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Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

I

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The Black family’s drawing room was a place of shadow and grandeur. Heavy drapes shrouded the windows, and the flickering light of the fireplace cast long, twisting shapes on the dark wood panelling. Arcturus Black, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, sat in his high-backed chair, an imposing figure even in his old age. His sharp features and piercing grey eyes carried the weight of decades of secrets, alliances, and betrayals. He swirled a glass of firewhisky in his hand, his expression unreadable as he stared into the flames.

The creak of the door drew his attention. Cassiopeia Black entered with the silent grace of a predator, her dark robes sweeping the floor. Her face was pale, her usual composed demeanour strained, betraying the weight of the news she carried. Cassiopeia, once Grindelwald's left hand during his war, was known as both his spymaster and enforcer. Before the war, she had been a world-renowned duelist, her name whispered with both fear and admiration. Most believed her dead after she evaded capture following Grindelwald's defeat, protected by the power and influence of House Black in its heyday.

“Cassiopeia,” Arcturus greeted, his tone calm but curious. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. What is it?”

Cassiopeia hesitated for a moment, closing the door behind her. She approached her brother slowly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.

“Arcturus,” she began, her voice low but steady. “There is something you must know. It concerns the… recent events surrounding Voldemort.”

Arcturus raised a brow, his interest piqued. “His defeat at the hands of the Potter boy? A curious turn of events, but hardly surprising given his hubris. What more is there to say?”

Cassiopeia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “More than you realise. This concerns our family.”

That caught his attention. He set the glass down on the table beside him, his gaze sharpening. “Our family? Be clear, Cassiopeia. I have little patience for riddles.”

She took a deep breath, her composure faltering slightly. “Voldemort… Tom Riddle… had a daughter. A child he fathered with Bellatrix.”

The room seemed to grow colder. Arcturus’s expression froze, his eyes narrowing as he processed her words. “A daughter,” he repeated slowly. “And you bring this to me now? How long have you known?”

“I learned of her existence only recently,” Cassiopeia admitted. “She was hidden away, even from us. But with Voldemort’s defeat, the protections around her have weakened. I confirmed her identity myself.”

Arcturus leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. “And where is this child now?”

“She is safe,” Cassiopeia assured him. “I have taken her in, under my protection. Her name is Phoebe. She is… exceptional, Arcturus. A Metamorphmagus, like me, and with potential that remains to be fully understood.”

Arcturus’s jaw tightened. “Exceptional, perhaps. But she is also the child of a madman and a traitor. Do you understand the implications of this, Cassiopeia? The risk to our house?”

Cassiopeia’s dark eyes gleamed, her voice firm. “I do. But I also understand the opportunity. She is a Black by blood, and more than that, she is a child in need of guidance. If we do not take her in, others will—and they may not have her best interests, or ours, at heart.”

Arcturus turned to the fire, the flames reflecting in his calculating gaze. He knew Cassiopeia’s past—her ruthless efficiency as Grindelwald’s spymaster, her unparalleled skill as a duelist, and her ability to survive where others would have perished. If she believed this child could be moulded, then perhaps there was potential yet untapped.

“You’ve always had a soft spot for lost causes, Cassiopeia,” he said finally. “But this is no ordinary stray you’ve brought home. This is a child with the potential to reshape the legacy of our family—for better or for worse.”

Cassiopeia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then we must ensure it is for the better. With the right upbringing, the right teachings, she can be an asset to the house. You know as well as I do that our family has fallen from its former glory. Phoebe could be the key to restoring it.”

Arcturus’s gaze remained fixed on the fire. “And if she’s not? If she succumbs to the madness her parents carried? What then?”

“Then she will have us,” Cassiopeia said, her tone unyielding. “I have lived in the shadows of war and seen what becomes of those left unguided. I won’t let her fall, Arcturus. Not while I draw breath.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with conviction. For a long moment, Arcturus remained silent, his thoughts an enigma. Finally, he turned to face her, his expression unreadable but resolute.

“Very well,” he said. “Bring her to me. If she is to be a part of this family, then I will judge her potential for myself. But understand this, Cassiopeia: if she becomes a threat to us, I will not hesitate to act.”

Cassiopeia inclined her head, relief flickering across her face. “You won’t regret this, Arcturus. She is worth the effort.”

“We shall see,” he murmured, turning back to the fire. “For her sake, and ours, I hope you’re right.”

Cassiopeia lingered for a moment longer, watching her brother, before she turned and left the room. The door closed softly behind her, leaving Arcturus alone with his thoughts. The crackling fire was the only sound, but its warmth felt distant, unable to chase away the chill of what had just been revealed.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had taken on a new ward, and with her came both the promise of redemption and the shadow of their darkest legacies. Arcturus knew that the days ahead would test not only Phoebe but also the strength and resilience of their fractured house.

The grand hall of Castle Black was as imposing as its reputation—an edifice of cold stone and ancient magic. Torches flickered along the walls, their flames casting restless shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The banners of the House of Black hung high, their silver embroidery shimmering in the dim light. At the far end of the hall, seated on a dais before a roaring hearth, was Arcturus Black. The Lord of House Black exuded an air of command, his sharp grey eyes fixed on the heavy wooden doors at the opposite end of the room.

The doors creaked open, and Cassiopeia Black entered, her robes flowing behind her like liquid midnight. She held herself with the poise of a duelist, her movements precise and deliberate. Behind her, a girl no older than two followed hesitantly, her tiny frame dwarfed by the vastness of the hall. She clung to the edge of Cassiopeia's robes with one small hand, her other hand gripping a stuffed toy. Her raven-black hair framed a pale face that seemed almost luminescent in the torchlight, and her dark grey eyes darted around the room, wide with both wonder and trepidation.

Arcturus’s gaze shifted to the girl, his expression unreadable. Cassiopeia stopped a few paces before the dais and inclined her head in a show of respect.

“Arcturus,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with something akin to determination. “I bring before you Phoebe Black. She is Bellatrix’s daughter, and by blood, a member of this house.”

Arcturus’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the child. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

“Come closer,” he said, his voice a low command.

Cassiopeia knelt beside Phoebe, murmuring softly, “It’s alright. Go ahead.” With a slight nudge, she guided the toddler forward. Phoebe took tentative steps, her stuffed toy clutched tightly to her chest. She stopped at the base of the dais, tilting her head up to look at Arcturus, her expression a mix of nervousness and awe.

Arcturus leaned forward slightly, his sharp features illuminated by the firelight. “You look like her,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Bellatrix—when she was young. But there is something in your eyes that is… different.” He paused, his gaze softening briefly as he noted the child’s grip on the stuffed toy. “Tell me, child, do you know who I am?”

Phoebe hesitated, glancing briefly at Cassiopeia before returning her gaze to Arcturus. Phoebe hesitated, her small fingers tightening on her toy. “You’re… the head of the family,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.”

Arcturus inclined his head slightly. “Accurate enough. But being a Black is more than blood. It is duty, strength, and cunning. Tell me, what do you know of our family?”

Phoebe blinked, her expression thoughtful. “That we are powerful,” she said after a moment. “And that we protect what is ours.”

A faint smile ghosted across Arcturus’s lips. “Good. You’ve been taught well.” He glanced at Cassiopeia. “And what of her talents? Has she shown promise?”

Cassiopeia stepped forward. “She is a Metamorphmagus, like me. Already capable of minor transformations without formal instruction. Her magical core is strong, though untrained. She learns quickly and observes everything.”

Arcturus’s gaze returned to Phoebe, his expression calculating. “A Metamorphmagus,” he mused. “Useful, though not without risk. And what of her temperament?”

“She is steady,” Cassiopeia said firmly. “More so than Bellatrix ever was at her age. She listens and thinks before she acts. But she will need guidance to understand what it means to carry the Black name.”

Arcturus nodded slowly. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Phoebe. “Guidance she will have. But she will earn her place, as all who bear this name must. There will be no indulgence, no allowances for her parentage. She is a Black, and she will be held to the highest standard.”

Phoebe straightened slightly, her chin lifting. “I understand,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute.

Arcturus regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “Good. Then your first lesson begins when you are ready,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “You will learn our history, our alliances, and what it means to be a Black. Cassiopeia will ensure you are prepared to carry this name. But for now, we will allow you to grow… and to learn.”

Phoebe looked up at him, her small hands gripping her stuffed toy even tighter. "Yes," she murmured, her voice timid but sincere, the word carrying the weight of a child’s earnestness.

Cassiopeia placed a hand on her shoulder again, a subtle gesture of support. “She will not disappoint you, Arcturus. She has the potential to be one of the greatest our house has ever produced.”

“We shall see,” Arcturus said, his tone measured. He rose from his chair, his presence towering over the child before him. “For now, welcome to the House of Black, Phoebe. You have much to prove, but also much to gain. Do not squander this chance.”

Phoebe met his gaze, her expression unflinching. “I won’t.”

Arcturus’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, but not quite. “Good. Then let us begin.”

~~

The study at Castle Black was a bastion of quiet reflection, its walls lined with ancient tomes chronicling centuries of wizarding history. The soft glow of a green-shaded lamp illuminated Arcturus Black as he sat at his desk, a collection of parchments and letters spread before him. The faint crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room until the rustle of paper caught his ear.

It had been several months since Phoebe had come to live at Castle Black. In that time, the child had adapted remarkably well to her new surroundings. Under Cassiopeia’s careful guidance, she had begun demonstrating intelligence far beyond her years and an occasional flicker of Metamorphic ability. While the little girl was often seen clutching her stuffed toy or toddling through the halls, she was also beginning to absorb the values and expectations of the Black family. Yet, despite Phoebe’s progress, Arcturus’s mind was never far from the broader concerns of his family’s legacy—a legacy that felt perilously close to extinction.

Tonight, as he sifted through a stack of letters retrieved from Sirius’s belongings, a particular parchment caught his attention. It was worn, the ink slightly smudged as though the writer had been in a hurry. Something about it demanded his focus. He unfolded it carefully and began to read.

*To whom it may concern, though I suppose this will never be read,*

*I’ve done it. I’ve completed the Godfather ritual to protect Harry. He’s just a baby now, but he’s James’s boy—and Lily’s. I’ll make sure he’s looked after, no matter what it takes. He deserves to grow up safe, happy, and loved, even if I’m not around to do it myself.*

*If this letter finds its way to any Black who still cares about the family, then know this: Harry is not only a Potter. He’s also Dorea’s grandson. He carries our blood, our legacy, and our name. I may have failed our house in many ways, but I won’t fail him. He is my godson, and I will protect him to the last.*

*Sirius Black.*

The words burned in Arcturus’s mind as he reread the letter, each sentence weaving a clearer picture. Dorea’s grandchild. The boy’s lineage was undeniable—a link to the Potter line, yes, but also to the Blacks. Arcturus had long assumed Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was being sheltered by James Potter’s allies, perhaps under Fidelius or other protective wards. Yet here was proof—not only of his connection to the Blacks but also of Sirius’s efforts to safeguard him.

Arcturus had never fully believed Sirius capable of betraying the Potters. Brash and impulsive though Sirius was, there was a steadfast loyalty in him that even the Black Madness seemed unable to erode. And yet, the possibility had lingered in Arcturus’s thoughts, haunting him during sleepless nights. The Madness ran deep in their bloodline, twisting even the strongest minds until they shattered. Was Sirius’s imprisonment proof of betrayal or of desperation? This letter offered clarity. It was vindication—and more importantly, it was an opportunity.

Setting the letter down, Arcturus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. His mind raced with possibilities. Harry Potter was more than a symbol in the wizarding world; he was a link to the future of the Black family. A child of two powerful bloodlines, carrying both the strength of House Potter and the legacy of House Black. And with Sirius imprisoned, the boy was vulnerable.

“Cassiopeia,” he called sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Moments later, Cassiopeia entered, her robes trailing like shadows behind her. Her keen eyes flicked to the desk, noting the letter in Arcturus’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

Arcturus handed her the letter without a word. She read it in silence, her expression shifting from intrigue to understanding and finally to a quiet determination.

“Harry Potter,” she murmured, looking up. “Dorea’s blood. You’ve been searching for him.”

“I assumed he was hidden by Potter’s allies,” Arcturus replied, his tone measured. “But this… this changes everything. The boy is our blood, and with Sirius having invoked the Godfather ritual, his connection to the House of Black is not merely symbolic. It is binding.”

Cassiopeia nodded slowly, her mind working through the implications. “If we bring him into the fold, he becomes more than just a ward. He could be the key to restoring the house’s prominence. With Phoebe and Harry under your guidance, the Black name could rise again—stronger, united.”

“Indeed,” Arcturus said, his voice tinged with rare approval. “The boy represents a convergence of bloodlines that cannot be ignored. If raised properly, he could secure alliances, wield influence, and carry forward the values of this family. But first, we must find him.”

“And when we do?” Cassiopeia asked, her tone cautious. “How do we ensure his loyalty? He’s likely grown up in a world shaped by Dumbledore’s ideals. His perception of our family may be… less than favourable.”

Arcturus’s lips thinned into a grim line. “We will show him the truth. Not all who bear the Black name have faltered. He will see the strength and honour that remains. And he will understand that his future lies with us, not with the chaos that has plagued this world.”

Cassiopeia inclined her head. “Then we must act swiftly. Every day that passes leaves him more entrenched in the world’s narrative. If we are to bring him here, it must be soon.”

“Agreed,” Arcturus said. He stood, his presence as commanding as ever. “Send word to our contacts. I want every resource we have focused on locating the boy. Once we find him, we will bring him home.”

“And what of Phoebe?” Cassiopeia asked.

Arcturus’s gaze softened briefly. “She is the beginning of our resurgence. Harry will be the cornerstone. Together, they will ensure the future of this house.”

Cassiopeia smiled faintly, her expression one of quiet satisfaction. “It seems, brother, that the House of Black may yet rise from the ashes.”

“It will,” Arcturus said with certainty, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the window. “And the world will remember our name.”

The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows that danced across the walls as the Black siblings exchanged a rare moment of shared purpose. The resurgence of their family was no longer just a dream—it was a mission, and it had already begun.

The study at Castle Black was alive with a quiet intensity. The once sombre room had become the nerve centre of Arcturus Black’s efforts to restore the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Over the past year, the lord of the house had been meticulously rebuilding alliances, beginning with the Neutral faction in the Wizengamot. House Greengrass, with its measured stance and strong influence, had become a cornerstone of his strategy. Arcturus’s ability to manoeuvre through decades of political entanglements was sharper than ever, and he knew that to secure the house’s future, he needed more than alliances—he needed heirs who embodied the strength and legacy of their bloodline.

Cassiopeia Black entered the study, her steps quick but precise. The subtle gleam in her dark eyes told Arcturus everything he needed to know before she even spoke. She carried a sealed envelope, its edges slightly crumpled from the long journey it had taken to reach Castle Black.

“You have news,” Arcturus said, his voice calm but expectant. He placed a quill down and folded his hands before him, his grey eyes fixed on his sister.

“We’ve found him,” Cassiopeia replied, her tone steady despite the gravity of her words. She handed him the envelope. “Harry Potter. He’s been living with muggles, as you suspected. My agents tracked him to a place called Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Arcturus’s expression darkened as he broke the seal and unfolded the enclosed report. The thought of Dorea’s grandson being raised by muggles—ignorant of his heritage and the power within his blood—was almost unbearable. He read in silence, his sharp eyes scanning the precise handwriting that detailed the boy’s circumstances.

“A cupboard,” he muttered, his voice low and incredulous. “They made the boy sleep in a cupboard under the stairs.” His voice grew harsher, almost trembling with fury. “They dared…” He slammed the parchment onto the desk, his usually calm demeanour unravelling. “A grandson of the Black family treated worse than vermin! They’ve stolen his dignity, his childhood—”

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her own jaw tight with suppressed rage. She had read the same report days earlier, her agents’ words like acid on her heart. “They’ve made him into a servant in all but name, Arcturus. The cupboard, the isolation, the starvation… It’s cruelty masked as negligence.”

“Cruelty indeed,” Arcturus growled, his fists clenched at his sides. “And Dumbledore placed him there. This was no accident of fate. He chose those muggles, believing their ignorance would shape the boy into some meek, humble pawn for his plans.” He turned sharply, his piercing gaze meeting Cassiopeia’s. “Did he think we would not discover this? That we would let our blood be ground into the dirt?”

Cassiopeia’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt he cares what we think. In Dumbledore’s mind, his intentions are justification enough. But Harry is no ordinary child, and he’s certainly no pawn. He deserves better.”

“Better?” Arcturus’s voice rose. “He deserves vengeance for this betrayal. Those muggles will…” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, forcing his rage under control. “No, vengeance can wait. The boy must come here first. He must heal. Then we will see justice done.”

“I’ve already made arrangements for his extraction,” Cassiopeia said, her voice cool but laced with the same fury simmering in her brother. “My agents can retrieve him within the week.”

Arcturus turned to her, his gaze sharp and commanding. “Ensure it is done discreetly. The last thing we need is Dumbledore meddling before we’ve secured the boy. Harry must come here, where he will be safe and where he can learn what it means to be a Black.”

“And the political landscape?” Cassiopeia asked. “The Greengrass's have been cooperative, but some of the Neutralists are wary of your intentions. Bringing Harry here could change their perceptions—for better or worse.”

“Let them wonder,” Arcturus said, his tone firm. “The Greengrasses understand the value of alliances built on strength and legacy. The others will follow once they see the boy’s potential. Harry represents not just the future of this house but a unifying force that bridges the gaps between the old and the new.”

Cassiopeia tilted her head, a glint of approval in her eyes. “And Phoebe?” she asked. 

Arcturus’s gaze softened briefly at the mention of the girl. “She’s grown stronger in the year she’s been here. Her Metamorphmagus abilities are developing well under your care, and her grasp of our traditions is remarkable for her age. When Harry arrives, she will be his closest ally. Together, they will embody the legacy of the House of Black.”

He turned back to the window, his voice lowering. “The boy will need time to heal from what those muggles have done to him. But once he’s ready, we will begin. He will learn our history, our traditions, and his place in the wizarding world. With Phoebe by his side, they will ensure the survival and resurgence of our house.”

Cassiopeia’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Then I will see to it that everything is prepared for his arrival. Shall we inform the Greengrasses of this development?”

“Not yet,” Arcturus said, turning back to her. “We’ll present Harry to them when the time is right—not as a boy recovering from neglect but as a scion of two powerful bloodlines. Let the world see him as he truly is: a Potter and a Black.”

Cassiopeia inclined her head. “It will be done.”

As she left the room, Arcturus returned to his desk. He picked up Sirius’s letter once more, reading the lines that had ignited this chain of events. He thought of Dorea, his beloved sister, and the legacy she had left behind. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose—a certainty that the House of Black could rise from the ashes of its fractured legacy. With Harry and Phoebe, the future was within reach, and the world would remember their name.

The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The study at Castle Black had become more than a place of reflection; it was now the heart of a new beginning for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. And as the flames flickered, Arcturus allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The resurgence of his house was no longer a distant hope but an inevitability.

~~

The night was silent, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawns of Privet Drive. Cassiopeia Black stood at the edge of the Dursley property, her dark robes blending seamlessly into the night. Her expression was one of cold determination, her wand gripped tightly in her hand. She had debated sending one of her agents to retrieve the boy, but after reading the detailed reports of his treatment, she had decided there was no substitute for her own presence.

Her sharp eyes scanned the house. The curtains were drawn, and the windows darkened. Cassiopeia’s lip curled as she thought of the cupboard under the stairs—a place where no child, let alone one of her bloodline, should ever have been forced to live. The thought of a boy—her family—confined to such conditions made her grip her wand tighter. Forcing herself to take a steadying breath, she approached the door.

With a flick of her wand, the lock clicked open silently. The wards Dumbledore had placed around the house would not alert anyone to her presence; she had ensured that weeks ago. Slipping inside, she moved with the grace of a predator, her movements soundless on the wooden floorboards. She paused in the hallway, her gaze fixing on the cupboard beneath the stairs. The sight of the small door, padlocked and worn, sent a fresh wave of fury through her. Steeling herself, she waved her wand, the lock snapping open with a faint click.

The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a small figure curled on a thin, filthy mattress. The boy’s knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His black hair stuck up in all directions, and his thin frame looked almost swallowed by the oversized shirt he wore. Cassiopeia knelt, her stern expression softening slightly as she reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Harry,” she said softly, testing the name she knew he should have.

The child stirred, his green eyes blinking open. They were wide and full of confusion, darting around the cupboard before landing on her. Fear flickered across his face, and he pressed himself against the wall, his small hands trembling.

“Shh,” Cassiopeia murmured, her tone soothing but firm. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Cassiopeia Black. I’m here to take you somewhere safe.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Safe?” he echoed, his voice barely audible, hoarse from lack of use.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Away from here. Away from them.”

At the mention of “them,” Harry’s gaze flickered toward the door, and his body tensed further. Cassiopeia’s jaw tightened. She could feel her fury rising again, but she forced it down, keeping her focus on the child before her.

“They’re not going to stop me,” she said firmly. “No one is. You’re coming with me tonight.”

He hesitated, his small frame trembling. “But… they call me freak,” he whispered. “Said no one would want me.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes softened, though her fury burned hotter beneath the surface. “That is a lie,” she said, her voice steady but full of anger at the people who had told him such things. “You are Harry James Potter, and you are wanted. You are family, and you are not a freak. You’re a wizard.”

The boy blinked at her, the name foreign and strange on his tongue. “A wizard? Harry?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said, offering him her hand. “Come with me, Harry, and I’ll tell you everything.”

He hesitated again but eventually reached for her hand, his small fingers trembling as they wrapped around hers. Cassiopeia gave him a reassuring nod and gently guided him out of the cupboard. She conjured a satchel with a flick of her wand and looked around, gathering what little he had. There was nothing but a threadbare blanket and a single broken toy, which she tucked into the bag with careful precision.

As they moved toward the door, the sound of heavy footsteps made her freeze. She turned to see Vernon Dursley lumbering down the staircase, his face red with anger and his beady eyes narrowing as they landed on her.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” he bellowed. “Who are you, and what do you think you’re doing with *that boy*?”

Cassiopeia straightened, her wand slipping into her hand as her expression turned icy. “I am taking him away from this prison you call a home,” she said coldly. “You have abused and neglected him for long enough.”

Vernon’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. “Abuse? Neglect? That boy is nothing but a burden! A freak, just like his parents!”

Petunia appeared at the top of the stairs, her thin, horse-like face twisted with anger. “What’s going on here? Vernon, what’s all this noise?” Her eyes landed on Cassiopeia and then on Harry. “Oh, so someone’s finally come to take the freak away, have they?”

Harry flinched at the words, but Cassiopeia’s grip on his hand tightened protectively. “Say another word,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “and I will make you regret it.”

Vernon sputtered, his bravado faltering under the weight of her glare. “You… you can’t just take him! He’s ours! You have no right—”

“Good riddance,” Petunia interrupted, descending the stairs in a flurry. “He’s been nothing but trouble since he was left on our doorstep. Let him go! Let someone else deal with his freakishness!”

Cassiopeia’s eyes burned with barely suppressed rage. “You should be grateful I am leaving this house intact,” she said, her wand now pointed directly at Vernon. “But mark my words, if I ever hear that you’ve treated another child like this, there will be consequences.”

Petunia shrieked. “Vernon, do something!”

But Vernon, despite his bluster, seemed rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Cassiopeia held his gaze for a moment longer before turning away, guiding Harry toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said softly to the boy, who clung to her hand as though it were a lifeline.

Once outside, she knelt before him, her wand at the ready. “I’m going to use magic to take us somewhere far away,” she explained. “It will feel strange for a moment, but I’ll be with you the whole time. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, his wide eyes filled with cautious trust. Cassiopeia stood, wrapping an arm protectively around him before she whispered the incantation. The two of them disappeared into the night, leaving Privet Drive silent and still once more.

As they reappeared on the grounds of Castle Black, Cassiopeia looked down at the boy beside her. He was pale, his breath coming in quick bursts, but he stayed on his feet. She gave him an approving nod.

“Welcome home,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “We’ll take care of you now.”

Harry stared at the looming castle, his small face a mixture of awe and apprehension. For the first time in as long as he could remember, a spark of hope flickered in his eyes. And Cassiopeia knew—no matter what challenges lay ahead—that she had done the right thing.

The grounds of Castle Black stretched wide before Harry’s eyes, the towering structure of the castle looming against the starlit sky. Cassiopeia kept a protective hand on his shoulder as they walked up the stone pathway toward the grand entrance. Harry’s small hand clutched tightly at her robes, his green eyes darting around, overwhelmed by the sheer size of everything. The cool night air carried the faint scent of pine and stone, grounding him as he tried to process the overwhelming change in his surroundings.

“This is your home now,” Cassiopeia said gently, glancing down at him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here.”

Harry nodded mutely, though his grip on her robes didn’t loosen. The large double doors creaked open as they approached, revealing a house-elf dressed in a perfectly tailored uniform. The elf bowed low, its large ears twitching slightly as it spoke, its voice calm and reverent.

“Welcome back, Mistress Black. Master Arcturus is waiting in the study.”

Cassiopeia inclined her head. “Thank you, Tindle. Prepare the boy’s room and ensure he has everything he might need.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the elf said, before vanishing with a quiet pop.

Cassiopeia guided Harry through the cavernous entrance hall, its walls adorned with portraits of stern-looking witches and wizards. The eyes of the painted figures followed them as they passed, their expressions shifting between curiosity and approval. Harry stayed close to her side, his small legs hurrying to keep up with her measured pace. The soft click of their footsteps echoed, adding to the sense of enormity that the castle exuded. Harry felt as though the weight of centuries pressed gently on him, not oppressively, but like a reminder of something greater than himself.

They stopped before a set of heavy oak doors. Cassiopeia knocked once before pushing them open, revealing a study filled with the glow of a roaring fire and the scent of old parchment. At the far end of the room, seated behind an ornate desk, was Arcturus Black.

The patriarch of the Black family was an imposing figure, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering firelight. There was an air of quiet intensity about him, a presence that seemed to resonate with the ancient and powerful magic tied to the Black lineage. His piercing grey eyes carried the weight of deep love and fierce protectiveness, tempered by the possessive nature for which the family was known. Like the stars they were named after, Arcturus burned brightly—distant yet commanding, with a gravity that pulled everything around him into his orbit. Rising slowly, he stepped around the desk, his long black robes sweeping the floor. In one hand, he gripped a black cane tipped with a silver base, the handle intricately carved into the shape of a serpent’s head, the light glinting off its polished surface.

“So,” Arcturus began, his voice deep and measured. “This is him. Harry James Potter.”

Harry’s eyes widened as the man approached, his gaze flickering to Cassiopeia for reassurance. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, steadying him.

“Yes,” she replied. “Dorea’s grandson. And Sirius’s godson. He’s… had a difficult start, but he’s here now.”

Arcturus knelt, lowering himself to Harry’s level, his cane resting lightly against the floor. His expression, though stern, softened slightly as he studied the boy. “You’ve been through much for one so young,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet strength. “But that is behind you now. You are home, Harry. You are family.”

Harry stared at him, unsure of how to respond. The warmth in Arcturus’s words conflicted with his intimidating presence, leaving the boy hesitant but curious. Finally, Harry nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Arcturus gave a small nod of approval before rising to his full height, leaning slightly on the cane as he did so. “Cassiopeia, have Tindle ensure he’s comfortable. And see that Phoebe is ready to meet him. She’s been… quite eager.”

Cassiopeia’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Of course.” She looked down at Harry. “Come along. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

They left the study, Harry still clutching her robes as they walked through the hallways of the castle. The corridors twisted and turned, filled with the faint hum of magic embedded into the very walls. Cassiopeia led him to a smaller, cosier room lit by warm lanterns. Inside, a girl about his age was perched on the edge of a cushioned chair, her dark hair framing a face full of nervous energy. She looked up as they entered, her grey eyes widening.

“Phoebe,” Cassiopeia said, her tone warm. “This is Harry. Harry, this is Phoebe Black.”

Phoebe slid off the chair, her bare feet making soft taps on the floor as she approached. Her nervous energy seemed to crackle around her. The excitement of meeting someone new—someone who might finally understand her—mingled with an almost overwhelming need to make a good impression, making her movements quick and hesitant, as though she couldn’t decide whether to rush forward or hold back. She stopped a few steps away, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. “Hi,” she said, her voice small but filled with excitement.

Harry blinked at her, unsure what to say. He glanced at Cassiopeia, who gave him an encouraging nod.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

Phoebe’s lips curved into a shy smile. “Do you like stories?” she asked, her nervousness giving way to eagerness. “I have lots of books. We could read them together. If you want.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said.

Phoebe’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together. “I’ll show you my favourite one! It’s about a wizard who turns into a dragon.”

Cassiopeia watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction, her heart swelling with a fierce protectiveness that came so naturally to the Black family. Their love was not quiet or distant; it was consuming, passionate, and deeply possessive. She already felt this boy was hers to shield and nurture, a part of the family constellation she would defend at any cost. Seeing Harry’s shoulders relax, even slightly, affirmed her resolve to ensure he never felt unwanted or unloved again. The warmth of the moment seemed to settle into the room, and for the first time, Harry appeared to believe that he truly belonged.

The fire in Arcturus Black’s study crackled softly, casting long shadows across the richly adorned walls. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, muffling the sounds of the night outside, creating a sense of isolation that mirrored the weight of their conversation. Cassiopeia sat in a high-backed chair opposite Arcturus, her posture composed but her expression tense. The events of the evening weighed heavily on her, and the boy’s frailty had left an ache in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. Arcturus, seated behind his desk, rested his hands on the silver-tipped cane that leaned against the polished wood. The intricate serpent carved into its handle gleamed faintly in the firelight. His sharp grey eyes met hers, and though his face remained impassive, she could sense the storm of thoughts turning in his mind.

“He needs a healer,” Cassiopeia said, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm but firm. “Whatever neglect he’s suffered, we need to know the extent of it. And it’s not just physical. The boy has been through more than any child should endure.”

Arcturus nodded slowly, his fingers tightening slightly on the serpent handle of his cane. “You’re right. We need someone skilled—someone we can trust. This isn’t a matter for just anyone. It requires discretion.”

Cassiopeia hesitated, her fingers tracing the armrest of her chair. “Andromeda,” she said softly, watching his reaction carefully. “She’s the best choice. Her skills as a healer are unmatched, and despite what… others might say, she’s still family.”

Arcturus’s expression didn’t shift, but he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering. “Andromeda,” he repeated, as though weighing the name in his mind. “I never agreed with her mother’s decision to disown her. As much as I value the traditions of our house, there is a difference between those who respect our ways and those who seek to erase them.”

Cassiopeia’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “I thought you might see it that way. Andromeda’s marriage to a muggle-born caused a stir, but Ted Tonks has never been one to disrespect our traditions. He’s raising their daughter, Nymphadora, to honour both worlds. Andromeda herself has never turned her back on who she is.”

Arcturus tapped his cane lightly against the floor, the rhythmic sound filling the room. “I’ve always believed that muggle-borns who enter our world have a duty to assimilate, to learn and respect the ways that have sustained us for centuries. Ted Tonks… is a rare example of that. He didn’t try to change us, and he didn’t expect Andromeda to abandon her heritage.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to the fire. The flames danced in his eyes, reflecting the intensity of his thoughts. “You’re right. She’s the best choice. Andromeda’s skills and her loyalty to the Black name—however strained it might be—make her invaluable. She’ll understand what’s at stake.”

Cassiopeia nodded, relief flickering across her face. “I’ll send word to her immediately. She’ll come. I… I believe she’s missed having a connection to the family, even after everything. Family ties are never completely severed, not for someone like her.”

Arcturus’s expression softened, though his voice remained steady. “Make it clear to her that this is not just about Harry’s health. It’s about setting the foundation for his place in this family. He needs to know he is valued, that he belongs here. If Andromeda can help us achieve that, I will welcome her back—as family.”

Cassiopeia rose from her chair, her resolve firm. “I’ll write to her tonight. Harry’s recovery begins now, and with Andromeda’s help, we’ll ensure he has the strength to claim his rightful place.”

Arcturus gave a single nod, watching as she turned to leave. As the door closed behind her, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. The Black family had endured centuries of trials, and now, with Harry and Phoebe, they had a chance to rebuild. But it would take more than tradition to secure their future. It would take understanding, strength, and above all, unity. And for that, Arcturus was willing to put old grudges to rest.

Cassiopeia walked briskly to her own chambers, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone floors. The corridors of Castle Black were quiet at this late hour, the air thick with the kind of magic that had seeped into the very stones over generations. She entered her room and immediately sat at her desk, pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward her. Her quill hovered over the page for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

“Andromeda,” she began, her strokes deliberate. “It has been too long since we last spoke, and I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you not as a distant relation but as your aunt, with a matter of great importance to our family. We require your expertise.”

Her quill paused as she considered her words. She needed to strike the right balance, appealing to Andromeda’s sense of family without dredging up old wounds. "We have taken in a child. His circumstances before coming to us were dire, and I fear the neglect he suffered has left lasting scars, both physical and emotional. Your expertise as a healer is unmatched, and I can think of no one better suited to care for him." Cassiopeia was careful to avoid naming the boy directly. The risk of interception was too great, and the fewer details written down, the safer they all would be.

Cassiopeia’s expression softened as she continued. “Despite the years and the distance, you are still a Black. This is about more than one child; it is about healing old wounds and building a future. I hope you will come. You are needed.”

Satisfied, she folded the parchment neatly and sealed it with the Black family crest. She summoned a family owl, a sleek and intelligent creature that perched silently on her windowsill. “Take this to Andromeda Tonks,” she instructed, tying the letter securely to its leg. The owl hooted softly and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

II

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The grand gates of Castle Black loomed before Andromeda Tonks, their dark iron intricacies as intimidating as she remembered. It had been years since she had last walked through these gates—years since she had turned her back on the life expected of her and followed her heart. Clutching her healer’s bag tightly in one hand, she took a deep breath, steeling herself. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of pine and ancient stone, grounding her as she stepped forward, though each step felt heavier with the memories she had long buried.

The gate creaked open slowly, the magic embedded within it recognising her blood. A house-elf dressed in crisp black livery awaited her on the other side, bowing low. The sight of the elf, so familiar yet distant, sent a jolt of nostalgia through her.

“Mistress Andromeda,” the elf said, its voice polite but reserved. “Master Arcturus and Mistress Cassiopeia await you in the study. Please follow Tindle.”

Andromeda inclined her head, her expression calm and composed, though her heart raced beneath her ribcage. She could feel the weight of the castle’s magic pressing down on her, a reminder of the history and expectations she had left behind. Years of training as a daughter of the House of Black served her well; no one would see her nerves. Her steps were measured and deliberate as she followed the elf through the winding corridors, each turn pulling her deeper into the past she had tried to forget. 

The familiar halls felt colder now, as though the castle itself remembered her departure. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted gazes following her. She kept her head high, ignoring the whispers that emanated faintly from the frames. It was as though even the portraits judged her return.

The study door loomed ahead, and Tindle pushed it open with a quiet gesture. Andromeda stepped inside, her gaze immediately drawn to the two figures waiting for her. Arcturus Black, ever the imposing patriarch, stood near the fireplace, his silver-tipped cane resting lightly against the floor. His sharp grey eyes fixed on her, assessing and unreadable. Cassiopeia, seated in a high-backed chair near the desk, gave her a faint nod of acknowledgement, her expression as carefully neutral as Andromeda’s own.

“Andromeda,” Arcturus said, his voice deep and steady. “It has been far too long.”

“Indeed it has,” Andromeda replied, her tone even. She set her bag down on the nearest table and clasped her hands in front of her. “I must admit, I was surprised to receive your letter.”

Cassiopeia rose gracefully from her chair, stepping forward with the poise of someone who commanded respect effortlessly. “We wouldn’t have written if it weren’t important,” she said. “This is a matter of family, Andromeda. A matter of blood.”

Andromeda’s carefully constructed mask faltered for just a moment. “You speak of family now, after everything?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. “I’m here because you said a child needed me. That is my priority.”

“He does,” Arcturus interjected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The boy has endured neglect and suffering far beyond what anyone should. You’re here because you are the best person to ensure he recovers. Whatever grievances remain between us can wait.”

Andromeda’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “Where is he?”

“He is resting,” Cassiopeia said, her voice softening slightly. “You will see him soon. But first, there is something else you should know.”

Andromeda’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across her face. “What is it?”

Cassiopeia and Arcturus exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, Cassiopeia spoke. “You are not just here for the boy. There is another child.”

Andromeda’s breath hitched, but she didn’t allow the surprise to show on her face. “Another child?” she repeated, her voice carefully controlled.

Cassiopeia stepped closer, her tone measured. “She is the daughter of your sister, Bellatrix.”

Andromeda’s mask cracked completely this time, her eyes widening as she took a half-step back. Memories of Bellatrix before the madness overtook her rushed forward unbidden. “Bellatrix has a daughter?” she whispered, her voice laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” Arcturus confirmed, his tone grave. “And she has been under our care for some time. You will meet her soon as well. But understand this, Andromeda: both children are now part of this family, and they are both under our protection.”

Andromeda’s thoughts swirled. Memories of how sweet Bella used to be, the exuberance of life in her, but also the struggles. The way Bella could forget to eat, the way she struggled to express herself in a way their mother considered normal. The weight of it threatened to crush her, but she straightened her spine, letting her training take over once more. 

“I’ll do whatever is necessary for both of them,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

Cassiopeia’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Good. Then let us begin.”

Arcturus gestured toward a decanter on the side table. “Perhaps a drink first. There is much to discuss, and you will need your strength.”

Andromeda nodded, taking a seat as the weight of her return to Castle Black settled fully upon her. The ties of blood, strained and tangled though they were, were pulling her back into the fold. And for the sake of the children, she would not turn away.

Her fingers brushed over the edge of the chair as she glanced between the two older Blacks. The flicker of the firelight seemed to reflect the complex emotions in the room—old grudges and tentative bridges being built again. For a moment, the silence stretched before Arcturus poured two glasses of brandy, setting one before her. 

“Andromeda,” he began, his tone softer now but no less authoritative, “I need you to understand… this is not just about healing their bodies. It is about anchoring them to this family, ensuring they know they belong. That they have a place here.”

She nodded, sipping the drink slowly as she processed his words. Cassiopeia, meanwhile, sat beside her, her eyes studying her cousin intently. “We’ve lost too many, Andromeda. But these children… they’re a chance to rebuild.”

Andromeda set the glass down, her resolve strengthening. “Then let’s ensure they never feel lost or alone again.”

The heavy oak door to the playroom creaked open, and the soft hum of quiet chatter spilled into the corridor. Cassiopeia, Arcturus, and Andromeda paused at the threshold. The room was warm and inviting, lit by soft, enchanted lamps that cast a golden glow over shelves of books and toys. A thick rug covered the stone floor, and in the centre of it, two small figures sat.

Phoebe’s dark hair shimmered faintly as she leaned over a book spread out between her and Harry. Her delicate hands gestured animatedly as she spoke, her voice carrying a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Harry, seated cross-legged beside her, was quieter, his green eyes fixed on her with a tentative curiosity. Though he didn’t speak often, he nodded occasionally, as though trying to absorb her words. His small frame was hunched slightly, a habit born from years of trying to make himself invisible, but there was a glimmer of something new—an opening, a fragile trust forming.

Andromeda’s breath hitched as her gaze fell on Phoebe. For a moment, it felt as though time had rewound. The girl’s striking resemblance to Bellatrix was uncanny. Her high cheekbones, the elegant curve of her jaw, and even the way her hair caught the light were all echoes of the sister Andromeda had grown up with. But it was Phoebe’s eyes that truly struck her—those wide, expressive eyes filled with youthful energy and nervous vulnerability. It reminded Andromeda of how Bellatrix had once looked before their mother had stamped out every flicker of softness in her. She remembered Bellatrix’s struggle with the magic that coursed through her veins, how it had overwhelmed her as a child, and how their parents had refused to let Cassiopeia continue her lessons with her. The thought of how different Bellatrix’s life might have been if their mother had been more understanding made Andromeda’s heartache. Now, seeing Phoebe, she couldn’t help but feel a fierce hope that this girl might find the acceptance Bellatrix never did.

Then her gaze shifted to Harry, and the breath she had just regained caught again. His unruly black hair and sharp cheekbones were unmistakable—traits that spoke of the Black lineage as clearly as any blood test. For a fleeting moment, she could have been looking at Sirius as a child. The way Harry sat, cross-legged and focused beside Phoebe, mirrored memories of Sirius and Bellatrix when they were the same age. Andromeda could almost see them in her mind’s eye, sitting in this very castle between lessons, Sirius’s mischievous grin matched by Bella’s intense determination. But reality quickly reasserted itself. The darker tone of Harry’s skin, a clear gift from his Potter heritage, and those vivid green eyes, so strikingly Lily’s, shattered the illusion. He was Harry, undeniably his own person, yet the threads of his heritage wove through him in ways she couldn’t ignore. The past and present seemed to blur for a moment, leaving Andromeda caught between bittersweet memories and hope for the future.

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her movements fluid and deliberate, and both children’s heads turned toward her.

“Phoebe, Harry,” she said gently, her voice warm. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Phoebe’s grey eyes darted nervously to Andromeda, then back to Cassiopeia. She rose to her feet, brushing invisible dust from her skirt, and clasped her hands in front of her. The nervous energy that had been bubbling beneath the surface all day now seemed ready to spill over, but she kept her movements measured. Her training as Heiress Black kicked in, and she straightened her posture, dipping her head slightly in a polite nod. “Greetings,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly but carrying a practised elegance.

Andromeda knelt to meet the girl’s eye level, a gentle smile breaking through her composed exterior. “Hello, Phoebe,” she said, her voice warm. “You’re my niece, and it’s a joy to finally meet you.”

Phoebe’s cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head slightly, unsure how to respond. Her fingers fidgeted for a moment before clasping together again, as though recalling the lessons ingrained in her. Andromeda’s gaze lingered for a moment before shifting to Harry, who had stood slowly but remained rooted to his spot. His green eyes met hers with a guarded curiosity, a flicker of defiance in their depths.

“And you must be Harry,” Andromeda said, her voice softening further. She took in the way he held himself—the way his hands fidgeted slightly at his sides, as though unsure whether to defend himself or reach out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry nodded but didn’t speak. Phoebe, emboldened by Andromeda’s kindness, stepped back to his side, her fingers brushing against his arm in a subtle gesture of support. The touch seemed to ground him, and he relaxed minutely, though his eyes never left Andromeda’s.

“We looked at a book!” Phoebe said, her small voice filled with excitement. “I showed Harry the stars. Did you know Sirius is a star?”

Andromeda’s chest tightened at the mention of her cousin’s name, but she kept her smile in place. “Yes, I did. It’s the brightest star in the sky, part of the constellation Canis Major.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened with delight. “That’s what I told Harry! He didn’t know. But I said we’ll look for it when it’s dark again.”

Cassiopeia exchanged a glance with Arcturus, a silent understanding passing between them. The connection between the children, tentative as it was, held promise. Andromeda straightened, her gaze softening as she looked between Phoebe and Harry.

“You’re both very lucky to have each other,” she said. “Family is… important. And I’m glad to be here to help you both.”

Phoebe’s smile grew shy, her tiny hands clutching the fabric of her dress. “Thank you, Aunt Andromeda,” she said, her words careful but sincere. It was a moment of pride for Cassiopeia, who nodded approvingly.

Harry’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, before he quickly ducked his head, the remnants of his wariness still lingering. But the warmth in the room was undeniable, a fragile but growing bond weaving between them all. He reached for Phoebe’s hand without thinking, holding it loosely but firmly, as though anchoring himself to her steadiness. Phoebe glanced down in surprise but squeezed his hand gently in return.

Andromeda’s heart swelled at the sight. For the first time in years, she felt a sense of hope stirring within her. These children, burdened as they were by the legacies of their bloodlines, had each other. And perhaps, with guidance and love, they might find a way to thrive in a world that had been anything but kind to them.

The fire crackled softly in the private chamber where Andromeda had prepared to examine Harry. The room was quiet and warm, with shelves lined with neatly organised potions and enchanted tools, their faint magical hum creating an almost soothing atmosphere. Harry sat on the edge of a padded chair, his small legs dangling off the edge, his hands gripping the armrests tightly. Beside him, Phoebe perched on a stool, her grey eyes wide with concern and determination. She had insisted on staying with him during the examination, her presence a steadying influence on the boy who still seemed unsure of his place in this new world. His green eyes darted around the room, wary but curious, as though bracing himself for something unpleasant.

Andromeda knelt before him, her healer’s bag open at her side, glancing briefly at Phoebe, who gave her a small, encouraging nod. She understood how much Harry relied on her presence, and the quiet bond between the two children was already evident. She gave him a gentle smile, her tone calm and reassuring. “Harry, I’m going to do a few magical scans to check how you’re feeling and make sure you’re healthy. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Harry nodded hesitantly but didn’t speak. His fingers gripped the armrests tighter, and Andromeda’s heart ached at the instinctive fear in his posture. She reached out, placing her hand lightly on his, but Harry jerked back instinctively, his green eyes wide with alarm. Phoebe immediately leaned forward, her small hand brushing his arm reassuringly. “It’s okay, Harry,” she said softly. “Andromeda wants to help. I’m here.”

“You’re safe here,” Andromeda added, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m just going to make sure everything is all right.”

He relaxed slightly at her tone and Phoebe’s touch, though his knuckles still showed white against the wood of the chair. With a hesitant glance at Phoebe, he gave a small nod, signalling Andromeda to continue. Andromeda retrieved her wand, its smooth handle familiar in her grip, and began to murmur incantations. A soft, golden light emanated from the tip, sweeping over Harry in a gentle wave. She directed it with precision, her years of experience guiding her movements as she worked to uncover the state of his physical and magical health.

As the first layer of the diagnostic spell was completed, Andromeda’s brow furrowed. Lines of bright red began appearing in the light, crisscrossing Harry’s body like a gruesome map. Each line represented an injury, some recent but many long-healed. Her stomach twisted as she realised the sheer number of fractures, contusions, and other wounds he had suffered in his short life.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, unable to stop the words from escaping. Her voice trembled with suppressed anger and sadness.

The boy glanced at her, his expression unreadable but tinged with apprehension. Andromeda quickly masked her emotions, not wanting to alarm him further. She deepened the spell, focusing on the state of his magical core. What she found made her breath catch.

Layers of bindings wrapped tightly around his core, suppressing its natural growth. While some bindings were normal for children—placed to allow their magic to develop gradually without overwhelming them—these were far beyond what should exist. They were harsh, restrictive, and crude, as though someone had intentionally stunted his magical potential. Andromeda’s hand tightened around her wand as her fury simmered beneath the surface.

“Harry, have you ever… felt like your magic was trying to come out but couldn’t?” she asked softly.

Harry hesitated, his eyes darting to Phoebe before nodding slowly. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But they… they said it was bad to be different.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and Andromeda’s chest tightened further.

Then she detected something else—a second, more insidious binding. It was woven intricately around a dormant ability, one that should have manifested naturally in his early years. Her stomach dropped as the realisation hit her.

“A Metamorphmagus,” she murmured aloud. The binding was suppressing his access to his shapeshifting abilities, keeping them entirely dormant. Anger flared in her chest as she considered the cruelty of such an act. Someone had gone to great lengths to suppress this gift, denying Harry a vital part of who he was.

Phoebe’s hand tightened on Harry’s arm, her eyes blazing with protective anger. 

Andromeda’s wand trembled slightly in her grip as she forced herself to remain calm. She took a steadying breath and directed her focus to the scar. The lightning bolt-shaped mark stretched from the right of Harry’s forehead, crossed his left eye, and continued down his cheek to his neck. She muttered another incantation, and a wave of dark purple light enveloped the scar. Almost immediately, her wand buzzed in protest, the dark magic resisting her spell.

The presence was unmistakable. A lingering, malevolent energy clung to the scar, pulsing faintly but refusing to dissipate. It wasn’t just a remnant of a spell gone wrong; it was active, though dormant for now. Andromeda’s lips tightened into a thin line as she realised the implications.

“Dark magic,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Harry. Her voice carried a mix of dread and resolve.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Is it bad?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Andromeda looked up at him, her expression softening despite the storm of emotions raging within her. “It’s something we’ll need to keep an eye on,” she said gently. “But it’s not your fault, Harry. None of this is your fault.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. Andromeda straightened, placing her wand down and reaching out to take his small hands in hers.

“I’m going to help you,” she promised, her voice firm. “We’ll undo the bindings and make sure your magic can grow as it should. And we’ll deal with this scar. You’re not alone anymore.”

Harry looked up at her, his green eyes shining with a mix of uncertainty and hope. For the first time since she’d begun the examination, he seemed to relax slightly, his grip on her hands tightening as though anchoring himself to her words.

Cassiopeia stepped into the room, her expression grave but composed. She had been watching from the doorway, her presence a silent support. “What did you find?” she asked, her voice low.

Andromeda turned, her jaw tightening. “More than I expected. Old injuries, far too many for any child to have endured. His magical core has been cruelly suppressed, and his Metamorphmagus abilities have been intentionally bound. And the scar… it’s not just a scar. There’s dark magic woven into it, lingering and active.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes darkened, her fury evident in the sharp set of her jaw. “We’ll do whatever is necessary to undo the damage,” she said, her voice resolute. “Whatever it takes.”

Andromeda nodded, her resolve mirroring Cassiopeia’s. Together, they would ensure Harry’s recovery—physically, magically, and emotionally.

~~

The private chamber was cloaked in an intense stillness as Andromeda prepared to release the bindings on Harry’s magical core and dormant Metamorphmagus abilities. The room’s soft firelight glinted off an array of enchanted tools and potions laid out neatly on a side table. Phoebe sat nearby on a cushioned stool, her grey eyes watching intently. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, but the occasional twitch of her fingers betrayed her anxiety. Despite her young age, there was an air of quiet determination about her, as though she understood the gravity of what was about to take place.

Harry sat quietly in the centre of a low, rune-etched circle Andromeda had drawn on the floor. His green eyes flickered between Andromeda and Phoebe, reflecting both apprehension and trust. His posture was stiff, his small frame visibly tense despite the comforting atmosphere. The faint hum of magic in the room seemed to press down on him, a tangible reminder of the power being summoned for his sake.

“Harry,” Andromeda said softly, kneeling at the edge of the circle. Her voice was calm but carried a weight of reassurance. “This process might feel strange, but I’ll guide you through it. You’re safe, and I’ll stop if anything feels wrong. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, his small hands gripping his knees tightly. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice so soft it barely reached her.

Andromeda offered him a warm smile, her wand steady in her hand. “Good. Phoebe, make sure Harry knows you’re here if he needs you.”

“I’m staying right here,” Phoebe declared with the determination only a two-year-old could muster. She shuffled closer on her cushion, her tiny hands fidgeting in her lap but her posture leaning slightly forward, ready to be his anchor. “It’s okay, Harry. You can do this.”

Andromeda turned her focus back to the bindings. Her wand moved in deliberate, careful arcs as she chanted a series of intricate incantations, her voice low and rhythmic. A soft golden light flowed from her wand, spreading over Harry and sinking into his small frame as it sought the first layer of suppression around his magical core. The glowing runes on the floor flickered faintly, amplifying her spellwork with precision.

As the magic took effect, Harry stiffened, his little body trembling as his wide green eyes darted around. The bindings reacted sharply, sparking faintly in resistance. Andromeda’s brow furrowed, her jaw tightening as she steadied her magic, carefully unravelling the crude constraints. Each strand she untangled released a faint hiss, like letting air out of a balloon.

“It’s okay, Harry,” Andromeda said gently, her voice unwavering. “Breathe with me. In and out. Nice and slow.”

Harry’s breaths came quick and shallow at first, but he copied her rhythm, his little chest rising and falling in time with her words. Phoebe’s soft voice chimed in, a steady anchor amidst the unsettling process. “You’re doing great, Harry,” she whispered, her tiny hand brushing against his arm in a reassuring gesture. “I’m here. I promise.”

The first binding snapped with a faint shimmer, the oppressive magic dissipating into the air. Harry let out a small gasp, his shoulders sagging as though a heavy weight had been lifted from him. His breathing came easier, and the tightness in his little frame began to ease.

“That’s one,” Andromeda murmured, her tone calm but focused. “There are more to go. You’re doing so well, Harry.”

The second and third bindings came undone with less resistance, their magic unravelling smoothly under her deft control. Each release brought a visible relaxation to Harry, his posture growing less rigid as his magical core began to stir. The golden light around him brightened slightly, a sign that the suppressed energy within him was beginning to flow freely. It was like watching a flower tentatively unfurling its petals.

Finally, Andromeda turned her attention to the Metamorphmagus binding. This one was different, more intricately woven and malicious in design. Her wand’s light shifted to a soft silver as she began the delicate process of dismantling the suppressive spell. The runes on the floor flared brighter for a moment, their magic adjusting to this more complex layer of work.

Harry’s small hands clenched tightly on his knees as the magic stirred within him. “It feels… funny,” he said, his voice trembling.

“That’s okay,” Andromeda assured him. “This binding is connected to something very special inside you. I’m being extra careful. Just keep breathing, and let me know if it feels too much.”

Phoebe leaned in closer, her little face earnest. “You’re so brave, Harry,” she said with conviction. “It’s almost done. I’m right here.”

Her presence seemed to bolster him, and Harry gave a tiny nod, his grip on his knees loosening slightly. Andromeda’s incantations grew softer, her wand’s movements precise as she dismantled the malicious spell. After what felt like an eternity, the final binding released with a soft crack, the energy within Harry rushing forward like a wave breaking free. His small body shuddered, and his hair briefly shimmered from black to a deep auburn before settling back to its original shade. His wide eyes darted to Phoebe, his hands flying to his head in astonishment.

“What happened?” he stammered, his voice filled with awe and confusion.

Andromeda’s smile was warm as she lowered her wand. “Your abilities are waking up,” she explained. “You’re a Metamorphmagus, Harry. That means you can change how you look. It’s a very special gift, and it will take some time to learn. But it’s all yours.”

Harry blinked, his gaze shifting to Phoebe, who was grinning from ear to ear. “That’s so cool!” she exclaimed, clapping her little hands together. “You’re like me! We’re going to have so much fun!”

Andromeda chuckled softly, relief evident in her expression as she began clearing the magical residue left behind. “For now, let your body adjust,” she said gently. “Your magical core is no longer restrained, and your abilities will take some time to fully awaken. But you’re free of those bindings, Harry. No one will ever suppress you again.”

Harry’s lips curved into a tentative smile, his eyes bright with hope. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his small voice filled with sincerity.

Phoebe beamed at him, her excitement infectious. “You’re amazing, Harry! Just wait until we figure out all the cool things we can do together!”

Andromeda watched the two children, a soft smile on her face. For the first time in a long while, she felt a flicker of hope herself. This was just the beginning, but it was a step forward—a step toward healing and the future they all deserved. As she gathered her tools and extinguished the runes, she silently vowed that Harry would never again face the darkness alone.

~~

The fire in Arcturus Black’s study burned low, casting warm shadows across the richly adorned room. A week had passed since Andromeda had begun her work to heal Harry and unravel the magical bindings placed on him, and the results had been nothing short of miraculous. Tonight, however, the focus had shifted to a different matter, one that lingered unresolved for decades—the question of Andromeda’s place within the family.

Andromeda sat in one of the high-backed chairs opposite Arcturus, her posture composed but her gaze thoughtful. She sipped from a delicate porcelain teacup, the herbal blend calming but not enough to entirely ease her tension. Across from her, Arcturus sat in his usual chair, his silver-tipped cane resting against the armrest. His grey eyes, sharp and discerning, studied her carefully, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.

“You’ve done remarkable work with Harry,” Arcturus said finally, his deep voice breaking the silence. “He looks stronger every day. And I suspect his connection to Phoebe has played no small part in that.”

Andromeda’s lips curved into a small smile. “They’re good for each other. It’s clear they’ve found something in each other that neither of them had before.”

Arcturus nodded, his gaze shifting momentarily to the window, where the faint light of Cassiopeia’s training room could be seen through the frosted glass. “Cassiopeia’s lessons have been… lively,” he said with a faint smirk. “It’s not every day one sees three Metamorphmagi under the same roof, let alone training together.”

Andromeda chuckled softly. “I imagine she has her hands full. Nymphadora’s enthusiasm alone could challenge even the most patient instructor. And from what I’ve heard, Phoebe’s determination matches her exuberance.”

The mention of her daughter brought a flicker of warmth to Andromeda’s expression, but it was quickly tempered by the weight of the conversation she knew was coming. Setting her teacup down, she met Arcturus’s gaze directly.

“You didn’t ask me here just to talk about the children,” she said, her tone even.

Arcturus inclined his head slightly. “No, I did not.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on the head of his cane. “Andromeda, it’s time we spoke of your place within this family.”

She stiffened slightly, though she had expected this. “My place was cast aside long ago, Arcturus. I made my choice when I left with Ted. My mother and father ensured there was no path back for me.”

Arcturus’s expression hardened briefly at the mention of Druella and Cygnus, but it softened as he spoke. “Druella and Cygnus… Their actions were loud and dramatic, as was their way. But you misunderstand something vital, Andromeda. They told everyone that you had been cast out, but that decision was not theirs to make. Only the head of this family—myself—has the authority to remove someone from House Black. And I never did.”

Andromeda’s gaze faltered, confusion flickering in her eyes. “What are you saying?” she asked slowly.

“I’m saying,” Arcturus replied, his tone calm but firm, “that you were never formally disowned. Druella and Cygnus made it appear so because they cared more for appearances than the truth. As far as I’m concerned, you have always been a Black.”

The revelation struck Andromeda like a physical blow. She sat back in her chair, her hands gripping the armrests tightly. For years, she had believed herself exiled, cut off from her birthright and her family. The truth unravelled the foundation of that belief, leaving her momentarily speechless.

“A Black does not turn their back on their own lightly, and you… you were cast aside for loving someone who respected our ways even if he wasn’t born to them. Your parents—Druella and Cygnus—may have sought to erase your place in the family, but they overstepped their bounds,” Arcturus said, his tone sharp with authority.

Andromeda’s gaze dropped to her lap as she processed his words. Slowly, she looked up, her voice trembling slightly. “Ted never tried to change me,” she said softly. “He loved me for who I was, Black name and all. But that wasn’t enough for Mother.”

“And yet,” Arcturus continued, his voice steady, “Ted’s respect for our traditions is precisely why I’m asking you to return. Not as an act of penance or duty, but because you are… and will always be… a Black. Your work with Harry has shown your loyalty to this family, and I would not see you remain estranged when there is so much we could rebuild together.”

Andromeda’s eyes widened slightly. “You want me to rejoin the family?” she asked, her voice tinged with both surprise and hesitation.

“I do,” Arcturus said simply. “And while I understand that you may not wish to take up the name again, your place in this house need not be contingent on it. However, let me be clear: you were never formally removed from this family. The illusion that you were disowned was a fabrication perpetuated by your parents to maintain appearances. As far as I’m concerned, you have always been a Black, and I’m offering you the chance to embrace that truth fully—not just to return, but to help shape what this family will become.”

Silence fell between them as Andromeda considered his words. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers curling slightly as emotions warred within her. Finally, she spoke.

“And what of Ted? What of Nymphadora?” she asked. “Would you truly accept them as part of this?”

Arcturus’s gaze didn’t waver. “Ted is your husband and has proven himself worthy of respect through his actions. And Nymphadora is your daughter. She is as much a Black by blood as Phoebe or Harry. This family does not shy away from its legacy, Andromeda, nor does it abandon those who uphold it.”

Andromeda’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the weight of the decision still loomed large. “You’re asking for more than my return,” she said softly. “You’re asking for my trust.”

“I am,” Arcturus said simply. “Because without it, we cannot move forward.”

Another silence stretched between them before Andromeda finally nodded. “I will consider it,” she said, her voice steady. “But if I do this, it will be on my terms. For my family and theirs.”

Arcturus inclined his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “As it should be. Take the time you need, Andromeda. The door is open.”

From the window, the faint sound of laughter drifted into the room, a mix of Phoebe’s giggles, Harry’s shy chuckles, and Nymphadora’s exuberant shouts. Cassiopeia’s patient voice carried just beneath the children’s mirth, guiding them through another exercise in their shared gift.

Andromeda turned her head toward the sound, a soft smile touching her lips. “They deserve a future where they can laugh like that every day,” she said quietly.

“And they shall have it,” Arcturus replied. “If we ensure it together.”

~~

The playroom at Castle Black was bathed in soft, warm light from enchanted lamps that floated gently above. A rug covered the cold stone floor, its intricate patterns an invitation to sit, play, and forget the weight of the outside world. The space felt alive with subtle magic, its walls bearing the faint hum of enchantments designed to foster comfort and creativity. Phoebe Black sat cross-legged on the rug, her grey eyes sparkling with excitement as she studied the assortment of books and toys strewn before her. Across from her, Harry Potter sat hesitantly, his small frame drawn inward as though trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible.

Phoebe tilted her head, her dark curls bouncing slightly as she regarded him with a curious smile. Her small fingers clutched a box of enchanted blocks, the edges of the box wobbling precariously in her grasp. “Do you wanna build something?” she asked, her voice high and eager. She shook the box gently, the blocks inside clinking softly and shimmering faintly, promising towers that could defy gravity if only they were given the chance.

Harry looked at the blocks, then back at his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. His green eyes darted up to Phoebe’s face for a moment before lowering again. “I… I don’t know how,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Phoebe didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. Her smile only grew. “That’s okay! We can learn together,” she said brightly, plopping herself down on the soft rug beside him and setting the box between them. “It’s fun, and if we mess up, we just do it again. Aunt Cass says that’s how you get good at things.”

Harry’s hands tightened briefly, but after a moment, he reached out with one tentative hand to touch the edge of the box. The enchanted wood was smooth under his fingers, and when he picked up a block, it shimmered faintly in his small hand. He stared at it, the soft glow reflected in his wide eyes.

Phoebe beamed at him, clapping her hands lightly. “See? You’re already doing it!” she said, her excitement bubbling over. She pulled out a block of her own and placed it on the rug, her movements deliberate but cheerful. “Now you put yours on top!”

Harry glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile. Slowly, carefully, he placed his block on top of hers. Phoebe immediately grabbed another block and added it to the growing tower, her confidence making the whole process seem easy.

“There! Now it’s your turn again,” she said, her tone encouraging. “Let’s see how high we can make it before it falls over!”

The game continued, their small hands taking turns building the tower higher and higher. At first, Harry’s movements were stiff and uncertain, his hands trembling slightly as though afraid of breaking the fragile structure. But Phoebe’s laughter, bright and unrestrained, seemed to chip away at his anxiety. When the tower finally toppled with a soft clatter, blocks scattering in all directions, Phoebe burst into giggles, clapping her hands with delight.

“That was the best one yet!” she exclaimed, her curls bouncing as she leaned forward to gather the blocks. “We made it so high!”

Harry’s eyes widened, his gaze darting to her as though expecting disappointment or scolding. When he saw only joy on her face, his shoulders relaxed minutely. “It fell,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with confusion.

“Of course it did!” Phoebe said with a grin. “That’s what makes it fun. Now we can build it again, and maybe we’ll make it even better!”

She handed him another block, her small fingers brushing against his. Harry hesitated for only a moment before taking it. This time, his grip was a little steadier. As they began rebuilding, Phoebe started to chatter, her words spilling out in a cheerful stream.

“Before you came here, Aunt Cass used to help me build towers. She’s really good at it. She can make the blocks float and even glow different colors. She said it’s good practice for magic, but I just think it’s fun.”

Harry glanced at her, his curiosity sparked. “You can do magic with blocks?” he asked, his voice soft but interested.

Phoebe nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh! These blocks are enchanted, so they’re already a little magical. But you’ll probably be able to do even more magic soon. Aunt Andromeda says your core is super strong now that the bad bindings are gone.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his small fingers fidgeting with a block. “I don’t think I’m good at anything,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the room.

Phoebe stopped mid-motion, her expression serious for the first time. She leaned closer, her small face earnest. “That’s not true,” she said firmly. “You’re really good at building towers, and you’re really, really good at being brave.”

Harry blinked at her, uncertainty flickering in his green eyes. “Brave?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said, nodding so hard her curls bounced. “You’re here, aren’t you? And you’re trying new things, even when they’re scary. That’s what brave people do.”

For the first time, Harry’s lips curved into a faint, hesitant smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Phoebe’s heart swell with triumph. She grinned back at him, her excitement undimmed.

“Now, let’s make the biggest tower ever!” she declared, her voice bright with determination. “And maybe next time, I’ll show you how to make them float!”

As the two children returned to their game, the barriers around Harry seemed to lessen, brick by brick. Phoebe’s easygoing nature and unshakable optimism created a safe space where he could begin to heal. Her laughter was like a balm, soothing the rough edges of his past. Each time she encouraged him or celebrated their small victories, Harry seemed to straighten a little more, his eyes brightening with a flicker of hope.

The blocks clinked and toppled repeatedly, but neither child seemed to care. Phoebe’s endless chatter filled the room, her stories weaving a vibrant tapestry of her life at Castle Black—tales of learning from Cassiopeia,  and her dreams of exploring the world beyond the castle’s walls. Harry listened intently, occasionally nodding or asking quiet questions. The more she talked, the more he seemed to relax, drawn into her world of boundless imagination and possibility.

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to do magic like you?” Harry asked suddenly, his voice tinged with a mix of hope and doubt.

Phoebe paused, looking at him with a serious expression. “Of course you will,” she said firmly. “You’re already magical, Harry. You just need time to learn. And I’ll help you. We’ll learn together, okay?”

Harry nodded, his small smile growing a fraction wider. “Okay.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of laughter, tumbling blocks, and whispered secrets. By the time the enchanted lamps dimmed slightly to signal the evening, Harry’s wariness had eased considerably. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt a glimmer of something he couldn’t quite name—something that felt a little like belonging.

Phoebe had felt it too, a sense of connection she had never experienced before. She had known kindness from her aunt and strength from her lessons, but she had never had someone her own age to share it with. Harry’s quiet determination and soft smiles were something new, and she cherished every one of them.

As Phoebe started tidying up, humming a cheerful tune under her breath, Harry found himself watching her with a quiet sense of gratitude. She had an ease about her, a way of making the world seem a little less heavy. And for the first time, he began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this strange, magical place could be home.

“Phoebe?” he said hesitantly as she placed the blocks back in their box.

She looked up, her grey eyes warm and curious. “Yeah?”

“Thanks… for today,” he said softly. “It was… nice.”

Phoebe’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “Anytime, Harry. We’re friends now, okay? You’re my first friend, and friends always look out for each other.”

Harry nodded, his heart feeling a little lighter as he followed her out of the playroom. For the first time, the future didn’t feel quite so frightening.

~~

The grand hall of Castle Black was alive with quiet activity as house-elves flitted about, ensuring everything was in pristine order for the arrival of Lord Cyrus Greengrass and his eldest daughter, Daphne. The air held a faint hum of enchantments woven into the stonework, adding an ethereal elegance to the ancient stronghold. The soft glow from enchanted sconces illuminated the intricate Black family crest carved above the entrance, a reminder of the house’s storied legacy. Arcturus Black stood at the head of the hall, his silver-tipped cane resting lightly in his hand as he watched the preparations with a discerning eye. Preparations that had been in the works for years since Harry had been rescued from the muggles. He turned to glance down the corridor leading to the playroom, where Phoebe and Harry had been left to await their guests.

Harry sat on the cushioned window seat, watching the gently falling snow outside. His green eyes, once haunted and distant, now held a quiet curiosity, though traces of his nervousness lingered. He had grown more comfortable within the ancient walls of Castle Black, but the weight of meeting new people still pressed on him. Phoebe sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, fiddling with a small enchanted puzzle box, her usual energy tempered by the importance of the day.

“Do you think they’ll like us?” Harry asked softly, his gaze still fixed on the wintry scene.

Phoebe looked up from her puzzle, her grey eyes sparkling with reassurance, though there was a flicker of something deeper—a glimmer of untamed intensity that hinted at the Black Madness lurking just beneath her calm exterior. “Of course, they will. How could they not? You’re brilliant, and I’m… well, I’m me.” She grinned widely, the brightness of her smile offset by the subtle edge in her gaze, a testament to the wild magic that always simmered within her. Harry’s lips twitched upward in response, comforted by her unwavering presence even as her energy seemed to dance on the edge of something wild and uncontainable.

Before Harry could respond, the sound of approaching voices echoed down the corridor. Harry stiffened slightly but took a deep breath, a small gesture he’d learned during the months of healing and growing more comfortable in his new home. Phoebe stood, brushing off her robes, and extended a hand to Harry. “Come on. Let’s meet them together.”

He hesitated for only a moment before taking her hand, her confidence bolstering his own as they stepped into the hall. They arrived just as Arcturus greeted Lord Greengrass and his daughter. Lord Cyrus was a tall, stately man with sharp features and an air of composed authority. Beside him stood Daphne, her blonde hair pulled back neatly, her green eyes reflecting a calm curiosity as she mirrored her father’s poised demeanour. She wore a set of dark green robes embroidered with silver, understated yet elegant.

“Lord Greengrass,” Arcturus said, his voice rich and commanding. “Welcome to Castle Black. And you must be Heiress Greengrass,” he added, his gaze softening slightly as he regarded the young girl. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, Lord Black,” Cyrus replied, his tone polite but edged with the wariness of a seasoned politician. “It’s an honour to be here.”

Daphne offered a polite curtsy, her expression calm but curious. Her gaze drifted past Arcturus, settling on Phoebe and Harry, who stood a few steps back. Phoebe was the first to speak, her boldness now shaped by months of training under Cassiopeia’s guidance.

Phoebe stepped forward gracefully, dipping her head in a measured nod. “Phoebe Black, Heiress of House Black,” she said, her voice clear and confident, though a trace of her natural excitement still glimmered in her smile. She gestured to Harry, who mirrored her formality with practised precision.

“Harry Potter, Heir of House Potter,” he said softly, his tone steady despite a hint of lingering shyness. His posture, while reserved, carried the dignity of his lessons.

Daphne’s calm expression warmed slightly as she took in their poised introductions. “It’s nice to meet you both,” she said. Her tone was measured, but there was a hint of genuine interest beneath the formality.

Arcturus gestured toward the adjoining parlour. “Lord Greengrass, shall we discuss the matters at hand? The children can get to know one another in the study. It’s just through there,” he said, nodding toward a door on the far side of the hall.

Cyrus inclined his head. “Lead the way, Lord Black.”

As the two men moved toward the parlour, Phoebe turned to Daphne with her characteristic enthusiasm. “Come on,” she said, motioning for Daphne and Harry to follow her. “The study has all sorts of neat things—books, puzzles, even a little enchanted chessboard.”

Daphne followed, her steps measured but curious. “Do you play chess?” she asked as they entered the study, her question directed at both Phoebe and Harry.

“A bit,” Phoebe admitted, plopping onto one of the plush chairs. “But Harry’s better at it. He beat me last week—twice!”

Harry’s cheeks tinged pink, but he offered a small smile. “It’s just a game,” he said modestly.

Daphne arched an eyebrow, her interest clearly piqued. “Maybe you can teach me sometime,” she said, settling into the chair across from him.

Phoebe grinned, sensing the beginning of a connection. “And maybe we can team up and beat him,” she said with a playful wink at Daphne.

The light banter eased the initial formality, and soon the three children were chatting more freely. Daphne’s composed exterior softened as she discovered the warmth and humour in Phoebe’s personality and the quiet intelligence in Harry’s observations. The tentative beginnings of friendship took root as they discussed their interests and shared small stories, their laughter filling the room.

By the time the house-elves brought in a tray of refreshments, the study had become a haven of camaraderie. Harry’s shyness ebbed further with every shared smile, and Daphne’s curiosity blossomed into genuine interest. Phoebe, ever the centre of energy, kept the mood light and welcoming, her excitement infectious.

From the parlour, Arcturus glanced toward the study, a faint smile touching his lips. The alliance he sought with the Greengrass family might take time to solidify, but he could already see the foundation being built—not just in politics, but in the bonds forming between their heirs.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

III

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The study at Castle Black, normally a haven of quiet companionship and the soft hum of shared magical lessons, was thick with tension. Phoebe Black sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, her hands clenched into tight fists against the table. The newspaper lay before her, its pages crumpled and creased where she had slammed her hand down moments earlier. The headline of the Daily Prophet burned in her mind:

"Heiress of Darkness: Is Bellatrix Black’s Daughter Destined for Madness?"

Phoebe’s grey eyes, usually bright with mischief or determination, now seemed to glow with a cold, silvery light. The faint scent of ozone mixed with the acrid tang of smoke, creating an oppressive atmosphere. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling as though she were holding back a scream, and the ambient heat of the room seemed to rise with her barely contained fury.

Across from her, Harry and Daphne exchanged uneasy glances. The trio, forged over months of shared lessons and growing trust, had become inseparable. But neither of them had ever seen Phoebe like this.

“Phoebe,” Daphne began cautiously, her green eyes scanning her friend’s taut posture. “It’s just a stupid article. No one who matters is going to believe it.”

“It’s not just the article,” Phoebe snapped, her voice sharp but trembling. She pushed the newspaper away as though it physically hurt to look at it. “It’s… everything. They think they know me. They think they can decide who I am because of her.”

Harry stepped forward, his shyness set aside by concern. “They’re wrong,” he said softly but firmly. “You’re not your mother. You’re you. And we know who you are.”

Phoebe’s head snapped up, and for a moment, the intensity of her gaze made Harry take a step back. The silver light in her eyes seemed to flicker like candle flames in a gale. “Do you?” she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. “Do you really?”

Harry hesitated, but Daphne stepped in, placing a steadying hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “Yes, we do,” she said firmly. “You’re Phoebe Black. You’re our friend. And you’re more than what anyone says about you—especially some rubbish in the Prophet.”

Phoebe’s breath hitched, and the crackling magic around her dimmed slightly. She looked down at her hands, the knuckles white from the force of her grip. “But what if they’re right?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if… what if I’m exactly like her? What if the Black Madness…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

“Then we’ll fight it with you,” Harry said, stepping forward again. This time, he reached out and gently touched her hand. “You’re not alone, Phoebe. You have us.”

Daphne nodded, her hand still on Phoebe’s shoulder. “And you have your family here. Cassiopeia, Arcturus… they’re all behind you. We’re behind you. This isn’t something you have to face by yourself.”

For a long moment, Phoebe didn’t respond. Her magic continued to pulse faintly around her, but it was softer now, less volatile. Finally, she let out a long, shaky breath and unclenched her fists. The newspaper fluttered slightly in the breeze of her released tension.

“I hate that they can get to me like this,” she admitted, her voice raw with frustration. “I hate that they can make me feel… like a ticking time bomb.”

“You’re not a bomb,” Daphne said firmly. “You’re a person. And you’re stronger than their words.”

Harry squeezed her hand gently. “And you’re not alone. Remember that, okay?”

Phoebe looked at them both, her silver-lit eyes softening as she took in their unwavering support. Slowly, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice steadier. “But if I start sparking again, you’re allowed to throw water on me.”

Daphne smirked. “I’ll keep a bucket handy.”

The tension in the room eased further as Phoebe’s lips quirked into a faint smile. But as the moments stretched on, her usual spark of energy and confidence didn’t return. Instead, she grew quiet, her gaze fixed absently on the table. Harry and Daphne exchanged concerned glances as the shift in her demeanour became more apparent.

Over the next hours, Phoebe remained subdued, responding to their attempts at conversation with short, almost mechanical answers. Her laughter, which typically filled the room with infectious brightness, was nowhere to be heard. Even as they brought up topics that usually excited her, like new magical theories or the latest prank ideas for their lessons, Phoebe only nodded faintly, her mind clearly elsewhere.

The crackling magic that had once surged around her was now eerily absent, leaving behind an unsettling stillness. It was as though the fire and lightning that made Phoebe who she was had been smothered, leaving only ash.

Harry leaned toward Daphne, his voice a soft whisper. “She’s not… okay, is she?”

Daphne shook her head slightly, her green eyes heavy with worry. “Not even close.” She glanced toward Phoebe, who was now staring blankly at the crumpled newspaper as if its words had etched themselves onto her soul. Daphne’s hand hovered near Phoebe’s arm before she finally placed it gently on her shoulder. “Phoebe, do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to take a break from all this? We can go anywhere—outside, the playroom, even the library.”

Phoebe shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine. I just… need some time.”

But neither Daphne nor Harry were convinced. As Phoebe withdrew further into herself, her friends’ worry only deepened. They silently resolved to stay close, watching for any opportunity to bring her back to the bright, fiery presence they both cared for so deeply.

From the doorway, Cassiopeia watched silently, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. She had been ready to intervene if needed, but seeing the way Harry and Daphne had reached Phoebe brought a rare smile to her lips. After a moment, she quietly beckoned Harry and Daphne to step away, leaving Phoebe to the quiet she seemed to crave. Once they were in the adjoining room, Cassiopeia closed the door softly behind them.

“You’ve both done well to comfort her,” she began, her tone calm but firm. “But there are things you need to understand about the Black Madness and how it affects those touched so deeply by magic.”

Harry and Daphne exchanged uncertain glances before nodding, their attention fixed on Cassiopeia.

“The Black Madness is not just a curse,” she explained, her eyes flickering with an intensity that matched her words. “It is both a blessing and a burden. For those of our line who are so in tune with magic, it’s as though magic itself takes notice of them. It empowers them, sharpens them, but it also tests them. Phoebe… she is one of the most attuned I’ve ever seen. The magic around her is alive in a way that it isn’t for most. It’s part of what makes her so extraordinary, but it also makes her vulnerable to the Madness. Bellatrix was the same. When she was younger, the magic within her burned brightly, but it was never guided, never tempered. Instead of mastering it, she let it consume her, feeding into her anger and her pain. It’s a fine balance, one that few can truly achieve, and one that Phoebe must learn to navigate if she is to avoid the same fate.”

Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Is there no way to… stop it? To keep it from affecting her like this?”

Cassiopeia shook her head. “It cannot be stopped, only managed. That’s what I’ve been teaching her: how to channel it, how to keep it from overwhelming her. But moments like this, when her emotions are high and her control slips, the Madness rises. It’s something she’ll have to battle for the rest of her life.”

Harry swallowed hard, his green eyes filled with worry. “Could it… could it happen to me?”

Cassiopeia’s gaze softened slightly as she turned to him. “Perhaps. You are connected to the Black family magic through your grandmother, Dorea. That connection is not as direct as Phoebe’s, but it’s there. And given how powerful your core is, there is a chance that magic could take special notice of you as well.”

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides. “What do I do if it does?”

“The same thing Phoebe does,” Cassiopeia said, her voice steady. “You learn to control it. You surround yourself with people who can anchor you when it feels like too much. People like Daphne, like Phoebe herself. And you never let it define you.”

Daphne’s jaw tightened as she placed a hand on Harry’s arm. “Then we’ll be there for each other, all three of us. If Phoebe has to fight this, she won’t do it alone. And neither will you, Harry.”

Cassiopeia nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s the kind of bond that will keep all of you strong. Magic may test you, but it’s also a gift. Remember that.”

Her gaze lingered on the closed door to the study. “For now, let her have some space. She’ll come back to you when she’s ready. But when she does, make sure she knows she’s not alone.”

The midday sun shone warmly over the expansive gardens of Castle Black, casting light across the vibrant greenery and colourful blooms. Harry and Daphne led Phoebe toward a secluded corner of the grounds, a quiet space where the trees arched protectively overhead, creating a canopy of dappled sunlight. It was Daphne’s idea to bring Phoebe outside, hoping the fresh air and warmth might ease the heaviness that clung to her friend.

Phoebe walked silently between them, her head lowered and her steps slow. The usual energy that defined her seemed absent, replaced by a listlessness that gnawed at Harry and Daphne’s resolve. They shared a brief glance, unspoken communication passing between them.

“Do you know what I’ve been practising?” Harry said suddenly, his tone lighter than usual. He stopped and turned to face Phoebe, a small, mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “Metamorphmagus tricks.”

Phoebe glanced at him, her grey eyes dull with exhaustion. “You mean the hair thing? Changing the length and colour? You have been working on?” she asked flatly.

Harry shook his head, stepping back into the sunlight. “No, something more fun.” He closed his eyes briefly, concentrating, and when he looked up again, his features had shifted. His skin had taken on the same pale tone as Phoebe’s, his dark hair now a cascade of black curls identical to hers, and his eyes gleamed silver in the light.

“Ta-da!” he said, spreading his arms theatrically, his voice mimicking Phoebe’s tone with surprising accuracy. “What do you think? Am I convincing as Phoebe Black, Heiress of House Black?”

Daphne burst into laughter, clapping her hands. “You’re almost perfect! But you’re missing the glower she gives when she’s annoyed. Try again.”

Phoebe’s lips twitched, but she said nothing, watching as Harry furrowed his brows and crossed his arms in an exaggerated imitation of her brooding stance. “How’s this?” he asked, his voice adopting an overly dramatic tone. “I hate everything. Magic is stupid. Lightning is overrated.”

Even Phoebe couldn’t suppress a small snort of amusement. “I don’t sound like that,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with the faintest hint of a smile.

“You do,” Daphne teased, stepping beside Harry and mimicking the same glower. “Especially when you’re annoyed with us for beating you at chess.”

Phoebe shook her head, but a genuine smile broke through her sombre expression. “You’re both terrible at this,” she said, a flicker of warmth returning to her voice.

Harry grinned triumphantly. “But we made you smile. That counts as a win.”

The trio settled onto the grass, the sunlight filtering through the trees creating a patchwork of warmth and shade. Harry continued experimenting with his Metamorphmagus abilities, shifting his appearance in increasingly ridiculous ways: elongated ears, an exaggerated nose, and wild, colourful hair that defied gravity. As they played with their transformations, Harry began to explore more subtle changes—softening their jawline, adjusting the shape of their features, or even altering their voice. The fluidity of these shifts felt strangely freeing, as though they were discovering pieces of themselves they hadn't known were missing.

The more Harry practised, the more they found themselves experimenting with how they presented. They shifted seamlessly between more traditionally masculine and feminine appearances, sometimes blending the two. It felt like a canvas, allowing them to express parts of themselves they’d never been able to before. At some point, a quiet realisation began to settle in Harry’s mind: perhaps the discomfort they’d always felt when Vernon had called them “boy” wasn’t just about Vernon’s cruelty. Perhaps it was because they weren’t a boy at all.

As this understanding took root, Harry’s confidence in their abilities grew, each transformation feeling like another step toward understanding who they truly were. Daphne egged him on, offering outrageous suggestions that had Phoebe chuckling despite herself.

“Make yourself look like Arcturus,” Daphne said, her green eyes alight with mischief.

Harry hesitated. “I don’t think I can…” But he tried anyway, narrowing his features and deepening his brow until a passable imitation of Lord Black stared back at them.

Phoebe’s laughter came unbidden, bright and clear. “That’s terrible,” she said, her voice lighter than it had been all day. “He’d have you scrubbing cauldrons for a week if he saw that.”

Harry relaxed the transformation, his own features returning. “Worth it,” he said with a grin.

As the sun climbed higher, the weight around Phoebe seemed to lift bit by bit. Her magic, still a quiet presence beneath her skin, felt calmer, no longer threatening to spark uncontrollably. For the first time that day, she leaned back against the grass, her gaze turning upward to the sky.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For… not letting me stay stuck in my head.”

Daphne lay down beside her, her hand brushing against Phoebe’s. “That’s what we’re here for. Always.”

Harry flopped onto the grass beside them, his arms stretched out wide. “And anyway, who else is going to laugh at my terrible impressions?”

Phoebe smiled, closing her eyes as the warmth of the sun and the comfort of her friends eased the lingering shadows in her mind.

~~~~

The grand ballroom of Greengrass Manor was a masterpiece of opulence and tradition. Its high vaulted ceilings were adorned with enchanted chandeliers that bathed the room in a soft golden glow, their lights reflecting off polished obsidian floors and walls lined with ancient family tapestries. Every corner seemed to exude an air of timeless elegance, a subtle reminder of the Greengrass family’s own status among the wizarding elite. Tonight, the hall of the Greengrass estate was alive with the murmurs of distinguished guests, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the subtle strains of an orchestra playing from a corner alcove. This was the summer ball, hosted this year by House Greengrass on behalf of House Black, as Arcturus did not trust outsiders or potential enemies within the walls of Castle Black. This year, the event held greater significance.

At the top of the sweeping staircase of Greengrass Manor, Arcturus Black stood tall, his silver-tipped cane resting lightly in his hand. Beside him was Phoebe Black, resplendent in formal robes of deep black accented with silver, her dark curls pinned back with a comb shaped like the Black family crest. Her grey eyes, so often filled with mischief, now gleamed with a calculated poise learned through months of rigorous preparation. This was her debut as Heiress Black, a moment Arcturus had ensured would not be forgotten by their allies or their rivals. The gravity of the occasion was not lost on Phoebe, and though her heart pounded, her posture remained regal, every step measured and deliberate.

The herald at the base of the staircase struck his staff against the marble floor, commanding attention. “Presenting Lord Arcturus Black, Head of House Black, and Phoebe Black, Heiress of House Black.”

The murmurs quieted, and all eyes turned upward as the two descended the staircase. Phoebe could feel the weight of their scrutiny, but she had practised for this moment endlessly under Cassiopeia’s tutelage. She focused on maintaining her composure, letting the hours of training guide her movements.

As they reached the base of the stairs, a small cluster of guests approached. Arcturus greeted each with a nod or a firm handshake, introducing Phoebe to key allies.

“Lord Douglas, a staunch supporter of the Neutral Bloc,” Arcturus said, motioning to a tall man with sharp features and a calculating gaze.

Phoebe dipped her head politely. “Lord Douglas. A pleasure to meet you.”

Douglas appraised her briefly, then inclined his head. “The pleasure is mine, Heiress Black. I’ve no doubt you’ll uphold your family’s legacy,” he says with a strong Scottish accent.

Phoebe offered a practised smile, her confidence bolstered by the measured respect in Douglas's tone. The introductions continued in this manner, each guest’s expression a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Phoebe met them all with the same calm confidence, though the weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on her. Still, she stood tall, every movement a reflection of her training and determination.

It wasn’t long before another herald announced, “Lord and Lady Malfoy, accompanied by their son, Draco Malfoy, Heir to House Malfoy.”

Phoebe’s gaze snapped toward the entrance as Narcissa Malfoy entered, her pale blonde hair gleaming under the light. She moved with a grace that seemed almost unnatural, her icy blue eyes scanning the room with the precision of a hawk. Behind her strode Lucius Malfoy, his platinum hair and impeccably tailored robes exuding wealth and power. Draco followed closely, his youthful features set in an expression of practised indifference, though his grey eyes carried an edge of curiosity.

Arcturus’s expression didn’t waver as he stepped forward to greet them. “Narcissa,” he said, his tone neutral. “It has been some time.”

Narcissa inclined her head, her voice cool but polite. “Uncle. It is an honour to be here.” Her gaze shifted to Phoebe, lingering for a moment before her lips curved into a faint smile. “So, this is the Heiress Black. You have your mother’s eyes.”

Phoebe stiffened slightly, the mention of her mother bringing an edge to her composure. She had prepared for this, yet hearing her mother brought up in such a setting still sent a ripple through her resolve. “Lady Malfoy,” she said, her voice measured. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Narcissa’s smile lingered as she tilted her head slightly. “I knew of you from the moment you were born,” she said softly, her words meant more for Phoebe than for those listening. “Bellatrix wrote to me when she was carrying you. I… had wondered if your position would be made official. I see now that it has.” There was a flicker of something in her gaze—pride, perhaps, but also a quiet resignation.

Lucius stepped forward, his pale grey eyes assessing her. “Indeed. House Black has chosen well. Your poise does the family credit.”

Phoebe inclined her head, masking the flicker of unease that ran through her at his tone. “Thank you, Lord Malfoy.”

Lucius’s expression remained unreadable, though the slightest tension in his posture betrayed his restraint. He knew enough about Bellatrix’s pregnancy and the circumstances surrounding Phoebe’s birth to tread carefully. Heated words in public were not worth the potential fallout.

Draco, meanwhile, looked her up and down, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his tone almost casual. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Phoebe turned her attention to him, her gaze steady. “All good, I hope.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Mostly.”

“Perhaps you and Draco will have time to speak later,” Narcissa interjected smoothly, her eyes flicking between them. “I’m sure you’ll find common ground.”

Arcturus cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to himself. “We shall see. For now, there are many more introductions to be made.” He nodded to the Malfoys before steering Phoebe toward another group of allies, leaving Narcissa and her family behind.

As they moved through the crowd, Phoebe’s mind lingered on the encounter. Narcissa’s words, though polite, had carried an undercurrent she couldn’t quite place. Lucius’s appraisal had felt more like a calculation than a compliment, and Draco… she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet. His smirk had hinted at confidence, but there was something behind his eyes that suggested he was still weighing her. But there would be time to unravel those threads later. For now, she focused on the task at hand, determined to show the wizarding world that she was more than just her mother’s daughter.

The rest of the evening unfolded with similar moments of tension and triumph. Phoebe was introduced to numerous allies and neutrals within the wizarding world, each exchange a test of her composure and wit. Arcturus watched her closely, his stern expression softening occasionally when she handled a particularly challenging interaction with grace. As the orchestra played a lilting waltz, Phoebe allowed herself a moment to breathe, standing near the edge of the room with Harry and Daphne.

Harry, however, was not in their usual form. Disguised with their Metamorphmagus abilities, they had taken on the appearance of a young lady of similar age, one ostensibly from a cadet branch of the Greengrass family. Their auburn hair was tied in an elegant braid, and their robes were a soft shade of green, understated yet refined; glamour spells overlaid the disguise as well to hide the destructive lightning scar across her face. The disguise allowed Harry to attend without drawing undue attention, an arrangement orchestrated by Cassiopeia to keep Harry’s identity hidden from prying eyes.

“You did well,” Daphne said quietly, her green eyes filled with encouragement. “No one could doubt your place after tonight.”

Harry, their gaze flicking over the crowd, nodded in agreement. “And you handled the Malfoys better than I would have,” they said, their tone light but firm. “Especially Draco.”

Phoebe smirked faintly, her confidence beginning to return. “He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. But I’ll give him this—he’s persistent.”

Daphne chuckled. “Just don’t let him get to you. You’ve already won tonight, Phoebe. Everyone knows it.”

Harry’s disguised form smiled gently. “She’s right. And if anyone doubts it, they weren’t paying attention.”

Once the ball ends and the guests sent home, the hosts retire for evening but they are not done for the day yet.

In the dimly lit study of Greengrass Manor, the air was heavy with purpose as the adults gathered to strategise their next moves. The room exuded an aura of quiet authority, with its dark wood panelling, towering bookshelves filled with ancient tomes, and an imposing mahogany table that served as the centrepiece. Arcturus Black sat at the head, his silver-tipped cane resting against the table’s edge. Cassiopeia stood by the window, her sharp eyes scanning the moonlit grounds for any sign of trouble, while Andromeda leaned over a collection of parchments spread across the table, her brow furrowed in thought. Lord and Lady Greengrass, seated across from Arcturus, listened intently, their expressions measured but resolute as they reviewed the precarious balance of power within the wizarding world.

On the table before Cassiopeia lay a thick, weathered ledger, its leather cover embossed with the Black family crest. The pages were filled with decades’ worth of information, carefully curated and meticulously maintained by Cassiopeia herself. It was more than a record of alliances and resources—it was a weapon. Contained within were secrets and blackmail gathered during her time as Grindelwald’s spymaster, secrets she had continued to cultivate in service of House Black. Her sharp gaze shifted to the ledger, her expression unreadable.

“The Dark Faction will undoubtedly see Phoebe’s formal introduction as Heiress Black as a direct challenge to their influence,” Cassiopeia began, her voice clipped and precise. “Many of them still hold grudges from the war. They aligned with Voldemort for power, and they won’t accept the Black family consolidating strength independently of their input.”

She tapped a slender finger against the ledger. “Fortunately, we have leverage. Several of their key members have skeletons in their closets that they would prefer remain buried. I’ve ensured that we’re prepared to use that information if necessary.”

Andromeda glanced up, her tone steady but laced with concern. “And the Light is no better. Dumbledore’s influence grows unchecked. He’ll use every tool at his disposal to undermine us, particularly now that Harry is with us. He’s been scouring Privet Drive and other locations tied to Lily and James, hoping to reassert control over the boy.”

Arcturus leaned forward, his gaze hard and unyielding. “We will not allow Dumbledore or the Dark Faction to dictate the fate of House Black. Harry is safer here than he ever was under Dumbledore’s so-called care. But Cassiopeia is correct—we face enemies on all sides. The Dark Faction views us as a threat to their dominance, and the Light seeks to dismantle the old families entirely. If we are to survive, we must deal with them both.”

Lord Greengrass nodded, his expression grave. “The Neutral Bloc remains our strongest avenue of support, but even there, fractures are beginning to form. Some lean toward traditionalism, wary of the Light’s reforms, while others are tempted by Dumbledore’s promises of unity and justice. If he manages to sway them, it could destabilise everything we’ve worked for.”

Lady Greengrass, her tone calm but resolute, added, “We need to solidify Phoebe’s position further. The ball was a success, but public perception alone won’t sustain her claim. Tangible alliances are essential—trade agreements, mutual defence pacts, and, if necessary, marriages. We must show strength and stability, enough to deter both the Dark and the Light from interfering.”

Cassiopeia turned from the window, her sharp gaze fixing on the group. “The old alliances must be reinforced with clear terms. Vague promises are not enough; we need ironclad commitments. And Phoebe’s training must continue without interruption. She must be prepared to lead House Black with both strength and cunning.”

She flipped open the ledger, revealing a series of names accompanied by detailed annotations. “These are individuals we can pressure if necessary. Most are key figures within the Dark Faction, but there are also a few in the Neutral Bloc who would benefit from… encouragement to remain aligned with us.”

Andromeda leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Dumbledore’s eventual discovery of Harry’s location is inevitable. When that happens, he will leverage every ounce of his influence to reclaim him. We need a plan to counter his efforts, one that ensures Harry’s safety while maintaining our political momentum.”

Arcturus’s voice was steel. “Harry is not just the key to securing the future of House Black but also the linchpin of our alliances. If either Dumbledore or the Dark Faction suspect his importance, they will act decisively. Cassiopeia, I want additional wards placed around this estate immediately. Andromeda, increase surveillance on Dumbledore’s movements. We need to stay several steps ahead.”

Lord Greengrass spoke next, his tone measured. “Proactivity in the Wizengamot is crucial. The Neutral families must view House Black as a bastion of stability, a counterweight to the chaos sown by the extremes. If they see us as protectors of tradition and progress alike, they’ll align with us naturally.”

Lady Greengrass pressed her lips into a thin line. “The next few months will be critical. We must secure alliances that are binding and enduring. Additionally, we should discreetly approach families on the fringes of the Dark and Neutral Blocs. If we can draw them closer to our cause, it will weaken the power of the extremes.”

The discussion deepened, with each participant weighing in on the best strategies to navigate the treacherous waters ahead. Cassiopeia outlined potential magical contracts and defensive measures, while Andromeda detailed her plans to monitor Dumbledore’s network more closely. Lord Greengrass suggested leveraging House Black’s economic influence to incentivise loyalty, and Lady Greengrass proposed a series of public gestures to solidify Phoebe’s image as a unifying figure.

“We must also consider the possibility of escalation,” Cassiopeia said, her tone colder now. “If the Dark Faction becomes too aggressive, we may need to act preemptively. A show of force could dissuade their meddling.”

Andromeda frowned. “A delicate balance is required. If we’re too aggressive, we risk alienating the Neutral Bloc entirely. But if we’re too passive, we invite exploitation. We need precision, not brute force.”

Arcturus nodded approvingly. “Then precision it will be. We’ve already begun to shift the balance of power. Now, we must ensure our position is unassailable. Each move must be deliberate and decisive.”

The group fell into a momentary silence, the enormity of their task weighing heavily on them. Finally, Cassiopeia broke the quiet, her voice quiet but firm. “This is the price of reclaiming House Black’s place in the wizarding world. If we falter, everything we’ve built will crumble.”

Arcturus’s gaze swept the room, his expression resolute. “We will not falter. We will outmanoeuvre Dumbledore, neutralise the Dark Faction, and ensure that House Black not only survives but thrives. The future of the wizarding world depends on it.”

Outside, the moonlight bathed the estate in a serene glow, a quiet contrast to the storm of plans and ambitions unfolding within the walls of Greengrass Manor.

The cosy sitting room, tucked away in a quieter wing of Greengrass Manor, was a sanctuary of warmth and innocence, far removed from the heavy planning and strategy unfolding in the study. A fire crackled in the ornate hearth, its golden light dancing across walls lined with bookshelves and portraits of past Greengrass family members. The air carried a faint lavender scent from a charm Daphne’s mum had cast earlier, adding to the room’s relaxing atmosphere. Cushions and blankets covered the floor in a colourful, haphazard nest, and the trio of children lounged comfortably amidst scattered snacks and a pile of books they had enthusiastically unpacked but barely touched.

Harry sat cross-legged on a mountain of cushions, their small frame blending into the softness around them. Their black hair fell in loose, untidy waves around a face that seemed to shift subtly with the light, a reflection of their emerging Metamorphmagus abilities. Tonight, they wore pale blue silk pyjamas—a feminine cut with a buttoned shirt and trousers that shimmered slightly in the firelight, the outfit perfectly complementing the brightness of their green eyes. Beside them, Phoebe lounged in a burgundy robe trimmed with silver embroidery that framed her dark curls, which were slightly mussed from an earlier attempt to create a braided crown. Daphne, always the meticulous one, had chosen pale green satin pyjamas that shimmered as she moved, her golden hair tied back neatly with a ribbon. The three of them, at only seven years old, seemed almost dwarfed by the grand room, but their infectious energy filled the space as they argued animatedly over an enchanted board game that lit up with magical sparks each time a piece was moved.

“You can’t move diagonally like that,” Daphne declared, her tone firm but playful as she pointed at the figurines on the board. One of them, a tiny wizard with a crooked hat, was now hopping indignantly at Phoebe’s attempt to cheat.

Phoebe huffed dramatically, crossing her arms as her grey eyes sparkled with mock annoyance. “Of course I can. It’s in the rules… somewhere,” she said, grinning mischievously as she slid the piece back into position before Daphne could challenge her further.

Harry leaned forward, their chin resting on one hand as they watched the exchange. “I think you just made that up,” they said, their voice carrying an amused lilt. “You always find a way to win these games, Phoebe. It’s suspicious.”

Phoebe gasped, clutching her chest in mock offence. “How dare you question my honour as a Black?” she exclaimed dramatically before breaking into a fit of giggles and tossing a pillow at Harry, who caught it easily.

“You’ve no honour when it comes to games,” Daphne teased, her green eyes glinting with humour as she moved one of her own pieces across the board. “Honestly, Harry, I think we should team up and take her down.”

Phoebe narrowed her eyes, her expression turning mock-serious. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? Two against one? I’ll remember this betrayal.”

Harry chuckled, tossing the pillow back at Phoebe. “You’d still win. You’ve got that devious Black mind of yours.”

Phoebe smirked, clearly pleased by the compliment, even if it was wrapped in teasing. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

The game dissolved into a flurry of laughter as Phoebe retaliated with another pillow toss, and soon the trio was engaged in a full-on pillow fight. Cushions flew through the air, blankets tangled around their legs, and shrieks of laughter echoed off the high ceilings. The enchanted board game was abandoned entirely as Harry’s agile dodges, Daphne’s precision throws, and Phoebe’s relentless enthusiasm turned the room into a battlefield of feathers and giggles.

When they finally collapsed onto the cushions, breathless and grinning, the firelight illuminated their flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Daphne plucked a grape from a nearby bowl and popped it into her mouth, sitting up just enough to glance toward the direction of the study. “Do you think they’re plotting world domination down there?” she asked, her tone conspiratorial.

“Probably,” Harry replied, their voice dry but fond as they stretched out their legs, silk trousers catching the firelight. “It’s a Black speciality, isn’t it?”

Phoebe grinned, stretching her arms overhead as she sprawled out lazily. “Absolutely. And when they’re done, they’ll expect us to carry out all their brilliant schemes.”

“Well, if they are, at least we’ve got each other,” Daphne said, leaning back onto the cushions. She glanced between her friends with a small smile. “Whatever happens, we’re a team, right?”

Harry and Phoebe both nodded without hesitation, their expressions softening with warmth.

“A team,” Phoebe agreed, reaching out to squeeze Daphne’s hand briefly before turning to Harry. “And you’re stuck with us now, Potter.”

Harry smiled, their androgynous features lighting up. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Daphne’s gaze lingered on her friends for a moment before she flopped back onto the cushions with a contented sigh. “Good, because if we’re going to take over the wizarding world someday, we’re going to need a lot more practice at teamwork.”

Phoebe snorted. “Taking over the world isn’t that hard. It’s keeping it that’s the real trick.”

“Spoken like a true Black,” Harry said with a grin, shaking their head.

The fire crackled softly as the trio settled deeper into their makeshift nest. Phoebe tugged a blanket over her legs, Harry picked up a book from the nearby stack and flipped idly through the pages, and Daphne, ever imaginative, began tracing intricate patterns in the air with her fingers, mimicking spells she’d seen her parents perform. Though none of them had wands yet, their gestures were filled with the promise of the magic that would someday shape their futures.

The weight of their respective destinies seemed far away in that moment, replaced by the warmth of friendship and the joy of simply being children. Wrapped in the soft glow of the firelight and the comfort of each other’s company, the trio let the world beyond the sitting room fade away, if only for a little while.

As the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting warm shadows across the walls, the trio’s conversation shifted to quieter, more reflective topics. Harry had set aside the book they’d been flipping through, their gaze resting on the flickering flames. Phoebe had cocooned herself in a blanket, her dark curls peeking out as she leaned against a pile of cushions. Daphne, ever meticulous, was sorting through the abandoned snacks, her green eyes thoughtful as she spoke.

“Do you think they’ll ever tell us everything?” Daphne asked, her voice soft but carrying an edge of curiosity. “About what they’re planning?”

Harry shrugged, their expression contemplative. “Probably not. At least, not until we’re older. They think we’re too young to understand.”

Phoebe snorted, her grey eyes peeking out from the blanket. “Too young? That’s rich, coming from them. Half the stories they tell about when they were our age make it sound like they were running the world already.”

Daphne’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Maybe they think they’re protecting us. Maybe they’re waiting for the right time.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, their voice quiet. They glanced at Phoebe, who was now frowning slightly. “Does it bother you?”

Phoebe hesitated, her fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “Not… really. It’s just… I don’t like feeling left out. This is my family, you know? And if I’m supposed to be the Heiress, shouldn’t I know what’s going on?”

Harry nodded, their expression sympathetic. “It makes sense. You’re going to have to make decisions someday. Big ones. Maybe bigger than they ever had to make.”

Daphne set aside the snack bowl she’d been organising and scooted closer to Phoebe. “You’ll get there. They’re probably just waiting until you’re ready. You already have more responsibilities than even I do with how much Lord Black involves you.”

Phoebe let out a quiet sigh, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks, Daph. You always know what to say.”

Harry leaned back against the cushions, their expression softening as they watched their friends. “Well, when you’re ready to take over the world, I’ll be right there. Just don’t forget to let me plan the secret tunnels.”

Phoebe giggled, the tension melting from her face. “Deal. And Daphne can handle all the diplomatic stuff. She’s good at talking to people without making them want to hex her.”

Daphne rolled her eyes but laughed. “I’ll consider it, but only if you promise not to start unnecessary wars.”

The trio fell into comfortable silence after that, the crackling fire and the distant murmur of adult voices from the study filling the room. Phoebe’s blanket cocoon had loosened slightly, and she was absently tracing shapes on the cushions with her fingers. Harry was watching the fire again, their expression unreadable but calm. Daphne, ever the practical one, pulled a sketchpad from beneath one of the cushions and began doodling with a charcoal pencil she’d found earlier.

“What are you drawing?” Phoebe asked after a while, leaning over to peek.

Daphne shrugged, holding up the pad. “Just ideas for our world domination plans. See? This one is your castle. It’s got a tower for secret meetings and a really big balcony for dramatic speeches.”

Phoebe’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Perfect. Can you add a dungeon for enemies? And maybe a room just for snacks.”

“Consider it done,” Daphne said with a mock-serious nod as she added the details.

Harry chuckled softly. “If you’re drawing castles, you’d better give me a hidden library. And maybe a secret passage behind a bookshelf.”

Daphne grinned. “You got it.”

The night stretched on, their conversation ebbing and flowing as they planned their imaginary empire, shared stories, and teased each other. Phoebe began sketching a flag for their future kingdom, while Harry provided increasingly absurd ideas for secret escape routes and magical contraptions. Daphne took it all in stride, adding every suggestion with meticulous detail, even if the end result was more fantastical than functional.

The outside world, with all its complexities and dangers, seemed distant and unimportant in those moments. Here, in the glow of the fire and the warmth of their friendship, they could be just children, dreaming of futures full of possibilities. Every laugh and every teasing remark built an unspoken bond between them, a connection that promised they would face whatever came together.

Eventually, their laughter quieted, and their movements slowed. Phoebe had fully cocooned herself again, her eyes fluttering closed as she mumbled something incoherent. Harry lay back with their arms crossed behind their head, their breathing even as their gaze softened, watching the last embers of the fire. Daphne’s charcoal pencil slipped from her fingers as she dozed off, the sketchpad still open on her lap.

The room fell into peaceful silence, the warmth of the fire wrapping around the trio like a protective shield.

As the last embers of the fire faded into a soft glow, Cassiopeia’s footsteps passed by the closed door. She paused for a moment, sensing the tranquillity inside, and allowed herself a faint smile before continuing toward the study. The sound of her steps disappeared down the hall, leaving the children undisturbed in their cocoon of safety and friendship.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

IV

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The months and year after the ball were a whirlwind of quiet reflection and subtle shifts for Harry. The warmth of the trio’s friendship continued to grow, but something deeper was stirring within them—a change they couldn’t yet name but felt in every quiet moment. Cassiopeia’s lessons had become more focused, and Arcturus’s watchful eye seemed softer, as if he were seeing something new in them. Phoebe and Daphne, as always, provided a steady source of laughter and encouragement, but even their presence couldn’t quell the questions forming in Harry’s mind.

Phoebe, however, was rarely still. The Black Madness simmered beneath her surface like a low-burning ember, manifesting in her day-to-day life in ways both subtle and stark. Her protectiveness over her friends often bordered on possessiveness, her tone sharp and unwavering when she felt anyone, even a stranger, dared to look at Harry or Daphne the wrong way. She could shift from playful to intense in the blink of an eye, her eyes taking on a gleam of silver that seemed almost otherworldly. Small frustrations—a book out of place, an argument lost—would sometimes bring a crackle of magic to her fingertips, the scent of ozone and smoke lingering faintly in the air.

One afternoon, as sunlight streamed into the library at Castle Black, Harry sat curled up on a window seat, staring out at the gardens. Their hair, slightly longer now, caught the light, and their features seemed softer—a reflection of the changes they had begun exploring in themself. They had experimented subtly with their Metamorphmagus abilities, finding that they felt most comfortable when her appearance leaned toward the feminine. Even their pronouns had begun to shift; some days, they felt like they fit within “they/them,” while other days, they gravitated toward “she/her.”

Phoebe and Daphne found them in the library, as they often did. Phoebe plopped down dramatically onto the opposite end of the window seat, her curls bouncing as she grinned. Daphne, more composed, settled into a chair nearby, her green eyes studying Harry curiously.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Phoebe said, tilting her head. Her tone was light, but there was a flicker of intensity in her gaze, as if she were ready to pounce on any threat that might trouble her friend. “That’s not like you.”

Harry glanced at their friends, their expression uncertain. “I… I’ve been thinking about something,” they said softly.

Daphne leaned forward slightly. “What is it?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious.

Harry hesitated, their fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. “I’ve been… trying to figure out who I am. I mean, really am.” They looked down, their voice growing quieter. “When I was living with the Dursleys, I was always just ‘boy’ or ‘freak’. Then here, I’ve been Harry, and that’s been better. But… I don’t think it’s really me.”

Phoebe’s expression softened immediately, but her fingers clenched briefly around the edge of the cushion she sat on. The thought of anyone belittling Harry—or hurting them—sent a ripple of magic through her. She reached out to place a hand on Harry’s knee, her grip firm but reassuring. “What do you mean?”

Harry glanced between their friends, their green eyes filled with uncertainty but also resolve. “I think… I think I want a new name. Something that feels more like me. And… I’ve been trying out different pronouns in my head. Sometimes they/them feels right. Sometimes she/her does. I don’t know if I’ll ever settle completely, but I think I’m ready to take this step.”

Daphne’s smile was warm, and she nodded encouragingly. “That’s a big decision, but it sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot. Have you picked a name?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed faintly, and they gave a small, hesitant smile. “I… I think I like Violet. It’s simple, but it feels… right. Like it fits me better than Harry ever did.”

Phoebe’s grin widened, and she clapped her hands together. “Violet! I love it. It suits you. And if anyone doesn’t like it, they can deal with me. And trust me, they won’t enjoy the experience.” Her grey eyes seemed to darken slightly, a hint of the fierce protectiveness that came with the Black family magic. There was a possessive energy in her tone, the kind that promised she’d go to any lengths to shield those she cared about. “You’re part of this family, Violet. That means no one gets to hurt you—not without answering to me.” Her fingers flexed slightly, as though her magic was already poised to enforce the promise.

Violet laughed softly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Thanks, Phoebe. And Daphne?”

Daphne’s expression was steady and sincere. “Violet is a beautiful name, and if it feels like you, then it’s perfect. We’re with you, no matter what.”

Relief flooded Violet’s features, and she leaned back against the window, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thanks. I was nervous about telling you, but… it feels good to say it out loud.”

Phoebe leaned closer, her grey eyes sparkling, the earlier intensity replaced by warmth. “Well, get used to hearing it, because I’m going to say it all the time. Violet, Violet, Violet!”

Violet rolled her eyes, laughing. “All right, all right, I get it. You like the name.”

“Of course I do,” Phoebe said with a grin. “And you’re still you, just with a better name now.”

Daphne’s voice was softer but no less supportive. “We’ll always have your back, Violet. Always.”

The warmth of their acceptance wrapped around Violet like a second blanket, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly seen. The name felt like hers now, a piece of her identity she had claimed for herself. With Phoebe and Daphne beside her, she knew she could face whatever came next with confidence and strength.

That evening, the three of them lingered in the library, the soft glow of the setting sun bathing the room in gold. Phoebe insisted on using Violet’s new name in every sentence, whether it made sense or not, much to Violet’s amusement and Daphne’s feigned exasperation. The intensity of Phoebe’s earlier reactions had softened, but her magic still seemed to hum faintly in the air, a reminder of the fiery emotions that came so naturally to her.

“Violet,” Phoebe began, her voice mock-serious, “I believe it’s your turn to pick a book for our next lesson.”

“Lesson?” Violet echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I thought we were just arguing over which story has the better magical creatures.”

Daphne chimed in, her tone wry. “It’s always a lesson with Phoebe. She’s practising to be an all-knowing Heiress.”

Phoebe sniffed, tossing her curls dramatically. “Of course I am. And you two are my loyal council. What kind of Heiress would I be without you?”

“A bored one,” Violet teased, her smile widening as she leaned back against the cushions. “We keep you grounded.”

“And entertained,” Daphne added, her lips quirking into a small smile.

The playful banter continued late into the evening, with Phoebe and Daphne taking turns teasing Violet and celebrating her new name in equal measure. As the stars began to twinkle outside, they finally settled into a comfortable silence, each of them basking in the warmth of their friendship.

Violet closed her eyes briefly, letting the moment wash over her. For the first time, she felt like she truly belonged—not as someone she was expected to be, but as the person she had chosen to become. The name Violet wasn’t just a label; it was a declaration, a step toward becoming her truest self.

When Cassiopeia peeked into the library to call them for dinner, she paused, her sharp eyes taking in the relaxed smiles on their faces. “Come along, you three,” she said, her voice carrying a rare note of softness. “We don’t want the food to get cold.”

Phoebe hopped to her feet with exaggerated enthusiasm, tugging Daphne up by the arm. Violet followed, her movements lighter than they’d been in weeks. 

And as they entered the dining room, surrounded by the warmth of family and friends, Violet felt a growing certainty that she wasn’t alone on her journey. Whatever the future held, she had a name, a voice, and the people who would stand by her side every step of the way.

It had been a few days since Violet had shared her new name with Phoebe and Daphne, and the change had settled into their lives with an ease that surprised even her. Daphne had taken to it with her characteristic grace, while Phoebe, in her typical fashion, embraced it with fierce enthusiasm, refusing to let anyone misstep around her friend. But the true test came when Violet’s new name needed to be shared with the adults.

The day began quietly enough. Arcturus had called the trio to his study for a discussion about their upcoming lessons. Violet stood just behind Daphne as Phoebe, always bold, stepped forward to speak first. The moment Arcturus’s sharp eyes landed on Violet, he greeted her with his usual formality.

“Harry, step forward,” he said, his tone commanding yet even.

The effect on Phoebe was instantaneous. Her entire posture stiffened, and her grey eyes flashed with a sudden intensity that caught even Daphne off guard. The air seemed to hum with energy, her magic sparking to the surface in an instant. The faint scent of ozone and smoke accompanied her fury as her hair began to wave behind her, as though caught in an unfelt wind. It was wild, untamed, and eerily reminiscent of the way Bellatrix’s hair would whip around her during duels, a clear sign that the Black Madness was clawing its way to the surface.

“Her name is Violet!” Phoebe’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Her hands flexed, and faint tendrils of lightning flickered around her fingertips, the magic demanding release. The flames in the room’s hearth seemed to roar momentarily, as if feeding on her emotions. Her magic surged outward in waves, filling the air with a palpable intensity that made the atmosphere feel charged and unsteady.

Arcturus arched an eyebrow, his expression cool but curious. “Excuse me?”

Phoebe stepped in front of Violet, her small frame vibrating with tension. “She’s not Harry anymore. She told us—she told us her name is Violet, and you will call her that.” Her words came out fast, each one more forceful than the last, her hands clenching at her sides as if restraining herself from unleashing the storm within. Her hair seemed almost alive now, swirling with the intensity of her emotions, each strand catching the light like tiny arcs of static.

“Phoebe,” Daphne began, her voice calm but tinged with worry, “take a breath.”

But Phoebe wasn’t listening. “No,” she said, glaring up at Arcturus, her voice low and trembling with restrained anger. “She deserves respect. You don’t get to act like what she feels doesn’t matter.”

The room crackled with Phoebe’s magic, the scent of smoke thickening as faint embers flickered around her. Her hair whipped violently, and her eyes gleamed silver, her magic almost palpable. The Black Madness coursed through her, the need to protect Violet overriding every other thought. For a moment, it seemed as if the storm might truly break, her magic radiating outward in a dangerous crescendo, the sharp tang of ozone mingling with the warmth of the flames.

Violet, sensing the building storm, placed a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder. As her fingers connected with Phoebe’s arm, her own magic reacted instinctively. A warm, vibrant crackle surged through her, not in anger but in a radiant sense of joy and belonging. Her magic shimmered faintly in response, a soft glow that contrasted Phoebe’s fiery storm. The interplay of their magics created a brief harmony, like a melody reaching its crescendo before settling into a calm refrain. “Phoebe,” she said softly, her voice steady but kind. “It’s okay. Let me tell him.”

Phoebe’s gaze flicked to Violet, and for a moment, the intensity in her eyes wavered. She inhaled sharply, her magic receding like a wave pulling back from the shore, though her hair still swayed faintly as if reluctant to settle. Her fists unclenched slowly, the embers around her flickering out one by one. With a stiff nod, she stepped aside, but not without shooting Arcturus a look that promised she’d be watching.

Violet stepped forward, her cheeks flushed but her expression resolute. “Lord Black,” she began, her voice steady despite the lingering tension in the room. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve chosen a new name. I’m Violet now. It feels more like me.”

Arcturus studied her for a long moment, his sharp features inscrutable. Then, slowly, he inclined his head. “Violet,” he said, testing the name. His tone was measured, respectful. “It suits you.”

The relief in the room was palpable. Violet smiled faintly, and Daphne let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Phoebe, still tense, crossed her arms but said nothing, her eyes still glinting with defiance.

Arcturus shifted his gaze to Phoebe, his expression hardening just slightly. “You are protective of your friends,” he said, his tone even. “That is a strength. But control that fire, Phoebe. You will need it tempered if you are to lead.”

Phoebe’s jaw tightened, her fists clenching briefly as if resisting the urge to argue. Her magic simmered just beneath the surface, her hair still gently waving with residual energy. But she nodded, her voice clipped. “Yes, sir,” she muttered, though her eyes still burned.

Violet stepped closer to Phoebe, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for Phoebe to hear. “You always have my back.”

Phoebe’s lips quirked into a small, hesitant smile, the fire in her eyes dimming to a warm glow. “Always,” she replied, her hair finally settling back into place as the storm within her calmed. The scent of ozone and smoke lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of how close she had come to letting her emotions take over.

Daphne moved to stand beside them, her calm presence grounding them both. She looked between them with a soft sigh, her green eyes flickering with understanding. “Let’s try to avoid more magical storms, shall we?” she said lightly, earning a quiet chuckle from Violet and a small grin from Phoebe.

As the trio left the study, the weight of the confrontation began to lift, though the lingering currents of magic still brushed against them faintly. Phoebe’s steps were slower now, her earlier fury tempered by Violet’s steady presence. The three of them walked together, their bond unspoken but unmistakably strong. They were ready to face whatever came next—united, as always.

The tension still lingered as Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne left Arcturus’s study, the heavy door closing with a finality that seemed to echo in the silence. Though the confrontation was over, the charged energy hadn’t entirely dissipated. Phoebe’s magic still simmered just beneath her skin, a restless storm unwilling to fully calm, while Violet’s own magic hummed brightly, basking in the warmth of Phoebe’s protectiveness.

Daphne led the way back to their small nook in the library, her steps measured and deliberate. She glanced back at her friends, her green eyes calm but observant, taking in Phoebe’s still-slightly-wild hair and Violet’s faint glow. Phoebe’s curls seemed to carry a life of their own, as though reflecting the sparks of electricity still rolling under her skin, while Violet’s soft shimmer lent her an ethereal glow. The interplay of their magics was almost tangible, brushing against each other like warm currents meeting sharp waves, and Daphne found herself grateful for the calm neutrality of her own presence.

“You two are going to burn the whole manor down one day,” Daphne remarked lightly, her tone teasing but carrying a hint of exasperation. “It’s a good thing I’m here to keep you grounded.”

Phoebe huffed, running a hand through her curls, which only made them wilder. “We didn’t burn anything this time,” she said, her voice still tinged with the remnants of her earlier intensity. “And anyway, he deserved it. Calling her the wrong name? He’s lucky I didn’t blow something up.”

Violet let out a soft laugh, the sound light and warm. “Thank you, Phoebe,” she said, her voice steady but touched with affection. “You didn’t have to go that far, though.”

“Of course I did,” Phoebe shot back, her grey eyes glinting with a possessive edge. “No one disrespects you. Not even Lord Black.”

As they entered the cozy nook tucked away in the far corner of the library, Daphne shook her head and gestured toward the pillows and blankets strewn across the floor. The small space was their sanctuary, filled with warm lighting and shelves lined with books they had partially read but fully claimed as theirs. “Come on, both of you. Sit down before you start sparking again.”

Phoebe and Violet exchanged a glance, their magics still swirling faintly around them, dancing in the air like invisible currents. Phoebe’s was electric, sharp and fiery, while Violet’s pulsed with a gentler warmth, the two energies brushing against each other in a way that felt almost playful. The sensation was both comforting and invigorating, as though their magic recognised and responded to each other’s presence. They settled into the pile of cushions, though Phoebe’s movements were still a bit too quick, her hands fidgeting as if she couldn’t quite sit still.

Daphne, ever the picture of calm, dropped into the pile beside them and pulled a soft blanket over her lap. “Honestly, the two of you are exhausting sometimes,” she said, though her tone was affectionate. “But I suppose that’s what I signed up for.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at her lips. “Oh, come on, Daph. You love it. Admit it.”

Daphne didn’t dignify that with a response, instead reaching for a book that had been left nearby. Violet, still feeling the warmth of her magic mingling with Phoebe’s, leaned back against the cushions and let out a contented sigh. The earlier intensity had begun to ebb, replaced by a quiet sense of comfort. Her magic, however, continued to hum softly, as though basking in the shared moment, reaching out instinctively to Phoebe’s.

Phoebe, however, wasn’t ready to let the moment settle completely. With a sudden burst of movement, she grabbed a nearby pillow and tossed it at Daphne, who caught it with a practised ease.

“Really?” Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, really,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Then, without warning, she lunged forward and pulled both Daphne and Violet into the centre of the pile, wrapping her arms around them in an impromptu hug that knocked them all over. The soft thud of pillows scattering around them was accompanied by squeals and laughter as they tumbled together.

“Phoebe!” Daphne protested, though she didn’t bother trying to escape. Instead, she shifted to sit more comfortably, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re impossible.”

Violet laughed, the sound bright and free, as she adjusted her position to lean against Phoebe. “You really are,” she said, but her tone was filled with fondness.

“I know,” Phoebe replied smugly, her magic finally settling into a calm hum as she rested her chin on Violet’s shoulder. The residual sparks from her earlier storm faded into a warm, protective energy that seemed to wrap around them both. “But you love me anyway.”

Daphne sighed dramatically, though the faint smile on her lips betrayed her. “I suppose someone has to keep you out of trouble,” she said.

Violet closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their combined presence wash over her. Her magic thrummed gently, responding to Phoebe’s with a happiness that felt almost tangible. It wasn’t often she felt truly seen and protected, and the depth of Phoebe’s protectiveness made her feel something akin to pride, a glow that reached far beyond her magic. The interplay of their magics created a soft hum in the air, an unspoken bond forged in shared moments and fierce loyalty.

Phoebe, always restless, shifted slightly to pull another blanket over the group, cocooning them all in a tangle of warmth. “We’re unstoppable,” she declared, her voice full of certainty.

Daphne snorted softly. “Unstoppable at causing chaos, maybe.”

“Chaos is part of the charm,” Phoebe quipped, her grey eyes twinkling with mischief. She nudged Violet lightly. “Right, Violet?”

“Right,” Violet agreed with a laugh. “But only if Daphne keeps us grounded.”

Daphne rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, instead settling more deeply into the cushions. “Fine, but only because someone has to keep an eye on you two.”

The three of them stayed like that for what felt like hours, tangled together in the pile of pillows and blankets. Their laughter and teasing gave way to a serene silence, each of them basking in the comfort of their shared space. The magic still lingered faintly, a quiet reminder of their unspoken connection. Though the events of the day had been intense, here in their little nook, the trio felt safe and whole, their friendship steady as an anchor amid the ever-shifting currents of their lives.

As the light of the mid-afternoon filtered through the library’s high windows, Phoebe let out a contented sigh and closed her eyes. “You know,” Phoebe murmured after a while, her voice drowsy but filled with quiet certainty, “no matter what happens, as long as we have this, we’ll be fine.”

Violet smiled, her own magic pulsing gently in agreement, brushing against Phoebe’s in a silent affirmation. “Always,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her belief in the strength of their bond.

Daphne didn’t respond aloud, but the way she shifted closer to her friends spoke volumes. She reached out, her hand briefly resting on Violet’s before moving to lightly tap Phoebe’s shoulder. “You two are impossible,” she said, her tone a mix of exasperation and affection. “But I suppose I wouldn’t change it.”

As the evening deepened and the warm glow from the setting sun dimmed to twilight, the library took on an even cosier hue. The shelves, packed with centuries of knowledge and secrets, seemed to embrace the trio in a protective cocoon. The enchanted lights flickered gently, casting soft shadows that danced across the walls. The faint aroma of old parchment and polished wood filled the air, wrapping the room in a soothing, timeless ambience. The trio hadn’t moved much, nestled comfortably in their shared cocoon of blankets and pillows. The room carried a serene stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the crackle of distant magical wards.

Phoebe’s earlier storm of magic had entirely mellowed, though her protectiveness still lingered in the way she draped an arm over Violet, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the soft blanket. Occasionally, she gave Daphne playful nudges, her ever-present energy simmering just beneath the surface, ready to spring forth if needed. Violet, leaning against her, exuded a warm, contented glow, her green eyes half-lidded with relaxation. Daphne sat at the edge of the pile, her back propped against a cushion as she lazily flipped through a book, her calm presence grounding the group with an unspoken stability.

“D’you think Arcturus was surprised?” Phoebe asked suddenly, her voice breaking the comfortable silence. Her tone was laced with curiosity and a hint of satisfaction.

“Surprised you didn’t burn the study down, maybe,” Daphne replied without looking up from her book, though there was a teasing lilt to her tone. The corner of her mouth quirked upward as she turned a page, her subtle humour cutting through the stillness.

“I think he respected it,” Violet added thoughtfully. She leaned her head back against Phoebe’s shoulder, her green eyes reflecting the faint glow of the library’s enchanted lights. “He might not admit it, but he appreciates passion. Even if it almost set his curtains on fire.”

Phoebe snickered, clearly pleased with the thought. She shifted slightly, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief. “Good. He should know that no one gets to mess with us.” Her voice carried the fierce protectiveness that had always defined her, a lingering echo of the Black family’s deep, emotional ties. Her fingers tightened slightly on Violet’s shoulder, as if reaffirming her silent vow.

Daphne finally glanced up, her green eyes sharp but kind. She rested the open book on her lap and raised an eyebrow at Phoebe. “You don’t need to fight every battle. Especially when Violet’s perfectly capable of speaking for herself.”

Phoebe’s expression softened at Daphne’s words. She glanced at Violet, her gaze earnest and unguarded. “I know,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I just… I don’t want anyone to make you feel small again.” There was a vulnerability in her tone, a reflection of the deep bond she shared with her friends and the intensity of the Black family magic that surged through her.

Violet’s smile was warm and reassuring. She reached up to squeeze Phoebe’s hand lightly, the gesture filled with affection. “You’re not going to let that happen. None of you are,” she said confidently, her voice carrying a note of gratitude that resonated deeply in the quiet room. Her magic pulsed faintly, a soft, comforting rhythm that seemed to reach out to Phoebe’s own.

“And we never will,” Daphne said firmly, her voice steady and certain. She closed her book with a decisive snap and settled back into the cushions, crossing her legs beneath her. “But for now, can we agree to focus on something other than confrontations?”

Phoebe grinned, her mischievous spark returning. “Fine. What should we focus on instead? Chaos? Mischief? Stealing cookies from the kitchen?”

Violet laughed, her voice light and carefree, the sound like a balm to the lingering tension in the air. “How about just being here? This is nice.”

“Boring,” Phoebe declared dramatically, though she made no move to leave their cosy pile. Her grin softened into something fond as she glanced between her friends. “But I guess I can handle boring if it’s with you two.”

Daphne rolled her eyes, but her faint smile betrayed her amusement. “We’ll take that as a compliment,” she said dryly, reaching for her book again but not opening it. Instead, she leaned back against the cushions, her posture relaxed as she watched the interplay between her friends.

The trio lapsed back into a comfortable silence, the unspoken bond between them stronger than ever. Phoebe rested her chin lightly on Violet’s shoulder, her grey eyes thoughtful but content. Daphne’s presence, calm and steady, felt like an anchor, balancing the dynamic energy that swirled between the other two. Outside, the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, their faint light filtering through the enchanted windows and casting a soft glow over the room. The warm hues of twilight shifted seamlessly into the cool blues of evening, the library becoming a haven bathed in gentle magic.

Within their little corner of the library, time seemed to stand still. The weight of the world outside, with its politics and expectations, felt distant and unimportant. Here, in this moment, nothing else mattered but the warmth of their friendship and the quiet hum of magic that bound them together. Every breath they took seemed to harmonise with the rhythm of their connection, their laughter and trust wrapping around them like an invisible shield.

Together, they let the world fade away. The faint hum of their intertwined magics created an almost imperceptible rhythm in the air, a testament to the bond that had grown stronger with every shared moment. Wrapped in warmth, laughter, and trust, they knew they had found something unbreakable—a sanctuary that no external force could touch.

As the night deepened, the trio remained in their cocoon, exchanging quiet jokes and shared memories that felt like small treasures. Phoebe eventually began to doze off, her breathing evening out as her head lolled gently against Violet. Daphne watched them both with a soft, almost maternal expression, her book forgotten as she let herself savour the peace of the moment. After a while, Daphne shifted closer to Phoebe, leaning into her opposite side, finding comfort in the warmth and steady rhythm of her friend’s breathing. Phoebe’s arm instinctively adjusted to drape over Daphne as well, pulling her closer in a gesture of unspoken affection. They were safe here, enveloped in the quiet glow of the library, and in this shared warmth, they carried the strength to face whatever lay ahead.

~~

The morning sun poured golden light over Castle Black, warming the stone pathways and dew-kissed garden. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, accompanied by the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. The distant hum of magical wards blended seamlessly with the natural sounds, creating a tranquil harmony. After a leisurely breakfast filled with sleepy laughter and teasing exchanges, Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne had taken their books and notes to the garden, settling on a wide stone bench surrounded by fragrant greenery and vibrant blooms.

Phoebe, ever the least inclined toward academic diligence, stretched lazily, her curls falling into her eyes as she yawned. Her potions textbook lay open in her lap, more ignored than read. Despite her best intentions, the words blurred together in her sleepy mind.

“Why do half of these ingredients sound like they’re meant to poison someone?” Phoebe grumbled, running her finger over a list of particularly gruesome items. Her grey eyes narrowed at the mention of powdered ashwinder eggs.

Daphne, sitting upright with impeccable posture, didn’t glance up from her meticulously organised notes. “Because some of them are. You’d know that if you paid attention for more than a minute,” she said, her tone light but edged with the faintest teasing.

“Efficiency means skimming,” Phoebe shot back, tilting her head and smirking at Daphne. Her mischievous energy was only slightly muted by the drowsiness still clinging to her. “Right, Violet?”

Violet, seated cross-legged on the bench beside Phoebe, smiled faintly. “Efficiently missing half the content, sure,” she teased, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. She leaned over to jot down a note, her voice soft but playful. “Whatever helps you justify it.”

Before Phoebe could deliver a retort, a rustling sound in the nearby flowerbed caught their attention. All three froze momentarily, their gazes snapping toward the source. A sleek, emerald-green snake emerged from the underbrush, its smooth scales gleaming in the sunlight. It moved leisurely across the garden path, its head lifting slightly as though surveying the trio.

Phoebe, still groggy from the late night in the library, leaned forward instinctively. “Hello there,” she murmured, her voice slipping into a low, melodic hiss.

The snake paused, its tongue flicking out as it seemed to consider her words. “Warm sun today,” it responded, its sibilant voice curling in the air like smoke.

A heartbeat passed before Phoebe’s eyes widened, realisation dawning as she stiffened. She glanced quickly at her friends, a flicker of worry crossing her features. Daphne, however, leaned forward with an expression of pure focus.

“You’ve picked a good spot,” Daphne hissed, her voice matching the fluid cadence of the snake’s speech. The snake turned its head toward her, seemingly intrigued.

Violet blinked, her brows furrowing as she looked between Phoebe and Daphne. “What are you two doing?” she asked, her tone bewildered but curious. Then, as if on instinct, she leaned closer to the snake. Her voice slipped into an unpracticed but unmistakable hiss. “Are they bothering you?”

The snake’s tongue flicked again, its head tilting toward Violet. “Strange humans,” it remarked, its tone almost amused.

The three girls stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment, the implications of what had just happened settling in. Daphne was the first to recover, her expression cool but her green eyes alight with understanding.

“You both speak Parseltongue,” Daphne stated, her voice calm but carrying a weight of curiosity. “That’s… unexpected.”

Phoebe’s shoulders slumped slightly as she groaned. “I’ve been careful not to let that slip for years, and I ruin it because I was half-asleep?”

“You’ve known since you were little?” Daphne asked, tilting her head slightly. Her tone carried a faint edge, as though she were piecing together a puzzle. “Me too.”

Violet, meanwhile, looked between them, her green eyes wide. “Wait—Parseltongue? Is that what this is?” She hesitated, her lips pressing together as if she wasn’t sure whether to admit what she was thinking. “I didn’t even know it was a thing. I just… understood it.”

“It’s rare,” Daphne said evenly, though her gaze softened as it settled on Violet. “And not always viewed kindly.”

Phoebe leaned back with a groan, running a hand through her curls. “Great. Now we all know we’re snake whisperers. This is going to make life so much simpler.”

“Or more complicated,” Daphne muttered, though there was a glimmer of humour in her voice. “It depends on how you look at it.”

The snake flicked its tongue one last time before slithering back into the underbrush, leaving the trio to their revelation. Violet let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, her gaze shifting between her friends.

“Well,” she said, her voice tentative but light, “at least I’m not alone in this.”

Phoebe chuckled, her earlier tension melting away. “You’re definitely not. If anything, this makes us a more dangerous team.”

“And it’s another secret we’ll keep,” Daphne added firmly, her green eyes glinting with resolve. “Just between us.”

The three shared a glance, the weight of their shared discovery settling comfortably between them. And as they turned back to their books, the garden seemed just a little brighter, their bond a little stronger.

The sprawling grounds of Castle Black stretched out like a canvas beneath the brilliant midday sun. The wide-open fields were perfect for the trio’s first flying lesson, and the gentle breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers. Rolling hills framed the horizon, and the vibrant green of the grass seemed almost to shimmer under the clear blue sky. A line of sleek brooms lay neatly arranged on the grass, their polished handles gleaming in the light. Nearby, the castle’s high towers stood as silent witnesses to the day’s events.

Cassiopeia stood at the edge of the field, her sharp eyes scanning the grounds with the practiced vigilance of someone who had seen her fair share of chaos. Beside her, Andromeda and Evaline exchanged knowing glances, each holding a calm but expectant demeanor. Astoria, too young for her own proper flight, sat on a low training broom nearby, her feet dangling as she experimented with the minimal hovering height it allowed. Her excited giggles provided a cheerful counterpoint to the steady rustling of the breeze.

“Remember,” Cassiopeia began, her voice clear and commanding, “flying isn’t about brute force or control alone. It’s a harmony between you and the broom, an extension of your will. Listen to it as much as you direct it.”

Phoebe was the first to step forward, her confidence radiating as she picked up one of the brooms. She ran her hand along the polished wood, a small grin tugging at her lips. “An extension of my will? Sounds like fun.” Her grey eyes sparkled with mischief as she glanced at the others.

“Don’t let that overconfidence ground you,” Daphne quipped as she approached her own broom, her green eyes flicking to Phoebe with a mixture of amusement and focus. “The last thing we need is for you to fly headfirst into a tree.”

Violet lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the broom in front of her. She had been quieter than usual, her nerves evident in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the broom, the polished wood cool under her touch.

“You’ve got this, Violet,” Phoebe said, her voice softer now. “It’s just like magic. Feel it, don’t overthink it.”

Encouraged, Violet nodded and stepped forward, picking up her broom with both hands. She glanced at Astoria, who waved enthusiastically from her hovering training broom. “You’ll be brilliant,” Astoria called out, her youthful voice brimming with excitement.

“Right,” Violet muttered to herself, gripping the broom a little tighter.

Cassiopeia motioned for them to line up. “Mount your brooms,” she instructed, demonstrating with a fluid motion that saw her own broom hovering obediently at her side. Her movements were smooth and effortless, the mark of someone who had spent years perfecting the craft. Andromeda and Evaline watched closely, their expressions a mix of pride and anticipation.

The trio followed suit, each mounting their broom. Phoebe’s movements were quick and decisive, her broom responding almost immediately as it hovered off the ground. Daphne’s approach was measured, her broom lifting smoothly with an air of practiced precision. Violet hesitated, but with a deep breath, she swung her leg over and felt the broom tremble beneath her. Slowly, it rose, steady and responsive, the sensation both thrilling and unnerving.

“Good,” Cassiopeia said, nodding approvingly. “Now, remember—small, controlled movements. Let’s start with a lap around the field.”

Phoebe was off like a shot, her broom surging forward with an eagerness that matched her grin. “This is amazing!” she called out, the wind whipping through her curls as she zigzagged through the air. Her control was impressive, but there was a wildness to her movements that drew a sharp glance from Cassiopeia.

“Slow down, Phoebe,” Cassiopeia barked, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Flying is not a race.”

Daphne followed at a steadier pace, her posture upright and composed as she guided her broom with meticulous care. Her movements were graceful, and even Cassiopeia’s stern expression softened slightly as she watched.

Violet trailed behind initially, her grip tight on the handle as she adjusted to the sensation of floating in the air. Her nerves were evident, her movements tentative. But as the broom responded smoothly to her subtle adjustments, a glimmer of confidence sparked in her. She leaned forward slightly, testing the speed, and the broom surged forward with a controlled grace. A tentative smile crossed her lips, growing wider as she leaned into a turn, the wind brushing past her cheeks.

“That’s it, Violet!” Andromeda called out, her voice warm and encouraging. “Trust yourself and the broom.”

As Violet’s confidence grew, so did her natural talent. Her movements became fluid, almost instinctive, as if she and the broom were one. She caught up to Daphne, her green eyes sparkling with newfound excitement. “This is… incredible,” Violet murmured, her voice carrying a mix of wonder and joy.

“You’re a natural,” Daphne said, her tone approving as she watched Violet maneuver with increasing ease.

Astoria clapped her hands from her perch, her training broom bobbing slightly with her excitement. “You’re all so good!” she cheered, her enthusiasm infectious.

Violet’s confidence soared, and she dared to push the broom further, climbing higher and looping around with an agility that surprised even herself. Her laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, as she executed a gentle spiral back toward the field. Cassiopeia’s approving nod was subtle, but Andromeda’s wide smile spoke volumes.

“She’s a flier,” Evaline remarked, her gaze following Violet. “Once she sheds those nerves completely, there’ll be no stopping her.”

The lesson continued with more laps and a few basic maneuvers. Phoebe’s wild energy gradually settled, though her grin never faded. Daphne’s control grew more fluid, her confidence evident in the ease with which she navigated the field. Violet, now fully immersed in the joy of flying, showcased an innate talent that left her friends in awe. The trio’s movements became more synchronised, their shared laughter punctuating the serene air.

As the trio landed at the end of the session, Astoria rushed over, her face alight with admiration. “That was amazing!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement.

Phoebe laughed, ruffling Astoria’s hair. “You’ll be out here with us in no time, Astoria. Then you can show us how it’s done.”

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back. “Good work, all of you,” she said. “But remember, flying isn’t just about fun. It’s a skill that requires practice and respect. Don’t let overconfidence get the better of you.” Her gaze lingered on Phoebe, who gave a sheepish grin.

Andromeda placed a hand on Violet’s shoulder, her expression warm. “You did exceptionally well,” she said gently. “Next time, you’ll feel even more at home up there.”

Evaline approached Daphne, her smile proud but measured. “Excellent control,” she praised. “Keep refining your technique, and you’ll be unmatched.”

The trio exchanged glances, their bond strengthened by the shared experience. As they walked back toward the castle, Astoria trailing beside them on her hovering broom, the air was filled with laughter and a sense of accomplishment. The sky above seemed just a little wider, the future a little brighter. As they reached the castle steps, Phoebe glanced back over her shoulder, already planning their next adventure in the air.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

V

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The grand chamber of the Wizengamot was a spectacle of tradition and authority. High, sweeping arches framed the room, their intricate carvings depicting centuries of magical history. The rows of tiered benches held wizards and witches representing the most powerful families in the wizarding world, their robes a blend of tradition and personal insignia. At the centre of it all, beneath the towering crest of the Ministry of Magic, stood the raised podium where debates and decisions shaped their world.

Lord Arcturus Black of House Black entered the chamber with the quiet dignity that commanded attention. Dressed in deep black robes trimmed with silver, he leaned slightly on his silver-tipped cane, each deliberate step echoing across the polished stone floor. Beside him, Lord Cyrus Greengrass of House Greengrass walked with equal poise, his forest-green robes marking him as a representative of the Neutral bloc. Together, they represented an emerging third faction, one that sought to disrupt the decades-old dichotomy of Dark and Light dominance.

The chamber fell into a hushed murmur as they took their seats at the head of the Neutral bloc’s section. This new alliance, a coalition of traditionalist, neutral, and even a handful of progressive families, had garnered significant attention—and no small amount of scepticism—in recent years as it grew in strength.

Arcturus’s sharp eyes scanned the chamber, his gaze lingering briefly on the Dark faction’s enclave. There, the Malfoys sat in their usual prominence, Lucius’s steely gaze meeting Arcturus’s for a fleeting moment before shifting away. In the opposite direction, the Light faction’s benches were occupied by their self-styled reformers, led by Albus Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock himself, whose robes seemed to shimmer faintly even in the muted light of the chamber.

“They’re waiting for us to falter,” Cyrus murmured, his voice low but steady. His eyes never left the room, calculating the many dynamics at play. “The Dark sees us as a threat to their old order, and the Light thinks we’re opportunists undermining their supposed moral high ground.”

“Let them,” Arcturus replied, his tone cold but resolute. “This chamber was built on balance, not tyranny. They’ve both forgotten that, and it’s time they were reminded.”

The day’s session began with the usual formalities, Dumbledore calling for silence with a raised hand as the agenda was outlined. His measured demeanour ensured the chamber’s attention, but as Chief Warlock, he refrained from speaking for or against motions, instead allowing others to champion the Light faction’s proposals. It wasn’t long before the first contentious issue emerged: the regulation of magical inheritance laws. A proposal put forth by the Light faction sought to limit the autonomy of noble families, mandating equal inheritance for all magical children, regardless of birthright or bloodline. However, the implications went far deeper than simple fairness. By redistributing wealth and influence away from the traditionally powerful noble houses—many of whom leaned towards the Dark and Traditionalist blocs—the Light faction aimed to weaken the foundations of their opposition. It was a calculated move to undermine the very structures that had allowed these families to maintain their dominance for centuries, shifting power toward those aligned with more progressive ideals championed by Dumbledore’s followers.

A tall wizard from the Light faction rose to speak. His light brown hair and maroon-trimmed robes identified him as Amos Diggory, a prominent advocate for reform within the faction. Diggory’s voice carried a practised charm as he addressed the chamber. “Equality among magical children is not merely a virtue; it is a necessity for the survival of our world,” Diggory declared, his voice resonating through the chamber. “We cannot allow old traditions to divide us when unity is our greatest strength. Why should the eldest child—or, as is often the case, the male child—inherit everything, while others are left with little to nothing? This proposal ensures that every child born into a magical family has an equal chance at success and contribution.”

There was polite applause from the Light faction and several murmurs of approval from scattered benches. Diggory’s confident tone was persuasive, but Arcturus’s expression remained impassive. When the floor opened for rebuttals, Arcturus rose slowly, his cane tapping against the floor for emphasis.

“While unity is indeed a noble goal,” Arcturus began, his voice cutting through the chamber with precision, “forced conformity is not unity. The traditions you seek to dismantle are not relics of division but pillars of stability. They ensure the survival of magical families and the preservation of knowledge that has safeguarded our world for generations. For centuries, it has been the way of things to allow families to handle their inheritance internally unless their actions directly contravene the will of Lady Magic herself. Many families have deeply rooted traditions regarding inheritance, and in some cases, Family Magics intervene to designate an heir. To impose external mandates upon this sacred process is not only an affront to those traditions but also a dangerous gamble with forces far older and more enduring than any law we pass in this chamber. Magic itself respects strength, continuity, and legacy.

“Furthermore, it is worth noting that the Light faction—in its zeal for reform—has often dismissed the importance of Lady Magic and the traditions that honour her. Many among you view these practices as archaic or even barbaric, reducing them to relics of a past you wish to forget. Yet these traditions are not merely symbolic; they are a vital part of maintaining the balance and flow of magic within our world. The vast majority of families in your faction lack the deep, intrinsic connection to Family Magics that define the Most Ancient houses. While you deride these rituals and customs, they are what allow magic to flourish, ensuring that the strongest and most compatible heirs inherit legacies that are not only material but magical. This is not a matter of fairness or equality; it is a matter of respecting the natural order of our magical world.”

His words were met with nods from the Neutral and Traditionalist benches and even a few grudging acknowledgements from Progressives wary of Dumbledore’s sweeping reforms. Even among the Dark faction, there were murmurs of agreement, though they remained otherwise silent. Cyrus followed swiftly, standing to lend his voice to the argument.

“Lord Black speaks true,” Cyrus said, his tone calm and deliberate, a measured counterpoint to Arcturus’s sharper rhetoric. “This proposal, while seemingly aimed at fostering equality, risks destabilising the very foundations of our society. Families have long maintained the ability to govern their own affairs, including inheritance, and this autonomy is integral to their identity and cohesion. By introducing external mandates, we do not achieve fairness; instead, we impose disorder. Progress, however vital, must be achieved through balance and respect for tradition, not by dismantling the structures that have supported us through generations. Where traditions might need adaptation, it must be done with careful consideration, not blunt force. To erode that balance would endanger us all.”

The Dark faction, for their part, watched with quiet intensity. Lucius Malfoy’s gaze flickered with calculated interest as the Neutral bloc’s stance became clearer. Diggory’s expression tightened, though he kept his tone measured as he rose to counter.

“We are not suggesting chaos, but fairness,” Diggory said. “Why should birth order or gender dictate who has access to family wealth and resources? Our world can only thrive when every witch and wizard has the opportunity to succeed.”

Arcturus’s voice cut through the chamber once more, sharp and unyielding. “Equality is not achieved through mandates, Amos. To force families to divide their legacy undermines the strength and purpose of those legacies. Magic flourishes when it is nurtured within families who respect its traditions, not through artificial decrees. Perhaps you and your compatriots fail to understand this. Often these are not matters dictated by Lords or even by law but by forces older and more powerful than this chamber. Your proposal is not simply a bureaucratic overreach; it is a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of magic itself.”

The debate continued, with other members of the Neutral bloc speaking to support Arcturus and Cyrus’s position. The coalition’s unity was on full display, a stark contrast to the often-fractured allegiances within the Dark and Light factions.

As the session wore on, the momentum began to shift. By the time the vote was called, it was clear that the proposal would fail. The Neutral bloc’s influence, bolstered by their alliance with traditionalist families and pragmatic progressives, had tipped the scales.

When the final tally was announced, Arcturus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “One step,” he murmured to Cyrus as they rose to leave. “And there will be many more.”

“Indeed,” Cyrus replied, his expression unreadable but his voice filled with quiet resolve. “This is only the beginning.”

As they exited the chamber, the murmurs of the Wizengamot followed them. Some were filled with approval, others with trepidation. The third bloc had made its presence known, and it was clear to all that the days of the Dark and Light factions ruling unchallenged were coming to an end.

The private lounge adjacent to the Wizengamot chamber filled with the quiet hum of conversation. A heavy oak table dominated the room. Around it sat Lord Arcturus Black, Lord Cyrus Greengrass, Madam Amelia Bones, and Lady Sandra Abbott, the latter two representing key allies in the growing Neutral bloc. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across their faces, and the faint scent of aged wood and parchment hung in the air.

Arcturus sat at the head of the table, his silver-tipped cane resting against the arm of his chair. His expression was sharp and calculating, though softened slightly by the small triumph of the day’s vote. His posture exuded quiet authority, a reflection of the burden and legacy he carried as head of House Black.

“Today was but a single step,” Arcturus began, his voice low and deliberate, but firm enough to command attention. “We have demonstrated that our bloc can hold firm against the Light faction’s overreach, but we cannot afford complacency. The strength of this alliance lies in our ability to act decisively and anticipate their next move.”

Cyrus nodded, his posture relaxed but his tone equally resolute. “They’ll regroup quickly. Dumbledore’s faction has the support of much of the public and the press. They’ll frame our victory as resistance to progress, stoking fears that we’re clinging to outdated traditions for personal gain.” He paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll need to prepare counterarguments that highlight their hypocrisy. Their methods often disregard the very values they claim to uphold.”

“Let them try,” Madam Amelia Bones interjected, her strong voice cutting through the room with precision. Dressed in her crisp robes, she radiated an air of unshakable authority that seemed to fill the space around her. “The Light faction may have public sentiment on their side, but the law is on ours. They overstepped today, attempting to undermine centuries of magical precedent. Even those who wavered know that such blatant disregard for tradition is a dangerous path. Their ambition is obvious, and it will make them predictable if we’re vigilant.”

“Public perception still matters,” Lady Sandra Abbott countered, her voice softer but no less pointed. Her light green robes were embroidered with the crest of House Abbott, a symbol of her family’s historic role as mediators. “We must ensure that our position is understood not as opposition to progress, but as guardianship of magic itself. Many are quick to forget that traditions are the backbone of stability in times of change.” Her gentle tone belied the strength of her convictions.

Arcturus inclined his head in agreement. “A valid point, Lady Abbott. The narrative matters. Our public response must emphasise that our stance is not against fairness or inclusion but against recklessness that would weaken our world’s foundation. Families like ours bear the weight of that legacy. Those who understand magic’s true nature will see the wisdom in our actions."

“Speaking of legacy,” Cyrus said, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, “our children will soon begin their own journey at Hogwarts. It is crucial that they understand their roles in the future we’re shaping. Phoebe, Daphne, and Violet are the heart of this alliance, their relationships a symbol of the unity we’re building. The next generation must embody what we stand for if we’re to endure.”

Amelia’s expression softened slightly, a rare warmth creeping into her voice. “Susan is eager to begin at Hogwarts. She already speaks highly of Daphne and Violet from the few times they’ve met. If those bonds grow stronger, it will only solidify our alliance. Susan’s determination mirrors what we’re working to achieve: strength through unity.”

Sandra smiled, her tone light but purposeful. “Hannah is excited as well. She’s young yet, but she looks up to Daphne and speaks of Violet’s kindness often. They’ll have each other, and that matters in a place like Hogwarts. There’s strength in their connection, even at this early stage.”

“Hogwarts will be a crucible for them,” Arcturus said, his gaze turning distant as though he were already envisioning the challenges ahead. “The alliances they forge and the challenges they face will shape not only their futures but ours as well. The bonds between our children must remain unshakable, even in the face of pressures from the Light and Dark factions. Our enemies will seek to divide them, but we must ensure they have the tools and trust to stand firm.”

Cyrus leaned forward, his voice deliberate and contemplative. “We should prepare them. Not just for Hogwarts but for the expectations that come with their names. Phoebe, Violet, Daphne, and the others will need to learn how to navigate both their peers and the broader currents of politics. The lessons we’ve instilled so far will need to deepen. Their education must include more than spells and potions; it must encompass diplomacy, strategy, and resilience.”

“Agreed,” Amelia said firmly, her posture straightening as if solidifying her resolve. “We’ll need to coordinate their education. Beyond traditional lessons, they must understand the dynamics of the Wizengamot. If we’re to counter the influence of the Light faction’s rhetoric, they must be our strongest advocates. Their voices must carry the weight of reason and tradition.”

Sandra hesitated for a moment before speaking. “And their safety? We know Dumbledore is searching for Violet. If he suspects our plans, he’ll redouble his efforts. Hogwarts may not be the sanctuary it once was. We cannot underestimate the lengths to which he’ll go to maintain control.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling heavily over them. Finally, Arcturus spoke, his tone unyielding. “We will ensure their safety. Cassiopeia’s network remains unmatched, and I will not allow Dumbledore or his allies to endanger what we have built. Violet, Phoebe, and the others are under our protection, and that will not change. The resources of House Black and our alliance will stand as a shield around them.”

Cyrus nodded solemnly. “And we will stand united. This alliance is not merely for today but for the future. Together, we will ensure that our legacy endures. Our strength lies in our unity, and we will not falter.”

The group fell into a quieter discussion, their voices lowering as they strategised the next steps for their alliance and their children’s futures.

~~

The morning sunlight streamed through the wide windows of the Greengrass Manor’s study, casting warm patterns across the polished wooden floors. The room, with its towering bookshelves and ornate desks, was a hub of learning. Today, it was bustling with the energy of young heirs preparing for their futures.

Daphne Greengrass sat at the head of one of the long desks, her quill poised elegantly in her hand as she reviewed a parchment filled with magical theory. Her calm, focused demeanor gave her an air of quiet authority that seemed to naturally place her at the center of the group. Her attention occasionally drifted to the others, ensuring their progress mirrored her own sense of discipline.

Nearby, Phoebe and Violet were huddled together over a book on magical politics. Phoebe’s dark curls framed her expressive face as she animatedly explained a passage, her voice rising slightly with excitement. Violet listened intently, her green eyes sharp and curious. The contrast between Violet’s thoughtful consideration and Phoebe’s fiery enthusiasm created a dynamic synergy that often made their lessons lively. Every so often, Violet would interject with a pointed question or a correction, her quiet confidence balancing Phoebe’s exuberance.

Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott were at the opposite end of the table, practising basic runes under the careful guidance of a Greengrass tutor. Hannah’s brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully traced a rune with her quill, her lips moving silently as she repeated the word associated with the symbol. Susan, always methodical, compared her work to the guidebook in front of her, double-checking each step before proceeding. Despite their focus, the two exchanged occasional smiles, a camaraderie born of shared determination.

In a smaller corner of the room, Astoria Greengrass sat on a cushioned stool, her legs swinging as she worked through a simpler set of lessons with a private tutor. At only eight years old, her lessons were tailored to her age, focusing on foundational magical concepts and etiquette still. Her bright, inquisitive eyes frequently darted to the older girls, clearly eager to be part of their more advanced studies. Occasionally, she would call out a question, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room. “What’s the rune for protection?” she asked eagerly, causing the older girls to smile indulgently.

The tutor overseeing the main group, a stern but fair witch named Madame Celeste, clapped her hands lightly to draw their attention. “Ladies, while your individual progress is commendable, it is essential to understand how your studies interweave. Runes, politics, magical law—these are not isolated disciplines. They form the framework of leadership.” Her words were measured and authoritative, her presence commanding respect.

Phoebe glanced up from her discussion with Violet, her curiosity piqued. “How do runes fit into leadership?” she asked, her tone genuinely intrigued, her eyes wide with interest.

Madame Celeste gave a small smile. “Runes are the foundation of many ancient wards and enchantments. Understanding their complexities allows you to protect your estates, your people, and your legacy. Leadership is as much about safeguarding as it is about guiding. A strong leader understands both strategy and protection.”

Susan nodded thoughtfully, her quill pausing mid-note. “So, knowing how to use runes effectively could strengthen our families, even beyond traditional magic?”

“Precisely,” Madame Celeste affirmed. “This is why your education is comprehensive. The Light and Dark factions of the Wizengamot would see such knowledge dismissed or twisted, but it is your understanding and balance that will sustain the magical world.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Balance seems to be the word of the day. My father says the same when he talks about the Neutral bloc.”

Phoebe’s gaze sharpened, her innate protectiveness flaring for a moment. “And that’s why we’re learning all this together. It’s not just for us. It’s for everyone who relies on us.” Her voice carried a fervent determination that belied her young age.

Violet placed a steadying hand on Phoebe’s arm, her touch calming. “We’ll get there,” she said softly. “One step at a time.”

Astoria, observing from her corner, piped up, her voice eager. “Can I learn about runes too? I want to help protect things!” She leaned forward, her small hands clutching the edge of her stool.

Daphne turned to her sister, her expression softening. “You will, Tori. But for now, focus on your basics. There’s plenty of time to learn the complicated stuff.” Her tone was warm but firm.

Astoria’s small pout quickly transformed into a determined nod. “Okay. But I’ll be ready soon!” she declared, her voice filled with conviction.

The room buzzed with quiet energy as the girls returned to their tasks. Madame Celeste moved among them, offering guidance where needed, her presence a steady anchor. The study’s air, filled with the faint scratch of quills and the hum of quiet discussions, reflected not only the industriousness of the moment but also the bonds forming between the young heirs. Each girl worked with a sense of purpose that went beyond their individual studies, aware that their efforts were part of something greater.

The sitting room of Greengrass Manor buzzed with a contented calm as the young heirs gathered to relax after their lessons. The warm glow of the evening sun filtered through the large windows, bathing the room in soft, golden light. Snacks and books were scattered across the low table, and the air carried the faint aroma of freshly baked pastries and fruit, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversation.

Phoebe, however, was anything but calm. While her friends lounged comfortably on the sofas and cushions, Phoebe’s energy filled the room like a sudden storm. Her dark curls bounced as she darted from one corner to another, her eyes alight with a silver sheen that hinted at the magics simmering just beneath her skin. The raw magic within her seemed to spark and hum, manifesting as an almost tangible force that made the air around her feel alive, as though the room itself responded to her presence.

“Phoebe, slow down!” Daphne called from her spot on the sofa, her voice exasperated but tinged with amusement. She sat with a book open on her lap, one eyebrow raised as she watched Phoebe pace. “You’re making me tired just watching you.”

Phoebe paused mid-step, her head whipping around to face Daphne. “Tired? How can you be tired?” she demanded, her voice carrying an edge of incredulous energy. “We’ve been sitting all day! Learning is great and all, but I need to move. Don’t you feel it?” She raised her arms dramatically, as if to gesture at the invisible currents of energy she felt crackling around her. The light caught the shimmer in her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, they seemed almost feral.

Violet, curled up on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, looked up from the book she was pretending to read. Her green eyes softened as she took in Phoebe’s restless figure. “I think we feel it,” she said gently, her voice calm and steady. “But maybe not quite the same way you do.”

Phoebe’s expression faltered for a moment, the wildness in her eyes dimming slightly. Then, with a grin, she bounded over to Violet and flopped onto the sofa beside her, causing Violet to let out a startled laugh. “You’re no fun when you’re all calm and logical,” Phoebe teased, poking Violet’s arm playfully. “Come on! Let’s do something. Anything! I can’t just sit here.”

Susan and Hannah, seated on the plush rug near the table, exchanged amused glances. Hannah leaned forward to grab another pastry, her blond hair falling over her shoulder. “What do you have in mind, Phoebe?” she asked, her tone light. “I’m not running laps around the manor with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Phoebe pouted dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. “You’re all so boring,” she lamented, throwing an arm over her eyes. “If this is what being smart and studious does to people, I want no part of it.”

“It’s called balance, Phoebe,” Daphne said with a sigh, though her lips twitched in amusement. “Not everyone has an endless well of energy to burn through.”

Astoria, perched on a smaller armchair nearby with her legs swinging, chimed in eagerly. “I’ll play with you, Phoebe!” Her wide eyes sparkled with excitement, and she set down the plate of fruit she’d been meticulously arranging.

Phoebe’s grin returned in full force. “That’s my girl!” she declared, leaping to her feet and extending a hand to Astoria. “Come on, Tori. Let’s do something fun before they turn us into statues with their boringness.”

Astoria giggled and took Phoebe’s hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. The two of them began an impromptu game of tag around the sitting room, their laughter filling the space. Phoebe’s wild energy seemed to infect Astoria, who darted around with surprising speed, her smaller frame making her difficult to catch.

“Careful, you two,” Violet called, though her tone lacked any real sternness. She watched them with a fond smile, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her book.

Daphne set her book aside and leaned back against the cushions, her arms crossed. “You know she’s not going to calm down until she burns herself out,” she said, glancing at Violet.

Violet nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Better to let her run wild here,” she murmured. Then, with a sly smile, she added, “Besides, you’re smiling, Daphne. I think you like it.”

Daphne’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she quickly looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, though she didn’t make any effort to hide her amusement as she watched Phoebe and Astoria.

As the game continued, the Black Madness in Phoebe’s eyes seemed to flicker and fade, replaced by the pure, unrestrained joy of the moment. The sitting room, so often a place of study and structure, had transformed into a space of laughter and light. The shadows of the evening stretched across the walls, but within the room, warmth and connection thrived.

Finally, as Astoria flopped onto a cushion, breathless but giggling, Phoebe threw herself down beside her, her energy finally waning. She reached for a glass of juice and took a long sip before leaning back against the cushions with a satisfied sigh.

“See? That was fun,” Phoebe declared, glancing around at her friends. “You’re welcome for the entertainment.”

“Entertainment, indeed,” Susan said dryly, though the smile on her face betrayed her affection. “Just don’t knock anything over next time. My aunt would never let me hear the end of it.”

Phoebe waved a hand dismissively. “Relax, Madam Bones isn’t here, and we didn’t break a thing. This is a victory.”

Hannah chuckled, leaning back against the sofa. “You’re exhausting to watch, Phoebe. But I guess I’d miss it if you ever stopped.”

The group settled into a quieter rhythm, the earlier chaos giving way to a soothing stillness. Phoebe’s boundless energy had softened into contentment, her friends’ steady presence grounding her. For a little while, at least, the pressures of their heritage and the weight of their futures were forgotten, leaving only the simple happiness of shared friendship. The room’s golden light seemed to linger, a testament to the strength of their growing bond and the sanctuary they found in one another.

The golden hues of the evening sun had long faded, leaving Greengrass Manor bathed in the soft glow of enchanted sconces. The air was quiet now, the earlier hum of chatter from Susan and Hannah having disappeared with their departure. Phoebe, who had been a whirlwind of energy earlier in the day, now drifted through the halls with a distant, slightly listless expression. Her dark curls framed her pale face, her silver-flecked eyes flickering with a subdued light, her usually radiant energy dimmed into something softer, almost fragile.

Susan and Hannah had left with a mixture of fondness and worry lingering on their faces. Though they didn’t know Phoebe as well as Violet and Daphne, they had noticed the change in her demeanour. Susan had even hesitated at the door, glancing back as if considering whether to say something. But it was Daphne who had reassured her with a small, composed smile, her natural air of authority soothing any lingering concerns.

“She’ll be fine,” Daphne had said in her calm, steady voice. “This happens sometimes. We know how to help her.”

Now, with the house quiet and the day’s lessons behind them, Violet and Daphne had taken it upon themselves to keep Phoebe close. As they walked through the softly lit corridors, Daphne’s arm was hooked with Phoebe’s, her touch gentle but grounding. Violet walked on Phoebe’s other side, her hand clasped firmly around Phoebe’s. Their quiet presence seemed to steady her, anchoring her restless energy and offering her the stability she needed.

“What do you think, Phoebe?” Violet asked gently, her voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Shall we stay here tonight? Daphne’s room is plenty big for a sleepover.”

Phoebe glanced at Violet, her expression softening slightly. The flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips, a fleeting warmth breaking through her subdued demeanour. “I… yeah. That sounds nice.”

Daphne gave a small, approving nod. “Good. I’ll let the house-elves know to bring extra blankets and pillows. We’ll make it comfortable.” Her practical tone carried a note of gentle care, a hallmark of her quiet leadership within the trio.

When they reached Daphne’s room, the atmosphere shifted. The large, elegantly furnished space was a sanctuary of soft fabrics and muted tones, its centrepiece a grand canopy bed draped with sheer, silvery curtains. The dim light of enchanted lamps gave the room a warm, cosy glow. A low table had already been set with snacks and a pot of steaming chamomile tea, a comforting gesture from the Greengrass staff who anticipated the girls’ needs.

Phoebe drifted toward the bed and sat down, her hands fiddling with the edge of the blanket. She seemed quieter than usual, but the faint tension in her posture began to ease as Violet and Daphne moved around her. Violet settled beside her, her hand never leaving Phoebe’s. Daphne, ever practical, directed the house-elves to arrange an extra layer of cushions on the floor for them to lounge on.

“You’re too quiet, Phoebe,” Daphne remarked lightly, her tone teasing but kind. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, looking up at Phoebe with a raised eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Phoebe shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling in a fluid motion that seemed to carry the weight of her unspoken thoughts. “I don’t know. Just… tired, I guess. Not the kind of tired you sleep off, though.” Her voice was soft, tinged with a vulnerability she rarely showed.

Violet’s thumb brushed over the back of Phoebe’s hand, her touch gentle and grounding. “That’s okay,” she said softly. “You’ve had a busy day. Sometimes your magic just needs time to settle.”

Phoebe glanced at her, and for the first time since the others left, her expression cracked into something resembling a smile. “You always know what to say,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s a gift,” Violet quipped, her green eyes sparkling with warmth. 

Daphne, ever the pragmatist, reached for the pot of chamomile tea and poured three cups. “Here,” she said, handing one to Phoebe. “Drink this. It’ll help you relax.”

The three of them settled onto the cushions, their earlier formality forgotten. Phoebe’s head gradually found its way to Violet’s shoulder, while Daphne shifted to sit on Phoebe’s other side, leaning gently into her. Their quiet movements spoke of a practised familiarity, a routine that had developed over time. Phoebe’s breathing slowed as the comforting warmth of her friends surrounded her, their closeness dissolving the remnants of her earlier restlessness. Violet’s hand found its way to Phoebe’s, their fingers intertwining gently, while Daphne’s arm draped casually across Phoebe’s lap, grounding her in their shared presence.

They talked quietly, their voices weaving together in a tapestry of shared memories and small jokes. The weight of the day seemed to lift, leaving behind only the warmth of friendship and the unspoken understanding between them. Violet’s soft words often brought a smile to Phoebe’s face, while Daphne’s calm, steady presence acted as an anchor, ensuring the group’s energy remained balanced and peaceful.

As the night deepened, the trio eventually drifted into a peaceful silence. Phoebe’s breathing evened out, her earlier restlessness replaced by a sense of calm that only her closest friends could bring her. Daphne tugged a blanket over all three of them, her precise movements softening as she tucked it around them. She rested her head lightly against Phoebe’s shoulder, her eyes closing as the room settled into stillness.

“Sleep well, Phoebe,” Violet whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. Her hand remained clasped in Phoebe’s, the gentle contact a silent reassurance. Daphne nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on Phoebe’s now peaceful face before her own breathing began to slow.

~~

The study at Castle Black was illuminated by the soft, flickering light of a roaring fireplace. The shelves, lined with ancient tomes and relics of House Black’s storied past, lent an air of solemnity to the room. Every piece of furniture and artefact seemed steeped in history, as though the weight of generations watched over this conversation. Phoebe Black sat on a high-backed leather chair, her posture straight but relaxed, though her fingers fidgeted lightly with the hem of her sleeve. She knew this wasn’t a casual conversation. When both Arcturus and Cassiopeia asked to speak with her alone, it was always something significant.

Arcturus, as composed as ever, sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, his black cane tipped with silver resting against the edge. His piercing gaze settled on Phoebe, not unkind but firm, like a mentor preparing a favoured pupil for a crucial test. Cassiopeia, leaning casually against the fireplace mantel, exuded a quieter intensity. Her sharp eyes, so like Phoebe’s, softened slightly when they met her niece’s.

“Phoebe,” Arcturus began, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room. “You’ve grown into your role as Heiress admirably. Over the years, you’ve demonstrated resilience, intelligence, and a readiness to learn.” He paused, his expression grave. “But Hogwarts will be an entirely different arena.”

Phoebe nodded slowly, her curiosity piqued but a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “I… I know it’ll be different. I’ve read about it and talked to Daphne and Violet, but… it’s hard to know exactly what to expect, even with what Nym has told me. It feels like… like there’s so much I can’t prepare for.”

Cassiopeia pushed off the mantel and crossed the room to sit on the armrest of Phoebe’s chair. Her hand rested lightly on Phoebe’s shoulder, her touch both grounding and encouraging. “Hogwarts is not a ballroom, Phoebe. It’s not a council chamber or a gathering of noble families. It’s a place where traditions clash with modernity, where the children of all walks of life mingle. That’s a strength, but it’s also a challenge. You won’t be surrounded by people who always understand or respect the traditions you’ve been raised with.”

Arcturus leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “You will encounter prejudice, my dear. There are those who will see your name and judge you before they know you. The legacy of House Black is a heavy one, and your parentage will undoubtedly draw whispers. People fear what they don’t understand, and House Black has always stood apart from the ordinary.”

Phoebe’s jaw tightened, and a flash of silver sparked in her eyes, betraying the simmer of magic beneath her calm exterior. “I’m not ashamed of who I am. If they want to whisper, let them. I’ll prove myself through my actions.”

Cassiopeia’s lips curved into a faint smile, a glimmer of pride in her expression. “That’s the spirit. But proving yourself doesn’t mean carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Remember, you have allies. Daphne and Violet will be there, and you’ve built bonds that will support you. Lean on them when you need to.”

Arcturus nodded approvingly. “And you mustn’t let pride become a weakness. If you need help, seek it. That is not a failure; it is wisdom. Even the most powerful witches and wizards know when to rely on others. Independence and strength are important, but they must be tempered with humility.”

Phoebe’s gaze flicked between them, her fidgeting stilling as she absorbed their words. “I’ll remember. But what about…” She hesitated, her voice quieter. “What about the professors? Will they be like… the ones at those balls? Judging everything I say and do?”

Cassiopeia chuckled softly, a sound that was equal parts amusement and reassurance. “Some, perhaps. But most are there to teach, not to critique. Hogwarts is a place of learning, and even the most judgmental will respect effort and excellence. Be yourself, Phoebe. You’ve already shown you can rise to any occasion. Don’t let fear of their opinions hold you back.”

Arcturus leaned back in his chair, his hand resting on the silver handle of his cane. “Hogwarts is an opportunity, Phoebe. An opportunity to grow beyond the confines of tradition and expectation, to forge your own path. But it is also a test. How you navigate its challenges will shape not only your future but the future of House Black. Every choice you make will reflect upon the legacy you carry.”

The weight of his words settled heavily, but Phoebe straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze with determination. “I won’t let you down. I’ll make House Black proud.”

Cassiopeia’s hand squeezed her shoulder gently, her sharp eyes softening. “We already are, Phoebe. But remember, it’s not just about pride or legacy. It’s about finding your place, your voice. You are more than a heiress. You are Phoebe Black.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the crackling of the fire filling the space with its steady rhythm. Then Arcturus stood, his presence commanding as always, the embodiment of House Black’s strength and wisdom. “We have every confidence in you. But confidence without preparation is folly. Cassiopeia and I will ensure you leave here ready for whatever Hogwarts has in store. We will continue your lessons, not just in magic but in strategy, adaptability, and understanding people who think differently than you.”

Phoebe rose to her feet, a flicker of excitement mingling with her resolve. “Thank you. I’ll do my best. I’ll make sure I’m ready.”

Cassiopeia’s smile widened, a rare warmth breaking through her typically guarded demeanour. “That’s all we ask. And remember, Hogwarts isn’t just a challenge; it’s an adventure. You’ll find joy there, too, if you let yourself.”

~~

The training hall at Castle Black was vast and echoing, its high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that cast a steady, silvery light over the polished stone floor. The walls bore faint scorch marks, remnants of countless training sessions conducted here over the years. The room was alive with an undercurrent of energy, as though it held the echoes of every spell and blade that had ever been tested within its confines. In the centre, Cassiopeia Black stood with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze fixed on the trio before her. Beside her, Andromeda offered a calmer, softer presence, though her eyes were equally watchful and discerning.

“Phoebe, your footwork needs to flow. You’re thinking too much,” Cassiopeia’s voice cut through the quiet hum of concentration. “Violet, don’t drop your left shoulder. It telegraphs your next move.”

Phoebe and Violet stood a few paces apart, each wielding a pair of slender, elegantly forged daggers. The weapons glinted under the light, their edges sharp but dulled enough for training. Their movements, though purposeful, were still slightly hesitant, the strain of mastering such a complex art evident in their furrowed brows. Daphne watched from the sidelines, her own daggers resting on her lap as she studied their movements intently. She had participated earlier in the session, but Cassiopeia’s focus now rested on the two girls who bore the heavier weight of Black family expectations.

“The Black Dance is about precision and fluidity,” Cassiopeia continued, stepping forward to demonstrate. With a flick of her wrist, her own dagger appeared as if conjured from thin air. She moved gracefully, each step deliberate yet flowing seamlessly into the next. Her dagger twirled in her hand, catching the light as it wove intricate patterns in the air. “You must become part of the rhythm. Every step, every strike, must feel like second nature. Watch.”

Cassiopeia moved into a flurry of strikes, her feet gliding across the floor in a pattern that seemed almost like a dance. She twisted and spun, the dagger in her hand an extension of her will. Her movements were mesmerising, a perfect blend of elegance and lethal precision. Even Andromeda paused to admire the display, her lips curving into a faint smile as she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall.

“Now,” Cassiopeia said, coming to a halt and gesturing for Phoebe and Violet to resume, “show me again. But this time, feel it. Don’t think about the steps—trust your instincts.”

Phoebe exchanged a glance with Violet, her dark eyes alight with determination. Together, they began to move, their daggers slicing through the air in coordinated arcs. Phoebe’s movements were swift and powerful, her energy crackling just beneath the surface, while Violet’s approach was more measured, her precision a testament to her methodical nature. Yet, despite their differences, they moved in harmony, their steps echoing the rhythm Cassiopeia had set.

“Better,” Cassiopeia remarked, though her tone left no doubt that there was still room for improvement. “Phoebe, loosen your grip on the left dagger. You’re holding it too tightly. Violet, keep your centre of gravity lower. You’re too upright for quick shifts.”

From the sidelines, Daphne spoke up, her voice even but tinged with quiet encouragement. “They’re getting better, though. The timing is closer now.”

Andromeda nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It’s coming together. The foundation is there; it’s about refining the flow now. Once they find their rhythm, the rest will follow.”

Cassiopeia turned to Daphne with a slight smirk. “Feeling confident enough to join them again?”

Daphne’s lips quirked in response, and she rose to her feet, daggers in hand. “Always.”

The three girls moved into a loose triangle formation, their daggers glinting as they began the intricate footwork of the Black Dance. Cassiopeia called out corrections and encouragements, her voice sharp but not unkind. The hall filled with the sound of soft footfalls and the faint whistle of blades slicing through the air. Their movements began to synchronise, the clinking of their daggers and the rhythm of their steps blending into a seamless melody of motion.

After a while, Cassiopeia stepped back, nodding to Andromeda. “Time for the next phase.”

Andromeda flicked her wand, and conjured dummies sprang to life at the edges of the room. They moved unpredictably, casting bursts of spellfire that lit up the hall in brilliant flashes. “Defend yourselves,” Andromeda instructed. “The Black Dance isn’t just about blades. It’s about how you move through chaos. Find the rhythm in the storm.”

Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne immediately shifted their stances, their daggers poised as they began to weave through the volley of spells. Phoebe darted forward, her movements a blur as she deflected a spell with the flat of her blade. Violet twisted gracefully, her dagger catching the edge of another spell and redirecting it harmlessly into the floor. Daphne’s precision shone as she sidestepped a burst of light, her blade flashing as she struck back at the nearest dummy.

“Good,” Cassiopeia called out, her voice carrying over the sounds of combat. “Stay fluid. Use the momentum of your movements. Never stop. The moment you hesitate, you lose.”

The girls moved faster now, their movements almost hypnotic as they danced through the storm of spellfire. Sweat glistened on their brows, but their focus never wavered. Each step, each strike, carried the weight of their training and the legacy they were determined to uphold. The dummies adjusted their attacks, increasing in speed and complexity, but the trio adapted seamlessly, their bond evident in the way they moved as one.

Finally, Cassiopeia raised her hand, and the dummies froze mid-motion. The hall fell silent except for the sound of the girls’ heavy breathing. Cassiopeia stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over them. “Well done. You’re beginning to understand. But remember, this is just the beginning. The Black Dance is as much about your mind as it is your body. Control your thoughts, and your movements will follow.”

Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne exchanged glances, their exhaustion tempered by a shared sense of accomplishment. They knew the path ahead would be challenging, but in that moment, they felt ready to face it together. The echoes of their training lingered in the hall, a testament to their determination and the legacy they were building with every step and strike.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

VI

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The private study in Castle Black was cloaked in an atmosphere of quiet tension. The faint crackle of the fireplace added a low hum to the charged silence. Arcturus Black sat behind his imposing desk, the silver-tipped cane resting against his chair like a sentinel. His fingers steepled before him, his sharp, calculating gaze fixed on the two women before him. The slight furrow in his brow betrayed the weight of the topic at hand. Across from him, Cassiopeia leaned against the edge of a nearby bookshelf, her arms crossed and her sharp eyes flickering with unease, like storm clouds gathering in her thoughts. Andromeda sat to the side, a thick tome open in her lap, its yellowed pages etched with runes and symbols long forgotten by most of the wizarding world.

“Years of research,” Andromeda began, her voice calm but laced with frustration, “and still, we’re no closer to understanding it. This scar, this magic... it defies everything we know about dark curses.” Her fingers traced one of the diagrams on the page, a looping sigil designed to channel protective wards, but even as she spoke, the futility of their attempts seemed to hang in the air.

“Defies… or exceeds?” Arcturus interjected, his voice low and deliberate, a rumble that demanded reflection. His grey eyes met Andromeda’s, the gravity in his gaze mirrored by hers. “Perhaps it is not simply a curse. Perhaps we’ve underestimated what it truly is.”

Cassiopeia pushed off the bookshelf, her movements smooth and deliberate as she stepped into the circle of light cast by the enchanted chandelier above. “It’s not just a curse,” she said, her tone clipped but thoughtful. “Curses have structure. They follow rules, even the most malevolent of them. What we pulled from Violet’s scar when she was a child—that was something… alive. Something that resisted being removed, as though it had a will of its own.”

Andromeda nodded, her fingers tapping the edge of the tome. “Most curses are tethered to the caster. They anchor to an object, a person, or even the victim’s magic. But this… this felt autonomous. It wasn’t just a piece of someone’s will. It had intent. Purpose.”

Arcturus leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the polished wood of the desk. “And yet, it didn’t consume her. It lingered, yes, but it didn’t spread. It’s almost as if it’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Cassiopeia asked sharply, her eyes narrowing. Her voice carried an edge, not of fear but of deep frustration. “For Violet to grow stronger? For some event to trigger it? If it’s a remnant of… him,” her voice dropped into a near hiss, “we can’t afford to let it lie dormant.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Andromeda countered, her tone measured but firm. “Every attempt to probe deeper risks reactivating it. The magic is… layered, tangled. It’s like trying to unravel a cursed knot that tightens the more you pull. The more we push, the more we risk.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of their dilemma settling heavily over them. The only sound was the crackling fire, its warmth doing little to alleviate the chill that had seeped into their conversation. Arcturus broke the stillness with a sigh, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “We’ve done everything we can to mitigate its influence. The protective wards around Violet are some of the strongest ever woven. The scar’s magic is dormant for now, and Violet herself shows no signs of being influenced by it. But we cannot become complacent.”

Cassiopeia’s expression hardened, her brows drawing together as she stared at the floor for a moment. “Complacency isn’t in our nature. But we need answers, Arcturus. Answers we’ve spent years chasing through books and rituals and yet found nothing.” She gestured to Andromeda’s tome, the frustration in her movements mirroring her words. “Even with all the knowledge House Black has accumulated, even with Andromeda’s brilliance, we’re fumbling in the dark.”

Andromeda glanced up, her gaze steady despite the weight of Cassiopeia’s words. “Fumbling, perhaps. But we’re not without progress. We know the scar isn’t just a mark. It’s a conduit. Whatever it’s tied to, it’s linked through Violet’s magic. That connection is both its strength and its vulnerability. If it ever activates again, we might be able to sever it completely.”

“And what happens to Violet if we fail?” Arcturus’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. His words hung between them, a challenge they could not easily answer. “Do we risk her life to gamble on severing something we barely understand?”

Cassiopeia placed a hand on the back of a chair, her knuckles whitening as she gripped it tightly. Her voice softened, but it lost none of its intensity. “She’s strong. Stronger than any of us realised when we first brought her here. But that strength could be what draws… whatever this is, back to her. Magic recognises power, and Violet’s potential is unmistakable.”

Andromeda’s voice softened as well, though her resolve remained clear. “We’re not without hope. Violet’s resilience, her will… it’s unlike anything I’ve seen. And she’s not alone. She has Phoebe, Daphne, all of us. Whatever this magic is, it won’t find her unprotected.”

Arcturus’s gaze lingered on the two women, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then he nodded, his voice quiet but firm. “We proceed with caution. We keep searching, and we keep her safe. House Black has faced worse, and we’ve endured. This will be no different.”

Cassiopeia’s grip on the chair relaxed slightly, and she exchanged a look with Andromeda. There was no need for further words. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with shadows and unanswered questions, but their determination was unwavering. They would face whatever darkness lingered within that scar, and they would find a way to protect the girl who had become a part of their family. If House Black was known for anything, it was surviving the impossible—and this time would be no exception.

Arcturus Black leaned back in his chair, picking up the thick parchment from Amelia Bones resting on his desk before him. The crackling firelight danced across his sharp features, deepening the furrow in his brow as he scanned the letter’s contents again. Cassiopeia and Andromeda exchanged glances. The tension in the room thickened as Arcturus’s expression grew darker with each passing moment.

“No trial records,” Arcturus said at last, his voice low and steely. He placed the parchment on his desk, the gesture deliberate and weighted. “No evidence presented, no formal charges filed. Yet he’s been locked away in Azkaban for a decade.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes narrowed, her posture straightening as she moved closer to the desk. “Are you certain? Not even a sham trial to satisfy appearances?”

Arcturus tapped the parchment with a single finger, his movements sharp and controlled. “Amelia’s people found nothing. She’s combed through Ministry records, and everything surrounding Sirius’s case is… missing. Either it was never created, or it’s been erased. Both possibilities are damning.”

Andromeda frowned, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. “Missing records don’t just happen. Someone ensured there would be no trace of a trial. But why? If the evidence against Sirius was so damning, why not parade it for the world to see?”

“Perhaps there was no evidence,” Cassiopeia murmured, her voice cold and biting. She began pacing, the hem of her robes brushing against the stone floor. “If Sirius was innocent, if the real traitor wanted to ensure he couldn’t defend himself… Azkaban would be the simplest way to silence him. No questions, no investigations, no chance for the truth to surface.”

“A convenient scapegoat,” Arcturus added, his tone bitter. “A Black, no less. Easy to villainise, easy to discard. But now we have the opportunity to uncover the truth.”

Andromeda leaned forward, her voice filled with urgency. “If there’s no evidence of a trial, does that mean Sirius’s imprisonment was illegal? Could we use that to secure his release?”

Arcturus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s a possibility, but a dangerous one. The Ministry will not take kindly to accusations of impropriety, especially from House Black. We’d be challenging decades of corruption and secrecy. We’d need irrefutable proof that Sirius was denied due process.”

Cassiopeia stopped pacing, her sharp gaze locking onto her brother. “Then we find that proof. Amelia’s already made progress. She’s one of the few in the Ministry who can be trusted to follow the truth, no matter where it leads. We leverage her position and her findings.”

Andromeda nodded, her voice steady. “And we’ll need allies. This can’t just be House Black against the Ministry. The public needs to see this for what it is: a miscarriage of justice. If we frame this as a fight for accountability rather than a personal vendetta, we’ll have a stronger case.”

Arcturus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he steepled his fingers. His mind worked quickly, considering their options. “We begin quietly. Cassiopeia, continue coordinating with Amelia. Push for more information—anything that might have been buried or erased. Andromeda, reach out to your contacts in the legal community. Find someone with the expertise and reputation to challenge the Ministry’s actions without drawing suspicion.”

Cassiopeia’s lips curved into a grim smile. “And what of you, brother? What role will you play in this?”

Arcturus’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I’ll do what I do best. House Black’s influence may be diminished, but it is not gone. I’ll remind the Ministry that we are still a force to be reckoned with. If they think they can hide behind bureaucracy and corruption, they are sorely mistaken.”

The room fell silent, the weight of their decision settling over them. Cassiopeia’s pacing resumed, her movements more deliberate now, as if the act itself helped her focus. Andromeda’s gaze lingered on the parchment, her mind already turning over possible avenues of inquiry.

“This won’t be easy,” Andromeda said after a long pause. “The Ministry will fight us at every turn. And if Sirius truly is innocent, it means the real traitor is still out there. They won’t want this truth uncovered.”

Cassiopeia’s voice hardened, her eyes narrowing as she turned to Arcturus. “And we can’t ignore what Bellatrix’s actions have done to our family’s reputation. Sirius is tainted by association, even if he never shared her allegiance. And now we’re tasked with proving his innocence in a climate where any sign of mercy towards imprisoned Death Eaters risks reopening old wounds for the wizarding world.”

Arcturus’s expression grew darker. “You’re right. Even suggesting that Sirius was wrongfully imprisoned could lead to a wave of demands for retrials. The Ministry fears chaos, and they will fight tooth and nail to maintain control. They would rather bury the truth than risk overturning sentences for even a handful of those who were convicted during the war.”

Andromeda sighed, her voice tinged with exhaustion but resolute. “We’ll need to tread carefully. The idea of a Black demanding justice for another Black will already set tongues wagging. If we’re not strategic, we’ll be painted as apologists for the worst of the war.”

Arcturus’s lips thinned, his voice sharp and cutting. “Then we ensure our case is unassailable. We build it piece by piece, with facts so damning the Ministry can’t ignore them. Sirius may be our family, but this fight will be bigger than him. We’re challenging a system that thrives on secrecy and fear.”

Cassiopeia stopped and turned to face them, her silver-flecked eyes burning with determination. “Let them try to stop us. We’re Blacks. We don’t yield.”

The study seemed to hum with unspoken agreement, the firelight casting long shadows across the room. They were embarking on a perilous path, one fraught with danger and uncertainty, but they were united in purpose. For Sirius, for justice, and for the legacy of their family, they would see this through.

~~

Arcturus Black sat in his study, the warm glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across the room. Beside him stood Cassiopeia, her posture as sharp and upright as ever, her gaze fixed on the door as they waited for Violet. The room, lined with shelves of ancient books and relics of House Black’s storied past, seemed to hum with quiet intensity. Every corner of the study seemed imbued with the legacy of their house—a reminder of both its strength and the weight of its history. When Violet entered, her footsteps soft and hesitant, Arcturus gestured for her to sit in the chair across from his desk.

Cassiopeia didn’t wait for pleasantries. “Violet, as the time draws closer for you to attend Hogwarts, there are things we must discuss. Things about Dumbledore.”

Violet’s green eyes widened slightly. She glanced between them, sensing the gravity of the moment. “What about him?” she asked, her voice steady despite the flicker of unease in her tone.

Arcturus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk. “Albus Dumbledore is not a man to be underestimated. He is powerful, yes, but he is also calculating. For years, he’s positioned himself as a benevolent leader of the wizarding world. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. But do not be fooled by his titles or his grandfatherly demeanour. He has been looking for you ever since you disappeared from the Muggle world.”

Violet’s brow furrowed. “Why? Does he… does he think I’m dangerous?”

Cassiopeia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps. But more likely, he sees you as a tool. A piece on his chessboard to be moved as he sees fit. He has a vision for this world, and anyone with power—anyone with potential—is either an asset or a threat in his eyes.”

“And you, Violet,” Arcturus added, his voice firm but not unkind, “are both.”

Violet’s fingers gripped the armrests of her chair, her knuckles whitening. “I don’t understand. Why would he care so much about me? I’m just… I’m just Violet.”

Cassiopeia’s gaze softened slightly, though her tone remained matter-of-fact. “You are far more than that. You are the heir to House Potter, and as you know from your lessons, while your house may have fallen from its height, it is still a powerful name. Your magic is strong, and your potential is undeniable. Dumbledore is not blind to these things. And he suspects—no, he knows—you are here with us. He has no proof, but his agents have been watching. They’ve been sniffing around every connection House Black has.”

Arcturus nodded. “We’ve protected you well, but Hogwarts is a different matter. It is his domain, his stronghold. He will be watching you closely, Violet. He may try to manipulate you, to shape you into what he wants you to be. You must be prepared.”

Violet swallowed hard, her eyes darting to Cassiopeia. “What should I do? How do I… how do I stop him from…”

“You don’t confront him directly,” Cassiopeia said firmly. “Not yet. You listen. You observe. You learn. Dumbledore thrives on information, on knowing more than everyone around him. Deny him that advantage. Be cautious with what you say, and to whom you say it. Even your friends.”

“Especially your friends,” Arcturus emphasised. “The castle is full of ears. Portraits, ghosts, enchanted objects—all loyal to the headmaster. Even the walls have ways of carrying secrets to him.”

Violet nodded slowly, the weight of their warnings settling heavily on her. “I’ll be careful. But what if he asks me questions? What if he tries to corner me?” As she spoke, an idea flickered at the edges of her thoughts. If Dumbledore’s castle was filled with listening ears and prying eyes, perhaps there was a way to keep her secrets intact. Her ability to speak Parseltongue, shared with Phoebe and Daphne, could be a hidden strength—a private language that no enchanted portraits or gossiping ghosts could understand. The thought both intrigued and comforted her as she awaited Cassiopeia’s response.

Cassiopeia’s eyes gleamed with approval at Violet’s proactive concern. “Then you give him nothing of value. Be polite, be respectful, but be vague. Answer questions with questions if you must. Let him think he’s guiding the conversation when you’re the one leading him in circles.”

Arcturus allowed a small smile to touch his lips. “You have your mother’s cleverness, Violet, and your grandmother’s resolve. Trust in yourself. You’ve been raised to think critically, to see beyond the surface of things. That will serve you well.”

“And remember,” Cassiopeia added, her voice softening slightly, “you are not alone. We’ll always be here for you. Whatever happens at Hogwarts, you’ll always have a home and a family to come back to.”

Violet’s grip on the armrests eased, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you. I… I won’t let you down.”

“It’s not about letting us down,” Arcturus said gently. “It’s about knowing who you are and standing firm in that knowledge. Dumbledore may try to sway you, but he cannot change the core of who you are. That is your strength, Violet. Never forget it.”

As Violet rose to her feet, the determination in her eyes was unmistakable. She felt the weight of their trust and the importance of their warnings, but she also felt a renewed sense of purpose. She would face Hogwarts and whatever challenges lay ahead with the courage and cunning instilled in her by her family. Thoughts of how to protect herself—and her friends—from prying eyes filled her mind.

Cassiopeia watched her leave, a flicker of pride in her sharp gaze. “She’ll be ready,” she said, more to herself than to Arcturus.

Arcturus nodded, his expression pensive. “She must be. Dumbledore’s reach is long, but so is ours. Let him come. House Black does not yield.”

The firelight seemed to burn brighter as the two siblings exchanged a look of shared determination. The weight of their family’s legacy rested heavily on their shoulders, but together, they had never faltered. And they would not begin now.

Violet stepped out of Arcturus’s study, her thoughts still swirling with the weight of his and Cassiopeia’s warnings. Her fingers brushed the cool stone walls as she walked, grounding herself as she made her way toward the sitting room where Phoebe was waiting. The crackle of the Floo network signaled that Daphne had just arrived, her usual poise evident even as she stepped through the hearth and dusted off her robes, her green eyes already scanning for her friends.

Phoebe’s face lit up when she saw Violet, but her smile faltered slightly as she took in her friend’s thoughtful expression. “Everything all right?” she asked, tilting her head, her silver eyes shining with concern as Violet approached.

Violet gave a small nod, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes. Just a lot to think about,” she replied, her tone measured but carrying an undertone of curiosity that Phoebe caught immediately.

“Something to do with Dumbledore?” Phoebe asked, her voice dropping slightly, her silver eyes narrowing with a mix of protectiveness and intrigue.

Before Violet could answer, Daphne joined them, brushing an invisible speck of ash off her pristine robes. Her presence always carried a calm, grounded energy, though her perceptive green eyes immediately honed in on the tension between the two. “Whatever it is, it sounds like we should talk about it somewhere more private,” she said, gesturing toward their favourite corner of the library. The trio often retreated there, a nook nestled between towering shelves of ancient books, filled with soft cushions and a small table where they could speak freely and let their guard down.

“Good idea,” Violet agreed, her voice soft but tinged with relief. The three of them made their way to the library, their steps quiet against the cool stone floors. Once inside their nook, Phoebe busied herself arranging the cushions into a comfortable pile, ensuring they had a cosy space to settle into. Daphne scanned the room instinctively, her habits of observation always making her the watchful one of the group.

Settling into the cushions, Violet glanced between her two closest friends. “Arcturus and Cassiopeia warned me about Dumbledore,” she began, her voice steady despite the flicker of unease in her green eyes. “They said he’s been looking for me ever since I disappeared from the Muggle world. They think he sees me as either a tool or a threat.”

Phoebe’s expression darkened, her fingers curling slightly against the cushion she leaned on, her vibrant energy momentarily subdued by seriousness. “A threat to what? His plans?” she asked.

“Probably,” Violet replied. “They said he might try to manipulate me, especially since Hogwarts is his domain. He’ll be watching us closely.”

Daphne leaned back, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the fabric of a nearby cushion as she considered this. “And they’re right,” she said, her tone measured but carrying the sharp edge of her usual practicality. “Hogwarts isn’t just a school. It’s a fortress, a stronghold of his influence. Every portrait, every ghost… they’re his eyes and ears from what my parents have said. Even the walls seem alive.”

“That’s why we need to be careful,” Violet said, her gaze steady, the weight of her thoughts lending her voice a quiet intensity. “Arcturus told me to observe and learn, but to give him nothing of value. We’ve kept Parseltongue a secret, and we should continue to do so. It’s our advantage.”

Phoebe’s silver eyes glinted with determination as she nodded, her earlier concern replaced by a spark of confidence. “We can use it to talk without anyone understanding us. Even if he’s listening, it’ll mean nothing to him. It’ll be like having our own code.”

Daphne smirked slightly, her usual composed demeanour softening into something more playful. “It’s not just useful; it’s fun. Watching people’s faces when they hear us hissing is always amusing. Imagine the ghosts trying to make sense of it.”

The three of them shared a brief laugh, the tension easing slightly as they settled deeper into their cushions. Phoebe’s energy, always vibrant, seemed to ripple through the space as she leaned forward, her curiosity barely contained. “What else did they say?”

“To be cautious with everyone, even friends,” Violet answered, her voice growing quieter as she leaned closer to the others. “The castle is full of secrets, and Dumbledore has a way of knowing everything. But Cassiopeia said something else too. She told me that I’m not alone, and that’s what matters most.”

Phoebe reached out without hesitation, her hand briefly squeezing Violet’s. “She’s right. You’re not alone. We’ve got each other, and we’re stronger together. Always.”

Daphne’s smirk softened into a small, genuine smile as she added, “And we’ll be ready. Whatever Dumbledore tries, we won’t let him win.”

The three of them fell into a comfortable silence, the gentle hum of magic from the library offering a sense of peace.

~~

As the sun began its slow descent below the horizon, casting the castle grounds in shades of amber and rose, the families gathered in the grand hall of Castle Black. The air was thick with magic, an almost tangible presence that seemed to hum in anticipation. Every detail of the hall had been prepared with reverence for the Yule ritual to honour Lady Magic, a tradition steeped in ancient practices and unshakable belief.

At the centre of the hall stood a circular altar, its surface adorned with intricate carvings that depicted the cycles of the seasons. The altar was surrounded by candles of varying heights, their flames flickering in a synchronised rhythm as if they were breathing. A wreath of holly, ivy, and mistletoe crowned the altar, the sacred greenery interwoven with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the low light. In the centre of the altar was a large brazier, waiting to hold the Yule flame that would symbolise the light of magic enduring through the darkness. Across the room, the grand fireplace held a roaring Yule log, its flames dancing and crackling warmly. The enchanted log burned with a steady, golden glow, symbolising protection and prosperity for the year ahead.

Cassiopeia, resplendent in flowing robes of deep plum and silver, moved gracefully to the altar, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. She carried a ceremonial staff, its polished wood inlaid with runes that glowed softly as she approached. Behind her, Arcturus followed, his black robes lined with silver lending him a regal air. He leaned on his intricately carved cane, but his posture was as commanding as ever. Together, they represented the strength and legacy of House Black.

The Tonks family and the Greengrass family stood in respectful silence, their attire reflecting the solemnity of the occasion. Andromeda’s emerald robes shimmered faintly, complementing the deep crimson of Ted’s simpler yet dignified attire. Nymphadora’s hair had settled into a festive hue of forest green, though she fidgeted slightly under the weight of the ceremony. Lord Cyrus and Lady Evaline Greengrass stood with their daughters, Daphne and Astoria, both of whom watched the proceedings with wide, curious eyes.

Phoebe and Violet stood near the altar, their presence a testament to the younger generation’s role in continuing the traditions of the past. Phoebe’s silver eyes gleamed in the candlelight, her expression a mix of solemnity and pride. Violet, beside her, exuded a quieter intensity, her green eyes fixed on Cassiopeia as she began to speak.

“Tonight, we honour Lady Magic,” Cassiopeia began, her voice clear and resonant, filling the grand hall with ease. “The turning of the year reminds us of the cycles that govern all things: life and death, light and darkness, beginnings and endings. Lady Magic binds us to these cycles, gifting us with her power and her guidance.”

She raised the ceremonial staff, its runes glowing brighter as the candles around the altar flared. “We gather not only to celebrate but to offer our gratitude. For her gifts, for her protection, and for the strength she bestows upon us to carry forward the legacies of our families.”

As the sun’s final rays disappeared, Cassiopeia lowered the staff and gestured toward the brazier. With a whispered incantation, she lit the Yule flame, its golden light flaring to life with a warmth that seemed to chase away the darkness. The flame crackled softly, its glow mirrored in the eyes of all present. Behind them, the Yule log’s steady fire flickered in harmony, adding to the room’s magical ambience.

“Each family has brought an offering to honour Lady Magic,” she continued. “Tonight, the young will carry forth their family’s magic, ensuring it continues to burn brightly.”

One by one, Nymphadora, Daphne, Phoebe, and Violet stepped forward, each holding a small piece of enchanted wood infused with their magic. Astoria watched eagerly from the side, too young to participate but captivated by the ritual. Phoebe was the first to add her offering, her silver eyes flashing as she placed the wood into the brazier. The flame flared brighter, a spark of her family’s ancient magic joining the light. Daphne followed with quiet confidence, her movements precise as her piece of wood added a steady, golden glow. Nymphadora’s contribution brought a playful flicker to the fire, her magic dancing within the flames. Finally, Violet approached, her green eyes steady. As she added her wood, the flame surged, a burst of vibrant green threading through the golden light.

When the flame settled, Arcturus stepped forward, holding a small but ornate book. Its cover was black and embossed with silver runes, radiating a faint magical aura. “The grimoire of House Black,” he announced, placing it reverently beside the flame. The air seemed to hum as the book’s magic connected with the ritual.

Cyrus followed suit, placing a similarly enchanted tome, bound in deep green leather and adorned with gold accents, on the altar. “The grimoire of House Greengrass,” he said, his voice steady. The two books pulsed faintly, their magic intertwining with the flame and radiating outward.

A ripple of ancient, natural magic spread through the room, brushing against the senses of everyone present like a gentle but insistent tide. It surged through the air with an undeniable presence, wrapping around them like a warm embrace and carrying the whispers of countless generations who had performed this sacred act before. It was a connection to something far older and deeper than any one family, a timeless thread that wove through their histories and futures, binding them irrevocably to Lady Magic’s will. The sensation was both humbling and invigorating, a reminder of the unbroken cycle of magic that pulsed through their bloodlines and the world itself. For a fleeting moment, the very air seemed to shimmer, heavy with meaning and vibrant with the echoes of countless rituals performed over centuries, each echo amplifying the sanctity of this moment.

Cassiopeia gestured for silence, her voice resonating with a practised strength that demanded attention. “Lady Magic has heard our offerings. Through her blessing, we strengthen the bonds between our families and renew the magic that sustains us.” Her words seemed to carry an almost physical weight, each syllable imbued with reverence and purpose.

The room fell into a profound stillness, the only sounds were the soft crackling of the Yule flame and the steady, rhythmic glow of the enchanted Yule log. The golden light from the flames painted flickering patterns across the walls, creating a living tapestry that seemed to breathe with the magic in the room. For a moment, the weight of the ritual settled over everyone, a shared understanding of their place within the eternal cycles of magic and tradition. It was a pause in time, where the boundaries between past, present, and future blurred, leaving only the enduring connection to Lady Magic.

“Tonight, we stand united,” Arcturus said, his deep voice breaking the sacred stillness. “May Lady Magic guide us through the year to come and grant us the wisdom to honour her in all that we do.” His words carried the gravitas of a patriarch addressing not only the families present but the very essence of magic itself.

The families murmured their agreement, the collective affirmation resonating softly within the charged atmosphere. The weight of the ceremony seemed to settle deeply into their hearts, a solemn reminder of the responsibilities and legacies they carried. Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne exchanged glances, their youthful faces reflecting a shared sense of awe and determination. For them, this night was more than a tradition; it was a promise to uphold the legacy they had inherited, to honour the ancient magic that had shaped their lives.

As the evening gave way to night, the families moved toward the dining hall, where a grand feast awaited. The ritual had set the tone for the celebration, each lingering glance at the Yule flame and the glowing log a reminder of the enduring power of magic and the unbreakable bonds of family. For this one night, the weight of the world beyond Castle Black felt distant, replaced by the warmth of kinship and the sacred light of tradition.

As the evening gave way to night, the families moved toward the dining hall, where a grand feast awaited. The air in the castle brimmed with the lingering energy of the ritual, a hum of magic that seemed to amplify the warmth and joy within. The dining hall was a marvel in its own right, transformed for the Yule celebration into a glowing haven of festivity and tradition. Long tables were adorned with silken runners of deep green and gold, their surfaces laden with enchanted candles that floated just above, casting a soft, flickering light.

The centrepiece of the feast was a table bearing a magnificent spread of magical delicacies. Roasted meats glistened with enchantments that kept them perpetually warm, and platters of gleaming vegetables shimmered faintly with subtle magical enhancements. There were dishes steeped in tradition: evergreen berry pies with crusts charmed to sparkle like frost, spiced pumpkin pasties emitting tendrils of fragrant steam, and a towering pudding enchanted to emit a soft golden glow, symbolising prosperity for the coming year.

The Yule log burning in the grand fireplace added to the room's enchantment, its flames dancing in harmony with the candles overhead. The golden light reflected off the polished silverware and crystalline goblets, filled with drinks that changed hues based on the drinker's mood. The room seemed alive with the combined energy of magic and celebration.

Phoebe and Violet entered together, their faces alight with excitement as they took in the spectacle. Daphne followed closely, her composed demeanour softening slightly at the sight of the beautifully arranged feast. Nymphadora practically skipped to the table, her hair shifting to a bright, festive red as she marvelled at the spread. Astoria, wide-eyed and eager, clung to her mother’s hand as she gazed at the shimmering decorations.

Arcturus and Cassiopeia took their seats at the head of the main table, their expressions a blend of pride and satisfaction as they observed the gathering. Andromeda and Ted settled nearby, with Ted chuckling as Nymphadora pointed out the glowing pudding with glee. Cyrus and Evaline Greengrass exchanged quiet words as they guided their daughters to their seats, their composed expressions betraying a hint of warmth as they absorbed the atmosphere.

Once everyone was seated, Arcturus rose, his black robes catching the firelight as he raised a goblet. His deep voice carried effortlessly across the hall. “Tonight, we celebrate not only the turning of the year but the strength of family and the enduring power of magic. May Lady Magic’s blessings carry us forward, united and resolute.”

The gathered families raised their goblets in unison, the clinking sound ringing like a bell through the hall. “To Lady Magic,” they intoned, their voices a harmonious blend of reverence and joy.

As the feast began, the room filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation. Phoebe and Violet leaned close, sharing whispered jokes and stealing bites from each other’s plates with unspoken ease, their bond evident in their light-hearted teasing. Daphne sat primly beside them, her posture impeccable, yet her faint smiles and occasional glances betrayed how deeply she enjoyed their antics. When Phoebe nudged her gently to coax a reaction, Daphne’s composed exterior softened further, her lips twitching into a small, almost reluctant grin before she deftly retaliated by sliding one of Violet’s untouched pastries onto her own plate without a word.

Nymphadora, seated across from them, was the evening’s most exuberant source of entertainment. Her Metamorphmagus transformations had progressed to a near-artistic level, her hair shifting into wild, colourful shapes with effortless precision. At one point, she moulded her features into a comically exaggerated version of Ted, drawing peals of laughter from Astoria. The younger girl clapped her hands in delight, her wide-eyed wonder only growing as Nymphadora’s face morphed again into a caricature of Cyrus Greengrass, complete with exaggerated spectacles and an overly serious expression.

Though Nymphadora’s transformations were undoubtedly the most advanced and playful, Phoebe and Violet’s growing talents were not far behind. Violet’s knack for subtlety shone when she mimicked Daphne’s poised expression perfectly, earning an amused raise of an eyebrow from the Greengrass heiress. Meanwhile, Phoebe leaned into her flair for dramatic changes, briefly altering her hair to a bright, flame-like orange that flickered as though kissed by magic. The display elicited a small gasp from Astoria, who clapped again enthusiastically. These moments of friendly competition often brought out the trio’s playful side, but tonight, they were content to watch Nymphadora’s show and join in Astoria’s giggles.

As the last course of the feast was cleared away and the conversations in the dining hall began to quiet, Arcturus rose from his seat, commanding attention with a simple gesture. “The night is not yet over,” he announced, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “It is time to honour the final part of our Yule tradition.”

The families stood, cloaking themselves against the chill as they made their way through the grand doors leading to the snow-covered garden. The air outside was crisp and sharp, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and frost. Their footsteps crunched softly over the fresh snow as lanterns enchanted to glow softly in shades of blue and green lined the pathways, guiding them toward the clearing where the final ritual of the night would take place.

The moon hung high, casting its silver light across the pristine blanket of snow, illuminating the garden in an ethereal glow. The families stepped into the clearing, their breath visible in the cold as they gathered around the prepared space for the ritual.

Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne followed closely behind their parents, their breath puffing in the cold air as they exchanged quiet words. The soft crunch of snow beneath their boots was the only sound until the group reached the centre of the garden, where a large, circular space had been cleared. At its heart stood a simple stone pedestal, its surface etched with runes that seemed to pulse faintly with dormant magic.

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her plum and silver robes catching the moonlight as she raised her arms. “We gather under the open sky,” she began, her voice carrying easily over the gathering. “To honour the close of this sacred night and to offer our magic to the world, a gift of light and life as we prepare to welcome the lengthening days.”

Arcturus joined her, his black and silver robes giving him a commanding presence against the white snow. His cane, now tipped with a faintly glowing silver orb, rested in the snow beside him. “Each spark we cast carries with it a piece of our magic,” he said. “A promise to Lady Magic that we will uphold her gifts, nurture them, and honour her in all we do.”

The adults, including Cyrus and Evaline Greengrass, Andromeda and Ted Tonks, and Cassiopeia herself, stepped to the forefront. Nymphadora, standing proudly beside her parents, held her wand high, her forest-green hair glowing faintly in the magical light. Phoebe, Violet, Daphne, and even Astoria watched with wide eyes, their expressions a mix of awe and anticipation.

With a graceful wave of their wands, the adults began casting small bursts of magic into the air. Each spark shimmered with a unique brilliance, golden threads spiralling elegantly from Cassiopeia as though woven from starlight itself. Deep green bursts from Cyrus carried the calm, earthy strength of his house, while soft pink wisps from Evaline danced like petals caught in a breeze. Andromeda’s vibrant purple sparks crackled with an energy that seemed to sing in the cold night air. Ted’s sparks darted like playful fireflies, zipping and weaving in delightful patterns, while Nymphadora’s were a riotous cascade of shifting colours, each hue bursting forth with joyous spontaneity. Arcturus’s contribution was striking in its simplicity and majesty: deep, silver arcs of light that moved deliberately and gracefully, like comets charting their course across the night sky. The younger girls gasped in delight, their breath visible in the frosty air, as the combined sparks painted the dark sky in kaleidoscopic brilliance.

The sparks climbed higher and higher, gathering in the vast expanse above the clearing. Slowly, as though guided by an unseen hand, they began to intertwine, weaving ribbons of light into a dazzling aurora. Colours rippled and merged, cascading across the heavens in waves of blue, green, gold, and violet. The snow beneath their feet shimmered with reflected hues, transforming the entire garden into a dreamlike wonderland where every flake seemed touched by magic.

Phoebe reached for Violet’s hand, her silver eyes wide with wonder as the swirling lights above mirrored their radiant glow. Her voice emerged as a soft whisper, almost reverent in its quiet awe. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her breath curling in delicate white tendrils against the crisp night air.

This sight was familiar to them—a tradition witnessed year after year—yet it never lost its magic. Violet’s fingers closed around Phoebe’s, steady and warm despite the chill. Her green eyes shone, reflecting the vibrant aurora, as though she carried a piece of its light within her. “It’s like magic is painting the sky,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet wonder that spoke of fresh discovery, even after all this time.

Daphne stood close, her hand brushing lightly against Phoebe’s until, with an unspoken understanding, she allowed herself to be drawn into the moment. Her usually composed demeanour softened, a small smile gracing her lips as she gazed up at the shimmering tapestry. Though her calm exterior rarely wavered, moments like these revealed how deeply she shared in the bond with her friends. “This is what it means to be part of something bigger,” she murmured, her voice thoughtful and tinged with quiet emotion. “To be connected, truly.”

Even as they grew older and their understanding of the ritual deepened, the aurora’s beauty remained undiminished. It wasn’t just the lights themselves but the shared experience—the feeling of standing under a sky transformed by the magic of their families—that made it unforgettable.

As the aurora reached its zenith, the adults lowered their wands, their expressions serene and satisfied. The lights above continued to dance, sustained by the collective magic of the ritual. Cassiopeia turned to the children, her voice warm but tinged with authority. “One day, you too will stand here and add your magic to the skies,” she said. “But for now, watch and remember what it means to be a steward of magic.”

Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne nodded solemnly, their hands still joined as they absorbed the significance of the moment. Even Astoria, despite her young age, seemed to grasp the weight of what she was witnessing, her small face glowing with reflected light.

For a while, no one spoke. The aurora continued to ripple across the sky, a testament to the power and beauty of the old ways. The silence was filled with a profound sense of unity and reverence, a shared understanding that transcended words.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

VII

~~~~ Wings of Strife ~~~~

The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Castle Black’s grand foyer, casting golden patches across the polished stone floor. Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne stood near the intricately carved entrance doors, practically vibrating with excitement as they clutched their Hogwarts acceptance letters. The parchment was creased and well-loved from repeated reading, their supply lists carefully folded inside. Today marked a milestone they had dreamt of for years—their first trip to Diagon Alley as Hogwarts students-to-be.

Phoebe’s silver eyes shone brightly, matching the infectious energy radiating from her every movement. She shifted eagerly from foot to foot, the strap of her satchel bouncing against her hip. “We’re finally going!” she exclaimed, unable to contain her glee.

Violet, her green eyes alight with anticipation, gave a small, determined nod. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her usual quiet demeanour was softened by an unmistakable aura of eager energy. “It feels real now,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement.

Daphne, ever the epitome of composed elegance, stood with her deep blue cloak draped perfectly over her shoulders. She smoothed its hem with practised grace, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Despite her poised exterior, her emerald eyes betrayed her delight. “We’ve triple-checked our lists,” she said, her voice calm but laced with the unmistakable thrill of the day’s adventure. “We’re more than ready.”

Cassiopeia descended the grand staircase with the fluid elegance of a queen, her plum robes trailing behind her like liquid silk. The soft clinking of her silver necklace echoed faintly as she approached, her sharp silver eyes appraising the trio. Beside her, Evaline Greengrass exuded quiet confidence, her emerald-green cloak mirroring the calm assurance of her presence. Together, the two matriarchs were a striking pair, their authority and poise grounding the bubbling excitement of the younger girls.

“Are you three ready?” Cassiopeia asked, her voice a blend of warmth and command.

“Ready!” Phoebe declared, practically bouncing on her toes.

“More than ready,” Violet added, clutching her satchel tightly, as though the action could anchor her overflowing anticipation.

“Always prepared,” Daphne said with a slight incline of her head, her serene exterior masking the quiet thrill she felt. The faint upward curve of her lips gave her away, though, a subtle testament to her shared excitement.

Cassiopeia’s sharp gaze lingered on them for a moment, her silver eyes shining faintly—a subtle but unmistakable sign of the Black Madness that simmered beneath her composed exterior. It lent her presence an almost otherworldly intensity, a reminder of the raw magic coursing through her veins. She nodded approvingly. “Good. The key to any successful outing is preparation,” she said, her tone rich with authority as she gestured toward the grand fireplace where the Floo Network connection awaited. The emerald flames already flickered invitingly, promising the beginning of an unforgettable day.

Moments later, the group emerged from the swirling green flames into the bustling hub of Diagon Alley. The cobblestone streets were alive with activity as witches and wizards darted between shops, arms laden with parcels and children tugging eagerly at their hands. The air buzzed with a mixture of chatter, the occasional crack of apparition, and the melodic jingles of shop bells.

“Stay close,” Evaline said, her voice gentle but firm as she guided them away from the Floo terminal. “We have much to accomplish.”

Their first stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The shop’s interior was warm and inviting, with bolts of fabric in every imaginable hue stacked neatly along the walls. Mannequins adorned with both traditional and modern robes stood proudly in the windows, displaying designs for every occasion.

“Welcome, dears,” Madam Malkin greeted, bustling forward with a measuring tape that seemed to move of its own accord. “Hogwarts, I presume?”

Phoebe nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! We need robes—school robes, formal robes, and duelling robes,” she added, her silver eyes gleaming as they flitted toward a rack of sleek, dark garments designed for combat practice.

“Ah, preparing for every possibility,” Madam Malkin said with an approving smile. “Step up, and we’ll get started.”

The girls were directed onto small, raised platforms, and the enchanted measuring tapes sprang into action, weaving in and out with almost choreographed precision.

Phoebe stood proudly as the tape zipped around her arms and shoulders. Her excitement shone as she caught sight of the duelling robes. “Something fitted for movement but still elegant,” she added with a grin, her fingers already itching to try them on.

“An excellent choice,” Cassiopeia agreed, her eyes sharp with approval.

Violet, standing on the next platform, nodded as the tape danced around her. “I’d like the same,” she said, her voice quieter but equally resolute. Her green eyes studied the duelling robes on display, drawn to their sleek design and practical simplicity. “They’re perfect for practice.”

Daphne, ever poised, stood perfectly still as her measurements were taken. “The standard robes and formal robes for me,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying an air of certainty. Her emerald eyes flicked toward the duelling robes, her curiosity growing as she watched Phoebe and Violet’s enthusiasm. “Though having a set for practice wouldn’t hurt,” she added, her tone pragmatic but laced with a hint of excitement.

As the enchanted tapes measured and Madam Malkin took notes, the girls’ chatter filled the shop. Their voices were a blend of curiosity and anticipation.

“I wonder what house I’ll be in,” Violet mused aloud, her gaze lingering on a display of house patches lined in vibrant colours. Her tone, though curious, carried a faint edge of uncertainty. She glanced at Phoebe and Daphne, then back to the patches, her expression thoughtful.

“Slytherin, of course,” Phoebe replied, a confident grin lighting up her face. Her silver eyes gleamed with pride, though a flicker of hesitation lingered in their depths. “It’s in our blood.” The words came easily, but Phoebe’s mind raced. What if being in Slytherin only drew comparisons to her mother? Bellatrix had cast a long and dark shadow, and Phoebe’s role as Heiress Black meant she was constantly reminded of it. Could she truly forge her own path there, or would her every action be scrutinised and tied back to her mother’s infamy?

Violet tilted her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I… don’t know,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “I feel… drawn to Slytherin.” Her green eyes flickered to Phoebe and Daphne, her closest friends, a tangible connection pulling her toward the house. “But what about my parents?” she whispered, almost to herself. “They were Gryffindors. How do I live up to their legacy if I… choose something else?” The weight of her parents’ heroic reputations loomed over her, a legacy of bravery and sacrifice that felt almost impossible to match. And yet, the idea of Slytherin offered something more grounded and real. It felt right, even if it conflicted with the expectations of those who had known her parents.

“Not necessarily,” Daphne countered smoothly, her composed tone cutting through their thoughts. “While Slytherin is an excellent house, there’s much to be said for Ravenclaw.” Her emerald eyes swept over the patches, her calm demeanour masking her own reflections on the sorting. She had no doubts about where she belonged, but she understood the weight her friends carried.

Cassiopeia’s sharp gaze landed on the girls, her smirk softening into something thoughtful. “Your houses will reveal themselves in time,” she said, her voice measured yet encouraging. “Focus on the present. The future will come soon enough.”

When the fittings were complete, Madam Malkin presented the final robes with a flourish. The school robes were sturdy and precise, tailored to perfection. The formal robes, adorned with subtle embroidery denoting their houses, exuded elegance. The duelling robes, sleek and fitted for ease of movement, were crafted from a durable, charmed material that promised both style and practicality.

Phoebe’s grin widened as she ran her fingers over the smooth fabric of her duelling robes. “These are perfect,” she declared, her excitement bubbling over.

“Functional and stylish,” Violet agreed with a faint smile, holding up the robes to admire their fine craftsmanship.

Daphne nodded, her hand brushing over the intricate embroidery on her formal robes. “Practical, as they should be,” she said, though the faint sparkle in her eye betrayed her quiet thrill at seeing everything come together.

“Well done, all of you,” Evaline said, her tone warm and proud. “Now, onto the next stop.”

As they left Madam Malkin’s, their parcels were tucked away into their bags after Cassiopeia and Evaline shrunk them down. They make their way to their next shop.

The bell above the door to Flourish and Blotts jingled brightly as Cassiopeia pushed it open, ushering the girls inside. The air was rich with the smell of parchment and ink, a warm contrast to the bustling streets of Diagon Alley outside. Towering shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed tightly with books of every size and colour, their spines embossed with gold, silver, and bronze lettering. The store pulsed with the quiet energy of curiosity and magic.

Phoebe’s silver eyes sparkled as they scanned the shelves. She immediately darted toward a section marked “Advanced Theories of Magic,” her fingers trailing along the titles. “Look at this one!” she exclaimed, pulling down a thick tome titled Hexes and Their Historical Context . “Doesn’t this look fascinating?”

“You’re not supposed to be hexing people, Phoebe,” Daphne said with a raised eyebrow, though her tone held more amusement than chastisement. She moved with her usual composed grace, pausing by a display of newly released magical theory books. “Besides, I thought we were here for first-year books.”

“We are,” Violet said, her voice calm but tinged with excitement. She clutched the list of required texts in one hand while her other hand brushed over the spines of books on magical creatures. “But we’re allowed to get extra ones too.”

Cassiopeia’s sharp eyes swept over the trio with approval as she joined Evaline near a display of leather-bound journals. “Let them wander freely,” she murmured to her companion. “What they are drawn to will tell us where their interests lie.”

The girls began gathering the required books for their first year at Hogwarts. Phoebe reached for The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 with a confident smile, adding it to her growing stack. Violet carefully examined her copy of Magical Theory before slipping it into her basket. Daphne selected A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration with the same deliberate precision she applied to all her choices.

As their arms filled with required texts, their attention inevitably wandered back to the other shelves.

“What about this one?” Phoebe asked, holding up Defensive Magic for the Ambitious Witch . “I bet it would be great for practice at home.”

Daphne stepped closer, her emerald eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she read the summary. “That could be useful,” she admitted. “Especially if it’s written by someone credible.”

Violet, meanwhile, had discovered a book on magical creatures titled Fantastic Beasts of the Magical Mediterranean . She hugged it to her chest, her green eyes bright. “This one has illustrations of hippocampi,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see one.”

“You’d need a good water-breathing charm first,” Phoebe teased lightly, but her tone was warm. “Maybe we’ll find a spell for that in here.” She gestured toward the charm section, which was bursting with colourful covers promising to teach everything from basic spells to advanced enchantments.

As the girls continued exploring, Daphne’s gaze lingered on a slender volume titled The Art of Elegant Enchantments . She picked it up, her fingers brushing over the embossed lettering. “This could be interesting,” she said, tilting it toward Phoebe and Violet.

“That sounds very you,” Violet said with a small smile, earning a playful nudge from Daphne.

Cassiopeia’s voice interrupted their browsing. “Don’t forget to gather your parchment. You’ll need a proper supply of writing materials.”

“Yes, Aunt Cassiopeia,” Phoebe said, though her eyes were still glued to the rows of books. “But first, one more look over here.”

Evaline chuckled softly, her gaze warm as she observed the girls. “It’s good to see them so eager.”

By the time they reached the counter, the girls’ arms were laden with books, their faces flushed with satisfaction. The shopkeeper, an older wizard with a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, rang up their purchases with a knowing smile. “First-years, eh? You’ve chosen well. These will serve you nicely.”

As they left the shop, the girls chatted animatedly about their finds, their excitement undiminished by the weight of their books shrunken and added to their bags.

“Stay close,” Cassiopeia said, her voice calm but firm, yet carrying a weight of unspoken caution. “This shop is trustworthy, but Knockturn Alley is not a place to wander off.”

Phoebe, Violet, and Daphne instinctively huddled together as they walked, their initial excitement tempered by the oppressive atmosphere. The dim light and faint whispers of enchantments lingering in the alley seemed to press in on them, but Cassiopeia’s unwavering confidence acted like a shield, bolstering their spirits. Still, the promise of choosing their familiars shimmered like a beacon, pulling them forward despite the unease.

They reached a shop wedged between two towering, leaning buildings, its exterior carved with intricate patterns that seemed to move subtly under their gaze. The sign above the door bore elegant, curling script that read “Arcane Companions,” the letters faintly glowing with an enchantment. The windows were darkened, offering only a faint glimpse of shifting shadows within. Cassiopeia pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a soft chime resonated in the air, the sound carrying a warmth that was almost soothing.

Inside, the shop unveiled itself as an entirely different world, a haven of light and magic starkly contrasted with the foreboding streets outside. The moment they stepped through the door, the lingering chill and oppressive shadows dissipated, replaced by a soft, golden glow that filled the room with warmth. Shelves and perches lined the walls, hosting an array of magical creatures that emanated a comforting hum of magic, as though the very air itself vibrated with their presence. The shop’s atmosphere was rich with the scent of aged wood and parchment, mingled with faint traces of magical herbs, adding an earthy, almost ancient quality to the space. Everything here seemed alive—from the glimmering wings of enchanted moths flitting near a lantern to the steady, unblinking gaze of a sleek black panther curled regally in a corner. Each creature seemed to exude a unique magical presence, from the glimmering wings of enchanted moths to the steady gaze of a sleek black panther curled up in the corner.

“This is much better than the pet shop in Diagon Alley,” Phoebe said, her silver eyes wide with awe.

Cassiopeia nodded. “The creatures here are carefully chosen. They bond with their owners through magic, not convenience. Listening to your magic means quieting your thoughts and letting your instincts guide you. It’s about feeling the pull, the resonance, when the right familiar connects with your core. This is as much about discovery as it is about trust.”

The girls exchanged glances, excitement flickering between them like a shared spark of magic. They began to wander through the shop, their steps hesitant yet eager, each drawn in different directions by the subtle pull of their own magic.

Violet stopped first, her gaze captivated by a perch where a snowy white owl rested, its pristine feathers gleaming under the shop’s golden light. The owl’s amber eyes locked onto hers, their intense, unblinking stare sending a shiver through her. She hesitated briefly, then reached out with a tentative hand. The owl tilted its head, studying her with an almost regal air before stepping forward gracefully. When its soft feathers brushed against her fingers, a spark of warmth pulsed through her hand, spreading outward. Violet’s magic hummed in resonance, a quiet but certain acknowledgement of the connection.

“Hedwig,” she murmured, the name forming instinctively on her lips as though it had always been there. The owl blinked slowly, her posture calm and steady, as if she approved of Violet’s choice. A swell of joy filled Violet’s chest, and she couldn’t help but smile softly, knowing this was her companion.

Across the room, Phoebe’s attention was drawn upward to a high perch where a sleek black raven sat. Its violet eyes glimmered like cut gemstones, sharp and discerning as they locked onto hers. The bird let out a low, resonant caw, its head tilting slightly as though challenging her to approach. Phoebe stepped forward, her hand lifting instinctively. The raven spread its wings in a powerful, graceful motion, gliding down to land on her outstretched arm with an almost imperious confidence. The moment it touched her, a surge of energy shot through her, her magic resonating with the bird’s commanding presence.

“Eris,” Phoebe whispered, a grin spreading across her face. The raven’s intense gaze didn’t waver, its bond with her as clear as if it had been forged in stone. Eris tilted her head again, letting out another caw—this one softer, almost articulate. “Eris,” the bird mimicked, its voice sharp and eerily precise. Phoebe’s eyes widened with delight at the sound, realising that Eris was no ordinary raven. Beyond the bond of magic, Eris seemed capable of mimicking words, adding her own inflexions that hinted at a deeper intelligence. Phoebe felt a flicker of pride and fascination, knowing she had found a truly extraordinary partner.

Meanwhile, Daphne wandered to a quieter corner of the shop, drawn by an enclosure that radiated a soft, enchanting glow. Inside, a fox with rich red fur lounged gracefully, its coat shimmering faintly as though threads of magic were woven into its very being. Its emerald-green eyes fixed on Daphne with quiet curiosity, its gaze calm but sharp. The fox rose to its feet, padding forward with an elegance that matched Daphne’s own composed demeanour. As the fox approached, Daphne knelt slowly, reaching out a hand. The creature pressed its nose gently into her palm, its warmth spreading like a soothing balm.

“Sylva,” Daphne said softly, the name slipping out as naturally as a breath. The fox’s tail flicked once, a gesture of approval, before nuzzling her hand with quiet affection. A rare smile tugged at Daphne’s lips, the bond between them subtle yet undeniable. It wasn’t loud or grand like Phoebe’s or Violet’s, but it was steady, built on an unspoken understanding that needed no embellishment.

As the three girls gathered back near the centre of the shop, their familiars at their sides, their excitement was palpable. Each creature seemed to exude an air of quiet pride, their bonds with their chosen witches evident in every movement and glance. For a moment, the girls exchanged looks, their shared joy strengthening the already profound connection between them.

The three girls gathered back near the centre of the shop, their new familiars at their sides. Their excitement was palpable as they looked at each other's familiars.

Cassiopeia watched them with quiet pride, her silver eyes shimmering faintly as she took in the scene. The sight of the girls standing strong with their familiars stirred something deep within her—a blend of hope, nostalgia, and fierce protectiveness. “It seems your magic has chosen well,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with warmth. She stepped closer, her gaze lingering on each of them. “Take care of these bonds. They are as rare and precious as the familiars themselves. Nurture them, and they will strengthen you in ways you cannot yet imagine.”

As they left the shop, their new companions close, the girls felt a renewed sense of purpose. The journey to Hogwarts loomed ahead, but with Hedwig, Eris, and Sylva, they were more ready than ever.

The girls stepped out of the familiar shop, their new companions accompanying them like silent sentinels. Hedwig perched serenely on Violet’s arm, her pristine white feathers gleaming softly in the dim light as her amber eyes scanned their surroundings with quiet intelligence. Eris cawed gently from her perch on Phoebe’s shoulder, the raven’s violet eyes glinting with a sharpness that suggested she was already calculating her next clever move. At Daphne’s side, Sylva moved with a graceful, fluid gait, her sleek red fur catching the faint sunlight filtering into the alley, the shimmer in her coat hinting at her magical nature. As they walked together toward Diagon Alley, the air around them seemed charged with a shared excitement, a sense of destiny quietly binding them to their magical companions.

They met Evaline Greengrass near the entrance to Ollivanders, the older witch holding a small, carefully packed case of potion supplies. She smiled as the girls approached, her sharp green eyes briefly assessing the group. “I see your trip was successful,” she said warmly, nodding at their familiars. “They suit you perfectly, Daphne.”

Daphne’s composure didn’t falter, though her lips quirked in a small, reserved smile. Her posture remained poised as she replied, “Thank you, Mother.” There was a quiet pride in her tone, a reflection of the bond she already felt with Sylva.

Evaline’s sharp green eyes shifted to Violet and Phoebe, her expression softening. “And you two? Have you chosen well?” she asked, her voice warm yet expectant.

Violet nodded, her fingers gently stroking Hedwig’s pristine feathers, which gleamed softly in the afternoon light. “I think so. Hedwig feels… right,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty that matched her growing confidence.

Phoebe’s reply was more direct, her voice carrying a note of triumph. “Eris is perfect,” she declared, tilting her head slightly as the raven perched proudly on her shoulder.

“Perfect,” Eris mimicked with startling clarity, her sharp voice cutting through the moment. Violet burst into delighted laughter, the sound light and unrestrained, while Phoebe’s grin widened with pride. Eris tilted her head, her violet eyes glinting with a mischievous spark as if revelling in the attention she’d garnered.

Evaline’s smile widened as she observed the scene. “Good. It seems your magic has guided you well. Now, let’s see about getting your wands.” With a graceful motion, she opened the door to Ollivanders, ushering the girls into the shop, the faint hum of anticipation settling over them as they stepped inside.

The shop’s interior was dimly lit and filled with rows upon rows of narrow boxes stacked precariously to the ceiling. The air carried a faint scent of aged wood and magic, a heady combination that made the space feel timeless. As they stepped inside, a faint shimmer of enchantment seemed to hum in the background, a subtle acknowledgement of the magic contained within.

An older man with wispy white hair and sharp, pale eyes appeared from behind a shelf. He wore a long, dark robe that added to his air of mystery. “Ah, customers,” he said, his voice soft but resonant. His gaze flicked to the girls, lingering briefly on their familiars before settling on Cassiopeia and Evaline. “The next generation of witches, I see. Welcome to Ollivanders.”

Phoebe stepped forward first, her silver eyes meeting his. For a moment, Ollivander’s pale gaze lingered on her face, his expression shifting as if he were recalling a distant memory. “You resemble your mother at this age,” he said softly, his tone measured and unreadable. “Bellatrix… she favoured a walnut wand, twelve and three-quarter inches. A very versatile wand, willing to do anything its user desires. It was a wand that suited her ambition and… unpredictability.” His words hung in the air, neither a compliment nor a critique, but heavy with implication. He studied Phoebe for a beat longer, as if weighing her against the shadow of her mother, before shaking his head slightly, dispelling the thought. “Let us begin, then.”

He moved with surprising swiftness for his age, pulling down a box from a high shelf. “Try this—yew, eleven inches, dragon heartstring core. Flexible.”

Phoebe took the wand, her fingers closing around the smooth wood. A faint warmth spread through her hand, but when she swished it experimentally, the tip sparked erratically before fizzling out. She frowned slightly, her silver eyes narrowing in quiet frustration.

“Not quite,” Ollivander murmured, his sharp eyes already scanning the rows of boxes. He retrieved another. “Perhaps… ebony, twelve inches, phoenix feather. Unyielding.”

This wand felt heavier in Phoebe’s grip, the magic resonating faintly but not aligning with her own. She shook her head, handing it back, her determination evident. The process repeated several times, each wand more intriguing than the last, but none quite fitting. With every failed match, Ollivander’s intrigue seemed to deepen, his pale eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Ah,” he said at last, his voice soft with realisation. “I wonder…” He disappeared behind a towering shelf, his steps purposeful, and returned moments later with a sleek, dark box. “Aspen and dragon heartstring, twelve and three-quarters length, slightly springy. A unique combination for a unique witch.”

Phoebe took the wand, and the moment her fingers curled around it, a rush of warmth surged through her hand, spreading up her arm and into her chest. The shop seemed to hold its breath as a sudden flare of magic erupted from the wand. Ribbons of fire shot out, twisting and swirling around her in a dazzling display of light and shadow. The flames cast flickering patterns on the walls, their heat palpable but controlled, dancing with an elegance that mirrored Phoebe’s poise and intensity. The fire spiralled upward, illuminating the room with a vibrant glow before dissipating into embers that lingered in the air like tiny stars, shimmering faintly before fading away.

Her silver eyes widened in awe as she lowered the wand, her expression shifting to one of triumph and deep connection. She turned to Ollivander, a confident smile playing on her lips. “This is the one.”

Ollivander nodded approvingly, his voice carrying a note of respect. “A fine choice. Aspen—a wood that craves challenge and innovation. Paired with dragon heartstring from a Hebridean Black, it speaks of strength and determination. A powerful combination, well-suited to one with the resolve to see it to the end.”

Next was Violet. She stepped forward hesitantly, her green eyes flicking between Ollivander and the shelves around her. The old wandmaker’s gaze sharpened as he studied her, and a faint, knowing smile played at his lips. “Ah, I wondered when I would be seeing you, Ms. Potter,” he said softly, his voice tinged with curiosity. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. A nice wand for charm work. Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it—it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

Violet’s breath caught, her fingers brushing nervously against the hem of her robes. Her cheeks warmed under Ollivander’s scrutiny. Phoebe, sensing the tension in her friend, stepped to Violet’s side, her presence a silent shield. Her silver eyes fixed on Ollivander, whose gaze had drifted to the lightning-shaped scar that traced its path from Violet’s right temple, down across her left eye and cheek, and finally to her neck. Even after Andromeda’s healing efforts, the scar’s nature as a curse wound, combined with lingering dark magic, meant it never fully faded. Violet’s metamorphmagus abilities could not entirely conceal it without additional spells.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander said softly, a shadow crossing his expression. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do...."

The words hung heavily in the air, the atmosphere in the shop thick with unspoken regret and unease. Violet shifted on her feet, her fingers curling slightly as though bracing herself. After a lingering moment, Ollivander seemed to shake himself free of the thought. “Well, now, let’s find you your wand, Ms. Potter.”

He handed her a wand of cherry wood, nine inches, with a unicorn hair core. Violet felt a faint tingle as she held it, but when she waved it, nothing happened. She frowned and handed it back. The process continued, with wands of various lengths, woods, and cores passing through her hands. Each attempt left her more anxious, her brow furrowing as none felt right. Meanwhile, Ollivander’s intrigue grew, his movements becoming brisk as he darted from one shelf to another, muttering to himself.

Finally, he stopped, his pale eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he reached for a sleek, understated box. “I wonder,” he murmured, almost to himself. He opened the box reverently. “Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core,” he announced, his tone heavy with significance as he extended the wand to her.

The moment Violet’s fingers closed around the wand, warmth surged through her hand, travelling up her arm and into her chest. The air around her seemed to hum with energy, and a burst of golden light illuminated the shop. Shimmering sparks spiralled gracefully into the air, casting intricate patterns across the shelves and walls. Violet’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as the wand’s resonance pulsed through her. She turned it gently in her hand, the connection undeniable.

“Curious… very curious,” Ollivander murmured, his gaze sharpening as he studied her.

“What’s curious?” Daphne asked, her hand resting lightly on Phoebe’s shoulder. Phoebe’s eyes, swirling with the faintest glint of magic, seemed to smoulder with unspoken protectiveness.

Ollivander straightened his expression grave but measured. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar.”

Violet froze, the weight of the revelation settling heavily on her. Ollivander’s voice softened as he continued, “Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Ms. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great.” His gaze lingered on her before briefly flicking to Phoebe.

Violet’s grip tightened on the wand as she stepped back, the warmth from the holly grounding her amidst the unsettling truth. She glanced at Phoebe, who immediately took her hand, squeezing it in silent reassurance. The touch steadied Violet, her confidence returning.

“This is mine,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest.

Ollivander nodded, satisfied. “Indeed it is.”

Finally, Daphne approached the counter with her usual composed demeanour, her emerald eyes shining with quiet anticipation. Unlike Phoebe and Violet, who had displayed their emotions more openly during the process, Daphne carried herself with a sense of calm that hinted at her reserved but confident nature. Even so, a faint flicker of curiosity danced across her features as Ollivander turned his sharp gaze toward her.

“Ah, Miss Greengrass,” Ollivander said, his tone soft but perceptive. “A family of refinement and tradition. Let us see where your magic leads us.” He moved to the shelves with the same fluid precision he had shown with the others, his pale eyes scanning the boxes as if they spoke to him.

The first wand he offered her was sycamore wood, ten inches, with a dragon heartstring core. Daphne’s grip on the wand was steady, but as she gave it a gentle swish, only a faint wisp of magic emerged. She handed it back without a word, her expression unruffled.

Ollivander retrieved another. “Perhaps laurel, twelve inches, unicorn hair core,” he suggested. The wand gave off a faint hum in Daphne’s hand but failed to resonate fully. She returned it, her calm composure unwavering.

Several more wands were tested with no success, though Ollivander’s intrigue seemed to grow with each attempt. Finally, he paused, his fingers lingering over a sleek black box. “Yes,” he murmured to himself, pulling the box down with deliberate care. “This one… Ebony, with a Romanian Longhorn dragon heartstring core. Eleven and three-quarter inches. Slightly rigid. A wand for strength and precision.”

Daphne accepted the wand with a sense of purpose. The moment her fingers curled around the polished ebony, a surge of warmth flowed through her hand and up her arm. A faint green glow emanated from the tip, followed by delicate sparks of gold that shimmered like tiny fireflies. The shop seemed to hold its breath as a soft melodic hum filled the air, the wand’s magic resonating perfectly with her own.

Her lips curved into a small but genuine smile, her reserved façade softening as she gave the wand a graceful twirl. The sparks danced in an elegant arc before fading into the air. “This will do nicely,” she said, her tone steady but tinged with quiet satisfaction.

Ollivander’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Ebony wands favour those who have great strength of character and unyielding determination. Paired with a Romanian Longhorn dragon heartstring core, it is a wand of power and adaptability. A perfect match for someone with grace and resolve.”

Daphne inclined her head in acknowledgement, the wand resting comfortably in her hand. She turned to join Phoebe and Violet, who were watching her with matching grins. “Finally decided to join us, have you?” Phoebe teased, her silver eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I prefer to be thorough,” Daphne replied smoothly, though the faintest trace of amusement flickered in her expression.

“And you succeeded,” Violet added warmly, her green eyes filled with admiration. “That was beautiful.”

The three girls exchanged a look of shared excitement, their new wands held tightly in their hands. As they left Ollivander’s shop together, Evaline Greengrass greeted them with an approving nod, her gaze lingering briefly on Daphne’s wand.

“It suits you,” Evaline said, her voice tinged with pride. Daphne simply smiled, her quiet confidence speaking volumes.

As they walked back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, their bond felt stronger than ever, the weight of their wands in their hands a tangible reminder of the magical journeys awaiting them. Their next stop was a shop specialising in wand accessories. The girls eagerly explored the shelves, guided by Evaline and Cassiopeia. Together, they each selected a wand maintenance kit, filled with polishing cloths, wood oil, and tools for caring for their new wands.

Phoebe and Daphne were particularly captivated by the selection of wand holsters. They chose ones made from dragon leather, crafted from the same species that provided the cores of their wands. Phoebe’s holster, made from Hebridean Black dragon leather, was sleek and slightly textured, matching the fierce elegance of her wand. Daphne’s holster, crafted from the deep mahogany-toned leather of a Romanian Longhorn, was refined yet durable, complementing her composed demeanour with a touch of elegance.

Violet selected a holster of supple leather enchanted for adaptability and comfort, designed to securely hold her wand without restricting movement. As they tried on their holsters, the shopkeeper added enchantments to ensure the wands could only be drawn by their rightful owners, a precaution that made Cassiopeia nod approvingly.

“You’ll thank me later,” Cassiopeia said, her silver eyes glinting as she inspected their choices. “A properly cared-for wand and the right accessories can make all the difference.”

The girls exchanged excited glances as they stepped back out into the bustling street, their newfound treasures safely secured. The magical anticipation of Hogwarts felt even closer now, each detail of their preparation weaving into the story of their first year.

~~

When they arrived at Greengrass Manor later that afternoon via the Floo network, the energy among the trio remained electric. Astoria greeted them at the door, her wide-eyed curiosity evident as she took in their bundles of school supplies. “Did you get your wands?” she asked eagerly, her hands clasped in front of her.

Phoebe grinned, holding up her wand. “Of course! And wait until you see our familiars.”

Astoria’s excitement grew as they led her into one of the sitting rooms, where they set down their bags and began unpacking. Eris, perched gracefully on Phoebe’s shoulder, cawed softly, her violet eyes shimmering in the light. Sylva trotted in circles around Daphne, her sleek red fur practically glowing as she sniffed at the air. Hedwig, ever dignified, settled on the back of a chair, her snowy feathers pristine.

“They’re amazing,” Astoria said, her gaze darting between the raven, the fox, and the owl. “Do you think I’ll get one as cool as them when I go to Hogwarts?”

“You’ll find the perfect familiar,” Daphne assured her, kneeling to ruffle Sylva’s fur. “Just like we did. It’s all about listening to your magic.”

Astoria nodded earnestly, her admiration evident, her wide eyes darting between the older girls as they began sorting through their new books. Each tome seemed to hold a promise of adventure, the gleaming covers and embossed titles reflecting the light of the room. Daphne carefully stacked her books in neat piles, her movements methodical as always, while Phoebe flipped through pages with curious enthusiasm, her silver eyes scanning the text. Violet held a book on magical theory open, her head tilted thoughtfully as she traced her fingers along an intricate diagram.

Astoria hovered nearby, her hands clasped in front of her as she hesitated, then asked, “What’s Transfiguration like? Is it hard?”

Phoebe smiled warmly at her, setting down her book. “It’s supposed to be tricky, but I think it sounds exciting. Turning one thing into another? That’s proper magic, right?”

Violet chimed in, her green eyes sparkling. “And Defense Against the Dark Arts sounds amazing. Imagine learning how to duel and protect yourself with spells.”

Astoria’s curiosity grew as they continued, her questions bubbling forth. Phoebe and Violet were more than happy to indulge her, their excitement infectious as they shared what they had learned about Hogwarts from Cassiopeia and Evaline.

“And don’t forget the Great Hall,” Violet added, her voice filled with wonder. “Cassiopeia says the ceiling is enchanted to look like the night sky. Imagine having dinner under the stars every night.”

Astoria’s expression shifted to a mixture of awe and longing. “I’m jealous you get to go first,” she admitted, her lower lip jutting out slightly in a small pout. Sylva, sensing her disappointment, nuzzled against her hand, drawing a giggle from the younger girl. Her smile returned as she petted the fox’s sleek red fur. “But I’ll get my turn soon.”

As the evening stretched on, the sitting room became a hub of anticipation and camaraderie. The trio’s chatter filled the space as they debated which classes would be their favourites and speculated about their future professors. Astoria perched nearby, listening intently, her admiration for the older girls shining in her eyes.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in a warm golden glow, the sense of connection between the trio had deepened. The soft crackle of the fireplace added to the cosy atmosphere as the girls’ excitement hummed in the air. It was a moment of shared dreams and unspoken promises, their bond strengthened by the anticipation of the magical journey awaiting them all.

~~

The grey, oppressive sky mirrored the grim atmosphere that surrounded Azkaban, the infamous wizarding prison. Phoebe clutched Cassiopeia’s hand tightly as they stepped off the small, enchanted boat that had brought them across the turbulent sea. The frigid air bit at her skin despite the warmth of her robes, and the looming fortress ahead seemed to drain all light and hope from the world.

Azkaban was a towering monolith of despair, its dark, jagged stone walls rising high into the sky. The air felt thick and heavy, as though it carried the weight of countless sorrows and regrets. Dementors glided silently along the parapets, their shadowy forms exuding an icy chill that made Phoebe’s breath hitch. She could feel their presence tugging at her emotions, attempting to dredge up her darkest fears and memories.

“Stay close,” Cassiopeia said firmly, her voice a steady anchor amidst the bleakness. Her silver eyes darted around, sharp and vigilant, as she led Phoebe toward the massive iron gates. Even with the guards’ protection and her own formidable magic, Cassiopeia was wary. This was no place to linger.

The gates creaked open with a sound that seemed to echo endlessly, revealing a narrow corridor lit by dim, flickering torches. The air inside was damp and carried the metallic tang of seawater. Phoebe’s heart pounded as they passed through, the walls seeming to close in around her. She had heard stories of Azkaban, of the despair it inflicted on its inhabitants, but being here was something entirely different. The very air seemed to hum with misery.

They were led deeper into the fortress by a stoic Ministry official, his expression unreadable as he walked briskly ahead. Each step echoed against the cold stone floor, amplifying the eerie silence. As they passed cell after cell, Phoebe caught glimpses of gaunt, hollow-eyed prisoners staring blankly at the walls or muttering to themselves. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, and she tightened her grip on Cassiopeia’s hand.

“Don’t look,” Cassiopeia advised softly, pulling Phoebe closer. “Focus on your breathing. You’re stronger than this place.”

After what felt like an eternity, they reached a secluded area of the prison. The air here was even colder, the Dementors’ presence more oppressive, pressing down like an unrelenting weight. At the end of the dimly lit corridor, a solitary cell awaited. Inside, sitting on the cold stone floor with her back against the wall, was Bellatrix Black. The air in the cell seemed to ripple with an almost tangible tension, her presence radiating a chaotic energy that made the confined space feel suffocating. Shadows danced and flickered across her gaunt face, and her matted hair hung in wild, knotted strands, framing her hollow cheeks. But it was her eyes—piercing silver and alive with a frenetic intensity—that seemed to defy the very despair that permeated Azkaban. They burned with an unyielding fire, unnatural and haunting.

Phoebe’s breath caught as her gaze locked on the woman before her. Bellatrix’s once feral, commanding presence was diminished but far from extinguished. Her thin frame betrayed years of deprivation, but beyond the ravages of Azkaban, there was an eerie, unsettling familiarity. Bellatrix looked almost like an adult version of Phoebe herself. The resemblance was undeniable—the sharp bone structure, the swirling silver eyes, the almost regal tilt of her head. It was as though Phoebe was staring at a reflection of what she might become if consumed by the chaotic energy that rippled from her mother.

Her tattered and stained robes hung loosely around her shoulders, barely concealing the taut energy of her form. It was as if she were a tightly coiled spring, ready to explode at any moment. Bellatrix’s madness was palpable, an ever-present storm threatening to break free. The Black Madness seemed to have claimed every inch of her, radiating from her like a dark aura that pressed against the very walls of the cell, making the air feel thick and oppressive.

When Bellatrix’s gaze shifted to Phoebe, something flickered in her expression—recognition, curiosity, and a twisted pride. Her cracked lips curved into a faint smile that sent a chill down Phoebe’s spine.

“So,” Bellatrix rasped, her voice raw and jagged like shattered glass, yet carrying an unnerving precision that cut through the oppressive air. Her silver eyes glinted with a mix of twisted amusement and dark curiosity. “You’ve brought her to see me at last.” Her words lingered, heavy with accusation and an almost playful malice that seemed to dare them to answer.

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her expression unreadable. “Phoebe wanted to see you. To understand.”

Bellatrix’s lips twisted into a faint, sardonic smile. “Understand?” Bellatrix’s voice dropped lower, a rasp that seemed to reverberate in the stillness of the cell. “There’s little to understand, child. I am what I am,” she said, her tone balancing precariously between defiance and an almost weary resignation. Her silver eyes burned with a chaotic intensity, yet for a fleeting moment, a shadow of unspoken awareness crossed her face—a bitter recognition of all she had sacrificed to become what she was. “They shaped me, and I welcomed it. What else was there for me?” Her gaze shifted to Phoebe, and her expression softened just slightly, the resemblance between them making the moment all the more unsettling. It was as if Bellatrix could see herself reflected in the younger girl, a connection that neither her madness nor the walls of Azkaban could obscure. “But you… you are something else entirely, aren’t you?”

Phoebe hesitated, her throat tightening. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind, but now, faced with her mother, words failed her. The weight of Bellatrix’s scrutiny was overwhelming, and the oppressive atmosphere of Azkaban only made it worse.

Bellatrix tilted her head as she studied Phoebe, her movements deliberate and unsettling, like a predator assessing its prey. Her voice dropped to a softer, almost reverent tone, the jagged edges of her madness barely restrained. “There’s something in you… something familiar. Strength, perhaps. Or is it defiance? I can see it in your eyes—a spark, something untamed and unbroken, raw and full of potential. Something that could be great… or terrible.”

“I… I wanted to see for myself,” Phoebe finally managed, her voice trembling slightly. “To understand who you are… and who I am.”

Bellatrix’s smile widened, though it carried no warmth. “And what have you learned, little one?”

Phoebe’s grip on Cassiopeia’s hand tightened. “That I’m not like you,” she said quietly but firmly. “I’m going to be better.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then Bellatrix let out a low, raspy chuckle that quickly escalated into a wild, unrestrained laugh. The sound echoed through the corridor, sharp and unnerving, carrying with it the unmistakable edge of the Black Madness that consumed her. It was a sound of defiance, madness, and something dangerously triumphant. “Better, she says.” Bellatrix’s voice dripped with a twisted amusement, her tone oscillating between menace and mocking doubt. She leaned forward slightly, the faint clink of her chains emphasising the movement, her silver eyes burning with an unrelenting madness. “We’ll see, little one,” she hissed, her cracked lips curling into a dark, almost predatory smile. “We’ll see.”

Cassiopeia stepped forward, her silver eyes hard. “This visit is over. Come, Phoebe.”

As they turned to leave, their path led them past another cell. Inside sat a gaunt, hollow-eyed man with long, unkempt hair that fell in dark, matted strands around his face. Despite the weariness etched into his features, there was an air of defiance about him that even the relentless despair of Azkaban had not entirely extinguished. Sirius Black. His piercing gray eyes, sharp and burning with a flicker of life, locked onto Cassiopeia as she approached. She slowed her steps ever so slightly, her gaze meeting his with a calm, deliberate intensity.

"House Black looks after its blood," she said softly, her tone carrying a quiet but undeniable authority. Though her words were subtle, the message was unmistakable. She did not pause, and her stride resumed as though nothing had been said. Yet Sirius’s gaze lingered, following them down the corridor. A spark of something stirred in his expression—hope, confusion, or perhaps a glimmer of understanding—lighting his weary features for a fleeting moment.

Bellatrix’s gaze remained fixed on Phoebe as they walked, her expression a haunting mixture of amusement and intensity. Her silver eyes gleamed with a fractured, almost otherworldly light, and her lips twisted into a half-smile as though savouring some unspoken thought. Even as her presence faded behind them, the raw, chaotic energy she exuded seemed to cling to the air, leaving Phoebe with a chill that burrowed deep into her skin.

The oppressive corridors of Azkaban stretched on, shadowed by the dark forms of gliding Dementors and the desolation of the prisoners they passed. Each step away from Bellatrix’s cell felt heavier, the echoes of the encounter lingering in Phoebe’s mind. By the time they emerged back into the frigid coastal air, the biting wind and salty tang of the sea were almost a relief.

Phoebe clutched Eris tightly to her chest, the raven’s quiet weight a small comfort against the turmoil of her thoughts. Her mind lingered on the brief glimpse of Sirius, his eyes haunting her as much as her mother’s fractured gaze. But before she could dwell further, Cassiopeia placed a firm hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

“You did well,” Cassiopeia said softly, her silver eyes steady and reassuring. “This place doesn’t define you. Remember that.”

Phoebe nodded, her resolve hardening as the boat carried them away from the looming shadow of Azkaban. The rhythmic crash of waves against the hull seemed to echo her determination. She would forge her own path, one that honoured her family’s legacy while breaking free from its darkest chains.

By the time they stepped back onto the boat, the cold wind of the sea was almost a relief. Phoebe’s thoughts lingered on the brief glimpse of Violet's godfather, his eyes haunting her as much as her mother’s fractured gaze. Cassiopeia placed a hand on her shoulder, her grip firm and reassuring.