Chapter 1: preface
Chapter Text
This story contains dark themes such as emotional/physical abuse, family pressure, the idea of girls staying "pure" and references to dark magic. Please read with care!
For context, if you're not familiar with the Black family relations, a short overview:
Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa are sisters. Their parents are Druella (née Rosier) and Cygnus III Black.
Sirius and Regulus are their cousins. Their parents are Walburga and Orion Black (who are also cousins. ugh).
Cygnus, Walburga and Alphard are siblings - children of Pollux and Irma (née Crabbe) Black.
Orion and Lucretia (married Prewett) are siblings - children of Arcturus III and Melania (née Macmillan) Black.
The timeline spans from 1950, beginning with the marriage of Druella and Cygnus. It follows the Black family through four decades (childhood, marriages, the First Wizarding War, you name it) and concludes roughly around Voldemort's return during the Triwizard Tournament. Some specific dates and timelines have been adjusted or interpreted with creative freedom for narrative purposes.
Thank you for being here! I'm really excited for what's to come!
Chapter 2: prologue
Notes:
me: i'll study for my exams. also me: writes 3,000 words of black family drama.
tw: mentions of miscarriages
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
La maison au crépuscule, Somerset, 4 August 1950
The morning sun had no right to be so bright.
It spilled in long golden lines across the dark wood floors of her childhood home, warming the centuries old portraits that lined the walls. Even the Black ancestors, grim and unmoved in their frames, looked more alive in that soft light.
But Walburga thought it was mocking her. Every cheerful gleam on silver, every dappled glow on the carpet a quiet insult.
Today, the House of Black was celebrating. Today, there would be a wedding. And Walburga, ever the dutiful wife, would smile and nod and drink champagne, even as something deep inside her coiled in silence.
She had been awake since before dawn. The house had been humming with quiet footsteps for hours, house-elves whisking through corridors with pressed tablecloths and crystal goblets, her mother Irma snapping last minute instructions, and the low murmurs of voices rehearsing their congratulations.
A Black wedding was never a small thing. Not when two ancient bloodlines were being bound together in magical contract. Not when the family needed something worth boasting about again.
Walburga adjusted the emerald clasp on her robe for the fifth time, her fingers lingering too long on the pin. She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark hair swept back, eyes lined sharply, robes of forest green and black velvet, elegant and proper. Exactly as she should be. And yet, behind her reflection, she could almost see the ghost of something else. Someone else.
Three years married to Orion. Three years and still no heir.
She blinked once, hard, and turned away from the glass. The drawing room had been transformed into a reception hall. Cream and gold ribbons floated mid-air, tied with charmwork to hold their shape, while enchanted lanterns flickered gently with pale blue flames. It was tasteful, conservative, and perfectly Black.
At the far end of the room, Druella Rosier stood on a small dais with her back to the door, surrounded by house-elves fussing with the fall of her veil. She was beautiful. That sort of sharp, untouched beauty that always came with the Rosier women — pale skin like porcelain, hair pinned into place without a single strand out of order.
Druella had a way of looking at people as if they were slightly dull ornaments on a mantle. And yet today, she glowed. Even Walburga had to admit it.
Cygnus, her younger brother, had chosen well. Or rather, Pollux, their father, had arranged well.
Walburga stepped inside; her heels silent on the rug. The murmur of conversation dipped slightly. Her presence often did that.
“Walburga,” came a low voice behind her.
She turned.
Orion stood just inside the doorway, his robes dark and sharply tailored, hair combed perfectly to one side. Her cousin and husband. His face was neutral, as always, unreadable, but his eyes flicked once to her stomach, and back to her face. She hated when he did that.
“We should offer our best to Cygnus before the guests arrive,” he said.
No warmth, no intimacy. Just an obligation.
“Yes,” she replied. “Let’s.”
They crossed the room together, a united front as always. If anyone noticed the inch of space between their shoulders, no one commented. Cygnus turned when he saw them, stepping down from the dais with surprising ease for a groom in stiff formal robes.
“Sister,” he greeted with a nod, his voice calm. “Orion.”
“You clean up well,” Walburga said lightly, brushing her gloved fingers over his sleeve. “Almost like a man grown.”
He smirked. “Almost.”
There was affection there, buried beneath layers of cool restraint. They had grown up inseparably, although seven years apart. As children, they had shared secret jokes and sour looks at family dinners. Walburga remembered pulling him out of the pond at 77 Buxton Terrace when he was six and nearly drowned chasing an Erkling. She had scolded him all the way back inside. He hadn’t spoken to her for a week. And now he was marrying. Securing the line.
“Druella looks… radiant,” Walburga said, her smile controlled.
“She does,” Cygnus agreed.
There was a pause.
Then, as if on cue, Arcturus III entered the room. He swept in with all the weight of his title, Lord Arcturus Black, head of the family, patron of the line, keeper of the name. His presence chilled the space.
Conversation dipped again.
He approached slowly, his gaze assessing each of them as if calculating value.
“Walburga,” he said with that familiar tone, neither warm nor cold, just heavy.
“Orion. Cygnus. Good.” He said good as though something had been solved. As though this wedding would repair some invisible fracture in the family.
Then he looked directly at Walburga. “No fainting today, I hope.”
The words struck like ice. Orion stiffened beside her but said nothing. Walburga’s fingers tightened slightly on her clutch, though her expression did not flicker.
“No, Uncle,” she said smoothly. “Not today.”
Arcturus moved on, already uninterested.
*
The ceremony itself took place beneath the flowering trellis in the back garden, where the hedges had been freshly trimmed and lined with silver edged lilies. Magic shimmered faintly in the air: subtle protective charms, glamour spells to make the grass just the right shade of green, and a weather charm that held the sky in perfect blue. The guests sat in rows of carved wooden chairs. Malfoys, Rosiers, Selwyns, Yaxleys, and other old names whispered about in corridors.
There were no strangers here. Only blood. The kind of blood that meant everything.
Walburga sat beside Orion in the front row, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. She felt the weight of eyes on her, some curious, some pitying.
A wife of three years. No child. No heir. And yet still she was seated among the honoured few, still draped in the trappings of a perfect Black daughter. Only she knew what lay beneath the emerald silk. Hollow space. Silence.
The music began. Harp strings curled through the garden like perfume. Druella stepped through the back doors, arm in arm with her father, immaculate in cream lace with silver stitching. Her veil shimmered like frost. Behind her trailed two flower girls — distant cousins Walburga barely remembered — scattering enchanted petals that floated rather than fell. She looked divine. Untouched. Promising.
Walburga glanced sideways at Orion. He was watching the bride, his face unreadable. As always. Perhaps he was thinking of the legacy, or the family, or their duty. Perhaps he was thinking of nothing at all. She could never quite tell. He had always been distant, even as a boy.
Her stomach tightened. It should have been me they toasted. It should have been me they praised.
The vows were spoken in Latin. Old magic laced into every word binding charms, ancestral blessings, expectations veiled in the poetry of blood.
Walburga knew them by heart. She had spoken them herself at twenty one, with Orion’s cold hand in hers and her mother’s grip on her shoulder like a vice.
When Druella said et hereditatem mundi, Walburga’s eyes flicked to Arcturus. He nodded once, slowly. As if to say: Now this is how it’s done.
Cygnus took his bride’s hand and kissed her knuckles with all the calm assurance of a man fulfilling his role in a long planned ritual. The crowd applauded softly, reverently. Walburga did not clap.
*
After the ceremony, guests filtered back inside or into the shade of the tented garden. Elves carried trays of rosé coloured champagne and miniature canapés too intricate to eat. The air buzzed with restrained celebration. The sort born of duty fulfilled, not joy.
Pollux Black raised his glass beneath a crystal chandelier hung from the orchard arch.
“To the union of noble houses,” he said. “To strength. To continuity.”
A quiet murmur of approval passed through the crowd.
Arcturus stepped forward. The crowd fell fully silent. Even the trees seemed to listen.
“This is not only a wedding,” he said, voice deep and even. “It is a promise to the future. Fresh blood, yes, but honourable blood. Untainted, unbroken. Today, the House of Black renews itself.”
He looked directly at Walburga as he spoke. Not harshly. Almost indifferently.
Fresh blood. Walburga’s hand tightened around her glass until the stem threatened to snap. She felt her throat close. There it was again, the insinuation, the judgement that never had to be spoken aloud. Her miscarriage one winter ago had not been spoken of since. Not truly. Not even by Orion.
It had happened quietly, behind the heavy drapes of their bedchamber. She had bled for two days. Her mother-in-law had instructed the elves to clean everything before the sun rose.
When Arcturus had whispered to her at the family dinner a week later —“Better this way. There’s still time for something… proper. Druella will do well.” —it had landed like a knife. No one had contradicted him. Not even Orion, after she told him about his father’s words.
*
After the toasts, Walburga slipped away. The din of laughter and polite small talk clung to the air. She made her way to the conservatory, a long glass corridor filled with orchids and shadowed ferns. It had always been her favourite place in their Somerset residence, away from the noise, the expectations, the eyes. She found the black orchid in its usual spot near the end of the path. Thick petals, almost leathery, curled around a stem dark as wine. It had never bloomed the way it should. Not quite. And yet it survived.
She touched it lightly, careful not to bruise the petal. In the reflection of the glass wall, she saw herself clearly. Twenty four, elegant, composed. No child. No joy. No welcome whispers of congratulations from the old aunts, no excited glances from the matriarchs.
She had once imagined herself at the centre of it all — the perfect wife, the brilliant mother, the woman who would carry the Black name with honour and pride. Instead, she was fading. Bit by bit. Wrapped in brocade, hollow at the core. Her hand pressed against the cold glass.
“I am still Black,” she whispered. “Still here.”
*
By early evening, the drawing room had been transfigured again into a formal dining hall. A long mahogany table stretched nearly the full length of the room, flanked by thirteen high backed chairs on either side, each carved with a different family crest. Silverware gleamed, and goblets caught the flickering candlelight overhead. No music now, just the low rustle of robes and murmurs over cutlery as the supper was served.
Walburga was seated beside Orion at the head of the table. Druella sat across from her, newly wed, framed in soft candlelight like a porcelain doll. Cygnus had barely taken his eyes off his wife all evening. She seemed to bask in it.
Walburga glanced down at her own plate: slices of rare roast beef with enchanted steam rising from the gravy, herbed potatoes cut into perfect ovals. She touched none of it.
Pollux raised his goblet. “To the continuation of what has always set us apart.”
There were polite murmurs again, the clink of glasses.
Walburga sipped from hers only to keep up appearances. She could feel the gaze of Melania, her mother-in-law, seated two places down. Always smiling that polite, stiff smile.
The same one she wore when asking, “Any news, dear?” over tea.
The same one she’d worn at the funeral of her last child. She had produced only two. A quiet disappointment, despite her graceful hands and perfect lineage.
Walburga’s eyes met Melania’s briefly. She looked away. Across the table, Druella laughed at something whispered in her ear. Her teeth were perfect. Her smile, effortless. Fresh blood. And no losses, Walburga thought bitterly. Not yet.
She caught Cygnus watching her. Not in judgement, almost in question. He knew, of course. He’d always known more than he let on. But he didn’t speak. Not here. Not in this house. The older they grew, the more things went unspoken between them.
Walburga reached for her wine again. Her goblet trembled slightly in her hand.
*
After supper, the guests moved back into the larger drawing room. The house-elves brought brandy and mulled wine. The older men gathered near the hearth, speaking in low tones about property and Ministry ties. The women lingered near the windows, discussing robes and daughters and upcoming matches.
Walburga found herself between two circles, as always. Too old for the blushing bridesmaids, too childless for the matriarchs. She listened as Druella’s mother, Sabine Rosier, murmured about estate holdings in Northern France.
Someone mentioned the Lestrange heir — growing well, strong for his age.
They all glanced, pointedly, at Druella. And then, just as pointedly, at Walburga. She excused herself with a polite nod and left the room
She found Orion standing in the hallway near the library, nursing a crystal glass of firewhisky. His posture was as it always was: immaculate, closed, silent.
“I imagine you’re enjoying this,” she said softly.
He didn’t look at her. “It’s done. That’s what matters.”
Walburga stepped closer, her voice low. “Do you remember what your father said after we lost the child?”
Orion said nothing.
“‘Better this way,’” she quoted bitterly. “‘Fresh blood is what we need.’” She laughed without humour. “And look, he’s got it now!”
Orion finally turned to her. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.
“It’s not Druella’s fault,” he said.
“No,” Walburga replied. “But it’s not mine either.”
They stood in silence for a long moment.
“I did everything right,” she whispered. “I said the vows. I took the potion. I obeyed the house. And it still wasn’t enough.”
Orion drained his glass. “I know,” he said. Quietly. Almost kindly.
It was the closest thing to comfort he’d ever offered her.
*
It was past midnight by the time the last guests began to leave. The silencing charms had softened the sound of farewells and Apparition cracks outside the windows. The house elves had begun to clean, floating away glasses, brushing tablecloths with invisible hands.
Walburga climbed the stairs alone. The corridor to the private wing was silent, candlelit. Her footsteps echoed off polished floors. Somewhere in the distance, Druella was likely being led to her bridal suite with quiet pride. Everything in its right place. A proper wedding. A proper beginning.
She reached her guest chambers and stood outside the door a moment, her fingers resting on the handle. Then she turned, continued down the corridor instead, past the guest rooms and old portraits.
She stopped outside a door she hadn’t opened in months. It was the smallest of the unused rooms, tucked near the east wing. Walburga pushed it open.
It had been prepared once. Carefully, hopefully. A cradle in the corner. Soft green wallpaper charmed to bloom with vines. A little shelf with a single book: Tales of Beedle the Bard.
They had closed the door after the loss. She hadn’t opened it since.
Now, dust hovered in the air like memory.
She stepped inside and pulled the door gently shut behind her.
The room had once been hers, the little chamber at the end of the corridor, with pale green walls and a window that looked out over the gardens. She had learned her wandwork in this room. Read through Hogwarts: A History on that very chair by the hearth.
When she married Orion, her parents had quietly transformed it into a nursery, for when she came to visit with her own child, her own family.
But that visit had never happened.
The cradle still rocked faintly, stirred by a draught from the half-open window. Her eyes caught on the blanket folded neatly inside — white wool, monogrammed in silver: B.B.
Black blood. Black birth. Black boy.
There had never been a boy. There had only been bleeding.
She moved further into the room; her footsteps muffled by the thick rug. The shelves were still lined with toys that had never been touched. Her hands clenched at her sides.
There was an old cheval mirror in the corner, one she remembered from childhood, now dwarfed by her adult frame. Walburga stepped in front of it slowly. Her reflection looked back: regal, composed, immaculate. Her gown cinched her waist with precision. Her hair was pinned high, the diamond comb glinting under candlelight.
She looked like someone carved from ice. And yet behind the eyes, something had shifted.
She didn’t cry. Not tonight. There was no use in it.
Instead, she whispered, “You will not forget me.”
The silence thickened, as if listening.
“I am still the daughter of Pollux Black,” she said, quieter now. “Still a wife. I’ve fulfilled my part.”
The last words caught slightly in her throat. They weren’t for the mirror. Not entirely. Not even for herself. They were for the child that had never come. For the space they had left behind.
Her gaze held steady, but her breathing slowed. Controlled.
She thought of the way Arcturus had looked at her. The way the women had smiled at Druella. The way everyone waited, quietly, for her to become less. They would wait a long time. Walburga Black did not fade.
She turned away from the mirror.
In the hallway once more, she walked back toward her own rooms. Slowly now, not rushing, her steps deliberate. The house was quiet. Only the portraits muttered in their sleep.
Her hand brushed the bannister as she passed. Behind her, the cradle in the unused nursery creaked once more and stilled.
The door clicked itself shut. And Walburga Black, daughter of Pollux and Irma, wife to Orion, walked the corridor like she always had: head high, shoulders back, silent.
Something had shifted inside of her. Not enough to show, but enough to last.
Notes:
i’ve always been interested in walburga black's characterisation — not just as sirius’s mother, but as someone shaped by the weight of tradition, silence, and expectation. this chapter steps into her perspective, as a starting point for the story of the black sisters. i’m not quite ready to write about sirius and regulus’s upbringing in detail yet (emotionally, that’s a whole other layer), so this is where i wanted to begin. with the women, and the legacy they were born into (a "better" childhood bc druella is probably a bit more sane than walburga).
just a quick world building note: since the black family would surely have more than one property, i took some creative liberty. the main branch (arcturus’s side) spends their summers at la maison du bolide in dorset, while pollux branch use la maison crépuscule in somerset, which is where this chapter is set. during the winter months, they return to london — to 12 grimmauld place and 77 buxton terrace, respectively.
thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this opening. the next chapter should be up sometime in early august :)
Chapter Text
77 Buxton Terrace, London, 31 October 1953
Cygnus Black stood at the parlour window, one hand resting lightly on the sill, his fingers absently drumming against the cold glass.
Outside, the London sky sagged low and grey, dull clouds pressing in with an oppressive weight, as if trying to muffle the day’s quiet upheaval. The fog gathered at the edges of the iron gate, thick and curling like smoke from a long extinguished fire, as though the house itself had begun to exhale, drawing in a slow breath to steady itself. The world, he thought, ought to pause, just for a moment. Instead, the unyielding hum of life carried on beyond the walls. Distant horns echoed through the streets, the faint rattle of a tram a dull percussion beneath it all. Nothing stopped. Not even grief.
He turned his head slightly at the sound of muffled footsteps above, followed by a faint creak in the floorboards. Not the newborn; no, Andromeda had arrived in a shriek and then fallen immediately into sleep, swaddled and serene in the upper nursery. It was likely one of the midwives, their shoes soft on the aged wood, threading through the dim corridors with equal parts reverence and unease. The Rosier staff were prone to sentimentality, nerves tangled with duty, which made these moments particularly fragile.
Cygnus smoothed the front of his jacket with quiet precision. Everything was in place. The tea set arranged with near-military exactitude, polished silver reflecting the flickering firelight, the room filled now with the subtle scent of Earl Grey and lavender biscuits.
His father had always said chaos above the neck was excusable only in children. And yet here they were, grown adults forced to balance appearances on the thinnest thread of civility.
The tea room began to fill.
The first to arrive, as anticipated, were Pollux and Irma. His parents appeared as though summoned by blood itself: punctual, starched, and somehow already disapproving without uttering a word. Pollux’s silence was heavy, his handshake curt and controlled, as if all warmth had been carefully measured and rationed. Irma, with her delicate, refined movements, kissed her son’s cheek in a practiced gesture, then turned her attention to the tea set, adjusting everything that was already perfect.
She moved with the grace of one who knew the importance of ritual, each motion a part of the ceremony, not a spontaneous act of kindness. These gatherings were rituals to her. Not celebrations, not domestic warmth—rituals. And today’s, though dressed as a welcome for a new child, was no exception.
Cygnus watched from the doorway as Irma adjusted the sugar tongs, then repositioned a teaspoon by exactly two inches. It would not do, he supposed, to misplace a spoon in front of Aunt Melania.
And Melania arrived soon after. Draped in plum silk and silence, she entered like a relic — cold, intact, and perfectly preserved from another era. She nodded to Pollux but said nothing to Irma, and cast a brief, unreadable glance toward Cygnus before settling into the high-backed armchair by the fire. It had always been her place. Her presence seemed to lower the temperature of the room by degrees. Cygnus bowed his head slightly in greeting. One did not resent Melania Black. One simply adapted.
The Rosiers followed.
Sabine first, trailing faint scent of jasmine and a bright smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She kissed Cygnus’s cheek lightly, as if he were still her daughter’s school aged suitor rather than her husband of three years.
“You look tired,” she said softly, a hand briefly resting on his shoulder. “But then, second births are often quicker. You’ll be grateful.”
He gave her a polite smile, already turning away before Charles Rosier swept into the room, theatrical as always. The man had not aged quietly. His laugh came too easily, too loudly, and he helped himself to a biscuit before speaking a word to anyone else. Irma raised a single eyebrow, a quiet scandal by Black standards. Bellatrix, mercifully, was still upstairs with Druella.
Cygnus glanced toward the ceiling where the new mother-of-two rested. The birth had been clean, the recovery routine. A girl. Another girl. He had kissed Druella’s forehead, then the child’s, and descended to receive the congratulations. Except there hadn’t been any. Pollux had offered a curt nod. Irma had smiled faintly. Even Charles Rosier had uttered something vague about the strength of women in the family. But Walburga had said nothing.
She entered now, wrapped in navy wool, the line of her jaw tight and proud. Her dark hair was drawn back into a sharp twist, and the look in her eyes said she had already decided how this afternoon would unfold. Behind her walked Orion, expression unreadable, posture perfect. They spoke little in public, less in private.
Arcturus was not present. The grief over his late father was still fresh, and his absence spoke volumes.
“Congratulations,” Walburga said, her lips barely moving. “Another girl.”
There was nothing warm in it. Just cool, formal regard. And, perhaps, a hint of something else. Pity? No. Something meaner.
“Thank you,” Cygnus replied evenly. There was nothing else to say.
Orion took up position by the mantelpiece, saying nothing, examining the carved cherubim on the fireplace as if they were of passing interest. He had been strange of late. Sharper. Quieter. But Cygnus didn’t bother asking why. There was no point.
Then the stairs creaked. Heads turned. Conversation dimmed. The entrance of the new mother was always a performance, even when it wasn’t meant to be.
Druella appeared at the top of the staircase, one hand gliding along the banister, her other hand resting gently on the curls of the small girl beside her. Bellatrix looked curious, almost amused, her eyes scanning the room below as if preparing to judge it. Two years old and already assessing.
Druella wore a long silver robe, fastened at the waist. Her hair pinned up again, and though a glamour softened the tiredness in her face, Cygnus could see it still, beneath her eyes, in the line of her mouth. She was pale but poised. She gave him a brief nod. They had agreed. Downstairs for tea, briefly, and then back to rest. A Black mother must be seen. And her daughters, too.
There was a ripple through the room as they entered. Not admiration — no, that had been spent long ago. Not suspicion, either. Just… assessment.
“She looks well,” Sabine whispered.
“Of course she does,” Irma replied, lips barely parting.
Druella stepped into the tea room with Bellatrix at her side. The little girl clutched at her robe with one hand and held a small toy in the other—a black swan carved from wood. She said nothing. Just stared.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Irma cleared her throat and gestured to the table. “Shall we sit?”
They did. Like pieces moving into place. But no one reached for a cup.
Cygnus stood beside his wife’s chair. Her hand brushed his briefly as she lowered herself into it.
“You’re pale,” he murmured, only for her to hear.
She didn’t look at him.
“You’d be, too.”
And Bellatrix climbed onto her mother’s lap and watched the room; like a queen surveying her court.
*
Cygnus’s presence by her side was a quiet anchor. He said little, but his gaze caught hers for a moment, a silent reassurance. The world beyond this room was still complicated, still dangerous, but here, with him, she could claim a small refuge.
The chatter flickered back to life, light and careful, yet the tension never fully left. Her mothers soft comment about Druella’s appearance was a slender attempt at kindness, but Druella caught the flicker of something else in her eyes. Perhaps calculation. Irma’s measured nod spoke more of duty than affection.
Bellatrix’s eyes roamed the room with unsettling sharpness, as if her small mind was already beginning to catalogue alliances and threats.
Druella swallowed a quiet worry. This house, this family, would shape her daughters in ways she could only guess.
A sudden shimmer of silvery light appeared near the window, a delicate Patronus in the shape of a hare, flickering in and out like a quiet blessing. Druella’s lips twitched in a small, grateful smile. Lucretia Prewett’s message was brief but enough. Somewhere far away, kindness lived still.
*
The door opened quietly and Alphard stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the haste of his arrival. His eyes swept over the gathered family before settling briefly on Druella.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. It’s wonderful to see you all.”
Druella inclined her head in thanks, and Alphard moved to take a seat by the tea table, careful not to disturb the delicate arrangement. He poured himself a cup and glanced around the room, the quiet hum of conversation filling the space once more.
For a moment, the family settled back into the familiar rhythms of polite exchanges and measured smiles. Then, as the tea was passed and the room grew warmer with shared history, the conversation began to shift gently; first to the usual talk of old magic, of family matters, of the next generation.
The muted clink of fine china was the closest thing to a heartbeat in the room, a fragile rhythm beneath the heavy silence that filled the corners. Alphard’s presence had lightened the mood slightly, just enough to remind them all they were still bound by blood, no matter how strained or brittle the ties might feel.
He leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest.
“Father and Mother have been quite firm about my future,” he said quietly, eyes flicking toward Pollux and Irma. “They still refuse to let me study at Muggle university, despite the letters I sent. I thought… well, I thought it might be different now, with the birth of your second child. But, no. They remain unmoved.”
A flicker of something sharp passed in Druella’s gaze, though she kept her voice calm. “And what do you want, Alphard? To study Muggle medicine? Science?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I want to understand how they heal and how their world works. The Black family needn’t fear knowledge that might strengthen us.”
Pollux’s hand tightened around his teacup. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, the old man’s dark eyes seemed to glint with an unforgiving cold. “Knowledge is power, Alphard, but it must be knowledge that preserves our purity. We do not bend to the whims of Muggle institutions. Our strength lies in tradition, in blood.”
Irma’s delicate fingers fluttered over her necklace as she spoke, voice soft but firm. “Pollux is right. The Black family cannot afford such risks. There are dangers in mingling too freely with the Muggle world. The bloodline must be guarded.”
Alphard’s jaw clenched, but he bowed his head slightly in respect. “I understand, Mother. But if I may speak frankly... I believe the world is changing, and we must adapt if we are to survive.”
A silence followed, weighted and uncomfortable.
Cygnus shifted, clearing his throat. “Perhaps there is wisdom in both views. Tradition is a foundation, yes, but even the strongest walls need windows, or they grow dark and stale.”
Pollux gave Cygnus a withering glance. “Windows that let in the cold and the filth.”
Druella rose quietly, her silver robes swishing softly. “Enough,” she said, voice steady but resolute. “We are gathered here to celebrate Andromeda’s arrival, not to reopen old disputes. Alphard, we will speak of your future soon. For now, let us enjoy the moment. Bellatrix, come here.”
The little girl, perched on Druella’s lap, wriggled free and padded toward the tea table, her eyes bright and curious. She reached for a biscuit with small, eager fingers and then glanced back at the adults, as if daring them to return to their arguments.
Walburga’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest curl of a smile ghosting across her lips.
“She is a clever child,” she remarked. “Reminds me of her great-uncle. Sirius would have been proud.”
A shadow crossed Orion’s face, darkening it briefly. “Grandfather Sirius was mad.”
“Mad,” Walburga repeated softly, “or brave enough to challenge the family’s shadow. There is a difference.”
No one spoke for a moment, and then Druella took Bellatrix’s hand gently. “Come, darling. Time for you to rest.”
As they moved toward the stairs, Druella caught Cygnus’s eye again. There was an unspoken promise between them; to protect their daughters from the storms ahead, to shield them from the weight of Black expectations. But even as they ascended, the house seemed to settle deeper into its ancient rhythms: the whisper of secrets, the pulse of old grievances, and the faint but unyielding hope that blood might one day bend without breaking.
As the heavy footsteps of the adults faded upstairs, Druella remained seated by the window, the dimming light casting a soft glow across her pale face. She watched Bellatrix’s small figure disappear behind the curtain, then turned her gaze outward, toward the creeping London fog. The cold mist curling around 77 Buxton Terrace felt almost like a physical weight pressing against the house.
Inside, the Black family name was a relentless tide, shaping every thought, every decision, every breath. Druella could still hear the sharp edges in Pollux’s voice, the chilly disdain in Walburga’s eyes, the quiet caution in Cygnus’s measured words. And Alphard, the son who dared to dream beyond their blood soaked walls, who carried the seeds of change they were all too afraid to nurture.
She felt torn. Between loyalty to the ancient traditions that had cradled her family through centuries of storms, and a fierce, desperate hope that her daughters might one day escape the suffocating expectations that had bound them all.
Andromeda, newly born, fragile and perfect in her swaddling, represented a future still unwritten. What life would she have? Would she be trapped within the rigid codes that had defined the Black lineage for so long, or could she find a way to carve out something different? Something freer?
Druella’s thoughts drifted to Bellatrix, restless and wild even at two years old, her bright eyes already assessing, calculating the currents in the room as if she knew the power she might wield someday. Would Bellatrix grow into the fierce woman she glimpsed beneath the surface now, or would the walls close in, shaping her into something she did not want to be?
A sharp pang of guilt tightened her chest. Had she already failed them by marrying into this legacy? By standing silent when the family clung to the old ways? Or was there still time to fight for a future that honored the past without being imprisoned by it?
She remembered her brief conversation with Alphard — his quiet rebellion, his yearning to understand the Muggle world, to learn its secrets and its strengths. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps knowledge beyond the old borders was not a betrayal but a shield. She could see his frustration, the weight of his family’s disapproval, but also the fierce conviction in his eyes.
Druella placed a hand over her heart, steadying the sudden flutter of hope that bloomed there. Maybe, just maybe, her daughters would live in a world where their worth was not measured solely by the manners they were taught and the husband that would call them his, but by their courage, their minds, their choices.
The door creaked behind her, and Cygnus appeared in the doorway, his gaze softening as he took in her thoughtful expression. He crossed the room and settled beside her, his presence a quiet reassurance.
“They will be strong,” he said quietly, voice low as the dying light. “We will make sure of that.”
Druella nodded, the faintest smile breaking through her weariness. “But will they be strong enough to face this family... and strong enough to break from it, if they must?”
Cygnus reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Whatever happens, they will know their rightful place.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his touch ground her. Outside, the fog deepened, but inside the house, inside her heart, a small flame flickered, fragile but alive.
A future worth fighting for.
Notes:
fyi: lucretia prewett (née black) is the older sister of orion and molly prewetts/weasleys aunt through marriage. and sirius II was the father of arcturus III, which makes padfoot sirius III.
had my last exam yesterday and i’ve been writing more than learning for the past week. the story is unfolding more slowly but i want to build up the family dynamics and really tell the story of the black sisters. let me know what you think! :)
Chapter 4: sugar rules!
Notes:
this one took me a while, because i don’t really know how children think, and i’m still not quite happy with it… but it must do.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
12 Grimmauld Place, London, 5 November 1959
Bellatrix sat with her legs swinging beneath the heavy chair, though they never quite touched the ground.
She thought perhaps, if she pressed her toes hard enough, she might just reach the carpet, but the chair was far too tall, and her stockings only brushed the air. She scowled at the empty space below and wriggled forward, chin nearly on the polished wood of the table.
The tea room smelled of polish and smoke, and of something else she could not quite name.
A silver tray of biscuits sat just beyond her reach. They had the kind with sugared tops that crunched when bitten, and Bellatrix had been told she might have one after she finished her tea, but her cup sat untouched, steaming faintly.
She did not like tea.
Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. Druella was seated near the fire, Narcissa on her lap, her silver-grey gown falling perfectly despite the squirming of the four-year-old child who would not sit still.
“You must all be very proud,” Mother said with a small smile, looking toward Aunt Walburga.
Walburga lifted her chin the way she always did, sharp nose pointed ever so slightly upward.
“Proud is too small a word,” she answered. Her dark eyes glowed strangely in the firelight. “The line continues. The House of Black stands secure.”
Bellatrix knew these words were important — line, House, secure. They were said often enough in this house, spoken with the same weight as spells.
But she thought mostly of her new cousin, the baby called Sirius, after his late great-grandfather. He was small and red and smelled of milk, and when she had peered into his cradle earlier, he had kicked his legs as if swimming. She had wanted to poke his nose to see if it wobbled, but her aunt had shooed her away.
Andromeda leaned close to whisper in her ear, voice soft. “He looked like a wrinkled apple.”
Bellatrix giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth when her mother frowned. She pinched Andromeda’s arm lightly in secret. They were not supposed to laugh at babies.
Narcissa, hair like pale spun silk, ribbon tied just so was already fussy, always smoothing her skirt or tugging at her shoes. Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
She reached for a biscuit, and their mother caught her wrist without even looking, moving the plate just out of reach. Bellatrix felt a smug little thrill; at least she wasn’t the one told off this time.
*
The men spoke lower, their voices rumbling like distant thunder. Father sat across from Orion (Uncle Orion, but she would never dare call him that), who was stiff in his chair near the mantelpiece.
Orion was serious—too serious, Bellatrix thought. He rarely smiled, even when he saw his new baby. But she supposed fathers were allowed to be like that. Father, on the other hand, sometimes winked at her when no one was looking, though never today. Today he was solemn too.
“…the boy will carry the name with strength,” Orion said, his words slow and measured. “Of course,” Cygnus replied. “But strength requires shaping. Guidance.”
Bellatrix picked up a sugar cube and dropped it into her tea just to watch it vanish. She liked the way it fizzed, tiny bubbles racing to the top. She wondered what would happen if she dropped three more.
Andromeda nudged her. “You’re supposed to drink it.”
Bellatrix wrinkled her nose. “It tastes like bitter water.”
“You’re not meant to gulp it,” Andromeda whispered, ever the one who remembered rules. “You sip.” She demonstrated with invisible tea, lips pursed in a prim little shape.
Bellatrix snorted and pretended to tip her whole cup into her mouth, which made Andromeda press her hand to her mouth to hide a laugh.
Narcissa, noticing she was left out, pouted and tugged at Druella’s sleeve.
The baby stirred in his cradle. Narcissa gasped like it was fireworks.
“He moved!” she squealed, and quickly left her mother’s side, to kneel on the rug in front of him.
“Babies move all the time,” Bellatrix muttered, but she leaned forward anyway, just in case he did something more interesting. Sirius only twitched and went back to sleep.
The grown-ups went on, their words spinning back to something Bellatrix only half caught: names she didn’t know, talk of houses and families and promises.
*
Aunt Walburga lifted her chin, voice just a touch brighter than the minutes before. “Orion’s old school friend came by yesterday. Tom Riddle — you might remember the name, Cygnus.”
“Tom Riddle —,” Father repeated, almost carefully.
Bellatrix listened hard. She liked hearing about Hogwarts people, they always sounded so clever and mysterious.
Father’s mouth curved, though not quite into a smile. “—Ah. Riddle. I remember him.” His tone was even, but there was something in it Bellatrix couldn’t place, like when grown-ups said they liked a pudding but only ate half.
“Clever man,” Orion added, short and certain, as if daring anyone to disagree.
“That man,” Aunt Walburga said, in a tone Bellatrix couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t angry either.
More like something sharp and secret. Bellatrix’s ears pricked up. She loved secrets. She wished the grown-ups would talk about them louder.
“I didn’t know you still kept his company“ Father said.
Uncle Orion gave the tiniest shrug. “Old school ties remain useful.”
Father’s eyes narrowed. “He is not from an old family.”
“No,” Orion said simply. “But he understands them.”
Bellatrix tilted toward Andromeda and whispered, “Who’s Riddle?”
Andromeda shrugged. “A man.”
“That’s boring,” Bellatrix whispered back.
“I think he’s important,” Andromeda said, thoughtful as always.
Narcissa, who always wanted to know everything even if she didn’t, piped up from the rug, “Is he rich?”
“Cissy!” Bellatrix hissed, embarrassed. But none of the grown-ups answered, as if Narcissa hadn’t spoken at all.
The talk swirled on, like smoke Bellatrix couldn’t quite catch. “Ambition,” “influence,” “allies” — those were words she heard. Then, sharper:
“Dangerous,” Mother said. “There’s something… unnatural about the way he‘s implementing his plans.”
Bellatrix perked up again. Unnatural sounded exciting. Maybe this Riddle man had horns, or glowing eyes, or could turn into a bat. She wanted to ask, but she knew if she did, they would only laugh or tell her to hush.
Aunt Walburga gave a short, cold laugh. “Unnatural is not always a failing, Druella. Sometimes it is the mark of greatness.”
The silence after that made Bellatrix’s skin prickle. She leaned closer to Andromeda again. “What’s unnatural mean?”
Andromeda’s forehead scrunched. “Like… not normal.”
“I’m not normal,” Bellatrix whispered proudly.
“Yes you are,” Andromeda said at once, loyal and soft.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not!”
Mother gave them the look from her chair, and they went silent immediately, though Bellatrix still poked Andromeda in the ribs until she giggled again.
The baby whimpered, and Aunt Walburga rose at once, sweeping over to the cradle and scooping Sirius up with a practised motion. She cradled him against her like he was made of glass and jewels. Her whole face softened, just for a moment, and Bellatrix stared. She didn’t know Aunt Walburga’s face could soften.
“He will change everything,” Aunt Walburga murmured.
The grown-ups nodded like she had said something important. Bellatrix felt a pang in her chest, like she was left out of a game she didn’t understand the rules of. She crossed her arms tight and said, louder than she meant to, “I could change everything too!”
All the heads turned.
Her cheeks went hot.
Then Father chuckled; just once, not meanly, but not kindly either. “Perhaps you could, little one. Perhaps you could.”
And that was all they said before the talk floated back to the adults’ world, heavy and far away again.
Bellatrix slumped back against the chair, sulking.
Andromeda leaned close and whispered, “You will change things. I think so.”
Bellatrix’s sulk cracked. She let her lips twitch up into the tiniest grin.
Narcissa, meanwhile, was tugging at Aunt Walburga’s sleeve, asking if she could hold Sirius, please, just for a moment. Of course, she wasn’t allowed. Babies were too precious, especially heirs. Bellatrix watched with a little flicker of smugness as Narcissa pouted, denied.
The fire popped, the grown-ups talked on, and Bellatrix let her mind wander. She counted the cracks in the ceiling. She tried to balance a sugar cube on her knee. She imagined what kind of magic Sirius might do when he grew up… maybe turn things to smoke, or breathe fire, or shout so loud the walls shook. If he was supposed to be so important, he had better be interesting.
After a while, the tea cups clinked and the talk began to slow. The adults leaned back, a little more tired, a little less sharp. Sirius had fallen asleep again. Narcissa had started to nod off too, curled on the rug like a kitten.
Andromeda rested her head against Bellatrix’s shoulder. Bellatrix didn’t push her off.
The room felt warm and heavy, and for the first time that day, Bellatrix forgot to be cross about heirs and secrets and babies. She only thought about how quiet it was, how the firelight made shadows on the wall, and how safe it felt, all of them together in one room.
And when her mother at last allowed her to take a sugared biscuit, she bit into it with triumph, sugar crystals crunching loud between her teeth.
Notes:
not sure about the title of this fic yet, i might change it later. still figuring out what fits best. hope you enjoy the chapter anyway and let me know what you think. :)