Chapter Text
Prologue: The Ashes of a Secret
Year 1979, Black Manor, London.
The rain was pattering against the stained glass windows of the Black drawing room as if the heavens were trying to erase the family's sins. Narcissa, seventeen years old and wearing a black velvet dress that no longer hung around her waist, stared into the flames of the fireplace. In her trembling hands she held a silver locket, a gift from *him* on her sixteenth birthday. Inside, two locks of hair: one jet-black, the other moonlight blonde, entwined in an impossible knot.
-Do you think your love is stronger than centuries of tradition? -Walburga Black's voice echoed from the doorway, cold and sharp as the steel of a dagger. She advanced towards Narcissa, her shoes clacking against the marble like funeral bells. That child in you is an insult to our blood. The Malfoy family will never accept an heir who smells of treachery.
Narcissa did not look away from the fire. She remembered the night Sirius had first kissed her in the Orangery, far from the eyes of the family. The taste of mint and rebellion, the whispered oath between giggles: "Our children will bear the Black name, no matter what.
-Lucius will never know," Walburga said, snatching the locket from his hands. You will marry him, and the child will bear his name. The child..." She paused, opening the locket with a snap. The Parkinsons have no family tree to sully.
Narcissa felt the emptiness in her belly as Walburga tossed the tresses into the fire. The flames devoured them greedily, turning them to ashes that her aunt collected in an ebony jar carved with ancient runes.
-What about Sirius? -Narcissa managed to ask, though she already knew the answer.
Walburga smiled, a smile that did not reach her icy eyes.
-He's too busy playing the rebel with that Potter. He'll be caught soon enough... or killed. You're a Black. You'll forget.
Year 1980, Azkaban.
Sirius spat blood against the wall of his cell. The Dementors' laughter mingled with the echoes of his own madness. He dreamed of her: of Narcissa, of her cold lips and warm words. "I'll wait for you," he had told her last night, before the Death Eaters dragged him into the shadows.
But in the dream, she was surrounded by flames, holding a blonde-haired baby who cried "Father" in her voice.
Year 1981, Malfoy Manor.
Narcissa was rocking Draco in her arms, singing a lullaby Sirius had taught her. Lucius entered the room, his grey eyes scanning the boy as if sensing the lie in his blood.
-He has your eyes," Lucius lied, and Narcissa pressed the baby to her chest, where the empty locket burned her skin.
Year 1999, Grimmauld Place.
Sirius found the jar in the attic, hidden among boxes of broken toys and cobweb-covered portraits. The ashes inside glowed on contact with his wand, revealing a truth written in bleeding runes:
"Draco Orion Black. Pansy Lyra Black. Born under the blood moon, cursed by their parents' love.
The ground creaked. Kreacher appeared behind him, his yellow eyes glowing with hatred and something else... guilt?
-The Dark Mistress commanded secrecy," the Elf muttered, pointing to a veiled mirror in the corner. But the mirror never lies, oh no.
Sirius drew back the veil. In the reflection, he saw not his face, but that of Narcissa at seventeen, weeping as she burned love letters. Behind her, a cradle with two babies: one with blonde curls and one with stormy grey eyes.
-Why, Kreacher? -Sirius roared, but the elf had already disappeared.
In the corridor, Walburga's portrait laughed, her words dripping with venom: "We Blacks always pay for our sins with interest... don't we?
The vial exploded in his hands. The ash mingled with her blood, drawing a name in the air that burned her soul:
"Narcissa".
The war was over, but another battle was beginning in her blood.