Archive of Our Own

— — — Bellatrix — — —

Bellatrix Black is born in the middle of a snowstorm. Her mother is draped in all manner of blankets and her father holds his wife’s hand as he nurses a firewhiskey in the other. The maids hurry away with dirtied sheets while the midwife swaddles the baby in a deep blue blanket. The girl is carefully manoeuvred into the arms of her mother before the help is ushered away and the new parents are left in a silent room. The baby’s cries taper off as she is held by her mother.

There is a moment of quiet.

Cygnus Black puts his firewhisky down on the nightstand and looks at the baby.

“A girl,” he says simply.

Druella looks up at her husband, exhausted beyond words, “Yes.”

“Hmm. As our first child, she will lead the Black family. She will be called Bellatrix.”

“The name of a warrior and a leader, how appropriate. Let me sleep, Cygnus, I’ve just had a child.”

“Quite right,” Cygnus agrees, cracking a rare smile, “The time for honeyed words is later. I will inform the family of the birth while you rest.”

He retires to his office to find another bottle of firewhiskey, and to send out letters to every close ally or respectable publication he can think of. Tomorrow morning, the world will first know of Bellatrix Black.

— — —

Bellatrix grows up cold. The disgrace of being the daughter-who-wasn’t-a-son is a constant weight on her back, but she straightens her shoulders anyways and grasps the handle of a wand the second she’s able. It is her responsibility to lead the Black family, and she will do it with her head held high. In order to do this, she learns.

At the hands of her mother, she learns to listen to what people whisper when she leaves the room. At the hands of her father, she learns what her place truly is, and how to defend it. She is given tutors before she can walk, but it’s no use; she can’t sit still, can’t listen well, can’t do anything right. Magic thrums through her veins and crackles at her fingertips and if you get near her, your hair stands on end. Her tutors learn quickly enough that Bellatrix Black will never be a scholar or a great mind of the ages, and this is what first sends her to her father’s office.

It is a frigid, imposing place; tall, dark bookshelves line the walls, filled with all manner of purposefully forgotten knowledge. There is a large desk between them, covered in parchment that her father uses for his important, grown-up work, and the space seems enormous. Her father sits behind the desk and stares at her as if he can see into her very soul.

She lifts herself onto a plush chair, feet not even brushing against the floor yet, and prepares for judgement. She does not fidget. Her magic courses through her, urging her to play, but she does nothing.

“Bellatrix,” her father says, rubbing gently at a greying temple, “I am disappointed.”

Those words tilt her world on its side in a way that will never quite be righted again. The very idea of him being displeased by her efforts makes the weight on her shoulders crush down even more, making her bow her head. Tears sting at her eyes and she tries desperately to blink them away.

“I apologise, father. I do not mean to… disappoint.”

“I know. It is inevitable anyways.”

“I-” Bellatrix starts, then falls quiet when he fixes her with the stare again. “I understand.”

“You will not be taught as a scholar anymore, Bellatrix, but as a fighter. We have contacted my cousin Valeska, who has experience with your… restlessness. She will help you with duelling. I suggest you read up on your duelling theory. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, father. Thank you, father.”

— — —

Madam Valeska Solovyova is a force of nature. She arrives in mid 1995, just as Andromeda begins to stand on her chubby toddler legs and her mother becomes round with child again. The manor feels more lively now, but Bellatrix shrinks away from it. She has no place in a happy family dynamic, not when she is a disappointment. Madam Solovyova takes one look at Bellatrix, hits her with a stinging jinx, and wraps her in a hug. It is warm and fiery and it takes everything to not just melt into a puddle on the floor right then and there.

Bellatrix withdraws after that, spending all her days with her tutors and with her new duelling instructor. If she’s not found in a lesson, she is in the duelling arena with Madam Solovyova. It takes her weeks to perfect her shield charm, and now she can gaze longingly at Andromeda as much as she wants without feeling the sting of hexes against her arms.

There is something strange about the way that Madam Solovyova duels. She dances around spells like any other accomplished duelist may do — she assures Bellatrix that gracefulness will be developed in time — but she also advances upon her opponents like a hungry beast. She flicks her wand in strange ways that do not seem to match the right wand movements and every time Bellatrix learns a new dark spell and races to show it off, Madam Solovyova already knows the spells to shield and counter it. Above all, she has the same restless energy, the same thrum of magic in her veins, and they spark against each other whenever they touch. Madam Solovyova calls it “the Blackness”.

Bellatrix has never seen anyone duel the way that Madam Solovyova does, but she soon figures out why.

She pokes around the library in her free time, avoiding the rest of her family, and finds herself in the section pertaining to history. She finds her answer in a book about the terror Grindelwald.

“What was it like, Madam, to be a Greatwolf?” she asks one day, not really knowing what the answer could be, “What was it like to fight alongside the Dark Lord Grindelwald?”

Madam Solovyova does not say anything for a long time, eyes hazy as if she is remembering something from long ago.

“It is true power,” she replies finally, “to stow one’s morality away and become a weapon. It feels like nothing you will ever feel again. You are obsessed with the power, with the Blackness. The pain becomes nothing, because all you are is an unstoppable force of ravenous hunger, and all you may do is eat.”

Bellatrix does not ask again.

— — —

Bellatrix is a few months away from turning five when her second sister is born. Narcissa is as perfect as Andromeda, all chubby cheeks and huge, blue eyes, and at this point Bellatrix can’t stay away.

Andromeda breaks a cup and Bellatrix takes the fall. She wraps her shaking younger sister in her favourite blue blanket and she pretends she dropped the cup. She goes to the office again.

— — —

Madam Solovyova leaves after nearly seven years and Bellatrix is once again all alone in the manor. She spends all day with her less interesting tutors and spends all night in a soundproof room, shooting every spell she can think of at a dummy. The smudges under her eyes grow, but the magic under her skin is manageable and she doesn’t get sent to the office quite as much.

— — —

Bellatrix departs for Hogwarts with a new leather trunk and a prowl in her step. She is sorted into Slytherin, as is expected of someone of her status and family. She sneers when the prefect introduces himself and stalks away to her room, where she lays down the rules to the somewhat terrified girls she will be forced to be around.

They will not get near her or they will suffer.

The rule is broken on the first night, when a few sixth years come in and dump water on her while she’s sleeping. The “new kid ritual”, they laugh. They stop laughing when Bellatrix takes her wand out from under the pillow and starts casting, the magic in her veins singing as strips of skin begin to fly away and screams ring out through the room. The blood doesn’t come out of her sheets for weeks. There is no more “new kid ritual” in her dormitory. The rest of the girls don’t talk to her for months.

— — —

Hogwarts passes in a haze. She does what is expected of her — high grades in classes, championing the Slytherin duelling club, becoming good friends with a couple of the less squeamish purebloods — but she doesn’t really care. The only worthwhile thing is what’s brewing outside the walls of the castle.

Bellatrix gets married a month after she graduates. The day before her wedding, her father introduces her to one “Marvolo”. He stares at her with ice in his eyes and the magic in Bellatrix’s veins erupts. She’s never loved anyone more. She gets married to Rodolphus Lestrange the next day. Rodolphus enjoys history of magic and transfiguration and playing cruel jokes on mudbloods, so they get along well enough. They’re cordial, and that’s as much as any good pureblood can hope for. They go to galas and practice duelling against each other and she learns the way he likes his eggs (runny, but not raw), and the neutrality is pleasant enough.

When he kneels at their Lord’s feet, arm blistering around a skull tattoo, she loves him for the first time.

— — —

Bellatrix spins and dances around spells and for the first time in a while, she laughs. It is a high, deranged cackle and the young Death Eater recruit she’s fighting shudders. She sends a bombarding hex at him and his shield breaks, sending him sprawling backwards with a shout. She finishes with a cutting hex that makes blood well up across his chest. He chokes out a healing spell and is helped from the duelling ground by another recruit, both of them sending terrified looks at the woman in the tailored duelling robes.

Slow claps sound from behind her and Bellatrix straightens, a grin painted across her face. She spins and bows slowly to her lord, still beaming.

“Good, Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord says, teeth curling into a caricature of a proud smile. There’s a shadow of her father in that face and Bellatrix drinks it in.

“Thank you, my lord.”

She may be obsessed, but she doesn’t really care. All that matters is her Lord, and how she may serve him. Her wand is controlled by his word, and her life is bent to his every whim. This is what she wants, what she craves. She is making someone proud, and the magic underneath her skin rejoices every time another drop of blood splatters against her face. She is Bellatrix Lestrange, and she is dangerous.

— — —

Andromeda runs off with a disgusting mudblood and her mother nearly dies from the shock. Narcissa and Bellatrix haven’t been close in years, but they understand each other now. Narcissa goes to find their mother’s favourite china set and make tea. Bellatrix goes to her father’s office and confesses that she is the Dark Lord’s finest duellist. Her father nods in approval, and tells her of the Black Madness. Bellatrix can finally put a name to the gnawing obsession. She has the power of ten men and the insanity of twenty. Just like her dear Madam Solovyova, she is a madwoman and a Black.

— — —

Duelling has begun to feel like a lifeline — the only real thing in her life. Her magic is more active now than ever, leaping out of her at every chance as she practices the darkest spells she remembers on whatever strikes her fancy. She understands now what Madam Solovyova meant all those years ago.

She is a weapon. She is a force of unstoppable hunger. She is ravenous and all she may do is eat.

— — —

Years seem to pass in minutes as the world descends into war. Bellatrix duels harder and faster each time she fights, not allowing herself to rest. Their Lord wants victory, and she will secure it. Her hands shake and her eyes grow heavy, but she dares not sleep when there is a war to be won.

Their Lord leaves in the night to try and halt a prophecy, and when the news breaks, Bellatrix gathers her most loyal friends and tortures the Longbottoms until their screams mirror her own.

It is no use trying to avoid a prophecy. They always come true.

— — —

Minutes seem to last years as the world picks itself up and rights what has apparently been wronged. Bellatrix huddles in rags in a cold cell and carves words into the stone with her fingernails. She can feel her sanity slipping away as the magic underneath her skin tries and fails to boil over, time and time again. The pain is all-consuming and absolute. There is no dummy to shred to pieces. Her wand has been snapped.

She learns to laugh to avoid the pain, and now her throat is dry and hollow and cracked. Inside her mind, the cracks grow and grow and she can’t laugh anymore, because her sanity is crumbling around her and all she has left is a lingering, mesmerising obsession and a decade’s worth of cruel, sharp, jagged magic waiting to be released on the world.

When the walls to her cells explode outwards, she laughs like the maniac she is and jumps. Her Lord will catch her.

— — —

She makes up for lost time rather quickly.

Her Lord takes her to a field in the countryside and hands her a wand, assuring her that it will be well suited to her. She brings her new wand to her lips and smells the fresh polish, watches as the sun makes the blackthorn wood shine golden. She breathes out.

Twenty Aurors have to be called in to tame the fiendfyre before it can reach the nearby village.

Rodolphus doesn’t speak to her anymore, too busy scheming for their Lord while she hunts like a snake in the grass. She is Medusa, curdled by love and haunted by heroes, knowing that she is a monster but destroying those who seek to stop her. She has ice in her veins and at the tip of her tongue.

Bellatrix follows her Lord wherever he goes, and leaves blood and splintered bone behind. She takes up residence at Malfoy Manor, where her sister and husband-in-law and darling little nephew now mingle with common Death Eaters and snatchers. Every day, dirty little mudbloods are brought to her, and every day, a body is burnt in the woods behind the manor. The look when they first see Bellatrix is delicious; the widening eyes before they scramble to escape, the way that the screams begin before she’s even touched them, the hopeless look they get when she draws out her wand — it satiates the ravenous pit inside her as her magic tears them apart.

One fine day, the Potter brat’s friends are captured and Bellatrix gets to play with his pet mudblood. She makes sure that the little girl will have scars until the rest of her life.

Soon after that, they go after the school.

Hogwarts stands as tall and beautiful as it did nearly forty years ago, all towering spires and polished bricks. It gives Bellatrix the sickest little thrill of pleasure to wave her wand and see it all start to crumble down. She pulls bricks from the walls and sends them flying at the littlest students. She uses curses with no known counter and watches as acid eats away at flesh and bone. A seventh year stands against her, trembling, and she disembowels him with glee. Soon enough, people start to run when they see her.

They’re called away for an hour to let those still alive in the castle lick their wounds, and Bellatrix spends the entire hour casting at a fallen log until it has turned to sawdust.

At the end of the hour, Harry Potter emerges from the trees and walks to his death. Her Lord grins and raises his wand, serpentine tongue curling around the syllables of the killing curse, and Potter falls over with a thump. Bellatrix cackles right up until the moment that their Lord begins to sway on his feet. She reaches for him and steadies him when he falls, not sure if something is wrong, but he regains his footing shortly and pushes her away, sending her dear sister to make sure that the boy is dead.

The boy is dead, and the Death Eaters rejoice.

They make their way up to the castle, making the half-giant scum carry the dead body, and gloat. 

“Harry Potter is dead!” the Dark Lord Voldemort cries. There are screams and jeers and Bellatrix laughs, prowling up and down the line of Death Eaters.

Then there is an explosion of noise and the fighting is resumed. Harry Potter is alive and the castle is alight with spellfire. Despite the hour to tidy them away, bodies are now filling the halls, and Bellatrix steps over them like they’re flies. No person alive could stop her from getting to her Lord and tearing Hogwarts down one brick at a time.

She licks the blood from her teeth and walks into the fray.

She kills several and injures many more, but most of her focus is taken up by the red-headed family to her left. They are fighting their way towards Potter, and so Bellatrix plants herself firmly between them and casts a Killing Curse at the youngest of them.

The last thing she sees is Molly Weasley, teeth pulled back in a snarl not unlike a lioness, and a bolt of sky blue light.

Bellatrix wakes up in a white place. There is nothing around her but a door, plain white just like the surroundings. She registers that she is naked, and in a moment of weakness, wishes for something comforting. In an instant, a simple robe like the ones she wore while duelling Madam Solovyova, just as she remembers. She considers wishing for more, but the door seems to call to her and she can’t help but step towards it and open the handle.

She enters into a room. The details are indistinct, but the general shape of the room seems similar to her father’s office. Even now, all these years after Cygnus Black is dead and gone, the very thought of this office is enough to make her start fidgeting nervously. There’s a man sitting at the desk, features fuzzy, and she doesn’t want to step closer to him.

“Bellatrix,” the man says, and she feels the weight of his voice in her very bones, “Come and sit down.”

Bellatrix sits down, only a desk to separate her from her father.

They say nothing for what could be only seconds or could be hours. There seems to be no concept of time in this place — whatever “this place” happens to be — and with every passing moment Bellatrix feels worse and worse. Her father stares at her as if he can see her very soul, and if her somewhat fuzzy idea of where she is is true, he might be able to.

He clears his throat. “Bellatrix… when you are ready, you will leave the white room and face your judgement.”

Time stands still once again. Bellatrix is not scared of judgement, not when she knows what will happen. She has been in a daze for years, and now that it has been lifted, she sees what she is — a monster. She feels no shame, nor is she upset at the revelation; in fact, she’s rather pleased. She made her Lord proud, and that is almost all that matters. But nevertheless, she’s not ready; the answers to life’s greatest mysteries are in reach, and all that.

“Father–” Bellatrix begins, but then she chokes on her words. It is no use trying to bargain with death. It is the foolish bravery that she buries deep within that makes her abandon that line of thought and turn to the one thing that she really wants.

“Father, may I ask you a question?”

Her father tilts his head, a smile playing across his lips. “Yes?”

“Did I… did I make you proud?” she asks quietly. It makes her feel like a child, immature and stupid, and she regrets it the second she asks. “I- I don’t-”

“Yes,” her father says simply, as if it could be so simple, as if she hasn’t dedicated every moment of her conscious life to making him proud. It astounds her, completely and utterly and irrevocably, and she finds herself bursting with questions, but she can’t bring herself to ask any of them. Suddenly, life’s greatest mysteries have no meaning to her, because her father is proud of her and that is all she has ever wanted.

Bellatrix nods once, then stands and walks out of the room. She closes the door behind her and doesn’t look back.

— — — Andromeda — — —

Andromeda is born in the middle of a heatwave. She’s a spitfire of an infant, wailing and crying and screwing up her tiny hands into fists to beat at her swaddling blanket. Her father takes one look at her and softens, eyes crinkling at the edges with crow’s feet that betray his advancing age. Her mother looks down at her, exhausted but equally fond.

“Andromeda. That’s what we’re calling her.”

“Alright, my love. Andromeda it is.”

Andromeda is instantly a lot more beloved than Bellatrix. Her magic doesn’t spark against the midwife’s hands, and the household breathes a sigh of relief. Her disposition has no bearing upon how she’s seen; all that matters is that one madwoman will grow up in the manor, not two. She’s a lovely, vivacious child, all rosy cheeks and wavy hair, and she laughs circles around everyone else. The sun seems to shine from her every pore, bathing the manor in a hopeful glow, and the world is all the more brighter.

Andromeda doesn’t get told no often — for a family so wealthy to have a child so beloved is a recipe for at least a little spoiling. She gets a toy broom and whatever picture books she wants, and when she decides she’s bored of normal candy, the entire family takes a week-long vacation to Belgium and comes back with chocolate more expensive than the latest Comet. It’s hard not to have a bit of an ego after that.

— — —

When she’s five, she takes a wrong turn and finds herself in the servants area. Andromeda knows she’s not supposed to be down there; according to her mother, the maids are barely smarter than a common muggle and must be treated as such. She wanders around, but none of the doors seem to lead back to the main house. The shadows seem to creep out from the walls like lethifolds, tendrils of darkness trying to curl around her like the gnarled fingers of a dementor. She walks a little faster.

Eventually, her aimless wandering leads her to the one place with any signs of life: the kitchens. The sound of dishes and pans clattering around is loud enough that no one looks up when the door creaks open and Andromeda makes it all the way over, weaving between two maids and heading over to the door on the other side of the room, which she hopes connects to the dining room.

“Oh, Miss Andromeda!” a maid says in surprise. Almost instantly, most of the chattering ceases. Twenty heads swivel around and stare at her in shock and a little bit of horror. Andromeda lifts her hand and waves awkwardly. For almost a minute, no one moves.

A kettle begins to scream and time starts again.

The servants look at her, and whisper. They like her, but the Blacks don’t come down to the kitchens, don’t grovel in the mud with the creatures they deem too filthy to mingle with. They don’t seem to know what to do; none of them try to talk to her, and half of them avert their eyes when she goes past.

Andromeda walks to the door she spotted and pulls it open, but startles when bright light instantly streams in and hits her in the face. Her eyes take a moment to adjust, then she realises where she is. A bountiful greenhouse spreads out before her, endless rows of fresh vegetables and herbs growing in neat little boxes. She takes a step forward to look around.

A tiny girl appears in front of her, seemingly from nowhere. Andromeda startles and steps back, prompting the girl to take a step forward and stick out her hand.

“Hi! I’m Natalie,” the girl says enthusiastically, “My mum says you’re Miss Anderometer!

“Oh.” Andromeda tilts her head, feeling a little confused. The maids are usually taller than this. This girl is even smaller than Andromeda, with bouncy black curls and big brown eyes shining with enthusiasm, so the likelihood of her being a maid is quite small. “My mother told me not to talk to the maids, but… you don’t look like a maid. You’re very small. Are you a house-elf? My mother says they’re very small, and worse than maids! Go away, elf!”

The other girl looks at her with all the boundless wisdom of a small child. “Well, that’s not very nice! I’m not an elf.”

“I guess not,” Andromeda concedes, looking a bit closer. The girl looks human.

A real maid finally comes over to talk to them, looking a little more at ease now. “Are you alright, Miss Andromeda?”

“I’m lost,” Andromeda replies, pouting. That startles an actual laugh out of the maid, who covers her mouth immediately as if Andromeda will fire her on the spot for the disrespect.

“I can help you find your way back to the manor, Miss, if you’d like?”

Andromeda looks over at Natalie, who beams at her. Andromeda has no idea what that means, but she decides to do exactly what she probably shouldn’t.

“No thank you, Miss. Can I stay here and talk to Natalie?”

This is the start of a wonderful friendship.

Andromeda begins to spend a little more time than is strictly appropriate in the servant’s area, sitting in the greenhouse with Natalie and occasionally stealing into the kitchens to watch the maids work. Natalie introduces Andromeda to scotch pancakes and Andromeda teaches Natalie how to curtsey. It’s a good trade. Andromeda finds herself fascinated by cooking, entranced by the breezy, almost careless way that the maids accomplish every task, and the servants have become accustomed to her watching wide-eyed as they cook and bake. This lasts for nearly three weeks before her parents realise that she’s been missing afternoon tea.

Her mother fixes her with a searching look when she dutifully sinks into an armchair at Sunday tea. “Andromeda, where have you been recently?”

“In the kitchens, mother.”

You could hear a pin drop. Her mother goes completely silent, mouth tightening, and little Narcissa doesn’t quite understand what’s wrong but stops her childish babbling all the same.

“Why?” it comes out sharp and Andromeda nearly flinches.

“I-I wanted to learn how to cook,” she lies, “The maids have been teaching me. It’s s-so I can cook for my husband when I’m married?” she tacks on at the end. Her mother still looks conflicted.

“I know it’s not very… proper, but I just wanted to be a good wife! You’re always saying I should learn how to be a lady, and I thought… I thought I could get a head start.”

Her mother nods. “Well. It’s good to see that you’re taking the initiative, and I suppose it means that I won’t have to follow you around. I’ll straighten it out with your father, dear, just… remember your place.”

Andromeda drops her shoulders, relieved, and neglects to mention that she’s only a few months past five years old, and that her mother most certainly shouldn’t be letting her stay alone in the house for long periods of time. She doesn’t say it out loud, because she remembers her place. She knows her place like the back of her hand, and it chafes like an iron glove.

— — —

Andromeda still spends a good amount of time with Natalie, but Thursdays become cooking days and Andromeda starts to realise that she likes cooking. It’s a little strange; she’s been raised to never get her hands dirty, but now she’s tottering around with parsley in her hair and flour all down the front of her worst dress. Natalie joins in with the lessons, and together they make pancakes and salads and ice cream. Winter comes and they experiment with thick, creamy soups and hearty casseroles. Strangely, her father insists upon sampling every one of the foods she cooks, and often one of her creations can be seen on the table at lunch. She won’t say it aloud, but it seems that in his own way, her father is telling her that he approves. Andromeda doesn’t know how to feel about that. Instead, she chases after his affection with little Yorkshire puddings and potatoes stuffed with garlic and all the little things he’s ever expressed interest in. He pats her shoulder gently and looks at her with kinder eyes than ever before, and Andromeda feels loved.

The real fun comes with baking; Andromeda has always had an incorrigible sweet tooth and the sight of the glossy cookbook opened to the baking section awakens something inside her. There are cream buns on the lunch table for months.

— — —

Andromeda is uncontrollable. She doesn’t have Bellatrix’s icy glare or fizzing reservoirs of magic, nor does she have Narcissa’s careful manipulation or underhanded jinxes, but she has something better; a defiant attitude and the love of the majority of the servants. This lets her get away with things that her sisters wouldn’t, like flying her broom into the flower bushes and pretending it was a branch, or stealing away to the muggle town nearby without the maid who saw her leave tell anyone. The household is scared of the Blacks; the household adores Andromeda. In return, she begs her father not to fire Lacey when she gets pregnant and makes sure that her sisters wipe their shoes before coming inside so that Cornelia won’t have to mop the foyer again. Her parents manage her with watchful eyes, treating her like a princess yet locking her away like some fragile flower.  She can’t do much without earning their ire, but she does what she can.

— — —

Andromeda departs for Hogwarts with a bounce in her step. The maids press sweets into her hands and tell her about the emptiness in the kitchen when she’s away; Narcissa slips her a wilting daisy and whispers that she doesn’t want to be alone in the house.

They arrive at the train station. Bellatrix gives her a rare smile (something kind and fond with only a hint of worry) and helps her up onto the train. She finds herself in a compartment with a few other good pureblood types and enjoys herself immensely — her second cousin Thoresby Rosier is as hilarious as ever, Rabastan Lestrange as stoic as always, and the newly-acquainted Marianne Albright has a delightful laugh that makes Andromeda want to laugh with her. They graciously allow Thoresby’s half-blood cousin Clementine to sit with them, gleefully telling her about the various galas that Thoresby and Andromeda have attended together. It’s a nice way to spend a few hours. When the time comes for the sorting, they all go to Slytherin together, and resume their discussion of the Pudding Incident at the Llewelyns’ Yule Gala.

— — —

The Charms classroom begins to clear out as Professor Flitwick dismisses them. She takes the opportunity to jump up from her seat and turn on her new assigned seating partner — a Hufflepuff she doesn’t know the name of because she was chatting with Clementine during the attendance. Hufflepuffs are generally underestimated (usually for good reason), but if he’s a pureblood then Andromeda can make a good impression, and a half-blood could be the start of a power base.

“Hello!” Andromeda beams, “I’m Andromeda Black, it’s my pleasure to meet you.”

The boy looks surprised and almost pleased by her introduction. “Ted Tonks,” he replies, sticking out a hand. Andromeda doesn’t recognise the name. Dear god, what if she’s been seated next to a mudblood?

“You’re a… muggleborn, aren’t you?” Andromeda asks, sunny smile faltering a little. She doesn’t know what to do in this situation. She’s been down to the muggle village a few miles down the road from the manor, and she’s walked amongst the filthy muggle types there, but she’d never had a conversation with one; for years, she’d doubted they could even speak politely to a superior! But this… Tonks is obviously decently bright, enough so that he’s been able to answer Flitwick’s questions with a nervous ease, and she has no idea what to do. She’s never even talked to a mudblood before, except for her dear maids, and she’s unsure about how to proceed.

“Is that a problem?” the boy replies frostily. Andromeda stumbles over herself trying to refute this, remembering her father’s lectures of the current world’s political stances, but the boy doesn’t seem convinced. He leaves her stuttering in an empty classroom and Andromeda feels a furious flame lighting in her chest. She lets the corner of her mouth lift in a sneer. Filthy mudblood.

— — —

Though excitement is hard to come by Hogwarts, there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to raise her blood pressure: Edward Tonks. Years pass, but he remains utterly infuriating; matching and even surpassing her knowledge at times, and establishing himself as a teacher’s darling. He’s got big brown eyes with a hint of orange and messy brown hair that curls around his ears and a disgusting freckle on his left cheek that Andromeda can’t stop getting distracted by. They have a less-than-friendly rivalry that’s only compounded by the fact that they both pick the same electives: Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Home Economics. They row over everything: the amount of flour in their baking, the right type of protection rune for a carving, the correct interpretation of the result of an equation. They fight so much that people begin to call it their rows “The Black and Tonks Show”, which shuts them up whenever they begin to fight. Thoresby gets several jinxes to his arms when he dares to suggest to Andromeda that they like each other. As if that would ever happen.

— — —

The manor feels frigid nowadays. Every time her mother smiles, it's half as fond. Every time her father pats her shoulder, it’s half as tender. Every time her sisters hug her, she holds on twice as long and gets half the warmth out of it. The maids serve her favourites for the entirety of Christmas break and she feels nothing. They pinch her cheeks and coo over her complexion and a few of the less formal ones even dare to quickly pull her into hugs, but all she can do is smile shakily and thank them for their concern. It’s as if the life gets sucked out of her whenever she steps foot in the house. She doesn’t know why — she adores her sisters and revels in the freedom of cooking with the maids, but after two and a half years at Hogwarts, her world has expanded out from the walls of the Black estate and now include people she’d be loathe to associate with before. All she’s ever known is the walls of the fancy manor houses she grew up in, but now she knows so much more.

She’s on friendly terms with one of the muggleborn in Ravenclaw, Emily Relljoy. They trade Transfiguration notes and sometimes study together. It’s amicable, it’s friendly, and it’s breaking down Andromeda’s gilded walls little by little. She doesn’t know when she started calling mudbloods muggleborns in her head, but she finds herself not hating the change. It’s easier, in a way, to just be a normal teenage girl with her friends and not have to worry about brushing against an eleven year old with the “wrong” parents.

It’s exhausting being superior. Andromeda just wants to feel like a person.

— — —

Towards the end of third year, Andromeda and Ted get paired together for a Home Economics assignment. Andromeda glares at Professor Gadalbon so hard she can actually feel her eyes hurt, but it does nothing. Andromeda and Ted the Terrible are now partners for the entirety of the Baking assessment.

They meet in one of the designated student kitchens one Saturday afternoon and spend a good twenty seconds staring at each other before Ted sighs and takes out a cookbook.

“I think we should do a trifle. Professor Gadalbon recommended cream buns, trifle, or tiramisu, but trifle is the easiest and we’ve had practice on it.”

“I can make Cream Buns,” Andromeda blurts out. Ted raises his eyebrows and scoffs.

“Andy, we’ve never made them in class and you have no baking experience,” he says snarkily, “Please, let’s just do the trifle and then we can leave each other’s company.”

“Don’t call me that, Edward, and I’ll have you know that I’ve been baking since I was five.”

“Why?” Ted looks honestly surprised, “Don’t you have cooks to do that for you?”

“Well, yes, but I wanted to learn, and I needed some way to escape my parents… and all the tutoring,” she laughs, not missing the way that Ted frowns slightly. She silently admonishes herself for her mistake; while she’s definitely a little looser with her speech now, she still can’t do anything that would reflect badly on her family, and a single complaint to the wrong sort of person would see her parents deliberating home-schooling.

“Why would you need to escape your parents?”

Andromeda forces a laugh and waves his concerns away. “I’m just being dramatic. We can do a trifle if you want.”

They get an Outstanding for their cream buns.

— — —

Ted asks her out on Valentine’s Day in fifth year. He slips into the seat next to her in the library, gives her a chocolate rose, and asks her out. Andromeda says no.

“Why not?” Ted asks heatedly, “Is this, is ‘ us’ really so out of the question?”

Andromeda throws up her hands. “Can’t you see that I hate you!?”

“You stopped calling me a mudblood after first year. You always partner with me in Home Economics, and it’s not just because I’m good with measurements. You let me into your bloody Slytherin study group! For crying out loud, Andy, what’s wrong with admitting you don’t hate me?”

“If a single word gets back to my parents about me even tolerating a mudblood, my parents would start to pretend they only ever had two daughters, and I can’t do that to Bella and Narcissa,” she explodes. Ted looks taken aback and she turns away bitterly. “I just can’t do it.”

“I…” Ted starts, seemingly at a loss for words. “I don’t want to rush you. I know you may not even like me in this way. But if you ever want someone, even just to be there for you… I’m here, Andy. Let me be here for you.”

“Give me a year,” Andromeda says despairingly. “Ask me next Valentine’s Day and I’ll have worked out whether it’ll work. This isn’t a rejection, just… a slow-down.”

“A year, then we’ll see.” Ted agrees quietly. He gets up and Andromeda desperately trails her fingers over his hand. In a single suave move, he grabs her hand and brings it to his lips. Fire spreads across Andromeda’s cheeks as she watches him walk away and she clutches her hand to her chest. She eats the rose in careful nibbles over the next few days. It’s nowhere near as good as the fancy Belgian chocolate that her parents stopped shipping over when she was twelve, but the simple reminder of Ted kissing her hand makes the world (and the chocolate) seem so much sweeter than before. He slips her candied words on torn scraps of parchment during Arithmancy and gives her his share of the sugar cookies they make in Home Economics and once during their regular study sessions, he leans over and whispers sweet nothings into her ear until she absentmindedly starts writing love confessions on her Ancient Runes homework. She’s blushing so often that her roommates begin to snidely ask if she’s forgotten to put on sun cream.

He asks again in their sixth year and she says yes.

— — —

News of her growing affection towards Ted travels quickly, and it’s only a matter of time before her father finds out. He stops her from disappearing into her room after they return home for the summer holidays at the end of sixth year and pulls her into his office, motioning for her to sit. She sits.

“Andromeda, I hear that you’ve been associating with a mudblood,” her father says, direct as ever.

“I… admit that I have,” Andromeda replies, picking her words carefully, “But it is only for my own personal gain. He is a Hufflepuff, but he has excellent grades in Herbology, and due to his…” she makes a face, “...Hufflepuff-ness, he allows me to gain an in with Professor Sprout and makes it easier for me to pass the class if I pair up with him. I have no feelings other than a mild distaste towards him, as he’s only a tool.”

“I see. That is very… cunning,” her father admits reluctantly, “I concede. You may continue to associate with this Hufflepuff boy.”

Andromeda gets up, and so does her father. Before she can escape, he rounds the desk and pulls her into a tight embrace. She relaxes instantly, knowing any sign of discomfort will be instantly noticed. She bares her teeth in a snarl and it comes out looking like a smile, and she knows that even being here is slowly extinguishing everything she is.

— — —

She doesn’t even have a whole year of peace before all hell breaks loose. She’s paired with Ted for their prefect rounds and Andromeda can’t quite hide the thrilled smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Rabastan, the other Slytherin prefect, complains loudly in the common room about being paired with one of the Gryffindor prefects and Andromeda can only agree half-heartedly. Her mask is slipping and people are noticing and it’s not much time before she’s called back to the office. Maids carry Christmas decorations through the halls and hang mistletoe over every door, and Andromeda dares not to show how unhappy she is in this time of joy.

“Andromeda,” her father says testily, “This can not be allowed to continue. You’re not just ‘associating’ with that disgusting mudblood boy; I’ve heard news that you’re actively friends with him.”

Andromeda’s hands are shaking, and she presses them against her thighs to hide it. Her father raises an eyebrow.

“I… I suppose that we may be… friendlier than is strictly necessary,” Andromeda admits. She offers no explanation, no excuse, and her father is visibly shaken.

“I see. Andromeda, you know that you can’t associate with that type of–” her father’s lip twitches upwards in disgust –“‘person’, but I suppose that your mother and I may have been a little gentler with you than required. You are not to associate with mudbloods and you know that! Those foul creatures are not worth the time-”

Once, Andromeda might have sat quietly and let her father talk filth about the type of “person” she hangs around with. Now she abruptly stands, fists shaking with rage, and strides from the room. Her father doesn’t call after her. Andromeda spends more and more time in the kitchen, but her father’s favourite foods begin to disappear from the table. It’s the only rebellion she has. At night, she thinks of Ted’s sweet nothings and cries for the family she’ll inevitably lose soon.

— — —

When Valentine’s Day rolls around in her seventh year, she apparates to London with Ted and they visit his parents. Andromeda takes a train and eats a burger and watches something called a television and she hasn’t felt this much childlike wonder since, well, ever. Magic tends to dull the feeling of amazement, but the muggle world is so much more vibrant and joyous and incredible than she imagined.

Ted’s parents welcome her with open arms. She cries a little when his mother Julia hugs her, because it’s been so long since she got an actual hug that she’s forgotten what it feels like. She and Ted help her mother in the kitchen and they’re like a well-oiled machine, making potatoes and salads and desserts on autopilot. Andromeda catches Ted’s eye from across the kitchen and, for the first time since they started dating, takes the initiative and kisses him solidly on the cheek. His father Mark laughs about young love and his mother coos and Andromeda’s blush is only expedited by the fact that Ted’s mouth is hanging open. She kisses that mouth and feels it curve into a dopey grin. He tries to kiss her back but they’re both grinning and all they do is bump foreheads and giggle at their own clumsiness.

— — —

She steps off the train for the final time in 1971, and walks right past her parents and sister to kiss Ted on the cheek and tell him that she’ll see him soon. He grins and kisses her back, and all the while her family looks shell-shocked. Narcissa whispers something to her father and the way that his face twists up in disgusted fury can only mean one thing: Andromeda is lucky that Cygnus won’t disown her in public. Luckily, she’s already sent a letter to Gringotts to make sure that her inheritance money is moved to a new vault, because she’ll be penniless within the next hour.

She apparates to the manor and spends two minutes packing her life into two bags and a trunk before the floo becomes alight with green flame and her family steps into the parlour.

“You!” her father spits, face red with blistering fury, “You disgusting whore! How dare you embarrass us in public like that, kissing a mudblood where everyone can see!?”

“I thought I raised you better than this,” her mother cries, “I thought you knew your place!”

Narcissa scoffs in distaste, turning to go. “I thought you were better than this, Andromeda,” she says bitterly. Bellatrix strides after her, calling cruel insults over her shoulder as her parents stare at Andromeda with the heat of a thousand disappointed suns.

Her mother sighs. “You’re not welcome here anymore, Andromeda, pack your things and leave.”

“Already have.” Andromeda grins wonkily and grabs her trunk. “See you never.”

She spins on her heel and her life falls away behind her.

Andromeda appears outside of the Tonks home and Ted rushes out at the sound, face splitting into a grin when he sees her.

“When you said I’d see you soon, I thought you meant a couple days, not a couple minutes,” he laughs. Andromeda tries to smile, but it’s wobbly, and Ted’s amusement morphs into concern. “Andy, are you okay? I-”

She stumbles forward into his arms and lets the first of many cries rip through her.

“Andy, what’s going on?”

She sniffs and picks herself up, rubbing at her eyes. How can she explain to her boyfriend that “home” doesn’t mean the Black manor anymore, that just his existence has alienated her from her family, that all she has left is his love and the clothes on her back? This is her home now — this little red-brick house in the suburbs and the three people who live in it. She’s lost a family and found a real home.

— — —

Andromeda Black becomes Andromeda Tonks on Valentine’s Day a few months after she turns 19. She wears a pretty yellow dress and Ted wears a nice pair of dress pants and they go to the registry office for an hour. Ted beams the whole time, and might have actually been brought to tears at some point (Andromeda isn’t judging; she definitely cried too). They have a picnic in a park nearby and Andromeda falls asleep on the picnic blanket next to her husband.

If she was marrying Thoresby Rosier like her parents wanted, the ceremony would have lasted a week, as is traditional. Her dress would have been a quarter ton of lace and her ring would have been at least twelve carats and probably several hundred years old. She would have danced with eighty people and eaten finer foods than the Queen and gone to bed with only despair weighing her down. Now, she’s as light as a bird.

After Ted wakes her up, they hit the town and celebrate. They drink liquor like reckless teenagers (because really, that’s all they are) and hold  hands like an old married couple (because really, that’s all they want to be). They stumble back to the Tonks’ house and Andromeda bumps against the walls and laughs when Ted stubs his toe on a door frame. They watch the stars through Ted’s bedroom window and fall asleep curled around each other like nothing could ever separate them, and when she wakes up, she kisses Ted and it tastes like oranges and whiskey and love.

— — —

Andromeda stays at the Tonks' home a full year before she can bear the idea of going back into the wizarding world. She steps foot in Diagon Alley and the stares start, but she ignores them and grasps Ted’s hand tighter. It seems like hours before they reach Gringotts, and it actually takes hours to conclude her business there, but eventually she has half of her inheritance transferred to a muggle bank.

She discovers many new things while she lives with the Tonks, but most important of all, she picks up one of Ted’s books on legal theory and doesn’t put it down. She’s a fool who can’t help but be brave, and this is a career that could utilise that. Ted reveals that he’s been studying to be a lawyer for years, even while at Hogwarts, and cheekily suggests that they can run a law business together.

She studies and practices and memorises and suddenly they’re both at Cambridge University.

It takes years of her time and years off her life and soon after they graduate their Masters courses, Andromeda Black and Ted Tonks are standing in front of the new building they’re renting. It’s a cute little storefront with a peeling coat of white paint and flower boxes filled with daisies, with enough space for them to have separate offices and a whole room just for filing. A door at the end of the hall hides the staircase up to their flat on the second floor, which is cosy with worn quilts and chipped mugs and thrift-store bookshelves that sag under the weight of Ted’s many science-fiction serials. It’s so unlike anywhere Andromeda has ever slept in that she has trouble falling asleep on the first night, but she just cuddles tighter into Ted and drinks more coffee than strictly advisable the next morning.

The letters laminated onto the front window read “Tonks Legal Offices”.

It’s perfect. It’s devastating. It’s like the start of a new life.

They don’t have any particularly difficult cases at first — a few muggles in minor legal disputes trying out the bright-eyed lawyer couple. They win those cases solidly — no, Miss Carrium didn’t steal that lawnmower, and yes, the Jones divorce is perfectly legal. Their reputation grows faster than they could have hoped, and soon they’re tackling actual cases.

Six months after they open up, Marianne Albright and Clementine Rosier stroll into their offices and lay down their case.

Due to the generosity of her late grandfather, Clementine has been willed an equal share of the Rosier inheritance, but her cousin Thoresby’s side of the family is aghast at the idea of a “mudblood” (Clementine says this venomously) having any share of the family’s money. As such, they have taken to spreading nasty rumours about her “female companion” Marianne and insinuating that this “moral failing”, along with her muggleborn status, is enough to disqualify her from the inheritance. This is, of course, not a legal reason for Clementine to be cut off, as Andromeda passionately points out in court later that month. The case is highly-publicised, with two reporters from the Daily Prophet and many whispering purebloods who sit on the stand and lie through their teeth, but Andromeda declines statements and comments and gets the job done. The sweltering July sun beats down on them as Andromeda and Ted leave the courtroom, but nothing is quite as sunny as Clementine’s smile as she thanks them. Andromeda has picked the right job.

— — —

She raises her daughter with all the love and care she had wished for when she was a child. When the baby cries and screams, Andromeda doesn’t leave the child-rearing to a nursemaid; instead she drags herself up out of bed and makes sure her little Dora is clean, happy, and satisfied before she can think of going back to bed. When Dora decides to turn her hair bright blue to celebrate starting primary school, Andromeda sends a note along to her teacher and has a talk with her about how long muggles expect hair dye to last. When Dora has a potion-making phase, Andromeda buys her the ingredients for easy starter potions and when Dora knocks the cauldron over, it spills harmlessly onto a towel that Andromeda put down just in case.

Dora falls into a cabinet, and instead of sending her downstairs to Ted’s office, Andromeda repairs the glass with a flick of her wand and makes them both hot chocolate. She makes sure to impress upon Dora that it’s absolutely okay to accidentally break things as long as she tries to make them better, and any residual anger at the way that the cabinet seems a little wonky disappears in the face of Dora’s tentative smile.

— — —

When war breaks out again, she has a husband who goes to duelling competitions once a week and a daughter in Auror training. They close up the law firm until further notice and move to Ted’s parents house, which they ward more securely than the Ministry of Magic. Andromeda watches her daughter go to work every morning with an air of trepidation. Nothing has happened to them (yet) and she’s not afraid that anything will.

When Snatchers somehow break into their home and she sees her husband fall to the ground in a halo of green light, she’s not afraid. Her parents-in-law are behind her, voices thready as they speak through rattling breath, and she knows that they won’t make it through the night, but she’s not afraid. When the floo starts up and she imagines her daughter’s hair turning a dull black as she falls to the ground, she’s not afraid. She’s too angry to be afraid or hurt, because all that she can feel is the type of raw fury that makes her hair start to float and her eyes start to glow ever-so-slightly.

She shuts the floo connection and slams the cracking wards down so hard that she can feel the vibrations in her bones. Fiendfyre arcs from the tip of her wand and the Snatchers begin to flee. It’s as if they think they have a chance of surviving. She sits down on the front step and watches.

The flame races through her mother-in-law’s prize-winning garden and she can only look on, numb with fury, as it curls around a screaming man and squeezes until she can see cavernous black trenches burnt across his bones. Another Snatcher is consumed entirely, a silhouette crying a single indistinguishable word of agony, and he falls to the ground in a pile of ash. The third Snatcher sends desperate spouts of water at the flame, weeping in the face of his fate, but the Fiendfyre swallows him whole and moves on to the next man without the slightest hesitation.

After three and a half minutes, the garden surrounding the house is burnt to a blackened crisp and five piles of ash are slowly being blown away by the wind. The Fiendfyre slithers through the grass in the form of a thousand tiny snakes, but Andromeda only needs to flick her wand and they come back to her, condensing into a single crow. As the fire starts to taper out, she gathers it back and holds it in her hand, calling upon the fire that dwells in her veins to protect her. She brings the tiny flame to her lips and with a single gasp, it is gone. Her lungs are alight and her magic crackles beneath the surface of her skin. She is numb.

Her husband is gone, and nothing she could ever do will quell the immeasurably strong tsunami of agony that entwines itself with the fire within her heart. Andromeda stands up and goes inside her first real home to watch as her first real parents die.

— — —

Her daughter dies honourably in the Final Battle, as they’ve started to call it, and Andromeda is almost tempted to set the fire that dwells in her heart on the first random Ministry worker that tries to give her their sympathies. She spins on her heel instead, and heads over to the bassinet where the last surviving member of her family lies. Teddy Lupin is a bundle of joy, all clumsy baby fists and colour-changing hair and Andromeda has to leave and compose herself in a bathroom nearby because the resemblance to her daughter is as clear as the brightest day. He gurgles happily in the way that only babies can, and his hair becomes several shades lighter and a great deal curlier. Andromeda absently brings a hand up to her own curly brown hair, then smiles numbly as he copies her.

He changes his eyes to match her blue and Andromeda nearly sobs, because only for a second, they were the exact blue-ringed brown that Dora used to change her eyes to so that they’d match her parents.

She gives herself a single breath to let the fire burn away any lingering regrets she is still weighed down by, then she breathes out, feeling the smoke in her lungs.

Andromeda picks up her grandson, wraps him in one of her mother-in-law’s favourite quilts, and vows that she will do everything in her power to keep him safe.

— — — Narcissa — — —

Narcissa is born in autumn. There’s nothing much to say about that day, as it’s fairly nondescript. A stablehand trips and spills some water. One of the maids sits on a bench and eats a plum. Druella Black has a third daughter. The day goes on as normal.

Most of Narcissa’s childhood carries on in this manner. By the start of 1956, Cygnus has all but given up on a son, and only looks at his third daughter with an air of neutrality. She’s just not as much of anything as her sisters. Bellatrix hexes her way through tutors and Narcissa reads quietly in the library. Andromeda rides her broom through the flower bushes and Narcissa plays with her dolls. Narcissa is well-behaved; she listens to her tutors and does what she’s told and no one could ever accuse her of being mischievous. Narcissa is bland. Narcissa is innocuous. Narcissa is, as those unfortunately inclined towards muggle phrases would say, “just right”.

Every Sunday, Narcissa and her mother Druella sit down and have tea. They use the nice china set that’s only for special occasions and talk about nothing in particular. Andromeda joins them on occasion, but she’s usually busy with her cooking lessons. Every Sunday, Narcissa watches through the window as her sister practices duelling with Cousin Valeska and wishes that she has magic in her veins or ferocity etched into her heart. Every Sunday, Narcissa sits in her favourite chair and hopes for something to change. Nothing changes.

— — —

Narcissa departs for Hogwarts with significantly less teary parents than she had hoped for. Her father pats her shoulder and her mother holds a handkerchief up to her eyes to wipe away non-existent tears. Narcissa says all of the right things that would be expected of a child scared of leaving home for the first time, but her heart’s not in it. The manor doesn’t quite seem like the beloved home she’s making it out to be.

She’s sorted into Slytherin, as is expected of her, and makes tentative friends with a few pureblood scions, as if expected of her. She does absolutely everything that’s expected of her and is so far removed from the world that she doesn’t even register how tired it’s making her.

Narcissa is a quiet and withdrawn child who has never had anyone feel particularly strongly about her. She’s still where others are fidgety, she’s a good but not memorable student, and she doesn’t volunteer more information than is strictly necessary.

“Miss Black, are you alright?” Professor McGonagall dares to ask after she spends another mandatory study hall ignoring her friends and reading the same passage of her favourite Potions textbook.

Narcissa stares blankly at her for a few seconds, then nods. “Yes, Professor.” She doesn’t say how tired she is or how her hands shake sometimes when she casts jinxes at the Gryffindors or that the migraines at the back of her skull keep her up all night sometimes.

“Ah… alright, Miss Black. Just make sure you’re getting enough sleep; you’re looking a bit pale.”

Narcissa nods and makes her way out, noting that she should be a bit more enthusiastic in Professor McGonagall’s class next time. Perhaps she should ramble more? It doesn’t come naturally to her but she could certainly try.

People joke about her aloofness, and question how Narcissa is so reserved. She doesn’t tell them that it’s because she views the world from behind such a thick veil that any sort of emotion is muted when it finally makes its way to her heart.

— — —

She meets Lucius Malfoy a month into her first year. He’s a second year Slytherin with blonde hair styled almost as well as Narcissa’s and a slight swagger in his step that tells her he’s slightly full of himself. That’s okay, she’s slightly full of herself as well. Who wouldn’t be, when your family is richer than God and has half the moral fiber?

He bows his head stiffly and she does a tiny curtsey back.

“Hello, Miss Black. I’m Lucius Malfoy, but you may call me Lucius. I believe that it’s better to be familiar, especially because we could potentially be betrothed.”

Narcissa blinks. “Hello, Lucius. You may call me Narcissa.”

“Yes, Narcissa,” he says with a smile.

“In regards to the betrothal… well, we’ve barely started school. Let’s revisit this later?” she suggests. He nods, looking pensive.

“Fine by me. Let’s be friends first.”

Narcissa blinks again. “Right, let’s.”

— — —

“How was your first year?” her mother asks, pouring a cup of tea for Narcissa. Normally, a house-elf would pour the tea for them, but Sundays are special. Narcissa has a hunch that this is how her mother expresses affection.

“It was alright,” Narcissa says simply, taking the cup of tea and blowing at it gently. It smells like a simple black tea, but it’s probably wildly expensive and made from orphan tears or something. “I did well in all of my classes, as you would expect. I made friends with Norma Avery and we sit together in most classes. I’m quite enjoying Potions, and we work well together at that. I… I met Lucius Malfoy and he suggested becoming friends, so I sat with him during some meal times.”

Her mother nods. “That all sounds quite good. If you stay on good terms with the Malfoy boy, we may consider a betrothal.”

Narcissa says nothing. She has a sip of tea and sinks a little deeper into her chair. The conversation veers over to more gossipy topics and Narcissa provides her mother with a bounty of rumours from the Hogwarts social circles. Everything is how it should be, which means Narcissa barely feels anything.

They go to a gala later that day and Narcissa stands in her pretty dress and smiles at Lucius and when he smiles back, she feels something curdle inside her. She can’t have a friend for a purpose other than politics, and it sickens her. She vows to actually try to become friends with Lucius, just to spite her mother. It’s actually playing right into her parents’ hands, but Narcissa comforts herself with the little speck of rebellion that can be gleaned from this friendship.

— — —

The rest of Narcissa’s Hogwarts years pass in mostly the same vein. She does well but not astoundingly in classes, maintains all the right friendships, sits with Lucius whenever she wants to, and when the holidays roll around, she drinks tea and goes to balls and practices her dancing and duelling and learns to make no noise when she walks. She can hex out of the corner of her mouth now, something that is endlessly useful whenever the newest batch of Gryffindors come running down the halls, and she can make polite conversation with a sort of iron-clad, unflinching grace.

She still often loses herself behind the veil that separates her emotions from the world, but it’s a little easier to pull back when she’s truly excited about something, and that thing, she finds, is Potions.

She’s never taken as much pleasure in something that’s so unclean. She can pop newt eyes without grimacing and chop pillow-weed root without wrinkling her nose at the smell and she almost relishes the feeling of scraping away at the sides of a cow’s gallbladder. It’s disgusting and putrid and Narcissa can get her hands dirty without worrying about people breathing down her neck about propriety. Potions, in this way, is sort of freeing.

One day as she’s alone with Slughorn to practice for her NEWTs, he strikes up a conversation about future career plans. Narcissa waxes poetic about his teaching skills and her love for Potions and when Slughorn puffs up his chest, looking particularly pleased with himself, Narcissa sees a new life dangling in her grasp. She plays up the gushing fan a little more and soon Slughorn is penning a letter to a Master Arsene Armitox, asking after his plans for apprentices. Narcissa smiles and turns back to her potion, knowing that she’s got a future.

— — —

Narcissa is betrothed to Lucius late in her seventh year, and the realisation that Lucius Malfoy will be her husband is simultaneously incredibly freeing and immeasurably restricting. On one hand, she can finally escape the Black manor and everything that weighs upon her there. On the other, she knows what’s been happening in the darkened corners of Britain recently. There’s a dangerous man gathering all the power and influence he can get, and Narcissa gives it two or three years before Lucius is entranced by the usual offer of eternal glory in return for support and servitude. Narcissa, as a dutiful wife, will follow him to his ruin at the hands of the newest power-hungry manipulator.

— — —

Narcissa climbs the stairs to Arsene Armitox’s workshop with trepidation. It looks like a normal building, if slightly run down and a little wonky, but she still can’t shake the feeling of foreboding in her gut. It’s unlike her to be nervous. Taking a deep breath, she knocks on the large oak door in front of her and in no less than three seconds, it is flung open. She blinks in surprise as she is tugged inside, but makes no move to dislodge the hand from her arm until she is shoved down on a chair in what looks to be the most well-stocked potions workshop in existence. She turns to look at the man who presumably owns this place and he’s already gone. He appears a second later from a door that she hadn’t even noticed, and she takes a moment to observe him. He has a shock of white hair above an exceedingly pale face, and a number of moles that seem to cover his entire body. He wears close-fitting light brown robes secured at the waist by a belt with a giant silver buckle that reads “Runner-Up European Weightlifting Championships 1934”, which makes no sense, considering that the man is about a head shorter than Narcissa is and his wrists are spindlier than a bowtruckle. All in all, he paints quite an eccentric picture.

“You are Miss Black?” the man asks impatiently. Narcissa nods and the man gets right to an explanation. “Right then. I’m Arsene Armitox, but you may call me Master Armitox, or just sir if you must. If you want to be a good apprentice, you’ll have to follow my instructions. I don’t suffer fools in the slightest. I suppose Horace told you about that? He talks a lot, that Horace Slughorn. Lovely man, though he has terrible taste in liquor. Gin is the way to go. Anyways, the door to your right leads to my drawing room and you can floo home there at the end of the day. You’ll have to be here at ten in the morning and you’ll leave before six unless we have to brew something that takes forever. Is this all clear? Good. I’ll see you tomorrow for your first day. Ten o’ clock, don’t dawdle! It was lovely to meet you, Miss Black, goodbye!”

Narcissa is shoved into a drawing room and the door to the potions workshop slams behind her.

She allows a slight smile to make its way onto her face. Master Armitox is certainly a character. It’ll be fun to work with him.

— — —

According to the Daily Prophet’s front page article, Narcissa Black’s wedding to Lucius Malfoy is the most anticipated event of the year. Narcissa doesn’t quite agree, because it’s in approximately three minutes and she feels like she’s about to vomit all over her lacy dress. With a final word of reassurance, her mother disappears into the hall to find her seat and Narcissa is left alone with her father. Somehow, he seems like he’s about to cry.

“Don’t cry, Father,” Narcissa says stiffly, “I’m only getting married; I can still visit.”

The wedding march begins to echo down the corridor, muffled by the giant doors in front of them, and as they swing open Narcissa grasps her father’s arm and begins to walk. Cameras flash as she makes her way down the aisle, and hundreds of faces stare at her in various states of tearfulness. The whole hall is bedecked in white and gold, boughs of flowers at every turn and garlands of the traditional ribbons practically draped across every wall. It’s opulent and overwhelming and Narcissa breathes through the migraine growing in her head.

“Do your duty well,” he says gently, and goes to stand to the side. Narcissa can barely focus through her vows, because she’s practically consumed by the last words of her father.

Do your duty well.

He doesn’t say he’ll miss her, or that he wishes her the best, or even just simply that he loves her. No, until the end of his reign over her life, the only thing he’s concerned about is whether she can pull off her part in the careful play he’s constructed of his family’s lives.

She smiles harder at Lucius, who seems pleasantly surprised but grins back.

She’s been freed from the shackles she’s had since birth, and she’s damn well going to make the most of it while she still can.

After the wedding is over, they’re left in the back room to remove their fancy dress and go home. They’re rosy-cheeked from alcohol and a little dizzy from all the dancing and they’re stupid teenagers who never even loved each other romantically, but they still dive towards each other. The kisses that night are all rough and impassioned and hungry and Narcissa can’t breathe but she doesn’t care because she’s not a Black anymore and she’s free.

They have sex that night, in the fancy French hotel that’s been booked for their honeymoon, and Narcissa is forced to confront the fact that she doesn’t actually have romantic or sexual feelings for Lucius. It actually doesn’t bother her that much though. She’s fine and the sex is nice and she doesn’t have to be in the same room as her mother more than once a week anymore. Lucius is a close friend and the fact that they’re technically married now doesn’t mean that they have to be anything more than close friends. She is, surprisingly enough, totally fine.

— — —

“Narcissa…” Lucius begins carefully, and Narcissa snaps her book shut to look at him. She knows that careful tone. “Dear… my father is requesting that I become a follower of the Dark Lord."

“Ah,” Narcissa says simply, “How crude. Well, I suppose I did vow to have you for better or worse, and while this is definitely leaning towards worse, I suppose I'll join as well.”

Lucius blinks. “Well… uh, alright. If you say so?”

“Good. The matter is settled, then.”

Later that month, as she stares at the skull-and-snake mark branded across her forearm, she mourns her smooth, unblemished skin and holds Lucius as he breaks down at the thought of the path those who control them have forced them onto.

— — —

It has taken several years, but Master Armitox has finally warmed up to Narcissa Malfoy. She’s skilled, quiet, and a good listener, and he’s critical, sharp, and a good talker. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, Narcissa helps in his laboratory as he teaches her little tricks and spells that make brewing potions even easier than it was before, and every Wednesday and Friday, Narcissa makes her own potions while he hangs around her and critiques her dicing. It’s not annoying, but in fact rather informative. Narcissa is very taken with the teachings of Master Armitox.

One Wednesday evening, she falls asleep while waiting for a potion to boil. When she wakes up, the workshop is coated with exploded Tenacity Draught, there’s a thick woollen blanket over her shoulders, and a note in front of her tells her that the next thing they brew will be a Wakefulness Draught, which requires pristine conditions to properly brew, so she’d better get cleaning. Narcissa can only laugh fondly and pick up her wand, ready to cast every cleaning spell she knows.

— — —

Narcissa learns one very important lesson in the first year after she marries Lucius Malfoy: no one cares about Narcissa specifically. They care that she’s from the Black family, or that she’s Lucius Malfoy’s wife, or that she’s an apprentice to the great Arsene Armitox, but no one really cares about Narcissa. To everyone, she’s a blank slate of a person. Scratch that, at this point, Narcissa isn’t even a person anymore. She’s a pretty doll hanging off her husband’s arm, an object for people to drape flowing fabric and filigree jewellery on. She’s a mannequin and a museum exhibit and no one seems to care that she hasn’t felt quite like she’s really alive for the longest time. She can only tell that she’s actually alive from the way her chest rises and falls. She breathes and that’s all.

Even when she joins Voldemort’s Death Eaters, Narcissa is still but an accessory. The Dark Lord doesn’t even know her name for the first year of her service, only referring to her as “Lucius’ wife” or “Bellatrix’s sister”, if he refers to her at all. In return for this slight, she doesn’t say anything about her proclivity for potions and insinuates that she only got her apprenticeship through nepotism. The Dark Lord turns his attention to other, more “talented” potioneers for his demands and Narcissa lets her knowledge of poisons stay locked up in her head. She spends the entirety of her tenure in the Death Eaters saying and doing nothing but menial tasks.

She is a sharp blade rusted into an ornamental sheath. She is a bird in a silver-spoon cage. She is a chip of wood needing only a spark to engulf the world, but there is no spark to be seen. Narcissa dulls and withers and rots in stasis, and for once, this is what she prefers. Narcissa doesn’t believe herself to be intrinsically evil, and it’s refreshing to not be forced to be something she doesn’t want to be, even if it’s due to a misplaced belief in her incompetence. It doesn’t feel freeing though. At this point, she’ll never be free.

— — —

When Draco Malfoy is born, Narcissa starts to change. Death Eater assignments she goes on start to have higher risks and lower kill counts and no one seems to connect the dots, because Narcissa is placing the dots in separate rooms and shutting the door between them. If anyone knew that she was sabotaging their Lord’s work, even as subtly as she is, she would be dealt with slowly and gruesomely. It’s worth the risk though.

Narcissa is a trapped dog, tired and beaten, and she knows better than to bite, but Draco? Draco could be so much more. Narcissa loves her son like she’s never loved anyone else before.

Sometimes, she thinks of her sisters, and speculates on what could have been. She and her sisters were never given the chance to be children, and as such, they always treated each other like extensions of their parents; calculating and only capable of love when it suits them. Narcissa will never do that to Draco, no matter how this war is affecting her. She will never be so cold as to refuse him love.

— — —

When Narcissa gets her Potions Mastery, it is to little fanfare. Her husband celebrates with her, of course, and the people who politely enquire after her studies at galas and balls give her their congratulations. Their Lord looks faintly surprised at the thought of Lucius’ wife achieving something and dismisses her.

After her results come back, Narcissa gives Arsene a hug and a bottle of the finest gin money can buy. She leaves through the drawing room floo and doesn’t come back. When he’s killed a decade later in a lab explosion, she sits in a pew at his funeral and says nothing the whole time.

— — —

When the Dark Lord You-Know-Who is killed by a toddler, Narcissa takes out her finest china, brews her most expensive French tea, and toasts to Harry Potter and the freedom he represents to not just the world, but her family as well.

— — —

After the war, everything is a little quieter. Lucius fades back into the shadows, determined to cling to the last vestiges of power that he can grasp, and Narcissa retreats with him. It’s only after a few years that she can return to polite society, saying all the right things about muggleborn and innovation and “moving on from our dark past towards a brighter future”. But really, no one’s moving on. Polite society is as manipulative and cutthroat and prejudiced as ever, and Narcissa just feels tired. Nothing ever changes and all she wants to do is rest. But she’s a talented actor, and the gala she throws to mark the celebration of the five year anniversary of You-Know-Who’s defeat is perfect.

Of course, some of the polite conversations happening throughout the room aren’t quite as polite as they should be, but Narcissa navigates them with a practiced ease. She tells her own stories too, words just a bit too clipped, and Lucius laughs in all the right places and glances at her with an emotion that would look like adoration to anyone else but is really just well-masked concern. They return to Malfoy Manor and fall onto their bed and simply stare at the ceiling as their runaway mouths compliment each other on their radiance and kindness and everything that married people should like about each other.

Draco climbs into their bed a few minutes later, blabbering about riding a unicorn, and Narcissa can only hold him tight and nod when the warbling echo of her son’s voice in her head sounds like he’s asking a question. All she really wants to do is sleep.

— — —

When the Dark Lord returns, Narcissa brews the special tea she keeps on hand for her particularly bad migraines and shuts herself so deeply behind the veil that she barely feels anything but a constant bone-deep exhaustion. All she wants is for her family to be safe. When the time comes to offer up her house to her Lord, she does so willingly and without fuss, knowing that she’d better get used to being a servant again. When the time comes to let captured mudbloods be tortured on her nice marble floors, she just sighs and gets a house-elf to mop up the blood. When the time comes to follow Voldemort into battle, she spares the life of the boy who once meant freedom for her family and takes her son far, far away.

— — —

The day after the Battle of Hogwarts, Narcissa finally peels the veil off her heart and lets herself feel. She breathes in, then out, then in again. She feels.

She has a delightful breakfast. She sits right down the end of the giant table in the huge room they use for formal dinners, and has toaster waffles; she’s never gotten to try them and now she can. The house-elf that delivers them is almost distraught, but Narcissa just smiles at it and douses her waffles in maple syrup; another thing she couldn’t try for fear of her figure. The room is totally silent and Narcissa revels in it. She’s all too familiar with uncomfortable silence, but this is just the right kind of quiet.

She sends a letter to Andromeda. It’s not a demand, or a plea, but a simple request: tea on Sunday, with the good china set that’s been collecting dust since Druella Black died. She doesn’t expect a letter back.

She reads a dog-eared book of Emily Dickinson poems about mortality, then doesn’t put the book back in the right place. She swaddles herself in a duvet and rolls around on the floor like a deranged burrito. She feeds the peacocks out of the palm of her hand and doesn’t wince away when their beaks peck at her flesh. She has ice cream and candy canes for lunch and cleans the bowl with her fingers; it’s amusing how concerned the house-elves are. She doesn’t know where they even got candy canes from — it’s the middle of May — but she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t have to care.

Narcissa goes to the parlour and sits in her chair. One of the portraits looks at her funny and she takes great personal offence to it, so she decides to change it. She rips portraits off the walls with all the care and finesse of an angry troll, denting the floorboards with every frame she lets fall. They scream at her as she pulls them down, but she pays them no mind. She knows that she must look mad, chest heaving and eyes wide, but she can’t quite bring herself to care. Narcissa gathers every portrait, including those of her mother and father, and sets about taking them outside.

Mud squelches in her slippers and she wrinkles her nose on instinct. A week ago, she would have scoffed and immediately gone inside, throwing her slippers down to be replaced by the nearest house-elf. Now, she just stands in the mud and feels the disgust slip off her like morning dew from a blade of grass.

The portraits begin to shriek when Fiendfyre slips from the tip of her wand. It engulfs them so quickly that it’s almost anticlimactic. The bonfire is extinguished in only a few minutes and all that remains is a pile of half-melted picture frames and tiny scraps of parchment ruffling in the breeze. Narcissa looks at it for a few seconds, then turns on her heel and goes inside.

Narcissa sits down in her chair, fingers sticky with ice cream and slippers dirty with mud. She waves away the house-elf that comes to clean the rug, watching the soil crust the fine wool. She looks around at the empty walls and for the first time forever she actually feels happy.

For the first time in forever, she doesn’t have to wait anymore. Everything she’s hoped would change has done so: her husband (who only wanted to survive his fate) is in Azkaban, her son (who only wanted to make his father proud) is out checking on his school friends, and the parlour is all hers to do nothing in.

She takes a sip of her tea, relaxes into her chair, and feels herself breathing.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

She’s finally at peace.