeed, Reg. See you later.” Lucius twiddled his fingers and flashed Regulus a brief shark’s smile before turning back to Pettigrew, a clear dismissal. Regulus made a rude gesture toward his back, and the Gryffindor utterly failed to suppress a smirk. Lucius must have seen it, but he ignored it, pouring the boy a drink. “So, Peter, is it? Tell me about your political interests…”

Regulus slipped out the door of the reading room and made his way down the hall to the room commonly referred to as the Viper’s Study – the one more or less reserved for the Dark Lord and his closest companions.

At his knock, a somewhat older witch with wild black curls and a glint of madness in her eyes opened the door. “Reggie!” she squealed, then smirked broadly when he flushed.

How was it, he wondered, and not for the first time, that his eldest cousin could so-easily embarrass him, with only a single word, or even a look? She wasn’t even a good legilimens, she just somehow always knew which buttons to push. It was infuriating. He brushed past her with a glare, ignoring her abandoned whip and the half-naked wizard kneeling on the hearth rug as best he could, truly not wanting to know if the man had volunteered for his dear cousin’s attentions. It was possible. No one else was present, and he hadn’t made any attempt to beg Regulus for mercy.

“So how’s dear Lucy, and the ickle Order rat?” she asked, sealing her pet (or prisoner) in an air-tight, sound-proof bubble with a flick of her wand.

“Is he, um…” Regulus’ attention was drawn to the still-kneeling wizard against his will.

“He’s got plenty of air… for now. So spill.”

“Right! Um… Lucius is fine. Apparently he’s eager to get back to Narcissa this evening.”

“As well he should be,” Bella clicked her tongue in mockery of her brother-in-law. “A whole year already and no Heir on the way? He ought to be ashamed of himself, letting down the Malfoy Line like that. And the rat?”

Regulus shrugged, somewhat calmed by his cousin’s relatively pleasant and apparently stable response. “He’s with Lucius. I suppose he’ll spend the evening in a panic, and I’ll get his owl at some absurd hour of the morning.”

“Excellent. Good work, love.”

Regulus gave the witch a look, the one that meant don’t say things like that if you value your tongue. He wasn’t quite as good at it as any of the Black ladies. Auntie Dru was particularly skilled with it, for all she was born a Rosier.

Bella, on the other hand, like Sirius, had always had a tendency to forego warning looks entirely. Siri thought the whole system too Slytherin, and if Bella was going to attack, it would be without warning. She gave him a Walburga-special: The reassuring of course, dear. But one so blatantly overly-emphasized that it screamed sarcasm: Not.

The wizard sighed and dropped into an armchair, from which he didn’t have to look at the other man, still trapped in his bubble. “I hope this is worth it,” he said petulantly. “I feel like such a whore, flirting with that obnoxious wastrel.”

His cousin grinned. “But you’re so good at it.”

That was true. Out of the five Blacks of his generation, he was probably the second-best at telling people what they wanted to hear, after Meda (of-whom-we-no-longer-speak). Cissy was a close third. Bella and Siri never even tried. (They had far more in common than either of them cared to admit any longer.) That didn’t mean he liked playing this particular role, though. “Do you think it will be enough?”

Bella gave him an assessing look. She must have approved of whatever she saw, because she decided to reassure him. “Oh, yeah, no worries. You’re in. The Dark Lord is only too pleased to have another scion of the House of Black join his ranks.”

Regulus allowed himself a sigh of relief. He didn’t really know what he wanted to do with his life, but everyone was expecting him to join the Death Eaters, from his friends Sev and Evan to his mother and father. His cousin’s confidence that he was guaranteed a place was comforting, especially since Sev, who had done it the year before, said that the process of getting the Mark itself was difficult and painful, and not everyone succeeded. Not that he thought he wouldn’t succeed, but knowing that he and his skills were desired by the Dark Lord was extra incentive to pull through… whatever the Marking required. “Good.”

“Good. So who are you taking to the Festa Morgana?”

Regulus rolled his eyes at the witch. At nearly twelve years older than him, she tended to treat him more like a favored son at times than a younger cousin. He didn’t take it personally. She had certainly always treated Narcissa more like a daughter than a sister. “Lilith Carmichael. I know they’re not an Ancient House, but I’m hoping father will reconsider the Rosier alliance. No offence to Auntie Dru, but we’ve had too many trade-backs in the last few generations.”

Bella gave him an approving hum. Regulus knew she couldn’t care less about her mother one way or the other. “And the Carmichaels are undecided regarding their alliances, with no strong ties to either side. Let me know after the ball whether you’d like to pursue her, and I’ll lean on Uncle Orion a bit.”

“Thanks, Bella. Are you going this year?”

She shrugged. “Lord and Lady Lestrange are obliged to make an appearance.”

“So… yes?”

“It’s going to be miserable,” she pouted. “I may have to kill someone just to relieve the boredom.”

She would, too. Her predilections were an open secret within the House of Black. “Ah, speaking of…” he cast a significant look at the man in the bubble. He had slumped to the floor, clearly unconscious.

She looked at the nameless man rather blankly for a moment, then back at Regulus, before vanishing it with a surprised-sounding “Oh!”

Regulus gave her a you’re fooling no one look. She was mad, but always aware of what she was doing, and her victim had been within her line of sight the whole time. Still, he didn’t think she’d ever intended to really kill him, at least not in front of Regulus. She knew how he felt about dead people. (Namely that they were icky, an opinion which he had not seen reason to revise since he was seven, as they still made him uncomfortable.) “I’ll… just be going then. No need to interrupt your games for me.”

He was rewarded with a dazzling (albeit terrifying) smile. “See you tomorrow, duckie.”

“Ugh, Bella, that’s even worse than Reggie!” he complained, heading for the door, now quite certain that the man had more torture in his future, but that he would live to see the morning. Teasing Bella was not the same as murderous Bella.

“You know you miss me up at school, Archie-poo.”

That was just too far. “Not. A. Bit. Lestrange,” he snarked, slipping out the door before she could decide whether to be offended by the use of her married name or not. He did miss her, though, for all she was completely mad and he tried not to think about her hobbies much. It would be good to finally graduate and take his place by her side, where he belonged.

Chapter Text

[tw: murder, blood; torture (observed); suicide; canon character death]

(1978, December; 1979, February; April)

Regulus

It had taken all of one night, for Regulus to realize that he did not want to be a Death Eater.

One horrifying night, filled with pain and madness and murder.

Bella had always spoken of the Death Eaters as Knights, the Knights of Walpurgis, fighting for their freedom and traditions, their very way of life and the good of society.

She was mad.

He had never realized, before, how deep the madness went.

The Yule Revel was nothing like he had expected.

He had stood alongside his cousin Evan and Ianus Mulciber and a handful of older initiates whom he could not identify from voice and build alone, beneath their hoods and anonymous cloaks. They were not meant to know each other’s names. They were meant to use code-names and wear masks, to preserve their anonymity. Many of the older, more senior members – all the inner circle, in fact, made but a token effort at that. It wouldn’t do at all if they were completely unrecognizable to their subordinates. Bella was wearing a simple black domino, disguising only the shape of her eyes, and Lucius’ white and gold mask covered only his right eye, nose and cheekbone. Nott had done something to make his face un-noticeable – perhaps a Notice Me Not spell of some sort, and Regulus’ eldest Rosier cousin had a plain black funeral-veil obscuring his features, like necromancers wore in public (though Regulus was about ninety percent certain that he wasn’t really a necromancer). They sat along a long dais, each of them perched on a throne-like stone chair, the Dark Lord’s raised a step above them. The rank and file Death Eaters stood in concentric circles, surrounding the initiates, their masks plain silver, like the ones they wore to fight, black-robed and perfectly still. Severus would be among them, he knew, and Barty Crouch and his cousin Liam.

He focused on the masks and the people behind them because it meant he didn’t have to focus on the people in front of him – half a dozen muggles, kneeling, naked, bound and gagged (someone’s idea of a joke, surely, not to use magic to keep them subdued), trembling with fear and screaming through the cloth and rope in their mouths.

“Step forward,” the Dark Lord had ordered, and the initiates did so, all six of them, lined up shoulder to shoulder, facing him as one, as he stood before his seated lieutenants. He spoke of duty and honor and pride, before demanding a proof of their resolve.

Regulus couldn’t remember the words, because they paled so in comparison to the horror that followed: two of the silver-masked soldiers brought a muggle to each of them, and a knife. Regulus’ muggle – a girl hardly older than a child, with a face like Narcissa’s – cried, but didn’t struggle. She seemed beyond that – tears leaking silently down her face. He cut the gag from her mouth to let her have her last words, and she whispered, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.”

Those words he remembered perfectly. She looked past him, beyond him. He recognized a look of prayer, though he suspected her god could not save her. He wished, for a mad moment, that he could pray to her god to make him not have to do this, but then realized, after a moment, that he was the only one left, still standing, transfixed, by the face of his chosen victim. All the others had moved to execute their own.

Mulciber seemed to be enjoying himself, stabbing the man who looked like his father in the gut as he howled into the gag. Evan, on his other side, had attempted to slit his prisoner’s throat, from the front. He had bungled it, and was now making a hash of his neck, trying to put the writhing, gurgling muggle out of his misery. One of the older initiates had simply broken his woman’s neck, and the other two seemed to be trying to outdo each other to see which of them could make their identical twin last longer.

He looked back to the dais, to his cousin, who grinned ferally, mercilessly at him. She raised an eyebrow at him, a challenge, he was sure, and he knew he had to do it. He had to kill this girl in cold blood. Her god couldn’t save either of them.

He circled swiftly behind her and whispered, “I’m sorry,” in her ear as he drove the point of the knife into the carotid artery, just as Bella had killed the Black sacrifice, earlier that evening. She clapped, delighted, as the girl screamed, her vocal cords uninjured by the attack. She weakened quickly, her own heart pumping her life’s blood away, spurting over Mulciber, who didn’t seem to notice, and trickling over his hands, too-hot and then, revoltingly, too cold, and sticky. He felt sick.

It wasn’t until the Dark Lord gestured for the man who had broken his muggle’s neck to step forward that Regulus realized he was still holding his own girl’s dead body upright. She hardly weighed anything. He laid her down with as much dignity as he could give her, still bound, and now bloodied and soiled, and tried not to think of her dead eyes watching him as he watched the first of his fellow initiates swear unconditional loyalty and submit to the Mark.

He didn’t feel any less sick as the pain of the Mark settled in, deeper and far more horrible than Bella had said – tying itself to his very soul. He didn’t feel any less sick as he watched his new comrades get roaring drunk, and initiated a series of Gladiatorial duels, setting captured muggleborns against a manticore and a hippogriff, and then, when the creatures were dead, against each other, howling for carnage. He didn’t feel any less sick when he felt the brush of Severus Snape’s mind against his, and the tall, gaunt wizard stepped out of the crowd, pocketing his mask. He looked exhausted and haunted, as though he had aged at least a few years in the six months since Regulus had last seen him.

“It doesn’t get any better,” he said without preamble.

“Stay out of my head, Snape,” Regulus snapped, mostly out of habit. He knew the older Snake didn’t like dipping into others’ thoughts unannounced, and besides, Regulus was good enough at Occlumency to know if he did, and he hadn’t.

Snape gave a genuine snort of laughter. “Your mind, dear Regulus, remains a fortress. Your body language, on the other hand… an open book, to those who know how to read it.”

“Fuck.” He looked around quickly, but Bella was nowhere to be seen.

“She and the Dark Lord had some… private business to attend to,” Severus smirked.

Regulus rolled his eyes and relaxed, leaning against a pillar. “You know, I think it’s even creepier when you do that without legilimency.” It really wasn’t fair for him to be both observant and a natural legilimens.

“Sorry.” The characteristically unsympathetic Snape shrug followed.

“Liar.”

Another shrug. “It’s part of the part, is it not?”

“What?”

Snape waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing. Just an old joke, never you mind.”

“Are you alright, Sev? You seem… different,” Regulus hedged. It was definitely him. No one else did that little reflexive brush of legilimency to identify the people they were speaking to, so light you’d only feel it if you were expecting it. But he seemed… worn.

“You are familiar with Heraclitus, are you not?”

“Of course.” It was part of a proper education, to be familiar with the Classics, including the Greek historians and philosophers their Roman ancestors had held in high esteem. “But it’s only been six months.”

“Has it?” Snape’s dark eyes held a look that Regulus was certain was meant to be significant, but he could not for the life of him determine what he meant by it. “It seems much longer.”

Regulus shivered. Severus had always been a bit scary. Driven and clever, mean as a snake and smart enough that no one would ever know exactly how he had orchestrated his enemies’ eventual downfall. Regulus had actually felt slightly sorry for Sirius his fourth year. Snape and Evans had been in top form, that year, with their smear campaign against the Marauders’ reputations. It was almost a pity that she had dropped him when he started getting serious about the Death Eaters. Snape was the worst sort of half-blood himself – it wasn’t like he was exactly likely to make a good match with a proper witch, and Evans had been delightfully sly behind her silly-Gryffindor façade.

“I warned you,” the half-blood said, changing the subject.

“And yet I still wasn’t expecting… that,” Regulus snarked.

Severus nodded. “They brought me my father,” he smirked.

“Did they not know you at all?” Regulus almost laughed. He was absolutely certain that Severus would not have hesitated to kill his muggle father, after all he had heard of the man. He sounded as bad as Cygnus had been.

“Lucius suggested I deserved a reward for overcoming my… tainted origins, I think was the way he put it.”

The younger wizard snorted slightly. That sounded like something Lucius would say. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know which of them had suggested the Narcissa look-alike. “I’ll tell you a Black Family Secret,” he offered instead. Sev raised an eyebrow, and he smirked. “You can’t choose your family; the best you can do is knock off the ones that annoy you too much.”

Severus laughed aloud before sobriety overtook him again. “Regulus?”

“Yes?”

“That was only the beginning,” Severus said cryptically, before vanishing into the crowd again.

Regulus found himself shivering again, feeling ill, and watching from the sidelines as the pair of new initiates who had had the identical twins – Alecto and Amycus Carrow, someone had said, jumped into the arena and started casting torture curses on the latest muggleborn fighter. She had managed to fend off two other muggleborns, but the Carrows were too much for her. The juxtaposition of her agonized shrieks against the cacophony of talk and laughter and jeering from the crowd of onlookers was too much for Regulus. He knew what Snape had meant: It only gets worse from here.

He found a corner to be quietly sick, blaming too much whisky and wine for the man who clapped him on the back and asked whether he was alright.

He wasn’t alright.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be alright again, even after this… this nightmare ended.

I just swore myself into the service of a madman, he had realized, hearing the cheers behind him as the mudblood died. Until death and beyond.

No, he wasn’t alright. Not at all.

Snape had been right: it did get worse.

There were only two Death Eaters in school at the moment – Regulus and Evan. They were the only two of their class sufficiently advanced that had Bellatrix judged them ready to be initiated. As students under Dumbledore’s eye, they were exempt from going on regular raids. They had both gone on one before the end of the Yule holiday, but then they had no responsibilities besides sounding out the next year’s potential recruits and, in Regulus’ case, reassuring Peter Pettigrew that he would be able to best help his friends by playing along with the Death Eaters for the moment, instead of just throwing himself on Dumbledore’s mercy. He thought his own revulsion with the scenes he had witnessed at the Revel helped sell the part of the reluctant-yet-dutiful Death Eater who was only doing this to please his family.

Then, in the last week of January, the two marked seventh-years received news that there would be a battle in Hogsmeade on the morning of Imbolc, while Dumbledore was trapped at an ICW meeting in Brussles. They were expected to attend.

It was a Thursday, but that hardly mattered. They were seventh-years. A bit of skiving off was expected from seventh-years. They only had Defense and Potions in the morning. Montmorency probably wouldn’t even notice they weren’t there; Slughorn would keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him; and Seth Kelvin was more than willing to cover for them with the non-Death Eater students, suggesting that they’d been slipped a lust potion, and had been holed up in Regulus’ room all day, fucking like animals. (A crude cover-story, to be sure, but embarrassing stories were always more believable – even moreso when they were reluctant to give details.)

They had apparated out of the tunnel Snape had told Regulus about, beneath the Whomping Willow, and into a battlefield. The Death Eaters had turned out en masse, all in their black battlerobes and silver masks, save the Dark Lord himself. The two youngest among them joined the crew that was breaking shop-windows and setting fires, driving the residents from their homes and up the slush-and-mud high street, toward the school, as the more experienced fighters dealt with the small cadre of Aurors stationed there, and their reinforcements, when they arrived, and a larger group harried the less-professional defenders, with painful jinxes and hexes.

A dozen or so of the Order of the Phoenix arrived with coordinated cracks, and they were quickly engaged as well, outnumbered, and pressed back, unable to simply apparate away with anti-disapparition wards in place, held as a giant, pentagram-shaped shield over the town. He saw Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, Kettleburn, and the very aged Montmorency on thestral-back: a sally-party sent out to escort the villagers up to the castle. But even with the extremely dangerous former duelist and Dumbledore’s prodigy Transfiguration Mistress tag-teaming the Dark Lord, the defenders were still outnumbered and, frankly, outclassed.

He saw Montmorency fall from his mount as a flight of broom-riders joined the fray, half of them defending as half of them snatched up the village children and ferried them back toward Hogwarts: the Advance Trainee Aurors – had to be. The Death Eaters were still winning, though, the forces of the Light retreating, and then…

Then the tide of the battle had turned, out of nowhere. There was a construct among them – or a goddess. Artemis, from the bow and the spear. She turned on the Death Eaters with a fury, cutting down any who stood against her without mercy. Shields and offensive spells did nothing even to slow her advance. White Arts, it had to be – Regulus could feel the wrongness of it, of Her presence, pressing against his mind and magic. He hid in a blasted-out shop – one he had burned himself, huddled into a corner with Evan and Lucius and one of the Yaxleys, struggling to maintain consciousness against the power of Her voice, when she spoke, like hounds out for his blood and the crackle of lightning.

Regulus didn’t even feel the anti-disapparition ward fall, until Lucius grabbed his arm and Evan’s, and pulled them into the Space Between, muttering that Narcissa would kill him if he let them die. They reported in at Headquarters, where Bella was already ranting furiously about how that jumped-up mudblood tart ought to have been killed where she stood for daring to summon the Virgin Huntress on Maiden’s Day, and retreated almost immediately to the Parliament, delaying only long enough to clean themselves up, because, in Lucius’ words, “Fuck if I don’t need a drink. Coming?”

The House of Malfoy was buying, so the three young Death Eaters had gone through nearly two full bottles of seventy-year-old Kirkintilloch Scotch as though it was water. Evan was in a celebratory mood, high on their survival. Lucius’ mood more closely matched Regulus’. He stunned their Rosier cousin on his way back from the loo because the latter was getting in the way of the two of them getting quietly pissed over the rout.

“That McKinnon sod almost got me, today,” Lucius said, perhaps half an hour later, out of nowhere.

“Glad ‘e didn’t,” Regulus said, head muzzy. He was, really. Lucius was a good enough bloke, for all he did end up married to the witch Regulus loved. He’d gone out of his way to look out for Reggie over the years, be a mate as well as an in-law. Better him than anyone else.

“Cissa told me this morning we’re pregnant,” he said absently. “Told me I had to come back, ‘cos we’re having a baby.”

The younger wizard nearly dropped his drink. “Congratulations,” he managed to spit out, after the slightest hesitation.

Lucius gave him a funny sort of smile, half pleased, half terrified, half… something else Regulus might have been able to identify if he weren’t so completely drunk.

“No, really! Congratulations. I mean it. Ciss’ll… Cissy. Will,” he corrected himself, “be very happy. She’s always wanted kids.”

“Deuce-cursed time for it, though,” Lucius sighed, running a hand through his too-long hair. “War heating up, you know,” he added.

Regulus hesitated. He hardly heard anything at school. “Uh…”

“Planning another big attack for Easter, the muggle holiday,” the lieutenant elaborated. “Mid-April.”

“Three months?”

“Less than.”

“That won’t be near long enough to replace the men we lost today,” Regulus hissed, thinking of the street filled with broken, still-masked bodies. He hoped none of them were Liam or Barty. He had seen Sev while they were setting themselves to rights at Headquarters – he showed up bleeding from the head, and was immediately dragged off by Pulaski to play Healer – his potions expertise apparently worth putting up with his usual temper, even exacerbated by a head wound.

“Things have gotten more… frantic, since Mabon.”

“Frantic?”

“It’s not just the battles and the raids,” Lucius admitted, staring moodily into his glass. “Do you know what a horcrux is?”

Regulus snorted. “I probably knew what a horcrux is before you did,” he pointed out. Bella had told all of the younger Blacks the real version of the Warlock’s Hairy Heart when he was six. Complete with a discussion of the ritual and potential improvements of its various shortcomings. It was one of the better theory lessons they’d had over the years. “Wait – are you telling me the Dark Lord…?”

Lucius fixed him with a very steady look, given the amount of alcohol they had consumed, and nodded, once.

Regulus felt his eyes grow wide, and whispered, “Fuck,” involuntarily. Everyone claimed to know someone whose thrice-great uncle had made a horcrux, but Regulus hadn’t actually thought that even the Dark Lord was mad enough to have actually done it.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed and he shook his head slowly.

Regulus pinched his lips together tightly and nodded.

They both drained their glasses, and eyed the last of the bottle speculatively for a few minutes.

Lucius sighed, pushing it away. “I should probably get you two back to Hogwarts.”

Regulus tried to stand and failed. Standing made him feel about three times as drunk. Lucius put a tiny, evil black vial on the table in front of him and turned to wake Evan.

“You want me to ruin all this lovely, expensive alcohol with Sober-Up?”

“Just enough to apparate,” Lucius said, nodding, “If anyone asks, the two of you got a letter at breakfast and snuck out to celebrate Cissa’s pregnancy with me. We’ve been here all day, and we had no idea that anything at all was happening in Hogsmeade.”

Evan agreed muzzily, between complaints about passing out. Regulus ribbed him about not being able to hold his liquor, but immediately regretted it as the Sober-Up potion kicked in, catapulting him straight into the hangover stage of a great night out. Then he had to excuse himself to vomit.

When he returned, feeling quite a bit worse for the wear, Lucius had letters for the two of them to support their cover story. They parted ways in the lobby, making a show of shaking hands, with Evan, still drunk, congratulating Lucius, and ordering him to pass it on to Narcissa as well. Regulus, now unhappily sober, considered splinching him intentionally, since he had refused to take his own potion, now that Regulus could side-along him back, but didn’t, not wanting to draw any more attention to them than necessary upon their return. They snuck back into the dungeons easily, as the whole castle was still in an uproar; gave their story to Slughorn who accepted it with only the slightest hint of suspicion, given their state (Evan had vomited on himself after apparating, and they certainly looked like they’d been drinking all day, not fighting, and he didn’t check their left arms, because he really didn’t want to know); and denounced the vicious rumor of lust potions Kelvin had been spreading about them as just that – rumor.

It wasn’t until Regulus was lying in his bed, his own breathing too damn loud and too damn fast that the events of the day truly hit him.

It had been so much worse than he could possibly have imagined, battle – shops burning; villagers running; fear and panic so thick he could practically taste it on the air; a blonde Auror cut down by Bella wielding knife and wand in seamless combination; a dark-haired Order wizard trying to curse him before one of the eldest Yaxley brother, mask missing, intercepted him; Montmorency falling from his thestral as one of the broom-riders screamed, too far away to catch him; and then Artemis, striding among them, cutting them down at Evans’ urging; blood everywhere; one of his fellow Death Eaters, run through by a perfect throw of a javelin, like something out of the fucking Aeneid – ‘purple life spewing forth’; fear chilling his bones and the hot wrong-ness of the White Arts construct and not knowing what to do and running and hiding and then being dragged away from Her voice beating at his mind and his magic like a hammer on an anvil.

He wrenched his mind away from the horror show playing out behind his eyes. He had killed, for the first time, less than two months before, and again, on that first raid – a mudblood’s muggle family, the kid not old enough, yet, for Hogwarts. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it again, down in Hogsmeade. The worst he had done today was vandalism. A bit of threatening and chasing the townspeople, chasing them away from the safety of their homes and shops. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to use fiendfire, too afraid that it would escape his control in the madness of the moment. He felt lucky that he hadn’t died himself. And in less than three months, he would be expected to do it again.

Go to battle.

Fight.

For real, probably, not just breaking windows and then maybe having to defend himself against a few housewitches and shopkeepers who didn’t know their wand from their foot.

He didn’t think he could.

The little muggle girl – thirteen or fourteen – the one who looked like Narcissa – haunted his dreams, and the mudblood’s father, scrabbling for one of those piercing-hex machines of theirs – a gone? – his face full of determination to protect his family, even as Regulus sent a piercing hex of his own through his heart.

He had never liked dead people. He could hardly stand seeing them used in rituals, and seeing them die at his own hand was exponentially worse. He couldn’t think of them as just animals to be slaughtered, muggles or the enemy. They were all people.

He had hesitated today, with that Order wizard who had been about to engage him. He looked like the muggle he had killed – not his features, but they had the same look of determined, righteous anger, and for a half-second (a half-second too long) he had been back in that muggle kitchen looking down the shaft of a gone, not in front of the Three Broomsticks facing a wand. It was only a matter of time until he hesitated at the wrong moment, and then it would be his blood spilled on the muddy cobbles. His body lying broken in the street. It could have been him today.

He wasn’t cut out for war, and he knew it.

The same thought that had been plaguing him intermittently since that very first Revel surfaced again: he wasn’t alright – he was sworn into the service of a madman. He was going to die for someone so fucking insane he made a Powers-bedamned horcrux.

It was one thing to lead the troops into battle yourself, he thought sardonically, but another thing entirely to lead them to their deaths when you couldn’t die.

How many of his friends had died today? Bled out following an immortal leader playing at risking his life for pureblood ideals?

Regulus had been raised to uphold the same ideals that chased each other through the Death Eaters’ rhetoric, but, if the Revel and the Raid and the Battle were any example of what they were really doing, the Dark Lord certainly wasn’t championing them.

How many Heirs to pureblood houses had died in the ranks of the Death Eaters? How many younger sons? How many would rot away in Azkaban, captured in raids?

How much smaller would the next generation be, with the flower of pureblood youth (including himself) risking their lives in war instead of getting married and having kids? Would Lucius live long enough to have a second child? Would he live long enough to meet his baby cousin, let alone find a wife and have a baby of his own?

He doubted it.

He fell asleep with these troubling thoughts chasing each other around his head, exhausted and slightly queasy, both from everything he had witnessed over the course of the day and the potions-induced hangover.

He woke up only hours later with a single, even-more-traitorous, crystalized thought circling lazily, dangerously.

The Dark Lord is a madman, and he’s doing more harm than good to the very people whose way of life he claims to value above all others.

What was it that Lupin bloke, Sirius’ friend, used to say? M. de Mort is the worst thing that ever happened to pureblood society?

It was true. He had to be stopped.

Not by Regulus. He couldn’t possibly even consider an outright betrayal – he didn’t know what a Dark Mark would do to anyone whom the Dark Lord considered a traitor – it had its claws in his bloody soul. But the Dark Lord had just lost whatever remained of his tenuous loyalty, already damaged by having been forced to kill – for what? To impress his fellow murderers?

He wouldn’t do it again, he vowed to himself. He would find some way to get out, some way to stop the madness.

For the first time in five weeks, he didn’t see the muggle girl’s face when he closed his eyes.

Despite his vow not to kill again, to find some way to escape the madness that was the Death Eaters, the two and a half months between Imbolc and Easter had passed with no real progress. He returned to Grimmauld for the muggle holiday, and woke very early the morning the battle was set to begin, in his childhood bedroom.

It couldn’t have been much past three, because Kreacher was puttering around, tidying the room, just as he had done in the wee hours of every morning Regulus could remember, from the time he was a small child, just out of the nursery. In his sleep-muddled haze, he wondered, for half a second, if he wasn’t truly still five years old, and innocent to the ways of the world.

But no, it wasn’t Kreacher – he had told Kreacher to hide, to stay out of sight and let everyone think he was dead – this was Bixith, and Regulus was an adult, with adult problems and responsibilities, and today he was meant to march off to battle (again), at dawn, alongside giants and golems and his thrice-cursed brothers in arms. There was nothing he could do about it.

There was no chance of falling back to sleep. He might as well get up. Have a nice breakfast. Try to enjoy his last few hours of life, for he was certain that he would die today – the battle plan an order of magnitude larger and more complex than the Hogsmeade attack.

Dark thoughts plagued him, though, and he was unable to concentrate as he performed his morning ablutions. He kept recalling the torture his favorite elf had undergone – it had been his fault, in part.

Back at the beginning of November, the weekend after Samhain, he had stopped in at Grimmauld while he was in London, negotiating the finer points of his arrangement with Lucius and Nott to reel in Pettigrew as a spy. He wasn’t supposed to have been there, to answer the door to the Dark Lord while his mother was out. He definitely wasn’t supposed to have been the one to order Kreacher to go with him, to do whatever he was ordered by the Dark Lord, and then to return to him, out of sheer curiosity about what the Dark Lord had wanted with an elf.

The elf had been taken to a cave, with a lake filled with dead people, and an island in the center, and made to drink from a bowl of poison – a potion that could only be drunk, that made him see terrible things. The poor elf had started trembling so badly at that that Regulus hadn’t made him go on, treating him as well he could over the weekend, until he had had to return to Hogwarts, and then ordering him to stay out of sight and work on healing himself. Bixith could attend to Mother and the upstairs chores while he recovered.

Kreacher had done as he was ordered, under the Dark Lord’s gaze, watched the Dark Lord drop a golden locket into the bowl and re-fill it, but then the Dark Lord left him there he had needed water, needed it desperately, and as soon as he touched the surface of the lake, dead hands had pulled him down into it, deep and deep. When he felt himself dying, he had popped away, Regulus’ orders holding primacy over the Dark Lord’s – and Regulus had ordered him to return.

Regulus had shoved the memory of that entire night into the depths of his mind, knowing that he was not supposed to know about the Dark Lord’s hidden treasure, whatever it was – and knowing that it would be safest if he never even thought of it again.

Now, of course, he realized – it had to be the horcrux.

What else was worth protecting with a lake of inferi and a potion that had nearly killed an elf? Elves were damnably hard to kill, unless you lopped their heads off or stabbed them in the heart with cold iron. He could only imagine what such defenses would do to a human.

And then, for the first time in Regulus’ life, faced with the utter terror of walking into battle again, of being forced to kill or be killed (and nearly certainly dying, no matter how many others he killed first); faced with the idea of truly dying for the Lord he had sworn himself to, only to realize his insanity; faced with the reality of the vow he had made to himself, to find a way to escape, and the knowledge that death was the only true escape, he felt the Black Madness strike.

It came over him all of a sudden, a fully-formed plan bursting into the forefront of his mind, as though he had been considering it unconsciously for weeks. Perhaps he had.

If I am going to die today, I should make my death worthwhile.

Regulus could not kill the Dark Lord. He would not stand a chance. But he could make him mortal. He could go and retrieve the horcrux. He could destroy it. The Dark Lord would storm onto the field of battle, take up arms against Dumbledore – perhaps his only equal in Britain – and, made mortal, he would lose. If not to day, then some other day. Someday, he would have to meet his match. Even he knew it. Why else make a horcrux in the first place?

Before he could stop himself to think, he was in the drawing room, downstairs, sifting through decades’ accumulated odds and ends for a golden locket that would be easy to transfigure to match the horcrux. Gold locket to gold locket should last years.

Ah, there.

He found a gaudy, heart-shaped thing, with a photo of Uncle Alphard and his wife, Alegria, long forgotten in the depths of a junk drawer. He wrenched the picture out, letting it flutter back into the drawer, and replaced it with a hastily scribbled note, in a fit of pique:

To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this,
but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,
you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

A quick impervius, anchored by a fixing rune, and… there. That should last at least as long as the transfiguration!

He snorted slightly at his own folly. If all went according to plan, even the Dark Lord would never read this. But it made him feel better to have written it – to see it in writing at all.

Now all he had to do was switch it with the real one, and find a way to destroy it. Fiendfire would work, he thought. Or elf-magic.

“Kreacher!” he hissed, making his hurried way to the little cupboard where the elf denned, in the kitchen. “Kreacher! I need you to take me to the cave – the Dark Lord’s cave!”

They had popped in, using elf magic – much easier than dealing with the wards and the boat Kreacher had described. Undetectable, too.

He had decided, before he even sought out the elf, that he couldn’t force his dutiful servant to torture himself again, not if he was so terrified by what he had seen before, under the effects of the potion.

When a Switching Spell did not work to swap his locket for the horcrux, he drank it himself, instead.

He had gone into the cave with every intention of leaving it alive, but by the time he finished a third of the potion, he was re-living the two murders he had committed, over and over. He was dwelling on his betrayal of Sirius, never standing up for him to their parents, and of Bellatrix, in this very moment. He was thinking on all the horrible, petty, spiteful things he had ever done, everything he had ever regretted.

By the time he was halfway done, he heard himself changing his orders to Kreacher: switch the lockets, go home, destroy it, don’t tell anyone.

By the time he was two-thirds done, he could hardly see the basin before him. He was only able to continue drinking because he knew that he deserved this punishment – that he deserved to die for the things he had done – for murdering that girl, and the man – he didn’t even know their names! – for betraying his family – for breaking his vow to the Dark Lord – for a thousand minor sins. The world would be better off without him.

“Switch the lockets,” he ordered Kreacher, almost incoherently. “And then go home. Leave me here. I deserve to die. Destroy the locket. Let me die.”

Kreacher begged him not to stay, to let him take Master Regulus home, but Regulus refused, even as he dipped the last burning, awful mouthful of potion from the basin.

“Don’t tell – switch lockets – leave me – destroy it!” he croaked out, crawling toward the edge of the tiny, rocky island, even as Kreacher switched the lockets.

Dead hands pulled him under. He hated dead people! He fought them, reflexively, but they pulled him down – he never even broke the surface. His lungs were burning, just like his stomach and he couldn’t think – breathed – swallowed – choked – only water, so cold, salt cold stabbing at his lungs, like dementors closing in as the dead dragged him down. Pain – everything hurt, dead hands, pulling him apart, breaking him, cold stabbing inside-out. He was afraid – so very, very afraid. It was dark and the dead were all around him – he could feel their slimy flesh pressing against his own – no wand, no magic, no one to save him.

The muggle prayer floated through his mind as everything started to slow, as his mind slowed, and he stopped being able to fight, the girl’s voice whispering “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”

He was a murderer.

He was dying.

He had killed her.

It was only right that he should die.

His last thought before the darkness closed in completely was that for the first time in his life, he had not done what was expected. His death would mean something, even if nothing he’d ever done in his life did. He wished he could tell Sirius.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

[tw: murder, blood]

(1979, April)

Bellatrix

Everything was falling apart.

Regulus was dead and Orion was dead and she stood, mourning-veiled before a pyre, feeling, for the first time she could ever remember, uncertain.

Cissy cried as Arcturus spoke in memoriam.

Bella let her clutch at her arm, hot tears soaking through the shoulder of her formal robes, unmoved.

He had been a traitor, in the end.

He had betrayed their Lord, betrayed her – Arcturus had called her to the Keep when he felt his Heir die, demanding to know what had happened to him. She hadn’t known, then. She thought he had died in the aftermath of the battle – a victory for them, but hard-fought, with heavy losses. She had not seen him since the fighting began, but had not imagined he would willingly have left the field.

Days passed and the dead were retrieved, counted. He was declared missing.

After a week, when he was the only one left unaccounted for, she had gone to her Master’s side, begged him to use the Mark, to tell her where he was, to help her find his body, and find out what had happened.

He had done so, and flown into a fury. Regulus had tried to steal something from him, he said; something precious, he said – a horcrux, she knew. Nothing else was so precious to him. There were five: two had recently been re-located by her Master, paranoid since The Incident that something might happen to threaten his immortality – even she did not know where; one was entrusted, currently, to her, hidden in plain sight, with all the other dark treasures and golden trophies in the vault of Lestrange, and one to Malfoy, to be kept safe until new places could be designed for them; the fifth was still held, perilously, deep in the fortress of his greatest enemy – its retrieval had been her Master’s preoccupation for months.

He had retrieved the body, mangled and drowned, dumped it in the Audience Chamber, an example – “This is what happens to those who think to betray Lord Voldemort!”

He had failed, Regulus, in his attempted theft, in his betrayal, for which Bella could only be thankful. He had tried to strike at the very life of her Lord, had tried to harm him, and for that he had deserved to die. He would have deserved it if her Master had let him rot where he had fallen. She burned the body before the Assembled Knights, fiendfire leaving no trace behind: a show of loyalty and solidarity before the men.

She had long since chosen her Lord and Master over the family that bore her. It had been easy: she was never one of them, protected, accepted, and cared for like a child ought to be. She belonged with the Dark Lord, at his side. She was his most loyal, his most faithful. She would do whatever he asked of her, gladly, for he had made her, taught her; forged her in his own image. She had proven, again and again, that her place was at his side. Staining her hands with the blood of the family that had never cared for her had been a small price to pay.

There had been four whom she would not willingly have killed, out of all the wizards who bore her name, and failed to uphold its honor. Three of the four had now betrayed her. One, the first, had abandoned her, fleeing before the battle truly began. The second had rebelled, outright joining the enemy. And now, the one whom she had thought was the last hope of her House, who had followed her willingly into her Lord’s service, eager to please, to do his part – he had turned against her as well.

It cut as deeply, in its own way, as the first had done.

She would not beg for the body of a traitor. She would not give him the honor of a proper funeral.

She chose, again, her Master, over her traitorous kin, and he publically accepted the proof of her loyalty.

In private, he railed against her: <This is your fault!> he hissed, slipping into Parsel in his rage. “You brought him to me – you vouched for him!”

He punished her for that failure, for that mistake. Not with pain, but with exile from his confidence. With rejection.

She begged for his forgiveness, but he sent her back to Arcturus, to Orion and Walburga, to tell them their son was a traitor, a coward and a failure.

She did, though she spared the details for the sake of her Lord’s secret. She told them the same things they had told the Death Eaters; made it sound like he had run from the battle, tried to leave their Lord’s service; that he had broken his oath of loyalty, and for that he had been hunted down and killed.

Orion, long since broken, shattered: “It’s your fault!” he screamed. “All of this is your fault!”

It wasn’t – that traitor had made his own choices, just like his brother, just like her sister. She hadn’t responded, lost in memories of betrayal, until the drunken wizard – he had been drunk since Arcturus had told him his son had died – pulled his wand and cast a familiar, acid-green curse at her.

She dodged and struck back – force of habit.

The thirteen years since the last time they had crossed wands had seen her grow up. She was no longer a little girl, playing familial power games and picking fights on behalf of her little cousins (little cousins who had grown up to betray her). She had seen war, and true battle, and had honed her reflexes to kill, when her life was on the line.

Sectumsempra, snake-strike quick. He never saw it coming. Didn’t even try to dodge.

He collapsed to the floor of Arcturus’ parlor, life’s blood draining itself from the slash across his throat.

Walburga fell to her knees beside him, trying to stem the flow, but there was no hope for it – without the counter-curse, no healing spell would take. (Bella might not trust that greasy little Snape bastard, might, in fact, hate him for being too perceptive by half, and plotting with Lucy behind her back, but he was clever and knew his cursecrafting, she would give him that.)

Walburga, bereft of both husband and son, wailed her grief, as the body lay cooling at her feet. “You did this! How could you? How could you do this to me?!” she cried. “It’s you – you’ve taken them both! This is your fault! Get out! GET OUT!”

She went.

She returned to the Dark Lord’s Court, forced to watch from a distance as he lost ground to the curse that fucking mudblood whore had turned back on him, eight months ago, now. The same slip of a girl, she was sure, was the one who had called Artemis to battle on Maiden’s Day – the red-headed vixen with eyes like a Killing Curse. Narcissa had identified her, from the description: Lily Evans, not three months out of school when she crippled the Dark Lord. It was infuriating. He had demanded her death, of course, but she was in hiding. There had been no sign of her particular brand of ritual destruction at Glastonbury, so she had either been absent or working as a Healer – for all the Dark had been victorious, they hadn’t managed to take the Healers’ tents.

He still refused her, still punishing her for the choices of her traitorous cousin – not obviously, but clearly enough that the men knew some taint of her family’s dishonor clung to her. There was, she knew, no way she could make up for this lapse, save to continue to serve him to the best of her ability.

She did so, skipping Orion’s funeral (though as his killer, she was not actually invited, anyway) to pay court to her Lord. He ordered her to attend Regulus’ memorial, held the night before Walpurgis. She hoped that, in some twisted way, he considered her attendance act of contrition, or closure – that he was rubbing her face in the fact of her traitorous blood a final time before he offered her forgiveness.

She stood too close to the flames as they climbed high, consuming the vacant pyre; unseeing and uncertain, as Narcissa wept and Arcturus spoke.

Her thoughts dwelt not with the loss of the traitor (sundered from her, in her mind, not by death, but by his actions), but with her Lord.

She was not torn, as she knew he suspected, between her family and himself. That choice was long-since made, and she was certain she would never regret it.

But she was torn, for the first time, between following his orders, and not.

For the first time, her Master, she had realized, watching his deterioration and increasingly erratic behavior from afar, was not acting in his own best interests.

He had ordered them to kill the mudblood, Lily Evans, who dared reach for power that ought rightfully to be beyond her grasp.

But killing the girl wouldn’t end the curse, wouldn’t save him – she had twisted the ritual, but he had cast it, and it was tied to his own life-spark, preying on his mind. He fought it, or had done, at least until he cast her from him, but even then it was slowly, slowly transforming him, making him stupid. It was more obvious, now. He wouldn’t let her protect him, wouldn’t let her help him, wouldn’t even acknowledge her in private, where she dared to voice her concerns (the men could not be allowed to perceive their leader’s weakness).

On the other hand, she suspected that, as the one who had twisted the ritual, the wench could dispel it, if she willed. That was how such things tended to go.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was almost positive that they needed Lily Evans – needed to recruit her, or find a way to force her to repeal the curse.

It would be direct defiance to attempt to capture the mudblood instead of killing her, but it would be, she was sure, in her Master’s best interests. He would, however, she was equally certain, hate her, if she were to do so on her own recognizance, or worse, if she were to directly countermand his orders to his Death Eaters. The organization could very well crumble, if the men realized that there was dissention in the leadership. Bad enough that Malfoy already had his little faction – if she was seen to be defying the Dark Lord, how many more of them would flock to him, ripe for a mutiny?

But then, what good was an army, a revolution, if the Dark Lord was reduced to a shadow of himself?

She didn’t think she could bring herself to defy him, not directly. Not while she still had some hope of redeeming herself before him.

She could lie to him, she realized.

She never had, but she knew she was capable.

She could outright take over the Death Eaters completely, if she had to.

If she could find her way back into his good graces, she could position herself between him and the Inner Circle; encourage his reclusiveness and interpret the meaning and desires behind his ramblings to relay his orders; keep the organization running. He thought the girl useless, and wished only for her death, but if Bella could win her way back into his trust, she could demand the girl’s capture, ask for her as a gift, to torture as revenge for the damage she had dealt to her Master, or perhaps suggest that he should have the right to kill her personally – any reason would do, any reason he would accept, to call off the kill order. Once she was in hand, Bella could work on… convincing her to reverse the curse, regardless of how she was captured.

She would deceive her Lord, she realized, if it would bring her Master, her true Master, back to her.

Had she not sworn to fight for him, until death and beyond?

Staring, unseeing, into the fire, she found a moment of clarity, amidst her uncertain, divided thoughts: it was more important to be the person he needed than the one he wanted.

He was her whole world: If the only way to save him was to subvert him, then subvert him she would.

Chapter Text

(1979, September)

Narcissa

Lucius let himself into the room mere moments after the midwife left, falling, exhausted, into the chair beside his wife’s bed. He looked, if possible, even more tired than she was, and she had been in labor for over twelve hours.

“The woman said it went well,” he said, without preamble. “A boy?”

She smiled at him. After two years of marriage, there was still little love between them, but these past months, since Regulus’ death, he had positively doted upon her. She had been confined to her bed and unable to do magic for the third trimester, and he had made certain that she had everything she could possibly need or want, every bit as invested in this child as she was already.

They might not love each other (yet?), but it was clear they both already loved him.

“Draco Scorpius, like we discussed,” she sighed, shifting him from one breast to the other and allowing his father to see his face, bright grey eyes making their wobbly way from her to him.

Lucius cautiously extended a single finger and stroked his head, only the barest wisp of blond hair already grown. “He’s so soft,” the wizard marveled, clearly at a loss.

“Do you want to hold him?” she offered.

He shook his head, though he looked longingly at the babe. “I should wash… change… I just got in, but I couldn’t wait…”

She hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it, that he was still in his anonymous, black Death Eater’s robes. He had been summoned hours before the contractions began. “What did he have you doing today?” she asked lightly.

He groaned. “He’s still planning on going ahead with the attack on Samhain. I was supervising a team staking out Diagon Alley for most of the morning, and then there was the Expansion vote – failed, of course, though it was closer than last time – only twenty-five seats’ gap.”

“Don’t they realize how that would change – No, of course not, what am I saying? Bloody idiots,” Narcissa grumbled. Opening up the Wizengamot to include elected representatives, rather than just the traditionally inherited seats would be to open the flood gates of social change. Society as they knew it would come crumbling down around their ears. It was blatantly self-sabotaging for any of the Seats to vote for Expansion, and yet the movement continued to gain ground.

“Indeed. I can’t say how relieved I am that you will soon be up and able to return to showing them the error of their ways,” he teased. “After that, I had a meeting with Gringott’s and one with the board of Malfoy Industries, and then I was summoned again to discuss the Mabon preparations. I swear, the revels have become less about the magic and the holidays than the torture and killing lately.”

He looked somewhat irritated about this – most likely because he considered most Black Arts, especially those involving human sacrifices, unrefined. If she had learned one thing over their two years of marriage, it was that Lucius Malfoy hated getting his hands any dirtier than absolutely necessary. She imagined that the increase in gratuitous violence grated for him even more than the task of planning a holiday he didn’t care to celebrate.

She gave him a sympathetic look, and said, “Oh?”

“Apparently I was less enthusiastic about said planning than I ought to have been, because I was sent to lead a raid, and truthfully, the less said about that, the better,” he sighed.

“You weren’t engaged, or punished, were you?” she asked, alarmed. As the war heated up, engagements with the Aurors and Dumbledore’s little vigilante group had become a real concern for the Death Eaters sent out on raids. The price for a failed mission had been growing steeper over the past year or so, as incentive not to allow their plans to be foiled. He didn’t seem injured, but he had sat down rather abruptly on his return…

He shook his head slightly. “It went off well enough, but the target... It doesn’t seem right to kill a child on the day your own is brought into the world, that’s all.” He looked rather guiltily at Draco, as though Fate would sweep down from the heavens and snatch him away in retribution.

She patted the nearest part of him – a knee – gently, and changed the subject. “Go wash up. I’ll have the elves bring us tea, and you can hold him and tell me all about what other nonsense I’ll need to correct at the Ministry once I’ve finally got out of bed.”

He nodded, kissing her temple and petting the baby again with the sweetest look on his face (one that said, ‘how on Earth did we make this?’), and left without another word.

As soon as he had gone, Narcissa felt herself wilt into the pillows supporting her, overwhelmed by the enormity of bringing a child into this… this fucking mess that was Magical Britain.

On the one hand, they had the Light and the Progressives, seeking to undermine their way of life at every political turn, gaining ground against them, and on the other they had… the Dark Lord.

She only allowed herself to think it in the very deepest recesses of her mind, but there were days, like today, when she was absolutely terrified that the Dark Lord was every bit as mad as Bella.

When she was young, she hadn’t questioned the Cause or its leader or the methods they used to impress their political stance upon the Ministry and the Wizengamot. She hadn’t questioned much of anything, really. Even just a few years ago, she had thought that the Dark Lord was the best alternative to the Light – the only real chance they had to stop Dumbledore and his lackeys from completely destroying the status quo. She liked the status quo. She might not have had precisely a happy life thus far, exactly, but she was definitely accustomed to a particular lifestyle, which she did desire to maintain for her own son to enjoy.

But now… now…

Now she found herself questioning whether following the Dark Lord was truly in her best interests anymore, or those of her newly-forged family.

She was close enough to see how things had changed over the past year, and far enough removed that she could admit it: the war did not seem to be going well.

It probably appeared that the Dark Lord and his followers were gathering strength: since last September alone there had been three major battles, with significant engagement by both sides: At Moel Tŷ Uchaf on Mabon, Hogsmeade on Imbolc, and Glastonbury on Easter (only the last of which they could be said to have won, and that at heavy costs). Raids had increased in frequency such that either Lucius or Bella was out directing them nearly every night, and they had located and razed one of the refugee camps Dumbledore had created for the families of muggleborns, in an effort to keep them out of Death Eater hands. The public was terrified. The Dark Lord was slowly infiltrating the Ministry, placing loyal supporters, if not marked Death Eaters, in key positions, but it was no longer clear what he stood for.

Politically, officially, within the Wizengamot, where the true ruling of Magical Britain occurred, the Dark had been losing ground thanks to his tactics driving more and more of the neutral houses to Dumbledore’s banner. The Death Eaters, Bella included, seemed to be giving themselves over more and more to unrestrained terror actions and violence, increasing unrest, but to no clear purpose. Even the Prophet admitted that people seemed dissatisfied with the Ministry, it was true, but they were certainly not flocking to the Dark Lord’s banner. It surely could not be long until there was open fighting in the streets, and when that happened, she was seriously concerned that they would be outnumbered, even given that any Death Eater could be expected to out-fight at least half a dozen average wizards.

There was dissention within the ranks of the Death Eaters, as well, she knew. There had been great turn-over in the members of the Inner Circle over the past five years: Old Tiberius Nott, Yaxley Senior, and Robert Lestrange had all died under mysterious circumstances, not unlike Abraxas Malfoy and Zevi Prince a few years before them. She half-suspected that Bella, who was now, Narcissa was fairly certain, the most senior member of the Inner Circle, having joined the Dark Lord fourteen years prior, had killed off anyone with greater standing than herself. Most of the foot-soldiers probably were not aware, but Bella and Lucius, the two most-trusted lieutenants, were constantly at each other’s throats in private; each obviously expected an eventual betrayal by the other, as they ceaselessly attempted to curry favor with their Lord and gain supporters in the lower ranks, in the hopes of ousting the other from their position.

If half the things they mentioned in passing were true, then something had changed dramatically since the last time she had attended a Revel, four years prior. She had tagged along after Bella at Yule several times, joining in with the Death Eaters’ feasts after the family rituals had concluded, though she had stopped when she grew old enough to attend midwinter balls instead. After the Marking (which, as an outsider, she wasn’t allowed to watch), there had been uncouth amounts of alcohol consumption; very exciting, highly dangerous, no-holds-barred dueling contests; and the occasional supplementary ritual (some of which did involve sacrifices) – but the celebrations certainly had never been about torture and murder for the sake of it. And what was Regulus’ defection, if not a sign that the Death Eaters were falling apart as a movement? Reggie had been raised to be one of them. He had been looking forward to it since he was thirteen. She did not believe for a moment that he had fled from battle – he was a good, solid fighter. If he, of all people, had turned traitor, tried to abandon the group he had worked so hard to join, something must be wrong.

She had been uneasy for some time about the fate of the movement. She was tied to it so closely, by her husband and her sister, and so many cousins, even if she was not Marked and never would be herself… but she had not realized, until the reality of her son’s birth settled in, exactly how uneasy she was. She did not think that it would fail tomorrow, or next month, or even, maybe, in the next year. But she wasn’t as sure as she once had been that it – they – would succeed in re-making the world as they sought, and the worst-case scenario terrified her. If, Powers forbid, the Dark Lord fell tomorrow, Bella would be sent to Azkaban. So would Lucius. Even she would likely be taken in as an accomplice to their crimes. Even if the Revolution succeeded, Lucius could be killed in the fighting, or she could be targeted for revenge by a mad vigilante – these were dangerous times, for everyone.

And then what would happen to her son? He’d be packed off to live with some French Malfoys she had hardly met, or worse, kidnapped and placed with a Light family somewhere in Britain. (Though that would still probably be better than giving him to Druella or Arcturus.) She might be willing to gamble with her own life and her own future, and even to allow Bella and Lucius to do so, but not with his. Never with his.

She was still thinking these disturbing thoughts when Lucius returned, clean and dressed in her favorite silken nightshirt. He sank into the chair again with a tired smile and she passed him the swaddled bundle, now full and too sleepy to protest the movement. A tiny hand curled unconsciously around a single long, tapered finger, and she was pretty sure her husband’s breath caught. She knew hers had, the first time.

Watching the two of them, Lucius staring, completely fascinated – enamored, almost – as Draco slept soundly, securely, in the crook of his arm, she had to ask: “Lucius…”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think we’re going to win this war?”

“What? Of course! Why would you ask such a thing?” he replied, but he hesitated first – just enough that she suspected he had his reservations as well.

“Because… because we have a baby, now. A son. And I don’t think I could stand it if… well, if anything happened to us, or to him, or –”

He hushed her gently. “Shhh, Cissa – it will be fine. Draco will grow up safe and sound – the war will be worth it when we can tell him, someday, that we did all this so that he could grow up in a better world.”

“Will it be, though?” she muttered, almost to herself.

“The Dark Lord is immortal,” he answered quietly. “We cannot lose.”

“The Dark Lord… Lucius, the Dark Lord is only one wizard. He’s powerful, yes, but…”

“Whatever you’re thinking, Narcissa, don’t say it.” His tone was suddenly forbidding. “We will succeed. We have to.”

She had been thinking that even the Dark Lord could not win a war alone, and that ‘immortal’ wizards had been killed before, and even that if he did truly live forever, he could still be defeated, but she knew, even before he reminded her, that these were thoughts best not spoken aloud, even in the privacy of their own home.

“I’m going to make contingency plans,” she said, very quietly, despite the implications. “Even if we win in the end, these are dangerous times and we aren’t immortal. We should have one, just in case.”

The understanding that she would make plans not only for what happened if one or both of them should die, but if the Dark Lord did, in the end, lose, hung heavy between them.

He gave her the briefest of nods, and she relaxed a fraction. It was a relief knowing that they would be allies in this, that he would follow her lead if ever it became necessary. But she did not think she would sleep easy until the war was finally over, contingency plans or no.

Chapter Text

[tw: canon character death mentioned; depression; torture (mentioned)]

(1981, November)

Sirius

Sirius Black’s twenty-first birthday passed, unmarked, in a cell in Azkaban, under heavy guard by the few dementors that had not followed Voldemort into battle. As he had since he arrived, he spent the night curled into a tiny, miserable ball, rocking slightly as his shoulders shook with tears.

I killed them. It was my fault. My weakness. I killed them. It was my fault. My suggestion to use Peter. James. Lily. My fault. All my fault.

He had tracked down Peter with some effort – he had managed to destroy almost all of the tracking charms Sirius and Lily had cast upon him – or perhaps one of the other Death Eaters – for it had been he, Peter, fucking Peter Pettigrew, who was the traitor – had done it for him. He had abandoned his goddaughter to Hagrid’s care – she would be taken to Dumbledore – Dumbledore would keep her safe – in favor of hunting down the one who had betrayed him, James, their whole fucking side.

“How could you, Sirius? How could you kill Lily and James?”

Heads turned in their direction.

Sirius’ wand was out. He began the motions for a curse – a Healing Charm, actually – that would slowly peel back the skin and muscles of a target, cleanly separating veins and arteries and tendons, allowing the Healer to address extensive damage directly. It hurt, a lot, but that was the point. A Killing Curse would be too easy for the likes of this fucking rat.

He was halfway through his spell when the street exploded. The traitor was thrown toward him, away from the center of the blast, the shield amulet he wore everywhere saving him from being pulped into a bloody mess. Sirius was stunned by the explosion, or maybe from hitting his head when he fell. The world was spinning. He saw the traitor point his wand and for a brief, mad moment, Sirius thought that he was going to end it, just kill him off, too. But then he turned the wand on his own hand, severed a finger and let it fall to the ground, before running back to the center of the blast and transforming into Wormtail, leaving wand and robes and finger behind, before the smoke and the dust had settled.

He let his head fall sharply back to the ground, laughing hysterically, completely disbelieving everything about the situation.

“I killed them,” he muttered, over and over, trying to make it real. “They’re dead – and I killed them.”

He had – it was his fault. He had begged them to switch the Fidelius. He had suggested they use The Traitor. He might as well have held the wand and cast the Avada himself.

The DMLE showed up before his laughter turned to sobs.

There was no trial. He was kept in holding at the Ministry only long enough to be processed and sent directly to Azkaban. They said he would get one, but no one came to tell him that it was time, and time soon lost all meaning.

There was no one left to fight for him, for his rights. The only people who could have done, hated him, and the only people who would have done were dead.

I killed them. It’s all my fault. They’re dead, and I’m where I belong, because it’s all my fault.

He watched Bella come in, with her husband and brother-in-law, and Barty Crouch Junior. The men looked surly, as always, and Crouch terrified. Bella strode like a queen, tossing her hair and insisting loudly that her Lord would return, that she would be waiting for him, his most loyal servant.

He laughed, humorlessly. “The Dark Wanker’s dead, Bella! He’s never coming back!”

She threw herself at the bars of his cage, trying to strangle him for the insult to her Master, and he sneered at her as the guards, Aurors, because they still hadn’t managed to re-capture enough dementors to fully staff the Island of the Damned, muttered about the both of them being mad.

“He’ll be back! You’ll see! You’ll see!” she screamed at him as they dragged her away.

I won’t, he thought. He’s dead, just like James, like Lily. Like I will be. Like I deserve to be.

Sometime after that – he didn’t know how long, with the dementors all around – Moody stood before him, pacing and stumping on that damn peg-leg, ranting about how he ought to’ve known he couldn’t trust a Black – how he wished he could have warned the Potters that Sirius was going to betray them all.

That one word stuck in his mind: betrayal.

“I didn’t – I never!” he protested weakly. It was his fault they had died, but he had never, could never, have betrayed them. Not intentionally.

“Liar!” Moody roared. “Dumbledore told us himself! You were their Secret Keeper! You betrayed them! You told the cock-sucking bastard where to find them!”

“No – I didn’t – I couldn’t – James – like a brother!” he gasped, sobbing. The pain of their loss was still as fresh as it had been in his mind that first day, as he was forced to re-live the moments he found them and his failure to avenge them every day, every hour that the dementors were present.

“You’re a sick, mad bastard, Black, just like the rest of your family – rotten to the core!”

“No – Moody – you know me!” Sirius flinched away from the look on the face of his mentor. The Senior Auror had been like a father to him, teaching him, training him – saving his life a dozen times or more those first few months in the Corp, while he was still finding his feet.

“I thought I did,” the scarred man said coldly, looking far older than Sirius had ever seen him look before. “Turns out you’re a traitorous, Death Eating scumbag – fucking snake in disguise, all these years!”

“No! Never! I would never! I loved James!”

Moody gave him a harsh, unamused cough of laughter. “Funny way you’ve got of showing it! Spying on him, selling him out to your Master!”

“I’m not a Death Eater!” He tore the sleeve of his robes up, pressing his unmarked forearm to the bars of his cage. “I’m not a spy! Let me prove it! The trial! I’ll – I’ll take Veritaserum! Memories! Legilimency! Anything!”

“We both know dark wizards have their ways of getting around those sorts of things,” the old bastard said scornfully. “A trial would be a waste of time. Besides, you confessed! Laughing your mad arse off after killing Pettigrew... Fool me once, and all that…” He spat on the ground just outside the cage door and stumped away, ignoring Sirius’ protests behind him.

The dementors returned, bringing with them the feeling when Peter – the Traitor – was missing from his safehouse, and the sight of James’ face, missing that indefinable spark that had always been there in life, lying broken and still in the doorway of his home, kicked aside by the advancing Dark Lord like so much rubbish (My fault – my fault he’s dead, they’re dead. My idea. My weakness. Couldn’t save them. Couldn’t avenge them. My fault.), alternating with the hatred in Moody’s eyes as he denounced his former protégé as a madman, a traitor, and a spy. (Not a traitor – never a traitor – I would never betray James – couldn’t! I’m innocent, of that, at least. I’m innocent!)

Sirius curled into a miserable ball again, wishing with all his heart that he could just stop feeling everything – the pain, the guilt, the self-loathing. It was worse, worse by far, than when James had rejected him in sixth year. Worse than when he realized that it would never, ever work between them. Worse than James’ wedding day.

It had all gone so wrong, so quickly.

James was gone forever and it was his fault, and now he was trapped in this living, nightmare-hell.

He deserved it, for his weakness, for his failure.

But he wasn’t a traitor. He hadn’t killed Peter. He was innocent of the crimes for which they had (already) condemned him. (“A trial would be a waste of time!”)

He thought that made it worse.

He let his thoughts slip away, and memories and misery overwhelmed him.

Bellatrix

It had all gone so wrong, so quickly.

Hadn’t they finally gotten a spy into Hogwarts last September? Hadn’t they taken decisive victories at the dragon reserve and the Midsummer Ball? Hogsmeade and Denbigh Moor? (The only battle they had lost since she had taken command was the ill-conceived attack on St. Mungo’s.) Wasn’t the public terrified, and the Ministry officially at war, recognizing them as a legitimate threat and power on-par with the official government of Magical Britain?

She had been holding it together – she had kept the rank and file from recognizing exactly how far their Lord had fallen, had kept his movement going, telling him of their successes with pride, and protecting him from the treachery that was sure to come, should the rest of the Inner Circle sense weakness.

They were not snakes, but sharks, all of them: it would be like blood in the water.

She had done everything she could to stabilize him, to keep him sane and find the solution to the curse that had burrowed, now, deeply into his mind.

In that last, however, she had failed – failed.

She had never failed at anything. Why did it have to be now, with this most important task, that she should face her first true failure?

Lily Evans had not been amenable to recruitment.

She had crashed the mudblood’s wedding on the word of their spy within the Order; slipped the witch a letter, an offer, and laid a tracking spell upon her – it would have been so much easier, she thought, if the chit could just be convinced to cooperate. (For all she preferred more direct tactics, Bella hardly thought it wise to set an unwilling ritualist loose on her injured Lord. Captured, tortured, and forced to perform, the bitch might easily worsen the situation, regardless of whether it resulted in her own very painful death.)

But she had not responded to the letter slipped into the waistband of her tattered wedding dress, and the girl had been long since made untraceable to owls.

Two years ago – Samhain – the girl had impressed her, animating the dead and setting them against the Death Eaters, winning the Diagon Alley battle in one fell swoop. It was Black magic on a scale that should have been impossible, given her show of White arts less than a year prior. If the girl could have been turned, if she would have healed Bella’s Master as tribute, she would have welcomed the child to their ranks with open arms, blood status be damned.

She had managed to convince her Master, then (finally), that they needed to capture the girl, make her pay for the damage she had dealt the Death Eaters more thoroughly than a quick curse in battle could do. She ordered the men not to kill the girl, but to bring her in, alive, or face the most painful, lasting consequences she could devise.

There were several near-misses before the Order finally realized that there must be a tracking spell upon her and removed it. Even so, after that, she was out of the field, whisked away to their safehouses, working only as a healer – pregnant, their spy had later reported, and thus to be kept protected.

And then Snape had reported that blasted fragment of a prophecy, and her Lord had become obsessed by the threat to his immortality. The Inner Circle had scoured the ranks of their enemies looking for prospective parents who might have ‘thrice defied’ him, in word or deed. There were too many to say for certain, if there should be a more esoteric interpretation – but only two pairs were expecting, imminently. Frank and Alice Longbottom, or James Potter and Lily Evans.

She knew, even before they received word in December that Alice Longbottom had returned to the fight, but Lily Evans had remained in hiding with her child, that it would be her child who was the subject of the prophecy.

How could it not have been?

There was a certain fated symmetry surrounding the younger witch – at once her Master’s best hope for recovery, and the source of his most likely downfall.

No sooner had her Master decided on a course of action, calling for the death of the Potter child, than the Potters vanished completely. Their home, the Death Eaters realized, must have been placed under Fidelius, like the Order safehouses. Their spy had been disgustingly relieved not to be able to tell them where the Potters lived any longer, or very much about the Fidelius at all. His ignorance bought his friends time.

After that, it had become a waiting game.

They had reached a sort of equilibrium – a holding pattern. There was no movement on the Potter front for months and months, and they had been making progress with the public and the war – it was not widely known, even among the Death Eaters, that there was a Prophecy at all… and for some unknown reason, Dumbledore seemed to be keeping the information to himself as well. (More the fool, him, truly.)

They had returned to attacking on the Sabbats, hoping to lure Evans out into the open; attacked the Ministry and made raids on public spaces, hoping to draw the Potters’ Secret Keeper into battle and kill them, whoever it was, as they had the Camp 7 Secret Keeper in ’79. (She suspected her Blood Traitor cousin – doubted it only because he seemed the too-obvious choice.) They attempted, at every opportunity, to kill or capture Potter (though Bella suspected that even if they did capture the wizard, he would die before he allowed his child to be traded for his life).

They attempted to Imperius any Order member who might be allowed within the Fidelius, able to kill the child or bring it to them, but all were detected by a slew of cleverly-designed intent-proximity alarms, and none succeeded.

And then… then it all came crashing down – the delicate balance ruined within a matter of hours.

Pettigrew, their spy, had been made Secret Keeper, had attempted to bluster through a meeting with his fragile, novice-level Occlumency and sheer Gryffindor nerve (a bigger fool even than Dumbledore, to think he would do so successfully). He had been found out almost at once, and had not lasted through ten minutes of torture before he agreed to surrender the Secret.

Her Lord had demanded the Inner Circle be present for the breaking of the Fidelius – a semi-public spectacle, which she could not reasonably refuse. The secret ripped itself free of Pettigrew’s soul, leaving him panting, crying, incoherent on the floor, and revealing to them all the fact that the Potters resided in Potter Cottage, in Godric’s Hollow.

They had known, of course, that it was Godric’s Hollow, having followed the Imperiused Order members there, but the Potter Cottage had, under the Fidelius, been made to slip their minds as a place that the Potters could possibly have been.

It was like day breaking, the realization that that was where they must be.

And then her Lord had decided that he would go – that he must go, at once, to deal with the threat, personally, before they could realize that their protections had failed, and re-cast them.

She had begged him not to go, not then, on the eve of Samhain. There could not be any worse night to attempt to kill Lily Evans’ child. Death waited in that house, she knew it!

He had accused her of undermining him, of thinking him weak. She denied it – she was his most faithful! But he had thrust her from him, again, ordering her to let Lucius fucking Malfoy have his way with her, to submit to him, while he took Nott and Avery and Lynch to hold the anti-disapparition and anti-portkey pallings in place, but they would do so at a distance, leaving him to deal with the threat alone, some half-arsed impression of how a prophecy must be dealt with leading him to his doom, despite her protestations.

She was bound in ropes and clever knots, forced to kneel before Malfoy and the rest of the Inner Circle when she felt her connection to her Lord dim dramatically – not gone – not entirely, but weak, desperate, and growing weaker by the second, until finally, finally, the Mark was little more than a wispy echo of its former self, too weak to track, to go to him.

There was a pull on her own magic as he clung to her, to all of them, and to his horcruxes, to sustain himself, and then that sense, too, faded. She could sense his magic seeping out of her soul, without his body on the other end of the connection to sustain it, reaching an equilibrium after a short eternity, leaving her with only the sense that he was not gone – not entirely. The others, their bonds less reciprocal than hers, felt it less deeply, knowing only that the Dark Mark flared and then faded from their arms, leaving a burn-mark scar behind from the heat of the magic channeled through it.

She screamed, high and keening, apparated to Godric’s Hollow – but his presence was no stronger there – to half a dozen different bases of operations, to the gates of Hogwarts and the heart of London. There was no sign of him anywhere – his magic, his soul – everything that made him himself was gone, untraceable.

He was not dead. She would know if he was dead, she reminded herself, over and over. He could not die. He was only missing – no, gone.

She returned to Godric’s Hollow again, hoping to find some clue, some sign, as to what that mudblood bitch had done to him – where she had sent him – where he had gone – but Dumbledore was already there, and she was in no fit state to duel the old bastard, not when there were wounds on her soul, and she had just apparated the length and breadth of Magical Britain attempting to track her Lord’s missing spirit. She could hardly focus well enough to cast a Cruciatus at the moment, let alone well enough to do battle.

She returned to Headquarters, to the chaotic scramble as the rest of the Inner Circle listened to Lynch report – two flashes of Killing Curse green and then a swirl of light and color – reds and blues and golden-white, through the upstairs windows before the spell, the trap, whatever it was, began to eat away at the walls and ceiling, opening the house to the elements, and sending up a flare of magic that doubtless was the reason for Dumbledore’s presence.

The organization crumbled in a matter of hours, nearly a full third of those marked defecting as soon as their Marks faded, and more than half of those who were left organizing behind Malfoy, planning their legal defenses, planning to denounce their alliances and claim Imperius before the Wizengamot, planning to lie low, save their arses, and keep their heads down until it was safe again to oppose Dumbledore openly.

She scoffed at them: it would never be safe, after this, to oppose the old goat openly.

But that hadn’t stopped them leaving, running to establish alibis.

Without the control over their Marks, which only their Lord had wielded, she was powerless to stop them.

She was left with the dregs – the Death Eaters too stupid to run, or too obsessed with pureblood supremacism to eat crow, bowing to the Progressives to keep themselves from Azkaban, and the mad ones who had been recruited since her Master had started to lose himself in the caricature of his beliefs Evans had created, those who reveled only in the pain they caused, with no thought for the politics of their war and what they had been trying to accomplish, who thought that they could simply go on as they had done, Lord or no Lord.

They had lain low for days, waiting out the celebrations, until the Light and the fickle public had settled into a false sense of security, until she had decided that the only thing to do was to show them that their movement had not ended with her Lord’s disappearance.

She took the best, most experienced fighters out of those who remained – her husband, his brother, Crouch Junior – and led a raid on the Longbottom mansion. They had studied its wards extensively, before they had realized that their target, the prophesied child, was the Potter brat, and behind a Fidelius. Crouch, their best ward-breaker, had them inside in a matter of hours, with no one the wiser. They incapacitated old Madam Longbottom and her useless younger son. The elves evacuated the infant before they could capture him. The elder son, Franklin, and his wife, Order members and Aurors both, fought, but were subdued. She tortured them, demanding information – what had Evans done to the Dark Lord? Where had the Potter child been taken? What did the Ministry know, and the Order?

They gave away little, even when she had used them against each other, promising to spare the other should they relent and tell her what she wanted to know. The wizard was the weaker of the two, unable to face his wife’s torment. They knew nothing. She had broken their minds, reducing them to unresponsive husks of the people they once were before they attempted to vacate the scene, and found themselves surrounded – the aurors tipped off, no doubt, by the same elves who had saved the child. Bella kicked herself for underestimating them – she, of all people, should know better, what an elf could manage!

But then, she realized, in the Holding Cells before her trial, perhaps she had wanted to be caught. She had failed in everything she had attempted lately – capturing the mudblood to heal her Master; keeping the Death Eaters from fragmenting; even learning what information the Ministry had on his status and the events that surrounded That Night – on where he had gone, and how she might help him return. Perhaps it was time to admit that she was no longer capable of working in her Lord’s best interests. She should have simply followed his orders – let him remain in direct control – let it all be out of her hands, for once.

Maybe she should just… stop.

She had tried subverting his authority and working in his best interests, and look how that had turned out.

Besides, the mudblood was dead, and with her, any hope for returning things to the way they used to be.

If she could not fix him, could not return him to the heights of power and glory he had once possessed, she would have to resign herself to the new order, to finding a new path for him to greatness.

She would, she decided, sitting in a cell as she awaited trial, have to continue to wait, faithfully, as he (this new version of him) would want, until he returned.

He would manage it, she was sure. It was simply a matter of when. He would come for her, she knew, when he did, and he would reward her loyalty, her decision to go to Azkaban, rather than denounce him, or run, like so many of the others.

She stood proud, at her trial, and faced down all those who called her mad, who called him mad, and their whole revolution an ideological failure, doomed from the start.

They tried to drag her away, throw her to the dementors, but they could no more drag her to her fate than she could be a victim to her Lord – she went willingly.

What was Azkaban to her?

Only a sacrifice in the name of her Lord, to wait, alone, holding a vigil against his eventual return, and an opportunity to think on her mistakes, to plan. He would be pleased, she knew, when he came for her, that she had waited, that she had believed in him, refused to denounce him. The old him wouldn’t have, but the new him would, she knew it, and the old him was gone now, forever, but he was still her Lord, her Master.

She still served him, as she must, to the best of her abilities, until death and beyond.

It wasn’t over.

It wouldn’t be over until both of them were dead and gone – and gone he might be, but dead he most certainly wasn’t.

He would return.

He would come for her.

She knew it.

And then, then, they would take up the banner again.

Magical Britain would rue the day they declared her Lord and Master dead – she would make certain of it.

He would come for her, and then their day would come.

Until that day, she would wait, wait for him to return, his perfect weapon, his most faithful servant. He was not dead – he would come, after he had done whatever he needed to do.

He would return, and when he did, she would be ready.

This was a temporary setback, at best.

The war wasn’t over yet.

Chapter Text

(1982, May)

Nymphadora

3^rd May 1982

Dear Diary,

My name is Nymphadora Grace Tonks – it’s a stupid name, I know, but I can’t even go by Grace, because I’m so not – graceful that is. Mum calls me Nym, which is almost okay, except it reminds me of the Rats of NIMH, and that story kind of freaks me out. Dad calls me Dora, which is also almost okay, except it sounds so old fashioned. I wish they’d stuck with Theodora, like they wanted before mum decided that Nymphadora was better. I’d go by Teddi, or maybe just Ted, if I felt like being a boy that day.

I should probably say I’m a metamorph – and a witch, if you didn’t know. It means I can change how I look whenever I want, so if I want short hair and boy parts, I can have them, even though mum says they won’t work like real boy parts to give a girl a baby someday, because I only have girl parts on the inside. Most days I wake up with one blue eye and one green, and curly brown hair like mum’s, or straight blondish-brown hair like dad’s, but I like making it better colors like blue or pink or green or all of them.

I am nine years old, as of yesterday. I got this diary as a present, along with the news that we’re moving back to England. Mum and dad told everyone at my birthday party, which was really only mum and dad and Aunt Maggie and her boyfriend Carl. But we had cake, so it was still a party. Aunt Maggie was really sad, because she doesn’t want us to leave. Mum was acting happy, but she was almost crying, too. She did cry, for real, after Aunt Maggie and Carl left, but she said it was happy tears. I think she was lying.

Even if she’s not all-the-way happy and Dad’s obviously doing the supportive husband thing and not really caring about it for himself, just for her, I think I’m glad to go.

I don’t really know anyone here.

We live just outside of a town called Marathon, now. Not Marathon, Greece, Marathon, Ontario, right near Lake Superior. It’s a little town and mum says it’s a little obvious I’m magical, what with changing my eyes and hair whenever I forget not to change them. So I can’t really play with muggles, because of the Statute of Secrecy, and there’s no wizard primary school, or at least not anywhere near here, so I’m homeschooled. Mum tells me all kinds of stories about History and the boarding school she went to when she was 11. It’s called Hogwarts. That’d be stellar, having a whole riot of other kids around. I just realized that moving back to England means I can go there, now, too!!

Meanwhile, I also spend a lot of time writing stories and doing maths, which I don’t like, and I read a lot, and spend a lot of time walking in the woods around our house, or practicing Potions and Herbology, which is kind of like fancy cooking and, well… Herbology. Like uses of plants and stuff from the woods and dad’s medicine garden. Sometimes mum teaches me magic, even though dad says I’m not really supposed to do any until I’m eleven. Mum says she and all her family started learning much earlier, though, so it’s okay really. Sometimes I spy on the muggle neighbors. They live about four kilometers south-west of our place, which is a good long walk, or a pretty short broom-flight. I have to be real careful not to let them see if I fly over, though, and to keep my hair and face looking normal so they don’t realize I’m magic. They have three kids, but they’re all way older than me and go off to college in the fall.

I should know more about muggles, because dad’s muggleborn, but like I said, I can’t really spend much time with them, and Grandmum Elise and Grandpapa James died in a car crash when I was real little, and I don’t really remember them, and then Uncle John, who’s a muggle, too, stopped talking to mum and dad because he thought dad should have been able to save them with magic. Dad is a Healer, so he might have been able to, but they died in the hospital before anyone could tell him. Anyway, Aunt Maggie says Uncle John never forgave dad, which I think is really sad.

Maybe I can go to muggle school in England, before Hogwarts! I’m getting better about keeping my temper and not changing colors when I don’t mean to. Occlumency is dead boring, but useful. And since I’ve started learning real magic, my accidents are like down to nothing. I’ll ask dad when we get all moved back.

I’m so excited!!

I’m getting more excited the longer I think about it!

I guess it’s kind of silly, because it’s not like I have more family over there – mum does, the Blacks, but most of them died in the war, and the rest of them don’t talk to her after she ran away to be with dad, and it turns out all of them, even the one she thought was a good person, turned out to be on the wrong side of the war that just ended over there.

Mum’s sister Bella was actually one of the ringleaders. She’s in jail, now, because she’s basically Capital-E Evil. But mum’s always real sad when she talks about her, because Mum’s dad, Cygnus, was Capital-E Evil, too, and Bella used to protect mum and their little sister Cissy from him, and killed him when he hurt mum, but then she went crazy – or maybe she was already crazy, because who just kills their parents? But anyway, she was definitely crazy after that, and mum and dad came here because mum’s family hated muggleborns, and mum was afraid that Bella might try to kill her for basically running away from the family.

We used to move a lot when I was little, and trying to stay off Bella’s radar is part of the reason we don’t see many other wizards, either. I mean, we could live in Quebec or Montreal – they have their own little magical quarters. But no, we live in the middle of nowhere. Dad apparates to work in Toronto every day and mum mostly does legal advice by post. I think our closest magical neighbors might be the Superior-Pukaskwa werewolves, and they don’t even do magic, they just are magic. They’re pretty nice, but I’m not allowed to visit them alone because mum says they’d want to keep me and never give me back.

Oops, got distracted. I was saying about mum’s family. Mum’s other sister, Narcissa, is married to one of the Death Eaters, that’s the bad guys, in case it wasn’t obvious, right? And they have a kid, my baby cousin, Draco, like the constellation. I just found out about him a few months ago, so mum must have heard in the same letter where she found out that the war was over, and Bella is in jail. Sirius, the cousin mum thought might have been a good person, is in jail, too, but Narcissa and her husband paid a lot of money to the government to stay out. Bella didn’t even try, because she’s crazy.

The head of the family is an old man called Arcturus. I’m not exactly sure how we’re related. Some kind of uncle, I think. He and mum’s mum, Druella, and mum’s aunt Walburga, supported the bad guys, too, ideologically, mum says, but not their methods. I think that means they thought the bad guys killed too many people. The good guys must have killed a lot of people, too, though, because almost everyone else in the family is dead now, and there were a lot of them in the stories mum used to tell – second and third cousins, even, and they’re all gone.

It makes me sad to think about, because I never got to meet any of them.

Mum says I shouldn’t worry, because I never would’ve met them anyway, because she threw herself out of the family, but she also says she misses Narcissa, and since she did send the letter, mum’s going to try to reach out and re-establish the relationship when we get back. She says I shouldn’t get too excited, though, because Narcissa probably won’t want to be good friends, even if she did do us the courtesy of letting us know that the war was over and who all had died and who is in jail, but we’re family, right? I’d like to have a little cousin.

I mean, I guess from the way she talks that almost everyone in Magical Britain is my cousin, or at least all the purebloods, and most of the half-bloods, because all the purebloods try to marry each other, but she made it sound like they don’t count as much since they don’t share the same name.

Or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t like her mum’s family, because she doesn’t like her mum. I didn’t even know that she was still alive. Mum always talks about her like she died a long time ago. I don’t think I want to meet her. She’s scary, in the stories. Like an evil witch in a muggle fairy tale, sitting in front of her mirror all day and saying horrible things to her daughters.

If mum’s life were a fairy tale, it would be a sad one. The story goes like this:

Once upon a time, there were three little girls. The oldest was fierce and bold, the middle was sneaky, but kind, and the youngest was pretty and proud, and the littlest by far. They lived in a big, lonely house that they couldn’t leave, with an evil witch and a monster.

The oldest girl tried to protect her sisters, hide them away from the witch and the monster. The witch didn’t care – out of sight, out of mind – but the monster hunted them. She paid the monster’s price when he caught them, fighting him even though she lost every time, sacrificing herself to save them, and they ran, but the monster always found them again.

The middle sister was not a fighter. She thought herself clever as well as sneaky, so she went to the witch and begged her to teach her how to make the monster happy – how to stop him from hurting the girls. The witch promised the secret she wanted to know, but she lied, and day after day, the witch only ever whispered poisoned words in the middle sister’s ear, making her think like the evil witch thought.

The oldest girl sold her soul to the devil for black magic to slay the monster, becoming one herself. She broke out of the house, and her sisters followed, but the youngest one, littler and slower, was trapped by the monster’s brother, as the older girls ran for their lives.

The oldest sister was called to the devil, for she had sold him her soul. But the middle sister knew that the eldest had already done her part: it was her job, now, to save the youngest.

She made her way out into the world, in search of someone who would help her, and found a grand castle in the mountains. The middle sister met a boy there, who was not afraid of her sister or the other monsters, who was willing to help, if he could.

At first the middle sister scorned the boy, thinking him stupid and useless to her. But the boy was not stupid, and he knew she was meant to be kind, not cruel, so he found the words to unlock the evil witch’s spell, and save her from her poisoned mind.

But the boy could not save the middle sister in time for the middle sister to save the youngest. The monster’s brother had two baby monsters of his own, and raised the captured girl with them. She grew up thinking herself a monster, too. He sent her out into the world, and she found the middle sister, not the other way around.

The middle sister begged the youngest to have mercy, and the youngest remembered her just enough to hesitate – long enough for the middle sister and her boy to run and hide, far away from the land of monsters.

Ten long years passed in exile, as the middle sister and the boy wandered foreign lands, helping people and growing strong, and waiting for a sign to return.

At the end of that ten years, a new power was born in the land of monsters, a child of light, burning away the darkness. The devil tried to snuff out the child, but the child’s light would not go out, and the devil faded away before it. With the devil gone, the people of the land of monsters rose up against them, capturing them and taking them to jail.

The oldest sister had been a monster too long to save, and went to jail proud to have served her devil-master. The youngest remembered herself, and turned away from her monstrous ways, but she would be forever tainted by the darkness. And the middle sister waited, far from home.

At long last the message came: the monsters are gone, it is safe to return.

The middle sister and her boy rejoiced, because their exile was over at long last, but she cried when they finally returned to the shores of the land once given over to monsters, because the monsters had taken her family, and she hadn’t been able to save them…

I’ll let you know when I figure out what happens next.

Until then, Teddi out!