Post Tenebras Lux

by flobot14

Summary:

The House of Black is shattered.

All that remains is an orphan, a bastard, a disgrace, and a prisoner.

But Andromeda will risk everything to keep her family safe.

Even if it means doing the impossible and freeing a man thought lost forever.

Chapter 1: Prologue - The Heart of a Lion

In a dark, dark cave, Regulus Black, faced his death. At only eighteen, he was so thoroughly ensnared in a web of oaths and duty, fealty and obligation, that this terrible fate was the only option he had left. 

At sixteen, he had been bound to a marriage that he had not chosen. The House of Black demanded continuity, an heir to sustain its lineage. With Sirius’s defiance shattering the carefully laid plans of his forebears, the burden had fallen squarely upon him.

His wife, Gertrude Max, a German witch of impeccable pedigree, was everything his family required; staunch, pure-blooded, and compliant. But there was no affection between them, only obligation. The ceremony had been brief, its solemn vows exchanged with rigid formality and the weight of his new reality had settled in his chest like iron chains. The days and nights that followed were filled with silence, their marriage one of duty.

Yet, within a year, a child was born, a daughter, Amalthea, with dark hair and sharp, piercing eyes, so like his own. Regulus had watched her with quiet reverence, cradling her in his arms as she gurgled softly against him. She was a disappointment to his family, who longed for a boy-child to carry on the line, but to Regulus, she was perfect. He had vowed to protect her, under the night sky, on the night of her birth. Swore upon the stars above and the patron deity of his house that he would do all he could to keep her safe.

But promises were frail things in a world governed by blood politics, a world with a rising dark lord.

The Mark had been seared into his forearm before he was old enough to grasp the magnitude of its implications. It was a clever strategy to bind him inextricably with a wife and child so he could not run like his brother before him, and force him into the service of a monster. His mother had wept triumphantly. His father had called it an honour. His Grandfather, the Patriarch, the Lord of Black, had said nothing at all. 

And Regulus had felt only nausea and dread. He moved through the motions of servitude, donning the mask of a devoted follower, careful not to let his revulsion show. He bore witness to unspeakable horrors, acts of cruelty beyond imagining, and with every spell cast in Voldemort’s name, he felt a piece of himself wither.

Then Kreacher, faithful Kreacher, had returned from a task the Dark Lord had given him, shaken, poisoned and afraid. He had spoken in ragged gasps of blood sacrifices, a dim cave and a cursed lake. A potion of despair and a locket steeped in the foulest of magics. Regulus, ever a seeker of knowledge, had always possessed the gift of insight, and when he looked to the stars, what he saw seldom steered him wrong. So he had sought guidance under the night sky, he had sought knowledge, and he had found it.

Horcrux. 

It wasn't so much that the item itself was abhorrent, of course, it was. But so were many other things. Magics practised by the Blacks for millennia were just as vile, just as violent. No, it was what it implied. An eternal, unkillable Voldemort, a world swallowed by darkness, an immortal tyrant reigning unchallenged. 

He knew his brother would never submit and so would die. He knew what would happen to his daughter, as it had happened to his cousins, maddened, disgraced or married off as a broodmare, sacrificed at the altar of blood supremacy. He knew the dark Lord cared little for the old blood or their people's ancient traditions. The House of Black would be reduced to a ruin, its once-proud legacy in ashes.

He would not allow it. He could not allow it.

And so he had gone. Leaving behind a note for his brother to read upon his ascension to the lordship of the house, Regulus had gone to the cave. He had made a blood sacrifice. He had crossed the cursed lake. And there lay the Horcrux, a locket the Dark Lord had submerged within the basin, the foul liquid glowing green at the heart of the underground lake. The dark magic tangible in the dim light, a malignancy made manifest, almost pulsing with the echo of a fractured soul.

He instructed his elf to feed him the potion if he could no longer do it himself. To force him, if he had to, no matter what Regulus said, no matter how much he begged. And with hands that barely trembled, Regulus lifted the goblet and drank. The potion scorched through him like liquid ice, twisting his mind and distorting reality until he no longer knew where he ended, and the nightmare began. Insidious hallucinations clawed at his consciousness. Amalthea wrenched from his grasp, her cries swallowed by the void. Sirius, a wasted husk, entombed in a prison of despair. His mother, mad. His father, dead. The House of Black collapsing beneath the weight of time, apathy, and the rot of ages.

He begged to stop, but it continued. 

And then it was over.

A desperate thirst burned through him, threatening to overwhelm all his senses. But still, he forced himself forward, his trembling fingers closing around the locket. His body convulsed, nausea roiling through him as his vision blurred. His moment of clarity quickly fading, he forced the locket into Kreacher’s trembling hands, ordering him to destroy it. To tell no one what had happened. Not until Sirius ascended as lord of Black, not until he asked. 

The elf sobbed but obeyed, vanishing with a crack as the lake churned with movement.

Then, his thirst overwhelmed him, and he knelt to the lakeside, cupping water in his palms to drink. The lake stirred, and the Inferi, sensing life, rose from their slumber.

Cold, skeletal hands grasped at him, pulling, dragging. The lake gaped wide, a maw of inky blackness swallowing him whole. He thrashed against their grip, but the potion had drained him, leaving him powerless against the tide of death pulling him under.

And yet, even as the abyss consumed him, his final prayer escaped in a whisper.

He called to the Veiled One, Weaver of Stars, Patron Goddess of the House of Black. He did not beg for his salvation but for his daughter's future, his brother's protection, and for this house to remain strong for ages to come.

The water pressed against him, stealing his breath, leeching the warmth from his bones. The inferri dragged him down, down into the depths. He thought of Amalthea, her tiny fingers wrapped around his own, her laughter like the chime of bells in the corridors of Grimmauld Place. He thought of Sirius, stalwart and brave, their family's future. 

The darkness closed in, and the dead claimed him, but still, he prayed.

And somewhere, his lady, his dark goddess, the patron deity of the house of black, listened.

Chapter 2: Sirius I

The relentless cold of Azkaban was more than a physical sensation; it was a force that gnawed at the bones, eroded time, and stripped prisoners down to their raw, unguarded selves. The persistent malaise of Dementors, the lack of food, and the filthy conditions created an atmosphere so malign most prisoners went mad in a year.

Sirius Black had long since stopped counting the days, but he knew he had been in the prison for much, much longer than a year. The days stretched endlessly, blending into one another in a haze of hunger, despair, and the silent torment of memories he could never escape. He carefully did not think, did not feel, to not attract the dementors. And when he could not avoid it, he used his Animagus form to escape the complexity of human thought.

He had learned to exist in a void, to let emptiness consume him. Anything was better than feeling.

The Dementor's terrible effect was felt in every inch of the prison. Over the centuries, it had seeped into the very magic of the prison and pulsated around him, tainting the fabric of the world. The wards raised so long ago to contain prisoners and suppress their magic had become dark, cruel things that suffocated him.

Like many prisoners, Sirius had spent hours and days scratching tattoos into his skin, protective runes made of ask, and dirt pressed into his pores. Now, after 10 years, much of his body was covered in the Runes. Runes to ward off the effect of dementors, for warmth, for numbness, to purify the very magic around him. They worked, but they did not work well enough and what little magic he could feel felt hostile, sluggish and malign.

But this was different.

A pulse of pure magic rippled through him, reverberating around his cell walls, something that had nothing to do with the Dementors of the wards keeping him contained. It was a deep magic, an ancient magic. It was buried in his blood, and for the first time in years, Sirius felt something other than numbness and despair.

His breath hitched. His hands clenched against the stone floor. This was the Black magic, and it was in flux. It could only mean one thing.

"He is dead," came a horse whisper from the darkness.

Sirius turned his head slightly, the movement stiff and mechanical. In the cell across from him, his cousin Bellatrix had spoken. Her hair hung in wild tangles around her face, her cheeks hollowed by years of starvation and insanity, but her eyes were lucid.

She was watching him, as she often did. They had been on opposite sides of the war, and before their cells faced one another, they had faced each other on the battlefield more than once. But for all that they should be enemies. For all that, they were enemies. They were also Blacks.

They were kin, and in this awful place, they were all each other and had to cling onto. It did not matter that he was a blood traitor or that she had tortured his comrades into insanity. It did not even matter that her vile husband was in the cell next to her. They were made up of the same stuff, and like called to like. They may have believed different things in the outside world, but from the magic that sustained them to the marrow of their bones, they were the same. Blacks.

Sometimes, they would both reach out, their emaciated arms reaching across the corridor, and at the extremity of their reach, their fingertips would brush against each other. It brought more comfort than anything else in this accursed place.

Sirius swallowed. His throat was dry, voice raspy from disuse.

"Yes, he is," he managed.

They sat in silence for a long moment, two prisoners bound by the same blood, trapped in the same hell. The weight of the past and the future settled between them, a heavy thing neither of them could name.

Bellatrix let out a sharp, brittle laugh, choking off into a pained wheeze.

"The House of Black is untethered."

Sirius grimaced. He hated the way she spoke of the family, as though it were some divine entity rather than a crumbling ruin built on madness. But deep down, he knew she wasn't far wrong. The magic of the House of Black was old, woven into the very fabric of their bloodline. It recognised its members, its heirs, and its rightful lord.

And now, the patriarch was gone.

Sirius forced himself upright, joints aching from disuse.

"Do you feel it?" he asked.

Bellatrix tilted her head.

"Of course I do."

Sirius clenched his fists. He had spent years trying to rip that magic from himself, but it was inescapable. He had rejected the name, the traditions, and the burden, but the House of Black had never let him go, would never let him go.

And now it was calling to him.

The silence stretched between them, Belatirx's gaze heavy and assessing.

She shifted, curling her fingers around the iron bars of her cell. Her nails were broken, her hands shaking. Not from fear but from something else. Something Sirius recognised.

The Black Madness.

It ran through them all, to greater and lesser degrees. Walburga, shrieking at ghosts in Grimmauld Place. Orio, consumed by paranoia until it destroyed him. Bellatrix, descending into fanaticism. Regulus and Narcissa's obsession and rigidity. And Sirius had always felt the fire of it burning beneath his skin, barely contained by rebellion and recklessness.

The Madness and the Magic were one and the same. The gifts of their bloodline, and there were many, came at a cost.

And with Arcturus gone, the House was without a master. That magic was searching, thrashing, looking for an anchor. The weight of centuries of bloodline magic shifting unsettled Sirius in a way he couldn't explain. It was as if something fundamental had cracked open, a change he could not describe, could not quite place, but one that he felt in his bones.

Bellatrix let out another laugh and then a long breath, a shudder rolling through her body.

"They will come for her now."

Sirius's stomach turned. He knew who she meant. His niece. Amalthea.

The girl couldn't be older than twelve. She had no protection. No allies. And the vultures would already be circling. The ones who sought power, the ones who would use the chaos of the Black family's crumbling legacy to snatch her up, to bend her to their will.

Sirius exhaled sharply, running a hand through his filthy, tangled hair.

"She's not alone," he said, more to himself than to Bellatrix. "Andromeda is with her."

Bellatrix sneered, but there was no true venom in it.

"Andromeda is disgraced. Her name means nothing, and she cannot protect herself, let alone Regulus' girl." She tilted her head. "You were the heir, you know."

Sirius gave a bitter laugh.

"Fat lot of good that did me."

Bellatrix's lips curled.

"And now you are the Lord of Black."

Sirius's breath caught. Of course. There was no one else.

As a whole, Magical Britain was not patriarchal. Gender equality has been a fact of life for as long as memory can stretch. After all, magic was might, and it did not discriminate between genders. However, the great old families were a law until themselves. Some, like the Bones, practised equal primogeniture, while others, like the Greengrasses, were entirely Marticachal, and others still preferred one gender but allowed the other to inherit when there was no other choice.

The House of Black was strictly patriarchal. It was said that their earliest ancestor had wed their patron goddess, the Cailleach herself, and in doing so, had created a bond throughout history. Each lord of the house was similarly bound to their lady of the veil, and so must always be a man.

Thus, with Arcturus gone, he was the only male left who could possibly inherit. Without a child of his own, Amalthea would be considered the heir by law. But that position was only meaningful outside of the family, to the bureaucracy of the ministry and Gringots. In practice, she could never head the family. She could, however, bear the next heir.

His niece was now in a great deal of danger because whoever could get her with child could control the fate of the oldest extant family in the British Isles. And that was quite the prize. And she was far, far too young to be able to defend herself. With the family gutted by war, madness and time, whoever could gain guardianship of her could marry her off to the highest bidder, and there was no guarantee they would have her or the house's best interests at heart.

He knew that Andromeda, Belatrix's sister, had taken over the raising of her after his brother's death. But Andromeda had been disgraced after bearing a bastard, and he doubted that Arcurus had ever restored her standing. The old man was as vindictive as he was apathetic, and it would be just like him to weaponise the future of his great-granddaughter and the house itself in the name of petty revenge for the embarrassment caused by Dromeda's dalliance.

After Andromeda was the youngest sister, Narcissa, in truth, Cissa would have been a fine guardian. But she had been wed to Lucius Malfoy at only 17, and if she gained custody, she would be unable to protect the girl from her husband. In that situation, the best-case scenario would be for Amalthea to be wed to Draco, their son. At least he was of an age with her. But just as likely would be for Lucius to sire a bastard son on her, dispose of Amalthea and rule the house that way.

And trapped in Askaban, there was nothing either he or Bella could do.

"The Lord of Black", he mused aloud. He had spent his entire life since the age of 11 rejecting that title. He had burned his bridges, walked away from the family and madness, and sworn that he was not one of them. That he was good, that he was better than the darkness of his family.

But the magic didn't care about his choices, nor did it care that he was imprisoned in this hell.

It recognised only his blood, his birth and his right.

Bellatrix leaned forward, pressing against the bars, her eyes gleaming.

"The House is empty, dear cousin. The family magic needs an anchor."

Sirius closed his eyes. He could feel it now, the weight of the magic and the title settling on his shoulders, dormant, the power waiting to be claimed.

The silence between them stretched; he turned his eyes to the sky visible through the bars of his cell and visualised the world beyond these walls, the family beyond the two of them.

His body remained in Azkaban, but his mind was elsewhere, spinning across the night sky. For the wards of Askaban could block most magic, but this was as much a part of him as his animagus form. Etched into his blood, his bone, his self were the gifts of his house, allowing him to see across the stars that were his birthright. And the familial power released by Arcturus’ death bolstered him, gave him strength he had not felt in years.

The prison dissolved into shadow and starlight. He saw twisting corridors, endless staircases, and the hollow echoes of footsteps that did not belong to him.

And then Grimmauld Place.

Many thought it was odd that the seat of power for the House of Black was a simple townhouse. But they had forgotten. The Blacks had owned the land since before the Romans arrived to name it London. Their blood had fed the earth, and their magic had intertwined with the magic of the land since before any record began. And every magical being that lived and worked in London added to the strength of the Blacks.

Grimmauld Place may now look like a townhouse, but it had been a Roman villa, a Hill Fort, a Castle. The building had never fallen. Its exterior had only morphed to blend into the world around it. Inside the walls of the house were endless possibilities. A building so old it was almost sentient, shaping itself to the needs of its inhabitants, so long as they were Blacks.

And the house stood in unnatural stillness, the shadows stretching too long, the air thick with whispers and grief. It, too, longed for a lord. In the grand drawing room, illuminated by flickering candlelight, stood a girl.

He had never seen her before. He had been imprisoned all these years, but even when he was free, they had never met. He knew that she had been conceived because he had run away, his parents forcing Regulus into a match to secure the bloodline. She was unmistakable. Amalthea Black. The last piece of his brother left in this world.

She looked softer, more gentle than most of the family, with a rounded face and plump frame. Her dark hair was unmistakably brown as opposed to the coal-black locks that so characterised his kin. But the resemblance to his brother was clear; she had his eyes, sharp, silver-grey and gleaming, his nose, and his posture.

She was pale, wide-eyed, staring into a mirror that reflected his own face. And she was not alone.

Figures moved in the darkness, cloaked in tradition, in greed, in hunger. The remnants of the family, of their old allies, and old enemies. Those who had been waiting, watching, ready to claim what was his. What was hers. What belonged to the Blacks

Sirius saw her flinch as a hand reached for her shoulder. He saw the gleam of silver in candlelight, a promise of chains.

He tried to move, to do something, but he was trapped on the other side of the mirror, an observer, not a participant.

Then, he spun through the stars again, and all he could see were green eyes.

Not Amalthea, not a member of his family, for all Blacks had their silver-grey eyes. They were familiar, though, recognition just out of his reach.

And then a strike of lightning, a primordial force, and the vision shattered.

Sirius sucked in a breath, heart hammering. The cold of Azkaban slammed back into him as his senses returned to his body. But the magic remained, a potential of power that he could not quite reach.

Bellatrix had not moved. She was still watching him, eyes narrowed.

"What did you see?"

Sirius's hands trembled as he pressed them to the stone floor, grounding himself. His jaw clenched. His gifts had never lain in divination. Regulus could have told you your future from a glance at the night sky, but Sirius had never had the knack. Oh, he could see well enough, but interpretation was another matter altogether.

"The House is in danger." Of that, at least, he was certain.

Bellatrix's expression was unreadable. In this, they were not enemies, not rebels and loyalists, not betrayers and fanatics.

They were kin.

Bellatrix smiled faintly, almost wistfully.

"The House of Black will never die, Sirius."

His throat tightened. He wanted to refute her, to tell her the family was already dead, but he could not.

Sirius realised deep down that he had always known that he was Black and that he could not escape the house. It was stamped into his soul.

He was still a Black.

Azkaban had stripped him of everything: his youth, his freedom, and his hope. But it had not taken his name. The world had long since written him off as a traitor, a murderer, a madman locked away for his crimes.

The wind howled outside the fortress, rattling through the iron bars like the whisper of a thousand ghosts. Somewhere far away, a door groaned open, and Sirius lifted his head. He could feel it. Change was coming.

And he would be ready.

Bellatrix tilted her head, considering him more intently than before. Then, she smiled. It was a sharp, knowing thing "Good." she murmured. "Then you finally understand."

Sirius let out a long breath. His path had always been clear: escape, vengeance, war. But now, he could no longer ignore the call of his blood. His duty.

Change would come, and soon. He would meet it face-on, for Sirius Black had never been one to back down from a fight.

Chapter 3: Andromeda I

Andromeda Black knew the instant the patriarch died. Arcturus, Lord of Black, had headed the family for almost seven decades and had rejoined their ancestors in the embrace of their lady. Black family magic did not allow its lord to pass unnoticed. The ancestral wards had groaned and buckled as they realigned themselves, recognising his absence but finding no clear successor.

Very few would mourn him. Andromeda certainly would not.

For years now, she had served penance. A ghost haunting the halls of Grimmauld Place, a stain on the honour of their house, working away her shame. She had not been cast out like Sirius nor martyred like Regulus, nor even married off like her sisters. Instead, she had been allowed to stay present but not welcomed.

Of course, she had chosen this fate. She had been young, and she had loved him, her bright and kind Hufflepuff. Tedd Tonks. She would have left with him, eloped and taken the disownment stoically. But just as she was about to do just that, their lady of the long night had come to her in the stars. The family patron had told her that the babe in her belly could not survive without the cloak of family magic. And just as suddenly as she had arrived, she had left. 

In the end, it was not a choice at all. She had stayed, and she had not seen Tedd since. 

Instead, she had borne a bastard and never spoken a word of who the father might be. Her mother had begged and wept. Her father had cursed and threatened her, but she would not tell. She would never tell.

Andromeda's fingers tightened against her arms as she thought of her Nymphadora, her baby, her joy, her greatest mistake in the eyes of the family.

She could still hear the commotion the night she gave birth. Her mother had refused to attend. Bellatrix had been too caught up in her cause, even then. Narcissa had still been at Hogwarts. In the end, it had only been Walburga with her. The men are waiting outside the door. How the old woman had raged and cursed her name, but she had held her hand and mopped her brow all the same. The bond of kinship was more potent than her fury.

Nymphadora had been born a healthy squalling child. As she was presented to her lord and the men of her family, little Regulus, still too young for school, peeking out from behind Orion's legs, her hair had changed from its natural black to Acturus' age-faded grey.

Regulus gasped. Cygnus, her father, exclaimed that this was proof the child was a Black. At that, Uncle Orion had scoffed.

But it was Arcturus who had spoken.

"The child stays."

Andromeda had barely been able to breathe. She had half expected to be disowned, cast out into the streets. But Arcturus had merely stared down at the wriggling infant with her strange, shifting features and declared, with absolute certainty.

"A Metamorphmagus cannot survive outside the house. Cut her from Black magic, and she will wither and die."

The words had been cold, clinical. He had not spared Andromeda a second glance, only the girl.

"You will stay. You will serve the House. And you will never disgrace us again."

That had been the end of it. She had been bound by the rules of a House that no longer wanted her, raising a child who could never inherit and swallowing down the bitterness that came with it.

Over the next five years, she had watched things fall to pieces. Bella, already devoted to her Dark Lord, had fallen into fanaticism and madness. Cissa is forced to marry a cruel and domineering man. Sirius was increasingly marginalised and maligned by the family and eventually left altogether. And poor Regulus, the youngest of them all, paying for all their mistakes. Offered up to the Dark Lord by Bella, forced to marry for the family, a father when he was still but a child himself.

And then, Regulus had died.

Andromeda still didn't know how. No one did. One day, he was there, barely eighteen, with a wife he had not chosen and a child he barely knew, and the next, he was gone.

His widow had left almost immediately after. She had not mourned. She had not even taken the child. 

"This is your family's problem now." She had said in her thick German accent, stepping out of the house, never to return. Andromeda had held Amalthea that night, a tiny thing, no more than a year old, already all alone in this world,

No one else had wanted her. Arcturus had not cared. Regulus had been a disappointment, so what use was his child? Walburga had been too lost in grief and madness, and Orion had faded, dying soon after his son. Narcissa had Lucius. Bellatrix had her war. Sirius would not return. And Andromeda had already failed once.

So she had taken Amalthea's tiny hands in her own and swore to her lady, the weaver of the stars, "I will not let them break you."

She had raised both girls in the shadows of the House of Black. Nymphadora, too bright for the darkness, with a heart too big for the cruel world they lived in. Amalthea, a Black through and through, sharp and burning and afraid. They had more than survived. They had thrived. Andromeda had made sure of it.

But now everything had changed, and the tentative peace of the last decade was shattered. With Arcturus gone, the protections she had relied on were gone. The fragile balance that had kept them standing in the wreckage of war was gone.

The House of Black was leaderless. No woman could truly inherit. Amalthea was too young to defend herself, Nymphadora was a bastard, and Andromeda was disgraced. She could not protect them. She was not even sure she could protect herself. 

That left only Sirius and the wolves at the door. 

Andromeda closed her eyes, swallowing the bitterness that always came with his name. For years, the guilt at her inaction had gnawed away at her, an insidious thing that had haunted her dreams. 

The facts were thus: Sirius Black loved James Potter as a brother, and he chose him over his own blood. Sirius Black had sworn the oath of patronage, making him the godfather of James's son Harry, and if he acted to harm the child, he would have surely been cast out and cursed by their lady herself. Sirius Black remained the Heir in the house of blacks, as ordained by their patron goddess. 

Sirius black had not been given a trial; he had not been interrogated, and his wand had not been checked before it was snapped. Sirius Black had been sent directly to Azkaban and immediately declared a traitor and a murderer with no proof that she could find. 

Sirius Black was, in all likelihood, innocent. And even if he was not, he was her family, and with Arcturus dead, he was the only child they had.

She had wanted to get him a trial, wanted to bring his case forward and wreak black retribution upon those who would imprison a son of the house of Back so unjustly. But Arcturus had forbidden it.

"He has chosen his side. Let him rot in his prison." The old man had declared, and her hands had been tied.

Over the years, she had come to understand that it wasn't even that Arcuturs had a particular disdain for his rebellious grandson. The man was just numb. A part of him had died the day his wife, Melania, had passed beyond the veil. And Arcturus, Lord of Black, would have no part in anything that disrupted his carefully stacked house of cards.

It had been folly, of course. And now they were reaping the consequences. Andromeda had wanted to scream. She had wanted to demand he open his eyes to the ruin he would have in his wake. But Arcturus had simply looked through her. And so she had saved her breath and her tears and her curses for a time when it would matter.

Now, that cold, indifferent bastard was dead, and they were all vulnerable. She did not fear for herself. But she feared for Nymphadora, for Amalthea, for Sirius rotting away in a cell while his House fell apart around him. 

 

The silence was thick and suffocating, an unnatural dread in the air. The house itself mourned its master, seeking his heir. And in the room at the heart of the house, where the great tapestry recording their bloodline hung,  Andromeda stood above Arcturus' body, laid out on a stone table she had ordered brought in for this very purpose. Slowly and silently, she began to work. The air was thick with the scent of incense, burned to mask the scent of death and to guide his soul to the stars beyond Veil and the embrace of their lady of the long night. 

The whoosh of the floo broke the heavy quiet of Grimmauld Place. Andromeda Black set aside the cloth she had been using to clean the remnants of death from Arcturus Black's lifeless form. Her fingers, though steady, ached with the weight of tradition. Sharp footsteps echoed throughout the house, the sound amplified by the building's magic, informing and warning her.  

Andromeda exhaled and stood, composing herself before opening the door. Her sister, Narcissa Malfoy, swept inside, movements quick and almost frantic. Her usually pristine appearance was undone. Loose strands of blonde hair framed her face, and her hands clenched and unclenched in the folds of her plain, dark mourning dress.

"Does he know you are here?" Andromeda asked quietly, closing the door behind her.

"Of course," Narcissa's voice trembled slightly, undermining her sharp tone. "Even Lucius could not keep me from my sacred duty." Her silver eyes flickered to Arcturus's still form, and she swallowed hard. "Even—" she faltered, pressing a hand to her lips as if to steady herself. "Even if he disapproves of me leaving the house without him, he could not keep me from this task. He would not risk the wrath of the gods coming down upon his house."

Andromeda felt her jaw clench. She had long despised her little sister's husband, and each time she saw Cissa, infrequent though it may be, it seemed to Andromed that another part of the vibrant, strong witch had been chipped away. She breathed out slowly. Narcissa surely knew her own plight better than Andromeda did. It would do no one any good to make a scene. "Then we'd better get to work." 

Narcissa nodded stiffly, lowering herself into a chair. Her eyes flicked back to Arcturus, and then to Andromeda, and then back to Arcturus. She exhaled and moved to the basin of scented water and a pile of linen cloth. 

They worked together in silence for some time, washing and wrapping the body of the late Lord of Black. As the minutes turned to hours, the tension between the two sisters grew and grew until it became a tangible thing, a live wire between them. When they were finally finished, Narcissa stepped back. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer, but her knuckles were white and tied.

"You are afraid," Andromeda observed.

Narcissa let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Yes." Her gaze was fixed on her hands, but her eyes darted to  Andromeda. "Lucius, he is making preparations. He means to claim Amalthea's guardianship. He says we are her closest kin. Her closest reputable kin."

Andromeda felt herself flinch. Closest reputable kin indeed. No matter that she had raised the girl as her own. But still, this was not enough for Narcissa to be so discomposed. A cold weight settled in her stomach. "I expected he would try, but Cissa, why are you so—" she paused awkwardly, trying to think of the right words "—discomposed?"

Narcissa let out another laugh, a harsh and discordant thing. Then she hesitated, her lips parting and closing before she finally met her sister's eyes and whispered, "I fear that he doesn't intend to simply betroth her to Draco."

Andromeda's blood ran cold.

"That would be one thing. It would be wrong, of course. I would never support him taking her from you, but I would have little choice. But this, But this!" Now that she had spoken the words, they came out with increasing speed and fury in her eyes. "He has said nothing to me, of course. It is not my place to know who my son will marry, of course. But he had been in talks with the Greengrass', and they are quite far along already, and he said—" 

She stopped abruptly and then hissed out, "I think he means to take her himself." Narcissa's voice was barely above a whisper, but it rang clear in the silent room. "To sire a son on her, claim him as his own, and then—" She broke off again, but the implication was clear. Kill her. Dispose of her once she had served her purpose.

Andromeda's fingers curled into fists. "And you cannot stop him." Her voice was flat. It was not a question or a condemnation. It was simply a fact.

Narcissa's face twisted with something between grief and fury. "I am bound to him, Dromeda. The magic of the bond, my vow, constrains me. I can warn you, I can be here, but I cannot act against my husband. If he found out I had warned you, then Merlin only knows what he would do." Her voice cracked, and the sorrow and fear beneath her fury showed for the first time. "But you can."

Andromeda's mind raced. Amalthea was in danger. And it was more immediate than she had feared. For Narcissa was right; a betrothal to the cousin was one thing, unpleasant and stifling, but safe enough. The Malfoy boy was Narcissa's son, who was almost three years Amalthea's junior and was no true threat. He could not possibly wed her until after she came of age, when she was free of Lucius's control, and her betrothals could be broken. 

But Lucius could take her much, much sooner than that. She was already 12. It was vile and disgusting. But she could have a baby within a year or two if he tried hard enough. It was unthinkable, and it was an awful possibility. And there was only one way to ensure her safety.

She turned sharply and spoke. "Kreacher."

With a loud crack , the ancient house-elf appeared, bowing deeply. "Mistress calls Kreacher."

"I need you to go to Hogwarts," Andromeda said, her tone brooking no argument. "Find Amalthea and Dora. Bring them here. Now."

Kreacher's large eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he nodded. "As Mistress commands." And with another crack , he was gone.

Narcissa let out a shaky breath. "You must be swift, Andromeda. He will act quickly."

Andromeda turned back to her sister, determination burning in her chest. "Then so we will."

They had to move. Now. If they were to have any hope, Sirius would need to be freed soon. They would have to make the Ministry listen to them and force them to act. It was a desperate game, but it was all that they had. Andromeda had spent too long watching from the shadows, too long allowing the House of Black to dictate her fate. But the Lord of Black was dead, and tonight, the stars were shining anew. She had sworn to protect Amalthea, and Andromeda intended to hold to her promise.

Chapter 4: Amalthea I

The dream came suddenly, sharp and suffocating, pulling Amalthea beneath its dark tide.

A black sun rose over Grimmauld Place, swallowing the sky. The house stood in ruins, its once-imposing façade cracked and crumbling, the crest of the House of Black tarnished beyond recognition.

Then the perspective shifted, she was the stars and the stars were her. Spinning and burning and burning, and Amalthea's breath hitched, her fingers curling into nothingness. Something vast and unseen shifted, and she fell.

She hit the mattress with a gasp, her body arching off the bed as magic lashed out. The green hangings of her four-poster bed rippled as an invisible force shot outward, knocking over books, inkwells, and a silver hand mirror.

Her dormitory was silent except for her own ragged breathing. Slowly, Amalthea pushed herself upright, pressing a trembling hand to her temple. The ache in her chest lingered.

Something was wrong.

She fought to steady her breathing. To keep silent, for despite her noble blood, Amalthea's place in Slytherin was precarious.

The House of Black had long been revered, but now it was a name spoken with caution. Sirius's defection had been an unforgivable disgrace, Bellatrix's madness an embarrassment. And even her father Regulus, whose loyalty had remained, was whispered about, his death in service to the Dark Lord a stain rather than an honour.

Amalthea was the last legitimate Black. With no power of her own, no father or brother to hide behind. She was in a deeply precarious position, and everyone knew it. And today, the weight of that position weighed more heavily than usual, a deep forboding settling over her like a shroud. When she had calmed enough, she rose and began to prepare for the day. She was only a first year, but it would not do to seem discomposed. Any sign of weakness would be noted. 

The day passed in a blur. Her sense of dread building and building. Her morning tea left her with leaves showing only confusion, challenge, and change. She sat in the great hall with her fellow Slytherin first years and tried to focus on their conversation. Her year had the fewest students in the entire school. As the war reached its zenith, birth rates had dropped, and she knew the numbers would get lower and lower for another three years, until the boom of babies born after the Dark Lord fell turned eleven in four years.  

It meant that there was little choice of who to befriend; it also meant that the proportion of Muggleborns at the school was higher than ever before, the parents of pure and half-bloods being the only ones affected by the war. And this topic was a never-ending source of discussion for the Slytherins. 

Across from her, Viola Avery had taken it upon herself to command the conversation, her black hair tied in a neat braid and her posture already that of someone rehearsing for the Wizengamot.

"Did you see it yesterday?" she said sweetly, though her words were sharp. "That little Ravenclaw, Callow or Carver, whatever her name is. Tried to transfigure her quill."

Patricia Stimpson giggled eagerly. "It turned into a chicken! And it ran around clucking until it smacked into a wall."

"Not a chicken," Alaric Rosier corrected, his voice smooth but cold. "It was meant to be a sparrow. She botched the spell completely. Pathetic. Blood will out."

"Blood will out," Avery echoed. Her lips curled. "She's a Mudblood. What else would you expect? She should be at some village school polishing pots, not here."

Cassius Warrington laughed, spraying crumbs. "If it were up to me, I'd have locked her in the henhouse where she belongs."

"Henhouse?" Rosier leaned across the table, his grin mean. "Better the butcher's block. Mudbloods make better meat than witches."

Laughter rippled down the bench. Stimpson tittered nervously, glancing at Amalthea for approval.

"Not all of us can be Rosiers," Adrian Pucey muttered around a mouthful of toast, rolling his eyes.

"Or Averys," Warrington added with a snort, shoving the platter of sausages down the table.

Viola gave him a withering look, but before she could retort, she noticed Amalthea's silence. "And what do you think, Black?"

Amalthea raised her eyes from her cup, feeling their expectant gazes on her. A Black's word could set the tone for the entire year. Or perhaps not; the name wasn't what it once was. If she spoke wrongly here, there could be consequences.

Her throat tightened. Behind her eyes, the dream still burned. She looked up at them, her voice soft but cutting. "A Black doesn't waste time on inferiors. Better to keep one's manners than scrape in the mud."

Her classmates fell silent around her, her sudden hus drawing glances from the upper years further down the table.

"I think," she said after a long pause, voice steady though her stomach was tight, "that some things are better left unsaid." 

When the first-years had mostly finished eating, a shadow fell across the table.

"Oi, little cousin," came a voice warm and irreverent. Amalthea looked up to find Nymphadora sliding onto the bench beside her with the careless grace of someone who knew she belonged no matter what anyone whispered.

Her hair was a violent shock of turquoise this morning, curling wildly around her sharp cheekbones. Her Slytherin robes were worn loose, as if daring the prefects to comment.

"Eat up, Thea," Dora said cheerfully, stealing a slice of toast straight off Adrian Pucey's plate without asking. "Breakfast is the only thing here worth your time, unless you count watching the Gryffindors try to grow spines."

A few of the boys chuckled nervously, but no one challenged her. They all remembered last month, when she'd hexed an older student's eyebrows clean off for challenging her.

Amalthea straightened, careful to meet her cousin's eye with quiet composure. "I've eaten," she said softly.

Dora leaned in, lowering her voice so only Thea could hear. "Good girl. Don't let them draw blood today." Then, louder, with a grin: "Come find me after class, I'll show you the secret passage to the kitchens."

The day passed in the way of all days at Hogwarts, more boring than a school of magic had any right to be, interspersed with nascent tensions and deep-rooted apathy.

Charms in the morning with Professor Flitwick had them practising Lumos, and the classroom buzzed with the fumbles of first-years, half of them blinding themselves. Viola Avery, smug as ever, held her wand at the precise angle her mother must have drilled into her, muttering the incantation with sharp, clipped precision. Patricia Stimpson whispered hers so quietly that her wand produced nothing but a dull fizz, prompting snickers from the row behind.

Amalthea's spell lit on the second try. Not too bright, not too dim. A testament to the hours spent practising with Andromead's borrowed wand, the lessons every pureblood of repute received before attending school. She saw Avery glance at her from the corner of her eye, half in admiration, half in competition. Amalthea ignored her. Attention from Avery was useful, but only in moderation.

Alaric Rosier slouched nearby, barely trying, his drawl dripping with disdain. "Light on a stick. Hardly magic worth our time." The Flitwick ignored him, but Amalthea noted it; Rosiers always thought themselves untouchable.

Thea held her chin a fraction higher. Black trumped Rosier. Always had, always would.

At lunch, she gravitated to Adrian Pucey. He was the only one of her yearmates whose conversation didn't bore her to death. Quidditch consumed his every other word, but at least his enthusiasm was genuine. He described, in breathless detail, last week's Slytherin victory over Gryffindor, waving his hands as if he were on a broom right there in the Hall.

"The way Flint dodged past their Keeper, you'd have thought he had eyes in the back of his head! And when Bletchley saved that last shot? Brilliant! Just brilliant!"

Thea smiled despite herself, sipping pumpkin juice. "You're Quidditch mad."

"And proud of it," Adrian replied, grinning.

Afternoon brought History of Magic, a droning haze under Binns's ghostly monotone. Amalthea copied down his ramblings out of habit, though she already knew the accounts of the Goblin Wars he recited. She had heard them in whispered stories at Grimmauld Place, from Arcturus himself. Properly told, they had teeth, blood, betrayal, and power. Here, they were dull as ashes.

By the time dinner ended, the castle was steeped in a golden glow, the air shifting as the sun sank lower. Thea found herself restless, her thoughts slipping to Grimmauld Place unbidden.

She knew, instinctively, what no other child at that table could guess: no Black may die beneath the night sky. A legacy of their ancestors, a gift from their patron goddess. The night was safe for them. And through the dread that had been building all day, she thought that if the next few minutes could just pass without incident, there would at least be another night for her to fortify herself with. 

The sunset was heavy tonight. It bled across the long windows, crimson and gold, and Thea's skin prickled as if the air itself had turned against her.

Adrian was still talking about broom hexes, Warrington and Avery laughing at some half-cruel joke, Patricia shrinking under their notice. But Amalthea was not listening anymore.

Just before the final sliver of sun sank beneath the horizon, she knew. A thread had snapped. A star had fallen. The Patriarch of her House was dead.

There was a lurch in her stomach, a great hollowing out of the world around her. Amalthea knew she was more sensitive to the threads of magic than most, a gift given to her by her father, but she knew without a doubt that all of her family would be feeling this at this moment. A hand caught her elbow.

"Amalthea?" She barely registered Pucey's concerned voice as she closed her eyes, steadying herself. The House of Black had no master, and she knew that this meant her position was precarious indeed. She shrugged off Adrian's concerned hand, rose and exited the hall. Paying no heed to those she left behind. She made her way towards the Slythein common room in a haze.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later, when Nymphadora found her pacing in her dormitory, thankfully alone. Her cousin poked her head through the door and exhaled softly when she saw Thea pacing up and down the room. Tonight her hair was a vibrant green, matching her Slytherin robes, but as she let herself in and sank onto the foot of Thea's bed, it shimmered briefly into silver before settling back into its dark hue, making her look every inch a Black.

Dora patted the space on the bed beside her, gesturing for Amalthera to sit. And when she lowered herself to the mattress, she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the vanity mirror across from her bed. Like this, they could be sisters. We are sisters in every way that matters. Amalthea thought fiercely. Dora stretched an arm around Thea's shoulders, pulling her close to her side. 

"You felt it too," Dora murmured, her voice low.

Thea nodded into her shoulder. Her throat was tight and she blinked several times, fighting off tears, glad that from this angle Dora could not see her weakness. "It was like a thread snapping." She turned her head and whispered, "He is dead."

Dora's jaw tightened. "Now we're exposed. You most of all."

Thea looked down, the green glow gilding her hands. "Because I can't inherit. Not as a daughter." It was said that the first black had wed the goddess of the night, that every lord was her bridegroom, and so a woman could never be lord. But no family lasted two thousand years without the occasional generation of daughters. And so, for the survival of the house, a compromise. A daughter could not inherit, but her son could. 

"Not in this House," Dora said grimly. "We knew the old man wouldn't last forever, but mother hoped he would have the decency to wait until you turned seventeen." The scorn in her tone was evident, and Thea agreed. The late lord Black, Arcturus, had been her grandfather, but she felt no love for the cold and apathetic man. " Knowing him, he died now to spite us." Doora continued, "Any guardian they appoint can use the law to betroth you. They don't even need your consent." 

Thea flinched. She had known it, but hearing it aloud made it heavier, more real. "Until I'm seventeen," she whispered. "If Andromeda is my guardian till I am seventeen, then I'll be free to choose."

"Yes." Dora agreed, her eyes fixed on the firelight. "But what influence does my mother have when compared to Lucius Makfory? And he won't wait five years; he'll move now, with his money and his power, and the family has no lord to push back. He'll dress it up as 'safeguarding your future' or 'honouring Black tradition,' but it's just power. He wants your blood tied to his House. You, tied to him."

Thea's mouth went dry. "They'll betroth me to Draco."

"Maybe," Dora said. "That would be the polite option." Her tone sharpened, steel beneath silk. "But I don't think he means to play polite. He'll look for the quickest way to claim you and the Black name. And if that means taking you himself-" She trailed off, letting the venom of the implication speak for her.

Thea shivered, pulling her arms around herself. The fire seemed too small, too fragile. "Then what do we do?"

For a long moment, Dora was silent. She looked older than sixteen, her eyes shadowed, her posture rigid. Then she exhaled and said with certainty, "I don't know Thea, but Mother will not give you up easily. She won't let him win. And I will always have you back, baby cousin. Always."

Thea turned her face towards her cousin, studying her; the sharp cheekbones, the ever-shifting hair, the smile that never quite reached her eyes. People whispered behind Dora's back, mocking her bastardy, sneering at the scandal of her mother's choices. But Thea knew better. She had seen Dora hex boys twice her size into whimpering heaps without even standing from her chair. She had seen her laugh louder than anyone else, even when the whole House laughed at her. She had seen her endure.

"You believe she can stop him?" Thea asked, almost pleading.

"I believe she'll try," Dora said firmly.

"Five years," she said softly. "I have to last five years."

Dora's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then you will. And Merlin help anyone who tries to cut that short. They'll find out quickly enough what it means to cross a Black."

Thea breathed in, letting her cousin's words wrap around her like a ward. Her arm was a comforting weight across her shoulder as she tucked herself closer into Dora's side and let the tears she had been holding back fall. She did not weep for Arcturus, but for herself; she wept because with his death went the only safety she had known. She wept because she was afraid and did not know what would come next. 

Dora pulled her in even closer, holding her tight and rubbing small circles on Amlethea's back. "It will be okay, Thea," Dora murmured, "We will make sure of it."